Chapter Twenty-Four

Spring passed, and summer came, Darken Wood grew darker still as the leaves thickened upon the trees. In all that time, no word came back to Ithax from Trephas, or the humans who had gone with him.

The centaurs had had high hopes at first. The Circle had dispatched extra scouts to watch for Trephas's return. That had lasted three weeks, to no avail. After that, Arhedion had begged leave to ride to Pallidice's grove, once a week, to seek some sign of the travelers. So he had, for another two months. Stubbornly, he'd refused to stop—until a fortnight ago, on his return from yet another unsuccessful sojourn, when Nemeredes the Elder had met him at Ithax's gates. The sorrow on the old chieftain's face had told the young scout all he needed to know.

"My son is gone," Nemeredes had explained, his voice hoarse with sorrow. "We'll not see him again, nor the humans. Soulsplitter will not be ours. I know he was thy friend, Arhedion, but thou must let him go."

Arhedion hadn't returned to Pallidice's grove since. There'd been other duties to see to. The troubles in Darken Wood had grown worse. The Skorenoi continued to advance, slaughtering those they couldn't capture and give over to Grimbough. With each attack, they claimed more of the forest, and the daemon tree's corruption spread. Woods the centaurs had hunted for millennia became twisted and foul.

Despite Chrethon's growing power, the horsefolk remained defiant. They fought valiantly, slaying two Skorenoi for every centaur who fell. It wasn't enough, though. There were too many enemies to hold out forever.

There'd been talk of sending another rider out for human aid. Pleuron and Nemeredes had favored the idea, but Eucleia had argued vehemently against it. Menelachos, to his sorrow, had been forced to agree with her, and that had settled the matter. The centaurs of Darken Wood would stand or fall on their own.

Four days ago, less than a week before Midyear Day, Skorenoi raiders had attacked and killed several herdsmen, as well as their flocks and families. This was nothing new, but these herdsmen had lived less than a half-day's ride from Ithax. Outraged, the Circle had sent forth a hundred warriors, led by Zerian, Menelachos's son, to retaliate. They too had vanished, leaving only a few bloodied corpses scattered in the hills, a feast for the crows.

Now Arhedion rode in their stead, leading fifty centaurs toward the enemy's territory—not to fight, like the previous band, but to spy on the enemy. He wondered, as he crept through the woods, if Zerian had been as frightened as he was.

The sun was high, shafts of light lancing through the foliage, when he called a halt by a narrow creek. "Food and wine," he told his party. "We ride again in ten minutes."

Gratefully, the scouts stopped to eat. Arhedion ordered six to keep watch, and sent a pair ahead to make sure no one waited in ambush. Then he unstopped a wine-flask and devoured a handful of olives, spitting their pits into the bushes. He scanned the undergrowth, his scalp prickling.

Something wasn't right. He gestured to a slender, black mare. "Iasta! Come here!"

Iasta was the band's most skilled woodsman. She knew as much about the forest as anyone Arhedion knew. She cantered over, swigging wine as she came. "What's the trouble?"

"The forest. It isn't right—dost thou feel it?"

"Truly," Iasta agreed gravely. "It's been so for the past mile, perhaps more. Shall I take a closer look?"

Arhedion nodded, and they walked to a young poplar tree. Iasta drew a knife and carved a strip of bark from the tree. She sniffed it, then broke off a bit and put it in her mouth. Grimacing, she spat it out. Raising the knife again, she cut three slashes across the wood she'd exposed. Brown, oily sap ran out. Tiny white worms oozed forth with it, and fell, squirming, on the ground.

"Stones and shoes!" Arhedion swore.

"As I thought," Iasta said, wiping her dagger on a fern. "Grimbough's magic. It isn't strong yet, but there's no mistaking it. The trees near my village became like this, three years ago. A season later, they were beyond help."

Arhedion swallowed. The Circle would want to hear of this. Perhaps he should send a pair of runners back to Ithax—

No sooner had he put together that thought than he heard hoofbeats approaching the camp. He whistled to his warriors. They dropped their packs and flasks and grabbed their weapons, in case the approaching riders were Skorenoi.

They weren't; it was the two outriders Arhedion had sent ahead. They lunged out of the undergrowth, red-faced and blowing hard, then pulled up when they saw the lances and arrows arrayed against them.

"Don't shoot!" gasped one, a yellow-coated mare whose flanks were daubed with whorls of war-paint. "Put up thy weapons. We weren't followed."

"Followed?" Arhedion asked. His tail twitched. "By whom?"

The yellow mare's partner, a gray stallion whose head was shaved save for a white braid above his left ear, cleared his throat. "Skorenoi," he said.

Arhedion's skin bumped with gooseflesh. He blew out his lips. "Show me. I would see for myself."

They waited until the outriders regained their wind, then he named Iasta and a dozen others to go with him. They rode half a league, to a ridge where tall pines swayed.

"Be silent," the yellow mare warned, and started up the slope.

It was a difficult climb: the ridge was steep, carpeted with needles that slid beneath their hooves. They made their way to the top without a sound, then hunkered low, below the rocky crest. Bow and arrow ready, Arhedion peered over the edge, into the broad valley below.

"Chislev's withers," he breathed.

The valley was blanketed with oaks and aspens, but there was no missing what lay beneath the shifting leaves. The woods were crawling with Skorenoi—thousands of them.

"Looks like an army," Iasta murmured shakily.

Arhedion nodded, feeling cold all over. "I think we'd better get back to Ithax."

There was no telling what gave them away. It could have been the jingling of a war harness, the glint of sunlight on an arrowhead—even their scent, borne by the wind into the valley. Whatever it was, though, the blare of horns sounded from behind as Arhedion and the others climbed back down the ridge. Then hooves rumbled, headed toward them.

Arhedion cursed, glancing around. Several of his scouts had frozen in horror. "Move!" he roared, waving his arms. "Run! Go!"

They slid down the ridge, sending showers of needles before them. Arhedion landed hard, losing half the arrows out of his quiver, then Iasta hauled on his arm and they bolted into the woods. The other scouts ran too, galloping recklessly through the trees. Before long, arrows began to fall around them. Arhedion glanced back, and saw the ridge was lined with Skorenoi archers. The gray outrider grunted and fell, an arrow between his shoulders. He started to rise, then another shaft pierced his skull.

Panic seized the horsefolk. Yelling, they pelted onward. An arrow grazed Arhedion's shoulder, drawing a line of blood; another shattered against his war harness. He ran on, heedless.

When the arrows finally stopped and the centaurs dared slow their pace, half the party was gone—including Iasta. Arhedion felt sick at this, but resisted the temptation to go back. Several of the other centaurs started to turn, clearly having the same urge.

"No!" he snapped. "They're gone! Get back to the others!"

They did, hearts hammering, pausing briefly to gather the rest of the party before plunging on. Finally, after they'd been galloping for more than an hour, they slowed their pace.

"We lost them," said one of the scouts. "They gave up the chase!"

Arhedion shook his head. "No. They'll come, sooner or later, all the way to Ithax. This is just the beginning."