Chapter One

They gathered at twilight, beneath the plum-hued sky. The glade, in the heart of Darken Wood, glowed with the sun's ruddy light. The trees cast clutching shadows. The breeze tousled the ferns, its murmur echoing the summer insects' drone.

The glade lay in a hollow among the hills, surrounded by moss-bearded oaks. Velvety grass carpeted the earth, dotted with fragrant wildflowers. An outcropping of pale rock, dappled with lichen, rose high above the hallowed grove. The Circle of Seven congregated before it, their faces grim.

Seven tribes of centaurs lived in Darken Wood. Their chieftains formed the Circle, governing with even-handed wisdom. Four times each year, when the seasons changed, they held moot before the outcropping, which was holy to Chislev, god of wild beasts. The High Chief listened to each tribe's doings, and mediated disputes. Sometimes the Forestmaster—the unicorn who held sway over Darken Wood—would appear: The grove was, after all, her domain.

Today, however, the rhythm of the seasons was broken. The summer solstice was only three weeks past, the equinox months away. From time to time, dire circumstances made such unusual meetings necessary, but it had been decades since it last happened. The chieftains' hearts were filled with worry as they came together.

Old Nemeredes, lord of the Soaring Mane tribe, was first to trot out of the forest. His long, silver mane and hoary, braided beard blew back from his age-lined face. His chestnut hide was frosted with white, but he was still strong as a young stallion. With him came his two eldest sons, Nemeredes the Younger and Gyrtomon. They wore their ash-blond manes tied back, and carried spears draped with ivy. They knelt with their father before the outcropping, then rose and waited in silence.

Next came Pleuron the Fat, once called the Shadow for his utterly black skin, coat and mane. His considerable belly bobbed as he strode toward the outcropping. He, too, had an escort—warriors of his tribe, for his children were not of age. Pleuron, head of the Green Willow tribe, nodded to Nemeredes, then genuflected to the rock and took his place as well.

The rest arrived soon after. Leodippos of the Leaping Hart was youngest, his black beard still downy upon his cheeks. His brown-furred legs fidgeted as he waited. Thymmiar of the Laughing Brook was the most outlandish, his coat a patchwork of black and white. His head was shaved, save for a narrow strip of hair down its midst. The other chiefs spared him troubled looks, not for his appearance but for his demeanor. Normally quick with a grin, Thymmiar was unusually solemn this night.

Eucleia of the Iron Hooves, gray-coated and steel-maned, was a rarity among the horsefolk. Though mares hunted and fought beside stallions, the role of chieftain passed from father to son: a female chief was seldom heard of. She carried herself arrogantly, defying the others to look at her askance. Her strong-jawed face severe, she bowed to the outcropping.

Last of all, his scarred face creased with thought, came Menelachos of the Ebon Lance. Tall and broad, bay-coated and black-maned, he entered the grove without escort. This, and the sapphire-studded, golden tore encircling his neck, marked him as first among the Seven, the High Chief of the horsefolk. The other centaurs bowed to his approach, and he nodded in reply, his bushy beard bristling against his muscular chest. He strode to the outcropping, then knelt and kissed the cool, pale stone. The other five chieftains bowed their heads.

"Blessed Chislev, Mistress of the Wilds," Menelachos murmured. "We look to thee for guidance."

At this, the spear-bearers unfurled the ivy coiled about their weapons and tossed it forward to land at the monolith's foot. Menelachos rose and turned to face the others, eyes glinting in the twilight.

"It is a dire business that brings us here," he declared, his rich voice filling the glade. "I thank thee for coming on such short notice."

The other chiefs glanced at one another, perplexed. "Why are we here?" Eucleia challenged. "Some of us were seeing to important matters when we received the call."

Nemeredes snorted in disapproval, and Eucleia responded with a steely glare, but Menelachos quickly intervened. "I hear thee, Lady of the Iron Hooves. But these are dark times. The followers of Takhisis will not wait for autumn."

The High Chief drew a slow breath. In the silence, even the twittering birds fell still.

"There is a reason only six of us have come," Menelachos said slowly. "The Circle is broken. One of our own has turned against us."

Young Leodippos muttered something under his breath. Menelachos held up a hand. "Do not say his name!" he snapped. "It must not be spoken until he is accused."

The other five chiefs blinked in surprise, forehooves pawing the ground. "He's here?" Pleuron asked, eyebrows rising.

"He is." Menelachos looked across the glade. "He will answer now for what he has done. Rhedogar!"

The shadows at the grove's edge parted. A silver-coated, grizzled warrior—his lance and war harness meant for battle, not ceremony—stepped into the glade. The chiefs and their escorts turned as he strode forward, hooves thudding against the turf. He stopped halfway to the outcropping and bowed. "He awaits, my lord," he declared.

"Bring him forward," Menelachos said.

Rhedogar signaled to the trees, and several more warriors appeared. Two hauled on chains of iron. As they pulled, another figure stumbled out of the dark forest: a huge centaur, pure white save for his dark, gleaming eyes. There was blood on his face and flanks, and angry bruises stood out against his pallid skin. He wore an iron collar around his throat, attached to the warriors' chains. Bowstrings bound his sinewy arms, and he was hobbled as well, his front and rear right legs tied together. He moved unsteadily, but there was defiance to his stride as well. His gaze fixed proudly on Menelachos as the warriors yanked on their chains, jerking him to a halt.

“My lord," he said coldly.

"Chrethon of the Keening Wind," Menelachos replied. He met pride with pride, looking down his hawkish nose. "Dost thou truly consider me thy lord, after what thou hast done?"

The white centaur's eyes narrowed. He shrugged.

Menelachos nodded. "The charges against thee—"

"I know the charges," Chrethon interrupted. He glared at the chieftains. "I'm accused of taking action against evil, rather than hiding like a coward."

Several of the chiefs flushed, and Nemeredes drew a sharp breath to respond, but Menelachos spoke first. "Fair words," he retorted, "and not without some truth. But a grain of truth can grow a crop of lies, as the minstrels say. Answer me this, Lord Chrethon: wert thou in this grove, not a month since, when the Forestmaster appeared and asked us to take no action against the Knights of Takhisis?"

"Aye," Chrethon replied, eyes blazing.

"And," Menelachos continued, "didst thou swear, on thy blood and that of thy tribe, to heed her?"

The white centaur was silent.

"Didst thou swear?"

Chrethon flinched at the High Chief's fury, then nodded with a sneer.

"And finally," Menelachos concluded, "didst thy tribesmen ambush and slaughter two-score of those very Knights, three nights ago?"

"They did, at my command," Chrethon snapped. "I would have them do it again, if it came to that."

"It will now," growled Nemeredes. "The Knights will send more of their kind, to avenge the slain. Thanks to thee, the war shall come into our homes."

"Let it come!" Chrethon shot back. "It would have anyway, soon or late."

On Menelachos's other side, Eucleia and Leodippos nodded. Seeing this, the High Chief shrugged. "Mayhap it would," he declared. "But the Forestmaster doesn't wish us to interfere with the war beyond these woods. Dost thou truly know better than she?"

A heavy silence settled. Chrethon drew himself erect.

"Aye," he said. "I do." He flung out his arms. "Look around, Menelachos! None have seen the Forestmaster since that night! Where is she now, with darkness and war at our forest's edge?"

"She is here."

The centaurs started. Chrethon's eyes widened, rising toward the source of the deep voice. Menelachos and the others turned to follow his gaze, and gasped in wonder.

The unicorn stood atop the sacred outcropping, silhouetted against the dying light. The sun tinted her silvery coat brilliant gold; her ivory horn shone brightly. Such was her beauty that the horsefolk averted their eyes and knelt—all save Chrethon. The white centaur regarded the Forestmaster scornfully.

"Are you truly so sore at me, my child?" the Forestmaster asked, her voice at once stem and kind.

"I will not bow to thee, mistress," Chrethon replied.

The unicorn bobbed her graceful head. "I understand," she said sorrowfully. "You see evil all around, and yearn to fight. But that is precisely what we mustn't do."

"What should we do, then?" Chrethon demanded. "Surrender?"

"If we must."

The other chieftains looked up. Chrethon recoiled as if the Forestmaster had struck him.

"Mistress…" Menelachos began, astonished.

"I cannot explain," the Forestmaster interrupted. "It is Chislev's will. I can only tell you that in this war, darkness must triumph."

The centaurs were silent. The trees creaked mournfully in the wind.

"Then I have no choice, Forestmaster," Chrethon declared. "I forsake thee."

The unicorn drew back, her hooves scraping the stone. "What did you say?"

"I forsake thee!" Chrethon bellowed, his voice ringing across the glade. "If thou wilt not fight the evil, I shall do it alone—and to the Abyss with thee."

The Forestmaster lowered her head. Her horn flashed as she swept her gaze over the other chieftains. "I see doubt in your eyes, also," she told them. "I don't blame you, but I beg for your trust. Will you follow me?"

"I will," said Nemeredes quickly. "Though it pains me, I shall keep the pact. My honor and love for thee demand it, mistress."

The other centaurs murmured as he knelt before the sacred stone. After a moment, Thymmiar and Pleuron followed, then, reluctantly, Leodippos and Eucleia. When the unicorn's gaze turned to the High Chief, only he and Chrethon remained standing.

"And you, Menelachos?" the Forestmaster asked. "Have I your loyalty?"

Wordlessly, he bent down, bowing so deeply that his forehead touched the grassy earth.

The Forestmaster tossed her head, her mane flying. "Chrethon, will you reconsider?"

"No," he answered firmly. "I will not endanger my own people in thy name."

"Very well." The unicorn's voice was a well of sadness. "The Circle of Seven is no more: the Circle of Six shall reign in its place. As for Lord Chrethon—" She hesitated, her gaze drifting back to Menelachos. "Do with him as you will."

Then she was gone, wheeling about and vanishing in a silvery blur. The horsefolk stared at the outcropping, none willing to break the silence. At last, however, Menelachos turned back to Chrethon. "This is a heavy thing thou hast brought upon thyself," he proclaimed sternly. "Never in our history has the Circle been broken. And now, this treason—"

"Don't call it that, Menelachos," Chrethon snapped. "I only want to protect the Wood from those who would harm it."

Menelachos pursed his lips. "That may well be. But treason is treason, no matter how noble the motive. We cannot be blinded by thy good intentions."

Chrethon's eyes flared. His guards tensed, hands twisting about their lances. After a long moment, however, he bowed his head.

"So be it," he murmured. "Do what thou must."

Menelachos nodded slowly. "We must discuss this," he said to the other chieftains, then waved to Chrethon's guards. "Take him hence, so we may confer. When we're ready, we shall call for him."

The guards bowed, then turned and trotted back toward the glade's edge. Chrethon stood still, staring balefully at the sacred stone. If a man's gaze could split rock, the outcropping would have crumbled. Then his chains tautened, and he wheeled quickly as his captors dragged him away.

Chrethon and his guards waited for more than an hour as the Circle discussed his fate. Several of the warriors fell into a game of dice, arguing and laughing between casts. The others stayed close, keeping a tight rein on his chains as he strained to hear what was being said in the holy glade.

"… cannot allow this to happen again!" Nemeredes thundered. "We must send a message that we will not tolerate—"

"What message would that be?" Eucleia shot back. "We weaken ourselves if we're unduly harsh toward Chrethon's followers, not to mention…"

Chrethon strained, but couldn't make out any more. Eucleia's voice had dropped back below his hearing. He glanced around. The dicers were engrossed in their game—the stakes had risen, one player putting up five goats against his opponent's silver arm-bands. What was more, Rhedogar wasn't around: the silver centaur had gone off into the woods, probably to piss. Only three warriors watched him: the two holding his chains, and a young bay who regarded him intently.

Three—the odds were bad, but he had a chance. The bay might be a problem, but Chrethon doubted he'd have a better opportunity to escape.

Resolved, Chrethon took a deep breath and tensed to run. At that moment, however, the bay glanced about, then started striding his way. Chrethon held his breath, not sure what to expect.

"My lord?" ventured the bay in a hushed voice. "Is it true? Thou fought the Knights of Takhisis?"

"Aye," Chrethon replied warily. "What of it?"

"How did it happen?"

Chrethon looked around uncertainly. The guards holding his chains didn't seem to be listening; as for the bay, he looked honestly curious. Chrethon shrugged.

"We attacked them by surprise," he said softly, "while they slept in their camp. Our archers slew their guards—all but one, who raised the alarm before a lancer finished him. But it was too late for them by then. They were fewer than us, and unprepared. We killed them all, every last one. It was glorious."

"And they're going to punish thee for that?"

"Thou heard the Forestmaster," Chrethon declared. "She wants us out of this war."

The bay opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again to speak. The words came out in a rush. "Then I think thou wert right to forsake her."

Chrethon was silent a moment, pondering. "What is thy name, lad?"

"Thenidor, my lord," the bay replied.

Chrethon frowned, thinking quickly. "And dost thou think thy friends might feel the same way?"

"Aye, lord," Thenidor said eagerly. "I'm sure of it."

"Good." Chrethon smiled. "When thou returnest to thy home, then, tell them what I did, and what the Circle did to me for it. Wilt thou do that?"

"Aye, my lord."

"What's this?" demanded a gruff voice. Thenidor started guiltily. Old Rhedogar was striding swiftly toward him. "Get away from the prisoner, lackwit! And quit that accursed game! If Lord Menelachos saw thee, he'd have my head!"

The guards scrambled, the dicers hurriedly scooping up their winnings. Thenidor glanced at Chrethon as he hastened away, and nodded. Yes, the gesture said. I will remember.

The voices in the grove had stilled. Chrethon clenched his fists impotently. For nearly a minute, there was no sound but the creaking of the boughs overhead. Then came Menelachos's voice, raised in a shout:

"Bring the prisoner!"

It was, in fact, Chrethon who brought the guards. He moved so quickly, they had to pull on the chains to keep him in line. When he entered the glade, however, and saw the Six arrayed before the outcropping, he stopped short.

"Come, Chrethon," bade Menelachos, beckoning. "It's time to face thy fate."

Bowing his head, Chrethon strode toward the sacred stone. The guards stopped him where he'd stood before. He searched the chieftains' faces. Neither Nemeredes nor Eucleia looked pleased: Chrethon guessed that Menelachos had, in the end, imposed a compromise upon both of them. He could glean nothing else from the rest.

"Chrethon of the Keening Wind," Menelachos intoned, "thou art a traitor to the Circle and Chislev. Thou hast refused to repent, even at the Forestmaster's bidding. Dost thou wish to speak before sentence is passed?"

Slowly, Chrethon shook his head.

"Very well. Know that some here—" the High Chief glanced at old Nemeredes "—wished the fullest punishment upon thee."

Chrethon swallowed. According to centaur law, the worst penalty for criminals was to be gelded, led through Darken Wood to beg forgiveness from each of the tribes, then beheaded. It had been done before, though not for many years.

"But," Menelachos continued, "others have argued for mercy, to thee and thy tribe. We have listened to both sides, and have reached a decision amenable to all."

Behind the High Chief, Eucleia snorted and Nemeredes pawed the ground. Menelachos ignored them both.

"There will be no execution or gelding," he stated. "Nor, however, will we show lenity. Thou shalt be punished, Chrethon, and thy people too for aiding in thy treachery.

"By order of this Circle, the Keening Wind tribe are cast out. Thou and thine may remain in Darken Wood, but must live apart from the rest, and may never again set hoof in any of the sacred places. No centaur may consort with or help thee.

"Furthermore," Menelachos continued, "thou art to be marked for thy deeds, Lord Chrethon. Thou art sentenced to daicheiron—the Tail-Cutting."

Chrethon's mouth dropped open. He lifted his bound hands to his head. Weakened by shock, he didn't resist as the guards seized his arms and legs, holding him still. Behind him, Rhedogar drew a short, broad sword from a scabbard on his battle harness. He stepped toward Chrethon.

Eucleia of the Iron Hooves held up her hand. "Wait."

Everyone—Chrethon, the guards, the chieftains—looked toward her. "It is too late to protest, Eucleia," Menelachos warned. "Thou agreed to this punishment."

"That's true," she agreed, "but I refuse to watch it happen. I ask leave to depart."

Menelachos scowled, but Eucleia didn't quail. Finally, the High Chief waved her away. She turned and cantered into the forest, her guards following. Menelachos looked to the other four chieftains, his eyes glittering.

"If any of thee wish to follow, then go," he said.

Immediately, Leodippos wheeled about and trotted after Eucleia. As he vanished into the woods, Pleuron murmured an apology and left as well. Menelachos looked to Nemeredes and Thymmiar, who nodded and stayed where they were. Satisfied, he turned back toward Chrethon.

"Proceed," he bade Rhedogar.

The dwarves of Krynn are said to value their beards so highly, they would sooner give up a life's wealth of steel than shave. The elves are as protective of their pointed ears, which are a precious trophy to goblins and other foul races. Among the horsefolk, however, the tail is the greatest source of pride: to have it docked is a permanent mark of shame. Even grizzled Rhedogar hesitated before seizing Chrethon's white, flowing tail. He pulled it taut, then set his blade where the short, fleshy stub met Chrethon's rump. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade swiftly downward.

Bright blood spurted as the sword sliced through flesh. Chrethon cried out, in anguish and pain, and thrashed mightily against his captors. The guards held him tight until he finally fell still.

"It is done," Menelachos murmured. "Loose his bonds."

Obediently, Rhedogar severed the cords binding Chrethon's arms and legs. Chrethon stood weakly, wobble-kneed, as the guards removed his collar. He stared at the remaining chiefs with open hatred. Thymmiar lowered his gaze, and Nemeredes glared back coldly.

"Now," said Menelachos, "go to thy exile."

Chrethon blinked, then began to chuckle. He tossed his head, his pale mane flying, as the chuckle gave way to laughter. The chieftains glanced at one another uneasily, each wondering if the others had seen the faint, unclean glimmer of madness in the white centaur's eyes.

"I will go," Chrethon said. "But know this: I will return. And when I do, woe unto all of thee." He looked up at the sacred stone, eyes glittering. "All of thee."

He searched the ground a moment, then stooped and picked up the mass of bloody hair that had been his tail. Lifting it high above his head, he galloped out of the glade and into the depths of Darken Wood.