Chapter Seventeen

"I can't believe you," Caramon said, disgusted. "Asking the centaurs for money when they're in mourning."

The horsefolk had left them alone in the Yard of Gathering. Trephas and Gyrtomon had gone with their father to grieve over their brother's body, and the rest of the Circle had withdrawn to confer. Several young colts brought the humans cold venison and wine—their amazement when Caramon asked for water instead was almost comical—then left them alone.

"Are you listening to me, girl?" Caramon asked.

Dezra raised her eyebrows. "When was I supposed to bring it up? The way it sounds like the war's going, there probably isn't any time they aren’t in mourning."

"Will both of you shut up?" Borlos snapped.

Caramon and Dezra started. The bard had been so quiet, nursing flask after flask of centaur wine, that they'd all but forgotten he was there. Now he glared at them, swaying slightly.

"Don't you two ever get tired of bickering?" he asked. "I've known ogres who are less ornery! It's this bloody arguing that got Uwen killed at the Darkwater. Who'll it be next time? Trephas? Me? All of us?"

"You could always leave," Dezra suggested dourly.

"No," Borlos replied. "There's grand things happening in this forest. One way or another, there'll be a tale to be told, and I'm the only bard around to see it happen. No, I'm seeing this through. But you're going to have to quit being such a pair of stubborn asses."

No one spoke after that. They were still quiet, half an hour later, when the thud of hooves approached across the Yard. They looked up and saw the Circle approaching, Trephas and Gyrtomon with them. The brothers' faces were creased with sorrow. The horsefolk drew to a halt before the humans, who quickly got to their feet. Lord Menelachos tossed a jingling sack at Dezra's feet.

"As was agreed," he declared. "Three hundred pieces of steel."

Dezra nodded, nudging the sack with her foot. "Thanks."

Menelachos inclined his head. "Now, if thou art not too tired to listen, we'll tell what we need of thee."

Caramon glanced at Dezra and Borlos, then nodded. "Go ahead," he said.

Old Nemeredes stepped forward. "My son says he's already told thee about the war, and the foes we face. Not just Chrethon and his Skorenoi, but also the daemon tree. He also told thee about the Forestmaster."

"Is that it?" Caramon asked. "Do you want us to rescue her?"

Menelachos shook his head. "No. We've tried that before. We lost many good warriors. If our finest couldn't help her, then thou certainly cannot, either. We need thy help destroying Grimbough."

Silence hung over the Yard, save for the crackling of the torches.

"Chrethon's power comes from the daemon tree," Nemeredes said. "If we're to stop him, we must dam the river at its spring. Grimbough must die."

"But how?" Caramon asked. "If the tree's as powerful as you say, how can we harm it?"

"We wondered about that for some time," Eucleia admitted. "But we've found an answer: Soulsplitter."

Nemeredes's sons glanced at her in alarm. The humans, however, frowned in confusion.

"Who?" Dezra asked.

"Not who," Menelachos corrected. "What. Thou hast not heard of Soulsplitter?"

Dezra and Caramon shook their heads, then looked at Borlos. The bard spread his hands.

The Circle exchanged glances. "I see," said Menelachos. "This shall take more explaining than I'd expected." He clapped his hands, and a colt galloped across the Yard to him. "Fetch Olinia," he bade. As the messenger bolted away, Menelachos turned back to face the humans. "I've sent for a minstrel, a history-speaker. She'll tell thee Soulsplitter's story."

In time, the runner returned, walking with a young mare. She was lovely, her skin and coat the color of ivory. Her golden tresses flowed down to her withers; her face, with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose, would have been at home on a marble statue. In the crook of her arm she carried a finely carved lyre; her other hand rested on the messenger's shoulder. After a moment, the humans realized she was blind.

She stopped, staring into the distance. "My lords?" she asked, her voice like honey. "Thou hast summoned me?"

"Aye, Olinia," Menelachos said. "We have guests who must hear the tale of Soulsplitter."

"Ah." Her smile set her face aglow. "One of our oldest stories. Aye, I will tell it—I ask but a moment to tune my lyre."

With that, she started plucking chords on the instrument. Its dulcet tones rang out across the Yard. As she was preparing, Dezra nudged her father. "Look at Borlos," she said.

Caramon did, and broke into a broad grin. The bard was staring at the minstrel in rapt attention, a dazed smile on his face.

"I think someone's smitten," Caramon said, chuckling.

Olinia finished tuning, and ran her long fingers across the strings, a waterfall of notes. Plucking her lyre, she began the tale.

"We horsefolk use many weapons in battle," Olinia said. "Spears, cudgels, swords and scythes. But there is one none of us will wield, nor has any in a hundred generations. Not since our people were young has any centaur swung an axe in war. This is the story of why this is so.

"Our people were born of chaos. Ages past, when the Graygem was freed to wander the earth, it left none who beheld it unchanged. Trolls, goblins, minotaurs—even the dwarves and kender sprang from its magic. It changed people according to their nature, and so, when it found tribes of barbarian horsemen, it made horse and rider into one. Thus did our people first appear.

"The time of the Graygem was also a time of fear. Those it had not touched reviled those it had, fearing them for their differences. Men hated us, drove us out. We became nomads, wandering the face of Ansalon. Our scattered clans joined together, forming the seven great tribes: Ebon Lance, Laughing Brook, Iron Hooves, Green Willow, Soaring Mane, Leaping Hart and Keening Wind.

"We found no peace. We would settle in one land or another, sometimes for years, but in the end we were always forced to leave.

"There were those among us," Olinia continued, her tone growing ominous, "who said we should fight, to win a place for us to live for good. One of those was Peldarin of the Ebon Lance tribe. Peldarin was a brave warrior. Whenever the fearful attacked, Peldarin was always the last to withdraw. He fought with great skill and no mercy, slaying hundreds with his war axe, Soulsplitter.

"No one knows for certain whence Soulsplitter came. Some say it is of dwarven make, and that the mountain folk gave it to Peldarin as they would later give the Hammer of Kharas to Huma Dragonbane. Others claim Peldarin forged it himself, from the ashes of a fallen star. Still others say he found it in an ancient, ruined temple. Whatever the case, Soulsplitter was a weapon of might. It cut through armor as if it weren't there, and could cleave a stone in a single blow. Some tales claim Peldarin could sunder mountains with the axe: indeed, one legend claims he is the one who cleft the peak called Prayer's Eye.

"Without Peldarin and Soulsplitter to defend them, our people may well have perished. Certainly, we would have been far fewer when we at last found Darken Wood. Here, at last, we were safe—few humans lived in Abanasinia then. Lord Hyrtamos, who was High Chief in Peldarin's time, befriended the fey folk and satyrs who dwelt in the wood, and swore fealty to the Forestmaster and Chislev. At last, after years of wandering, we'd found a home.

"Not all were content with peace, however. Peldarin yearned to lead war bands into the lands of humans, to wreak vengeance upon those who'd tried to destroy us. When he asked the Circle of Seven for leave to do so, however, the High Chief forbade it.

"That should have been the end of it. Then as now, the word of the Circle was law. But Peldarin wouldn't have it, and took matters into his own hands. He secretly led marauders into southern Ergoth, and to the villages that would later become Xak Tsaroth and other great cities. They slew many humans on their raids, always taking care not to lead pursuit back to Darken Wood.

"Peldarin couldn't hide his activities from the Circle forever, though. Hyrtamos began to suspect, and confronted him several times. Each time Peldarin denied having done any wrong. At last, however, he made a mistake he couldn't hide. He returned from a raid with human blood still on Soulsplitter's blade.

"Hyrtamos should have brought Peldarin before the Circle when he learned of this. Instead, foolishly, he accused Peldarin in private, hoping to talk sense into him. Instead, they quarrelled bitterly, and the High Chief threatened to have Peldarin's tail shorn. Then he turned his back to leave.

"Though he was a great chief, Hyrtamos still made mistakes, and this was by far the greatest. In a fit of rage, Peldarin struck him down. Soulsplitter's magic was such that the axe cut Hyrtamos in two, cleaving his human half from the part that was horse. So the first High Chief of Darken Wood died, at the hands of his greatest warrior.

"Our people have one punishment for murdering a chief: gelding and death. Knowing this would be his fate, Peldarin took up the axe and smote himself in the neck, cutting off his own head. When the High Chief's guards discovered the bodies, they had to break Peldarin's dead fingers to make him let Soulsplitter go.

"The Circle, left with the axe, resolved to destroy it. But they couldn't break it. When they tried to smash it with stones, the stones burst instead; it emerged from the hottest fires unscathed. At last, the chiefs decided: if they couldn't sunder Soulsplitter, they would hide it away, so no centaur could use it in wrath again.

"They couldn't take it out of Darken Wood, however; if they did, they feared humans would find it one day and wreak great evil. Instead, they hid it where no centaur or human had ever gone. They approached the laird of the sprites, ruler of the fey folk, and beseeched him to keep it in his hidden kingdom, where only his kind and the dryads went. They also asked him to swear an oath, that his people would never let the axe leave their realm in centaur hands. So Soulsplitter passed from this world.

"Ever since that day," Olinia concluded, plucking a final chord upon her strings, "no centaur has ever raised an axe in war."

The final, ringing notes from the minstrel's lyre slowly fell into silence.

"It is late," Menelachos said. "Thou mayst go, Olinia."

The minstrel bowed. "My lord," she murmured. Then she let the messenger guide her away, into the darkness.

When she was gone, Caramon cleared his throat. "So you think this Soulsplitter can destroy Grimbough?"

"We are sure of it," Eucleia declared proudly.

Pleuron chuckled. "Not that we believe Peldarin made Prayer's Eye Peak, of course, but if half the tales about it are true, no tree could stand against it—not even one corrupted by Chaos."

"We need thee," Menelachos said, "to travel to the kingdom of the fey folk and retrieve the axe from Laird Guithern, who rules the sprites."

Dezra's brow furrowed. She jerked her thumb in the direction the minstrel had gone. "Didn't she just say no one could go there?"

"Nay," said Menelachos. "Only that none of us ever have. We could go ourselves, but the sprites are forbidden to give us Soulsplitter."

"How do we get there?" Caramon asked.

Nemeredes spoke up. "Thou hast heard of the dryads?"

Caramon and Dezra shook their heads, but Borlos nodded. "Sure. They're oak spirits. They lure men into their trees to kill them."

Several of the centaurs snorted in amusement. "Human ignorance," Eucleia sneered.

Pleuron spoke before anyone could retort. "What Lady Eucleia means to say, in her own charming way," he said, "is that the stories seem to have become… twisted… by thy people."

"What?" Dezra asked, one eyebrow rising. "You're telling me not every bard's tale is absolute truth?"

Borlos shot her a look that could have withered crops. Caramon and the centaurs chuckled, however. Only dour Eucleia didn't smile.

"Just so," said Menelachos. "The truth is, the dryads—the oak maidens—aren't spirits at all, but flesh. And while they do lure men into their trees, it isn't to feast upon them."

"Not in that way, anyway," Pleuron added. "You see, they normally mate with satyrs, and they don't like it much. So sometimes they seduce one of thy kind. Poor fellows often don't come back out of the trees for years."

Caramon swallowed. "Years?"

"If at all," Pleuron added.

"A dryad's tree is like a gate," Menelachos explained. "They're all connected—the ones in Darken Wood, anyway—and they also lead to the kingdom of the sprites. We know of one who might take thee there."

"But surely you could tell one of the sprites to ask this Laird Guithern to give you the axe," Caramon said.

"Aye, we could," Pleuron allowed, "but the sprites haven't left their kingdom since the Second Cataclysm. And the dryads and satyrs… well, to be honest, we don't trust them. They can be fickle things."

Dezra regarded Menelachos intently. "So you want us to find this dryad, use her tree to get into the faerie realm, convince this Laird Whoever-he-is to give us this axe, and bring it back to you?"

"Aye," said Menelachos. "The funeral is tomorrow. Thou wilt leave the day after that. Trephas will go with thee."

"Pay me another thousand in steel," Dezra said after a moment's thought, "and I'll do it."

"We'll do it," Caramon amended quickly.

Dezra shot him a look, but said nothing.

Hurach dared move again only when the Circle and the humans were gone. The satyr crept slowly across the Yard of Gathering, his cloven hooves making no sound in the long grass. He moved from shadow to shadow, melding with the darkness wherever he could. He stopped at the edge of the Yard, his breath coming in quick, fearful gasps. A party of horse-men walked past the shadows where he hid. They were singing and swigging wine from heavy jugs. He waited long enough for them to turn their backs, then sprinted across Ithax with all the speed he could muster.

The huts passed in a blur, and soon he was back at the palisade. He paused in the wall's shade, listening for sounds of pursuit, shouts of alarm. A moment passed, and he grunted with satisfaction: nothing. He hadn't been spotted.

Hurach climbed the palisade easily, moving up the smooth surface with the speed and sure feet of a spider. Using his muscular, shaggy arms, he pulled himself onto the battlements—

And froze, looking straight up the shaft of a centaur's spear.

"Here, now," the horse-man said, pressing the lance's broad head against the underside of Hurach's chin. "Who art thou? A goat-man… and a spy at that. I can tell by thy eyes." The centaur spat.

Hurach had a knife tucked into his loincloth. Only now it wasn't there; it was in the centaur's chest, all the way to its crossguard. The horse-man and the satyr both stared at it stupidly—Hurach couldn't remember having drawn it, much less throwing it—then the centaur collapsed, the dumbfounded expression frozen on his face.

Hurach glanced around. He hadn't been noticed yet, but that would change if he didn't move. He vaulted over the top of the palisade.

It was a long drop, and his wind left him when he landed. As he lay on the ground, wheezing, he marveled that he hadn't broken anything. Dazedly, he dragged himself to his feet and lurched away from the town, keeping always to the shadows. He laughed quietly as he ran.

He'd heard everything—the minstrel's tale, the bargain the centaurs and the humans had struck, the plan to recover Soulsplitter. Now, he made his way back into Darken Wood's depths. He would be at Sangelior by nightfall tomorrow.

He was sure that, when he got there, Lord Chrethon would be interested to hear what he'd learned.