Then, howling, Lord Chrethon and the rest of his host descended upon them.
Rhedogar had expected this. Barking furious orders, he gathered five hundred of his bravest warriors and led them away from the fleeing masses. Gyrtomon, left in charge of the rest, continued to lead the fleeing centaurs away. There were tears in his eyes as he did, for he knew what Rhedogar meant to do. Five hundred warriors wouldn't be enough to beat Chrethon on the field. But it would slow him down.
Chrethon understood this as he thundered toward the centaurs, lance held aloft. He saw the warriors coming to meet him, and understood Rhedogar's plan. He couldn't help but smile as he cursed the old, cunning war-leader. With a snarl, he lowered his lance and pushed himself even faster, clots of mud flying behind his churning hooves.
The centaurs and Skorenoi exchanged savage flights of arrows, firing without breaking pace. Bodies fell in tangles on either side, some toppling their fellows or those behind. Then the two forces struck, lances piercing flesh, cudgels shattering bone. Screams of rage and pain filled the air. Wood and metal shattered as the Skorenoi died; the centaurs plucked more weapons, from their harnesses and the hands of the dead, to continue the fight.
Rhedogar fought furiously, laying about him on all sides as he sought Lord Chrethon. He lost his lance as he slew one foe, then his sword, and a scythe he snatched from a dying Skorenos. Finally, as he bent to lift a spear from the blood-damp earth, he saw his quarry. He raised the lance high and bellowed a challenge. Chrethon, his face wild with battle lust and glistening with centaur blood, wheeled to face him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, then they charged.
Rhedogar's lance, the longer of the two, struck first. At the last moment, however, Chrethon twisted, and the spear's point, which had been aimed at his breast, instead opened a furrow in his shoulder, then caught on his iron-studded war harness. The weapon's shaft snapped. Rhedogar's eyes widened—
And emptied, with shocking suddenness, as Chrethon's spear took him through the heart.
The silver centaur collapsed in a lifeless heap. Whooping with mad glee, Chrethon yanked his lance free, then pushed on, deeper into the fight. The battle continued around him, but already the horsefolk were flagging, their numbers depleted. Here and there, Skorenoi won through their ranks and bolted onward, toward the fleeing mass of Ithax's centaurs. Chrethon killed two more warriors—a mare and a stallion, both barely of age—then charged onward, toward the enemy, Skorenoi galloping with him on all sides.
It was too late, though, and Chrethon cursed, knowing it. Rhedogar and his five hundred had lasted only a short while, but long enough. The centaurs were at the edge of the battlefield now, moving at a gallop, archers firing back to ward off pursuit. He watched, not slowing his pace, as they vanished into night's shadows, into the hills. Too fast to catch.
Even so, he and his warriors followed them into the highlands. They caught stragglers, killed them without mercy— colts and fillies, the old and sick, and those warriors who followed Rhedogar's example and valiantly sought to delay the Skorenoi. A third of Ithax's centaurs died, on the field and in the hills—but the rest escaped, coursing westward through the night, out of Chrethon's reach. Finally, long after the chase became fruitless, he raised his war horn and blew three long blasts, recalling his warriors. With a snarl, he wheeled and started back toward the blazing ruins of Ithax.
Hours later, as dawn approached and the flames were dying, Chrethon stood in the Yard of Gathering, surrounded by the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi alike. He stared down at one in particular, sprawled before him. For the first time since the centaurs' escape, his needle-sharp teeth bared in a smile.
Lord Menelachos had fought ferociously, to the last. His arms were broken, his fingers shattered. Even when he could find no more weapons to use, he'd killed with his bare hands. The same magic that broke whatever weapons slew the Skorenoi had maimed him, left him helpless before the killing stroke: a crushing blow to the temple, which had smashed his skull.
Chrethon looked at the crowd of Skorenoi who'd gathered around the body. "Who slew him?"
No one spoke. Chrethon nodded. More likely than not, he'd never know the answer. He shrugged.
Leodippos and Thenidor stood by, smeared with blood. "I want this town razed," Chrethon hissed at them. "Nothing must remain, save ashes and rubble."
"It shall be done," Leodippos snarled. "And after? What of the survivors?"
"Fled into the hills, most likely. When we're done here, thou shalt hunt them down."
The horse-headed Skorenos bowed. "It will be an honor, lord."
"And I?" ventured Thenidor. "Shall I join the hunt?"
Chrethon shook his head. "No, Thenidor. Thou wilt return to Sangelior with me. I would have thee near, in case I need thee."
Thenidor looked disappointed, but bowed nonetheless. He nodded toward Menelachos's body. "What shall we do with that, lord?"
Chrethon considered a moment, then a cruel leer spread across his face. He bent down, drawing his sword, and set its edge against the High Chief's tail. He sighed at the sound of steel slicing through flesh: it was a sound he'd waited ten years to hear.
He rose, gesturing at Menelachos's mutilated corpse. "Stake his head," he said. "As for the rest of him, let Ithax be his pyre."
With that, he whirled and galloped away through the ruins, holding aloft the High Chief's tail.
27
The sward atop the spire-stone was small, only fifty paces across, with sharp drops on all sides to the steaming tarn below. Bug-lamps rested on the grass, bathing it and the trunks of the firs in blue light. The sprites had laid out pheasant and fish, mushrooms and berries, with milk and their incomparable mead to accompany the feast; the companions devoured it all, then sat, waiting. Borlos stared into the distance, plucking his lyre. In time, Laird Guithern and the other winged folk joined them, and the talk turned to the war, Grimbough, and Soulsplitter.
"So," Guithern declared, folding his arms as he hovered in the air, "if ye take the axe back, ye'll use it to destroy this daemon tree?"
Trephas nodded. "That's what the Circle hopes, as I told thee yesterday."
Guithern nodded, then lapsed into deep thought. He and the other sprites who'd gathered for the moot—Fanuin and Ellianthe, several elders, and a number of warriors—bobbed up and down as the night wind blew about them.
"My father told me about Soulsplitter," Guithern mused at length. "It was his da the horsefolk brought it to, seventy summers ago—or two thousand of them, as time passes in yer world. They asked for his word, in the names of Branchala and Chislev, that if any centaur came seeking it, he'd refuse to give it over. 'Twas too great a danger, they said: it slew their High Chief, and only the gods knew what other evil it might wreak if one of yer kind ever raised it again.
"My grandfather made my father take the same oath, and so, also, with me. I swore, before the gods of the wilds, never to surrender the axe." He stared at Caramon, his dark eyes glinting. "And here you are, at the centaurs' behest, asking me to break that very oath."
Dezra snorted, rolling her eyes. "I don't care if you swore before Paladine, Takhisis, or the gnomes of Mount Nevermind," she said. "We still need it back."
"That ye may," Guithern replied coldly. "But even if all the dragons of Krynn were arrayed against ye, I couldn't relinquish it. We fey folk might be capricious, but we abide by our word."
"But thou must!" Trephas insisted, his voice rising. "Too many of my people have died already. Wilt thou condemn the rest of us?"
The Laird shook his head. "I don't say this on a whim, friend centaur. Thy ancestors felt Soulsplitter bore too much power, that after what befell Lord Hyrtamos, they should never use it again—not even against the most dangerous foe."
"Then they were fools!" Dezra snapped, rising to her feet. The sprites darted back, reaching for their weapons. "And you're no better, Your Highness, if you'd keep an oath so blindly!"
A hush fell over the sward. The elder sprites glared at Dezra
, their narrow faces severe. She returned their gaze coolly, hands on her hips.
"If ye think insulting me is the way to get what ye want," Guithern hissed, "then it's you who are the fool. With a word, I could have ye drugged and taken back to Darken Wood. No dryad would ever let ye return here."
Dezra sucked in a breath to retort, her eyes ablaze. Before she could speak, however, Caramon interjected. "Your pardon, Highness. But blunt as my daughter may be," he said carefully, giving Dezra a warning look, "she's also not far off the mark. When the Circle gave your people the axe, they couldn't have anticipated what's happening now, that there is a threat dire enough to warrant its return."
"If Grimbough is victorious," Trephas added, "the dryads will perish, as surely as my people will. Or worse, they'll Cross, as have the Skorenoi and many of the satyrs. And once they're Grimbough's thralls, they'll seek out this place." The centaur waved a hairy arm, encompassing the whole vale. "Don't think thou wilt go untouched. Thy home will become as corrupt as mine."
Guithern was silent, his face clouded with thought. He studied Caramon and Trephas. "It's truly that bad?"
"Aye," the centaur said. "I wouldn't lie about this, Highness."
"No," the sprite murmured, "ye wouldn't." He drew a delicate hand down his face. "So, then. What good is an oath if it dooms all it was meant to protect?"
"Then you'll give us the axe?" Caramon asked.
Guithern shook his head, his silver locks shimmering. "No," he said. "I don't have it to give."
"What?" blurted Dezra.
"My grandfather protected it the best way he knew," Guithern declared, "by putting it where my people dare not— and the centaurs cannot—go."
"Tell us," Trephas bade.
The sprite hesitated, then nodded. "There's a place, in the mountains north of here—an old, ruined tower, where a wizard once lived. I don't know the sorcerer's name, but he was powerful. He did terrible things there: summoning demons from the Abyss, tormenting the dead. He even sought to create life."
Caramon shuddered. At the height of Raistlin's power, his brother had done the same thing. He'd never seen the fruit of that horrible experiment, but he'd heard stories. The Live Ones had been tormented, repulsive things, in constant pain, begging to die.
"Did… did he succeed?" he breathed.
Guithern shook his head. "I think not. If he did, the flesh of the creatures he made is surely long since dust. The tower stood outside my kingdom, and the wizard was dead when the centaurs gave Soulsplitter to my grandfather. All that remains is the pit beneath: a deep shaft, leading down into the living rock of the mountain.
"It's to that pit my grandfather took the axe. He threw it in and left it there, in the depths. Since then, my people haven't entered the place."
Caramon frowned. "I don't get it. You just said the tower fell apart thousands of years ago, that it's abandoned—why do you fear it?"
"Because," Guithern said solemnly, "it isn't abandoned. The Guardian, the last of the wizard's creations, still dwells there."
Dezra's eyes narrowed. "But you said the things he made were gone—their flesh was dust."
"Aye," Guithern answered. "But the Guardian isn't flesh. It's shaped of the stone itself, a creature the wizard built to watch over his keep. It remains there, waiting to slay anyone who enters. My people wouldn't go into that place even if I ordered them to."
"Then we'll have to try," Dezra said.
Caramon bit his lip. "Dez, this Guardian thing sounds like a golem. Raist told me about them, when we were young. They're really powerful. I don't think—"
"I'll do it," Dezra insisted. "I'm not going back empty-handed. You're free to stay and wait for me, if you're too scared to go."
If she'd meant to anger him, she was disappointed. He only stared at his hands, folded in his lap. "You're right, girl," he murmured. "We've come too far to stop now. We'll all go." He looked toward the Laird. "We're going to need help getting there, though."
They left in the morning, riding the lugruidh once more. The eldritch vale was even more splendid in daylight—the tarn shone turquoise, the mist that shrouded it gleaming gold in the sun's slanting rays. Above the spire, and across the lake in Gwethyryn, sprites danced on the wind. The winged folk brought the companions sweet bread and cheese to break their fast, then Guithern and his court came down to see them off and supply them with food, water and rope for their journey.
"I'll be plain with ye," the Laird said while they strapped on their arms and armor. "I'm not certain I'll see you alive again."
Caramon laughed mirthlessly, jamming his winged helmet on his head. "You and me both, Highness. But then, it's not exactly a new feeling for me."
Fanuin and Ellianthe arrived soon after, leading the company of sprites who'd carried the companions to the spire. They unfurled the lugruidh, snapping it taut and gliding smoothly to the spire's edge. The companions stepped onto it, not daring to look down. Another command, this time from Ellianthe, set them moving, soaring out over the lake toward its northern shore. Guithern called farewell, then flew away, a mote of silver light.
They glided on, buffeted by the wind, toward the ridge at the vale's edge. They rose slowly as they went, clearing the snow-dappled rocks by less than an arm's length—
—and then, without warning, the sky changed. The sun, which had been just barely past dawn, was suddenly high, just beginning to descend in the west. The high, wispy clouds became thick and dark. The pale moon hung low in the east, a slender crescent.
"What the—" Dezra gasped.
"We're outside the faerie realm," Borlos replied.
Fanuin and Ellianthe nodded, gliding beside the lugruidh. "The ridge was the border between yer world and ours," Ellianthe said. "And yer time and ours, too."
Caramon glanced around, trying to get his bearings. "I still don't see anything I recognize. Not Prayer's Eye Peak, not Tasin and Fasin. I don't think we're even in the Sentinels at—"
He broke off suddenly as he looked back the way they'd come, then paled, his eyes widening.
The others regarded him with concern. "Big guy?" Borlos asked. "What's wrong?"
"Gone," he gasped when he found his voice. "Sweet Reorx's beard. Look."
Startled, the others turned to follow his gaze. Caramon was right: of the fey folk's vale, which should have been right behind them, there was no sign: nothing but a succession of snowy peaks.
"Whoa," Dezra remarked, impressed. "Where'd it go?"
The sprites laughed. "Oh, it's still there," Fanuin said. "But ye'll need our help finding it again. Ye can't just walk into the faerie realm. One of us has to take you, or ye'd end up wandering the mountains forever."
"I don't understand," Dezra said.
"Ye're not supposed to," Ellianthe said, grinning. "Ye're not one of us, after all. Now stop fretting. We'll get ye back safely—if the Guardian doesn't get the lot o' ye, that is."
Borlos gulped as they glided onward. "Do me a favor," he said. "Stop saying things like that, all right?"
28
If the sprites hadn't pointed out the tower to her, Dezra wouldn't have recognized it. The centuries had left nothing but a tumble of stones, standing on a broad shelf halfway up a towering, snow-capped peak. The black-veined marble that had been its walls was jumbled with slabs of slate that had broken loose from the slope above.
She shivered as the lugruidh descended. A hand touched her shoulder, startling her. "Dez?" her father asked. "You all right?"
"I'm fine," she snapped. "Just leave me alone."
He was silent a moment, then turned away, shrugging.
The lugruidh stopped at the edge of the shelf. They slipped on the frost-rimed rocks when they stepped off, but soon found purchase, their breath fogging in the chill air. Steel rasped as Caramon drew his sword. He eyed the ruins and the mountainside, then turned to Fanuin and Ellianthe, who hovered nearby.
"Anything live around here?" he asked. "Mountain cats, trolls, wyverns?"
"N
ay," Fanuin answered, shaking his head. "Nothing's dwelt here for ages. I reckon beasts fear it, for what the wizard once did here."
"They do," Trephas said quietly. His nostrils were wide, his tail twitching. He shifted from hoof to hoof. "I can feel it. If I were more horse and less man, I might panic at being so close."
Borlos eyed him nervously. "But you're fine now?"
The centaur grinned. "Don't worry. If I have the urge to bolt, I'll tell thee first."
The wind whipping their cloaks and hair, they strode toward the ruins. Fanuin and Ellianthe flew along, but the other sprites remained behind. Caramon kicked at a small, jagged chunk of slate, then nodded at the stone pile. It was taller than even Trephas could reach, and fifty paces across.
"So," he asked the sprites, "where's this pit your great-granddad threw the axe into?"
"Near the middle, according to the story," replied Ellianthe. "I'll look ahead." She flitted to the top of the rubble, then perched on a jagged shard of slate, staring down. She turned and nodded. "I can see it from here. There's some big stones blocking it, though."
Fanuin darted after her and drew up alongside. "Aye," he said, then glanced at the peak above. "Reckon there's been a rockslide in the past century."
"Is it totally choked?" Dezra asked.
Ellianthe shook her head. "Not totally. Come look for yer-selves."
They climbed slowly, the slate shifting beneath their feet. Trephas's hooves scrabbled as he made his way up the rubble. Dezra reached the top first, Borlos right behind, then Caramon and the centaur. Together, they stared down into the ruins.
Dezra's Quest Page 20