Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

"Don't drop the stone!" Borlos yelled. "She's under it again!" The bard glanced at Trephas, swallowing. The centaur's strength was clearly flagging. Above Dezra, the slab trembled.

Meanwhile, Caramon too was straining, against the might of the golem. He was losing: the Guardian was too strong, dragging his daughter back into the shaft with it.

"The axe! Use the axe!" Dezra bawled.

Borlos saw the bright gleam of steel at her belt, caught his breath, then dove for the shaft, slipping on loose slate and nearly sliding right past Dezra into the pit. He fumbled for Soulsplitter, fighting to undo the knots she'd tied to bind it to her belt. After a moment he gave up, drew his knife, and cut the cords. He grabbed the weapon as it fell away from her, then pushed back and knelt above Dezra and the Guardian. He raised the axe.

"Do it!" shouted Dezra, Caramon and Trephas, almost all at once.

Soulsplitter came down, chopping off the Guardian's remaining arm. Stone splintered, sparks flew. The golem jerked back, hung in space for an eyeblink, then plummeted soundlessly out of sight. Caramon fell back, hauling Dezra out of the shaft.

"Drop the stone!" he bellowed.

With a groan of relief, Trephas relaxed his pull. The slate slab came down with a final boom that made the earth tremble. A second crash echoed it, far below, as the Guardian struck the floor of the shaft.

Dezra laughed wearily, leaning against her father. "See… how easy… that was?" she gasped.

Then her eyes closed and she slumped, unconscious, in Caramon's grasp.

"You don't understand," Caramon protested. "We don't have time to waste, waiting here with your people. The centaurs need Soulsplitter now!"

Laird Guithern shook his head. "I know. But there's naught I can do to get ye back to Darken Wood faster. I sent a messenger to the dryads after ye left for the tower, but 'twill take time afore Pallidice returns to guide ye back. Ye may have been nearly a day outside the vale, but here ye were gone less than an hour."

"How long must we wait?" Trephas asked anxiously. Soulsplitter, secured to his war harness, gleamed in the sunlight.

Guithern thought a moment. "About a day, I reckon."

"But that's another whole month, outside this place!" Dezra exclaimed. "At that rate, there might be nothing to get back to!"

"I'm sorry," Guithern repeated. Though his words were contrite, there was an unmistakable crispness to his voice. "I can't change how quick or slow the river of time flows. It's best ye forget yer cares for now. I'll summon food, and mead and music-"

Caramon shook his head. "No. Bring us one of those flying blankets, so we can leave. We can go as far as those caves in the mountains. No offense, Highness, but I'd feel better waiting there."

The Laird bowed, acquiescing, and took his leave. The other sprites swarmed with him up to the palace at the top of the fir tree, leaving the companions alone.

Caramon cleared his throat. "I'll check on Borlos."

The bard sat at the edge of the spire-stone, staring out across the tarn. In the distance, the sprites' wings made the air over Gwethyryn sparkle. He held his lyre across his lap, plucking a quiet, sad melody. He didn't turn at Caramon's approach.

"Well?" Caramon asked. "Are you coming with us, or is this good-bye?"

The bard sighed slowly. "I want to stay," he murmured. "I can't bear to leave."

"It's witchery, Bor," Caramon said, gesturing at the lake. "This place has worked some kind of magic over you. I look at it and I see beauty, but I'd never dream of not going back."

"Of course you wouldn't," Borlos stated. "You have a family to go home to, an inn to run. What do I have? Clemen and Osier? How many years have I wasted playing cards with them, night after night?"

"So you're staying." Caramon couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.

"Let me finish." Borlos laid a hand across his strings. "I could stay, but I'd always wonder if I could have done more to help the centaurs. I'd never be happy, no matter how beautiful this place is, or how much pleasure I find with Pallidice."

Caramon coughed. "So what you're saying is…

"I'm leaving," Borlos said. He took a deep breath, then let it out.

"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. He patted the bard's arm, then, sensing he wanted to be alone, turned and walked back to join the others.

Borlos turned back toward the tarn, staring across the water. His fingers strayed back to his lyre. The wind caught the chords he plucked and snatched them away.

The lugruidh carried them back the way they'd come, Fanuin and Ellianthe flying beside it. It soared over the tarn and Gwethyryn, crested the ridge at the crater's south edge, and sailed on, among the looming peaks. In time a glint of light appeared in the distance. The companions watched as the crystal cliff grew closer, winking like a diamond in the sun-all of them, that is, save Borlos. The bard stared back, clutching his lyre to his chest.

At Fanuin and Ellianthe's direction, the lugruidh drew up alongside the cliff and hovered within reach of its shimmering surface. The Laird's children swooped toward the stone, hands outstretched, and the rock split, opening into a tunnel again.

Guithern had given the companions bug-lamps before they left; now each of them took one, then stepped into the passage. Fanuin and Ellianthe led them back into the mountain, parting the stone before them; the tunnel closed behind, sealing them inside. After a long walk, they emerged in the caves where they'd awoken after eating the drugged food.

Hours passed. Fanuin and Ellianthe brought food and mead, and Borlos played upon his lyre, his eyes shining as his music resounded about the cavern. Trephas took Soulsplitter from his harness, laid it on the floor, and stared at it thoughtfully.

Finally, with a crack that filled the room, one of the cavern's walls split open. Several swift-flying sprites emerged, darting toward Fanuin and Ellianthe. The winged folk jabbered together, then Ellianthe broke off and flew to join the companions.

"Something's wrong," Caramon said, seeing the grim look on the sprite's face.

"It's Pallidice, isn't it?" Borlos asked. He rose, setting his lyre aside. "What's happened?"

Ellianthe raised a hand. "The dryad will be here soon. But she is ill. The messengers fear she's dying."

A few minutes later, the tunnel in the wall widened even more, and a figure emerged. The companions caught their breaths.

"Oh… ." Borlos moaned. "Oh, gods."

The oak-maiden had changed. Part of it was because of the shifting seasons: gold and flame-red streaked her green hair, harbingers of an early autumn. But the difference ran deeper than that. Her dark, supple skin had turned gray. Her youthful face was haggard, her slender limbs bony. Even her eyes were dull, as though a cloud had fallen across them. She trembled, her shoulders hunched.

"Pallidice," Borlos murmured, his voice breaking.

She peered up at him, a ghost of joy lighting her face, and smiled wearily. She was missing several teeth, and the rest had turned brown. "My love," she croaked. Her voice quavered thinly. "My heart sings to see you again. Would that it were the same for you."

"What?" Borlos asked, then flushed. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, looking down. "I just-"

"Nay, say nothing, my love. I know what I look like." Pallidice shook her head woefully. "The daemon tree's curse began to work upon my sisters and me, soon after I brought you here. It grows worse all the time. I fear I won't live to feel the weight of snow upon my oak's boughs again."

Borlos's mouth tightened. His hands curled slowly into fists. "No," he growled. "You will. Grimbough will fall, if I have to chop it down myself."

"Peldarin's axe is ours," Trephas added, raising Soulsplitter. "We must take it to my people. Return us to Darken Wood, and I also swear to stop Grimbough from harming you any more."