Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

Chuckling, Caramon shouldered the axe and turned toward Grimbough. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then started forward.

In that moment, the daemon tree's furious muttering found a focus. Its rage struck at him, an almost physical force that clawed at his mind with talons of hate. With an effort of will, Caramon forced himself to ignore it. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other as he strode toward the oak's pulsing, gnarled trunk.

The tree lashed out at him with a mighty branch as he approached. He swung the axe to meet it. Soulsplitter sliced through six inches of hardwood as if it wasn't there, and then half of the branch was on the ground, oozing dark sap. Grimbough tried again and again, boughs swinging down and roots rising from the moist earth, but every time Soulsplitter was there to block the tree's attacks. Caramon kept coming, leaving a trail of broken, black wood in his wake. Grimbough's rage continued to flood his mind, but there was something else now, quaking beneath the anger.

The daemon tree was afraid.

He stopped at the foot of the oak, staring at its trunk in awe. Its girth was greater than any tree he'd ever seen, save the vallenwoods of Solace. It would have daunted even the most skilled woodcutter.

But no woodcutter had ever used an axe like the one he held.

He shrugged off his shield, tossing it on the ground. Then, gripping Soulsplitter in both hands, he touched the weapon's blade to Grimbough's trunk. The axe's blade parted the oak's tough bark like water and notched the wood beneath. Rancid sap seeped from the cut. Grimbough let out a terrified, creaking moan. Gritting his teeth, Caramon braced his feet, brought the axe back, and swung.

The axe struck, biting deep. A booming roar, so loud it made Caramon's ears buzz, rang out across the vale. High above, branches convulsed with agony. Sap coursed, steaming, from the gash in Grimbough's trunk.

Caramon wrenched Soulsplitter free, then brought it back and struck again. The tree howled louder.

So it went, slow but steady. Chips of dark wood flew, and the earth grew sodden with ichor. Caramon chopped again and again, not stopping to rest as he drove Soulsplitter's twin-bladed head ever deeper. His breath came hard and shallow, and his arms and back burned, but he ignored everything, focusing solely on axe and wood.

Then, after how long he didn't know, a new sound joined the tree's screams: the groan of straining wood. He was almost halfway through the trunk now, and what remained could no longer bear the tree's weight. Grimbough crackled and popped, split and splintered. Smiling with satisfaction, Caramon raised the axe for the final blow.

The pain hit him then, a burning spear that ripped through his chest and sent fire lancing up his neck and down his arm. It hammered him to his knees, and Soulsplitter dropped from his hand as, groaning, he fell on his side. He rolled onto his back, clutching at his breastplate with fingers bent like claws.

Above him, the daemon tree shuddered-but it did not fall.

"Father!" Dezra cried from across the sward, her voice breaking. He heard feet running toward him.

Weakly, he turned his head. His daughter flung herself down beside him, grabbing his hands.

"Father," she gasped, out of breath. "How can I help? What can I do?"

He ground his teeth as another wave of pain broke over him, swelling out from his failing heart. "F-f-f-" he started to say, then his voice failed him.

He lay still for a moment, taking a weak, shuddering breath-it was terrifying, how much even that hurt-then he pulled his hand from her grasp, reaching to his side. His fingers were numb and weak, but in a moment they found what they sought: the iron haft of Peldarin's axe.

He took another breath, let it out. "Finish … ."

Dezra's plaintive eyes became clear. She smiled-not the least bit crookedly-and took Soulsplitter from him. Gripping it with both hands, she rose and stepped toward the tree. Caramon twisted, trying to ignore the surging pain in his breast, and watched her raise the axe, pause for an eye-blink, then swing.

Grimbough gave a long, despairing howl, then fell silent. Dezra let go of the axe and stepped away, leaving it buried in the daemon tree's trunk. For a moment, everything was still. Then Soulsplitter shattered into countless glittering pieces.

With a deafening crash, Grimbough smashed to the ground. At once, everything stopped: the raging storm, the quaking of the ground, the hateful muttering of the leaves. Stillness settled over the grove.

Weakly, Caramon began to laugh.

Then another burst of pain tore through him, and he let it all fall away. His friends were waiting for him.

Dezra stared in horror as her father's florid skin turned gray. The lines of pain on his face smoothed, leaving an expression of terrible, sickening peace.

She slapped him, hard, across the face. "No!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "No! No! No!"

Then Trephas was behind her, grabbing her arms and lifting her away from Caramon. She fought and kicked, but he held her fast. She slumped in his grasp, sobbing.

As the centaur gathered her close, Borlos came over. Stricken, the bard bent down and pressed his fingers against Caramon's throat, feeling for the lifebeat. He closed his eyes, blowing out a long, shuddering breath.

"Help him, damn you!" Dezra snarled. "Do something!"

Borlos looked at her, his face like an open wound. "I'm no healer," he said. "And even if I were, I don't think I could do anything for him, Dez."

They stood over Caramon for a long while, none daring to move. Then, as the stormclouds above the vale dissolved on the cool night wind, something stirred behind them. Hooves whispered on the damp, blighted earth. Dezra didn't move, but Borlos and Trephas turned at the sound, and stared in astonishment and awe at the Forestmaster.

The marks of her ordeal remained. Her flesh was tight against her bones; blood crusted her coat. But her eyes were clear, and despite her frailty there was grace in her movements as she strode toward them. Her horn caught the starlight, shimmering.

Trephas and Borlos stepped back as she approached, but Dezra stayed where she was, beside her father's unmoving form. The Forestmaster stopped behind her.

Dezra turned and glared at the unicorn, angry words on her tongue. She stopped, though, when she met the Forestmaster's liquid eyes. Paling, she stepped away from Caramon's body. The Forestmaster's gaze lingered on her a moment, then she stepped lightly to Caramon's side and lowered her head. Her horn, sparkling with light, touched his breastplate. Then she stepped back, her eyes shining.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Caramon's mouth fell open, and he drew a loud, snorting breath.

Dezra stared at the Forestmaster, incredulous. The unicorn dipped her head to her, then turned and walked out of the sward, into the night.

When she was gone, Dezra turned back to her father, kneeling down beside him as Borlos and Trephas crowded behind. She took his hand in hers.

Caramon's eyes opened, and he looked up at her. "What in the Abyss?" he asked, his brow furrowing with confusion. His voice was still frighteningly feeble. "Dez?"

Smiling through her tears, she reached out and touched his cold, clammy cheek. "It's all right, Father," she told him. "I'm here."

Winter was coming.

It was weeks away still-autumn was only halfway done, and the first snows were still a month or more away-but Caramon could feel its approach in his bones. Another marvel of growing old, he thought. It was worse this year than last, but that was no surprise. He'd ended last summer by brewing harvest beer; this summer he'd nearly died.

He sighed, staring out across Darken Wood. He stood on a vantage just outside Lysandon, listening to birdsong and feeling the chill mountain wind on his face. Below, the forest stretched out to the horizon. It had changed in the past few weeks, while he remained with the centaurs. The dark stain that had spread across the wood was fading. Many trees that had been blighted at the start of the autumn grew healthy once more; from what Arhedion and the horsefolk's other scouts said, most of the forest would recover with time. Even so, there were patches of woodland that would never regain their former glory. In some places-especially around Sangelior, where the few surviving Skorenoi still dwelt-the decay had gone too far. Darken Wood would heal, but it would never quite be the same.