Chapter Thirty-Five

Dezra was sitting on a mossy boulder just outside Lysandon's guardposts, irritably tossing acorns down the mountainside, when she heard footsteps behind her. At first she thought it was Trephas, but there were two feet, not four. Her father? No—she knew Caramon's lumbering gait. Which meant—

"Dez?" Borlos called. "I've been looking for you."

She flung the acorns away. They rattled down the slope. "Go away, Bor."

Ignoring her, he climbed up on the boulder and sat down, cradling a clay jar in his lap.

"What's that?" Dezra asked.

Borlos laughed. "Hair of the dog." He lifted the jug, sloshed it around a little. "Want some?"

She looked at him dourly, then shrugged and took the jug from his hand. She took a long swig of resin-wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So," she said. "This is how you're going to convince me to come to Sangelior, is it? By plying me with drink?"

The bard laughed, taking the jug back, and drank a swallow. "Not at all," he said. "Your mind's made up. I just wanted to let you know why I'm about to say what I'm going to say—that I do it because I love your father like he was my own.

"I used to have a crush on you, Dez. It started a year ago, I guess: I'd watched you grow into an interesting woman—much more interesting than your poor homebody of a sister. It guess it was part of the reason I came along when Caramon went after you—just like poor Uwen did."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand. "Let me finish. Since we came to Darken Wood, I've discovered something about you, Dez: I don't like you very much. You're breaking Caramon's heart, and you seem to enjoy it. Not to put too fine a point on it, you've still got a lot of growing up to do. So go on. Leave. We'll all be better off, but especially your father."

Dezra stared at him, thunderstruck. Then the surprise faded from her eyes, giving way to glittering anger. "Is that it, then?" she snapped. "Because if it is, you can go."

"Sure, Dez," Borlos said. He slid off the rock, then started to leave. He hesitated, though, and turned back to her. "One more thing."

She glared at him, and he reached into his cloak and produced a heavy, bulging sack. He tossed it to her. It jingled as she caught it.

"I talked to the Circle before I came looking for you, and picked up your reward," he said, nodding at the sack. "You've got your money now. I hope it makes you happy."

With that, he turned and walked back toward Lysandon. Stunned, Dezra watched him go. She looked at the sack of coins, then out at Darken Wood for a while, then back at the coins again.

Cursing under her breath, she drained the wine jug, and threw it, spinning, down the mountainside.

An hour before midday, Trephas, Borlos and Caramon arrived at the Yard of Gathering. The Circle was waiting for them. Partaking of the grass, they approached.

"It's only the three of thee, then," said Eucleia, as stern as ever. She wore a fennel stalk, tucked into her war harness, the only open sign that she mourned her dead sons.

Caramon nodded. "So it seems. We can't afford to wait any longer, either—the satyr has enough of a head start on us already."

"Quite." Eucleia glanced at the other chiefs, who nodded in agreement. "Very well, then. I'll send another of our warriors with thee, so that thou mayst both ride to the dryad's grove."

"Thanks," Caramon said.

Old Nemeredes came forward next, and clasped arms with Trephas. "Chislev walk with thee, my son," he said.

"I wish Gyrtomon had returned before I left," Trephas replied, returning his father's gesture. His brother was still on patrol in the mountains, and not due to return for several days.

There were more farewells, from Lord Pleuron and Lady Lanorica, and from young Arhedion as well. They walked to the edge of Lysandon, where Trephas bent down and let Borlos climb up on his back. A second horse-man did the same for Caramon. Without another word, they started down the path toward Darken Wood. Caramon threw one last, searching glance back at the centaur village.

"Looking for someone?"

Caramon whirled. Less than twenty paces ahead of them, Dezra stood beneath a copse of rowan trees. She stepped forward to stand athwart their path, hands on her hips. The others looked at her, mouths open, and a crooked smile curled her lips. "You didn't think you could sneak away without me, did you?" she asked.

Caramon's eyes narrowed. "What about your money? Your journey to Haven?"

"Haven will still be there when we get back," she said, walking toward them. "And the centaurs will watch my reward while we're gone. Can the Circle spare another warrior, so we can all ride?"

Trephas grinned. "I'm sure we can arrange something."

Leodippos looked up from his maps, saw the runner approaching, and cursed. He glanced back at the parchments—useless, since none had helped him find the centaurs' sanctuary—then rolled them up and thrust them at a servant as the messenger came near.

He felt more than a little dread at the runner's approach. He'd already ruined one good spear today, slaying a messenger who'd brought him bad tidings at dawn. A hundred centaurs, led by Nemeredes's elder son, Gyrtomon, had attacked his largest search party in the night. Nearly half a thousand of his finest warriors had perished.

The loss had been grievous; it would have been worse if he hadn't already sent a runner of his own to Sangelior just yesterday, asking for yet more reinforcements. Lord Chrethon would honor the request, but he knew it would be the last time. There were few warriors left in Sangelior to send.

And now another messenger. He shook his head. How many would be dead this time? Hundreds? A thousand?

"Speak," he bade as the runner bowed before him.

"My lord," said the messenger. "A visitor has come. He says he bears good tidings."

Leodippos leaned forward. "Who?"

"He says his name is Hurach, my lord."

"The satyr?" Leodippos asked, scowling. "What does he want?"

"It's as he said," said a voice. "I bring good news."

Leodippos turned. A dark, silent form emerged from a jagged boulder's shadow and strode toward him on cloven hooves. He saw the broken horn on the satyr's head and nodded: it was Hurach, all right. But there was something else—something in the goat-man's hand… .

He caught his breath, staring in amazement at the axe. Now that it was out of the shadows; its double-bladed head gleamed in the sunlight.

"Is—is that what I think it is?" he asked softly.

Hurach nodded, smiling smugly. "Aye," he said. "I'm taking it to Sangelior. First, though, I thought I should come to you, and tell you where to find what you seek."

“The centaurs' stronghold?" Leodippos breathed. His whole body tensed at the thought. So much fruitless searching, and now, to have the key to victory delivered to him… .

"Where is it?" he asked.

The satyr described everything, from the terrain around Lysandon to its defenses. Leodippos listened, a bloodthirsty smile on his horse-like face, then clapped the goat-man on the shoulder, laughing.

"This is glorious!" he rejoiced. "Now we can finish the Circle at last!"

Hurach nodded, hefting Soulsplitter in his thick-fingered hands. "Aye," he said. "And now I must go. I still have a long journey ahead of me."

Leodippos raised an eyebrow. "I could send a runner instead," he said.

"So you could tell Chrethon that you recovered the axe instead of me, no doubt," the satyr remarked with a cunning smile. "No, lord. I will go myself. With your leave, of course."

Shrugging, Leodippos waved his hand. Hurach turned and strode away, vanishing into the shadows.

Leodippos paid the satyr little mind. Whirling, he beckoned to the runner who'd heralded Hurach's arrival. The messenger approached, its face eager.

"Put the word out among thy fellows," Leodippos said. "Have them go to all the warbands, and have them report to me at once."

The runner galloped away, its long-striding legs devouring the ground. Leodippos turned, smiling to himself, and gestured for the servant to bring his maps.