Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hailstones as large as robin's eggs pelted down into the pass. The clamor as they rattled down the cliffsides drowned out even the bellowing thunder. The companions held cloaks and shields over their heads to protect themselves as they pushed on, their feet slipping over the ice-slick stones.

High above, a forked levin-bolt struck a rocky crag, blowing it apart. Chips of stone showered down. A blast of wind, channeled by the narrow pass, struck them head-on; Borlos cursed as it tore his cloak from his hands, sending it spinning off into the darkness. He started back after it, but Dezra caught his arm and shoved him forward. At last, ahead, the rocky walls of the pass came to an end. The companions stopped, staring in awe and terror.

The pass emerged atop a rocky slope that descended into a narrow, bowl-shaped valley. Trees, still in full leaf, carpeted the vale, undulating in the gusting wind like the ocean in a hurricane. In the midst of this shifting sea was a massive, black-leafed oak, whose mighty limbs spread high above the rest. It stood still, in the eye of the storm, emanating a sense of disquiet, of wrongness, that jangled the companions' spines. The muttering of leaves rose from it, audible through the fury of thunder and wind. It flooded their ears, clawed at their minds: the sound of madness, dark and sweet and seductive.

Borlos cleared his throat. "That had better be Grimbough," he declared. "Because if it isn't, I don't want to see the real thing."

"It is," Trephas said. His knuckles whitened as he clutched his spear. "And if the daemon tree is here, then Lord Chrethon cannot be far away."

"And the Forestmaster?" Caramon put in.

The centaur nodded. "If she yet lives."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Dezra demanded. Lifting her sword, she started down the slope, hailstones clattering all around her. The others hurried to catch up.

The forest was dark, the oaks looming close on all sides. The stormlight shone through in swiftly stabbing shafts, lighting the black trees in flashes that left blood-red stains floating before the companions' eyes. Trephas led the way, lance at the ready, while Dezra and Caramon walked behind. Borlos brought up the rear, glancing about with wild eyes.

"I feel something," he hissed as they wended among the trees, stepping over exposed roots and pushing aside drooping boughs. "Like something's in pain… ."

"The Forestmaster," Caramon breathed. He looked at Trephas, who nodded. "Chrethon hasn't killed her yet, then," he said. "We've still got time."

The going got harder, the trees growing thicker as they moved toward the middle of the vale. Again and again, they found the way ahead blocked, the oaks clumped too tightly to pass. They had to search for paths among the clustered trees, guided by the anguish that flowed from the grove's heart.

Branches creaked ominously in the wind. The leaves' muttering surrounded them. Then there was a new sound: a low, roaring whistle above them. Dezra had heard the sound before, in Pallidice's glade, and threw herself flat. "Look out!" she shouted.

The others stared at her, then looked up and saw branches swinging down, jagged leaves fluttering. Caramon got his shield up to block a stout bough; it struck with a resounding crash, knocking him to one knee. Trephas twisted away from a branch, and caught the twigs at its end across his backside. He grunted in pain—it was like being struck with a switch swung by an ogre—and lashed out with his broad-bladed lance, slashing off the end of the limb as it drew back up into the heights.

Borlos, however, was too surprised to get out of the way. A bough caught him across the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying. He hit the knotted trunk of an oak, his lyre making a horrendous clamor, then collapsed with a groan.

"What is this?" Caramon asked, bringing up his sword as more branches swept down. He slashed at them, steel slicing through wood. "Even the trees are against us!"

Dezra grimaced, rising into a crouch. As she did, a gnarled root burst from the earth and groped toward her. She recoiled, then brought her sword down, cleaving it in half. The stump twitched, weeping black ichor, then slid back into the ground.

Borlos stirred groggily, his head lolling. Roots burst through the earth around him: one coiled about his left ankle, another grabbed his right wrist, tightening painfully. Slowly, they began to twist and pull. He regained his senses with a start and struggled against their grasp. "Dez!" he yelped. "Big guy! Help me!"

Caramon got to him first, sword flashing; he hacked through one of the roots, then the other, then cut off yet another branch that lashed downward, toward his head. He held the blade high, watching for more attacks, as Dezra grabbed Borlos's arm and helped him rise. They turned toward Trephas. The centaur had put his lance back in his harness, and had drawn a shortsword to defend himself; he slashed high and low as more branches and roots assailed him.

"We've got to keep moving!" Dezra shouted, driving her own blade point-first into a snaking tendril. "Bor, can you run?"

The bard stood unsteadily, wincing with every breath. He ducked as a branch swept overhead—a leaf slapped his face, leaving a red mark—then started stumbling forward. "Guess I've got to, eh?" he said.

Together, they plunged deeper into the grove, the oaks stirring around them.

It was hard to extricate the Forestmaster from the brambles. The wicked thorns had dug deep into the unicorn's body, refusing to let go. Finally, though, Chrethon coaxed even the stubbornest brambles into releasing her, then seized her by the horn and hauled her wasted form out of the bushes.

He'd thought she might fight once she was free of the thicket, but she didn't. Enervated by pain and hunger, she no longer had the strength to struggle. He dragged her wasted body through the grove, to the sward where Grimbough stood. The daemon tree rumbled with pleasure as Chrethon threw the unicorn's bedraggled form to the grassy ground. Grimbough's leaves echoed its joy with a delighted hiss.

The daemon tree's gnarled trunk swelled, beating like a dark, mossy heart. Its branches writhed, twigs scratching together like old bones. Lightning flared above, lighting the grove as bright as day. Thunder shook the air.

Chrethon stood above the haggard, motionless unicorn, Soulsplitter in his hand. "Now, Grimbough!" he shouted. "Let me finish her!"

"Not yet," the tree rumbled. "I must be ready when you strike her down."

…down, murmured the leaves.

Chrethon seethed impatiently, but he waited nonetheless, staring hungrily at the wasted unicorn.

The earth around the Forestmaster tore open. Thick, fibrous roots rose from the ground. They waved in the air, then reached toward the unicorn and wrapped about her legs and neck. They held her tight, pulling her down so she lay flat against the damp, fetid ground. Finally, all fell still. Grimbough stopped moving, save for the slow pulse of its trunk. Low and growling, it spoke.

"It is time."

…time…

Chrethon smiled, hefting Soulsplitter in both hands. "Close thy eyes, lady," he murmured. "I will be swift."

But she didn't close her eyes; instead, she looked directly at him. In her liquid gaze, Lord Chrethon saw many things: disappointment, defiance, regret. Mostly, though, there was profound sorrow.

With a victorious shout, he brought the axe down.

The crash was deafening. Soulsplitter buried itself in the earth. Chrethon let go of the weapon and stepped back, laughing triumphantly.

His laughter died quickly. The horn remained attached to the Forestmaster's head.

"What?" he cried, aghast.

At first he thought he'd missed, but he realized that wasn't so: the axe had struck the horn full on, then glanced off and cleaved through the wet soil. His eyes narrowed as he peered at the horn… then he saw something, and his spirits rose anew.

It was a tiny mark, almost invisible, but it was there, white against the gleaming silver of the horn.

Laughing softly, he prized Soulsplitter from the ground and raised it again. "It seems, my lady," he said, "that this will not be so swift after all."

The sound of the axe falling rang out across the vale, echoing among the trees. Trephas cried out in anguish. "No," he moaned, tearing at his mane. "Merciful Chislev, we're too late! The Forestmaster—"

"Look out!" Dezra snapped, her sword lashing out. She struck a branch that would have broken the centaur's back, shearing it in two. "Damn it, will you keep moving?"

But Trephas shook his head. "What difference can it make?" he whimpered. "She's dead, the Forestmaster is dead, and all this has come to nothing… ."

Then, as loud as the first, a second crash sounded above the thunder and wind.

"Maybe not," Borlos said in the stunned silence that followed. "Unless she has two horns, that is."

Suddenly, Trephas came to himself again, his despair cast aside. "Quickly!" he bade, starting forward once more. "Mayhap we can still reach her before Chrethon finishes."

The forest, however, wasn't so accommodating. They were near the daemon tree now—the muttering of its leaves was very loud, and the clamor Soulsplitter made as it struck the unicorn's horn again made their ears ring—but the forest continued to thicken, its trees forming a wall. Branches swung and roots coiled, seeking to push them back.

They tried to cut through with their swords, but the oaks wouldn't yield. Frustrated, they followed the wall, searching for a way through. The axe smashed down again, and again. Trephas wept in frustration, swinging his blade blindly to keep the clutching trees away.

The axe fell three more times before they finally found a gap in the wall. It was narrow, and to either side the trees groped and grabbed, showering leaves and acorns. Trephas and the others hurried toward it, hacking with their blades to clear a path. Beyond, Soulsplitter came down another time. The hiss of Grimbough's leaves rose even louder.

Trephas cut away a last, fumbling bough, then stood before the gap, his flanks heaving with exertion. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, toward the shadows beyond the trees—then fell back again with a shout as those very shadows came alive.

They boiled out of the darkness—five of them, their bodies black and shaggy, with the horns, legs and cloven hooves of goats. They made no sound, raising wicked, curving knives that glinted in the levin-light.

"Satyrs!" Trephas shouted, swinging his shortsword at the shadowy creatures. The blade bit into a goat-man's chest, and the weapon snapped as the abomination collapsed.

A moment later, Borlos shrieked in pain, a satyr's knife laying open the back of his hand. His cudgel dropped from his fingers. He stumbled back and sprawled on the ground as the goat-man slashed again. Its dagger whistled through the air.

Caramon slew a second goat-man with a blow so mighty that his sword cleaved halfway through its body. Steel splintered with a horrible shriek, leaving him with a foot of jagged metal where his weapon's blade had been. He held onto the ruined sword, swinging it at the satyr who'd attacked Borlos. Beside him, Dezra spun her blade, pushing back a third goat-man who faced her. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the single horn on his shaggy head, recognizing it as the creature who'd stolen Soulsplitter from Lysandon.

Another satyr lunged at Trephas, drawing a line of blood across the spot where his human and horse halves met. The centaur's war harness snagged the blade, pulling it out of the goat-man's hand. The satyr fell back, its black eyes widening, and Trephas reared, kicking it with both forehooves and flattening it to the ground. It bleated wretchedly, struggling to rise.

Trephas never gave it the chance. Bending down, he grabbed one of the branches he and the others had cut from the trees. Without hesitating, he brought the bough down on the satyr. He struck again and again, until the goat-man stopped moving and the branch splintered. Dropping the limb, he started toward the gap in the trees.

Then he stopped, looking back. Dezra and Caramon fought furiously against the two remaining satyrs. Borlos was on his knees, fumbling for a weapon. Trephas hesitated, torn, then took a step toward the humans.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dezra snapped, parrying Hurach's knife with her sword. She waved toward the gap with her free hand. "Go on! Don't wait for us!"

Trephas hesitated a moment longer, then, behind him, Soulsplitter crashed again. Wheeling, he charged through the gap. He plucked his lance from his harness, howling a furious war cry as he plunged into the darkness.

"Reorx's beard," Dezra swore. "I thought he'd never leave!"

Caramon barked a rough laugh, blocking his opponent's darting knife. The blade scraped across his shield, and he shoved forward, throwing the satyr off-balance. Twisting, he drove the shredded stump of his sword through the goat-man's throat. He released the weapon, and it exploded a second time, this time leaving nothing but tangled metal.

Dezra cried out in pain then, and she fell, Hurach's knife stuck in her thigh. She landed on a fallen branch, winding herself, and lay on her side, writhing in pain. The satyr yanked his blade out of her leg, then leapt, aiming a downward thrust at her breast.

Seeing the upraised knife, Caramon ran, his massive legs straining. A red sun of rage kindled in his head and he let out a furious bellow, thrusting aside pain and weariness and age as he threw himself at the goat-man.

He struck Hurach shield-first, with the force of a rock-slide. The satyr flew back, his dagger flying from his grasp, then crashed down in a heap. Caramon landed on top of him, his face a mask of rage, and hammered his meaty fist into Hurach's face.

"Stay away from my daughter!" he thundered.

Yelling furiously, he pummeled the satyr again and again. Stubbornly, Hurach refused to black out; instead, he gathered his strength and tried to push Caramon off. Through the haze of rage, Caramon cast about for a weapon. But he had nothing. His sword was gone, his shield too cumbersome. Even the satyr's knife was out of reach. Finally, he yanked his dragon-winged helm off his head and slammed it against Hurach's nose.

With a crunch of bone and gristle, the satyr's face became a bloody ruin. Roaring like a maniac, Caramon struck him a second time, then a third. Finally, on the fourth blow, the tip of one of the helmet's bronze wings pierced the satyr's temple. Hurach bucked wildly, throwing Caramon off, then went limp.

The helmet, lodged in Hurach's skull, shivered a moment, then blew apart in a storm of jagged metal.

Caramon sat still, staring at the shards of his helm. After a moment, he became aware of movement beside him, and felt Dezra's hand on his shoulder. He looked up dazedly.

"I loved that helmet," he said. "I wore it for fifty years."

"I know," she said.

She crouched down in front of him, offering her hand. He let her pull him to his feet.

"You're hurt," he said, glancing at her wounded leg.

She shook her head. "It isn't bad. Hurts like the Abyss, but I can walk. Now come on—we've got to help Trephas."

She turned away, to help Borlos up. Caramon stared at Hurach's corpse a moment longer, then stooped and picked up a bloody piece of metal: one of his helmet's wings. He turned it over in his hand, then rose with a sigh, tucking it into his belt. Grabbing a stout, heavy branch for a weapon, he joined the others, then went with them through the gap in the trees, toward the heart of the grove.

Chrethon's arms burned with fatigue as he brought Soulsplitter down on the Forestmaster's horn for the tenth time. There was a shallow notch in the Forestmaster's horn now, with tiny cracks radiating from it. The unicorn squeezed her eyes shut, her nostrils flaring with each gasping breath.

"Again!" boomed Grimbough.

Again! echoed its leaves.

Chrethon slumped. He wanted to rest, to ease his aching muscles, but the daemon tree wouldn't let him. Compelled by Grimbough's voice, he gripped the axe in both hands, aiming his next blow. He raised Soulsplitter high—

And then he heard it: hoofbeats, growing swiftly louder, coming through the trees. Lowering the axe, he turned.

With a roar, Trephas charged out of the gloom. He came on so fast that Chrethon almost forgot to dodge his spear. The lance, which had been aimed at Chrethon's heart, struck his left arm instead, cleaving through his wasted flesh. Its shaft snapped from the force of the blow, then Trephas slammed into Chrethon and they crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

They wrestled together a moment, kicking and clawing, then Chrethon pulled away, shoving Trephas off. As he did, Trephas grabbed the sword Chrethon wore on his harness. Steel rang as the blade slid from its scabbard, then they parted, scrambling to their feet.

They stood apart from each other, breathing hard, holding their weapons ready. Blood trickled down Trephas's chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Chrethon chose that moment to attack, Soulsplitter whirling. Trephas raised his sword to parry, then recognized the feint and leapt back as Chrethon suddenly reversed the blow and swung upward, aiming to cleave him from beneath. The axe struck flesh and bone, carving easily through both, and two fingers from Trephas's left hand fell to the ground.

Gasping in pain, Trephas snatched back his injured hand, then ducked as Soulsplitter parted the air above his head. He rose again, then swung his sword low, parrying a slash aimed at his legs. He struck Soulsplitter's haft, the force of the blow nearly jarring the blade from his hand.

Again they separated, circling each other. This time Trephas came on, swiping with his sword. The blade opened a gash in Chrethon's belly, but not deep enough to kill. The Skorenos swung in response, and Trephas leaped back… .

And stumbled.

Chrethon's face lit with maniacal joy as Trephas fell to his knees, dropping his sword. He raised Soulsplitter high to smite his defenseless foe.

Then he saw Trephas's eyes. His smile turned into a snarl as the centaur surged forward, slamming his shoulder into Chrethon's stomach. Air erupted from the Skorenos's lungs in a loud rush, and still Trephas continued to drive forward and up. Trephas flung his arms about Chrethon's waist, squeezing with all his strength. Chrethon gasped for breath, trying to swing Soulsplitter, but he had no room. Meanwhile, Trephas twisted and shoved, jerking him this way and that. Finally, Chrethon lost his balance, and the two fell to the ground once more. Soulsplitter flew from his grasp, landing out of reach.

Trephas shifted his hold, wrapping a sinewy arm around the Skorenos's throat. Inexorably, Chrethon began to choke. When he was wavering on the edge of unconsciousness, however, Trephas relented. Even in the red fury of battle, the centaur wasn't foolish enough to kill him with his bare hands. As Chrethon lay gasping on the ground, Trephas rose, went to pick up the sword he'd dropped, and limped back to the Skorenos's side.

Chrethon tried to rise, but couldn't. He raised his chin defiantly. "It's done," he said. "Finish me.”

Trephas drove the sword into the Skorenos's breast. Chrethon grimaced, let out a weak breath. The sword burst into a million pieces.

Silence fell over the vale. Even the storm seemed to abate as Lord Chrethon died. Then a deep, furious roar rose, almost inaudible at first, but gaining strength until it was louder than thunder, shaking the earth under Trephas's hooves. Grimbough's branches waved and writhed in rage. Trephas stared at the daemon tree, his eyes wide with fear.

Then the ground beneath him erupted, and thick, hairy roots burst forth. He had just enough time to cry out in terror as they coiled about him and dragged him down.