Chapter Thirty-Two

Arhedion's hand strayed over his shoulder, toward his quiver. He started as his fingers touched fletching, then cursed softly and lowered his hand back to his side. Chewing on a wild parsnip, he stared down into the rocky defile where his patrol stood guard.

In the month since Ithax fell, the tenor of the war had changed. When Leodippos pursued the centaurs into the highlands, Gyrtomon—who'd taken Rhedogar's place as war leader—had taken the fight to him. Again and again they'd struck, using the craggy terrain to scatter the foe. They'd inflicted heavy losses each time, fleeing into the hills before the Skorenoi could counter. Arhedion had been among the best at this, knowing how to find the best spots for an ambush. He and his twenty scouts had slain more than a hundred Skorenoi, losing only two of their number in return.

Two days ago, though, their duties had changed. Over Arhedion's protests, Gyrtomon had ordered them back and put them on guard duty. Since then, they'd stood at the mouth of this ravine, which was the only path to the horse-folk's stronghold. It was a prestigious duty, but Arhedion chafed at it nonetheless. He longed to be back in the hills, stalking the enemy.

He'd said as much to Gyrtomon, when the war chief and his own fighters passed by on their way to harry the foe. Gyrtomon had laughed. "Maybe it is dull," he'd admitted, "but this kind of fighting can't last. There'll be a direct attack, once they discover where we are. When that happens, I'll need my best warriors guarding this pass."

Arhedion knew it was flattery, but took pride in it anyway. He did as the war chief bade.

He raised his gaze, for a moment, from the defile to what lay beyond. Darken Wood stretched out to the horizon, tainted by Grimbough's curse. He only spared a momentary thought for the blighted forest; to do more was to court despair. He'd seen more than one stalwart warrior driven to tears by what had become of their home. Better to mind the ravine, and not what was happening in the lowlands. He stared into the gap, his sharp eyes combing the trees at its far end… .

Suddenly he stiffened, snorting in alarm. He reached over his shoulder again, plucked a shaft from his quiver and notched it on his bowstring. He let out a trilling whistle, and along the ravine's mouth his scouts readied their own bows.

Arhedion spat parsnip juice, licking his lips anxiously. Then the rowan trees at the bottom of the defile rustled, bright orange berries falling from their branches. Arhedion whistled again, sharper this time. All along the ravine's mouth, bows creaked as centaurs pulled back their strings. A third signal would send a score of deadly shafts soaring down the slope.

A heartbeat later, a lone figure stepped out of the trees. Arhedion trained his sights on it, then checked himself suddenly, gaping in disbelief. The figure at the bottom of the ravine was neither Skorenos nor centaur. It walked on two legs instead of four. Sunlight glinted on its bronze, winged helmet.

"Shave my tail," Arhedion swore. "I don't believe it."

As he watched, two more humans joined the first. Last of all came a horse-man, whose chestnut coat and ash-blond mane he knew well enough. Arhedion laughed aloud.

"Trephas!" he called. "Chislev's withers, is it really thee?"

Below, Trephas answered with a shout of his own, then reached to his back and produced a gleaming, double-bladed axe. Seeing this, Arhedion stood bolt upright, then dropped his bow and flung his arms up toward the sky, yelling with wild joy.

His warriors stared at him as though he'd gone mad; it only made him laugh harder, until tears streaked his cheeks. "Put up thy bows, fellows," he said. "At last, we've got a chance."

Lysandon was a ramshackle gathering of crude lean-tos, skin tents and campfires, clustered in a narrow cleft between two towering peaks. It had been built in the image of Ithax, with the warriors' dwellings clustered in the center of the town, around a broad, grassy sward—the horsefolk's new Yard of Gathering. It was smaller than Ithax, and more crowded. When Arhedion escorted the companions into town, word spread quickly that Trephas and the humans had returned at last from their quest, bearing the lost axe of Peldarin.

There was laughter and tears when the companions appeared before the Circle: old Nemeredes wept openly as he embraced his youngest son, and all the chiefs—including Lanorica, Menelachos's ivory-coated daughter, who'd succeeded her father as head of the Ebon Lance tribe—bowed to the returning heroes.

Caramon stammered awkwardly, trying to shrug off the horsefolk's appreciation, but the centaurs would have none of it. They lifted him up, and Dezra and Borlos as well, and bore them three times around the village, waving torches and aspen branches in the air. Trephas walked with them, surrounded by cheering warriors.

Several hours after the companions' return, the sun began to set, and the feasting began. The horsefolk gathered in their new Yard, bearing baskets of food and huge pots of wine. Pipers and drummers capered, playing jovial songs; Borlos joined them eagerly, plucking his lyre and singing along.

The wine was strong, flavored with pine resin. The horsefolk poured libations to Chislev, the Forestmaster, and their slain kinsfolk, then drank, smashing the amphoras on the ground when they were empty. When the celebration reached a pitch, the centaurs began to pass the food around. The feast was sumptuous by any standard—all the more so considering the horsefolk had been driven from their home a month ago. There was flat bread laden with herbs, and soft, crumbling cheese. With these came meaty black and green olives, pastries stuffed with spinach and dill, and joints of lamb and venison. There were other dishes too, which would never be found on a human table: concoctions of grass, shoots and leaves that the centaurs devoured by the fistful. Afterward came apples and small, dark-skinned plums, and more pastries soaked in honey.

And, all through the meal, wine, wine and wine.

Finally, when the eating was done—but not the drinking, of course—the centaurs parted to form a circle of open grass in the Yard's midst. Torches held high, they began to stamp their hooves upon the ground. It started slowly, then gained in speed, faster and faster, thundering like a stampede. As the centaurs worked themselves into a frenzy, the Circle of Four entered the clearing.

The chiefs came masked, as they had to young Nemeredes's funeral: young Lanorica now wore her father's stag mask. On closer inspection, though, the masks proved subtly different: instead of weeping, the animals' faces were glad, their mouths hanging open in silent laughter. The crowd fell silent as the Circle moved to stand in the middle of the Yard.

Eucleia stepped forward, her grinning wolf mask gleaming with moonlight. She stood with shoulders squared and chin raised proudly, and lifted her arms. The stamping and shouting ceased.

"The questers have returned," she proclaimed, her voice ringing within her mask. "With them, they bear a mighty treasure, which, Chislev willing, shall be our salvation, after so many years of suffering. I ask Trephas, son of Nemeredes, to bring forward Soulsplitter."

Beaming, Trephas made his way through the crowd. The centaurs yelled and whistled as he stopped before the Circle, Peldarin's axe raised above his head. Its blade shone golden in the torchlight, then he lowered it again and, kneeling, proffered it to Eucleia.

"My lady," he said solemnly. "I give this axe to thee, in the hopes that with it, the scourge might be lifted from this wood."

Eucleia inclined her masked head and, reverently, took the axe from Trephas's hands. The centaurs cheered even louder, raising their wine-jugs as she lifted it high.

"With this axe," she shouted, "Grimbough shall fall! And then woe unto the Skorenoi, and all who worship the daemon tree!"

She swung Soulsplitter in a wide circle, to whoops and bellows from the horsefolk, then lowered it again and gestured toward the back of the crowd. At her beckoning, a pair of stern, gray stallions strode through the throngs and knelt before her.

"Phenestis, Xaor, my sons," Eucleia said, extending the axe. "Take this to the caves north of this vale. Keep it safe."

The high chief's sons rose, their heads bowed. Phenestis took the axe from his mother's hands, and Xaor clasped her hands in his. "We shall guard it with our lives," he declared solemnly.

Together, they wheeled and strode back through the crowd, which parted to let them pass. Bearing the axe, they rode north into the darkness.

Eucleia stared after them, then turned to Trephas. "Now, son of Nemeredes," she said, "tell us thy tale. How didst thou retrieve this treasure from the fey folk?"

Trephas hesitated, then bowed his head. "My lady," he said, "I first ask thy leave to call forward the humans who traveled with me."

Eucleia's eyes, shadowed by her mask, flicked toward the crowd, where Caramon, Dezra and Borlos stood. Caramon's cheeks reddened as the horsefolk turned to stare. It took both Borlos and Dezra, pulling his arms, to get him through the crowd, to the center of the Yard.

The centaurs cheered as the humans took their place beside Trephas. Flashing a toothy grin, Trephas bowed to Eucleia. "Thou wilt hear our story," he said loudly, "but not from me. There is one of us who is better suited at spinning stories."

Borlos's head jerked up. "Uh-oh," he murmured.

"This man," Trephas continued, undaunted, "is a bard. He left Solace seeking a tale to tell, and now he has it. Borlos, wilt thou do this for us?"

The bard hesitated, but the rapt stares on the centaurs' faces overcame his reluctance. Smiling in spite of himself, he unslung his lyre. Someone passed up a half-full jug of wine. He took it and downed a long draught, then handed it to Dezra and set his fingers to his strings.

"It began in Solace on the day of the Spring Dawning fair," he proclaimed, plucking a ringing chord. "A horse-man came, asking for aid… ."