Dezra's Quest

by Chris Pierson

  And then he heard it: hoofbeats, growing swiftly louder, coming through the trees. Lowering the axe, he turned.

  With a roar, Trephas charged out of the gloom. He came on so fast that Chrethon almost forgot to dodge his spear. The lance, which had been aimed at Chrethon's heart, struck his left arm instead, cleaving through his wasted flesh. Its shaft snapped from the force of the blow, then Trephas slammed into Chrethon and they crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

  They wrestled together a moment, kicking and clawing, then Chrethon pulled away, shoving Trephas off. As he did, Trephas grabbed the sword Chrethon wore on his harness. Steel rang as the blade slid from its scabbard, then they parted, scrambling to their feet.

  They stood apart from each other, breathing hard, holding their weapons ready. Blood trickled down Trephas's chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Chrethon chose that moment to attack, Soulsplitter whirling. Trephas raised his sword to parry, then recognized the feint and leapt back as Chrethon suddenly reversed the blow and swung upward, aiming to cleave him from beneath. The axe struck flesh and bone, carving easily through both, and two fingers from Trephas's left hand fell to the ground.

  Gasping in pain, Trephas snatched back his injured hand, then ducked as Soulsplitter parted the air above his head. He rose again, then swung his sword low, parrying a slash aimed at his legs. He struck Soulsplitter's haft, the force of the blow nearly jarring the blade from his hand.

  Again they separated, circling each other. This time Trephas came on, swiping with his sword. The blade opened a gash in Chrethon's belly, but not deep enough to kill. The Skorenos swung in response, and Trephas leaped back… .

  And stumbled.

  Chrethon's face lit with maniacal joy as Trephas fell to his knees, dropping his sword. He raised Soulsplitter high to smite his defenseless foe.

  Then he saw Trephas's eyes. His smile turned into a snarl as the centaur surged forward, slamming his shoulder into Chrethon's stomach. Air erupted from the Skorenos's lungs in a loud rush, and still Trephas continued to drive forward and up. Trephas flung his arms about Chrethon's waist, squeezing with all his strength. Chrethon gasped for breath, trying to swing Soulsplitter, but he had no room. Meanwhile, Trephas twisted and shoved, jerking him this way and that. Finally, Chrethon lost his balance, and the two fell to the ground once more. Soulsplitter flew from his grasp, landing out of reach.

  Trephas shifted his hold, wrapping a sinewy arm around the Skorenos's throat. Inexorably, Chrethon began to choke. When he was wavering on the edge of unconsciousness, however, Trephas relented. Even in the red fury of battle, the centaur wasn't foolish enough to kill him with his bare hands. As Chrethon lay gasping on the ground, Trephas rose, went to pick up the sword he'd dropped, and limped back to the Skorenos's side.

  Chrethon tried to rise, but couldn't. He raised his chin defiantly. "It's done," he said. "Finish me.”

  Trephas drove the sword into the Skorenos's breast. Chrethon grimaced, let out a weak breath. The sword burst into a million pieces.

  Silence fell over the vale. Even the storm seemed to abate as Lord Chrethon died. Then a deep, furious roar rose, almost inaudible at first, but gaining strength until it was louder than thunder, shaking the earth under Trephas's hooves. Grimbough's branches waved and writhed in rage. Trephas stared at the daemon tree, his eyes wide with fear.

  Then the ground beneath him erupted, and thick, hairy roots burst forth. He had just enough time to cry out in terror as they coiled about him and dragged him down.

  40

  The others were almost to the edge of Grimbough's sward when Trephas screamed. Dezra stiffened, then broke into a run, limping toward the daemon tree.

  "Dez, wait!" Caramon yelped. He grabbed for her, catching her wrist, but she shook him off. Then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows. "Damn and blast!" he swore as the trees writhed in her wake. "Borlos—"

  "Right behind you, big guy," the bard said.

  They hurried after her, but she was quicker. When they reached the edge of the sward, she was already halfway across, sprinting toward a dark form that struggled on the ground. They only glimpsed her for a moment, however, before Grimbough stole their attention away. Stopping, they stared up at the seething form of the daemon tree. It writhed and shuddered, its branches clawing at the stormy sky. The voices in its leaves were heavy with wrath, filling their minds with images of darkness, blood and suffering. They staggered beneath its fury.

  "Father!" Dezra yelled. "Come quickly!"

  Caramon blinked and shivered, his head aching from the tree's terrible thoughts. Grabbing Borlos's arm, he started running again, across the sward. Grimbough creaked and groaned above them. They drew up behind Dezra, gasping for breath.

  She sat on the ground before the dark shape they'd seen from the sward's edge. It was Trephas; the centaur was buried in the earth up to his chest, with only his head and arms free. His face twitched with pain, eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled back from his teeth. Dezra leaned back, pulling his arms with all her might, but to no avail—he wouldn't budge.

  "The tree's got him!" Dezra snarled. "Help me!"

  Caramon knelt beside her, took one of the centaur's arms, and pulled. Something yanked back from beneath the ground, matching his strength easily.

  Trephas's face contorted even more. He moaned, a violent shudder wracking his body.

  "What is it?" Dezra demanded. "What's happening?"

  He shook uncontrollably, foam flecking his lips. When he spoke, the words came thick and slow. "I don't know," he moaned. "Something's… happening. I can feel it… ."

  Borlos paled. "Are you Crossing? Is it trying to change you?"

  Trephas opened his eyes, and his companions recoiled in horror. A deep blackness swirled in them, like some great beast under the surface of the sea.

  "No!" Dezra yelled, pulling even harder. "We have to get him out!"

  The centaur shook his head, twitching. "Not me. The Forestmaster," he murmured. "She must be freed… ."

  "I'm not leaving you," Dezra told him.

  "Please," Trephas whimpered.

  "No," Caramon told him. "It's all right. Stay with him, Dez. Bor and I'll take care of the rest."

  He and Borlos left Dezra with the centaur, hurrying toward the huddled shape of the unicorn. Caramon winced when he saw what had become of the Forestmaster. He remembered what she'd looked like forty years ago, all silvery majesty, and had to look away from her wretched, withered form.

  "Come on, big guy," Borlos urged, bending down. He grabbed one of the tendrils that held the unicorn and tugged at it. "Help me get her loose."

  As Caramon turned back toward the Forestmaster, something caught his eye: a glint of steel, shining on the ground as lightning flashed above. He caught his breath, then turned and hurried away, toward the gleam.

  "Hey!" Borlos shouted, still trying to prize the tendril from the Forestmaster's throat.

  Caramon ignored him. Soon he saw what had glimmered in the lightning's glow. Catching his breath, he bent down and picked up Soulsplitter.

  "Big guy!" Borlos snapped. "Get back and help me!"

  "No," Caramon said. "There's only one way to end this."

  "What are you talking about?" Borlos asked.

  Caramon hefted Soulsplitter. "My father was a woodcutter," he said. "His father too, and so on, back more years than I can count. I was the first Majere son in generations not to follow the family trade." He smiled. "I think it's time I started."

  Borlos blinked, then glanced at the daemon tree and grinned. "Sure thing, big guy," he said. "Just make sure it doesn't fall this way, all right?"

  Chuckling, Caramon shouldered the axe and turned toward Grimbough. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then started forward.

  In that moment, the daemon tree's furious muttering found a focus. Its rage struck at him, an almost physical force that clawed at his mind with talons of hate. With an effort of will, Caramon forced himself to ign
ore it. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other as he strode toward the oak's pulsing, gnarled trunk.

  The tree lashed out at him with a mighty branch as he approached. He swung the axe to meet it. Soulsplitter sliced through six inches of hardwood as if it wasn't there, and then half of the branch was on the ground, oozing dark sap. Grimbough tried again and again, boughs swinging down and roots rising from the moist earth, but every time Soulsplitter was there to block the tree's attacks. Caramon kept coming, leaving a trail of broken, black wood in his wake. Grimbough's rage continued to flood his mind, but there was something else now, quaking beneath the anger.

  The daemon tree was afraid.

  He stopped at the foot of the oak, staring at its trunk in awe. Its girth was greater than any tree he'd ever seen, save the vallenwoods of Solace. It would have daunted even the most skilled woodcutter.

  But no woodcutter had ever used an axe like the one he held.

  He shrugged off his shield, tossing it on the ground. Then, gripping Soulsplitter in both hands, he touched the weapon's blade to Grimbough's trunk. The axe's blade parted the oak's tough bark like water and notched the wood beneath. Rancid sap seeped from the cut. Grimbough let out a terrified, creaking moan. Gritting his teeth, Caramon braced his feet, brought the axe back, and swung.

  The axe struck, biting deep. A booming roar, so loud it made Caramon's ears buzz, rang out across the vale. High above, branches convulsed with agony. Sap coursed, steaming, from the gash in Grimbough's trunk.

  Caramon wrenched Soulsplitter free, then brought it back and struck again. The tree howled louder.

  So it went, slow but steady. Chips of dark wood flew, and the earth grew sodden with ichor. Caramon chopped again and again, not stopping to rest as he drove Soulsplitter's twin-bladed head ever deeper. His breath came hard and shallow, and his arms and back burned, but he ignored everything, focusing solely on axe and wood.

  Then, after how long he didn't know, a new sound joined the tree's screams: the groan of straining wood. He was almost halfway through the trunk now, and what remained could no longer bear the tree's weight. Grimbough crackled and popped, split and splintered. Smiling with satisfaction, Caramon raised the axe for the final blow.

  The pain hit him then, a burning spear that ripped through his chest and sent fire lancing up his neck and down his arm. It hammered him to his knees, and Soulsplitter dropped from his hand as, groaning, he fell on his side. He rolled onto his back, clutching at his breastplate with fingers bent like claws.

  Above him, the daemon tree shuddered—but it did not fall.

  "Father!" Dezra cried from across the sward, her voice breaking. He heard feet running toward him.

  Weakly, he turned his head. His daughter flung herself down beside him, grabbing his hands.

  "Father," she gasped, out of breath. "How can I help? What can I do?"

  He ground his teeth as another wave of pain broke over him, swelling out from his failing heart. "F-f-f—" he started to say, then his voice failed him.

  He lay still for a moment, taking a weak, shuddering breath—it was terrifying, how much even that hurt—then he pulled his hand from her grasp, reaching to his side. His fingers were numb and weak, but in a moment they found what they sought: the iron haft of Peldarin's axe.

  He took another breath, let it out. "Finish … ."

  Dezra's plaintive eyes became clear. She smiled—not the least bit crookedly—and took Soulsplitter from him. Gripping it with both hands, she rose and stepped toward the tree. Caramon twisted, trying to ignore the surging pain in his breast, and watched her raise the axe, pause for an eye-blink, then swing.

  Grimbough gave a long, despairing howl, then fell silent. Dezra let go of the axe and stepped away, leaving it buried in the daemon tree's trunk. For a moment, everything was still. Then Soulsplitter shattered into countless glittering pieces.

  With a deafening crash, Grimbough smashed to the ground. At once, everything stopped: the raging storm, the quaking of the ground, the hateful muttering of the leaves. Stillness settled over the grove.

  Weakly, Caramon began to laugh.

  Then another burst of pain tore through him, and he let it all fall away. His friends were waiting for him.

  Dezra stared in horror as her father's florid skin turned gray. The lines of pain on his face smoothed, leaving an expression of terrible, sickening peace.

  She slapped him, hard, across the face. "No!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "No! No! No!"

  Then Trephas was behind her, grabbing her arms and lifting her away from Caramon. She fought and kicked, but he held her fast. She slumped in his grasp, sobbing.

  As the centaur gathered her close, Borlos came over. Stricken, the bard bent down and pressed his fingers against Caramon's throat, feeling for the lifebeat. He closed his eyes, blowing out a long, shuddering breath.

  "Help him, damn you!" Dezra snarled. "Do something!"

  Borlos looked at her, his face like an open wound. "I'm no healer," he said. "And even if I were, I don't think I could do anything for him, Dez."

  They stood over Caramon for a long while, none daring to move. Then, as the stormclouds above the vale dissolved on the cool night wind, something stirred behind them. Hooves whispered on the damp, blighted earth. Dezra didn't move, but Borlos and Trephas turned at the sound, and stared in astonishment and awe at the Forestmaster.

  The marks of her ordeal remained. Her flesh was tight against her bones; blood crusted her coat. But her eyes were clear, and despite her frailty there was grace in her movements as she strode toward them. Her horn caught the starlight, shimmering.

  Trephas and Borlos stepped back as she approached, but Dezra stayed where she was, beside her father's unmoving form. The Forestmaster stopped behind her.

  Dezra turned and glared at the unicorn, angry words on her tongue. She stopped, though, when she met the Forestmaster's liquid eyes. Paling, she stepped away from Caramon's body. The Forestmaster's gaze lingered on her a moment, then she stepped lightly to Caramon's side and lowered her head. Her horn, sparkling with light, touched his breastplate. Then she stepped back, her eyes shining.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then Caramon's mouth fell open, and he drew a loud, snorting breath.

  Dezra stared at the Forestmaster, incredulous. The unicorn dipped her head to her, then turned and walked out of the sward, into the night.

  When she was gone, Dezra turned back to her father, kneeling down beside him as Borlos and Trephas crowded behind. She took his hand in hers.

  Caramon's eyes opened, and he looked up at her. "What in the Abyss?" he asked, his brow furrowing with confusion. His voice was still frighteningly feeble. "Dez?"

  Smiling through her tears, she reached out and touched his cold, clammy cheek. "It's all right, Father," she told him. "I'm here."

  Epilogue

  Winter was coming.

  It was weeks away still—autumn was only halfway done, and the first snows were still a month or more away—but Caramon could feel its approach in his bones. Another marvel of growing old, he thought. It was worse this year than last, but that was no surprise. He'd ended last summer by brewing harvest beer; this summer he'd nearly died.

  He sighed, staring out across Darken Wood. He stood on a vantage just outside Lysandon, listening to birdsong and feeling the chill mountain wind on his face. Below, the forest stretched out to the horizon. It had changed in the past few weeks, while he remained with the centaurs. The dark stain that had spread across the wood was fading. Many trees that had been blighted at the start of the autumn grew healthy once more; from what Arhedion and the horsefolk's other scouts said, most of the forest would recover with time. Even so, there were patches of woodland that would never regain their former glory. In some places—especially around Sangelior, where the few surviving Skorenoi still dwelt—the decay had gone too far. Darken Wood would heal, but it would never quite be the same.

  I know how it feels, he thought with
a wry chuckle.

  He could only remember flashes of what had happened after Dezra felled Grimbough. He recalled the soothing touch of the Forestmaster's horn, the sound of his daughter's voice, the gentleness with which the others had lifted him onto Trephas's back. The ride back to Lysandon was a blur; between leaving Grimbough's vale and meeting Arhedion's scouts in the highlands, he only knew flashes of trees and the music of Borlos's lyre.

  He'd stayed in Lysandon since his return. The unicorn's magic had saved him from death, nothing more. Recovering his strength took time. He'd longed to go home, worrying that Tika and Laura would think he was dead, but he'd quickly learned not to push himself too hard. Barely a week after returning, he'd collapsed after stubbornly trying to rise and walk out of his hut. That had put enough of a scare into him to make him stay put until the horsefolk's chirurgeons told him otherwise.

  There had been celebrations, of course, when the companions returned. Every night, for more than a week, the mountains surrounding the town had echoed with song and laughter. There'd been games, a ritual hunt, feasting and dancing. Caramon had missed most of the merrymaking, but Borlos had played for him, and Dezra had snuck him a bit of venison from the stag she'd brought down in the hunt. That had helped.

  Fanuin, Ellianthe, and the rest of the sprites had left soon after the festivities ended, flitting off into the forest to return to their hidden realm. Caramon had been certain his daughter would follow. Borlos clearly enjoyed staying with the centaurs, but Dezra, he was sure, would take her money and go. To his surprise, however, she'd remained, and had even checked in on him several times a day. She didn't fuss over him, but she was there.

  At first, he'd thought she stayed because of Trephas. He was convinced the two had trysted together the night Soulsplitter was stolen, and that it was continuing now. But he'd learned he was wrong. Since their return, Trephas had spent much of his time with Lanorica, the chief of the Ebon Lance tribe. Finally, a month ago, he'd promised himself to her in marriage, placing a wreath of willow withes upon her head as was the horsefolk's custom.