Chapter Thirty-Eight

Half a dozen Skorenoi stood watch before the pass leading to Grimbough's vale. The companions stopped thirty paces from them, watching from a copse of rotten oaks.

"This isn't going to be easy," Caramon muttered. He was breathing hard, his face creased with pain. "Trephas, do you think you can put one of them down from this range?"

The centaur glanced at the sky, where the black clouds continued to swirl, their insides blazing with lightning. He frowned, his arrow tapping. "I think so," he answered, "but the way this wind shifts, I can't be sure."

"Try anyway," Dezra said. "Six of them are too many for us to fight past."

Nodding, Caramon pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. As he drew back his bowstring, though, his arms began to tremble. He tried to sight down the shaft, then relaxed his pull.

"Big guy?" Borlos asked, touching his arm.

Caramon shook him off. "Just give me a minute," he grumbled.

Then Dezra's hands were on his, loosening his grip on his bow. "Here," she said. "I'll do it."

"You?" Caramon demanded. "You're no archer, girl."

"Maybe, but at least I can aim without my arrow waving about."

Scowling, he handed her the bow, then shifted his shield onto his arm and readied his spear. Dezra raised the bow, drew back the arrow, and held it, aiming carefully. "I've got the one on the left," she hissed. "Trephas?"

"All right," the centaur replied. "Be ready."

Caramon hefted his spear. Beside him, Borlos nodded.

Trephas turned, sighted his target, then held his breath, waiting for the gusting wind to calm. When it did, he wasted no time. "Now," he said.

His and Dezra's bowstrings thrummed, and their arrows flashed out of the trees. Trephas's shaft hit a Skorenos in the eye and exploded, snapping the creature's head back as it collapsed. Dezra's shot struck her target in the chest. The creature looked down, at the bright blood welling from its wound. Then the shaft broke, and the Skorenos sank to the ground. The other four Skorenoi stared in shock at their fallen fellows.

"Go!" barked Caramon.

The companions broke from cover, weapons raised. The Skorenoi fell back a step, then turned to face Trephas and the humans. Two of the surviving beasts were archers, but they loosed their arrows in a hurry, without aiming. One shot flew long, streaking over Dezra's head. The other homed in on Caramon. He batted it aside with his shield.

Trephas fired a second shot as he ran. His arrow caught one of the archers through the throat, exploding in a burst of flinders. At the same time, Caramon slowed his pace and heaved his spear with all his strength. The archer had enough time to cry out as the spear drove through its breast, then fell in a shower of splintered wood.

Dezra was the first to reach the remaining pair; they were ready for her, standing side by side before the pass. One thrust its lance at her, but she dove beneath the blow. Rolling, she rose nimbly to one knee, raising her sword to parry the second Skorenos's cudgel. The lancer drew back his weapon for a second thrust, then saw the rest of the companions bearing down and turned to face them. He swept his spear before him as Borlos lunged in, and the bard stumbled back, the lance's head narrowly missing his face.

Trephas charged in next, tossing aside his bow and pulling his broad-bladed spear from his harness. He and the lancer traded a flurry of blows, the hafts of their spears cracking together. Each of them took a bloody cut in the skirmish—Trephas across his chest, the Skorenos to the cheek—then they fell back, breathing heavily.

Dezra and her foe fought hard, sword and cudgel swiping viciously. They were well-matched, but then Caramon entered the fray, his face red and streaming with sweat. He shoved his daughter aside and lashed out with his sword. The Skorenos dodged the swing and reared, kicking with its forelegs. One of its hooves struck Caramon's arm, jarring the sword from his grasp. The blade spun away, landing well out of reach. Caramon fell, armor clattering. He foundered on the ground, trying to rise.

The Skorenos glanced away from him, looking for Dezra. She lunged back into the fray, sword whirling. The creature brought its cudgel to bear, blocking the attack easily—

Then its eyes widened as it saw the dagger in her other hand, flashing toward its unprotected flank. It tried to bring its club around, but was too slow. Dezra drove her dirk through the Skorenos's ribs, then released it, leaving it buried in the creature's side. The blade exploded, tearing a hole in the creature's side as it fell.

"Well done," Caramon groaned, struggling to his feet. He glanced over at Trephas and Borlos, who fought the last of the guards. As he looked, Trephas opened a long gash down the creature's forearm with his lance, then jabbed it in the stomach. The Skorenos doubled over, and Borlos leapt in, bringing his mace down on its head. It collapsed, Borlos's weapon smashing into countless fragments. The way into the vale stood clear.

Dezra was at Caramon's side, holding his sword. "Thanks," he said, taking it from her.

"You're not as young as you used to be," she said, grinning crookedly.

Then she turned and walked away, toward the pass. Trephas and Borlos joined her, the bard picking up one of the Skorenoi's cudgels as they went.

Caramon hesitated, sheathing his sword, and winced at an unpleasant twinge in his shoulder. He rubbed his arm, willing the pain to go away, as he followed the others.

The sun set. Night fell over the mountains, and the Skorenoi horde tried to ford the river again.

At a shouted command from Gyrtomon, the centaurs fired on them once more, peppering them with arrows. Leodippos's warriors tumbled in heaps and splashed in the water. Killing shafts exploded, filling the air with splinters. But this time the Skorenoi didn't rout; instead, their own archers shot back, across the stream. One the other side, centaurs began to fall, killed or wounded by the bombardment.

Leodippos laughed cruelly. He'd cursed both his warriors and himself for not expecting the ambush. It had been a terrible blow, but he'd known, just like Gyrtomon on the river's far side, that he had the upper hand now.

He could already taste victory as his warriors waded across the ford. The return fire threw the centaurs into disarray. They scattered among the trees to avoid being shot. With fewer arrows in the air, the horde's advance became inexorable. Though the river slowed them, and those in the vanguard continued to fall, the Skorenoi pressed forward, toward the far bank. Soon they'd be back on solid ground, free to ride up the slope and slaughter the foe.

The horsefolk did all they could to keep that from happening. Gyrtomon barked an order, and the centaurs galloped downhill to the stream, brandishing lances and cudgels. They fell into line along the riverbank, hoping to keep the horde in the water.

Leodippos could see clearly that the horsefolk lacked the numbers to hold him back. He saw figures he recognized—Gyrtomon and Nemeredes here, Eucleia there, Pleuron elsewhere—and smiled. Before the sun rose, he'd wear all their tails on his harness.

"For the Forestmaster!" shouted Gyrtomon as he galloped down to join his warriors.

The centaurs echoed the cry, raising a thicket of clubs and spears. Shouting in reply, the Skorenoi surged to meet them. With a crash of metal and wood, flesh and bone, the two armies met.

Bodies fell on either side, gored by spears and crushed by bludgeons. Behind Gyrtomon's lines, colts and fillies dashed back and forth, passing fresh weapons to those who lost theirs. The battlefront didn't move. Valiantly, the centaurs held back the Skorenoi, kept them in the surging, frigid water.

But it couldn't last. For each of Leodippos's troops who fell, another came forward to take its place, with even more behind, filling the river and massing on the far bank. The centaurs, however, had no such reinforcements—and, in time, they would run out of weapons too. Their ranks began to falter before the press of the enemy. If the Skorenoi broke through, the battle horsefolk would be lost—and, unlike Ithax, there would be no escape.

Leodippos stood on the riverbank now, his warriors surging past him into the water. He raised his horselike head, shouting across the ford. "It's over, my lords!" he bellowed. "Nothing can save thee now!"

He heard something strange, then: a low, fluttering sound. He looked around, puzzled. The noise was all around him, but there was nothing to see in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, there was. Overhead, hovering on silvery wings, were hundreds of small, brightly garbed figures. Each held a tiny bow, with a tiny arrow on its string. They were smiling.

With a yell, Leodippos leapt into the river. As he jumped, the air filled with music, like hundreds of harpstrings being plucked at once. Then he hit the water hard, losing his lance as he fell among his warriors. The press of bodies forced him under. He thrashed wildly, kicking with all four hooves as the current swept him downstream.

At last, his head broke the surface. Choking, he fought to get his feet under him, then got his bearings. He was a hundred paces from his warriors. The battle continued, but its tenor had changed. The Skorenoi were looking back now, shouting in terror.

He turned, gazing across the river, and froze. The bank where he'd been standing was littered with bodies. Hundreds of Skorenoi lay dead, fallen where they'd stood. Above, silver wings glinting with reflected starlight, hovered hundreds of sprites. As he watched, they fired a second volley from their little bows, which sang like harps as the shafts flew. Another wave of his warriors toppled, succumbing to the arrows' strong poison.

As he stared in disbelief, the sprites laid waste to the rear ranks of his horde. His warriors jostled and shouted, swiping at the air with their weapons, but the winged folk only laughed, hovering out of reach as they loosed shot after envenomed shot upon the horde.

Soon not a single Skorenos remained alive on the riverbank. Slowly, the sprites started flying across the river, working their way forward through the horde's ranks, leaving only corpses in their wake.

It was over. Years of capturing centaurs so Grimbough could warp them, of victory upon victory over the horsefolk—it was all coming to an end. Watching the sprites slaughter his warriors, Leodippos knew he was doomed. The centaurs, who only moments ago had been on the verge of ignominious defeat, would prevail.

He resolved, then, that he wasn't going to die by the sprites' arrows. If he fell, he'd do it fighting the enemy, as it should be.

He turned away from the deadly, winged swarm—they were a quarter of the way across the river already—and looked to the far bank, where the battle raged on. His eyes scoured the riverbank, and soon found one of the Circle, near the end of the enemy's lines. It was old Nemeredes: sword in hand, bellowing at his warriors. Gyrtomon stood nearby.

Sneering, Leodippos searched the water, finding a cudgel to replace his lost lance. Quietly, he moved toward the riverbank.

Arhedion's painted face, now wet with Skorenoi blood, tightened into a grimace as an enemy lance pierced his shoulder. Pain shot up and down his arm, and he lashed out with both forehooves. Fortunately, the wild double-kick broke his opponent's arm instead of killing him: Arhedion had seen more than one centaur collapse, his legs smashed by the magic that destroyed whatever weapon slew one of the Skorenoi.

His foe staggered, clutching his useless arm, and Arhedion thrust his spear into the creature's face. He let go of the lance, and it erupted into splinters, sending the Skorenos splashing lifelessly into the river. The water, already pink with blood, turned scarlet where he fell.

Arhedion pulled back from the battlefront as another Skorenos came forward to fill the gap in the enemy's ranks. "Weapon!" he shouted, looking behind him.

A young, black filly ran to him, a bundle of spears and cudgels across her back. She drew a lance from the bundle and tossed it before cantering onward, answering more calls down the line. Arhedion caught the lance, then turned back to the battle, searching for a gap in the horsefolk's defenses. He soon found one: near the end of the line, not far from where Gyrtomon and Nemeredes were overseeing the fight, the line was beginning to falter. As he watched, a Skorenos used a scythe to cut a centaur's forelegs out from underneath him, then swept the weapon up, gutting the horse-man as he fell.

With a fierce yell, Arhedion galloped toward the scythe-wielder, recklessly shouldering his way into the ranks. He blocked the scythe with his lance, then spun the spear expertly, cracking its shaft against the scythe-wielder's neck. The Skorenos rocked sideways, knocked off-balance, and the white stallion to Arhedion's right smashed its skull with his club, then flung the weapon away. The cudgel tore itself to shreds as it flew through the air.

"Thanks," Arhedion said as the white stallion fell back, shouting for a new weapon.

So it had gone, since the skirmish began. There was a rhythm to the battle: fight, kill, fall back, take a new weapon, then fight again. The struggle had been hard and bloody from the start, with the horsefolk so badly outnumbered, but it had been necessary: they had to hold the Skorenoi at bay until the last of them were on the river's far bank. Scores of centaurs died valiantly, but many more of the enemy went down as well. Since the battle first joined, Arhedion had killed nine of the enemy and helped his fellows slay a dozen more.

He glanced above the massed forces of the foe, and saw the air atwinkle with motes of silver: starlight flashing off the sprites' wings. The little folk moved ever forward, now almost halfway across the stream. Their bows made sweet music as they shot down the Skorenoi. Arhedion grinned. It wouldn't be long before the sprites neared the riverbank. The battle was already won; all that remained was to finish the last of the foe. In an hour, none of the enemy would remain.

He nearly didn't live that long. Staring at the sprites, he almost didn't see the hunchbacked Skorenos who lunged toward him, swinging his club with both hands. With a shout, he twisted aside, and the cudgel whistled through the air a finger's breadth from his chest. He blocked the return swing with his lance, then brought the spear down again, slashing the creature's leathery scalp with the weapon's head. The Skorenos screeched, dropping its club, and he rammed his spear into its breast. The lance splintered as he backed out of the fight one more.

"Weapon!" he bellowed.

It took longer this time for the runner to reach him. She was down the line, passing out spears as quickly as she could. He shouted a second time, waving his tattooed arms, then glanced quickly back toward the line. It was holding, but the Skorenoi continued to press, and several other centaurs had lost their weapons. He cast about, seeking something to fight with. To his left was a large rock, sunk into the muddy riverbank. He started toward it—then stopped.

Something was moving in the darkness beyond Nemeredes and Gyrtomon. He squinted, then made out a shape—a large, horse-headed Skorenos. It charged toward them out of the dark, cudgel held high.

"My lords!" he shouted. "Behind thee!"

Too late. Leodippos fell upon them as they were turning to look. He swung his club, striking Nemeredes's jaw. There was a sickening crack, and the old chieftain went limp his neck bent at an impossible angle.

"No!" Arhedion yelled, horrified.

With a roar of rage, Gyrtomon lunged, thrusting with his lance. Leodippos grabbed the spear's shaft and pulled with all his might, jerking it out of Gyrtomon's hands and tossing it away. Thrown off-balance, Gyrtomon slammed into him, and they fell together in the mud, long legs kicking. Arhedion watched for a moment, stunned, then shook himself and ran to the rock he'd spotted. Gritting his teeth, he tried to pry the stone out of the ground.

Leodippos and Gyrtomon struggled together, grappling and clutching. In the end, the Skorenos came out on top. He'd lost his cudgel, so he leaned on Gyrtomon, forcing the centaur's face into the soft mud, trying to smother him. Gyrtomon flailed, strugging desperately, but it wasn't enough. His strength began to flag, and his thrashing grew weaker. Leodippos brayed a harsh laugh as mud bubbled up around the edges of Gyrtomon's face.

Arhedion scrabbled at the rock until his fingers bled, tears of frustration on his face. Frantic, he glanced up, and saw that Gyrtomon had almost stopped struggling entirely. He hauled with all his might on the stone, deciding that if he didn't pull it out this moment, he'd attack Leodippos with his bare hands. Better to lose his arms, if it came to that, than let Gyrtomon die.

With a loud, sucking sound, the stone at last came free. Arhedion nearly fell over, then rose, hefting the massive rock. Propping it on one shoulder, he charged toward Leodippos.

The Skorenos's attention was focused on Gyrtomon; he didn't see Arhedion until the young scout was upon him. His eyes widened, then Arhedion heaved the massive rock, striking his horselike snout with a horrible crunch. Then the rock burst asunder, turning to gravel as Leodippos fell into the mud, his face a ruin. His legs twitched, then fell still.

Arhedion dashed to Gyrtomon's side and hauled him out of the mud. Gyrtomon sputtered and coughed, then glanced at Arhedion and smiled.

"Thanks," he said when he could draw breath without choking.

But Arhedion only shook his head, looking past Gyrtomon to the body that lay beside Leodippos. "Nay, don't thank me," he said. "I've failed thee, my lord—I didn't save thy father. I should have been quicker."

Gyrtomon followed his gaze, and winced in anguish when he saw Nemeredes. He bowed his head, shuddering, then turned to face the scout, blinking back tears. "Don't be a fool," he said. "Thou wert as quick as could be, and no less. But no time for that now." He offered Arhedion his hand. "Let's get back to the fight. We can grieve when the last of these beasts are slain."

Arhedion hesitated, staring at the bodies, then nodded and clasped Gyrtomon's arm. Together, they turned back toward the battle.

It was soon over. The sprites made it across the river, leaving nothing but twisted corpses in their wake. The Skorenoi line gave way, and the clash along the riverbank deteriorated to isolated skirmishes, then fell still. The centaurs spared none of the Skorenoi. Even when the battle was done, they strode across the killing ground, spears upraised as they searched for enemies who still breathed. Now and again, a shout and the sound of splintering wood marked where they found one.

When that grim business was done, they saw to their own dead. The centaurs' victory had come with a heavy cost: Of the two thousand who'd fought at the river, more than six hundred had perished. Silently, too tired to weep, the centaurs pulled their slain from the tangle of Skorenoi corpses and laid them out upon the slope.

Among the bodies, Gyrtomon and Arhedion stood over Nemeredes the Elder. They'd borne him away from Leodippos's corpse when the fighting ended, and laid him out with his weapons. His eyes were shut, his wounds washed with clean water from upstream of the ford. Gyrtomon looked dully at his father's corpse, saying nothing. Arhedion rested a hand on his shoulder.

The sound of hoofbeats drew near, and Gyrtomon looked up to see who approached. It was the rest of the Circle—the other three chiefs had survived the battle, though Pleuron had taken a deep cut across his cheek and Lanorica, Menelachos's daughter, walked with a limp, wincing with every other step. With them flew the sprites, Fanuin and Ellianthe.

Eucleia came forward to stand beside Gyrtomon, and looked down at Nemeredes, shaking her head. "This is a terrible thing," she said. "Thy father and I were often at odds, Gyrtomon, but still he was my friend." She hesitated, then gripped his shoulders, turning him away from the body. "Thou art chief now, Gyrtomon—and a hero of our people. Thou hast saved us from our doom."

He thought on this, then shook his head. "No, my lady—not just me. All of us—centaurs and winged folk both. But still it might come to nothing." He nodded past her, across the forest.

The horsefolk and sprites turned, following his gaze. In the east, over Sangelior, the stormclouds still roiled, aglow with lightning.