And now another messenger. He shook his head. How many would be dead this time? Hundreds? A thousand?
"Speak," he bade as the runner bowed before him.
"My lord," said the messenger. "A visitor has come. He says he bears good tidings."
Leodippos leaned forward. "Who?"
"He says his name is Hurach, my lord."
"The satyr?" Leodippos asked, scowling. "What does he want?"
"It's as he said," said a voice. "I bring good news."
Leodippos turned. A dark, silent form emerged from a jagged boulder's shadow and strode toward him on cloven hooves. He saw the broken horn on the satyr's head and nodded: it was Hurach, all right. But there was something else—something in the goat-man's hand… .
He caught his breath, staring in amazement at the axe. Now that it was out of the shadows; its double-bladed head gleamed in the sunlight.
"Is—is that what I think it is?" he asked softly.
Hurach nodded, smiling smugly. "Aye," he said. "I'm taking it to Sangelior. First, though, I thought I should come to you, and tell you where to find what you seek."
“The centaurs' stronghold?" Leodippos breathed. His whole body tensed at the thought. So much fruitless searching, and now, to have the key to victory delivered to him… .
"Where is it?" he asked.
The satyr described everything, from the terrain around Lysandon to its defenses. Leodippos listened, a bloodthirsty smile on his horse-like face, then clapped the goat-man on the shoulder, laughing.
"This is glorious!" he rejoiced. "Now we can finish the Circle at last!"
Hurach nodded, hefting Soulsplitter in his thick-fingered hands. "Aye," he said. "And now I must go. I still have a long journey ahead of me."
Leodippos raised an eyebrow. "I could send a runner instead," he said.
"So you could tell Chrethon that you recovered the axe instead of me, no doubt," the satyr remarked with a cunning smile. "No, lord. I will go myself. With your leave, of course."
Shrugging, Leodippos waved his hand. Hurach turned and strode away, vanishing into the shadows.
Leodippos paid the satyr little mind. Whirling, he beckoned to the runner who'd heralded Hurach's arrival. The messenger approached, its face eager.
"Put the word out among thy fellows," Leodippos said. "Have them go to all the warbands, and have them report to me at once."
The runner galloped away, its long-striding legs devouring the ground. Leodippos turned, smiling to himself, and gestured for the servant to bring his maps.
36
Sarken Wood had grown worse, the daemon tree's corruption spreading farther west. The companions rode with weapons in hand, watching the shadows, and imagining ail sorts of nameless horrors lurking within the gloom.
Despite their fears, however, the forest was empty. Except for the occasional crow or scuttling beetle, the birds and beasts were either dead or had fled into the highlands. There was no sign of the Skorenoi, either. They were all in the hills, searching for Lysandon.
The deeper they went, the worse the woods became. The earth beneath the unclean, eddying haze grew treacherous. For a while it was a spongy morass, then it became barren, choked with sharp stones. The centaurs struggled through it all, moving ever eastward.
Night fell over the forest, but they didn't stop. The humans raised guttering torches to light their way, letting the centaurs keep both hands free to hold their bows. The brands' flickering glow seemed horribly weak in the vast, befouled forest. They rode on through the darkness, the leaves whispering madly above.
Finally, as the sky began to brighten again, the party drew to a halt. "We're here," Trephas said.
Pallidice's grove was even more blighted than when they'd left it nearly a week ago. Some of the oaks had burst open, scattering shreds of rotten wood upon the ground. Others stood like gray skeletons, seemingly devoid of life. Only a few withered, brown leaves still clung to the branches of Pallidice's tree, rattling in the chill wind. Its bark was cracked and pitted, the color of bone. It might have been dead, but for the dark, thick sap that trickled in bubbling rivulets down its trunk.
“Gods," Caramon murmured, his voice choked with horror. He swung down from his mount's back, staring at the oak. "How can Pallidice live inside that?"
"She has no choice," Trephas replied as Dezra and Borlos both dismounted as well. "Her soul is one with the tree. I only pray she survives."
"There's only one way to find out," Dezra said. She pointed toward the tree with her sword—the centaurs had given her a new blade, as well as a dagger to replace the one that had killed Thenidor. "Go on, Bor."
The bard's eyes widened. "Me?"
"You're the one she knows best," Caramon said. "If anyone can bring her out of the tree, it's you."
Borlos glanced at Trephas, who nodded. "She'll remember thee. Just put thy hand on the trunk, and speak her name."
Bowing his head, Borlos let out a long, slow sigh. Hesitantly, he stepped toward the tree. He raised his hand and touched the bark. The sap that coated it was warm and sticky.
"P-Pallidice?" he stuttered. He took a deep breath. "Can you hear me? It's me, Borlos."
For a long moment, all was silent. Then, slowly, the oak split open and a pale, withered shape emerged. Borlos stumbled back, crying out at the sight of the dryad.
Pallidice was gnarled and bent, her skin the color of parchment, mottled with crimson welts. Her once-thick hair clung in brown wisps to her scalp. She stared at Borlos, one of her eyes milky-blind, and smiled. Most of her teeth had fallen out. "My love," she breathed, her voice raspy and thin. She reached out with a shriveled hand, tipped with cracked, yellow nails. "You've returned to me after all… ."
Borlos stepped back, his face stricken with pity and disgust.
"Pallidice," Trephas said. "We need your aid."
The dryad glanced at the centaur, then at the others, seeing them for the first time. "No!" she exclaimed. "You promised you wouldn't ask me for help again. I cannot—"
"The Skorenoi have Soulsplitter, Pallidice," Trephas interrupted. "Even now, one of Chrethon's minions takes it to Sangelior."
Pallidice stared, horrified. "How did this happen?"
"That isn't important now," Dezra interjected. "If you don't take us to Grimbough's grove, your tree will die, slowly and painfully—and you with it."
The dryad blanched, hesitating. She bowed her head a moment, trembling, then nodded. "Very well," she said. "I'll find my sisters, and we'll do as you say. I can only take the four of you—not those two," she added, pointing at other centaurs, standing behind Trephas. "I lack the strength to open a passage large enough for them as well as you."
She stepped back into her tree, and it sealed shut behind her. When she was gone, Trephas turned and spoke to the other centaurs. Bowing, they wheeled and trotted away, into the noisome mist. The companions waited in silence, eyeing the shadows. Finally, the oak opened again, and Pallidice emerged. Three other dryads—each horribly misshapen— also approached, from their own trees.
"You remember Gamaia and Tessonda," Pallidice said, gesturing toward the other oak-maidens. "The third is Anethae. She will take the girl."
Dezra frowned. "What about Elirope?"
Pallidice shook her head, gesturing toward the trees. Elirope's oak had collapsed, felled by rot. Dezra shut her eyes, sickened.
They split up, the dryads leading the companions to their trees. Borlos remained, staring at Pallidice with trepidation. The oak-maiden smiled sadly.
"You needn't fear me, my love," she said. "My tree can still be healed: my sisters and I fight Grimbough's blight with all our power. If the daemon tree is destroyed, we can yet reclaim these woods. I shall be young again, as you remember me." She spread her arms; wrinkled skin hung from them in flaps.
Weeping, the bard stepped into her arms. She embraced him, drawing him into her tree. The parched wood closed around him, and they were gone.
Gyrtomon returned to Lysandon at dawn,
running at a full gallop to the Yard of Gathering. Hurriedly eating a handful of grass, he trotted across the meadow to join the Circle.
"My son," Nemeredes said, embracing him. "It gladdens my heart to see thee."
Gyrtomon shook his head. "Thou wilt not think so, after the tidings I bear." He stepped back and bowed his head, gathering his thoughts. "Leodippos comes hither, his full horde with him. I've seen them on the march. I don't know how they learned the way here, but they'll be here by dusk."
The chiefs were unsurprised. "I thought this might happen," said Nemeredes. "The satyr must have told them how to find us."
"Satyr?" Gyrtomon asked, frowning. "What satyr?"
The Circle told him, then, of all that had happened in the past two days. When the tale was done, Gyrtomon bowed his head. "My brother," he murmured. "I should have been here. I should have gone with him."
"No, my son," Nemeredes said. "Thy place is here, with us. If Leodippos means to attack, we need thee to lead the defense."
Gyrtomon took a deep breath, composing himself. "Perhaps," he said. "Although I don't see what difference it will make, if Chrethon slays the Forestmaster."
"That hasn't happened yet," Eucleia said sternly. "It mightn't happen at all, if Trephas and the others succeed."
"We must hope they do," Pleuron added firmly. "There's naught else we can do to help them. We can only fight Leodippos, and pray the rest turns out well."
"Very well," Gyrtomon declared. "But we'll need every lance we can spare. We must bring the attack to him, before he gets here."
Eucleia nodded, her steely eyes gleaming. "Let us end this moot, then," she said, turning to the other chiefs. "Wake thy people, and have them arm for war. And be quick—we march when the sun is high."
As Pallidice led the companions into the heart of Grimbough's domain, the chaos-corrupted earth became a nightmare. Hideous, unblinking eyes stared from the walls, gleaming in the bug-lamps' light. Wiry worms and huge, horned beetles covered the floor in black, writhing patches, crunching underfoot. The roots and tendrils that dangled from the ceiling coiled and writhed, weeping putrid, milky juices.
There were obstacles, too. The dirt was rife with huge boulders that blocked their way. Elsewhere, the soil grew soft and wet, and they had to turn aside to keep from sinking into the mire. In still other places, the earth turned dry, veined with cracks that hissed brown, noxious mist. It stung their eyes and burned their throats. Through it all, a chorus of mad voices chittered around them, as the leaves had muttered aboveground.
"It's getting worse," Borlos murmured. "We must be close."
Pallidice nodded, parting the earth with her withered hands. "Aye," she rasped. "The daemon tree's power is strong here—I can feel it in the soil, working against me. I can resist it now," she added, seeing the companions' brows knit in concern, "but I don't know how much longer I can go on. The time will come when I must find a tree through which you can leave this place, and you'll have to go on above."
On they went, twisting and turning. The tunnel turned steadily more treacherous. The insects on the floor bit and stung, and some of the bulges in the walls held not eyes but mouths full of sharp, snapping teeth. The oozing tendrils whipped at their faces, trying to blind them. Pallidice's breath came quick and hard, and she stumbled every few steps. Still she insisted, over the companions' objections, that she could go on.
Finally, she collapsed from the strain, falling against the tunnel wall, where the snapping, hungry teeth nipped at her bare skin, drawing blood. With a groan, she dropped to her hands and knees.
"Pallidice!" Borlos cried, hurrying toward her.
Insects started crawling over the dryad's body almost immediately, climbing on each other as they sought a patch of flesh to feast upon. She moaned, and the tunnel began to shudder. Clots of earth fell from the ceiling. At either end, the passage began to close.
"Rouse her, quickly!" Trephas called from the rear of the party. "We'll be buried alive!"
Dezra got to the dryad's side first. She knelt down beside Pallidice, ignoring the crackling of insects beneath her, and rolled the dryad over. Pallidice trembled at her touch, her eyelids fluttering. Dezra slapped her face.
"Come on," she growled, glancing around as the walls began to slide. She struck the dryad again. "Wake up, damn you. Don't you dare let this tunnel collapse."
Borlos crouched down, shoving her out of the way. He bent over the dryad and brushed the dirt from her haggard face. Then, tenderly, he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers. At first nothing happened, but finally Pallidice's eyes opened. She stared blearily at the bard, then returned the kiss, threading her arms about his neck.
Borlos pulled away. "No," he told her. "This isn't the time, and it sure as Shinare isn't the place. Let's get you up."
With Dezra's help, he got the dryad to her feet. She pressed her hands against the earth, squeezing her eyes shut; after a moment, the tunnel stopped shuddering.
"I think," Caramon said solemnly, standing ankle-deep in loose soil, "it's time to go back to the surface."
No one argued.
Searching, Pallidice found a suitable oak, and opened the tree to form an exit. One by one, she carried the companions out, back into Darken Wood. They blinked in the light—most of the trees around them were bare, letting the sun's rays through to touch earth that had been shrouded in shadow since the world was young.
"I know this place," Trephas said. The terrain was uneven and rocky, covered with trees that were either dried-out husks or swollen with rot. Brown haze clung to the blighted earth. "We're close to Sangelior—three leagues, perhaps."
"Would that I could take you farther," Pallidice said, shaking her head.
"No," Caramon said. "You've done all you could. We'll make the rest of the journey on foot."
"Do we have time for that?" Dezra asked, glancing up at the sky. It was early afternoon: they'd been traveling under the earth for more then half a day. "Can we get to Sangelior before the satyr?"
"We'd better," Borlos said.
Trephas slid an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. He turned to face the dryad. "My thanks for thy help, Pallidice."
She smiled weakly, then turned to Borlos and took his hand. "Farewell, my love. I pray to Branchala we'll meet again."
The bard raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he let her go, and she turned back to the oak. She stepped inside, and was gone.
Borlos stared at the tree for a moment, then bowed his head, sighing. Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We've got a long way left to go."
Borlos nodded. "Sure, big guy," he said. "Lead on, Trephas."
37
Sangelior was nearly deserted. Most of the remaining Skorenoi had ridden west, to join Leodippos's horde. The town was almost wholly dark, its tents and huts standing empty.
The companions hid in a copse of dead birches, whose papery bark fluttered in the chill wind. They kept their weapons stowed, not wanting an errant gleam of afternoon sunlight on metal to give them away.
Trephas tapped his arrow against his bow as his eyes scoured Sangelior's scattered hovels. "From what I know of this place, Grimbough's vale is on the far side of the town," he said.
"We'd better go around the long way," Caramon whispered. He was ashen-faced and breathing hard. They'd jogged most of the way from where Pallidice had left them. "There's still enough Skorenoi about to make life hard if we're seen."
They were just starting to rise and creep away when Dezra raised her hand. "Wait," she whispered, pointing.
They froze. Fifty paces away was a clump of leafless blackthorn shrubs, heavy with wrinkled fruit. The companions stared, seeing nothing at first. Then the bushes' shadows shifted, their thorny branches rattling.
"Something's there," Borlos murmured. He rested his hand on his mace. "What is it?"
Caramon shook his head, squinting. "I can't make it out. It's too dark."
Abruptly, the shadow
s swelled, and the blackthorns parted. A black, misshapen figure, with one horn and shaggy goat's legs, emerged from the darkness. In its hand, a familiar, double-bladed axe glistened, reflecting the rays of the westering sun.
"Oh, damn," Dezra gasped.
Trephas moved swiftly, raising his bow and pulling back its string. He sighted down his arrow, training its broad, steel head on the shadowy goat-man. Biting his lip, he loosed his shot.
The arrow soared through the air, lightning-quick—and struck the bushes a hand's breadth from the satyr.
The noise startled the goat-man. With a glance at the companions, he whirled and dashed away, as quick as his hooves could move.
Caramon fumbled with his own bow, bringing it up, then cursed and lowered it again: Hurach was out of range.
Trephas stared at the bushes, uncomprehending. His ruddy face had turned ashen. He dropped his bow and clutched at his mane, shuddering. A low sob escaped his lips. "I missed," he moaned. "Missed! We've come so far… ." He bowed his head, his body going limp.
"No, you don't," Dezra said, grabbing his shoulders. "Pull yourself together. We still need you."
He raised his eyes, blinking tears of frustration. "You're right," he said. "We must go on, hope for another chance. Better to die trying than quit and live, eh?"
Dezra made a sour face. "Well, I really hope there's a third choice." She rose to her feet. "All right, let's get going. One way or another, we have to finish this."
Caramon and Borlos looked at her in surprise. Ignoring them, she turned and ran, keeping within the tree line, out of sight of Sangelior. Trephas followed. Borlos and Caramon came last, glancing warily at the town as they made their way along the fringe of the wasted forest.
Gyrtomon stood on the riverbank, his face grave, trying to think like the enemy. The Skorenoi would come this way. The stream before him could only be forded here. For miles either way, it was a foaming torrent, tumbling over sharp rocks. Even here it flowed swift and deep, reaching up to the thighs of any centaur who waded through. Leodippos's horde would need to slow its pace to cross. There was no better place to fight them.
Dezra's Quest Page 26