Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

Pallidice nodded, though there was little hope in her eyes. "Of course. I'll take you. Gather your gear, and follow." She turned, stepping back into the tunnel.

Hurriedly, the companions prepared to go. "Thanks for your help," Caramon said, turning toward the sprites. "We couldn't have-"

He stopped. The winged folk were gone.

"Fanuin?" he asked. "Ellianthe? Where'd they get to?"

Dezra shrugged. "Back home, probably, while we were all staring at Pallidice. Come on. The others are waiting."

Caramon glanced about once more, but the sprites were nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, he put on his helm, shouldered his pack, and followed the others out of the cave.

The earth gave off a faint, noisome stench as Pallidice led them back to Darken Wood. Now and again, a beetle or worm emerged from it and dropped, squirming, to the floor. Strange chittering sounds surrounded them, and obscene, blister-like bulges appeared in the walls and ceiling. The air was dank and close.

Finally, the tunnel opened once more into a familiar earthen vault-the same place they'd met when Pallidice and her sisters drew them in. The tendrils that hung from the ceiling had shriveled; black ichor dripped from them onto the floor. Brown mist swirled about their feet, reeking like spoiled meat.

"Stay here," Pallidice rasped. "I will summon my sisters, and we'll return you to the surface."

Then she was gone, into another passage in the earth. The earth sealed shut behind her.

The companions waited in silence. Borlos turned away from the others, head bowed. Caramon walked to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. Trephas plucked his lance from his harness and jabbed at a swollen, white spider that crawled across the floor.

Dezra strode to one of the walls, where a huge blister had appeared in the earth. It glistened in the bug-light, and she saw something dark moving within. Grimacing, she drew her dagger to burst the growth.

As she was raising the blade, though, the blister's membranous surface split open, revealing a large, bloodshot eye. She leapt back, yelping, as it stared at her. A heartbeat later, her senses returned, and she lashed out with her blade, piercing the eye. Black corruption spilled forth. She stared as the membrane closed again.

Caramon hurried over. "What in the Abyss was that?"

Dezra shook her head, wiping her dagger with a rag from her pouch. "I'm not sure," she said quietly. "I think someone just saw us."

Caramon frowned, but before he could ask more, a tunnel opened, and Pallidice stepped into the chamber. With her came the other three dryads who'd brought them here. They didn't flounce or giggle, as they'd done before, but hobbled and shuffled like old women. All were horribly marked by Grimbough's magic. Gamaia was obscenely bloated, and had lost all her lovely green hair. Tessonda was horribly scrawny, bones showing through her skin, which was covered with weeping sores. Elirope was worst of all. Her limbs and back were twisted and bent, as though every bone had been broken and badly set. Seeing them, the companions couldn't help but cringe.

“Aye," said Pallidice, laughing harshly. “We are hideous to behold, aren't we? A cruel trick to play on us, who prided ourselves on our beauty."

Borlos shook his head angrily. “This will end, Pallidice. You have my word."

The dryad smiled gruesomely. "Thank you, my love," she said. "Now, shall we bring you back to the surface?"

The other dryads led Trephas, Caramon and Dezra away, leaving Borlos and Pallidice alone. Her eyes downcast, the oak-maiden came forward. "I'm sorry, my love," she said, "but we must embrace for me to take you back through my tree. I won't ask for more than that. I know what I am now."

Tenderly, Borlos rested his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and kissed her gently on her forehead.

"I know what you are too," he whispered. "And it isn't this."

She smiled at him, a joyful look that nearly erased the suffering from her face. Their arms snaked about each other. After a while, the roots came down and lifted them up and away.

Lord Chrethon smashed the runner's face with the back of his hand. The long-legged Skorenos fell to its knees with a howl. It started to rise, clutching at its bloodied nose, and Chrethon kicked it in the chest. It fell flat, wheezing.

" What didst thou say?" he thundered, towering over the fallen runner.

"My lord-I can't-don't-" the runner whimpered, cowering.

Chrethon plucked his lance from his harness and lowered it. "Tell me, or I'll geld thee right here."

The Skorenos looked at the upraised lance, its face filled with terror. "My lord," it groaned, "Lord Leodippos asks more warriors to aid in the search for those who escaped the sacking of Ithax."

Chrethon cursed himself again for letting so many of the centaurs escape. Leodippos's warriors had chased them into the mountains at the westernmost edge of Darken Wood, killing stragglers the whole way, but once they made it to high ground, the horsefolk had become almost impossible to root out. Leodippos was a relentless hunter, but the centaurs had constantly eluded him. They'd started fighting back, too, through ambushes and night raids. Leodippos had already asked for reinforcements once, over a week ago, to shore up his dwindling numbers. Now he wanted them again!

Chrethon wanted to blame Leodippos for his failure, but he knew better. If he asked for more warriors, it was because he needed them badly. It would do no good to deny him.

There were, however, plenty of runners in his horde. He wouldn't miss one. Chrethon thrust his lance, driving it through the cowering messenger's heart. He let go of the weapon's shaft, and it exploded into splinters of wood and metal.

Leaving the corpse, he strode along the hilltop, looking down at Sangelior. Much of the town was empty and dark. Its inhabitants were either dead or searching the mountains for the Circle. Chrethon dreaded having to send still more of his warriors west, but had little choice if he wanted the last of the centaurs dead before winter. He raised his hand, beckoning to another runner.

The messenger came forward hesitantly. It had seen what he'd done to its fellow. "M-my lord?" it stuttered. "What is thy w-wish?"

"Be still," Chrethon growled. "I'm not going to harm thee. Go down and tell the war leaders. They must each send fifty warriors west, to aid Lord Leodippos."

"F-fifty, my lord?"

Chrethon glowered. The runner paled, turned, and sprinted away.

Chuckling wryly, Chrethon turned to look over the town. The runner's uncertainty was understandable. There were ten war leaders left in Sangelior, which meant he was sending five hundred warriors to Leodippos's aid. After that, there would be only another thousand left at his disposal. And what if Leodippos sent another runner, in a month's time, asking for still more help?

Chrethon spat in the dirt. If that happened, maybe Leodippos would feel his wrath, after all.

He reared, forehooves churning the air, then whirled and trotted down the path to Sangelior. He hadn't taken more than twenty steps, though, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofbeats. He reached for his shortsword.

It was another runner, a mare. She stopped when she saw Chrethon, then bowed and hurried forward. Chrethon recognized her: He'd posted her at Grimbough's grove.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The mare bowed. "My lord, I apologize for intruding, but the tree asks for thee."

Chrethon caught his breath, then rammed his sword back into its scabbard. "Come with me," he bade, then turned and galloped east, toward the daemon tree's grove. The runner followed.

When they arrived, Grimbough was seething with rage. Its branches waved and rustled madly, and its thick trunk throbbed. Chrethon bowed before it. "What dost thou wish?"