Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sangelior was nearly deserted. Most of the remaining Skorenoi had ridden west, to join Leodippos's horde. The town was almost wholly dark, its tents and huts standing empty.

The companions hid in a copse of dead birches, whose papery bark fluttered in the chill wind. They kept their weapons stowed, not wanting an errant gleam of afternoon sunlight on metal to give them away.

Trephas tapped his arrow against his bow as his eyes scoured Sangelior's scattered hovels. "From what I know of this place, Grimbough's vale is on the far side of the town," he said.

"We'd better go around the long way," Caramon whispered. He was ashen-faced and breathing hard. They'd jogged most of the way from where Pallidice had left them. "There's still enough Skorenoi about to make life hard if we're seen."

They were just starting to rise and creep away when Dezra raised her hand. "Wait," she whispered, pointing.

They froze. Fifty paces away was a clump of leafless blackthorn shrubs, heavy with wrinkled fruit. The companions stared, seeing nothing at first. Then the bushes' shadows shifted, their thorny branches rattling.

"Something's there," Borlos murmured. He rested his hand on his mace. "What is it?"

Caramon shook his head, squinting. "I can't make it out. It's too dark."

Abruptly, the shadows swelled, and the blackthorns parted. A black, misshapen figure, with one horn and shaggy goat's legs, emerged from the darkness. In its hand, a familiar, double-bladed axe glistened, reflecting the rays of the westering sun.

"Oh, damn," Dezra gasped.

Trephas moved swiftly, raising his bow and pulling back its string. He sighted down his arrow, training its broad, steel head on the shadowy goat-man. Biting his lip, he loosed his shot.

The arrow soared through the air, lightning-quick—and struck the bushes a hand's breadth from the satyr.

The noise startled the goat-man. With a glance at the companions, he whirled and dashed away, as quick as his hooves could move.

Caramon fumbled with his own bow, bringing it up, then cursed and lowered it again: Hurach was out of range.

Trephas stared at the bushes, uncomprehending. His ruddy face had turned ashen. He dropped his bow and clutched at his mane, shuddering. A low sob escaped his lips. "I missed," he moaned. "Missed! We've come so far… ." He bowed his head, his body going limp.

"No, you don't," Dezra said, grabbing his shoulders. "Pull yourself together. We still need you."

He raised his eyes, blinking tears of frustration. "You're right," he said. "We must go on, hope for another chance. Better to die trying than quit and live, eh?"

Dezra made a sour face. "Well, I really hope there's a third choice." She rose to her feet. "All right, let's get going. One way or another, we have to finish this."

Caramon and Borlos looked at her in surprise. Ignoring them, she turned and ran, keeping within the tree line, out of sight of Sangelior. Trephas followed. Borlos and Caramon came last, glancing warily at the town as they made their way along the fringe of the wasted forest.

Gyrtomon stood on the riverbank, his face grave, trying to think like the enemy. The Skorenoi would come this way. The stream before him could only be forded here. For miles either way, it was a foaming torrent, tumbling over sharp rocks. Even here it flowed swift and deep, reaching up to the thighs of any centaur who waded through. Leodippos's horde would need to slow its pace to cross. There was no better place to fight them.

Satisfied, he turned to survey his army. The centaurs of Lysandon were dressed for battle, wearing leather harnesses studded with bronze and iron, their long manes tied so a foe couldn't grab them. They gripped bows and cudgels, lances and scythes. Many had daubed their coats with slashes and whorls of red, green and white war paint. Their faces, some painted with chalk and woad, were set into fierce expressions. They were ready to die here, if it came to that.

Gyrtomon hoped it would do. The centaurs had sent forth everyone who could lift a bow, from colts and fillies who wouldn't come of age for years yet to veterans even older than his father. Even so, they numbered only two thousand—only a third as many as Leodippos's horde. Surprise and the river would help even the odds, but still… .

He shook his head. Such doubts were the last thing he needed. His gaze drifted to the warriors nearest him. In their midst, beneath their colorful standards, stood the Circle.

Eucleia turned toward him, her woad-painted face solemn. "Is there any word from Arhedion yet?"

Gyrtomon shook his head. He'd dispatched the scout and his warriors an hour ago, sending them ahead to watch for the Skorenoi. They hadn't returned yet, for which Gyrtomon was glad. The longer the enemy took, the lower the sun would be in the sky, and the more the glare would blind them. He'd take any advantage he could get.

Eucleia grunted, jabbing her lance at the ground. "That's good," she said. "Even so, though, we should start to place our warriors. I'd rather we were ready before time than unprepared when the foe arrived."

Gyrtomon glanced around, surveying the terrain. On their side of the river, the ground sloped up, covered with pines and rowans. Rocky outcroppings, spotted with lichen, stood here and there. Between the trees and the boulders, there was plenty of cover to conceal his warriors.

"Very well," he said. "Be sure the archers have a clear shot at the river and plenty of arrows."

The chiefs nodded, then trotted away to give their orders to their warriors. Gyrtomon stayed put, chewing olives and watching the centaurs take their places on the slope, hidden among the trees and rocks. The concealment wasn't perfect—here and there he could see a shadow move, or the glint of a lance or arrowhead. It was good enough, though. He could spot them because he knew they were there, but Leodippos wouldn't expect to find a fight so far from Lysandon. The ruse would be good enough to fool him into starting his army across the river. Gyrtomon prayed to Chislev that it would be enough.

Time passed, the sun casting long shadows down the hillside. Archers fingered their bowstrings, watching the far side of the river. Some of the horsefolk chanted softly in their liquid tongue, asking Chislev and the spirits of their ancestors for strength and courage. Gyrtomon strode along the slope, watching the river.

Twice he heard a strange, fluttering noise. He was far from alone, too: when he asked, many of the other centaurs admitted they'd heard the sound as well. He became convinced it was no mere trick of the wind. But what, then?

While he was wondering, a loud skirl, as of a hawk, sounded from the riverbank. He whirled to stare downhill, his hand reaching toward his quiver. The screech was a signal; the warriors closest to the ford had heard someone approaching. Soon another sound rose, so all the waiting centaurs could hear: hoofbeats, moving swiftly toward them.

All over the hillside, wood and sinew creaked as archers drew back their bowstrings. After a moment, though, Gyrtomon trilled a loud, descending whistle, and the horsefolk relaxed again. It wasn't the Skorenoi coming: the hooves were too few, moving too fast.

A few moments later, Arhedion cantered into view, leading his scouts. Giving another whistle to tell the archers to hold their fire, Gyrtomon broke from cover and ran down the hill. He stopped on the riverbank, waiting while the scouts made their way through the cold, deep water, then offered Arhedion a hand. The scout took it, and emerged, dripping.

"What news?" Gyrtomon asked as the other scouts stepped onto the bank. "Leodippos?"

Arhedion nodded, his single braid bobbing, and waved a painted arm behind him. "They're coming," he replied. "About a league off, not very quickly. An hour, maybe."

Gyrtomon smiled. "Excellent," he said. "Did they see thee?"

The scout shook his head, grinning. "We were stealthy as the wind. I heard them talking about attacking Lysandon tonight. They don't suspect a thing."

Gyrtomon smiled. He had every advantage he could ask for. He clapped Arhedion on the arm. "Well done. Go get some food, then find thy place."

The scout bowed again, then led his warriors up the slope. Gyrtomon turned to follow, then stopped, cocking an ear. The fluttering sound had returned again. He glanced about, but saw nothing. Then it was gone.

Scowling, he shook his head and started uphill.

The storm grew over Grimbough's vale with astonishing speed. One moment, the sky was clear, dotted with wispy clouds that glowed golden with the coming sunset. The next, black thunderheads boiled above, flashing wildly as lightning played within. They didn't move as clouds should, but in random directions, colliding and breaking apart, speeding up and slowing down, churning like mud in water. Thunder roared, and the wind screamed. Rain and hail slashed the air, battering the trees without mercy. Amid it all the daemon tree loomed, writhing. Its trunk pulsed hungrily, its squirming roots churning the earth.

Lord Chrethon gazed at Grimbough in exultation. The tree had called him to the grove nearly two days ago, telling him the glorious news: Hurach was returning to Sangelior bearing the axe. Leodippos was also marching on the Circle's stronghold, but that paled beside the knowledge that soon Soulsplitter would be in his hands.

"It is coming," the tree's voice rumbled. "Soon it will be in the vale."

…vale, hissed its black, rotting leaves.

Chrethon laughed, turning his face up into the driving rain. After a moment, though, worry creased his face. "And the humans? Nemeredes's son?"

"They come also," Grimbough replied. "I have not been able to stop them. But it matters little—even if they get past your guards, they will be too late."

…late…

Chrethon's grin returned. Grimbough had warned him Trephas and the humans were coming, through the dryads' secret ways. He'd ordered guards placed at the mouth of the vale. Half a dozen Skorenoi now stood watch, with orders to kill anyone but the satyr.

Content, he turned away from the daemon tree and cantered through the tangled forest, coming to a halt before the thicket where the Forestmaster lay. Trembling, he strode to the brambles and thrust his hand into their midst. They recoiled, pulling back from the unicorn's face. A thrill ran through him when he saw the fear in the Forestmaster's eyes.

"Thy end is at hand, my lady," he murmured, running his fingers down her ivory horn, relishing her anguish.

On an impulse/he reached down and unclasped the muzzle that covered the unicorn's mouth. It fell away, revealing angry sores where it had chafed her flesh. The Forestmaster drew a ragged breath, her flanks shuddering.

"And when I am dead?" she asked. The words came slow and thick. "What will you have gained?"

"Revenge." Chrethon's black eyes gleamed. "Ten years ago, thou stripped me of all I was. And all because I chose to fight evil!"

"Against Chislev's wishes."

"Chislev!" he scoffed, laughing. "And where is she now? Fled the world, like the coward she is!"

Weakly, the unicorn shook her head. "Chislev left the world to save us, just as she bade us not fight the Knights for the greater good. She didn't want the world to fall to Chaos." She regarded Chrethon sadly. "Your thirst for vengeance has driven you to embrace the very thing she meant to fight, that seeks to destroy all you once held dear. I weep for you, Chrethon."

Chrethon hesitated, uncertain, then sneered. "I remember now why I had thee muzzled. Keep thy honeyed words, my lady. I shall be avenged."

"This is folly," the unicorn said. "Grimbough is using you. Why can you not see it? Chaos cares for no one, Chrethon. When it no longer needs you, it will consign you to oblivion, and not shed a single tear."

But Chrethon was no longer listening. He cocked his head, glancing toward the clearing's edge. His eyes narrowed, seeking. Then lightning flashed, illuminating the whole grove as bright as day, and he saw. Hurach stood at the grove's edge, dark as night even in the levin-bolt's flare. In his hand was Soulsplitter.

Chrethon's mouth fell open. Wordlessly, he strode toward the goat-man. Hurach came forward and bowed. "My lord," he murmured, proffering the axe.

A jolt of energy ran through Chrethon as his fingers grasped Soulsplitter's haft. He turned to leer mockingly at the Forestmaster, raising the axe above his head.

She didn't see him: her eyes were shut in despair.

Scowling, Chrethon turned back to Hurach. "Thou hast done a great thing today," he said. "When this is over, I shall reward thee. But now, there is one more task I ask of thee."

The satyr bowed his head. "Anything, lord."

"Go, then," Chrethon said. "Trephas and the humans approach the vale even now. If the guards fail to stop them, thou must see to it."

"Of course, lord," Hurach said. "It shall be done." He vanished into the shadows once more.

Grinning, Chrethon turned back to the Forestmaster. Tears streamed down the unicorn's face as he approached her, axe in hand. Roughly, he reached into the thicket and seized her horn.

"Now, my lady," he said. "Farewell."

"No!" boomed a rumbling voice. "Not like this."

…this, came the whispering echo.

Chrethon froze, tensing. He glanced back toward Grimbough. Above the treetops, he saw its limbs claw at the storm-wracked sky.

"What—" he began.

"Not like this," the daemon tree repeated. "If I am to claim this land, I must slake myself upon her life's blood."

…blood…

Chrethon thought for a moment to protest, then relented. It would take time to free the unicorn from the brambles, but what was another hour, when he'd waited ten years for this moment?

"Very well," he murmured. Letting go of the Forestmaster's horn, he began to part the thornbushes.

Gyrtomon was staring east, at the seething, black clouds that had appeared above the forest, when one of the warriors by the riverside skirled. Listening, he heard a distant, ominous rumbling. There was no mistaking it: thousands of hooves, pounding the earth. Leodippos and his horde were near.

Up and down the slope, archers raised their weapons. Gyrtomon followed suit, plucking an arrow from his quiver and fitting it on his bowstring. He glanced at his father, who stood beside him on his vantage overlooking the river. Nemeredes nodded. Together, they pulled back their strings and waited while the hoofbeats thundered closer.

The din of the approaching horde grew so loud that yellow-brown leaves began to rain down from the rowan trees. Finally, when it seemed it might go on forever, the first of the Skorenoi appeared on the far side of the ford. The vanguard was composed mainly of fast, long-legged runners, but there were stouter creatures among them as well. They slowed their pace, pulling up as they neared the water and squinting into the ruddy sunlight. Some threw up their arms, fighting to see.

"Hold," Gyrtomon murmured through clenched teeth. If any of the centaurs shot before he gave the signal, the ambush would fail. The horsefolk knew that, but there was always the chance someone would fire early, out of eagerness or fear. "Hold… ."

The Skorenoi bunched at the ford's edge, shying back from the river—first one hundred, then two, then five. For a moment, Gyrtomon wondered if they'd smelled the trap, but angry shouts and curses arose within the horde, and he knew the runners had stopped simply because they were leery of the water.

Nearly a thousand Skorenoi gathered at the riverbank now. The temptation to fire into their midst was almost overwhelming, but somehow the horsefolk held back. Finally, pressure from behind pushed the first runners into the water. They plunged in, splashing, and the raging current nearly carried them away as they fought for balance on the pebbly riverbed. They squalled in fear, and on the far bank their comrades laughed. A few chuckles arose among the centaurs too, but the commotion among the Skorenoi was such that none of them heard.

"Hold," Gyrtomon breathed, his heart thundering.

More and more Skorenoi stepped into the river and began the slow, struggling journey across. The crowd on the far bank continued to thicken as more of the twisted creatures came out of the woods. Gyrtomon searched the throng for Leodippos, hoping he would be a target when the killing began, but didn't see him. He was keeping to the rear of the horde.

The first of the foe were nearly across now. The mightier warriors had overtaken the runners, and would be on land again in moments. Behind them, the water was packed with Skorenoi. Gyrtomon held his breath, waiting—and finally, the moment came.

"Loose!" he cried.

As one, more than a thousand bowstrings thrummed. Hundreds of arrows arced skyward, punching through the foliage and soaring toward the river. The Skorenoi stopped, recognizing the sound, and stared up in shock. An eerie silence fell as the shafts hung in midair.

Then they came down, straight into the Skorenoi's midst, and the screaming began.

Arrows tore through flesh, shattered against bone, blew apart as their victims died. Bodies fell like reaped grain, vanishing beneath the water. Shouts of pain and terror filled the air. The centaurs answered with furious war cries, firing again and again.

Panic killed as many of the Skorenoi as did the arrows. Shocked by the sudden attack, they wheeled, trying to flee. But there was nowhere to go—their fellows kept gathering on the far bank, blocking their escape. They fell over one another, stumbling over the bodies of the slain. The larger creatures shoved their smaller kin aside, or tried to clear a path with their clubs and lances. They smashed and gored those who got in their way, destroying their weapons as their victims fell. Some trampled their fellow's, and fell, screaming, as the their legs shattered. Dozens drowned.

While that was going on, the centaurs kept firing. Bodies tumbled, sprawling on the far bank and splashing in the water. The river reddened, ribbons of scarlet snaking downstream. The stones grew slick with blood, making it even harder for the Skorenoi to escape the river. The archers picked off anyone who looked as if he might escape the bloodbath.

It couldn't last forever, though; at last, after long minutes of slaughter, the enemy broke and fled, shouting, back into the woods. The centaurs shot at them as they ran, but most of the Skorenoi escaped.

Then all was still. Bodies lay in tangled heaps all along the far riverbank—hundreds of them, most dead but a few moaning and trying, vainly, to crawl to safety. The river, choked with carcasses, began to overflow its banks. Dead Skorenoi floated downstream, snarling on rocks or vanishing into the pink, foaming rapids.

All along the slope, the centaurs let out victorious whoops. Gyrtomon let them enjoy the moment, then called for silence. Quickly, the horsefolk fell still.

"Is there a count?" called Eucleia from across the slope. "How many did we slay?"

Gyrtomon didn't answer; he was scanning the carnage even now, trying to guess how many Skorenoi lay dead.

Before he could figure it out, however, another voice called out—Arhedion, from halfway down the hillside. "Two thousand, or about!" he cried. "It's a slaughter!"

More cheers rose, and warriors stamped their hooves on the ground. Gyrtomon, however, felt a cold fist grip his heart. He glanced at his father, and saw his dread reflected on Nemeredes's face. Two thousand was a great many Skorenoi, but not as many as he'd hoped. Leodippos's horde still outnumbered Gyrtomon's warriors two-to-one.

"Not enough," Nemeredes said quietly.

Gyrtomon tossed his mane in frustration. Surprise, their greatest advantage, was gone, and the glaring sunlight would soon vanish too. When the next attack began, the river wouldn't stop it. It would become a hand-to-hand fight, a fight he couldn't hope to win.

"We've lost," he murmured, taking care to keep his voice low. It wouldn't do to let his warriors hear such things—although, he knew, many must be reaching the same conclusion. "We can't hope to stand against them."

"Not without help," said a lilting voice.

He stiffened. The buzzing sound that had dogged him before the battle was back. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

There was nothing there. Then, suddenly, there was: two small, elfin figures—one male, one female—with copper hair and bright clothes appeared out of nowhere. Silver moth wings fluttered on their backs.

"Good morrow to ye!" proclaimed the male, bowing. "I hight Fanuin, and this is Ellianthe. It seems ye're in some trouble. Want some help getting out?"

Gyrtomon blinked, baffled. "What—who—"

Nemeredes strode up beside him and clapped his shoulder, grinning. "It's the sprites!" he exclaimed. "The ones Trephas met. He said they disappeared after they defeated Thenidor."

The winged folk nodded, grinning. "That's true," Ellianthe said. "Once we saw what became of Ithax, we knew ye'd need our help fighting these Skorenoi things."

"So we went back to our realm, as quick as we could, and brought our kin back with us," Fanuin added. "We've been gathering here all day—invisible, o' course."

"It looked for a while like ye wouldn't need us after all," Ellianthe concluded. "But ye're right: There's too many o' those beasts for ye to win. Unless we help, o' course."

Gyrtomon frowned, looking the sprites up and down. "I don't see how much help thou couldst be," he said. "Thy arrows are no bigger than thorns."

Fanuin's eyes sparkled. "That may be," he said, "but ye'll find they have quite a sting." He drew a tiny shaft from his quiver and held it out. Its tip was coated with dark venom.

"That will help," Nemeredes said, smiling. "How many of thee are there?"

Ellianthe frowned, counting on her tiny fingers. "I'd say… oh, about three hundred."

"Three hundred!" Gyrtomon blurted. He glanced around in amazement—could there truly be so many winged folk flitting, unseen, through the air?

"Just so," Fanuin replied. "Each of us invisible, with killing poison on their darts. So…" he added, extending his small hand, "would ye like our help?"

For a long moment, Gyrtomon could only gape in astonishment. Then he nodded as he grasped Fanuin's hand. "Aye," he said. "I'd like it very much."