Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

High above, a forked levin-bolt struck a rocky crag, blowing it apart. Chips of stone showered down. A blast of wind, channeled by the narrow pass, struck them head-on; Borlos cursed as it tore his cloak from his hands, sending it spinning off into the darkness. He started back after it, but Dezra caught his arm and shoved him forward. At last, ahead, the rocky walls of the pass came to an end. The companions stopped, staring in awe and terror.

The pass emerged atop a rocky slope that descended into a narrow, bowl-shaped valley. Trees, still in full leaf, carpeted the vale, undulating in the gusting wind like the ocean in a hurricane. In the midst of this shifting sea was a massive, black-leafed oak, whose mighty limbs spread high above the rest. It stood still, in the eye of the storm, emanating a sense of disquiet, of wrongness , that jangled the companions' spines. The muttering of leaves rose from it, audible through the fury of thunder and wind. It flooded their ears, clawed at their minds: the sound of madness, dark and sweet and seductive.

Borlos cleared his throat. "That had better be Grimbough," he declared. "Because if it isn't, I don't want to see the real thing."

"It is," Trephas said. His knuckles whitened as he clutched his spear. "And if the daemon tree is here, then Lord Chrethon cannot be far away."

"And the Forestmaster?" Caramon put in.

The centaur nodded. "If she yet lives."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Dezra demanded. Lifting her sword, she started down the slope, hailstones clattering all around her. The others hurried to catch up.

The forest was dark, the oaks looming close on all sides. The stormlight shone through in swiftly stabbing shafts, lighting the black trees in flashes that left blood-red stains floating before the companions' eyes. Trephas led the way, lance at the ready, while Dezra and Caramon walked behind. Borlos brought up the rear, glancing about with wild eyes.

"I feel something," he hissed as they wended among the trees, stepping over exposed roots and pushing aside drooping boughs. "Like something's in pain… ."

"The Forestmaster," Caramon breathed. He looked at Trephas, who nodded. "Chrethon hasn't killed her yet, then," he said. "We've still got time."

The going got harder, the trees growing thicker as they moved toward the middle of the vale. Again and again, they found the way ahead blocked, the oaks clumped too tightly to pass. They had to search for paths among the clustered trees, guided by the anguish that flowed from the grove's heart.

Branches creaked ominously in the wind. The leaves' muttering surrounded them. Then there was a new sound: a low, roaring whistle above them. Dezra had heard the sound before, in Pallidice's glade, and threw herself flat. "Look out!" she shouted.

The others stared at her, then looked up and saw branches swinging down, jagged leaves fluttering. Caramon got his shield up to block a stout bough; it struck with a resounding crash, knocking him to one knee. Trephas twisted away from a branch, and caught the twigs at its end across his backside. He grunted in pain-it was like being struck with a switch swung by an ogre-and lashed out with his broad-bladed lance, slashing off the end of the limb as it drew back up into the heights.

Borlos, however, was too surprised to get out of the way. A bough caught him across the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying. He hit the knotted trunk of an oak, his lyre making a horrendous clamor, then collapsed with a groan.

"What is this?" Caramon asked, bringing up his sword as more branches swept down. He slashed at them, steel slicing through wood. "Even the trees are against us!"

Dezra grimaced, rising into a crouch. As she did, a gnarled root burst from the earth and groped toward her. She recoiled, then brought her sword down, cleaving it in half. The stump twitched, weeping black ichor, then slid back into the ground.

Borlos stirred groggily, his head lolling. Roots burst through the earth around him: one coiled about his left ankle, another grabbed his right wrist, tightening painfully. Slowly, they began to twist and pull. He regained his senses with a start and struggled against their grasp. "Dez!" he yelped. "Big guy! Help me!"

Caramon got to him first, sword flashing; he hacked through one of the roots, then the other, then cut off yet another branch that lashed downward, toward his head. He held the blade high, watching for more attacks, as Dezra grabbed Borlos's arm and helped him rise. They turned toward Trephas. The centaur had put his lance back in his harness, and had drawn a shortsword to defend himself; he slashed high and low as more branches and roots assailed him.

"We've got to keep moving!" Dezra shouted, driving her own blade point-first into a snaking tendril. "Bor, can you run?"

The bard stood unsteadily, wincing with every breath. He ducked as a branch swept overhead-a leaf slapped his face, leaving a red mark-then started stumbling forward. "Guess I've got to, eh?" he said.

Together, they plunged deeper into the grove, the oaks stirring around them.

It was hard to extricate the Forestmaster from the brambles. The wicked thorns had dug deep into the unicorn's body, refusing to let go. Finally, though, Chrethon coaxed even the stubbornest brambles into releasing her, then seized her by the horn and hauled her wasted form out of the bushes.

He'd thought she might fight once she was free of the thicket, but she didn't. Enervated by pain and hunger, she no longer had the strength to struggle. He dragged her wasted body through the grove, to the sward where Grimbough stood. The daemon tree rumbled with pleasure as Chrethon threw the unicorn's bedraggled form to the grassy ground. Grimbough's leaves echoed its joy with a delighted hiss.

The daemon tree's gnarled trunk swelled, beating like a dark, mossy heart. Its branches writhed, twigs scratching together like old bones. Lightning flared above, lighting the grove as bright as day. Thunder shook the air.

Chrethon stood above the haggard, motionless unicorn, Soulsplitter in his hand. "Now, Grimbough!" he shouted. "Let me finish her!"

"Not yet," the tree rumbled. "I must be ready when you strike her down."

… down , murmured the leaves.

Chrethon seethed impatiently, but he waited nonetheless, staring hungrily at the wasted unicorn.

The earth around the Forestmaster tore open. Thick, fibrous roots rose from the ground. They waved in the air, then reached toward the unicorn and wrapped about her legs and neck. They held her tight, pulling her down so she lay flat against the damp, fetid ground. Finally, all fell still. Grimbough stopped moving, save for the slow pulse of its trunk. Low and growling, it spoke.

"It is time."

… time …

Chrethon smiled, hefting Soulsplitter in both hands. "Close thy eyes, lady," he murmured. "I will be swift."

But she didn't close her eyes; instead, she looked directly at him. In her liquid gaze, Lord Chrethon saw many things: disappointment, defiance, regret. Mostly, though, there was profound sorrow.

With a victorious shout, he brought the axe down.

The crash was deafening. Soulsplitter buried itself in the earth. Chrethon let go of the weapon and stepped back, laughing triumphantly.

His laughter died quickly. The horn remained attached to the Forestmaster's head.

"What?" he cried, aghast.

At first he thought he'd missed, but he realized that wasn't so: the axe had struck the horn full on, then glanced off and cleaved through the wet soil. His eyes narrowed as he peered at the horn… then he saw something, and his spirits rose anew.

It was a tiny mark, almost invisible, but it was there, white against the gleaming silver of the horn.

Laughing softly, he prized Soulsplitter from the ground and raised it again. "It seems, my lady," he said, "that this will not be so swift after all."