Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

"Ever since that day," Olinia concluded, plucking a final chord upon her strings, "no centaur has ever raised an axe in war."

The final, ringing notes from the minstrel's lyre slowly fell into silence.

"It is late," Menelachos said. "Thou mayst go, Olinia."

The minstrel bowed. "My lord," she murmured. Then she let the messenger guide her away, into the darkness.

When she was gone, Caramon cleared his throat. "So you think this Soulsplitter can destroy Grimbough?"

"We are sure of it," Eucleia declared proudly.

Pleuron chuckled. "Not that we believe Peldarin made Prayer's Eye Peak, of course, but if half the tales about it are true, no tree could stand against it-not even one corrupted by Chaos."

"We need thee," Menelachos said, "to travel to the kingdom of the fey folk and retrieve the axe from Laird Guithern, who rules the sprites."

Dezra's brow furrowed. She jerked her thumb in the direction the minstrel had gone. "Didn't she just say no one could go there?"

"Nay," said Menelachos. "Only that none of us ever have. We could go ourselves, but the sprites are forbidden to give us Soulsplitter."

"How do we get there?" Caramon asked.

Nemeredes spoke up. "Thou hast heard of the dryads?"

Caramon and Dezra shook their heads, but Borlos nodded. "Sure. They're oak spirits. They lure men into their trees to kill them."

Several of the centaurs snorted in amusement. "Human ignorance," Eucleia sneered.

Pleuron spoke before anyone could retort. "What Lady Eucleia means to say, in her own charming way," he said, "is that the stories seem to have become… twisted… by thy people."

"What?" Dezra asked, one eyebrow rising. "You're telling me not every bard's tale is absolute truth?"

Borlos shot her a look that could have withered crops. Caramon and the centaurs chuckled, however. Only dour Eucleia didn't smile.

"Just so," said Menelachos. "The truth is, the dryads-the oak maidens-aren't spirits at all, but flesh. And while they do lure men into their trees, it isn't to feast upon them."

"Not in that way, anyway," Pleuron added. "You see, they normally mate with satyrs, and they don't like it much. So sometimes they seduce one of thy kind. Poor fellows often don't come back out of the trees for years."

Caramon swallowed. "Years?"

"If at all," Pleuron added.

"A dryad's tree is like a gate," Menelachos explained. "They're all connected-the ones in Darken Wood, anyway- and they also lead to the kingdom of the sprites. We know of one who might take thee there."

"But surely you could tell one of the sprites to ask this Laird Guithern to give you the axe," Caramon said.

"Aye, we could," Pleuron allowed, "but the sprites haven't left their kingdom since the Second Cataclysm. And the dryads and satyrs… well, to be honest, we don't trust them. They can be fickle things."

Dezra regarded Menelachos intently. "So you want us to find this dryad, use her tree to get into the faerie realm, convince this Laird Whoever-he-is to give us this axe, and bring it back to you?"

"Aye," said Menelachos. "The funeral is tomorrow. Thou wilt leave the day after that. Trephas will go with thee."

"Pay me another thousand in steel," Dezra said after a moment's thought, "and I'll do it."

" We'll do it," Caramon amended quickly.

Dezra shot him a look, but said nothing.

Hurach dared move again only when the Circle and the humans were gone. The satyr crept slowly across the Yard of Gathering, his cloven hooves making no sound in the long grass. He moved from shadow to shadow, melding with the darkness wherever he could. He stopped at the edge of the Yard, his breath coming in quick, fearful gasps. A party of horse-men walked past the shadows where he hid. They were singing and swigging wine from heavy jugs. He waited long enough for them to turn their backs, then sprinted across Ithax with all the speed he could muster.

The huts passed in a blur, and soon he was back at the palisade. He paused in the wall's shade, listening for sounds of pursuit, shouts of alarm. A moment passed, and he grunted with satisfaction: nothing. He hadn't been spotted.

Hurach climbed the palisade easily, moving up the smooth surface with the speed and sure feet of a spider. Using his muscular, shaggy arms, he pulled himself onto the battlements-

And froze, looking straight up the shaft of a centaur's spear.

"Here, now," the horse-man said, pressing the lance's broad head against the underside of Hurach's chin. "Who art thou? A goat-man… and a spy at that. I can tell by thy eyes." The centaur spat.

Hurach had a knife tucked into his loincloth. Only now it wasn't there; it was in the centaur's chest, all the way to its crossguard. The horse-man and the satyr both stared at it stupidly-Hurach couldn't remember having drawn it, much less throwing it-then the centaur collapsed, the dumbfounded expression frozen on his face.

Hurach glanced around. He hadn't been noticed yet, but that would change if he didn't move. He vaulted over the top of the palisade.

It was a long drop, and his wind left him when he landed. As he lay on the ground, wheezing, he marveled that he hadn't broken anything. Dazedly, he dragged himself to his feet and lurched away from the town, keeping always to the shadows. He laughed quietly as he ran.

He'd heard everything-the minstrel's tale, the bargain the centaurs and the humans had struck, the plan to recover Soulsplitter. Now, he made his way back into Darken Wood's depths. He would be at Sangelior by nightfall tomorrow.

He was sure that, when he got there, Lord Chrethon would be interested to hear what he'd learned.

The horsefolk began arriving at the yard of Catering shortly before sunset. There was no shouting or laughter among them, no music or games. It was no time for gaiety, with the dead among them.

Nemeredes the Younger's company had been more than fifty strong. The centaurs had recovered nearly thirty bodies. Now the slain lay atop their pyres, their weapons arrayed about them. Woolen blankets shrouded those who had died badly.

Those dear to the dead warriors gathered about the pyres, many weeping openly. They burned deer fat, poured wine on the ground, and laid tokens-bronze and silver jewelry, wreaths of laurel and oak-beside the dead. A father, a sister, a husband, a daughter, a lover, a friend. Nearly everyone had lost someone dear to them.

Nemeredes the Younger's pyre stood within the stone ring. His brothers stood beside him. His hands were folded across his chest, gripping the stout cudgel he'd held when he died. His face was peaceful; he might have been sleeping, but for the pallor of his skin and the ragged wounds where the enemy's lances had pierced him.

Dezra, Caramon and Borlos stood nearby. Though none of them had ever known Nemeredes, Caramon had placed three arrows from his quiver on the pyre, one for. each of them. Trephas and Gyrtomon thanked him, their eyes shining in the twilight.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the stars winked into view. Darken Wood faded into night, and the centaurs began to wail.

It began quietly, rising across the Yard. Stallions rumbled deeply, and mares keened in reply. Slowly, it grew in pitch and fervor, building to a bellowing, shrieking crescendo. Centaurs pulled their manes and beards, pounded their breasts, stamped their hooves. Some smashed wine-jugs, then trampled the potsherds into dust. Many fell to their knees, shouting and shaking their fists at the sky. Others reared on their hind legs, flinging their arms wide. The humans clapped their hands over their ears. The air itself seemed to shudder with the horsefolk's grief.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the wailing stopped. The evening wind sighed among the trees. Crickets sang. From the Yard's edge came the slow thud of hoofbeats.