Chapter Twenty

Dezra woke to loud snoring. She fumbled for her flask of dwarf spirits, took a quick drink, then rose and quietly gathered her gear. Carefully, she crept to the door, nearly tripping over Borlos's slumbering form along the way. Stepping over the bard, she slipped out of the hut, into the early morning light.

The sky was overcast, promising rain. Mist clung to the earth. The breeze was cold and damp. She pulled her cloak tight against its chill.

"Going somewhere?"

She dropped her packs and spun, dagger in hand.

Caramon perched on a log next to the hut, wearing his armor and his old, dragon-winged helm. He looked like he'd been sitting there for a while.

"I thought you might try to sneak out," he said. "Could you put that knife away? Unless you mean to use it, of course."

With a flick of her wrist, she reversed her grip on the dagger and flung it. It buried itself in the log, a hand's breadth from Caramon's leg.

He regarded the knife, then reached down and prized it free. "That was supposed to prove something, I suppose."

"I could have put it through your throat just as easily," Dezra said haughtily. "I can take care of myself."

"You can, eh?" He lobbed the dagger, hilt-first, back to her. She caught it easily. "What about just now? I certainly seemed to take you by surprise. If I'd meant you harm, I'd be cleaning your blood off my sword right now."

"You're a fine one to talk. I saw the way you looked after that fight by the Darkwater."

"You've got a point. No, I admit it," he said, seeing her brows knit. "If I go on this quest, there's a good chance I won't come back—especially if there's much fighting. Still, I'm going. I owe it to the Forestmaster—and besides, if that daemon tree corrupts all of Darken Wood, it won't be long before it turns on Solace."

She shrugged and started picking up her things. "Go wake Borlos," she told him. The bard still snored inside the hut. "I won't leave without you. Far be it from me to keep you from getting yourself killed."

She turned and walked swiftly away. Caramon watched her go, then went back into the hut.

They were five when they set out: the three humans, Trephas, and the scout, Arhedion. The wild young piebald galloped ahead, riding at point. They headed southeast until midday, then rounded an arm of the mountains and turned north. It began to rain, fat drops pattering on the leaves above.

"How far do we have to go?" Borlos asked, pulling up his hood. He'd been plucking his new lyre absently while they walked; now he tucked it into his cloak to keep its strings dry.

Trephas tossed his wet mane. "The dryads who'll speak to my people are few. But don't worry—there's one I know well. We'll reach her tree by dusk."

The weather turned worse. The rain came down harder, making everyone profoundly miserable. Soon their clothes were soaked through, and boots and fetlocks were caked with mud. Night began to fall, and still the rain refused to stop. Finally, as darkness consumed the forest, they caught up with Arhedion. The young scout had come to a halt in a narrow clearing, and watched the tree line, an arrow nocked on his bow.

"We're stopping?" Borlos asked hopefully.

Trephas exchanged words with Arhedion, then nodded. "It's safe here. We shouldn't go on any farther tonight. The dryad's tree is near here, but we shouldn't seek her at night. We'll go tomorrow morning—a bit late, but not such as will make any difference."

Arhedion had been busy while he waited for them. He'd built a crude lean-to of branches and withes, and had also shot two coneys, which they cooked over a low, guttering fire. They ate beneath the shelter, and the rain let up, diminishing to a drizzle, then stopping altogether. The cloud-blanketed sky was full dark when they were done, sucking their fingers clean and clearing their palates with water and wine.

They lit torches from the fire's embers and split into two watches. Exhausted from the long slog through the foul weather, Borlos and Trephas—who had the second watch—dozed off almost immediately after.

When Dezra woke them, sometime after midnight, Caramon and Arhedion were already asleep and she was drowsy to the point of incoherence. Mumbling to herself, she slumped to the ground, resting her head on her pack. Before she could pull her blanket over her body, her head lolled and she began to snore.

Trephas, who'd been watching her, crept to her side. Carefully he bent down, took the blanket from her limp hands, and pulled it up over her slowly moving breast. He tarried a moment, then brushed her cheek before rising back up to his full height. When he turned around, he saw Borlos sitting on a tree stump, plucking absently at his lyre. There was a knowing smile on the bard's face.

"Aha," Borlos said, winking.

Trephas shot him a look that could have lit tinder.

Borlos stopped playing and raised his hands. "Easy there, friend. Just having fun. Look, you can tell me—you've got a thing for her, don't you?"

"A… thing?"

"Yeah, you know. A crush. A thing. Don't worry," he added, seeing the centaur's face darken. "I won't tell her. Although I get the feeling she fancies you, too, even though she's as testy with you as she is with her father."

Trephas's face reddened. He slung his quiver over his shoulder, the arrows rattling. "I'll take the north side of the clearing," he said curtly, pawing the ground. "You watch to the south. We'll wake the others at dawn."

Grinning, Borlos watched him stride away. He'd hit near the mark, that was for certain. Finally, the bard glanced down at Dezra. Her face was lined with annoyance, even in sleep. Chuckling, he rose from the stump and went to a boulder at the clearing's south end. He dragged himself up onto the rock, stretched, and sat. Wedging his torch into a crack in the rock, he began to pluck at his lyre again as he watched the pitch-black forest.

Borlos fell silent suddenly, his fingers flattening against the strings to still them. He'd heard something, he was sure, in the forest. Now he heard it again, clearer this time: a faint scuffling. His stomach tightened until it felt as small and hard as a walnut. Slowly, he pulled his mace from his belt.

"Who's there?" he whispered.

The scuffling sounded a third time. He set aside his lyre and rose, glancing over his shoulder. "Trephas!" he hissed. "There's something out—uh-oh."

The centaur was still on his feet, but there was no mistaking the slump of his shoulders, the droop of his head—not to mention his bow, which had fallen from his limp hands. He'd fallen asleep standing up.

Borlos gawked in amazement. Then, with a start, he realized his back was turned to whatever was making the noise out in the darkness. Turning back around, he stood still, listening, but the noise didn't come again. He climbed down from the rock, hurried back to the fire, and grabbed Caramon's shoulder.

"Big guy," he said. "Wake up."

"Snuzz," Caramon grunted, rolling over. "Murblix."

"No you don't," Borlos snapped, shaking him. "Come on. I need you to—"

"Furz nub!" Caramon mumbled. One of his arms flailed, shoving the bard away.

Borlos stumbled and fell on his backside too. He glanced at Dezra and Arhedion: they were both asleep, just as deep as Caramon. Reluctantly, he turned back toward the darkness. He heard the scuffling again. It sounded nearer.

"Right," he said gravely.

Torch in one hand, mace in the other, he crept back to the boulder, then sidled into the forest. "The rest of you, follow me," he bluffed loudly. "Whoever it is, the ten of us will make short work of them."

The scuffling stopped. In its place came a soft growl. He froze. It was ten paces in front of him, a dozen if he was lucky. He held his torch out. Its flickering light seemed pathetic amid the darkness.

"H-hello?" he murmured.

All at once, the shadows came alive. Something burst out of them, lunging at him with a snarl. He leapt back, stumbled, and fell, his mace flying from his hand. As he went down he caught a glimpse of spiny fur and wide, dark eyes, felt something nip at his left heel, then heard whatever it was change directions and bolt into the bushes again. He saw it from behind as it fled. It was the size of a small dog, low to the ground, and moving with a swift, darting gait. Its tail was covered with thick white quills.

It was a spiny trevil, no threat at all. Borlos shut his eyes and began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked a voice directly above him.

Borlos stopped laughing so fast, he nearly swallowed himself. He scuttled backward like a bug, eyes flaring, and raised his torch. Its ruddy glow illuminated the slender figure of a woman.

His first thought was that Dezra had come after him, but that was all wrong. For one thing, the figure was too short: Dezra was tall, nearly six feet, but this woman was barely five. She was slight and willowy like an elfmaid, with a delicate face to match. Her skin was jet black, and her long, silken hair was the bright green of spring leaves. And she was stark naked.

"Who—" he started to ask, then his voice broke and he had to try again. "Who are you?"

Her large, violet eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm Pallidice," she replied. "What manner of man are you, who hunts trevils in the depth of night, then laughs when he flushes them out?"

Borlos was smitten. It swept over him with the sudden, pleasant warmth of a summer breeze. He felt himself drawn into this strange woman's gaze. His mouth opened and closed.

The woman laughed musically. "No matter," she said, her eyes traveling up and down his trembling body. They fixed on his heel, where the trevil's teeth had pierced his boot. "Ah, you're wounded. I'll tend you."

She knelt down—he caught his breath as her hair shifted, revealing glimpses of soft, supple skin—and pulled off his boot. Self-consciously, he started to rise, but she pushed him back with a tiny hand.

"Be still," she said sternly, then bent down and pressed her lips against his injured foot.

Borlos shuddered, his pain forgotten. She kissed his heel a while, then began to wander, creeping up his body. Before long her face was above his, smiling. Her mouth opened, lowering toward his. He responded in kind, and his whole body went rigid as their lips crushed together. She tasted like wild-flowers.

Then it ended. With heartbreaking grace, Pallidice rose and stood above him, pouting.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

He boggled. "I—er—you… yes. Great gods, yes. I love you."

She laughed. "Then catch me!"

With that, she sprang away, moving with startling speed into the forest. Borlos scrambled to his feet and charged after, waving his torch as he gave chase. Now and then he saw a flash of black skin and green hair, then she disappeared again, leading him deeper into the woods. He followed her waterfall laughter.

He realized, as he ran, that one of his feet was bare: he'd left his boot behind. For good measure he kicked off the other. Then, without knowing what he was doing, he tore off the rest of his clothes. His armor went first, tossed away into the night, then his tunic. Somehow he got his trousers off while he ran. He was down to just his breechcloth when he caught up to Pallidice again.

She'd come to a stop before a tall, old oak tree, her back pressed against its gnarled bark. Her small breasts heaved as she shrank back in mock terror. "No!" she breathed, giggling. "What shall I do? You've trapped me!"

With a lusty laugh, Borlos stepped toward her. She reached down, tugged at his breechcloth. It fell away, and she wrapped her arms about him. Their mouths sought each other. Their limbs tangled. She writhed in pleasure as he pressed her back against the ancient oak.

Borlos didn't realize anything was wrong at first. His eyes were shut, so he didn't see the tree's bark split open behind Pallidice. He was so lost in rapture, he didn't feel the wood beneath give way. Only when the smell of fresh, sweet sap surrounded him did he realize something was wrong.

By then it was too late. They were inside the tree.

"No!" he pleaded, his hand groping its way out of the tree. "Please… let me go… ."

But the dryad only laughed, her breath hot in his ear, as the tree sealed shut around him.