Chapter Eleven

The satyr darted through the forest, and knew he wasn't fast enough. His goatish legs were good for climbing and leaping, but not for running. The end of the chase was clear, but Hurach ran on anyway.

Stubbornness ran deep among his people. His clan had refused to leave their village, even when the forest around it began to change. The oaks, which had long stood straight and tall, had grown withered and twisted, weeping acrid sap and swarming with pale insects. The swards, where the goat-men had capered to pipe-music beneath the moon, became barren. Streams turned brown, brackish. Still, the headstrong satyrs had remained.

Then, today, the Skorenoi had come.

The goat-men had been asleep, as was their wont when the sun was up. Hurach had woken to screaming, smoke and blood. Half the village had been in flames, the ground strewn with corpses. The Skorenoi were everywhere. He'd watched as they slaughtered his kinfolk, shooting them with their great bows or goring them with lances. They hadn't killed everyone, though; some twisted centaurs had wielded huge nets to snare the goat-men. Those satyrs' screams were worse even than those of the dying.

Hurach had fled, wading down the murky creek that flowed by his hut. Before long, though, he'd heard hoofbeats behind him, unseen among the sickly, weeping trees, but undeniably there. He'd been the Skorenoi's sport for hours, on past dusk. It was dark now. It would soon be over.

He stumbled over a rock and winced as he wrenched his leg, sending a hot lance of pain up his spine. He staggered, slumping against a tree. A black-fletched arrow struck the bark beside him. Rancid sap sprayed forth.

He lurched forward, sobbing. The hoofbeats were very close. "Sweet Chislev," he wept. "Help me… ."

Ahead, Hurach heard a new sound: the rush of water flowing over stones. A river lay before him, its waters high with meltwater from the mountains. He ran faster. If he could reach the banks, he could clean his wounds, wash away the scent of blood, and try to hide. He felt hope surge inside his breast.

He was almost to the river when half a dozen shadowy forms appeared before him, moving with terrible, fluid grace to block his way.

With a shriek, Hurach whirled and started back the way he'd come. More Skorenoi stood behind, bows drawn. Two let fly; their shafts struck the ground before him. He cast about desperately. The Skorenoi between him and the river closed in, unfurling their nets.

"No!" he snarled. "If this is a hunt, make it proper! Kill me!"

One of the archers lowered his bow. His body was shaped differently from the others—almost normal, for a centaur. His head, however, was a monstrosity: it was grotesquely elongated, halfway between horse and man. He snorted derisively.

"Leodippos," Hurach spat.

The Skorenos angled his gruesome head. "Thou led a merry chase, little goat," he growled roughly. "But that is done."

The net-bearers were almost upon him. Bleating desperately, he dove for the arrows the centaurs had fired at the ground.

"Stop him!" yelled Leodippos, waving.

Hurach landed next to the arrows, and grabbed one. The Skorenoi sprang into motion as he pressed the shaft's head against his breast, then braced its notch against the ground. All he had to do now was fall.

Then, suddenly, he was rising through the air as a net caught him from behind, sweeping him up off the ground. He squealed and thrashed as the Skorenoi wrapped the mesh around him. In a moment, Leodippos was beside him. He no longer had his bow; instead, he held a heavy cudgel. He smiled coldly.

"Sleep, little goat," he said. "It will make the rest easier."

Leodippos raised the club, brought it down. Hurach's world went white with pain, then faded to darkness.

The night was dark when his mind emerged from the shadowy depths. One of his eyes had swollen shut—the whole side of his face felt like meat—but he managed to crack the other one open and look around.

He was in the mountains somewhere—near Sangelior, he guessed. The vale where he lay was narrow and steep-walled, with peaks blotting out the stars on all sides. The trees were horribly warped, their bark split and slick with sap. They moved constantly, though there was no wind: branches twisting, roots clenching beneath the earth. There was something else, too—a presence in the vale that made his hackles rise. He couldn't see it from where he lay, but he could feel it: a hungry, throbbing darkness that lurked nearby.

"This is the one who ran, my lord," said Leodippos behind him. Hurach twisted to see, and nearly blacked out again. He lay gasping, tasting bile.

"He still has some fight left, I see," said another voice. This one was toneless and dry, like old parchment. "Rouse him."

Hooves approached. Leodippos's half-horse face loomed above as he prodded Hurach with his lance. "Up, little goat," he snarled. "The lord of Darken Wood commands it."

Whimpering, Hurach sat up. The vale whirled around him for a moment, then snapped to a stop. He looked past Leodippos, toward the other speaker, then fervently wished he hadn't.

That the creature had once been a centaur was almost unthinkable. Now it was a skeleton: emaciated, all spindly limbs and knobby bones. Its flesh was colorless, save for the twisting blue of veins beneath the skin. It had no hair anywhere on its body, horse or man. Its black, sunken eyes regarded Hurach without pity.

"Well," said Lord Chrethon. His lips pulled back, revealing small, sharp teeth. "Perhaps we can use this one. Bring him to the tree."

The oak crouched amid the darkness like an ant lion in its pit, awaiting its prey. It was massive, looming higher than any of the centuries-old trees around it. Its night-black bark was deeply gnarled, cloaked with shelf fungi and rusty moss. Its enormous roots snaked through the ground; its branches clawed skyward like skeletal arms; its sharp-toothed leaves whispered in a hundred susurrant voices. Hurach clapped his hands over his ears, trying to drown the voices out, but it did no good. Small wonder the Skorenoi were mad—who could bear that whispering for long, and remain sane?

Lord Chrethon laughed. It was a hard, mirthless sound, glittering like the edge of a knife. He gestured, and Leodippos threw Hurach to the ground.

"We wait here," Chrethon said, nodding toward the daemon tree. "It's not finished feeding yet."

Hurach didn't want to look, but he couldn't help it. A small, dark shape huddled, shivering, on the ground, halfway between them and the daemon tree. It was another satyr, one of his kinfolk. Hurach saw the curve of the goat-man's horns, the white fringe on his black, hairy legs, and put a name to him: Druthed. Hurach couldn't hear him for the hissing leaves, but he imagined Druthed was weeping.

"Wait," Lord Chrethon murmured, his face aglow. "Wait…"

A faint creak, so low it was almost a rumble, sounded from the tree. Hurach watched, eyes wide, as Grimbough began to move. Its branches bent, curling down slowly toward the cowering satyr, twigs groping like talons. Hurach tried to look away, but Leodippos held him fast, forcing him to watch as the oak shrouded Druthed with its leaves.

It happened so suddenly that Leodippos grunted in surprise, tightening his grip on Hurach's shoulders. With a loud, tearing sound, the ground beneath Druthed's sobbing form ripped open. Roots, pallid and smelling of fresh earth, clawed up from below. They coiled around Druthed's wrists, ankles, shoulders… even the goat-man's throat. They cradled him a moment, and he shivered like a newborn kid. Then, slowly, they began to pull.

Druthed screamed.

The satyr's agonized cries were the most horrible sound Hurach had ever heard. Hurach closed his eyes, but he couldn't shut out the shrieking, nor the gruesome sound that joined it: a wet, popping sound that put him in mind of a joint of lamb being pulled apart. Then, abruptly, Druthed's howling ended. The grisly crunching continued a while longer, accompanied by thick, sucking sounds that made Hurach want to vomit. Finally, even these stopped. Only the creaking of Grimbough's limbs remained.

Hurach steeled himself against what he might see when he opened his eyes. It didn't help. Pieces of Druthed were strewn about the clearing, drained of blood. Flushed, the grasping roots pulled away and slipped back into the ground. The earth sealed shut. Slowly, Grimbough's branches straightened.

Hurach stared at the shredded meat, shuddering. That will be me soon, he thought. Mere blood to slake the tree's thirst.

Still grinning, Lord Chrethon raised a bony arm. "Grimbough!" he called. "I would speak with thee."

The oak stirred slightly. Something rumbled deep beneath the ground. Hurach heard words in the sound; the muttering leaves echoed them as Grimbough spoke.

"Again?" boomed the sepulchral voice. "Have you brought another offering for me?"

… me? whispered the leaves.

"If it is thy wish," Chrethon replied solicitously. "But this one, I think, may be of better use."

Without warning, Grimbough's mind entered Hurach's, a rusty spear cleaving his skull. He drew breath to cry out, but the terrible presence was just as swiftly gone.

"Bring it forward," the tree bade.

… forward, the leaves hissed.

Well past panic, Hurach felt almost serene as Leodippos shoved him toward the tree. Chrethon followed. They stopped amid Druthed's remains. Now that he was closer, Hurach saw Grimbough's trunk was throbbing, swelling like a great, slow-beating heart. He waited, with calm fascination, for the branches to bend down, the ground to open, the unbearable strain as the roots ripped him apart… .

"Yes," said the tree. "This one will suffice."

… suffice, echoed the leaves.

Hurach tore his gaze from the pulsating trunk and looked at Chrethon. The emaciated centaur nodded. "Wilt thou take him now?"

"No," Grimbough said. "Let him see the prize first."

…first…

Chrethon bowed, then exchanged nods with Leodippos. If anything, his too-broad smile grew even wider.

Leodippos gave Hurach a shove. The satyr stumbled, nearly fell, and followed Chrethon past Grimbough, toward the grove's far side.

"Where are we going?" he asked, glancing around.

"Never fear, little goat," Leodippos leered. "It isn't far."

Fewer than a hundred paces from Grimbough, they came to a clearing in the woods. In its midst stood a huge briar-patch, an dense thicket that rose above even the Skorenoi's heads. The brambles twisted and coiled restlessly, bristling with wicked, curving thorns the size of daggers.

"Go," Chrethon bade. "Look inside."

Against his will, Hurach found himself walking forward until he stood before the thicket, staring into its senselessly writhing depths. There was something inside, almost invisible amid the briars: a white shape, frail and feeble. Hurach let out a cry when he saw it.

It was the Forestmaster.

He'd seen the unicorn only once before, during a pilgrimage to her grove when he came of age. She'd been beautiful then, a creature of grace and silver light. He'd wept with joy at the sight of her; now he wept again, with grief. She was as wasted as Chrethon, ribs showing clearly through her skin. Her coat had turned mangy and dull, marked with rusty patches of dried blood where the vicious thorns had dug into her flesh. Her mane and tail were matted and filthy, tangled with burrs. A muzzle of leather and steel covered her face, save for her dull, pleading eyes. Only her horn, gleaming like moonlit pearls, bore any of her former splendor.

Hurach dropped to his knees on the barren ground, sobbing. "Mistress," he choked. "Oh, Mistress… what have they done to you?"

"Nothing, compared with what awaits her," Chrethon said, chuckling cruelly. "Now rise, goat-man. Grimbough awaits."

Hurach didn't move. He stared at the wretched form of the Forestmaster, trapped within the snaking thornbushes. Finally, Leodippos came forward, war harness jingling, and grabbed his arm. The satyr knew he should struggle, fight, try to break free, but he did nothing. He was as limp as a corpse as Leodippos yanked him to his feet and dragged him back toward Grimbough.

When they were near the daemon tree again, Leodippos threw him down on the ground. Hurach made no effort to rise.

Grimbough was pleased. "Good," it boomed. "He is ready. You may leave, Chrethon. I will summon you when I am done."

… done.

Hurach heard the Skorenoi withdraw, but didn't turn to watch them go. There was a loud, low creaking from above, and shadows blocked out the moonlight as Grimbough's branches bent down. The ground beneath him tore open. He didn't flinch as the roots burst forth and caught his legs, arms and waist. A tendril wound about his neck, choking him. He waited for pain, for the tree to rend him to pieces. For an end.

But that didn't happen. Instead, Grimbough pulled him under. Spongy, dank earth pressed tight around him, closed in, sealed over. The dull rumble of Grimbough's voice began to speak in his mind. It talked for a long time. The satyr wept brokenly, then slid into blackness.

While he slept, Hurach began to change.