Chapter Twenty-Six

Chrethon strode along the line of the Skorenoi camp, gazing at Ithax's walls. The town's defenders lined the palisade, gripping their bows, staring back across the killing ground that had, not long ago, been a pleasant meadow. Now the grass and clover were gone, the earth trampled to blood-drenched mud. Spent arrows sprouted from the waste, a mocking memory of the daisies that had been in bloom when the siege began. Crows and flies feasted upon the slain. The stench in the air was horrible, but Chrethon reveled in it. To him, it was the scent of triumph.

Forty days ago, the Skorenoi had finally reached Ithax. It had been a long advance, with much hard fighting along the way, but now, except for a few scattered marauders, the horsefolk were penned up within their walls. The Skorenoi had put the vineyards and fields to the torch, slaughtering any horsefolk they'd encountered in those last leagues.

The day they invested the town, Chrethon had ordered an assault on the gates. That had been a mistake. The centaurs had been ready for him. The Skorenoi had lost many to the archers and stake-riddled trenches that protected the town, and hadn't been able to get their rams near the town's gates. In the end, they'd been forced to withdraw.

There'd been celebration among the defenders that night, but their victory was hollow. Now Skorenoi tents and fires ringed the mound where Ithax stood. They'd been there more than a month, keeping anyone from entering or leaving. The siege had been mostly quiet, with only the occasional skirmish as a parties of warriors emerged from the gates, trying to break through the Skorenoi lines. None had gotten through. Their flyblown heads were mounted on stakes within clear view of the town.

Siegecraft was difficult for the Skorenoi. Most accepted means of breaching a wall were impractical, thanks to their shape. Ladders and siege towers were useless to creatures who couldn't climb them. Tunneling to collapse the walls was no easier. There were other strategies, of course, but none had worked so far. The centaurs drenched their walls with water from their spring-fed wells, thwarting attempts to bum them. Rams were useless as long as those who carried them died before they reached the gates. Even starvation, which won more sieges than any other means, was proving difficult. The centaurs had stockpiled a great deal of food. They would run out, of course, but not before autumn.

Chrethon didn't have that long to wait. The Skorenoi were growing impatient. Ithax had to fall, and soon.

He glanced east. The sky was starting to glimmer with dawn. He called for a runner, and one came: a gangly creature with long, muscular legs. It moved toward him with astonishing speed, then bowed.

"What is thy will, my lord?" it asked.

"Find Hurach," Chrethon said quietly. "Tell him to meet me on the north front, behind the lines."

The runner sprinted off. Chrethon glanced once more toward the palisade, then turned north, making his way through the camp. He passed warriors sparring, smiths sharpening lances, fletchers shaping new arrows. As in Sangelior, there was little order to the ranks, but they all bowed to him as he passed.

Hurach was waiting for him, in the shadows. "How may I serve you, lord?" he asked.

Chrethon glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. "I have a task for thee," he answered softly.

"I won't have this!" Eucleia raged. Her tail thrashed as her voice rang out across the Yard of Gathering. "We can't simply sit here, biding, while Chrethon waits for us to starve!"

The other chiefs looked at one another uneasily. The Circle had gathered in the Yard at midday, as they'd done each of the past forty days. There'd been more shouting than discussion. Eucleia and old Nemeredes were responsible for most of the hot words. They'd never been friendly, and tempers had frayed during the siege. Now, as the sun sank toward the mountains, their discord began all over again.

Nemeredes snorted. "What wouldst thou have us do?" he demanded. "Sally forth into their midst? They'd cut us down like barley!"

"Aye, they would," Eucleia shot back. "But if we try to fight through, some might escape into the mountains. If we stay and the Skorenoi wear us down—how many of us will survive then?"

Nemeredes's scowl deepened. Before he could reply, however, Pleuron raised a hand. "Why canst thou not admit it, Nemeredes?" he asked, not unkindly. "She makes sense. They have the upper hand, and no one's coming to rescue us. What other choice do we have?"

Nemeredes shook his head, his white mane flying. "Thou hast always been a fool, Pleuron, but I never doubted thy courage before."

The fat centaur drew himself up, nostrils flared, and pointed the stump of his arm at Nemeredes. "Dost thou call me a coward?" he snapped. "How brave art thou, hiding behind these walls?"

"Enough!" bellowed Lord Menelachos. The High Chief had been silent, calmly listening to both sides. Now, his patience had broken. "All of thee, quit bickering like colts and fillies!"

Pleuron bowed his head. "I ask thy pardon, lord."

"I give it—to all of thee," Menelachos replied, glowering at Nemeredes and Eucleia. The two chiefs continued to seethe at each other silently. "As to this talk of leaving Ithax, it is no new thing. I've spoken against it before. Now, I fear I've been wrong to do so."

Eucleia's face, which had begun to harden, suddenly flared with hope. Nemeredes looked at the High Chief in alarm. "My lord—"

"Whist," Menelachos bade. "I've heard thy opinion on the matter, old friend. And while I value thy counsel, I fear this time thou art misguided. Eucleia's right—we must act, before it's too late."

"If only Trephas and the humans had brought back the axe," Pleuron sighed.

"No," Menelachos declared. "We have no time for 'if only.' We must deal with now. I believe we should ride out before the week ends, and fight our way past the Skorenoi. Who's with me?"

"I am," Eucleia said, her chin rising.

Pleuron hesitated, then nodded.

Nemeredes blew out his lips in defeat, pawing the ground. "What does it matter what I think? If the three of thee have made up thy minds—"

"My lords!"

The shout came from across the Yard. The chiefs turned and saw a young, war-painted piebald pluck a handful of grass, put it in his mouth, and hasten toward them.

"Arhedion?" called Lord Pleuron.

The scout's nostrils were wide, and his tail twitched as he bowed before the chiefs. "My lords, I regret interrupting thy conclave… ."

"What?" Eucleia snapped. "Out with it!"

Arhedion flinched, then nodded. "Of course, my lady. I come from the gates, at Rhedogar's behest. The Skorenoi are advancing."

"Burrs in my fetlocks," Pleuron swore. Eucleia reached for her sword, and Nemeredes spat on the ground.

"How many?" Menelachos asked.

Arhedion coughed. "All of them, my lord."

The air beyond the gates was thick with arrows as Arhedion led the chiefs toward the palisade. In place of stairs, a long wooden ramp led to the battlements; the Circle climbed at a canter, hooves clattering against the planks. Rhedogar hurried to meet them, making his way past the archers who were peppering the ground below. Cries of pain rose outside, punctuated by explosive cracks as killing shots exploded within their victims' bodies. Atop the palisade, a score of Ithax's defenders had already fallen, pierced by enemy arrows. Their fellows shoved their bodies off the battlements, keeping the catwalk clear.

Rhedogar caught Lord Menelachos's arm as the High Chief reached the ramp's top; Nemeredes pushed past them both, heading swiftly to where his son, Gyrtomon, was barking orders to the archers.

To the right, a centaur cried out as an arrow arced over the battlements, piercing his chest. As Rhedogar and the chiefs watched, he reached up to touch the shaft, then collapsed. The archers to either side of him stopped shooting long enough to dump his carcass off the catwalk, then returned to the fighting.

"It's foolish of him to attack like this," Rhedogar growled, "and risk losing so many of his warriors." A flaming arrow flew past, clearing the battlements to land inside the town. It smoldered stubbornly for a moment, then went out. "We can hold him off if all else remains equal. Now with all respect, my lords, I should get back to the fighting."

"Of course," Menelachos replied.

The grizzled centaur bowed quickly, then hurried back to the battlements, loading his bow as he went. Yelling, he let fly at the town's attackers, then plucked another shaft from his quiver and fired again.

Menelachos turned to the others. "We must talk."

"Aye," Pleuron agreed. He glanced down the catwalk as another archer crumpled, an arrow in his eye. "Let's do it somewhere we're not getting shot at, though. I'll get Nemeredes," he added, starting forward.

"Don't," Menelachos said, catching his arm. "He's lost two of his sons already. Let him stay here. If Gyrtomon dies today, Nemeredes should be with him. Now come quickly. Arhedion, stay with us."

They strode back down the ramp. Below, the piles of corpses at the bottom of the wall grew as more of the town's defenders fell. The pounding of hooves and shouts of pain and rage grew steadily louder outside.

"What thinkest thou?" Menelachos watched the others.

"Rhedogar's our finest warrior," Pleuron replied. "He'll hold the gates, whatever the cost."

Eucleia shook her head. "We're missing something. Some advantage the Skorenoi have that we don't know about."

"I've been thinking the same," Menelachos agreed. "Chrethon is cunning—he wouldn't have beaten us as many times otherwise. But what does he plan?"

The chiefs mulled on this. Pleuron shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. "Perhaps we should consider following through on the plans we were making before the attack, though."

"Leave Ithax?" Menelachos asked. "While we're under attack?"

Pleuron nodded soberly. "I don't mean we should ride out now, my lord," he replied, "but if the fight goes badly, we should be prepared."

"I agree," Eucleia said. "Better to be overcautious than dead."

"Very well, then," Menelachos said reluctantly. "Arhedion, ask Rhedogar for all the runners he can spare. Have them ride about the town, telling folk to gather at the Yard. I want everyone who isn't already fighting to assemble there before the sun's down."

Bowing, the scout turned and sprinted back up the ramp.

Hurach crouched in the shadows, listening as the fighting rose in pitch. It had been building for some time, and still Ithax's defenders held out, valiantly keeping the Skorenoi at bay. Even outnumbered, the horsefolk were clearly going to prevail.

He smiled wickedly. That was just what Chrethon wanted them to think. The vain attack was deliberate, to build false confidence among the centaurs. It was working, too. Ithax's defenders let out victorious shouts as they slew the attacking Skorenoi. They were convinced they would win, that none of Chrethon's minions would make it into Ithax.

They were wrong. Hurach was already there.

In the battle's first moments, he'd crept to the south side of the town, far from the main gates, keeping to the shadows. When the attack began, he'd scaled the wall like a goat-legged spider, slipping past the guards as the sounds of battle drew their attention. He'd gone over the top unnoticed, a patch of darkness in the twilight.

There were other ways in and out of Ithax besides the main gates. Searching as Chrethon had bidden, he'd found a postern, wide enough to admit two centaurs abreast, in the south palisade. It made a poor place to assail the wall. The ground outside was treacherous, sloping at an angle that made it impossible to use a ram properly. It was barred with a heavy oaken beam, and four guards stood watch before it. The sentries were all staring north now, toward the fighting. Again, their distraction was a boon. It would make it much easier to do what he must. All he needed now was his sign.

Before long, it came. The red star in the north sky began to shine, revealed by the dwindling of the daylight. On the other side of Ithax, Chrethon would see it and start giving orders. It was time to act.

He drew his knife, creeping toward the guards through the shadows. He crept up, making no sound at all, then darted in, blade flicking like a serpent's tongue.

He took the first centaur with a single stab from behind; it died before it knew anything was amiss. Leaping, he lashed out as the second turned toward him, and opened its jugular. It fell, gasping as blood welled from its throat, thrashed feebly, then was still.

The other two turned and saw him, eyes widening. One, a slender sorrel mare, turned and ran as her partner, an ivory stallion, shouted for her to get help. The stallion wheeled to face Hurach, his lance flashing. The satyr ducked the first thrust, dodged a second, then backed up until he bumped into the corpse of the horse-man he'd stabbed in the back. He twisted away from a third thrust, knocking the lance downward as it passed him. The spear drove into the corpse, lodging there. As the sentry tried to pull his weapon free, Hurach lunged once more, cutting a deep gash across his opponent's stomach. The centaur dropped his lance, groping at the deep, painful wound. Hurach made short work of him, stabbing him three times to make sure he was dead.

The sorrel mare was running, bolting for Ithax's darkened huts. Hurach straightened, reversed his grip on his knife, and threw. The blade spun through the air and struck the mare in the neck. She crashed limply to the ground.

Hurach glanced around quickly to make sure no one else was watching, then loped to the postern. Spitting in his palms, he braced himself against the bar. Shaking with effort, he lifted it from its brackets. He threw it aside, then turned and kicked the gate with a cloven hoof.

It swung open.

The sounds of fighting were diminishing outside the gates, and Lord Menelachos was hoping he'd called the folk of Ithax to the Yard of Gathering for nothing, when the cry arose, freezing his blood:

“The postern gate! They've taken the postern!"

He exchanged horrified glances with Pleuron and Eucleia, then turned to look south, toward the cries. The sentries on the battlements there were firing their bows wildly, at targets both outside and inside the walls. A flight of arrows flashed up in reply, cutting them down. Steel clashed and hooves pounded the earth as the Skorenoi forced their way into the town. Smoke began to rise from burning huts.

"How in the Abyss did they get in?" Pleuron gasped.

"What does it matter?" Eucleia snapped. She gazed across the Yard, at the centaurs who'd gathered there. The horsefolk looked south, snorting and shying as the flames rose. "It's over! They've breached the wall. We've got to get these people out of here."

Menelachos shook his head. "We can still fight—"

"If we do, we die," Pleuron interrupted. "Eucleia's right, my lord—we must flee."

Menelachos was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he heaved a despairing sigh. "Very well. Go on then, Pleuron. Get them out of here. Eucleia, tell Rhedogar to pull his men off the walls. Thou wilt need all his warriors to fight thy way through Chrethon's ranks."

Pleuron's eyes widened. "My lord? What about thee?"

"Someone needs to lead the rear guard," Menelachos replied. He shook his head as the other chiefs opened their mouths to object. "Don't argue—there's no time."

Pleuron tarried long enough to clasp the High Chief's shoulder, then whirled and cantered toward the assembled centaurs, shouting to get their attention.

"Go on," Menelachos told Eucleia. He took off his jeweled tore and handed it to her. "You're High Chief now, my friend. May Chislev walk beside you."

She nodded solemnly, donning the tore. Then, bowing, she wheeled and galloped north toward the gates, calling Rhedogar's name.

Menelachos watched her go, then cantered south, his eyes on the smoke and flames. He drew his sword and waited.

Chrethon laughed at how well his plan had worked. How easily Ithax had fallen in the end! Smoke piled high on the town's far side, and shrieks of terror rose with it. Even Rhedogar and his archers had come down off the battlements, letting the Skorenoi advance unhindered upon the gates. Chrethon tensed. At last, victory was within his grasp.

"My lord!" called a voice.

He glanced toward it and saw a long-striding runner, frothing as it sprinted toward him. He recognized it: He'd sent it to the postern with Thenidor and his warriors.

"I bring news from Ithax!" the runner proclaimed. "The foe is making a stand at the Yard of Gathering. Thenidor asks for more men to help in the fight!"

Chrethon hesitated, glancing toward Ithax. He wanted as many Skorenoi as he could spare waiting at the front gates when they came down. But then, if Thenidor was having trouble pushing through the town… .

"Find Leodippos," he snarled. "Tell him to go to the postern at once, and take his warriors with him."

The runner bolted away. Soon after, a third of the Skorenoi broke off to circle around the town. Chrethon watched them go, then returned his attention to Ithax. The rams were in place now, beginning to swing as bloodthirsty Skorenoi crowded around.

Chrethon smiled. The rams drew back.

Then, suddenly, the gates swung open on their own. A volley of arrows—hundreds of them—fired through the gap. The rams fell as their bearers died or ran for cover.

"What?" Chrethon exclaimed, astounded.

Before he could say more, a column of centaurs charged out through the gates, weapons flashing. They caught the waiting Skorenoi by surprise, cutting a swath through their midst. As Chrethon watched, his troops fell away from the gates and milled about in confusion, all but letting the fleeing centaurs pass. And still the horsefolk kept coming, fighting and dying valiantly as they pressed outward from the doomed town.

He understood, then: The centaurs were fleeing, using their last chance to escape. It was mad, desperate, but it was working. If he'd still had Leodippos and his legion to call upon, he might be able to stop it happening; now, though, there were no longer enough Skorenoi before the gates to contain the horsefolk.

Rage broke over him in a red, burning rush. Plucking his lance from his harness, he charged toward Ithax, shrieking wildly for blood.

For a time, as the Skorenoi gave ground in confusion and disarray, it seemed the centaurs might escape all but unscathed. Rhedogar, leading the charge, ordered his warriors forward, cleaving through the foe with desperate fury. Many Skorenoi fell back; others died, gored by lances and arrow-riddled by archers who fired as they ran. Behind the horsefolk's warriors, the common folk made their way out across the battlefield as the sounds of fighting spread throughout Ithax behind them. Most carried clubs or spears, but there was little need. The centaur warriors pushed onward, toward the dark hills to the west, the Skorenoi yielding before them.

Then, howling, Lord Chrethon and the rest of his host descended upon them.

Rhedogar had expected this. Barking furious orders, he gathered five hundred of his bravest warriors and led them away from the fleeing masses. Gyrtomon, left in charge of the rest, continued to lead the fleeing centaurs away. There were tears in his eyes as he did, for he knew what Rhedogar meant to do. Five hundred warriors wouldn't be enough to beat Chrethon on the field. But it would slow him down.

Chrethon understood this as he thundered toward the centaurs, lance held aloft. He saw the warriors coming to meet him, and understood Rhedogar's plan. He couldn't help but smile as he cursed the old, cunning war-leader. With a snarl, he lowered his lance and pushed himself even faster, clots of mud flying behind his churning hooves.

The centaurs and Skorenoi exchanged savage flights of arrows, firing without breaking pace. Bodies fell in tangles on either side, some toppling their fellows or those behind. Then the two forces struck, lances piercing flesh, cudgels shattering bone. Screams of rage and pain filled the air. Wood and metal shattered as the Skorenoi died; the centaurs plucked more weapons, from their harnesses and the hands of the dead, to continue the fight.

Rhedogar fought furiously, laying about him on all sides as he sought Lord Chrethon. He lost his lance as he slew one foe, then his sword, and a scythe he snatched from a dying Skorenos. Finally, as he bent to lift a spear from the blood-damp earth, he saw his quarry. He raised the lance high and bellowed a challenge. Chrethon, his face wild with battle lust and glistening with centaur blood, wheeled to face him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, then they charged.

Rhedogar's lance, the longer of the two, struck first. At the last moment, however, Chrethon twisted, and the spear's point, which had been aimed at his breast, instead opened a furrow in his shoulder, then caught on his iron-studded war harness. The weapon's shaft snapped. Rhedogar's eyes widened—

And emptied, with shocking suddenness, as Chrethon's spear took him through the heart.

The silver centaur collapsed in a lifeless heap. Whooping with mad glee, Chrethon yanked his lance free, then pushed on, deeper into the fight. The battle continued around him, but already the horsefolk were flagging, their numbers depleted. Here and there, Skorenoi won through their ranks and bolted onward, toward the fleeing mass of Ithax's centaurs. Chrethon killed two more warriors—a mare and a stallion, both barely of age—then charged onward, toward the enemy, Skorenoi galloping with him on all sides.

It was too late, though, and Chrethon cursed, knowing it. Rhedogar and his five hundred had lasted only a short while, but long enough. The centaurs were at the edge of the battlefield now, moving at a gallop, archers firing back to ward off pursuit. He watched, not slowing his pace, as they vanished into night's shadows, into the hills. Too fast to catch.

Even so, he and his warriors followed them into the highlands. They caught stragglers, killed them without mercy—colts and fillies, the old and sick, and those warriors who followed Rhedogar's example and valiantly sought to delay the Skorenoi. A third of Ithax's centaurs died, on the field and in the hills—but the rest escaped, coursing westward through the night, out of Chrethon's reach. Finally, long after the chase became fruitless, he raised his war horn and blew three long blasts, recalling his warriors. With a snarl, he wheeled and started back toward the blazing ruins of Ithax.

Hours later, as dawn approached and the flames were dying, Chrethon stood in the Yard of Gathering, surrounded by the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi alike. He stared down at one in particular, sprawled before him. For the first time since the centaurs' escape, his needle-sharp teeth bared in a smile.

Lord Menelachos had fought ferociously, to the last. His arms were broken, his fingers shattered. Even when he could find no more weapons to use, he'd killed with his bare hands. The same magic that broke whatever weapons slew the Skorenoi had maimed him, left him helpless before the killing stroke: a crushing blow to the temple, which had smashed his skull.

Chrethon looked at the crowd of Skorenoi who'd gathered around the body. "Who slew him?"

No one spoke. Chrethon nodded. More likely than not, he'd never know the answer. He shrugged.

Leodippos and Thenidor stood by, smeared with blood. "I want this town razed," Chrethon hissed at them. "Nothing must remain, save ashes and rubble."

"It shall be done," Leodippos snarled. "And after? What of the survivors?"

"Fled into the hills, most likely. When we're done here, thou shalt hunt them down."

The horse-headed Skorenos bowed. "It will be an honor, lord."

"And I?" ventured Thenidor. "Shall I join the hunt?"

Chrethon shook his head. "No, Thenidor. Thou wilt return to Sangelior with me. I would have thee near, in case I need thee."

Thenidor looked disappointed, but bowed nonetheless. He nodded toward Menelachos's body. "What shall we do with that, lord?"

Chrethon considered a moment, then a cruel leer spread across his face. He bent down, drawing his sword, and set its edge against the High Chief's tail. He sighed at the sound of steel slicing through flesh: it was a sound he'd waited ten years to hear.

He rose, gesturing at Menelachos's mutilated corpse. "Stake his head," he said. "As for the rest of him, let Ithax be his pyre."

With that, he whirled and galloped away through the ruins, holding aloft the High Chief's tail.