Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

Satisfied, he turned to survey his army. The centaurs of Lysandon were dressed for battle, wearing leather harnesses studded with bronze and iron, their long manes tied so a foe couldn't grab them. They gripped bows and cudgels, lances and scythes. Many had daubed their coats with slashes and whorls of red, green and white war paint. Their faces, some painted with chalk and woad, were set into fierce expressions. They were ready to die here, if it came to that.

Gyrtomon hoped it would do. The centaurs had sent forth everyone who could lift a bow, from colts and fillies who wouldn't come of age for years yet to veterans even older than his father. Even so, they numbered only two thousand- only a third as many as Leodippos's horde. Surprise and the river would help even the odds, but still… .

He shook his head. Such doubts were the last thing he needed. His gaze drifted to the warriors nearest him. In their midst, beneath their colorful standards, stood the Circle.

Eucleia turned toward him, her woad-painted face solemn. "Is there any word from Arhedion yet?"

Gyrtomon shook his head. He'd dispatched the scout and his warriors an hour ago, sending them ahead to watch for the Skorenoi. They hadn't returned yet, for which Gyrtomon was glad. The longer the enemy took, the lower the sun would be in the sky, and the more the glare would blind them. He'd take any advantage he could get.

Eucleia grunted, jabbing her lance at the ground. "That's good," she said. "Even so, though, we should start to place our warriors. I'd rather we were ready before time than unprepared when the foe arrived."

Gyrtomon glanced around, surveying the terrain. On their side of the river, the ground sloped up, covered with pines and rowans. Rocky outcroppings, spotted with lichen, stood here and there. Between the trees and the boulders, there was plenty of cover to conceal his warriors.

"Very well," he said. "Be sure the archers have a clear shot at the river and plenty of arrows."

The chiefs nodded, then trotted away to give their orders to their warriors. Gyrtomon stayed put, chewing olives and watching the centaurs take their places on the slope, hidden among the trees and rocks. The concealment wasn't perfect-here and there he could see a shadow move, or the glint of a lance or arrowhead. It was good enough, though. He could spot them because he knew they were there, but Leodippos wouldn't expect to find a fight so far from Lysandon. The ruse would be good enough to fool him into starting his army across the river. Gyrtomon prayed to Chislev that it would be enough.

Time passed, the sun casting long shadows down the hillside. Archers fingered their bowstrings, watching the far side of the river. Some of the horsefolk chanted softly in their liquid tongue, asking Chislev and the spirits of their ancestors for strength and courage. Gyrtomon strode along the slope, watching the river.

Twice he heard a strange, fluttering noise. He was far from alone, too: when he asked, many of the other centaurs admitted they'd heard the sound as well. He became convinced it was no mere trick of the wind. But what, then?

While he was wondering, a loud skirl, as of a hawk, sounded from the riverbank. He whirled to stare downhill, his hand reaching toward his quiver. The screech was a signal; the warriors closest to the ford had heard someone approaching. Soon another sound rose, so all the waiting centaurs could hear: hoofbeats, moving swiftly toward them.

All over the hillside, wood and sinew creaked as archers drew back their bowstrings. After a moment, though, Gyrtomon trilled a loud, descending whistle, and the horsefolk relaxed again. It wasn't the Skorenoi coming: the hooves were too few, moving too fast.

A few moments later, Arhedion cantered into view, leading his scouts. Giving another whistle to tell the archers to hold their fire, Gyrtomon broke from cover and ran down the hill. He stopped on the riverbank, waiting while the scouts made their way through the cold, deep water, then offered Arhedion a hand. The scout took it, and emerged, dripping.

"What news?" Gyrtomon asked as the other scouts stepped onto the bank. "Leodippos?"

Arhedion nodded, his single braid bobbing, and waved a painted arm behind him. "They're coming," he replied. "About a league off, not very quickly. An hour, maybe."

Gyrtomon smiled. "Excellent," he said. "Did they see thee?"

The scout shook his head, grinning. "We were stealthy as the wind. I heard them talking about attacking Lysandon tonight. They don't suspect a thing."

Gyrtomon smiled. He had every advantage he could ask for. He clapped Arhedion on the arm. "Well done. Go get some food, then find thy place."

The scout bowed again, then led his warriors up the slope. Gyrtomon turned to follow, then stopped, cocking an ear. The fluttering sound had returned again. He glanced about, but saw nothing. Then it was gone.

Scowling, he shook his head and started uphill.

The storm grew over Grimbough's vale with astonishing speed. One moment, the sky was clear, dotted with wispy clouds that glowed golden with the coming sunset. The next, black thunderheads boiled above, flashing wildly as lightning played within. They didn't move as clouds should, but in random directions, colliding and breaking apart, speeding up and slowing down, churning like mud in water. Thunder roared, and the wind screamed. Rain and hail slashed the air, battering the trees without mercy. Amid it all the daemon tree loomed, writhing. Its trunk pulsed hungrily, its squirming roots churning the earth.

Lord Chrethon gazed at Grimbough in exultation. The tree had called him to the grove nearly two days ago, telling him the glorious news: Hurach was returning to Sangelior bearing the axe. Leodippos was also marching on the Circle's stronghold, but that paled beside the knowledge that soon Soulsplitter would be in his hands.

"It is coming," the tree's voice rumbled. "Soon it will be in the vale."

… vale, hissed its black, rotting leaves.

Chrethon laughed, turning his face up into the driving rain. After a moment, though, worry creased his face. "And the humans? Nemeredes's son?"

"They come also," Grimbough replied. "I have not been able to stop them. But it matters little-even if they get past your guards, they will be too late."

… late …

Chrethon's grin returned. Grimbough had warned him Trephas and the humans were coming, through the dryads' secret ways. He'd ordered guards placed at the mouth of the vale. Half a dozen Skorenoi now stood watch, with orders to kill anyone but the satyr.

Content, he turned away from the daemon tree and cantered through the tangled forest, coming to a halt before the thicket where the Forestmaster lay. Trembling, he strode to the brambles and thrust his hand into their midst. They recoiled, pulling back from the unicorn's face. A thrill ran through him when he saw the fear in the Forestmaster's eyes.

"Thy end is at hand, my lady," he murmured, running his fingers down her ivory horn, relishing her anguish.

On an impulse/he reached down and unclasped the muzzle that covered the unicorn's mouth. It fell away, revealing angry sores where it had chafed her flesh. The Forestmaster drew a ragged breath, her flanks shuddering.

"And when I am dead?" she asked. The words came slow and thick. "What will you have gained?"

"Revenge." Chrethon's black eyes gleamed. "Ten years ago, thou stripped me of all I was. And all because I chose to fight evil!"

"Against Chislev's wishes."

"Chislev!" he scoffed, laughing. "And where is she now? Fled the world, like the coward she is!"

Weakly, the unicorn shook her head. "Chislev left the world to save us, just as she bade us not fight the Knights for the greater good. She didn't want the world to fall to Chaos." She regarded Chrethon sadly. "Your thirst for vengeance has driven you to embrace the very thing she meant to fight, that seeks to destroy all you once held dear. I weep for you, Chrethon."