Chapter Thirty

The stain of Grimbough's power bad spread far across Darken Wood. Its trees had changed; some were swollen and rotting, others twisted or splintered as if struck by lightning. The songbirds that had flitted among the boughs were gone, and only shrieking crows remained, clustered about the carcasses of animals that hadn't been able to flee the corruption.

Mile upon mile, the befouled forest went on. Bracken and thornbushes thrived where ferns and flowers had grown, and Trephas had to use Soulsplitter to clear them away. No sooner had he cut a path, however, than the brambles began to twist and writhe, growing together again. They clutched at the companions, ripping clothing and scratching flesh with their wicked thorns.

Three leagues out of the dryads' glade, rain began to fall in small, slashing droplets, stinging faces and hands. Still they struggled on, covering what bare skin they could and fighting through the rest.

A grasping briar snagged Dezra's cloak as she walked; irritated, she yanked it loose and stumbled against a leafless oak. The tree's spongy wood yielded, as though it sought to pull her in. Several large centipedes slithered out of the rot and up her arm, jaws twitching. She brushed them off with a yell, then stomped on them, cursing, as they tried to scuttle away.

"Does this ever end?" she asked angrily.

"It must," Caramon replied, swinging his broadsword as another thorny tendril lashed toward him. The branch pulled back, hissing like a snake. "I'd give anything for some high ground, so we could see the wood from above."

Dezra drew her own blade and began to cut the briars as well. "Do you think Ithax is like this now too?"

Caramon glanced toward Trephas. The centaur was well ahead, swinging Soulsplitter like a scythe. "I'm not sure," Caramon admitted quietly. "There's still a couple of leagues to go. Maybe it'll end before we get there."

"You don't sound convinced," Dezra noted.

"I'm not."

Another mile on, they found the first of the bodies.

There was no mistaking the shape of the carcass that lay tangled in the brambles. They didn't need to see the outflung hand, the fingers savaged by carrion birds, to know what it was. Trephas let out a heartbroken moan, then hurried forward, his companions following.

"Trephas," Caramon began. "Don't—"

Too late. The centaur ran to the corpse, waving his arms and yelling to scare away the crows that had settled over it. Then he stopped suddenly, shying back and bowing his head. His breath came in sharp, wracking gasps as the other companions came up beside him.

The centaur had died some time ago, and what flesh the crows hadn't taken was black and swollen. Its ribs showed white through torn flesh. Flies buzzed about it in a thick, black cloud.

Worse than decay, though, was the way it had died. Many of its bones were broken, and its flesh had been hacked with swords or scythes. Its head lay nearly a yard away, eyeless, little more than a skull. The broken shaft of an arrow was lodged in its temple.

Borlos made a strangled sound, then staggered away to vomit. Dezra, too, felt her gorge rise. She looked away, wrinkling her nose at the ungodly stench.

Trephas wept openly, his shoulders shaking. "Merciful Chislev," he murmured. "Iasta. Oh, my dear—what have they done to thee?"

"You knew her?" Caramon asked.

"She was a friend," Trephas said softly. "One of Arhedion's patrol. I recognize her harness. The three of us played together when we were children. Oh, Iasta… they took thy tail… ."

They did what they could for the dead mare, which wasn't much at all. Caramon helped Trephas free her from the brambles, then took her skull and placed it with the rest of her. There was no time to build a pyre; in the rain, it wouldn't have burned anyway. Borlos played a dirge on his lyre, and Trephas cut his hand and bled on her corrupted form. Then they went on, leaving her.

Dezra motioned her father to her as they walked. She glanced at Trephas, to make sure he was out of earshot. He stomped ahead, slashing at the briars.

"Wouldn't the centaurs have brought her body back to Ithax?" she whispered.

"I'd think so," Caramon agreed. "If they could."

There were more corpses ahead: dozens of them, all savaged like Iasta. Trephas went from one to the next, naming those he recognized. "Parimon… Chostos… Endrathimar…" he recited dully. "Chrethon will answer for this." He stared up at the sky, squinting as frigid rain lashed his face. "I swear, I'll live to see him pay in blood."

Darkness was settling over Darken Wood when they reached Ithax. By then, they all knew what they'd find. The crows circling above the forest were no surprise, nor was the fact that no fireglow glimmered in the gathering night. They slowed their pace when they emerged into the pastures surrounding the town—pastures littered with corpses and churned to mud by the passage of many hoofed feet—then stopped atop the rise overlooking the valley, staring in awe at the carnage below.

Ithax was gone. Atop the mound where it had stood, there was only rubble, ash and razed earth. The ground was scattered with the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi. The stench of death thickened the air.

"Paladine's bollocks," Dezra swore.

No one moved for several minutes. All eyes turned to Trephas. The centaur's throat bobbed as he fought to speak. "Let's go down there," he said finally. "I must know if any of my people survived this slaughter."

"Are you sure?" Borlos asked. "I mean, with night coming on—"

"I said we go down!" Trephas bellowed. Without waiting, he broke into a gallop, charging down into the corpse-littered valley.

The others glanced uncertainly at one another as the centaur rode away. "Well?" Borlos asked.

"You heard him," Caramon answered. "We go down."

They never found Lord Menelachos's body, but his head was easy to locate. Before leaving Ithax, the Skorenoi had spitted it on a stake before the ruined gates. The crows had taken his eyes, cheeks and lips, and the rest was bloated and flyblown, but they recognized him just the same. He wasn't alone, either. Two other heads were impaled with him, one on either side.

"Rhedogar," muttered Trephas, regarding the silver-maned stallion on the left. He looked to the head on the right, a gold-tressed mare, and groaned. "Olinia."

"What?" Borlos demanded, staring in horror at the blind minstrel's remains. "Those bastards! How could they do that to her?"

"The same way they murdered the rest," Trephas replied coldly. "It meant nothing to the Skorenoi that she couldn't see, and never harmed anyone in her life. She was a centaur, and important among the tribes. So they killed her and did… this."

Caramon frowned. "What about the rest of the Circle? Eucleia, Pleuron… your father and brother?"

Trephas glanced at him, his eyes hopeful. "Aye," he said. "Chrethon would have staked their heads too, if they'd been killed."

"Then they're still alive," Dezra stated. "They could have gotten away."

"It's possible," Trephas said doubtfully.

"Where would they have gone?" Caramon asked. "Surely they had a plan for what they'd do if Ithax fell."

Trephas nodded. "There's a stronghold in the mountains. Only the Circle and a few others knew of it. I'll take thee. Chislev willing, my people will be there."

"Good," Dezra said. "Let's get moving, then."

She turned to go, but Caramon caught her arm. "Have some respect, girl," he hissed, nodding toward the severed heads. "We need to see to them first."

She stopped, looked at the stakes, and slumped. "Of course," she grumbled. "It's dark, I'm cold and wet, and the stench here could kill a troll. All right, don't grouse. I'll help."

She stepped past Caramon, to Trephas's side. Caramon started to follow, then glimpsed Borlos out of the comer of his eye. The bard's face was gray. He swallowed, staring at the centaurs' heads—Olinia's in particular—with wide, horrified eyes.

Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder and offered him a flask of water. Borlos took a long drink, then looked up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I can't."

Trephas turned toward him. "It's all right, my friend," he said. "I won't ask for thy help. The rest of us will see to this."

Borlos smiled thankfully, pushing himself back to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, but shook his head as Caramon reached out to him. "I'm fine," he said. "I just need to feel the wind on my face."

"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. "Just don't get lost."

With a grateful wave, the bard staggered away, across the body-strewn battlefield. He labored for breath as he walked. In time he stopped, glancing about blearily. The others were well behind him. He unstopped the wine-flask at his hip and drained it. Shuddering, he gazed at the ground. Corpses lay all about him, ravaged by a month's exposure to wind, rain and scavengers. Gently he nudged one of the twisted bodies with his foot. It shifted, then settled again, one of its begrimed hands dropping flaccidly beside his boot. His mouth twisting with disgust, he turned again, to head back to the others.

Something grabbed him from behind.

Borlos was too stunned to react as the Skorenoi bore him down, wrestling him to the ground. By the time he recovered his wits, it was too late. They had his arms and legs pinned, and one clapped a hand over his mouth. He struggled for a moment, then went limp as a bay Skorenos—a tall, ogrish beast with a shaggy black mane—strode toward him.

"Lift him up," Thenidor growled. The Skorenoi hauled Borlos back to his feet again. The bay spat in the mud, leaning on his halberd. "The bard," he snarled. "Trust my luck to catch the least useful one among them."

Borlos jerked suddenly, biting the hand over his mouth. The Skorenos who'd gagged him pulled back with a curse. Borlos sucked in a breath and shouted something—he wasn't sure what—before glimpsing the haft of Thenidor's halberd, flashing toward him.

There was a crack, and a flaming arrow of pain in his head. A wave of blackness swept him away.