The crowd turned, began to part. Four banners, flapping in the breeze, moved through the gap: a green willow in full leaf, a blue river, a pair of gray horseshoes, and a long, black spear. The Circle had arrived. They strode behind their standard-bearers, backs erect and tails held high. On their heads were silver masks, engraved in the images of animals. Pleuron was a boar, old Nemeredes a hawk, Eucleia a wolf. Menelachos, a stag with a spreading rack of antlers, walked with Olinia the minstrel, her hand on his arm. Each of the masks had been crafted as though wracked by woe, with etched tears spilling down their cheeks.
The processional stopped at the stone ring, staring at the body upon the pyre. "Kin of the slain," Menelachos intoned. "Come forward."
Obediently, Gyrtomon strode around his brother's body to stand before the Circle. Trephas walked behind him.
"Gyrtomon, son of Nemeredes the Elder," declared Menelachos. "We come to grieve for thy brother."
Gyrtomon trembled, struggling to contain himself. "What tribute hast thou brought?"
"We bring nothing," said old Nemeredes, "save our tears and the blood in our veins." His shoulders shook as he spoke.
Bowing their heads, Gyrtomon and Trephas stepped aside. "It is enough," Gyrtomon said. "Pass, and be welcome."
Slowly, the chiefs strode forward to stand before the pyre. Old Nemeredes wept, his sobs echoing within his mask. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood beside him, resting their hands on his shoulders.
Menelachos raised his arms, holding his hands over the dead centaur's body. "Again, our young ones die before their time," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "For ten years now, we've lost those we loved to Lord Chrethon's wrath. So we have lost Nemeredes, son of Nemeredes, and those who rode with him. Chrethon believes that by slaying those dear to us, he can rob of us of our will to resist.
"He is wrong. With every centaur he murders or gives to the daemon tree, our resolve strengthens. So with young Nemeredes and his riders. Their memory gives us the will to carry on. When their flesh is ashes, their spirits will fight on, beside us."
The High Chief lowered his right hand, keeping his left outstretched over the body, and drew a bronze dagger from a sheath on his harness. It gleamed with moonlight as he raised it before him.
"We give our blood to the dead," he declared, "and pray they will bear our memories with us, as they ride beyond the stars. In Chislev's name."
Swiftly, he raked the dagger across his open palm. Blood welled forth, and he cupped his hand, letting it gather. Sheathing the dirk, he tipped his hand and poured the blood onto young Nemeredes's body.
One by one, the other chiefs repeated the ritual, staining the centaur's chestnut coat with their blood—old Nemeredes last of all, his dagger quivering as he opened his flesh. When the Circle was finished, Trephas and Gyrtomon followed the ritual as well. Across the Yard, mourners did the same, washing the bodies with blood. Finally, when the last dagger was sheathed, all eyes returned to the High Chief.
"Nemeredes the Younger lived a good life," Menelachos declared. "He died well, defending his people. We should not grieve overlong for those who die fulfilling their purpose. Let the mourning end."
"Let it end," the gathered centaurs murmured.
The four chiefs reached up as one, and the masks came off. Their solemn faces glistened with sweat in the cool evening air. Menelachos raised his voice in a shout. "Light the torches!"
All over the Yard, flames flared as the mourners lit firebrands and held them aloft. Again, the centaurs looked to Circle.
Menelachos, his torch raised high, turned to old Nemeredes. "My friend," he said, "he is thy child. The first touch is thine."
Nemeredes regarded the High Chief, his eyes like open wounds, then bowed his head. He bent low to kiss his dead son's forehead; then, tears running down his cheeks, he placed his torch on the pyre. The flames leapt up swiftly, spreading around the centaur's body. As the fire rose, the rest of the Circle added their brands, then Gyrtomon and Trephas did the same. The horsefolk at the other pyres did the same, and soon the Yard of Gathering shone with golden light. Glowing embers drifted up toward the stars.
As the pyres burned, Olinia stepped forward. She set her fingers to her lyre and raised her voice in song:
From the sky the rain,
The rain kisses the earth.
From the earth the tree,
The tree yields its fruit
The fruit feeds the man,
The man lives and dies,
He lies among the flames,
They rise into the sky.
From the sky the rain…
Over and over she chanted, going through the cycle again and again. The other centaurs joined in, reciting the verse with her as they watched the flames.
Borlos tapped Caramon on the shoulder. "We've seen all we're going to see," he said. "And we've still got poor Uwen to attend to."
Caramon blinked, shaking his head. The centaurs' chanting had entranced him. "Right," he said. "Come on, Dezra. Let's—"
He stopped, looking around. His daughter was gone.
The centaurs had given their human guests a hut to sleep in while they were in Ithax. It was tall and plain, with walls of bound branches and a roof shingled with old, mossy bark. Caramon had begged a blanket to cover the open doorway, to keep out the draft. Now he shoved it aside and peered inside, searching.
The floor was bare earth, with mats of woven rushes for beds. There were two large clay jugs—one filled with wine, the other with water—and a small, bronze basin for washing. Other than that, and a crude table, there was no furniture. Built as they were, the horsefolk had no use for stools or chairs. Nor was there a chest or trunk in which the humans could store their gear. It lay in heaps against the far wall.
Caramon was relieved to see there were three piles. Between his armor and weapons, and Borlos's pouches—on top of which rested a simple lyre, a gift from Olinia—were Dezra's sword and packs.
"Her things are still here," he told Borlos, who stood behind him, craning to see. "I thought for a moment she'd left Ithax."
"Me too," the bard agreed. "Nothing else?"
Caramon shook his head.
They went on, walking deeper into the darkness of the centaur town. The horsefolk's chanting and the light from the pyres faded behind them. Finally, as they neared the southern palisade, they came to another expanse of grass and trees. It was small compared with the Yard of Gathering, but large enough that the shadowy form of Uwen Gondil's pyre looked little from where Caramon and Borlos stopped.
"There she is," said the bard.
Squinting, Caramon saw the silhouette of a woman by the pyre. Dezra's back was to them. If she heard their approach, she gave no sign.
Their eyes never left her as they crossed the grass. When they were twenty paces from her, Caramon touched Borlos's arm and gestured for him to stop. The bard gave him a questioning look, and Caramon nodded toward his daughter. Borlos looked, and after a moment he saw what her father had spotted. Her shoulders were hunched, and shook slightly as she gazed down at the farmboy's body.
"You go ahead," the bard said. "I'll wait here."
Caramon smiled, patting Borlos's arm, then walked on alone. He stopped behind his daughter, coughing quietly.
"We can come back, if you want," Caramon said.
"No." She glanced over her shoulder, and he saw her eyes were red. "We should get this over with. You bring a torch?"
Caramon had one, tucked into his belt. He stepped forward, joining his daughter by the pyre. He looked down at Uwen's face: the hollow cheeks, the waxen skin. He wondered what he'd tell the boy's family when he went home.
"Bloody shame," Dezra murmured.
They were both silent a moment, then Dezra reached to her belt. Steel scraped as she drew her dagger, then cut her palm, as the centaurs had done. Blood dripped onto Uwen's face, ran back into his shaggy, blond hair.
Clenching her fist, Dezra offered the dirk to her father. He loo
ked at it a moment, then nodded and took it. He added her blood to hers, then returned the blade.
"You have your aunt's smile, you know," he said quietly.
Dezra's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Kitiara's smile. It was just like yours." He nodded. "All crooked, one corner higher than the other. It always meant she was up to something. I remember one time, when Tanis and Sturm were—"
"Spare me," Dezra snarled abruptly. She shook her head. "Just this once, keep your bloody stories about Tanis and Sturm and Kitiara to yourself."
Caramon flushed, his mouth working soundlessly. "Dezra…" he growled.
"Get something straight, Father," she went on. "I don't care. You may have been as big a hero, once, as you claim to be, but that was a long time ago. I look at you now, and all I see is an old man living in the past."
Something in Caramon gave way. "Hold your tongue, girl!" he barked, drawing back his hand.
Dezra flinched. A heartbeat later, however, she raised her chin, silently offering it to him. Caramon flushed, ashamed, and let his arm drop to his side. Never, in his life, had he raised his hand against his children. That was for other men—weaker men.
They stood silently a while, then Dezra shrugged. "Well," she said, turning to go.
Caramon slumped, shaking his head. Borlos crept forward. "You all right, big guy?"
"Help me get this torch lit," Caramon snarled.
Borlos studied Caramon's face, then nodded, reaching into his pouch for flint and steel. "Sure thing, big guy."
It took a few strikes before a spark kindled on the brand. When the torch was burning brightly, Caramon turned to face Uwen's body. He should say something, he knew, but all that came to him was the thought that had been rolling in his head, ever since the arrow struck the boy dead: I should never have let you come along.
Softly, Borlos cleared his throat. He began to chant, echoing the horsefolk at the Yard of Gathering:
From the sky the rain,
he rain kisses the earth.
From the earth the tree,
The tree yields its fruit…
Sighing, Caramon laid the flickering torch on the pyre. He bowed his head, feeling tired, as the flames rose.
19
Chrethon plunged through the dark, twisted forest, laughing wildly. There was blood on the wind. It maddened him, more intoxicating than strong wine. He understood what the smell meant. One of the new Skorenoi had wounded its quarry.
It was a thing he always did, whenever new centaurs Crossed. From the beginning, he'd taken the newest Skorenoi into the woods to hunt. It was the best way to test his followers' prowess. Those who caught the first prey became leaders in his growing horde.
He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Thenidor ran behind, halberd upraised, his coat dark with sweat. "They're close!" Chrethon bellowed. "They'll have their first kill soon!"
Thenidor nodded enthusiastically. Before either of them could say anything more, however, someone called out ahead of them. The pounding of hooves stopped, then turned right. A bowstring thrummed, followed by a squeal of pain. The blood-scent grew stronger, headier as the Skorenoi pursued the boar up a craggy hill. With a glance to make sure Thenidor was still with them, Chrethon followed.
They clambered upward for more then half a mile. The hillside was more sparsely wooded than the valley below, and Chrethon caught glimpses of the hunters in the silver moonlight. He squinted past them, but couldn't see the boar. He kept going, slowly gaining ground on the Skorenoi. One of the hunters raised a bow and let fly. The boar answered with an even more furious shriek than before, then changed direction again, angling downhill.
They cornered it soon after, driving the panicked beast into a rocky cleft near the hill's bottom. Trapped, it turned to face them. When Chrethon and Thenidor caught up, the Skorenoi had formed a half-circle about the cleft's mouth. One shot his bow, feathering the boar’s neck. It screamed and thrashed, stubbornly refusing to go down.
The Skorenoi turned at Chrethon's approach. The one who'd fired held up a hand, and the others lowered their bows. He strode toward Chrethon, bowing.
Chrethon looked him up and down: Grimbough had done worse than usual with this one. His face was neither human nor horse, but a mass of leathery skin so malformed that it was all but impossible to make out his features. His forelegs ended not with hooves, but with fat, stubby-fingered hands that gripped the rock beneath.
The faceless Skorenos bowed. "We have it trapped, my lord. The killing blow is thine, if thou wish it."
Chrethon stared into the black pits of the creature's eyes, then strode past, toward the boar. The animal snorted fiercely, drawing back. Its tusks glistened: if Chrethon got too close, it would surely try to run underneath him, gore him from below. He kept his distance: he'd been hunting boar since long before he Crossed.
He extended his lance one-handed toward the boar, raising his other arm over his head and waving to distract the wounded beast. It froze, its small eyes squinting, and he lunged, driving the spear into its neck.
The boar shrieked and thrashed. Chrethon bore down, twisting the weapon and shoving the animal back with all his strength. It backed against a boulder, collapsed, and died. Satisfied it wasn't going to get back up again, he jerked the spear free, wiped its head on the animal's hide, and turned back toward the other Skorenoi. Without a word, he strode up to their leader and smashed its shapeless face with the butt of his spear.
There was a satisfying crunch. The Skorenos dropped its bow and clutched its face, howling. Blood sprayed between its fingers. Without hesitating, Chrethon brought his spear-butt up again and struck it in the gut. It doubled over, sinking to its knees.
"Never give up a kill!" Chrethon snarled. "Not even to me. Finish, and don't hesitate. Dost thou understand?"
The Skorenos managed to nod, whimpering. "My lord… I'm sorry… ."
Chrethon turned away in disgust. He glared at the other five Skorenoi. "I still hunger for the chase," he said. "Continue the hunt."
The Skorenoi wheeled, bows in hand, and charged out of the gully. Chrethon followed, Thenidor coming behind. They left the faceless one lying on the ground with the dead boar.
An hour later, a wolf-eared Skorenos stopped at the crest of a low, wooded hillock and raised its head to sniff the air. Somehow, though Chrethon could smell nothing, he picked up a spoor. Nostrils flared, he turned east, cantering down the hill. The others followed.
They tracked the scent for miles, moving east in a more or less straight line. Finally, the wolfish Skorenos held up a hand, bringing the company to a halt. Without a glance at Chrethon, it crept toward a clump of blackthorns, whose branches drooped with shriveled fruit. The shadows around the bushes were deep enough to hide a large animal—a wolf, perhaps. Chrethon squinted, trying to see what the Skorenos was stalking, but the darkness was too thick to make anything out.
Twenty paces from the bushes, the hunter stopped again, raising his bow. The bow's limbs creaked as he pulled back the string.
"Wait!" a voice bleated. "Don't shoot!"
Chrethon drew up, his eyes widening. "Hurach?"
The shadows seemed to solidify, revealing the shape of a one-horned satyr. "My lord!" the goat-man yelped.
The wolfish Skorenos hesitated, confused. He risked a look at Chrethon.
"It's all right," Chrethon said. "He's a friend. Put up thy bow."
With a nod, the Skorenos relaxed his pull. As soon as he was no longer in danger of getting shot, Hurach crept out of the shadows and strode forward to kneel before Chrethon.
"What art thou doing out here, Hurach?" Chrethon snarled.
"I was on my way to Sangelior, lord," Hurach answered. "I thought you'd be there, not out hunting. I surely didn't think you'd be hunting me."
Chrethon smiled slightly. "Thou hast news? Thou hast been to Ithax?"
"Aye, lord," the satyr said. "I spied upon the Circle itself. The sons of Nemeredes were there, too, and the humans."
&nb
sp; Thenidor snarled a curse, reminded of his failure by the Darkwater. His hand strayed to the bandaged arrow-wound Gyrtomon had dealt him.
"Be still!" Chrethon barked, not bothering to turn. "What then, Hurach? What didst thou hear?"
The satyr hesitated. "My lord… I think it would be better if I told you without so many ears about." He nodded toward the other Skorenoi.
Chrethon glowered, but finally he relented. "Very well, Hurach." He gestured past the blackthorns. "Come—let us walk together, alone."
Leodippos was dicing with his tribesmen, a jug of wine at hand, when the runners galloped through Sangelior, shouting that Lord Chrethon's party was returning. Leodippos stiffened, glancing at the sky. The moon and stars confirmed his suspicions: The hunters were early. He tossed the dice away, drawing dismayed groans from his fellow players
"Whist, idiots!" he growled. "There's trouble afoot."
The other Skorenoi fell silent. He took a long, deep quaff from the jug, then dropped it on the ground. It cracked in half, wine soaking into the trampled earth.
"I want twenty archers to meet me at the western road," he said. "Lord Chrethon may have need of us."
Obediently, his warriors dispersed. Leodippos cantered through Sangelior alone. The town was an anarchy of dancing, feasting, rutting and fighting. Laughter and screams rose into the sky amid the firelight. He made his way to the town's outskirts, where a trail wound toward the heart of Darken Wood. His escort joined him as he'd ordered, and together they waited, watching the shadows.
Soon he heard the thud of hooves, the rattle of war harnesses. He recognized Chrethon's gait in particular. He tightened his grip on his lance, glancing at his escort to make sure they were alert. A minute passed, then another, then a lone figure came trotting out of the darkness: Thenidor. He held his bow half-drawn. The weapon rose when he saw Leodippos, then recognition flickered across his face and he lowered it again.
"Stand aside!" Thenidor roared, gesturing with his arrowhead. "He's right behind me! If he finds thee blocking his way—"
Dezra's Quest Page 14