Chris Pierson
Dezra's Quest
1
They gathered at twilight, beneath the plum-hued sky. The glade, in the heart of Darken Wood, glowed with the sun's ruddy light. The trees cast clutching shadows. The breeze tousled the ferns, its murmur echoing the summer insects' drone.
The glade lay in a hollow among the hills, surrounded by moss-bearded oaks. Velvety grass carpeted the earth, dotted with fragrant wildflowers. An outcropping of pale rock, dappled with lichen, rose high above the hallowed grove. The Circle of Seven congregated before it, their faces grim.
Seven tribes of centaurs lived in Darken Wood. Their chieftains formed the Circle, governing with even-handed wisdom. Four times each year, when the seasons changed, they held moot before the outcropping, which was holy to Chislev, god of wild beasts. The High Chief listened to each tribe's doings, and mediated disputes. Sometimes the Forestmaster-the unicorn who held sway over Darken Wood-would appear: The grove was, after all, her domain.
Today, however, the rhythm of the seasons was broken. The summer solstice was only three weeks past, the equinox months away. From time to time, dire circumstances made such unusual meetings necessary, but it had been decades since it last happened. The chieftains' hearts were filled with worry as they came together.
Old Nemeredes, lord of the Soaring Mane tribe, was first to trot out of the forest. His long, silver mane and hoary, braided beard blew back from his age-lined face. His chestnut hide was frosted with white, but he was still strong as a young stallion. With him came his two eldest sons, Nemeredes the Younger and Gyrtomon. They wore their ash-blond manes tied back, and carried spears draped with ivy. They knelt with their father before the outcropping, then rose and waited in silence.
Next came Pleuron the Fat, once called the Shadow for his utterly black skin, coat and mane. His considerable belly bobbed as he strode toward the outcropping. He, too, had an escort-warriors of his tribe, for his children were not of age. Pleuron, head of the Green Willow tribe, nodded to Nemeredes, then genuflected to the rock and took his place as well.
The rest arrived soon after. Leodippos of the Leaping Hart was youngest, his black beard still downy upon his cheeks. His brown-furred legs fidgeted as he waited. Thymmiar of the Laughing Brook was the most outlandish, his coat a patchwork of black and white. His head was shaved, save for a narrow strip of hair down its midst. The other chiefs spared him troubled looks, not for his appearance but for his demeanor. Normally quick with a grin, Thymmiar was unusually solemn this night.
Eucleia of the Iron Hooves, gray-coated and steel-maned, was a rarity among the horsefolk. Though mares hunted and fought beside stallions, the role of chieftain passed from father to son: a female chief was seldom heard of. She carried herself arrogantly, defying the others to look at her askance. Her strong-jawed face severe, she bowed to the outcropping.
Last of all, his scarred face creased with thought, came Menelachos of the Ebon Lance. Tall and broad, bay-coated and black-maned, he entered the grove without escort. This, and the sapphire-studded, golden tore encircling his neck, marked him as first among the Seven, the High Chief of the horsefolk. The other centaurs bowed to his approach, and he nodded in reply, his bushy beard bristling against his muscular chest. He strode to the outcropping, then knelt and kissed the cool, pale stone. The other five chieftains bowed their heads.
"Blessed Chislev, Mistress of the Wilds," Menelachos murmured. "We look to thee for guidance."
At this, the spear-bearers unfurled the ivy coiled about their weapons and tossed it forward to land at the monolith's foot. Menelachos rose and turned to face the others, eyes glinting in the twilight.
"It is a dire business that brings us here," he declared, his rich voice filling the glade. "I thank thee for coming on such short notice."
The other chiefs glanced at one another, perplexed. "Why are we here?" Eucleia challenged. "Some of us were seeing to important matters when we received the call."
Nemeredes snorted in disapproval, and Eucleia responded with a steely glare, but Menelachos quickly intervened. "I hear thee, Lady of the Iron Hooves. But these are dark times. The followers of Takhisis will not wait for autumn."
The High Chief drew a slow breath. In the silence, even the twittering birds fell still.
"There is a reason only six of us have come," Menelachos said slowly. "The Circle is broken. One of our own has turned against us."
Young Leodippos muttered something under his breath. Menelachos held up a hand. "Do not say his name!" he snapped. "It must not be spoken until he is accused."
The other five chiefs blinked in surprise, forehooves pawing the ground. "He's here?" Pleuron asked, eyebrows rising.
"He is." Menelachos looked across the glade. "He will answer now for what he has done. Rhedogar!"
The shadows at the grove's edge parted. A silver-coated, grizzled warrior-his lance and war harness meant for battle, not ceremony-stepped into the glade. The chiefs and their escorts turned as he strode forward, hooves thudding against the turf. He stopped halfway to the outcropping and bowed. "He awaits, my lord," he declared.
"Bring him forward," Menelachos said.
Rhedogar signaled to the trees, and several more warriors appeared. Two hauled on chains of iron. As they pulled, another figure stumbled out of the dark forest: a huge centaur, pure white save for his dark, gleaming eyes. There was blood on his face and flanks, and angry bruises stood out against his pallid skin. He wore an iron collar around his throat, attached to the warriors' chains. Bowstrings bound his sinewy arms, and he was hobbled as well, his front and rear right legs tied together. He moved unsteadily, but there was defiance to his stride as well. His gaze fixed proudly on Menelachos as the warriors yanked on their chains, jerking him to a halt.
“My lord," he said coldly.
"Chrethon of the Keening Wind," Menelachos replied. He met pride with pride, looking down his hawkish nose. "Dost thou truly consider me thy lord, after what thou hast done?"
The white centaur's eyes narrowed. He shrugged.
Menelachos nodded. "The charges against thee-"
"I know the charges," Chrethon interrupted. He glared at the chieftains. "I'm accused of taking action against evil, rather than hiding like a coward."
Several of the chiefs flushed, and Nemeredes drew a sharp breath to respond, but Menelachos spoke first. "Fair words," he retorted, "and not without some truth. But a grain of truth can grow a crop of lies, as the minstrels say. Answer me this, Lord Chrethon: wert thou in this grove, not a month since, when the Forestmaster appeared and asked us to take no action against the Knights of Takhisis?"
"Aye," Chrethon replied, eyes blazing.
"And," Menelachos continued, "didst thou swear, on thy blood and that of thy tribe, to heed her?"
The white centaur was silent.
"Didst thou swear?"
Chrethon flinched at the High Chief's fury, then nodded with a sneer.
"And finally," Menelachos concluded, "didst thy tribesmen ambush and slaughter two-score of those very Knights, three nights ago?"
"They did, at my command," Chrethon snapped. "I would have them do it again, if it came to that."
"It will now," growled Nemeredes. "The Knights will send more of their kind, to avenge the slain. Thanks to thee, the war shall come into our homes."
"Let it come!" Chrethon shot back. "It would have anyway, soon or late."
On Menelachos's other side, Eucleia and Leodippos nodded. Seeing this, the High Chief shrugged. "Mayhap it would," he declared. "But the Forestmaster doesn't wish us to interfere with the war beyond these woods. Dost thou truly know better than she?"