Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

" Keleion he phomenos! " he called.

There ensued a short conversation in the centaur language. In the end, the guards couched their weapons and stepped back. Through their midst strode a large, silver-coated centaur. He wore his snowy mane and beard braided, and his face was weathered and hard.

"Your father?" Dezra asked.

Trephas shook his head, staring as the silver centaur bent down to lift a heavy, eared jug. "No," he said. "It's Rhedogar, the leader of our people's warriors."

"But you said-" Caramon began.

"I know!" Trephas interrupted curtly. He pawed the ground with his forehoof. "Something's wrong."

"Rhedogar!" Gyrtomon called. "Why hast thou come to greet us? Where is our father?"

There was deep sorrow in the grizzled centaur's eyes. He came to a halt before the party. He held out the amphora. It was intricately painted, with twining black grape vines and capering red horsefolk. "I offer wine, sons of Nemeredes," he declared formally. "Drink, and be welcome."

His face drawn with worry, Gyrtomon accepted the jug. He poured a crimson stream on the ground as a libation, then raised the amphora to his lips and gulped down a deep draught. He handed it to Trephas, who repeated the ritual, then returned the wine to Rhedogar. The old centaur drank last of all.

"I ask thee again," Gyrtomon said. "Why hasn't our father come to greet us?"

Reluctantly, Rhedogar met his gaze. "I'm sorry to say this. Nemeredes the Elder is not here because he is in mourning."

"Mourning?" Trephas blurted.

"It's our brother," Gyrtomon interrupted. "Isn't it?"

Rhedogar nodded.

"How?" Trephas exclaimed.

The silver centaur shook his head. "Thou shouldst hear it from thy father. He waits at the Yard of Gathering, with the rest of the Circle."

With that, he turned and strode through the gates, setting the amphora down as he went. Trephas and Gyrtomon hesitated. Their faces were ashen, and their eyes shimmered in the torchlight.

"Well?" Dezra asked. "Are we going in, or do we just stand out here all night?"

That earned her angry looks from both Caramon and Borlos, as well as several centaurs. It also snapped Gyrtomon and Trephas out of their stupor, however. Haltingly, they started forward, leading the way through Ithax's mighty gates.

Ithar was a jumble of buildings with little sign of order. There were no real roads, but rather meandering trails that wound this way and that. Its huts were simple, made of daub and wattle, interspersed with tall oak trees. None was taller than a single story-the horsefolk had no love for stairs-and few had foundations. There were skin tents as well, painted with spirals and knotwork patterns. Many structures were simple frameworks with open sides beneath thatch or bark roofs. Torches mounted on stakes guttered, and bonfires crackled in the open.

Then, of course, there were the centaurs. They were as varied as horses and men. Some were jet black, others brown or gray, bay or chestnut. A few were mottled with more than one color, as Arhedion was, and even those who weren't had some mark of another color on them-white fetlocks on one, a black streak running down another's face. They wore their manes and beards long, though some tied them in braids or tassels, and others had shaved parts of their heads. None, however, tied their tails. These they left long, free of tangles and burrs.

There were signs everywhere of the ongoing war. Most of the horsefolk wore harnesses and quivers, and carried cudgels or spears. Many were scarred, and some were missing an arm or hand. They nodded in recognition as Trephas and Gyrtomon passed, but regarded Caramon, Borlos and Dezra with mistrust.

"Where are all the women?" Caramon asked.

"Most will be preparing for the funeral," Trephas said softly. "Though there are some about, here and there." He pointed with his chin. "See? There's a filly, over by that stump."

Caramon looked, and spotted her. He wasn't surprised he hadn't noticed any other females before. At first glance, her beardless face was all that marked her apart from the stallions. She was well-muscled, with a brown mane that tumbled down over her shoulders, hiding her bare breasts. She wore a longbow across her back, and had the same hard look about her as the males. The horse-women were warriors, just like the men of their race.

The huts grew larger and grander as the party wended toward the middle of Ithax. Some had antlers and animal skulls mounted on their walls; others sported bone-and-wood windchimes or bright hangings of woven wool. A few stood dark and empty, with no fires burning inside or out. Leafy bundles were nailed to their lintels.

"Those are the homes of dead warriors," said Trephas. "Our brother, it seems, was not the only one slain. Their bodies rest within, and the fennel stalks"-he nodded at the leafy bundles-"protect them from evil. Tomorrow, they'll be tom down and made into pyres for the fallen."

"Whist," Gyrtomon bade. "We're almost to the Yard of Gathering."

At the crest of the hillock the town was built upon was a broad, open pasture. Torches flickered at its edges, illuminating green, sweet-smelling grass. The Yard was large enough to accommodate hundreds of centaurs, but now it was nearly empty. In its midst, nearly lost in darkness, stood a handful of horsefolk. They looked up, toward Gyrtomon and Trephas, then turned away again, murmuring in hushed voices.

"What now?" Caramon whispered.

"We wait, until the Circle calls us," Trephas replied. "Then we'll partake of the grass and go to stand before them."

"Partake?" Borlos's eyes widened. "As in eat?"

"Aye," said Trephas. "That's the custom."

"I don't know if you realize," Dezra said, "but humans don't eat grass."

Trephas frowned, but Gyrtomon nodded. "We understand," he said. "It isn't necessary for thee to observe the rite."

"No," Caramon said. "We'll follow the ritual."

Dezra and Borlos looked at him. "But-" Dezra began.

"We'll follow the ritual."

"And spend the rest of the night ritually puking up our suppers," Borlos muttered.

"Here comes Rhedogar," Trephas said, looking out across the Yard.

The silver-furred centaur trotted back across the meadow. Arhedion was with him. They stopped before the companions, bowing.

"The Circle of Four welcomes thee," Rhedogar declared. "They ask the sons of Nemeredes and the humans to partake and come forward."

Solemnly, Gyrtomon and Trephas knelt, plucked handfuls of grass from the ground, and placed it in their mouths. Caramon followed suit, chewing a few blades and swallowing hard. Shrugging, Dezra followed suit. Borlos went last, and smacked his lips in distaste as they strode across the Yard, toward the Circle. The rest of the party stayed behind, with Rhedogar and Arhedion.

A ring of stones, worn with age, stood in the Yard's midst. Within, a brass brazier gave off a low, ruddy light. Three centaurs stood around it, their faces shadowed, watching as a fourth laid something on the glowing coals. Steam billowed, accompanied by loud sizzling. The smell of burning fat wafted to meet the companions.

Caramon's stomach rumbled like an ogre in full battle rage. "Gods, that smells good," he sighed.

" That ," Gyrtomon snapped, "is a sacrifice. The deer fat is for the gods to savor, not mortals."

"Sacrifices, libations," Dezra said. "You do know the gods are gone, right?"

"They've left before," Gyrtomon said quietly. "When thy kind brought down the fiery mountain. They returned then; they will return again."

Dezra opened her mouth to argue, but caught a glance from Caramon and held her tongue.

They were almost to the standing stones, and could make out the features of the centaurs by the brazier. One was the color of coal and immensely fat, his girth putting Caramon's to shame. His right arm ended in a stump below the elbow. Beside him was a gray mare, whose iron hair was tied in a tight bun, and whose eyes glittered like ice. Next to her was a tall bay stallion, almost Caramon's age but still in fighting trim, with hard, corded muscles. His long beard hung in braids beneath a scarred face. Before them, kneeling by the brazier, was the fourth member of the Circle. He was quite old, his chestnut fur shot through with white. His age-lined face was wet with tears. Not seeming to notice anyone was approaching, he picked up another ragged piece of deer fat and laid it on the brazier. Smoke rose, and he vanished for a moment.