Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

"Really?" Caramon said. "That sounds just like Solace, where I'm from."

"Of course it does!" Fanuin laughed. "Where do ye think yer folk got the idea of putting their homes in the vallen-woods? Ye're not the first humans to come to this place, ye know."

Soon the shining forest fell away behind them, and they floated over darkness again. Now, however, they could hear the sound of water lapping below. Peering over the lugruidh's edge, they saw the stars beneath them, glittering on the surface of a wide, dark lake. A wispy blanket of mist clung, swirling and eddying, to the water.

As they crossed the tarn, they caught sight of another glow through the fog. It hovered high above the lake's surface, like the watchfire on a castle's tower. They drew near, and the source of the light became clear: an obsidian spire, jutting up out of the water. Several tall firs perched atop it, hung with scores of bug-lamps. The glassy stone shimmered with reflected light.

"Is that where the Laird lives?" Dezra asked. She did her best to sound jaded, but a note of awe crept into her voice.

"Aye," Fanuin said. "His steading's in the high boughs of the tallest tree. He awaits us there."

A score of winged folk, dressed in violet and armed with white bows, rose from the spire to meet them. Goidrach exchanged words with their leader, then called his archers to him and darted away again across the lake. The violet-clad sprites also spoke briefly with Fanuin and Ellianthe and fell in around the lugruidh as it descended toward the firs. As they neared the spire, the companions saw the Laird's steading, nestled on a platform built about the fir's slender trunk.

It was small but beautiful, an enclave of miniature buildings with large windows and open roofs. Violet-clad sprites darted from one structure to another. A party of silver-haired winged folk emerged from the roof of the largest building and glided toward the lugruidh. One of them, resplendent in amethyst and ivory, smiled warmly at Fanuin and Ellianthe, embracing each in turn.

"It's fine to see you again, my children," Laird Guithern said, taking their hands. He looked past them, toward Trephas. "And you also, friend centaur. These, then, are the humans ye told me about?"

"Aye, majesty," Trephas replied, bowing. The others did the same-except Dezra, who only inclined her head. Trephas frowned at this, but went on. "Caramon Majere, a hero of some renown among mortal folk, his daughter Dezra, and Borlos of Solace."

"Ah yes," Guithern said, smiling at Borlos. He extended his hand. "The tale-spinner who's been spreading songs among the guards within the mountain. I'd like to hear some of them, if there's time." He turned from the bard, who looked ready to burst with pride, to Caramon. "And I remember you as well, Majere. I apologize again. An arrow in the rump is no way to greet a guest."

Caramon blushed. "Ah, well," he said. "No harm done, really. I'll just be sitting funny for a couple days."

Guithern laughed. "Excellent!" he proclaimed, clasping his hands. "Now, I'm afraid there's not room enough up here for all o' ye-nor, I'm sure, would ye be comfortable perching so high. I've arranged to hold moot below instead, atop the spire-stone. I've already had food set out for ye there, and milk and mead besides. When ye've had yer fill, I'll join ye, and we'll talk more."

With that, he darted away, back toward his steading. The other elders streamed after him, and Fanuin and Ellianthe as well. When they were gone, the lugruidh descended, gliding down toward the top of the spire.

"Thank the gods," Caramon said to Borlos. "Solid ground at last. And food, too-I haven't eaten since that feast the dryad set out for us. Bet you could do with a flask or three of mead too, eh?"

But the bard wasn't listening; his gaze had turned away, drifting across the misty tarn. At the far shore, the sprites' forest-village glowed in the fog. Tears stood on the bard's cheeks, sparkling like sapphires in the blue light.

"Hey," Caramon said, nudging Borlos in the ribs. "You all right?"

The bard looked at him, without recognition at first. Then he blinked. "Sorry, big guy. It's just-I don't know. There's something about this place. It's so beautiful. I mean, Solace is nice and all, but how can I go back there after seeing this?"

Chrethon strode along the line of the Skorenoi camp, gazing at Ithax's walls. The town's defenders lined the palisade, gripping their bows, staring back across the killing ground that had, not long ago, been a pleasant meadow. Now the grass and clover were gone, the earth trampled to blood-drenched mud. Spent arrows sprouted from the waste, a mocking memory of the daisies that had been in bloom when the siege began. Crows and flies feasted upon the slain. The stench in the air was horrible, but Chrethon reveled in it. To him, it was the scent of triumph.

Forty days ago, the Skorenoi had finally reached Ithax. It had been a long advance, with much hard fighting along the way, but now, except for a few scattered marauders, the horsefolk were penned up within their walls. The Skorenoi had put the vineyards and fields to the torch, slaughtering any horsefolk they'd encountered in those last leagues.

The day they invested the town, Chrethon had ordered an assault on the gates. That had been a mistake. The centaurs had been ready for him. The Skorenoi had lost many to the archers and stake-riddled trenches that protected the town, and hadn't been able to get their rams near the town's gates. In the end, they'd been forced to withdraw.

There'd been celebration among the defenders that night, but their victory was hollow. Now Skorenoi tents and fires ringed the mound where Ithax stood. They'd been there more than a month, keeping anyone from entering or leaving. The siege had been mostly quiet, with only the occasional skirmish as a parties of warriors emerged from the gates, trying to break through the Skorenoi lines. None had gotten through. Their flyblown heads were mounted on stakes within clear view of the town.

Siegecraft was difficult for the Skorenoi. Most accepted means of breaching a wall were impractical, thanks to their shape. Ladders and siege towers were useless to creatures who couldn't climb them. Tunneling to collapse the walls was no easier. There were other strategies, of course, but none had worked so far. The centaurs drenched their walls with water from their spring-fed wells, thwarting attempts to bum them. Rams were useless as long as those who carried them died before they reached the gates. Even starvation, which won more sieges than any other means, was proving difficult. The centaurs had stockpiled a great deal of food. They would run out, of course, but not before autumn.

Chrethon didn't have that long to wait. The Skorenoi were growing impatient. Ithax had to fall, and soon.

He glanced east. The sky was starting to glimmer with dawn. He called for a runner, and one came: a gangly creature with long, muscular legs. It moved toward him with astonishing speed, then bowed.

"What is thy will, my lord?" it asked.

"Find Hurach," Chrethon said quietly. "Tell him to meet me on the north front, behind the lines."

The runner sprinted off. Chrethon glanced once more toward the palisade, then turned north, making his way through the camp. He passed warriors sparring, smiths sharpening lances, fletchers shaping new arrows. As in Sangelior, there was little order to the ranks, but they all bowed to him as he passed.

Hurach was waiting for him, in the shadows. "How may I serve you, lord?" he asked.

Chrethon glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. "I have a task for thee," he answered softly.

"I won't have this!" Eucleia raged. Her tail thrashed as her voice rang out across the Yard of Gathering. "We can't simply sit here, biding, while Chrethon waits for us to starve!"