"Of course you wouldn't," Borlos stated. "You have a family to go home to, an inn to run. What do I have? Clemen and Osier? How many years have I wasted playing cards with them, night after night?"
"So you're staying." Caramon couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.
"Let me finish." Borlos laid a hand across his strings. "I could stay, but I'd always wonder if I could have done more to help the centaurs. I'd never be happy, no matter how beautiful this place is, or how much pleasure I find with Pallidice."
Caramon coughed. "So what you're saying is…
"I'm leaving," Borlos said. He took a deep breath, then let it out.
"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. He patted the bard's arm, then, sensing he wanted to be alone, turned and walked back to join the others.
Borlos turned back toward the tarn, staring across the water. His fingers strayed back to his lyre. The wind caught the chords he plucked and snatched them away.
The lugruidh carried them back the way they'd come, Fanuin and Ellianthe flying beside it. It soared over the tarn and Gwethyryn, crested the ridge at the crater's south edge, and sailed on, among the looming peaks. In time a glint of light appeared in the distance. The companions watched as the crystal cliff grew closer, winking like a diamond in the sun—all of them, that is, save Borlos. The bard stared back, clutching his lyre to his chest.
At Fanuin and Ellianthe's direction, the lugruidh drew up alongside the cliff and hovered within reach of its shimmering surface. The Laird's children swooped toward the stone, hands outstretched, and the rock split, opening into a tunnel again.
Guithern had given the companions bug-lamps before they left; now each of them took one, then stepped into the passage. Fanuin and Ellianthe led them back into the mountain, parting the stone before them; the tunnel closed behind, sealing them inside. After a long walk, they emerged in the caves where they'd awoken after eating the drugged food.
Hours passed. Fanuin and Ellianthe brought food and mead, and Borlos played upon his lyre, his eyes shining as his music resounded about the cavern. Trephas took Soulsplitter from his harness, laid it on the floor, and stared at it thoughtfully.
Finally, with a crack that filled the room, one of the cavern's walls split open. Several swift-flying sprites emerged, darting toward Fanuin and Ellianthe. The winged folk jabbered together, then Ellianthe broke off and flew to join the companions.
"Something's wrong," Caramon said, seeing the grim look on the sprite's face.
"It's Pallidice, isn't it?" Borlos asked. He rose, setting his lyre aside. "What's happened?"
Ellianthe raised a hand. "The dryad will be here soon. But she is ill. The messengers fear she's dying."
A few minutes later, the tunnel in the wall widened even more, and a figure emerged. The companions caught their breaths.
"Oh… ." Borlos moaned. "Oh, gods."
The oak-maiden had changed. Part of it was because of the shifting seasons: gold and flame-red streaked her green hair, harbingers of an early autumn. But the difference ran deeper than that. Her dark, supple skin had turned gray. Her youthful face was haggard, her slender limbs bony. Even her eyes were dull, as though a cloud had fallen across them. She trembled, her shoulders hunched.
"Pallidice," Borlos murmured, his voice breaking.
She peered up at him, a ghost of joy lighting her face, and smiled wearily. She was missing several teeth, and the rest had turned brown. "My love," she croaked. Her voice quavered thinly. "My heart sings to see you again. Would that it were the same for you."
"What?" Borlos asked, then flushed. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, looking down. "I just—"
"Nay, say nothing, my love. I know what I look like." Pallidice shook her head woefully. "The daemon tree's curse began to work upon my sisters and me, soon after I brought you here. It grows worse all the time. I fear I won't live to feel the weight of snow upon my oak's boughs again."
Borlos's mouth tightened. His hands curled slowly into fists. "No," he growled. "You will. Grimbough will fall, if I have to chop it down myself."
"Peldarin's axe is ours," Trephas added, raising Soulsplitter. "We must take it to my people. Return us to Darken Wood, and I also swear to stop Grimbough from harming you any more."
Pallidice nodded, though there was little hope in her eyes. "Of course. I'll take you. Gather your gear, and follow." She turned, stepping back into the tunnel.
Hurriedly, the companions prepared to go. "Thanks for your help," Caramon said, turning toward the sprites. "We couldn't have—"
He stopped. The winged folk were gone.
"Fanuin?" he asked. "Ellianthe? Where'd they get to?"
Dezra shrugged. "Back home, probably, while we were all staring at Pallidice. Come on. The others are waiting."
Caramon glanced about once more, but the sprites were nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, he put on his helm, shouldered his pack, and followed the others out of the cave.
The earth gave off a faint, noisome stench as Pallidice led them back to Darken Wood. Now and again, a beetle or worm emerged from it and dropped, squirming, to the floor. Strange chittering sounds surrounded them, and obscene, blister-like bulges appeared in the walls and ceiling. The air was dank and close.
Finally, the tunnel opened once more into a familiar earthen vault—the same place they'd met when Pallidice and her sisters drew them in. The tendrils that hung from the ceiling had shriveled; black ichor dripped from them onto the floor. Brown mist swirled about their feet, reeking like spoiled meat.
"Stay here," Pallidice rasped. "I will summon my sisters, and we'll return you to the surface."
Then she was gone, into another passage in the earth. The earth sealed shut behind her.
The companions waited in silence. Borlos turned away from the others, head bowed. Caramon walked to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. Trephas plucked his lance from his harness and jabbed at a swollen, white spider that crawled across the floor.
Dezra strode to one of the walls, where a huge blister had appeared in the earth. It glistened in the bug-light, and she saw something dark moving within. Grimacing, she drew her dagger to burst the growth.
As she was raising the blade, though, the blister's membranous surface split open, revealing a large, bloodshot eye. She leapt back, yelping, as it stared at her. A heartbeat later, her senses returned, and she lashed out with her blade, piercing the eye. Black corruption spilled forth. She stared as the membrane closed again.
Caramon hurried over. "What in the Abyss was that?"
Dezra shook her head, wiping her dagger with a rag from her pouch. "I'm not sure," she said quietly. "I think someone just saw us."
Caramon frowned, but before he could ask more, a tunnel opened, and Pallidice stepped into the chamber. With her came the other three dryads who'd brought them here. They didn't flounce or giggle, as they'd done before, but hobbled and shuffled like old women. All were horribly marked by Grimbough's magic. Gamaia was obscenely bloated, and had lost all her lovely green hair. Tessonda was horribly scrawny, bones showing through her skin, which was covered with weeping sores. Elirope was worst of all. Her limbs and back were twisted and bent, as though every bone had been broken and badly set. Seeing them, the companions couldn't help but cringe.
“Aye," said Pallidice, laughing harshly. “We are hideous to behold, aren't we? A cruel trick to play on us, who prided ourselves on our beauty."
Borlos shook his head angrily. “This will end, Pallidice. You have my word."
The dryad smiled gruesomely. "Thank you, my love," she said. "Now, shall we bring you back to the surface?"
The other dryads led Trephas, Caramon and Dezra away, leaving Borlos and Pallidice alone. Her eyes downcast, the oak-maiden came forward. "I'm sorry, my love," she said, "but we must embrace for me to take you back through my tree. I won't ask for more than that. I know what I am now."
Tenderly, Borlos rested his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and kissed her gently on her forehead.
She smiled at him, a joyful look that nearly erased the suffering from her face. Their arms snaked about each other. After a while, the roots came down and lifted them up and away.
Lord Chrethon smashed the runner's face with the back of his hand. The long-legged Skorenos fell to its knees with a howl. It started to rise, clutching at its bloodied nose, and Chrethon kicked it in the chest. It fell flat, wheezing.
"What didst thou say?" he thundered, towering over the fallen runner.
"My lord—I can't—don't—" the runner whimpered, cowering.
Chrethon plucked his lance from his harness and lowered it. "Tell me, or I'll geld thee right here."
The Skorenos looked at the upraised lance, its face filled with terror. "My lord," it groaned, "Lord Leodippos asks more warriors to aid in the search for those who escaped the sacking of Ithax."
Chrethon cursed himself again for letting so many of the centaurs escape. Leodippos's warriors had chased them into the mountains at the westernmost edge of Darken Wood, killing stragglers the whole way, but once they made it to high ground, the horsefolk had become almost impossible to root out. Leodippos was a relentless hunter, but the centaurs had constantly eluded him. They'd started fighting back, too, through ambushes and night raids. Leodippos had already asked for reinforcements once, over a week ago, to shore up his dwindling numbers. Now he wanted them again!
Chrethon wanted to blame Leodippos for his failure, but he knew better. If he asked for more warriors, it was because he needed them badly. It would do no good to deny him.
There were, however, plenty of runners in his horde. He wouldn't miss one. Chrethon thrust his lance, driving it through the cowering messenger's heart. He let go of the weapon's shaft, and it exploded into splinters of wood and metal.
Leaving the corpse, he strode along the hilltop, looking down at Sangelior. Much of the town was empty and dark. Its inhabitants were either dead or searching the mountains for the Circle. Chrethon dreaded having to send still more of his warriors west, but had little choice if he wanted the last of the centaurs dead before winter. He raised his hand, beckoning to another runner.
The messenger came forward hesitantly. It had seen what he'd done to its fellow. "M-my lord?" it stuttered. "What is thy w-wish?"
"Be still," Chrethon growled. "I'm not going to harm thee. Go down and tell the war leaders. They must each send fifty warriors west, to aid Lord Leodippos."
"F-fifty, my lord?"
Chrethon glowered. The runner paled, turned, and sprinted away.
Chuckling wryly, Chrethon turned to look over the town. The runner's uncertainty was understandable. There were ten war leaders left in Sangelior, which meant he was sending five hundred warriors to Leodippos's aid. After that, there would be only another thousand left at his disposal. And what if Leodippos sent another runner, in a month's time, asking for still more help?
Chrethon spat in the dirt. If that happened, maybe Leodippos would feel his wrath, after all.
He reared, forehooves churning the air, then whirled and trotted down the path to Sangelior. He hadn't taken more than twenty steps, though, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofbeats. He reached for his shortsword.
It was another runner, a mare. She stopped when she saw Chrethon, then bowed and hurried forward. Chrethon recognized her: He'd posted her at Grimbough's grove.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
The mare bowed. "My lord, I apologize for intruding, but the tree asks for thee."
Chrethon caught his breath, then rammed his sword back into its scabbard. "Come with me," he bade, then turned and galloped east, toward the daemon tree's grove. The runner followed.
When they arrived, Grimbough was seething with rage. Its branches waved and rustled madly, and its thick trunk throbbed. Chrethon bowed before it. "What dost thou wish?"
The tree's low voice was furious. "The humans have returned from the faerie lands," it rumbled. "I have seen them, in the secret places of the dryads. They will be back in Darken Wood soon."
…soon, muttered the branches above.
Chrethon stiffened. He hadn't thought about the son of Nemeredes and his human friends for some time. He'd begun to think they would never return. But now—
"Do they have Soulsplitter?" he asked.
"Yes."
…yes… .
Chrethon didn't even think of questioning how the tree knew. It had its ways. He spoke with it a moment longer, then withdrew, signaling for the runner who'd accompanied him to the grove. "Find Thenidor," he bade. "Have him meet me here."
Chrethon stood among the twisted trees after the mare left, thinking quickly. He doubted the humans would know yet that Ithax had fallen. They would try to go there first. If they were just leaving the dryads' grove now, Thenidor had time to intercept them there.
But Thenidor had faced Trephhas and his companions before. Chrethon needed another plan, in case he failed again. He knew right away what that plan would be.
Coming about, he cantered through the woods, toward where the Forestmaster lay. He called for Hurach as he ran.
30
The stain of Grimbough's power bad spread far across Darken Wood. Its trees had changed; some were swollen and rotting, others twisted or splintered as if struck by lightning. The songbirds that had flitted among the boughs were gone, and only shrieking crows remained, clustered about the carcasses of animals that hadn't been able to flee the corruption.
Mile upon mile, the befouled forest went on. Bracken and thornbushes thrived where ferns and flowers had grown, and Trephas had to use Soulsplitter to clear them away. No sooner had he cut a path, however, than the brambles began to twist and writhe, growing together again. They clutched at the companions, ripping clothing and scratching flesh with their wicked thorns.
Three leagues out of the dryads' glade, rain began to fall in small, slashing droplets, stinging faces and hands. Still they struggled on, covering what bare skin they could and fighting through the rest.
A grasping briar snagged Dezra's cloak as she walked; irritated, she yanked it loose and stumbled against a leafless oak. The tree's spongy wood yielded, as though it sought to pull her in. Several large centipedes slithered out of the rot and up her arm, jaws twitching. She brushed them off with a yell, then stomped on them, cursing, as they tried to scuttle away.
"Does this ever end?" she asked angrily.
"It must," Caramon replied, swinging his broadsword as another thorny tendril lashed toward him. The branch pulled back, hissing like a snake. "I'd give anything for some high ground, so we could see the wood from above."
Dezra drew her own blade and began to cut the briars as well. "Do you think Ithax is like this now too?"
Caramon glanced toward Trephas. The centaur was well ahead, swinging Soulsplitter like a scythe. "I'm not sure," Caramon admitted quietly. "There's still a couple of leagues to go. Maybe it'll end before we get there."
"You don't sound convinced," Dezra noted.
"I'm not."
Another mile on, they found the first of the bodies.
There was no mistaking the shape of the carcass that lay tangled in the brambles. They didn't need to see the outflung hand, the fingers savaged by carrion birds, to know what it was. Trephas let out a heartbroken moan, then hurried forward, his companions following.
"Trephas," Caramon began. "Don't—"
Too late. The centaur ran to the corpse, waving his arms and yelling to scare away the crows that had settled over it. Then he stopped suddenly, shying back and bowing his head. His breath came in sharp, wracking gasps as the other companions came up beside him.
The centaur had died some time ago, and what flesh the crows hadn't taken was black and swollen. Its ribs showed white through torn flesh. Flies buzzed about it in a thick, black cloud.
Worse than decay, though, was the way it had died. Many of its bones were broken, and its flesh had been hacked with s
words or scythes. Its head lay nearly a yard away, eyeless, little more than a skull. The broken shaft of an arrow was lodged in its temple.
Borlos made a strangled sound, then staggered away to vomit. Dezra, too, felt her gorge rise. She looked away, wrinkling her nose at the ungodly stench.
Trephas wept openly, his shoulders shaking. "Merciful Chislev," he murmured. "Iasta. Oh, my dear—what have they done to thee?"
"You knew her?" Caramon asked.
"She was a friend," Trephas said softly. "One of Arhedion's patrol. I recognize her harness. The three of us played together when we were children. Oh, Iasta… they took thy tail… ."
They did what they could for the dead mare, which wasn't much at all. Caramon helped Trephas free her from the brambles, then took her skull and placed it with the rest of her. There was no time to build a pyre; in the rain, it wouldn't have burned anyway. Borlos played a dirge on his lyre, and Trephas cut his hand and bled on her corrupted form. Then they went on, leaving her.
Dezra motioned her father to her as they walked. She glanced at Trephas, to make sure he was out of earshot. He stomped ahead, slashing at the briars.
"Wouldn't the centaurs have brought her body back to Ithax?" she whispered.
"I'd think so," Caramon agreed. "If they could."
There were more corpses ahead: dozens of them, all savaged like Iasta. Trephas went from one to the next, naming those he recognized. "Parimon… Chostos… Endrathimar…" he recited dully. "Chrethon will answer for this." He stared up at the sky, squinting as frigid rain lashed his face. "I swear, I'll live to see him pay in blood."
Darkness was settling over Darken Wood when they reached Ithax. By then, they all knew what they'd find. The crows circling above the forest were no surprise, nor was the fact that no fireglow glimmered in the gathering night. They slowed their pace when they emerged into the pastures surrounding the town—pastures littered with corpses and churned to mud by the passage of many hoofed feet—then stopped atop the rise overlooking the valley, staring in awe at the carnage below.
Dezra's Quest Page 22