Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

Chrethon hesitated, uncertain, then sneered. "I remember now why I had thee muzzled. Keep thy honeyed words, my lady. I shall be avenged."

"This is folly," the unicorn said. "Grimbough is using you. Why can you not see it? Chaos cares for no one, Chrethon. When it no longer needs you, it will consign you to oblivion, and not shed a single tear."

But Chrethon was no longer listening. He cocked his head, glancing toward the clearing's edge. His eyes narrowed, seeking. Then lightning flashed, illuminating the whole grove as bright as day, and he saw. Hurach stood at the grove's edge, dark as night even in the levin-bolt's flare. In his hand was Soulsplitter.

Chrethon's mouth fell open. Wordlessly, he strode toward the goat-man. Hurach came forward and bowed. "My lord," he murmured, proffering the axe.

A jolt of energy ran through Chrethon as his fingers grasped Soulsplitter's haft. He turned to leer mockingly at the Forestmaster, raising the axe above his head.

She didn't see him: her eyes were shut in despair.

Scowling, Chrethon turned back to Hurach. "Thou hast done a great thing today," he said. "When this is over, I shall reward thee. But now, there is one more task I ask of thee."

The satyr bowed his head. "Anything, lord."

"Go, then," Chrethon said. "Trephas and the humans approach the vale even now. If the guards fail to stop them, thou must see to it."

"Of course, lord," Hurach said. "It shall be done." He vanished into the shadows once more.

Grinning, Chrethon turned back to the Forestmaster. Tears streamed down the unicorn's face as he approached her, axe in hand. Roughly, he reached into the thicket and seized her horn.

"Now, my lady," he said. "Farewell."

"No!" boomed a rumbling voice. "Not like this."

… this , came the whispering echo.

Chrethon froze, tensing. He glanced back toward Grimbough. Above the treetops, he saw its limbs claw at the storm-wracked sky.

"What-" he began.

"Not like this," the daemon tree repeated. "If I am to claim this land, I must slake myself upon her life's blood."

… blood …

Chrethon thought for a moment to protest, then relented. It would take time to free the unicorn from the brambles, but what was another hour, when he'd waited ten years for this moment?

"Very well," he murmured. Letting go of the Forestmaster's horn, he began to part the thornbushes.

Gyrtomon was staring east, at the seething, black clouds that had appeared above the forest, when one of the warriors by the riverside skirled. Listening, he heard a distant, ominous rumbling. There was no mistaking it: thousands of hooves, pounding the earth. Leodippos and his horde were near.

Up and down the slope, archers raised their weapons. Gyrtomon followed suit, plucking an arrow from his quiver and fitting it on his bowstring. He glanced at his father, who stood beside him on his vantage overlooking the river. Nemeredes nodded. Together, they pulled back their strings and waited while the hoofbeats thundered closer.

The din of the approaching horde grew so loud that yellow-brown leaves began to rain down from the rowan trees. Finally, when it seemed it might go on forever, the first of the Skorenoi appeared on the far side of the ford. The vanguard was composed mainly of fast, long-legged runners, but there were stouter creatures among them as well. They slowed their pace, pulling up as they neared the water and squinting into the ruddy sunlight. Some threw up their arms, fighting to see.

"Hold," Gyrtomon murmured through clenched teeth. If any of the centaurs shot before he gave the signal, the ambush would fail. The horsefolk knew that, but there was always the chance someone would fire early, out of eagerness or fear. "Hold… ."

The Skorenoi bunched at the ford's edge, shying back from the river-first one hundred, then two, then five. For a moment, Gyrtomon wondered if they'd smelled the trap, but angry shouts and curses arose within the horde, and he knew the runners had stopped simply because they were leery of the water.

Nearly a thousand Skorenoi gathered at the riverbank now. The temptation to fire into their midst was almost overwhelming, but somehow the horsefolk held back. Finally, pressure from behind pushed the first runners into the water. They plunged in, splashing, and the raging current nearly carried them away as they fought for balance on the pebbly riverbed. They squalled in fear, and on the far bank their comrades laughed. A few chuckles arose among the centaurs too, but the commotion among the Skorenoi was such that none of them heard.

"Hold," Gyrtomon breathed, his heart thundering.

More and more Skorenoi stepped into the river and began the slow, struggling journey across. The crowd on the far bank continued to thicken as more of the twisted creatures came out of the woods. Gyrtomon searched the throng for Leodippos, hoping he would be a target when the killing began, but didn't see him. He was keeping to the rear of the horde.

The first of the foe were nearly across now. The mightier warriors had overtaken the runners, and would be on land again in moments. Behind them, the water was packed with Skorenoi. Gyrtomon held his breath, waiting-and finally, the moment came.

"Loose!" he cried.

As one, more than a thousand bowstrings thrummed. Hundreds of arrows arced skyward, punching through the foliage and soaring toward the river. The Skorenoi stopped, recognizing the sound, and stared up in shock. An eerie silence fell as the shafts hung in midair.

Then they came down, straight into the Skorenoi's midst, and the screaming began.

Arrows tore through flesh, shattered against bone, blew apart as their victims died. Bodies fell like reaped grain, vanishing beneath the water. Shouts of pain and terror filled the air. The centaurs answered with furious war cries, firing again and again.

Panic killed as many of the Skorenoi as did the arrows. Shocked by the sudden attack, they wheeled, trying to flee. But there was nowhere to go-their fellows kept gathering on the far bank, blocking their escape. They fell over one another, stumbling over the bodies of the slain. The larger creatures shoved their smaller kin aside, or tried to clear a path with their clubs and lances. They smashed and gored those who got in their way, destroying their weapons as their victims fell. Some trampled their fellow's, and fell, screaming, as the their legs shattered. Dozens drowned.

While that was going on, the centaurs kept firing. Bodies tumbled, sprawling on the far bank and splashing in the water. The river reddened, ribbons of scarlet snaking downstream. The stones grew slick with blood, making it even harder for the Skorenoi to escape the river. The archers picked off anyone who looked as if he might escape the bloodbath.

It couldn't last forever, though; at last, after long minutes of slaughter, the enemy broke and fled, shouting, back into the woods. The centaurs shot at them as they ran, but most of the Skorenoi escaped.

Then all was still. Bodies lay in tangled heaps all along the far riverbank-hundreds of them, most dead but a few moaning and trying, vainly, to crawl to safety. The river, choked with carcasses, began to overflow its banks. Dead Skorenoi floated downstream, snarling on rocks or vanishing into the pink, foaming rapids.

All along the slope, the centaurs let out victorious whoops. Gyrtomon let them enjoy the moment, then called for silence. Quickly, the horsefolk fell still.

"Is there a count?" called Eucleia from across the slope. "How many did we slay?"

Gyrtomon didn't answer; he was scanning the carnage even now, trying to guess how many Skorenoi lay dead.

Before he could figure it out, however, another voice called out-Arhedion, from halfway down the hillside. "Two thousand, or about!" he cried. "It's a slaughter!"