Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

"Bloody shame," Dezra murmured.

They were both silent a moment, then Dezra reached to her belt. Steel scraped as she drew her dagger, then cut her palm, as the centaurs had done. Blood dripped onto Uwen's face, ran back into his shaggy, blond hair.

Clenching her fist, Dezra offered the dirk to her father. He looked at it a moment, then nodded and took it. He added her blood to hers, then returned the blade.

"You have your aunt's smile, you know," he said quietly.

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Kitiara's smile. It was just like yours." He nodded. "All crooked, one corner higher than the other. It always meant she was up to something. I remember one time, when Tanis and Sturm were-"

"Spare me," Dezra snarled abruptly. She shook her head. "Just this once, keep your bloody stories about Tanis and Sturm and Kitiara to yourself."

Caramon flushed, his mouth working soundlessly. "Dezra…" he growled.

"Get something straight, Father," she went on. "I don't care. You may have been as big a hero, once, as you claim to be, but that was a long time ago. I look at you now, and all I see is an old man living in the past."

Something in Caramon gave way. "Hold your tongue, girl!" he barked, drawing back his hand.

Dezra flinched. A heartbeat later, however, she raised her chin, silently offering it to him. Caramon flushed, ashamed, and let his arm drop to his side. Never, in his life, had he raised his hand against his children. That was for other men-weaker men.

They stood silently a while, then Dezra shrugged. "Well," she said, turning to go.

Caramon slumped, shaking his head. Borlos crept forward. "You all right, big guy?"

"Help me get this torch lit," Caramon snarled.

Borlos studied Caramon's face, then nodded, reaching into his pouch for flint and steel. "Sure thing, big guy."

It took a few strikes before a spark kindled on the brand. When the torch was burning brightly, Caramon turned to face Uwen's body. He should say something, he knew, but all that came to him was the thought that had been rolling in his head, ever since the arrow struck the boy dead: I should never have let you come along.

Softly, Borlos cleared his throat. He began to chant, echoing the horsefolk at the Yard of Gathering:

From the sky the rain,

he rain kisses the earth.

From the earth the tree,

The tree yields its fruit…

Sighing, Caramon laid the flickering torch on the pyre. He bowed his head, feeling tired, as the flames rose.

Chrethon plunged through the dark, twisted forest, laughing wildly. There was blood on the wind. It maddened him, more intoxicating than strong wine. He understood what the smell meant. One of the new Skorenoi had wounded its quarry.

It was a thing he always did, whenever new centaurs Crossed. From the beginning, he'd taken the newest Skorenoi into the woods to hunt. It was the best way to test his followers' prowess. Those who caught the first prey became leaders in his growing horde.

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Thenidor ran behind, halberd upraised, his coat dark with sweat. "They're close!" Chrethon bellowed. "They'll have their first kill soon!"

Thenidor nodded enthusiastically. Before either of them could say anything more, however, someone called out ahead of them. The pounding of hooves stopped, then turned right. A bowstring thrummed, followed by a squeal of pain. The blood-scent grew stronger, headier as the Skorenoi pursued the boar up a craggy hill. With a glance to make sure Thenidor was still with them, Chrethon followed.

They clambered upward for more then half a mile. The hillside was more sparsely wooded than the valley below, and Chrethon caught glimpses of the hunters in the silver moonlight. He squinted past them, but couldn't see the boar. He kept going, slowly gaining ground on the Skorenoi. One of the hunters raised a bow and let fly. The boar answered with an even more furious shriek than before, then changed direction again, angling downhill.

They cornered it soon after, driving the panicked beast into a rocky cleft near the hill's bottom. Trapped, it turned to face them. When Chrethon and Thenidor caught up, the Skorenoi had formed a half-circle about the cleft's mouth. One shot his bow, feathering the boar’s neck. It screamed and thrashed, stubbornly refusing to go down.

The Skorenoi turned at Chrethon's approach. The one who'd fired held up a hand, and the others lowered their bows. He strode toward Chrethon, bowing.

Chrethon looked him up and down: Grimbough had done worse than usual with this one. His face was neither human nor horse, but a mass of leathery skin so malformed that it was all but impossible to make out his features. His forelegs ended not with hooves, but with fat, stubby-fingered hands that gripped the rock beneath.

The faceless Skorenos bowed. "We have it trapped, my lord. The killing blow is thine, if thou wish it."

Chrethon stared into the black pits of the creature's eyes, then strode past, toward the boar. The animal snorted fiercely, drawing back. Its tusks glistened: if Chrethon got too close, it would surely try to run underneath him, gore him from below. He kept his distance: he'd been hunting boar since long before he Crossed.

He extended his lance one-handed toward the boar, raising his other arm over his head and waving to distract the wounded beast. It froze, its small eyes squinting, and he lunged, driving the spear into its neck.

The boar shrieked and thrashed. Chrethon bore down, twisting the weapon and shoving the animal back with all his strength. It backed against a boulder, collapsed, and died. Satisfied it wasn't going to get back up again, he jerked the spear free, wiped its head on the animal's hide, and turned back toward the other Skorenoi. Without a word, he strode up to their leader and smashed its shapeless face with the butt of his spear.

There was a satisfying crunch. The Skorenos dropped its bow and clutched its face, howling. Blood sprayed between its fingers. Without hesitating, Chrethon brought his spear-butt up again and struck it in the gut. It doubled over, sinking to its knees.

" Never give up a kill!" Chrethon snarled. "Not even to me. Finish, and don't hesitate. Dost thou understand?"

The Skorenos managed to nod, whimpering. "My lord… I'm sorry… ."

Chrethon turned away in disgust. He glared at the other five Skorenoi. "I still hunger for the chase," he said. "Continue the hunt."

The Skorenoi wheeled, bows in hand, and charged out of the gully. Chrethon followed, Thenidor coming behind. They left the faceless one lying on the ground with the dead boar.

An hour later, a wolf-eared Skorenos stopped at the crest of a low, wooded hillock and raised its head to sniff the air. Somehow, though Chrethon could smell nothing, he picked up a spoor. Nostrils flared, he turned east, cantering down the hill. The others followed.

They tracked the scent for miles, moving east in a more or less straight line. Finally, the wolfish Skorenos held up a hand, bringing the company to a halt. Without a glance at Chrethon, it crept toward a clump of blackthorns, whose branches drooped with shriveled fruit. The shadows around the bushes were deep enough to hide a large animal-a wolf, perhaps. Chrethon squinted, trying to see what the Skorenos was stalking, but the darkness was too thick to make anything out.

Twenty paces from the bushes, the hunter stopped again, raising his bow. The bow's limbs creaked as he pulled back the string.

"Wait!" a voice bleated. "Don't shoot!"

Chrethon drew up, his eyes widening. "Hurach?"

The shadows seemed to solidify, revealing the shape of a one-horned satyr. "My lord!" the goat-man yelped.

The wolfish Skorenos hesitated, confused. He risked a look at Chrethon.