Ithax was gone. Atop the mound where it had stood, there was only rubble, ash and razed earth. The ground was scattered with the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi. The stench of death thickened the air.
"Paladine's bollocks," Dezra swore.
No one moved for several minutes. All eyes turned to Trephas. The centaur's throat bobbed as he fought to speak. "Let's go down there," he said finally. "I must know if any of my people survived this slaughter."
"Are you sure?" Borlos asked. "I mean, with night coming on—"
"I said we go down!" Trephas bellowed. Without waiting, he broke into a gallop, charging down into the corpse-littered valley.
The others glanced uncertainly at one another as the centaur rode away. "Well?" Borlos asked.
"You heard him," Caramon answered. "We go down."
They never found Lord Menelachos's body, but his head was easy to locate. Before leaving Ithax, the Skorenoi had spitted it on a stake before the ruined gates. The crows had taken his eyes, cheeks and lips, and the rest was bloated and flyblown, but they recognized him just the same. He wasn't alone, either. Two other heads were impaled with him, one on either side.
"Rhedogar," muttered Trephas, regarding the silver-maned stallion on the left. He looked to the head on the right, a gold-tressed mare, and groaned. "Olinia."
"What?" Borlos demanded, staring in horror at the blind minstrel's remains. "Those bastards! How could they do that to her?"
"The same way they murdered the rest," Trephas replied coldly. "It meant nothing to the Skorenoi that she couldn't see, and never harmed anyone in her life. She was a centaur, and important among the tribes. So they killed her and did… this."
Caramon frowned. "What about the rest of the Circle? Eucleia, Pleuron… your father and brother?"
Trephas glanced at him, his eyes hopeful. "Aye," he said. "Chrethon would have staked their heads too, if they'd been killed."
"Then they're still alive," Dezra stated. "They could have gotten away."
"It's possible," Trephas said doubtfully.
"Where would they have gone?" Caramon asked. "Surely they had a plan for what they'd do if Ithax fell."
Trephas nodded. "There's a stronghold in the mountains. Only the Circle and a few others knew of it. I'll take thee. Chislev willing, my people will be there."
"Good," Dezra said. "Let's get moving, then."
She turned to go, but Caramon caught her arm. "Have some respect, girl," he hissed, nodding toward the severed heads. "We need to see to them first."
She stopped, looked at the stakes, and slumped. "Of course," she grumbled. "It's dark, I'm cold and wet, and the stench here could kill a troll. All right, don't grouse. I'll help."
She stepped past Caramon, to Trephas's side. Caramon started to follow, then glimpsed Borlos out of the comer of his eye. The bard's face was gray. He swallowed, staring at the centaurs' heads—Olinia's in particular—with wide, horrified eyes.
Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder and offered him a flask of water. Borlos took a long drink, then looked up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I can't."
Trephas turned toward him. "It's all right, my friend," he said. "I won't ask for thy help. The rest of us will see to this."
Borlos smiled thankfully, pushing himself back to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, but shook his head as Caramon reached out to him. "I'm fine," he said. "I just need to feel the wind on my face."
"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. "Just don't get lost."
With a grateful wave, the bard staggered away, across the body-strewn battlefield. He labored for breath as he walked. In time he stopped, glancing about blearily. The others were well behind him. He unstopped the wine-flask at his hip and drained it. Shuddering, he gazed at the ground. Corpses lay all about him, ravaged by a month's exposure to wind, rain and scavengers. Gently he nudged one of the twisted bodies with his foot. It shifted, then settled again, one of its begrimed hands dropping flaccidly beside his boot. His mouth twisting with disgust, he turned again, to head back to the others.
Something grabbed him from behind.
Borlos was too stunned to react as the Skorenoi bore him down, wrestling him to the ground. By the time he recovered his wits, it was too late. They had his arms and legs pinned, and one clapped a hand over his mouth. He struggled for a moment, then went limp as a bay Skorenos—a tall, ogrish beast with a shaggy black mane—strode toward him.
"Lift him up," Thenidor growled. The Skorenoi hauled Borlos back to his feet again. The bay spat in the mud, leaning on his halberd. "The bard," he snarled. "Trust my luck to catch the least useful one among them."
Borlos jerked suddenly, biting the hand over his mouth. The Skorenos who'd gagged him pulled back with a curse. Borlos sucked in a breath and shouted something—he wasn't sure what—before glimpsing the haft of Thenidor's halberd, flashing toward him.
There was a crack, and a flaming arrow of pain in his head. A wave of blackness swept him away.
31
"Big guy! It's Thenidor! Don't—"
Then silence.
Everyone stared at each other in mute horror. Caramon peered into the gloom. "Bor?" he called, resting a hand on his sword. He started forward. "Borlos!"
Dezra grabbed his arm, hauling him to a stop. "Whoa," she said. "Hold up."
"Let go of me, girl," Caramon growled, shoving her back. She held firm, though. He whirled, furious. "I said let go!"
"Not a chance," Dezra replied. "Stop and use that thick head of yours. Didn't you hear what he just said? The Skorenoi are out there."
"And they've got Borlos," Caramon growled. "I've got to go help him."
"How?" Dezra snapped. "By lumbering off into the dark, so they can get you too? We need to think, or we'll end up dead—and they'll get the axe."
"What do you suggest?" Caramon snapped.
Dezra peered into the night, her brow furrowing. "Give me a moment. It would help if we knew where they are, and how many there are."
"Which we don't," Caramon said.
"Be still, both of thee!" Trephas interjected hotly. "There has to be something we can do."
"Maybe we can help," said a lilting voice, very close by.
They started in alarm, reaching for their weapons and searching for the man who'd spoken. There was nothing but darkness.
"Who's there?" Caramon whispered harshly.
"Ye don't remember us?" asked a second voice, a woman. She clucked her tongue in disappointment. "And I thought we'd gotten to be friends."
There was a rapid, fluttering sound. Then, suddenly, two small, elfin figures appeared before them. Silver moth wings sprouted from their backs. The companions stared in astonishment as the sprites doffed their caps, bowing as they hovered above the ground. "There," said the female, grinning. "Does that help?"
Caramon blinked. "Ellianthe?" he asked. "Fanuin?"
"Aha!" Fanuin declared, his green eyes glinting. "Ye do remember us!"
"But—" Trephas sputtered. "How… ?"
"Oh, we've been with ye since ye left our kingdom," Ellianthe answered blithely.
Caramon frowned, then understanding dawned on his face. "I remember now. I tried to say good-bye, before we left, but you'd disappeared. I thought you'd gone, but you were with us the whole time, invisible. Right?"
The sprites beamed. "Very good," Fanuin said.
"But why?" Dezra asked.
An awkward silence followed. Fanuin coughed. "Our da sent us along in secret, to see if the troubles in Darken Wood were as bad as ye said. Now we know they are," he declared, staring sadly at the battered bodies. "We were going to hie back home when ye left this place, and none o' ye would be the wiser."
"That was the plan, anyway," Ellianthe remarked. "But since ye're in trouble, we figured ye could use the help."
"We sure can," Dezra said. She smiled, thinking fast. "Can the two of you make yourselves invisible again?"
"Aye," Ellianthe stated, her
chest swelling proudly. "Just say the word."
Caramon looked at his daughter, a smile curling his lips. Dezra returned the grin crookedly. "Great," she said. "I think it's time we found out what we're up against."
The rain finally ended. A cold wind gusted in its wake, scouring the battlefield. The companions huddled, shivering, as long, silent minutes crawled by. The wait was excruciating, but they'd resolved to stay where they were until Fanuin and Ellianthe returned.
Thenidor shouted in the darkness. "We have the bard!" he bellowed. "Give us Peldarin's axe, and we'll return him to thee!"
"Sure they will," Dezra murmured sourly.
"How'd they find out about Soulsplitter?" Caramon asked Trephas.
Trephas shook his head, scowling.
Suddenly, the buzz of moth wings sounded nearby. Fanuin and Ellianthe blinked into view, bobbing on the gusting wind.
"We saw them," Ellianthe reported. "Eight of those… creatures." She shuddered.
Caramon gestured at the muddy ground. "Draw it for us," he bade. "Show us where they were."
The sprites did as he bade, using their needle-like swords to scratch several circles in the soft earth. "Four with bows, four without," Fanuin said.
"All of them are Skorenoi?" Trephas asked.
Ellianthe nodded. "Aye." She tapped the last circle with her blade. "This is the leader."
"Thenidor," Trephas growled. "What about Borlos?"
Fanuin quickly added an X, off to the side. "He's alive," he added in answer to the companions' anxious looks, "but not moving."
"Senseless, huh?" Dezra asked. "He'll be even less useful than usual, then."
A grim silence settled, punctuated by the moaning wind and the flutter of the sprites' wings.
Caramon glanced at the others. "So," he said, "they have us outnumbered, and Bor's their hostage. But we have a few things in our advantage too. They don't know about the sprites. And they don't know we know as much as we do."
The others nodded. "So what's the plan?" Trephas asked, pawing the earth.
Dezra frowned, studying the makeshift map. "Give me a minute," she said. "I think I have an idea."
The Skorenoi heard hoofbeats on the blasted earth and tensed, the archers raising their bows. Thenidor glanced at Borlos—the bard hadn't stirred—then peered into the shadows, his hands twisting about his halberd.
The hoofbeats stopped. A torch flared, less than twenty paces away. Trephas held it high in his left hand; his right was empty. He smiled as the bowmen trained their arrows on him.
"I'm flattered," he said. "Thou must think me truly important, to arrange such a welcome."
"I only wish thy father's head had been awaiting thee, beside Menelachos's," Thenidor leered. "Alone, art thou? Where are thy companions—the old man and the girl?"
"Waiting back there," Trephas answered, jerking his head vaguely behind him. "They needn't be involved in this. I've come to surrender to thee, Thenidor."
The Skorenoi stared at Trephas in astonishment. Two of the archers lowered their bows slightly; Trephas's eyes flicked toward them, then away.
Thenidor, however, wasn't fooled. "Surrender?" he scoffed. "Why wouldst thou do that, son of Nemeredes? It isn't thee I want. I seek Peldarin's axe."
"That's why I've come," Trephas said. He reached over his shoulder, groping for something on his war harness.
The archers' bows creaked, but Thenidor stayed them with a gesture. "Take care, Trephas," he warned. "Make an unwise move, and this will end poorly for thee."
"I know," Trephas declared calmly, and pulled Soulsplitter from his harness.
The Skorenoi gaped as he brought it forward and held it before him, glittering in the torchlight. Thenidor's eyes gleamed as they fell upon the axe.
Then they narrowed. "What trick is this?"
"No trick," Trephas replied. "I'm giving it to thee—in exchange for the bard." He nodded toward Borlos's motionless form. "That was the deal, wasn't it? Let him go, Thenidor, and Soulsplitter is thine." He extended the axe. "Take it back to Lord Chrethon. He'll surely honor thee as a hero. I only ask thee to let the humans go. This isn't their war."
Thenidor considered this, his heavy brow beetling. He licked his lips, staring at the axe. Finally, he nodded. "Bring it forward," he said. He gestured to the archers. "And remember—I can kill thee with a word."
Trephas strode forward, holding Soulsplitter before him. As he went, the two more alert archers followed him with their sights; the other pair tracked him too, but inattentively, their eyes on the axe. No one but Trephas heard the flutter of invisible wings, or the slight creak of tiny bowstrings being drawn back.
They did hear the sound that followed—a pair of high-pitched, harpstring twangs—but then it was too late. This time, the sprites' arrows weren't coated in their sleep drug; the venom they bore was much stronger. Both of the alert archers were dead before they even felt the shafts prick their flesh. They crumpled to the ground as if struck by lightning. Everyone glanced, just for an instant, in their direction.
Everyone, that is, except Trephas. He broke into a run the moment he heard the sprites fire their bows, casting his torch aside and raising Soulsplitter high. The inattentive archers brought their bows up again, but by then it was too late: Trephas was in the midst of the other Skorenoi. Then, just as quickly, Caramon and Dezra sprinted out of the darkness, weapons flashing. The archers turned to meet them, casting aside their bows and yanking their cudgels from their harnesses.
A hunchbacked Skorenoi interposed itself between Trephas and Thenidor, club raised to ward off the young centaur. Soulsplitter flashed and took the hunchback's right arm off at the elbow. The axe cleaved through flesh and bone, sending the Skorenoi's cudgel—and the hand that held it—spinning away. The hunchback screamed, clutching at the stump of its arm. Trephas reversed his swing and took off its head. Blood fountained, and the hunchback's body went down in a heap. Soulsplitter shuddered in Trephas's hand as the creature's magic tried to destroy it, but its power was too great. The axe stayed intact.
Trephas heard another Skorenos rush toward him from behind and spun, bringing up the axe in time to ward off its cudgel with its haft. Wood rang against iron, then Trephas fell back as the Skorenos pressed toward him.
Not far away, the others were having a harder time of things. Caramon took a mighty smash to the chest from his opponent's club; his breastplate turned the blow aside, making a sound like a gong. Even so, the force of the attack drove the wind from his lungs, and he gasped for breath as he fought on, blocking with his shield and making occasional, ineffectual thrusts with his spear.
Dezra fought with sword and dagger, needing both to ward off the flurry of her opponent's attacks. She cursed under her breath as she struggled to find an opening in her opponent's whirlwind defenses. There was none to be found, however; Dezra started to tire.
Trephas fought two opponents at once. One had cast aside its cudgel, which Soulsplitter had neatly shorn in half, and fought on with a bronze sickle; the other used its lance to keep out of Soulsplitter's reach. Thenidor circled around the battle, halberd upraised, staying away from Trephas's whirling blade.
Dezra yelped in pain as, finally, she missed a parry and her foe's cudgel struck her shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, but it caused everything from her elbow down to go completely numb. Her dagger dropped from her grasp. Wincing, she leapt back from her opponent, parrying its next stroke with her sword, then shifted her stance to fight one-handed.
At the same moment, Caramon's opponent slipped in the mud. Caramon seized the opportunity, driving his spear through the twisted creature's breast. The Skorenoi jerked wildly, its cudgel flying from its hand, and sank to its knees. Caramon stuck it again, in the throat, and his spear exploded. The force of the blast knocked him back, and he fell to one knee, gasping for breath.
Trephas danced sideways as Thenidor's halberd slashed the air; the movement brought him clear of the attack but put him at the mercy of his other two f
oes. Each struck home, the lance gouging a long, bloody furrow in his flank, and the sickle raking across his chest. Trephas stumbled, groaning, then lashed out in reply with Soulsplitter. He hit the sickle-wielder in the side, cleaving deep. The axe trembled as the Skorenos died, and again its magic kept it from shattering.
The attack had been desperate, however, and clumsy; the follow-through carried Trephas off-balance, turning him to face Thenidor and exposing his right side to his other opponent's lance. The lancer laughed with vicious glee, raising its weapon—
Twin harpstrings sounded. This time, the poison wasn't as quick; the lancer had time enough to grope feebly at the spot where the sprites' arrows had struck before it collapsed.
With a grunt of relief, Trephas wheeled, reared, and kicked Thenidor in the chest. Thenidor stumbled, then shoved Trephas aside with a sweep of his arm and cracked the butt of his halberd down on the young centaur's withers. Trephas staggered beneath the attack, bringing up the axe to hold Thenidor at bay while he regathered his strength.
Caramon stayed down, clutching his shoulder and groaning in pain. Dezra fought on, her slender sword flashing. She'd evened the odds with a lucky cut across her opponent's forearm. The blade had bitten deep, slowing the pace of his dancing cudgel. Now, bit by bit, Dezra gained the upper hand, jabbing his shoulder, then slashing across his stomach. Lunging, She drove her sword into his chest. The blade burst, and the Skorenos stumbled and fell… directly on top of her.
All she could do was twist so the creature landed on her legs instead of something more vital. She hit the ground hard, and lay beneath its weight, too dazed to move.
Across the battleground, the air whistled as Thenidor and Trephas swept their weapons back and forth, each circling the other, seeking an opening. Finally, Trephas feinted left, then shifted the attack quickly to his right. Thenidor wasn't fooled; he brought his weapon across to block. Soulsplitter struck the halberd's haft, cleaving it in half.
Dezra's Quest Page 23