Chrethon cursed himself again for letting so many of the centaurs escape. Leodippos's warriors had chased them into the mountains at the westernmost edge of Darken Wood, killing stragglers the whole way, but once they made it to high ground, the horsefolk had become almost impossible to root out. Leodippos was a relentless hunter, but the centaurs had constantly eluded him. They'd started fighting back, too, through ambushes and night raids. Leodippos had already asked for reinforcements once, over a week ago, to shore up his dwindling numbers. Now he wanted them again!
Chrethon wanted to blame Leodippos for his failure, but he knew better. If he asked for more warriors, it was because he needed them badly. It would do no good to deny him.
There were, however, plenty of runners in his horde. He wouldn't miss one. Chrethon thrust his lance, driving it through the cowering messenger's heart. He let go of the weapon's shaft, and it exploded into splinters of wood and metal.
Leaving the corpse, he strode along the hilltop, looking down at Sangelior. Much of the town was empty and dark. Its inhabitants were either dead or searching the mountains for the Circle. Chrethon dreaded having to send still more of his warriors west, but had little choice if he wanted the last of the centaurs dead before winter. He raised his hand, beckoning to another runner.
The messenger came forward hesitantly. It had seen what he'd done to its fellow. "M-my lord?" it stuttered. "What is thy w-wish?"
"Be still," Chrethon growled. "I'm not going to harm thee. Go down and tell the war leaders. They must each send fifty warriors west, to aid Lord Leodippos."
"F-fifty, my lord?"
Chrethon glowered. The runner paled, turned, and sprinted away.
Chuckling wryly, Chrethon turned to look over the town. The runner's uncertainty was understandable. There were ten war leaders left in Sangelior, which meant he was sending five hundred warriors to Leodippos's aid. After that, there would be only another thousand left at his disposal. And what if Leodippos sent another runner, in a month's time, asking for still more help?
Chrethon spat in the dirt. If that happened, maybe Leodippos would feel his wrath, after all.
He reared, forehooves churning the air, then whirled and trotted down the path to Sangelior. He hadn't taken more than twenty steps, though, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofbeats. He reached for his shortsword.
It was another runner, a mare. She stopped when she saw Chrethon, then bowed and hurried forward. Chrethon recognized her: He'd posted her at Grimbough's grove.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
The mare bowed. "My lord, I apologize for intruding, but the tree asks for thee."
Chrethon caught his breath, then rammed his sword back into its scabbard. "Come with me," he bade, then turned and galloped east, toward the daemon tree's grove. The runner followed.
When they arrived, Grimbough was seething with rage. Its branches waved and rustled madly, and its thick trunk throbbed. Chrethon bowed before it. "What dost thou wish?"
The tree's low voice was furious. "The humans have returned from the faerie lands," it rumbled. "I have seen them, in the secret places of the dryads. They will be back in Darken Wood soon."
…soon, muttered the branches above.
Chrethon stiffened. He hadn't thought about the son of Nemeredes and his human friends for some time. He'd begun to think they would never return. But now-
"Do they have Soulsplitter?" he asked.
"Yes."
…yes… .
Chrethon didn't even think of questioning how the tree knew. It had its ways. He spoke with it a moment longer, then withdrew, signaling for the runner who'd accompanied him to the grove. "Find Thenidor," he bade. "Have him meet me here."
Chrethon stood among the twisted trees after the mare left, thinking quickly. He doubted the humans would know yet that Ithax had fallen. They would try to go there first. If they were just leaving the dryads' grove now, Thenidor had time to intercept them there.
But Thenidor had faced Trephhas and his companions before. Chrethon needed another plan, in case he failed again. He knew right away what that plan would be.
Coming about, he cantered through the woods, toward where the Forestmaster lay. He called for Hurach as he ran.
30
The stain of Grimbough's power bad spread far across Darken Wood. Its trees had changed; some were swollen and rotting, others twisted or splintered as if struck by lightning. The songbirds that had flitted among the boughs were gone, and only shrieking crows remained, clustered about the carcasses of animals that hadn't been able to flee the corruption.
Mile upon mile, the befouled forest went on. Bracken and thornbushes thrived where ferns and flowers had grown, and Trephas had to use Soulsplitter to clear them away. No sooner had he cut a path, however, than the brambles began to twist and writhe, growing together again. They clutched at the companions, ripping clothing and scratching flesh with their wicked thorns.
Three leagues out of the dryads' glade, rain began to fall in small, slashing droplets, stinging faces and hands. Still they struggled on, covering what bare skin they could and fighting through the rest.
A grasping briar snagged Dezra's cloak as she walked; irritated, she yanked it loose and stumbled against a leafless oak. The tree's spongy wood yielded, as though it sought to pull her in. Several large centipedes slithered out of the rot and up her arm, jaws twitching. She brushed them off with a yell, then stomped on them, cursing, as they tried to scuttle away.
"Does this ever end?" she asked angrily.
"It must," Caramon replied, swinging his broadsword as another thorny tendril lashed toward him. The branch pulled back, hissing like a snake. "I'd give anything for some high ground, so we could see the wood from above."
Dezra drew her own blade and began to cut the briars as well. "Do you think Ithax is like this now too?"
Caramon glanced toward Trephas. The centaur was well ahead, swinging Soulsplitter like a scythe. "I'm not sure," Caramon admitted quietly. "There's still a couple of leagues to go. Maybe it'll end before we get there."
"You don't sound convinced," Dezra noted.
"I'm not."
Another mile on, they found the first of the bodies.
There was no mistaking the shape of the carcass that lay tangled in the brambles. They didn't need to see the outflung hand, the fingers savaged by carrion birds, to know what it was. Trephas let out a heartbroken moan, then hurried forward, his companions following.
"Trephas," Caramon began. "Don't-"
Too late. The centaur ran to the corpse, waving his arms and yelling to scare away the crows that had settled over it. Then he stopped suddenly, shying back and bowing his head. His breath came in sharp, wracking gasps as the other companions came up beside him.
The centaur had died some time ago, and what flesh the crows hadn't taken was black and swollen. Its ribs showed white through torn flesh. Flies buzzed about it in a thick, black cloud.
Worse than decay, though, was the way it had died. Many of its bones were broken, and its flesh had been hacked with swords or scythes. Its head lay nearly a yard away, eyeless, little more than a skull. The broken shaft of an arrow was lodged in its temple.
Borlos made a strangled sound, then staggered away to vomit. Dezra, too, felt her gorge rise. She looked away, wrinkling her nose at the ungodly stench.
Trephas wept openly, his shoulders shaking. "Merciful Chislev," he murmured. "Iasta. Oh, my dear-what have they done to thee?"
"You knew her?" Caramon asked.