Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

"Hoy!" he bellowed gleefully and spun her away, into the milling crowd.

Dezra spent much of the next hour being whirled about by various young stallions. It made her uncomfortable, at first, to be manhandled so, but soon she was laughing wildly as the centaurs passed her back and forth. Finally, though, she ran out of breath. Exhausted, she shouted for them to put her down. They complied, then bounded away to cavort elsewhere. Before he left her Arhedion bent down and kissed her on the lips.

She stumbled dizzily across the Yard, the crowd spinning around her. She got her hands on another wine-flask and downed it as she wended among the merry-makers.

In time, she realized she was looking for Trephas, and began to call his name. A young, brown mare, whose black mane spilled down over her withers, waved her over. The mare tossed her head, then gestured past the far side of the Yard, into the darkness. Nodding, Dezra went that way, through the milling crowd.

She found him standing in the shadows, beneath a rustling aspen. He smiled as she approached, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. "It took you long enough," he said.

Dezra stopped short, scowling. "Really," she said sourly. "And you were sure I'd come."

"Of course. You're here, aren't you?"

Dezra shrugged. "So are you. And you just called me 'you' again."

"So I did." Trephas's cocksure grin turned sheepish. She favored him with a crooked smirk of her own. He blew out his lips, then shook his head, his mane flying. "I could tell you it's because I owe you my life."

"You could," she said. "Of course, you'd be lying."

He nodded slowly. "So… ."

"So."

He looked at her, his dark eyes wistful. "Dezra, this isn't simple. My people and yours… we're not made for each other, if you understand. And besides, my father wouldn't allow it."

"You think mine would?" she replied, laughing.

He nodded sadly. "No," he said. He fell silent, looking away-then, impulsively, took her hands in his. He bent down, his head angling toward hers; she let him. Their lips crushed together, their bodies pressed close, hands grasping and searching.

Neither of them saw nor heard the dark, goat-legged shape that stole toward them, through the shadows.

Hurach hesitated, his hand straying toward his knife. Dezra and Trephas were too preoccupied to notice him. He could kill them both before they knew he was there, but stayed his hand. If the bodies were found before he finished his task, there would be trouble. Better to let them live. He moved silently onward.

With a hunting hound's determination, he'd followed Trephas and his companions into the mountains. True to his suspicions, they'd led him straight to this place. He'd snuck into the village in the companions' wake, then crouched in the shadows beyond the Yard of Gathering while Trephas gave the axe to the Circle. Hurach had watched as Eucleia handed Soulsplitter to her sons, then had hidden in the darkness for several hours, giving the horsefolk time to get drunk on resin-wine. Now, at last, with dark clouds gliding past the gibbous moon, he darted north out of Lysandon, his cloven hooves whispering in the grass.

It didn't take him long to pick out the cave where Peldarin's axe lay. The centaurs hadn't been foolish enough to light any torches, but that made little difference. Hurach could see in darkness as well as in full light. Scanning the steep slope at the vale's edge, he soon found what he sought: the dark shapes of two stallions, standing in the shadowed mouth of one of the cliff's many caverns. Phenestis and Xaor stared in the night, bows in hand, spears within easy reach.

He climbed the slope, at one with the night. His hooves moved from foothold to foothold with uncanny silence and speed. In only a few minutes he clung, still unseen, to the rock beside the cave mouth. Pressed flat against the stone, he slunk past the centaurs, into the cavern.

His eyes fell upon Soulsplitter. The urge to run to it was almost overwhelming. He had to force himself to move slowly, glancing furtively over his shoulder. It wouldn't do to become careless now. He edged toward the axe, lips pulled back in a snarl. He reached out, fingers trembling, lifted the axe, and turned. The gray stallions still hadn't noticed him.

He killed Xaor with a single blow, stealing up behind him and burying Soulsplitter deep in his back. The centaur's body crumpled, and he jerked the axe free, whirling to face the other guard.

Phenestis stared at his brother's corpse for a heartbeat, then started to raise his bow. As the arrow came up, Hurach swung Soulsplitter a second time, shearing off the bow's upper end. Phenestis stumbled back, dropping his ruined weapon and gaping. The axe lashed out again, opening his throat. His eyes dimmed, and he fell across his brother's body.

Hurach tarried only a moment beside the dead horse-men, to catch his breath. Then, quick and quiet, he bolted back down the slope into the darkness, the bloody axe in his hand.

Caramon woke suddenly, in the early light of dawn, to blazing pain. He ground his teeth together, trying to sit up. The agony was too excruciating. It felt like a flaming arrow was lodged in his shoulder-the same sensation he'd felt after the battle at Ithax, and earlier at the Darkwater. It was stronger now, stealing his breath and making black dots whirl before his eyes.

He knew, now, that it was his heart-he'd had his doubts before, but there was no mistaking how the pain rose and fell in rhythm with his lifebeat. The same thing had killed old Flint Fireforge, forty years ago. Was it going to take him too? He thought of Tika and Laura, Palin and his grandchildren- could he leave them behind? Then he remembered Flint and Sturm, Tanis and Riverwind, and all the friends who'd died before him. He thought of his sons. It would be good to see them. And maybe… maybe Raistlin would come, from wherever he was, and visit him too.

Yes, he thought as he lay upon his bed of rushes, staring at the roof of the tent the centaurs had given him. Maybe it is time… .

But it wasn't. After a while, the pain ebbed, the fist that had clenched within his ribs loosening its grip. When he drew breath, there was only a dull ache. He blew a long sigh through his lips, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

The sunlight that streamed through the tent-flap was too bright to go back to sleep. Scratching his balding pate, he sat up and glanced at the other beds the horsefolk had laid out. Borlos lay sprawled on one of them, his arm flung across his eyes, mouth hanging open. The bard had enjoyed a great deal of resin-wine at the festivities: Caramon had had to carry him back to their tent. That was probably what had set his heart off this time, he decided.

The other bed was empty. The rushes were undisturbed, the blanket still folded. Dezra hadn't slept in the tent last night. But if not here, where? He was scowling, an idea forming in his head, when the flap opened, and his daughter ducked in.

She started in surprise when she saw him, then flushed. "You're up early," she said, not meeting his gaze. "Are you well? You look pale."

"I'm fine," he said. "You were out late."

He picked up her worn pouch and handed it to her. As she reached for it, though, he saw something dark on her wrist. He caught her arm and pushed back her sleeve. In the morning light he saw what he'd spotted: a blue tattoo. It was a knotwork pattern, encircling her wrist.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She snatched her arm back. "None of your business," she snapped. "But if you must know, it's a warrior's mark. Arhedion and his men gave it to me. I ran into them after-after the dance," she finished awkwardly, turning away.

Caramon scowled. "So you must be ready to leave this place. Which way are you going?"