Chapter Thirteen

Dezra swallowed a mouthful of frigid water, struggling as Uwen's body bore her down. She tried to push him off, but his limp arms entangled her. Her struggles began to weaken.

Then the weight came off, pulled up from above. Hands grabbed her tunic, hauled her up. She emerged choking, and her rescuer—Borlos, of all people—dragged her to the river's edge, and pounded her back until she spat out a racking gout of water.

"Easy, Dez," he said as she wheezed, her face and hair fouled with clay. He looked past her. "How is he?"

Caramon didn't answer. Dezra twisted, gasping, and saw him standing in the stream over Uwen. The water around him was red with blood. He met her gaze accusingly, then another arrow flashed overhead, hitting him in the chest. It glanced off his breastplate with a loud ping!, then splashed into the water.

"Down!" Borlos shouted, hunkering low behind the embankment. "Leave him," he added when Caramon glanced at Uwen. "Move, before you end up the same way!"

A third arrow dove into the river to Caramon's left. He lunged forward, his legs churning the water, and threw himself down beside Dezra. He looked at her again, then turned away.

"Uh, big guy?" Borlos ventured. "I don't mean to be rude, but you do have a bow… ."

Caramon blinked. Awkwardly, he readied his shortbow, notched an arrow and pushed himself to his knees. Peering over the grassy embankment, he pulled back the string and let fly. Dezra heard a grunt, then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

"Got him," Caramon said. "One of those Skorenoi things. I think he's—"

A loud crack rang out before he could say more. He recoiled, ducking down.

"What was that?" Borlos asked.

"It blew up," Caramon said incredulously. "The arrow—it exploded when that creature died."

"Like the daemon warriors," Borlos said. "Chaos's legions in the war. The weapons that killed them were destroyed when they died, too. Huma's teeth: if all the Skorenoi are like that—"

Three more arrows arced above. Two vanished into the Darkwater; the third hit Uwen's body, floating in the stream.

Dezra pushed herself up, her hand on her sword. "How many are there?" she asked.

Caramon shrugged. "Hard to tell. Maybe six."

"Six," Borlos muttered. "Where'd your centaur chum get to, Dez?"

She ignored him, turning to her father. "How many more can you shoot?"

"I was lucky to hit the one."

Yet another arrow flew. It rose high, then dove sharply, striking the clay near Borlos's ankle. The bard flinched, drawing his leg in toward his body.

"We can't stay here," Dezra declared.

"Where are we supposed to go?" Borlos demanded.

"Give me a second." She rose to peer over the embankment, shaking off her father as he tried to pull her back. She saw the body of the one Caramon had shot—and the splintered remnants of the killing arrow—then looked past it, to the trees. She counted five misshapen shadows in the undergrowth, then drew back again when a shaft struck the ground in front of her.

"I think it's Thenidor's lot," she said. "They must have figured we'd come this way, and tried to head us off. They're close—I think we can rush them."

"Rush them?" Borlos gasped. "Are you insane?"

"You have a better idea?" Dezra shot back.

"You bet," the bard replied. "Dive in the river and swim."

Caramon shook his head. "They'll just pick us off from the bank. No, Dez is right. If someone draws their fire, we might get to them before they can shoot again."

The bard swallowed. "So who gets to draw their fire?"

Dezra and Caramon looked at each other, then at him.

"I thought so," he said grimly.

Trephas hunkered low, watching the Skorenoi pepper the riverbank with arrows, and wondered what to do. He'd found them on the way back from investigating the noise he'd heard, but by that time, they'd been sneaking up on Dezra and the others. He'd watched Thenidor shoot the farmboy, and was a good enough archer to know it was a killing shot.

Scowling, he pulled an arrow from his quiver. He notched it, doing a quick count of the surviving Skorenoi: five. He could sneak up, kill one from behind—two if he was lucky. He shook his head. It wasn't enough. Nervously, he began to tap the arrow against his bow. Ahead, the Skorenoi's shadows shifted, turning toward him. He froze as Thenidor gestured to one of his fellows, a stoop-shouldered skewbald who turned and started stealthily back into the woods. Trephas watched him approach, pulling back his bowstring.

Then, suddenly, Borlos's voice rang out from the river, singing a bawdy drinking song in something between music and shout:

"Hey, you ugly buggers!" Borlos shouted, apparently content with just the one verse. "Over here!"

The Skorenoi—including the skewbald—turned toward the voice. As they did, something small and round, the size of a head, rose from behind the grassy riverbank. Reflexively, Thenidor and his fellows fired. The shafts hit the object with a hollow, thrumming sound.

It wasn't a head after all; it was the bard's lute. Riddled with arrows, it flew back and splashed into the river.

Trephas didn't think twice. Seizing the distraction, he loosed his arrow. It struck the skewbald in the neck, then exploded in a storm of splinters as the creature crumpled.

Thenidor whirled, eyes flaring with rage. Furious, he started toward Trephas. His fellows watched him go.

Then everything went crazy. Dezra and Caramon leapt onto the riverbank and charged, sword and spear upraised. The Skorenoi hesitated, confused. One managed to fire at Caramon, but he deflected the arrow with his shield and kept on coming. Dezra, who was quicker on her feet, didn't give them even that much chance. She lunged toward a Skorenos, sword flashing, and it leapt back, fumbling for its cudgel.

Caramon charged spear-first at a bowlegged, harelipped gray. It knocked his weapon aside with its war-scythe, and another of the twisted centaurs, a shaggy brown, swung a massive, two-handed club at him. Caramon blocked the blow with his shield, then gave ground and turned to face both foes at once.

Dezra continued to press her opponent, a wart-covered sorrel. She had a dagger in her off-hand now, and cut the sorrel's shoulder with it as she parried his cudgel with her sword. Behind her, Borlos hoisted himself up from the Dark-water and ran toward the battle, yanking his mace from his belt.

Thenidor, halfway to Trephas, glanced back in bewilderment. Trephas laughed aloud—until the Skorenos turned back around, his lips curled into a vicious smile. "Hai!" Thenidor bellowed. "My warriors! To me!"

Trephas stopped, a cold feeling in his gut. Suddenly, there was movement behind him. Another half-dozen Skorenoi rose from the forest's shadows, lances ready. He gaped, astonished.

It was Thenidor's turn to laugh. "There, now!" he shouted above the clash of battle. "Give thyself to us, son of Nemeredes."

"And become like thee?" Trephas spat. "I'll die first."

Thenidor nodded. "Aye, thou wilt—and thy human friends with thee." His warriors started forward, lowering their spears.

Dezra gave ground, parrying a vicious flurry of attacks from the sorrel. Borlos fought beside her, but the bard was no warrior, and the tentative swipes he made with his mace didn't accomplish much. She bumped into him as she dodged a high, whistling swing.

"Get out of my way!" she snapped, raising her sword to block the cudgel's backswing. She stepped back, jostled Borlos again, and elbowed him aside. "Move, for Paladine's sake!"

The sorrel pressed forward, his club moving with frightening speed. He swung again and again, his face contorted into a snarl.

"Oh, enough of this," Dezra muttered.

She ducked, thrusting her sword at the sorrel's belly. The blade scraped against his war harness, drawing blood but not cutting deep. The Skorenos reeled, then reared, lashing out with his hooves. Twisting, she brought her dagger up and stabbed him between his forelegs. The sorrel whinnied in pain.

Dezra yanked the dagger free, and he crashed to his knees, dropping his club. She stabbed him again, between the ribs. He stiffened, and her dagger shuddered in her grasp. She let go, and it exploded in a cloud of flashing shards.

"Guess he's dead," she muttered.

She kicked him to make sure, then glanced at her father. Caramon was holding his own, blocking his foes' attacks with his shield while he stabbed with his spear. She drew another dagger from her boot and took a step toward him.

"Dez!" shouted Borlos. "It's Trephas! He's in trouble!"

Dezra hesitated, her gaze following the bard's waving arms. Trephas was backed against a poplar tree, swinging his spear to keep six Skorenoi at bay. She gaped for a moment as she watched them jab at Trephas with their lances. They were toying with him, wearing him down so they could take him alive. Thenidor stood behind them, laughing.

Dezra wavered for a moment, then turned away from Caramon and sprinted to Trephas's aid.

Caramon's spear and shield felt like they were made of lead, and his arms burned as he thrust and blocked. Each attack was harder than the last. Cramps clutched his legs. Sweat coursed down his face. The Skorenoi, meanwhile, weren't the least bit tired. They grinned viciously, relishing his desperation.

Luckily, the Skorenoi were wild, undisciplined fighters, attacking with fury rather than skill. Caramon, on the other hand, had trained in the Istarian arena, learning to take advantage of his enemies' smallest mistakes. So, when the gray overextended himself after a wicked slash with his scythe, Caramon didn't hesitate. He ducked, jabbing the creature's right foreleg with his spear. The gray fell with a cry. Caramon brought his spear up—blocking the brown Skorenos's club with his shield at the same time—then thrust it into the gray's throat.

The spear blew apart, leaving only a short, jagged bit of its shaft in his hand. He stumbled back, then tripped and fell to one knee. The brown Skorenos loomed above him, club raised.

Borlos came out of nowhere. Howling furiously, he charged the brown from behind. He raised his mace, aiming for the creature's hindquarters.

The blow never landed. As Borlos started to swing the mace, the Skorenos whirled, lashing out with its club. Borlos's shout turned ragged. He ducked, lost his balance, and hit the ground head-first. He didn't rise again.

Again, Caramon's training took hold. Seizing the dead gray's scythe, he lunged and cut a gash across the brown's flank. It bellowed in pain, staggering. Caramon brought the scythe around and struck the creature's neck, shearing its head from its shoulders. He tossed the scythe away. It blew apart before it hit the ground.

Caramon knelt beside Borlos: the bard was senseless but alive. Then he raised his eyes toward the forest, where Dezra had run. He could see only shadows. The jumbled sounds of battle gave no clue as to what was happening. Wheezing, he grabbed Borlos's mace, then lurched toward Trephas and his daughter.

"You said this part of the forest was safe," Dezra growled.

She'd fought her way to Trephas, but hadn't been able to turn the tide of the battle. There were just too many Skorenoi. Trephas had killed one—its body sprawled at their feet, surrounded by the remnants of the centaur's cudgel—but now the two of them fought solely to stay alive. Dezra faced two foes at once, Trephas three. Thenidor stood back, his sinewy arms folded across his chest. It was only a matter of time.

Trephas grunted as a lance got past his defenses, grazing his shoulder. The wound wasn't deep. The Skorenoi aimed to hurt him so he couldn't fight any more, then take him to Grimbough alive. Dezra, on the other hand, was useless to them. They would kill her if she gave them the chance.

"Where are the others?" Trephas demanded, spinning his spear to parry his opponents' weapons.

"How should I know?" Dezra snapped. She twisted to avoid a jabbing lance, then swatted another aside with her blade. She quickly reversed the stroke, lopping off the second spear's head. The Skorenos backed away to draw his cudgel.

Dezra glanced toward the river. Borlos sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Caramon staggered toward the battle, tired or hurt. She nearly missed a parry as she looked, and dropped to one knee to avoid being run through. The second Skorenos rejoined the fight, cudgel swinging, giving her no chance to rise again.

Thenidor, meanwhile, had followed Dezra's glance. He turned, watched Caramon's lurching approach, then threw back his head, braying with laughter.

"Looking for a fight, old man?" he scoffed. He shook his head, turning toward Caramon. "Very well. I'll give thee one."

Caramon saw Thenidor coming and winced. He shifted his grip on his shield and prepared to fight. Thenidor laughed again as he pulled his halberd from his harness.

The duel lasted three blows. Thenidor swung his halberd, and Caramon deflected it with his shield. Caramon swung back with Borlos's mace, and Thenidor parried easily. Then the Skorenos reared and lashed out with his forehooves, kicking Caramon in the chest.

Caramon's armor kept Thenidor's hooves from crushing his ribs as they hammered him flat. He lay still, stunned, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. Looming above him and laughing, Thenidor raised his halberd high. Caramon closed his eyes, awaiting the killing blow.

Instead, he heard the distant thrum of a bowstring, and Thenidor let out a grunt of surprise and pain. Looking up, Caramon saw the Skorenos stumble sideways, an arrow in his shoulder. Thenidor stared at the shaft in amazement, then grabbed it and broke it off, leaving the head embedded in its flesh. Another shaft cut across his arm, and he dropped his halberd, eyes widening as he looked toward the river.

Confused, Caramon twisted and looked back at the Dark-water. The stream's far bank swarmed with horsefolk: a score, maybe more. Half held their bows ready; the rest were knee-deep in the river, wading across. They were real centaurs, not misshapen Skorenoi.

A rescue. Caramon could hardly believe it.

Four more archers fired. Their shots arced overhead, dropping among the Skorenoi who fought Dezra and Trephas. Two of those fell, and the rest faltered, casting about in astonishment. Trephas stabbed one with his lance, which splintered as it pierced the creature's heart.

Regaining his wits, Thenidor gestured sharply and galloped away. His surviving minions followed, vanishing into the shadows of Darken Wood. Trephas watched them go, then saw one of the arrows the centaurs had fired. He studied its fletching—two blue feathers, one white—then turned toward the river, grinning.

"Gyrtomon!" he called.

The leader of the centaurs—a blond-maned chestnut who was the image of Trephas, only slightly older—finished fording the river. He raised his lance in salute as he climbed onto the grassy bank. "Hail, Trephas," he replied, smiling. "And well met, I'd say."

They stayed by the Darkwater long enough for the centaurs to sling Uwen's body and Borlos's senseless form across their backs, and for an older horse-man to salve Caramon, Trephas and Dezra's wounds.

Trephas clapped Gyrtomon on the back. "Brother!" he exclaimed heartily. "What art thou doing in this part of the woods?"

"Looking for thee," Gyrtomon replied. "Our outriders caught sight of Thenidor's lot, riding this way. I had a feeling it was because thou had returned, so I rode out last night with my warriors. I see," he added, regarding Caramon, "that thy quest was successful."

Trephas nodded. "Aye—but it nearly ended here. I owe thee a great debt."

Gyrtomon waved dismissively. "We should leave this place," he declared. "Thenidor is beaten, but these lands are still dangerous. Lord Chrethon has taken a great deal more of the forest since thou left, Brother. The war goes poorly—all the more reason to get these humans to Ithax swiftly."

While Gyrtomon arranged for two of his warriors to serve as mounts, Dezra looked at her father, her eyes narrow. He was rubbing his left shoulder absently. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Flushing, Caramon let his hand drop to his side. "I'm fine. I'm not turning back."

Dezra nodded. "I thought not."

Two centaurs came forward and knelt before them. As they climbed onto the horse-men's backs, Dezra's gaze fell upon Uwen's body. She winced.

"Poor kid," she said as the company fell into line behind Trephas and Gyrtomon. "You never should have let him come."

Caramon nodded, his lips tight. "You're probably right, girl."

They rode south, following the river.