"Arhedion!" Trephas called. He strode toward the piebald, beaming. They clasped arms, then the piebald did the same with Gyrtomon.
"Welcome back," Arhedion said. He spoke the common tongue easily, so the humans could understand. "I see thy journey bore fruit, Trephas."
"Aye," Trephas declared, gesturing toward the humans. "Any news from Ithax?"
The piebald shrugged. "Very little, since thou left. It's been quiet, mostly. Except—" He stopped suddenly.
"Except what?" Trephas asked sharply.
"A war party. They left town some hours after thee, Gyrtomon. Nemeredes the Younger led them."
"Our brother?" Gyrtomon asked, glancing at Trephas. "Where was he bound?"
"North and east. I… know not where."
Trephas regarded the piebald, his brow furrowing. "That isn't all, is it?"
Arhedion looked down, pawing the ground with his forehoof. "Forgive me," he said. "I should not say. Thy father will tell thee."
Gyrtomon and Trephas exchanged worried glances.
"I'll ride on ahead and herald thy return," Arhedion continued, still not meeting the brothers' gaze. "The Circle shall wish to meet with thee, I'm sure."
"Wait," Trephas said. "Arhedion, what about—"
Before he could say anything more, the piebald wheeled and trotted away into the forest. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood still, listening as he rode away, then turned and signaled to the others.
"Come on," Gyrtomon declared. "Ithax awaits."
"There should be music," Trephas murmured. "Flutes, lyres and drums—and singing, too."
The humans had moved up to walk near the front of the party, alongside the brothers. The hills around them were nearly treeless—a strange thing, in the heart of Darken Wood—and rowed with vines. The vineyards were poorly tended. The plants were sickly and brown, and weeds grew among them. The war had turned so dire that the wine-loving centaurs had neglected the coming year's vintage.
"Music?" Dezra repeated skeptically. "In the middle of a war?"
Gyrtomon nodded. "It's our custom to welcome chieftains' sons that way, even when times are dark."
"There should be folk dancing among the vines, colts and fillies tossing silverwood blossoms across our path," Trephas said, worried. "Instead, no one. Something ill has happened, I fear."
They wound onward. They passed several thatched huts, crudely built of branches bound with withes. All of them were dark. Gyrtomon's warriors grew nervous, reaching for their weapons at every shadow. Finally, they crested a low ridge and came to a halt, looking down into the broad valley below. In its midst stood a mound, and on top of that was a town.
It was surprisingly large, a mass of trees and roofs made from thatch or bark shingles. Smoke drifted from stone chimneys, glowing orange with reflected firelight. A tall palisade of sharpened logs ringed the mound. Torches blazed atop the wall, illuminating the guards who paced the battlements.
"Ithax," proclaimed Gyrtomon.
Trephas nodded, smiling. "Home."
"Sure seems well-guarded," Caramon observed.
"The Skorenoi have tried to attack before," Trephas replied.
"They'll try again," Gyrtomon added, "before the summer is ended—the Circle is sure of it."
Below, one of the guards peered across the valley and saw the torches Gyrtomon's party bore. He waved an arm, shouting: "Hai! Gyrtomon temerikhai keleion!"
Gyrtomon returned the gesture, then reached to his harness, where a curved horn hung. He brought it to his lips and blew a long, blaring note that echoed across the vale. With that, he started down toward Ithax. The others fell in behind him.
"What happens now?" Dezra asked as they followed a narrow, dirt path through a pasture of grass and clover.
"Arhedion has gone within, to tell the Circle of our arrival," Trephas replied. "Our father will come to the gates to welcome us with the Wine of Greeting."
Borlos's eyebrows rose. "You greet each other with wine?" he asked, grinning. "Why am I not surprised?"
The gates were built of stout oak, bound with black iron; they looked heavy enough that a giant would have to struggle to open them. The palisades were strong—not as mighty as a stone wall, but close. Suspicious eyes and nocked arrows tracked Gyrtomon's party from above as they drew near.
Half a dozen guards rode forward to intercept them, lances ready. Gyrtomon stopped, raising a hand.
"Keleion he phomenos!" he called.
There ensued a short conversation in the centaur language. In the end, the guards couched their weapons and stepped back. Through their midst strode a large, silver-coated centaur. He wore his snowy mane and beard braided, and his face was weathered and hard.
"Your father?" Dezra asked.
Trephas shook his head, staring as the silver centaur bent down to lift a heavy, eared jug. "No," he said. "It's Rhedogar, the leader of our people's warriors."
"But you said—" Caramon began.
"I know!" Trephas interrupted curtly. He pawed the ground with his forehoof. "Something's wrong."
"Rhedogar!" Gyrtomon called. "Why hast thou come to greet us? Where is our father?"
There was deep sorrow in the grizzled centaur's eyes. He came to a halt before the party. He held out the amphora. It was intricately painted, with twining black grape vines and capering red horsefolk. "I offer wine, sons of Nemeredes," he declared formally. "Drink, and be welcome."
His face drawn with worry, Gyrtomon accepted the jug. He poured a crimson stream on the ground as a libation, then raised the amphora to his lips and gulped down a deep draught. He handed it to Trephas, who repeated the ritual, then returned the wine to Rhedogar. The old centaur drank last of all.
"I ask thee again," Gyrtomon said. "Why hasn't our father come to greet us?"
Reluctantly, Rhedogar met his gaze. "I'm sorry to say this. Nemeredes the Elder is not here because he is in mourning."
"Mourning?" Trephas blurted.
"It's our brother," Gyrtomon interrupted. "Isn't it?"
Rhedogar nodded.
"How?" Trephas exclaimed.
The silver centaur shook his head. "Thou shouldst hear it from thy father. He waits at the Yard of Gathering, with the rest of the Circle."
With that, he turned and strode through the gates, setting the amphora down as he went. Trephas and Gyrtomon hesitated. Their faces were ashen, and their eyes shimmered in the torchlight.
"Well?" Dezra asked. "Are we going in, or do we just stand out here all night?"
That earned her angry looks from both Caramon and Borlos, as well as several centaurs. It also snapped Gyrtomon and Trephas out of their stupor, however. Haltingly, they started forward, leading the way through Ithax's mighty gates.
16
Ithar was a jumble of buildings with little sign of order. There were no real roads, but rather meandering trails that wound this way and that. Its huts were simple, made of daub and wattle, interspersed with tall oak trees. None was taller than a single story—the horsefolk had no love for stairs—and few had foundations. There were skin tents as well, painted with spirals and knotwork patterns. Many structures were simple frameworks with open sides beneath thatch or bark roofs. Torches mounted on stakes guttered, and bonfires crackled in the open.
Then, of course, there were the centaurs. They were as varied as horses and men. Some were jet black, others brown or gray, bay or chestnut. A few were mottled with more than one color, as Arhedion was, and even those who weren't had some mark of another color on them—white fetlocks on one, a black streak running down another's face. They wore their manes and beards long, though some tied them in braids or tassels, and others had shaved parts of their heads. None, however, tied their tails. These they left long, free of tangles and burrs.
There were signs everywhere of the ongoing war. Most of the horsefolk wore harnesses and quivers, and carried cudgels or spears. Many were scarred, and some were missing an arm or hand. They nodded in recognition as Trephas and Gyrtomon passed, but regarded Cara
mon, Borlos and Dezra with mistrust.
"Where are all the women?" Caramon asked.
"Most will be preparing for the funeral," Trephas said softly. "Though there are some about, here and there." He pointed with his chin. "See? There's a filly, over by that stump."
Caramon looked, and spotted her. He wasn't surprised he hadn't noticed any other females before. At first glance, her beardless face was all that marked her apart from the stallions. She was well-muscled, with a brown mane that tumbled down over her shoulders, hiding her bare breasts. She wore a longbow across her back, and had the same hard look about her as the males. The horse-women were warriors, just like the men of their race.
The huts grew larger and grander as the party wended toward the middle of Ithax. Some had antlers and animal skulls mounted on their walls; others sported bone-and-wood windchimes or bright hangings of woven wool. A few stood dark and empty, with no fires burning inside or out. Leafy bundles were nailed to their lintels.
"Those are the homes of dead warriors," said Trephas. "Our brother, it seems, was not the only one slain. Their bodies rest within, and the fennel stalks"—he nodded at the leafy bundles—"protect them from evil. Tomorrow, they'll be tom down and made into pyres for the fallen."
"Whist," Gyrtomon bade. "We're almost to the Yard of Gathering."
At the crest of the hillock the town was built upon was a broad, open pasture. Torches flickered at its edges, illuminating green, sweet-smelling grass. The Yard was large enough to accommodate hundreds of centaurs, but now it was nearly empty. In its midst, nearly lost in darkness, stood a handful of horsefolk. They looked up, toward Gyrtomon and Trephas, then turned away again, murmuring in hushed voices.
"What now?" Caramon whispered.
"We wait, until the Circle calls us," Trephas replied. "Then we'll partake of the grass and go to stand before them."
"Partake?" Borlos's eyes widened. "As in eat?"
"Aye," said Trephas. "That's the custom."
"I don't know if you realize," Dezra said, "but humans don't eat grass."
Trephas frowned, but Gyrtomon nodded. "We understand," he said. "It isn't necessary for thee to observe the rite."
"No," Caramon said. "We'll follow the ritual."
Dezra and Borlos looked at him. "But—" Dezra began.
"We'll follow the ritual."
"And spend the rest of the night ritually puking up our suppers," Borlos muttered.
"Here comes Rhedogar," Trephas said, looking out across the Yard.
The silver-furred centaur trotted back across the meadow. Arhedion was with him. They stopped before the companions, bowing.
"The Circle of Four welcomes thee," Rhedogar declared. "They ask the sons of Nemeredes and the humans to partake and come forward."
Solemnly, Gyrtomon and Trephas knelt, plucked handfuls of grass from the ground, and placed it in their mouths. Caramon followed suit, chewing a few blades and swallowing hard. Shrugging, Dezra followed suit. Borlos went last, and smacked his lips in distaste as they strode across the Yard, toward the Circle. The rest of the party stayed behind, with Rhedogar and Arhedion.
A ring of stones, worn with age, stood in the Yard's midst. Within, a brass brazier gave off a low, ruddy light. Three centaurs stood around it, their faces shadowed, watching as a fourth laid something on the glowing coals. Steam billowed, accompanied by loud sizzling. The smell of burning fat wafted to meet the companions.
Caramon's stomach rumbled like an ogre in full battle rage. "Gods, that smells good," he sighed.
"That," Gyrtomon snapped, "is a sacrifice. The deer fat is for the gods to savor, not mortals."
"Sacrifices, libations," Dezra said. "You do know the gods are gone, right?"
"They've left before," Gyrtomon said quietly. "When thy kind brought down the fiery mountain. They returned then; they will return again."
Dezra opened her mouth to argue, but caught a glance from Caramon and held her tongue.
They were almost to the standing stones, and could make out the features of the centaurs by the brazier. One was the color of coal and immensely fat, his girth putting Caramon's to shame. His right arm ended in a stump below the elbow. Beside him was a gray mare, whose iron hair was tied in a tight bun, and whose eyes glittered like ice. Next to her was a tall bay stallion, almost Caramon's age but still in fighting trim, with hard, corded muscles. His long beard hung in braids beneath a scarred face. Before them, kneeling by the brazier, was the fourth member of the Circle. He was quite old, his chestnut fur shot through with white. His age-lined face was wet with tears. Not seeming to notice anyone was approaching, he picked up another ragged piece of deer fat and laid it on the brazier. Smoke rose, and he vanished for a moment.
"Your father?" Borlos murmured.
Trephas nodded slightly. "The rest of the chiefs stand with him—Pleuron the Fat, Lady Eucleia, and High Chief Menelachos."
They stopped at the stone ring's edge. Trephas and Gyrtomon prostrated themselves, extending their right forehooves. Caramon knelt a moment later, and Borlos did the same. Only Dezra remained standing, hands on her hips.
"So," she said, "you must be the Circle."
The chiefs regarded her coldly. Dezra didn't quail before them, however, and after a moment the muscular bay raised his hand. Golden bracers gleamed on his wrists. He wore a matching tore, studded with sapphires, about his neck. "Rise," he bade in a booming voice. "Stand before the Circle, guests, and be welcome."
They obeyed, Caramon wincing as his knees popped. The chiefs watched in stony silence. Old Nemeredes rose unsteadily from behind the brazier, smiling sadly as he beheld his sons.
"Gyrtomon, Trephas," he quavered. He strode forward to clasp their arms. "This lightens a heavy heart. We must share wine later. Thou hast heard about thy brother?"
The brothers nodded. "Rhedogar told us," Gyrtomon replied. "He didn't say what happened, though."
Nemeredes sighed wearily. "What is it ever, in these dark days? Yesterday morn the scouts reported a party of Skorenoi, not five leagues from this place. Thy brother took a war-band out—a large enough company, he thought, to put a quick end to them."
"But it wasn't?"' Trephas guessed.
"No." Nemeredes shook his head. "It was a trap. Thy brother led his company straight into slaughter."
Gyrtomon bowed his head. "Were all slain?"
"Not all. The Skorenoi took a score of thy brother's warriors captive, back to Sangelior," Nemeredes replied. The centaurs all made warding signs, their faces grim. "Thy brother, thanks be to Chislev, wasn't one of them. He died, taken through the heart by a spear. It was quick… he didn't suffer… ." He stopped, choking with tears.
Pleuron came forward, his girth bobbing, and laid his good hand on Nemeredes's shoulder. Trephas and Gyrtomon each held one of their father's hands, comforting him.
Caramon found himself weeping as well. He'd lost two sons, and knew the agony the old chief was going through. He looked up at the cloudy sky, blinking back tears.
"As usual, the Skorenoi sent back one survivor, to tell what happened," said Pleuron. His eyes flashed. "I rode out today, with a much larger company, to bring back the bodies. Thy brother lies in his hut, his wounds washed and his weapons laid out with him."
Gyrtomon looked up, his face damp with tears. "My thanks, Pleuron," he said. "We would see him tonight."
Dezra had watched the tearful scene with growing restlessness. Now she cleared her throat loudly. "Excuse me," she said.
Everyone turned to look. The centaurs were incensed, their nostrils flared with anger. "Be still, girl," Caramon growled.
"Nay," Menelachos said. "The lass is right. We shouldn't neglect our guests, no matter how deep our loss might be." He looked the humans up and down. "These are the ones thou hast brought back, Trephas?"
Wiping his eyes, Trephas stepped back from his father and faced the High Chief. "Aye, my lord," he said. "There was a fourth, a young man, but he was slain on the way here. My brother wasn't the only o
ne to fall into a Skorenoi trap—Thenidor and his lot waylaid us, on the banks of the Darkwater."
Menelachos's bushy eyebrows lowered. "Then we owe the Skorenoi double for what they've wrought. But please, introduce our guests."
"Of course, my lord." Trephas waved his hand. "This is Borlos, a bard of Solace, and Caramon and Dezra Majere."
"Caramon?" Menelachos repeated. His hawklike eyes studied Caramon critically. "The same Caramon Majere who knew the Forestmaster, and fought the dragon-armies?"
Caramon's face burned. "That's me," he said. "I'm sorry to hear what's happened to the Forestmaster. I want to help."
Eucleia's lip curled with disdain as she regarded the humans. "This is the best thou couldst do, Trephas? An unmannered girl, a bard and an old man?"
Dezra glared at the steely-eyed mare. Before she could retort, however, Menelachos interjected. "Lady Eucleia," he said, "these humans are our guests, and are to be shown respect. We bade Trephas to bring back a Majere—he has brought two. They are our hope of surviving the war with Chrethon—and of saving the Forestmaster."
"Then we're likely doomed," the mare said. She tossed her head, leveling her glinting gaze on Trephas.
That was enough for Caramon. "Pardon me, lady," he said, "but we've come a long way from home, although we don't know exactly why—and one of us has already died because he wouldn't turn back. If you expect me to stand here while you insult me, you can go to the Abyss."
The Yard of Gathering fell silent, save for the hiss of the sacrificial fat on the coals. After a moment, Eucleia smiled tightly.
"I misjudged thee, Majere," she said. "I took you for a man with no fire left in him. It seems I was wrong. I apologize for speaking ill of thee."
"Oh," Caramon said lamely. He hadn't expected to win the argument so easily. "Well, good then."
Dezra shook her head. "I don't want your apologies. I didn't come here for you, or for the Forestmaster. I was promised steel."
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