Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

There were obstacles, too. The dirt was rife with huge boulders that blocked their way. Elsewhere, the soil grew soft and wet, and they had to turn aside to keep from sinking into the mire. In still other places, the earth turned dry, veined with cracks that hissed brown, noxious mist. It stung their eyes and burned their throats. Through it all, a chorus of mad voices chittered around them, as the leaves had muttered aboveground.

"It's getting worse," Borlos murmured. "We must be close."

Pallidice nodded, parting the earth with her withered hands. "Aye," she rasped. "The daemon tree's power is strong here-I can feel it in the soil, working against me. I can resist it now," she added, seeing the companions' brows knit in concern, "but I don't know how much longer I can go on. The time will come when I must find a tree through which you can leave this place, and you'll have to go on above."

On they went, twisting and turning. The tunnel turned steadily more treacherous. The insects on the floor bit and stung, and some of the bulges in the walls held not eyes but mouths full of sharp, snapping teeth. The oozing tendrils whipped at their faces, trying to blind them. Pallidice's breath came quick and hard, and she stumbled every few steps. Still she insisted, over the companions' objections, that she could go on.

Finally, she collapsed from the strain, falling against the tunnel wall, where the snapping, hungry teeth nipped at her bare skin, drawing blood. With a groan, she dropped to her hands and knees.

"Pallidice!" Borlos cried, hurrying toward her.

Insects started crawling over the dryad's body almost immediately, climbing on each other as they sought a patch of flesh to feast upon. She moaned, and the tunnel began to shudder. Clots of earth fell from the ceiling. At either end, the passage began to close.

"Rouse her, quickly!" Trephas called from the rear of the party. "We'll be buried alive!"

Dezra got to the dryad's side first. She knelt down beside Pallidice, ignoring the crackling of insects beneath her, and rolled the dryad over. Pallidice trembled at her touch, her eyelids fluttering. Dezra slapped her face.

"Come on," she growled, glancing around as the walls began to slide. She struck the dryad again. "Wake up, damn you. Don't you dare let this tunnel collapse."

Borlos crouched down, shoving her out of the way. He bent over the dryad and brushed the dirt from her haggard face. Then, tenderly, he leaned over and pressed his lips against hers. At first nothing happened, but finally Pallidice's eyes opened. She stared blearily at the bard, then returned the kiss, threading her arms about his neck.

Borlos pulled away. "No," he told her. "This isn't the time, and it sure as Shinare isn't the place. Let's get you up."

With Dezra's help, he got the dryad to her feet. She pressed her hands against the earth, squeezing her eyes shut; after a moment, the tunnel stopped shuddering.

"I think," Caramon said solemnly, standing ankle-deep in loose soil, "it's time to go back to the surface."

No one argued.

Searching, Pallidice found a suitable oak, and opened the tree to form an exit. One by one, she carried the companions out, back into Darken Wood. They blinked in the light-most of the trees around them were bare, letting the sun's rays through to touch earth that had been shrouded in shadow since the world was young.

"I know this place," Trephas said. The terrain was uneven and rocky, covered with trees that were either dried-out husks or swollen with rot. Brown haze clung to the blighted earth. "We're close to Sangelior-three leagues, perhaps."

"Would that I could take you farther," Pallidice said, shaking her head.

"No," Caramon said. "You've done all you could. We'll make the rest of the journey on foot."

"Do we have time for that?" Dezra asked, glancing up at the sky. It was early afternoon: they'd been traveling under the earth for more then half a day. "Can we get to Sangelior before the satyr?"

"We'd better," Borlos said.

Trephas slid an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. He turned to face the dryad. "My thanks for thy help, Pallidice."

She smiled weakly, then turned to Borlos and took his hand. "Farewell, my love. I pray to Branchala we'll meet again."

The bard raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he let her go, and she turned back to the oak. She stepped inside, and was gone.

Borlos stared at the tree for a moment, then bowed his head, sighing. Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We've got a long way left to go."

Borlos nodded. "Sure, big guy," he said. "Lead on, Trephas."

Sangelior was nearly deserted. Most of the remaining Skorenoi had ridden west, to join Leodippos's horde. The town was almost wholly dark, its tents and huts standing empty.

The companions hid in a copse of dead birches, whose papery bark fluttered in the chill wind. They kept their weapons stowed, not wanting an errant gleam of afternoon sunlight on metal to give them away.

Trephas tapped his arrow against his bow as his eyes scoured Sangelior's scattered hovels. "From what I know of this place, Grimbough's vale is on the far side of the town," he said.

"We'd better go around the long way," Caramon whispered. He was ashen-faced and breathing hard. They'd jogged most of the way from where Pallidice had left them. "There's still enough Skorenoi about to make life hard if we're seen."

They were just starting to rise and creep away when Dezra raised her hand. "Wait," she whispered, pointing.

They froze. Fifty paces away was a clump of leafless blackthorn shrubs, heavy with wrinkled fruit. The companions stared, seeing nothing at first. Then the bushes' shadows shifted, their thorny branches rattling.

"Something's there," Borlos murmured. He rested his hand on his mace. "What is it?"

Caramon shook his head, squinting. "I can't make it out. It's too dark."

Abruptly, the shadows swelled, and the blackthorns parted. A black, misshapen figure, with one horn and shaggy goat's legs, emerged from the darkness. In its hand, a familiar, double-bladed axe glistened, reflecting the rays of the westering sun.

"Oh, damn," Dezra gasped.

Trephas moved swiftly, raising his bow and pulling back its string. He sighted down his arrow, training its broad, steel head on the shadowy goat-man. Biting his lip, he loosed his shot.

The arrow soared through the air, lightning-quick-and struck the bushes a hand's breadth from the satyr.

The noise startled the goat-man. With a glance at the companions, he whirled and dashed away, as quick as his hooves could move.

Caramon fumbled with his own bow, bringing it up, then cursed and lowered it again: Hurach was out of range.

Trephas stared at the bushes, uncomprehending. His ruddy face had turned ashen. He dropped his bow and clutched at his mane, shuddering. A low sob escaped his lips. "I missed," he moaned. "Missed! We've come so far… ." He bowed his head, his body going limp.

"No, you don't," Dezra said, grabbing his shoulders. "Pull yourself together. We still need you."

He raised his eyes, blinking tears of frustration. "You're right," he said. "We must go on, hope for another chance. Better to die trying than quit and live, eh?"

Dezra made a sour face. "Well, I really hope there's a third choice." She rose to her feet. "All right, let's get going. One way or another, we have to finish this."

Caramon and Borlos looked at her in surprise. Ignoring them, she turned and ran, keeping within the tree line, out of sight of Sangelior. Trephas followed. Borlos and Caramon came last, glancing warily at the town as they made their way along the fringe of the wasted forest.

Gyrtomon stood on the riverbank, his face grave, trying to think like the enemy. The Skorenoi would come this way. The stream before him could only be forded here. For miles either way, it was a foaming torrent, tumbling over sharp rocks. Even here it flowed swift and deep, reaching up to the thighs of any centaur who waded through. Leodippos's horde would need to slow its pace to cross. There was no better place to fight them.