Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

"Your father?" Borlos murmured.

Trephas nodded slightly. "The rest of the chiefs stand with him-Pleuron the Fat, Lady Eucleia, and High Chief Menelachos."

They stopped at the stone ring's edge. Trephas and Gyrtomon prostrated themselves, extending their right forehooves. Caramon knelt a moment later, and Borlos did the same. Only Dezra remained standing, hands on her hips.

"So," she said, "you must be the Circle."

The chiefs regarded her coldly. Dezra didn't quail before them, however, and after a moment the muscular bay raised his hand. Golden bracers gleamed on his wrists. He wore a matching tore, studded with sapphires, about his neck. "Rise," he bade in a booming voice. "Stand before the Circle, guests, and be welcome."

They obeyed, Caramon wincing as his knees popped. The chiefs watched in stony silence. Old Nemeredes rose unsteadily from behind the brazier, smiling sadly as he beheld his sons.

"Gyrtomon, Trephas," he quavered. He strode forward to clasp their arms. "This lightens a heavy heart. We must share wine later. Thou hast heard about thy brother?"

The brothers nodded. "Rhedogar told us," Gyrtomon replied. "He didn't say what happened, though."

Nemeredes sighed wearily. "What is it ever, in these dark days? Yesterday morn the scouts reported a party of Skorenoi, not five leagues from this place. Thy brother took a war-band out-a large enough company, he thought, to put a quick end to them."

"But it wasn't?"' Trephas guessed.

"No." Nemeredes shook his head. "It was a trap. Thy brother led his company straight into slaughter."

Gyrtomon bowed his head. "Were all slain?"

"Not all. The Skorenoi took a score of thy brother's warriors captive, back to Sangelior," Nemeredes replied. The centaurs all made warding signs, their faces grim. "Thy brother, thanks be to Chislev, wasn't one of them. He died, taken through the heart by a spear. It was quick… he didn't suffer… ." He stopped, choking with tears.

Pleuron came forward, his girth bobbing, and laid his good hand on Nemeredes's shoulder. Trephas and Gyrtomon each held one of their father's hands, comforting him.

Caramon found himself weeping as well. He'd lost two sons, and knew the agony the old chief was going through. He looked up at the cloudy sky, blinking back tears.

"As usual, the Skorenoi sent back one survivor, to tell what happened," said Pleuron. His eyes flashed. "I rode out today, with a much larger company, to bring back the bodies. Thy brother lies in his hut, his wounds washed and his weapons laid out with him."

Gyrtomon looked up, his face damp with tears. "My thanks, Pleuron," he said. "We would see him tonight."

Dezra had watched the tearful scene with growing restlessness. Now she cleared her throat loudly. "Excuse me," she said.

Everyone turned to look. The centaurs were incensed, their nostrils flared with anger. "Be still, girl," Caramon growled.

"Nay," Menelachos said. "The lass is right. We shouldn't neglect our guests, no matter how deep our loss might be." He looked the humans up and down. "These are the ones thou hast brought back, Trephas?"

Wiping his eyes, Trephas stepped back from his father and faced the High Chief. "Aye, my lord," he said. "There was a fourth, a young man, but he was slain on the way here. My brother wasn't the only one to fall into a Skorenoi trap-Thenidor and his lot waylaid us, on the banks of the Darkwater."

Menelachos's bushy eyebrows lowered. "Then we owe the Skorenoi double for what they've wrought. But please, introduce our guests."

"Of course, my lord." Trephas waved his hand. "This is Borlos, a bard of Solace, and Caramon and Dezra Majere."

"Caramon?" Menelachos repeated. His hawklike eyes studied Caramon critically. "The same Caramon Majere who knew the Forestmaster, and fought the dragon-armies?"

Caramon's face burned. "That's me," he said. "I'm sorry to hear what's happened to the Forestmaster. I want to help."

Eucleia's lip curled with disdain as she regarded the humans. "This is the best thou couldst do, Trephas? An unmannered girl, a bard and an old man?"

Dezra glared at the steely-eyed mare. Before she could retort, however, Menelachos interjected. "Lady Eucleia," he said, "these humans are our guests, and are to be shown respect. We bade Trephas to bring back a Majere-he has brought two. They are our hope of surviving the war with Chrethon-and of saving the Forestmaster."

"Then we're likely doomed," the mare said. She tossed her head, leveling her glinting gaze on Trephas.

That was enough for Caramon. "Pardon me, lady," he said, "but we've come a long way from home, although we don't know exactly why-and one of us has already died because he wouldn't turn back. If you expect me to stand here while you insult me, you can go to the Abyss."

The Yard of Gathering fell silent, save for the hiss of the sacrificial fat on the coals. After a moment, Eucleia smiled tightly.

"I misjudged thee, Majere," she said. "I took you for a man with no fire left in him. It seems I was wrong. I apologize for speaking ill of thee."

"Oh," Caramon said lamely. He hadn't expected to win the argument so easily. "Well, good then."

Dezra shook her head. "I don't want your apologies. I didn't come here for you, or for the Forestmaster. I was promised steel."

The Circle looked at Trephas. "Is this true?" asked Menelachos.

Reluctantly, the young centaur nodded. "It was the only way I could convince her to come."

The High Chief regarded Dezra sternly. "Very well, lass," he said, his voice heavy with disdain. "We centaurs honor our bargains. We will pay thee… and then, thou wilt learn why we've summoned thee here."

"I can't believe you," Caramon said, disgusted. "Asking the centaurs for money when they're in mourning."

The horsefolk had left them alone in the Yard of Gathering. Trephas and Gyrtomon had gone with their father to grieve over their brother's body, and the rest of the Circle had withdrawn to confer. Several young colts brought the humans cold venison and wine-their amazement when Caramon asked for water instead was almost comical-then left them alone.

"Are you listening to me, girl?" Caramon asked.

Dezra raised her eyebrows. "When was I supposed to bring it up? The way it sounds like the war's going, there probably isn't any time they aren’t in mourning."

"Will both of you shut up ?" Borlos snapped.

Caramon and Dezra started. The bard had been so quiet, nursing flask after flask of centaur wine, that they'd all but forgotten he was there. Now he glared at them, swaying slightly.

"Don't you two ever get tired of bickering?" he asked. "I've known ogres who are less ornery! It's this bloody arguing that got Uwen killed at the Darkwater. Who'll it be next time? Trephas? Me? All of us?"

"You could always leave," Dezra suggested dourly.

"No," Borlos replied. "There's grand things happening in this forest. One way or another, there'll be a tale to be told, and I'm the only bard around to see it happen. No, I'm seeing this through. But you're going to have to quit being such a pair of stubborn asses."

No one spoke after that. They were still quiet, half an hour later, when the thud of hooves approached across the Yard. They looked up and saw the Circle approaching, Trephas and Gyrtomon with them. The brothers' faces were creased with sorrow. The horsefolk drew to a halt before the humans, who quickly got to their feet. Lord Menelachos tossed a jingling sack at Dezra's feet.

"As was agreed," he declared. "Three hundred pieces of steel."

Dezra nodded, nudging the sack with her foot. "Thanks."

Menelachos inclined his head. "Now, if thou art not too tired to listen, we'll tell what we need of thee."

Caramon glanced at Dezra and Borlos, then nodded. "Go ahead," he said.