Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

Dezra was at Caramon's side, holding his sword. "Thanks," he said, taking it from her.

"You're not as young as you used to be," she said, grinning crookedly.

Then she turned and walked away, toward the pass. Trephas and Borlos joined her, the bard picking up one of the Skorenoi's cudgels as they went.

Caramon hesitated, sheathing his sword, and winced at an unpleasant twinge in his shoulder. He rubbed his arm, willing the pain to go away, as he followed the others.

The sun set. Night fell over the mountains, and the Skorenoi horde tried to ford the river again.

At a shouted command from Gyrtomon, the centaurs fired on them once more, peppering them with arrows. Leodippos's warriors tumbled in heaps and splashed in the water. Killing shafts exploded, filling the air with splinters. But this time the Skorenoi didn't rout; instead, their own archers shot back, across the stream. One the other side, centaurs began to fall, killed or wounded by the bombardment.

Leodippos laughed cruelly. He'd cursed both his warriors and himself for not expecting the ambush. It had been a terrible blow, but he'd known, just like Gyrtomon on the river's far side, that he had the upper hand now.

He could already taste victory as his warriors waded across the ford. The return fire threw the centaurs into disarray. They scattered among the trees to avoid being shot. With fewer arrows in the air, the horde's advance became inexorable. Though the river slowed them, and those in the vanguard continued to fall, the Skorenoi pressed forward, toward the far bank. Soon they'd be back on solid ground, free to ride up the slope and slaughter the foe.

The horsefolk did all they could to keep that from happening. Gyrtomon barked an order, and the centaurs galloped downhill to the stream, brandishing lances and cudgels. They fell into line along the riverbank, hoping to keep the horde in the water.

Leodippos could see clearly that the horsefolk lacked the numbers to hold him back. He saw figures he recognized- Gyrtomon and Nemeredes here, Eucleia there, Pleuron elsewhere-and smiled. Before the sun rose, he'd wear all their tails on his harness.

"For the Forestmaster!" shouted Gyrtomon as he galloped down to join his warriors.

The centaurs echoed the cry, raising a thicket of clubs and spears. Shouting in reply, the Skorenoi surged to meet them. With a crash of metal and wood, flesh and bone, the two armies met.

Bodies fell on either side, gored by spears and crushed by bludgeons. Behind Gyrtomon's lines, colts and fillies dashed back and forth, passing fresh weapons to those who lost theirs. The battlefront didn't move. Valiantly, the centaurs held back the Skorenoi, kept them in the surging, frigid water.

But it couldn't last. For each of Leodippos's troops who fell, another came forward to take its place, with even more behind, filling the river and massing on the far bank. The centaurs, however, had no such reinforcements-and, in time, they would run out of weapons too. Their ranks began to falter before the press of the enemy. If the Skorenoi broke through, the battle horsefolk would be lost-and, unlike Ithax, there would be no escape.

Leodippos stood on the riverbank now, his warriors surging past him into the water. He raised his horselike head, shouting across the ford. "It's over, my lords!" he bellowed. "Nothing can save thee now!"

He heard something strange, then: a low, fluttering sound. He looked around, puzzled. The noise was all around him, but there was nothing to see in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, there was. Overhead, hovering on silvery wings, were hundreds of small, brightly garbed figures. Each held a tiny bow, with a tiny arrow on its string. They were smiling.

With a yell, Leodippos leapt into the river. As he jumped, the air filled with music, like hundreds of harpstrings being plucked at once. Then he hit the water hard, losing his lance as he fell among his warriors. The press of bodies forced him under. He thrashed wildly, kicking with all four hooves as the current swept him downstream.

At last, his head broke the surface. Choking, he fought to get his feet under him, then got his bearings. He was a hundred paces from his warriors. The battle continued, but its tenor had changed. The Skorenoi were looking back now, shouting in terror.

He turned, gazing across the river, and froze. The bank where he'd been standing was littered with bodies. Hundreds of Skorenoi lay dead, fallen where they'd stood. Above, silver wings glinting with reflected starlight, hovered hundreds of sprites. As he watched, they fired a second volley from their little bows, which sang like harps as the shafts flew. Another wave of his warriors toppled, succumbing to the arrows' strong poison.

As he stared in disbelief, the sprites laid waste to the rear ranks of his horde. His warriors jostled and shouted, swiping at the air with their weapons, but the winged folk only laughed, hovering out of reach as they loosed shot after envenomed shot upon the horde.

Soon not a single Skorenos remained alive on the riverbank. Slowly, the sprites started flying across the river, working their way forward through the horde's ranks, leaving only corpses in their wake.

It was over. Years of capturing centaurs so Grimbough could warp them, of victory upon victory over the horsefolk-it was all coming to an end. Watching the sprites slaughter his warriors, Leodippos knew he was doomed. The centaurs, who only moments ago had been on the verge of ignominious defeat, would prevail.

He resolved, then, that he wasn't going to die by the sprites' arrows. If he fell, he'd do it fighting the enemy, as it should be.

He turned away from the deadly, winged swarm-they were a quarter of the way across the river already-and looked to the far bank, where the battle raged on. His eyes scoured the riverbank, and soon found one of the Circle, near the end of the enemy's lines. It was old Nemeredes: sword in hand, bellowing at his warriors. Gyrtomon stood nearby.

Sneering, Leodippos searched the water, finding a cudgel to replace his lost lance. Quietly, he moved toward the riverbank.

Arhedion's painted face, now wet with Skorenoi blood, tightened into a grimace as an enemy lance pierced his shoulder. Pain shot up and down his arm, and he lashed out with both forehooves. Fortunately, the wild double-kick broke his opponent's arm instead of killing him: Arhedion had seen more than one centaur collapse, his legs smashed by the magic that destroyed whatever weapon slew one of the Skorenoi.

His foe staggered, clutching his useless arm, and Arhedion thrust his spear into the creature's face. He let go of the lance, and it erupted into splinters, sending the Skorenos splashing lifelessly into the river. The water, already pink with blood, turned scarlet where he fell.

Arhedion pulled back from the battlefront as another Skorenos came forward to fill the gap in the enemy's ranks. "Weapon!" he shouted, looking behind him.

A young, black filly ran to him, a bundle of spears and cudgels across her back. She drew a lance from the bundle and tossed it before cantering onward, answering more calls down the line. Arhedion caught the lance, then turned back to the battle, searching for a gap in the horsefolk's defenses. He soon found one: near the end of the line, not far from where Gyrtomon and Nemeredes were overseeing the fight, the line was beginning to falter. As he watched, a Skorenos used a scythe to cut a centaur's forelegs out from underneath him, then swept the weapon up, gutting the horse-man as he fell.

With a fierce yell, Arhedion galloped toward the scythe-wielder, recklessly shouldering his way into the ranks. He blocked the scythe with his lance, then spun the spear expertly, cracking its shaft against the scythe-wielder's neck. The Skorenos rocked sideways, knocked off-balance, and the white stallion to Arhedion's right smashed its skull with his club, then flung the weapon away. The cudgel tore itself to shreds as it flew through the air.