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?"

A heavy silence settled. Chrethon drew himself erect.

"Aye," he said. "I do." He flung out his arms. "Look around, Menelachos! None have seen the Forestmaster since that night! Where is she now, with darkness and war at our forest's edge?"

"She is here."

The centaurs started. Chrethon's eyes widened, rising toward the source of the deep voice. Menelachos and the others turned to follow his gaze, and gasped in wonder.

The unicorn stood atop the sacred outcropping, silhouetted against the dying light. The sun tinted her silvery coat brilliant gold; her ivory horn shone brightly. Such was her beauty that the horsefolk averted their eyes and knelt-all save Chrethon. The white centaur regarded the Forestmaster scornfully.

"Are you truly so sore at me, my child?" the Forestmaster asked, her voice at once stem and kind.

"I will not bow to thee, mistress," Chrethon replied.

The unicorn bobbed her graceful head. "I understand," she said sorrowfully. "You see evil all around, and yearn to fight. But that is precisely what we mustn't do."

"What should we do, then?" Chrethon demanded. "Surrender?"

"If we must."

The other chieftains looked up. Chrethon recoiled as if the Forestmaster had struck him.

"Mistress…" Menelachos began, astonished.

"I cannot explain," the Forestmaster interrupted. "It is Chislev's will. I can only tell you that in this war, darkness must triumph."

The centaurs were silent. The trees creaked mournfully in the wind.

"Then I have no choice, Forestmaster," Chrethon declared. "I forsake thee."

The unicorn drew back, her hooves scraping the stone. "What did you say?"

"I forsake thee!" Chrethon bellowed, his voice ringing across the glade. "If thou wilt not fight the evil, I shall do it alone- and to the Abyss with thee."

The Forestmaster lowered her head. Her horn flashed as she swept her gaze over the other chieftains. "I see doubt in your eyes, also," she told them. "I don't blame you, but I beg for your trust. Will you follow me?"

"I will," said Nemeredes quickly. "Though it pains me, I shall keep the pact. My honor and love for thee demand it, mistress."

The other centaurs murmured as he knelt before the sacred stone. After a moment, Thymmiar and Pleuron followed, then, reluctantly, Leodippos and Eucleia. When the unicorn's gaze turned to the High Chief, only he and Chrethon remained standing.

"And you, Menelachos?" the Forestmaster asked. "Have I your loyalty?"

Wordlessly, he bent down, bowing so deeply that his forehead touched the grassy earth.

The Forestmaster tossed her head, her mane flying. "Chrethon, will you reconsider?"

"No," he answered firmly. "I will not endanger my own people in thy name."

"Very well." The unicorn's voice was a well of sadness. "The Circle of Seven is no more: the Circle of Six shall reign in its place. As for Lord Chrethon-" She hesitated, her gaze drifting back to Menelachos. "Do with him as you will."

Then she was gone, wheeling about and vanishing in a silvery blur. The horsefolk stared at the outcropping, none willing to break the silence. At last, however, Menelachos turned back to Chrethon. "This is a heavy thing thou hast brought upon thyself," he proclaimed sternly. "Never in our history has the Circle been broken. And now, this treason-"

"Don't call it that, Menelachos," Chrethon snapped. "I only want to protect the Wood from those who would harm it."

Menelachos pursed his lips. "That may well be. But treason is treason, no matter how noble the motive. We cannot be blinded by thy good intentions."

Chrethon's eyes flared. His guards tensed, hands twisting about their lances. After a long moment, however, he bowed his head.

"So be it," he murmured. "Do what thou must."

Menelachos nodded slowly. "We must discuss this," he said to the other chieftains, then waved to Chrethon's guards. "Take him hence, so we may confer. When we're ready, we shall call for him."

The guards bowed, then turned and trotted back toward the glade's edge. Chrethon stood still, staring balefully at the sacred stone. If a man's gaze could split rock, the outcropping would have crumbled. Then his chains tautened, and he wheeled quickly as his captors dragged him away.

It was early in the year to be so warm, but the folk of Solace didn't complain. The winter had been fierce, with bone-freezing winds and snow that drifted up the trunks of the mighty vallenwoods, halfway to the cottages nestled in their branches. A month ago, a storm had sheathed the huge trees with sparkling ice. Most of the bridges that linked the tree-bound houses had snapped from the ice's weight, and several old vallenwoods had burst, collapsing in tangles of shattered wood.

The gods' absence only made things worse. Where a cleric's prayer once brought healing, folk lost fingers and toes to frostbite; illnesses, once cured with a word, crippled or killed instead. But the folk of Solace were used to doing without divine aid: Ten years had passed since the Second Cataclysm, when the gods had quit the world forever. Many people had despaired of this, but the folk of Solace were resilient: They overcame what troubles they could handle, endured what they couldn't.

So Solace survived the direst winter since the Summer of Chaos. The dead were buried, the sick and injured cared for with herb and poultice instead of magic. The villagers rebuilt the bridges, took in those who'd lost their homes, planned to build new ones.

A fortnight ago, the cold had ended. Now the vallenwoods were coming alive: Yellow-green buds prepared to burst into leaf, and fragrant blossoms dotted the branches. Songbirds, gone since autumn, flitted above and below the houses, filling the air with music. Shrews, flying squirrels, and gray-tailed markle chased each other among the boughs. Children played in the open air, and young couples stole time together in secret. Everyone, it seemed, was cheered by the coming of spring.

Caramon Majere, however, was in one of his moods.

Tika, Caramon's wife of more than forty years, stood by the bedroom door and surveyed the bulk that was her husband. He lay on his side, facing the sunlit window, his legs tangled in the blankets. Tika sighed, shaking her head. She loved Caramon dearly, but he wasn't the man he'd once been. This past winter had been his sixty-seventh, and few of his years had been easy. His long hair had turned gray, thinning here and receding there. His girth, which he'd battled most of his life, now had him beat: Despite years of hard work running the Inn of the Last Home, his muscles were turning, bit by bit, into flab. Hardly a day went by when he didn't gripe about some new ache or pain.

Tika understood. She was six years his junior, and while her freckled face showed few lines for a woman her age, her once-aubum tresses were snowy, and she was plumper than she'd once been. It was all part of growing older: Bodies gave out, and that was that.

It wasn't her husband's body that troubled Tika; it was his spirit. He'd become prone to fits of deep depression. He moped about, ate too little, slept too much. He wasn't nipping into the dwarf spirits again, as he'd done in his youth, but she suspected that day would come, if something wasn't done.

She wished to the vanished gods that she knew what that something was.

"Caramon," she said. "Get up."

He mumbled, rolling over. The bed groaned.

"Laura has breakfast ready downstairs," Tika pressed. "There's still some eggs and sausage, if you're hungry."

In years gone by, the mention of food would have made him lunge out of bed like a berserker. Now, though, he raised his head, peered at her, then flopped back down. "I'm not hungry," he grumbled.

Caramon's boots were propped by the door. Tika grabbed one, weighed it in her hands, and heaved it at him. It struck his side with a meaty smack.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, sitting up. Tika tried not to notice how his flesh-once hard as stone-jiggled and jounced. "Huma's teeth, Tika, that hurt!"

"There's another boot, right here," Tika said, nudging it with her foot. "Get up."

He slumped. "What for?"

"What for?" Tika was growing livid. "It's Spring Dawning, you great ox! The festival starts at midday. You've got to tap the spring brew before then."

"Let Laura do it," Caramon said. Laura was their elder daughter, and well on her way to running the Inn.

Tika shook her head. "Laura can't carry the kegs up from the cellar. Neither can I. Caramon, what in the Abyss is wrong with you?"

"You want to know?" he snapped, surprising her with his sudden anger. "Fine. I'm tired of watching people die."

She was silent a moment. "Is this about old Dezra?" she asked. Dezra Sepadin had worked at the Inn even longer than Tika. She'd been a close friend to Tika and Caramon. They'd named their younger daughter after her.

Dezra had also been a midwife. One night this past Frostcold, she'd gone out late to help the weaver's wife give birth to her second son, and had caught a terrible coughing sickness. She'd died soon after, with Tika and Caramon at her bedside.

Caramon shrugged. "Partly. I miss them all, Tika-my old friends, my brother, our sons."

Tika chewed her lip, looking away. Losing dear ones was another part of growing old, but it had been particularly hard on Caramon. His closest friends, the six he'd adventured with as a youth, were all gone. Sturm Brightblade and Flint Fire-forge had died during the War of the Lance; his half-sister Kitiara had perished soon after in a failed attempt to conquer the Lordcity of Palanthas. His twin brother, Raistlin, with whom he'd shared a bond Tika could never understand, had been sealed inside the Abyss after failing to overthrow Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness; he'd returned during the Chaos War, ten years ago, only to accompany the gods when they departed Krynn. The same war had also claimed the lives of Tanis Half-Elven and Tasslehoff Burrfoot, as well as Caramon and Tika's eldest sons, Tanin and Sturm. The boys' graves lay beneath a vallenwood not far from the Inn.

Others had died since. Riverwind of Que-shu and his daughter Brightdawn… Gunthar uth Wistan… and now old Dezra. Caramon had lost many friends, it was true.

"We aren't all gone," Tika told him. "You've got me, for one thing. Goldmoon and Laurana are around. And you still have three children, you know-not to mention two grandchildren."

As Caramon pondered this, Tika thought she saw him brighten. They didn't see Palin, their surviving son, as often as they liked-he spent most of his time at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, seeking new magic to replace the sorcery that had vanished when the gods left. He still visited Solace a few times each year, though, and he and his wife Usha were always sure to bring along their own children, Ulin and Linsha, for Tika and Caramon to spoil. Then there was Laura, who was indispensible around the Inn. And Dezra, their youngest, who-well, who was a regal pain in the backside. But that was another set of worries altogether.

Caramon looked less miserable, but he still hadn't budged. Tika reached for the other boot.

"All right," he said, chuckling. "Go easy. I'm getting up." He kicked loose the blankets and swung out of bed. His knees popped loudly, making him wince. "Go back downstairs. I'll be along."

She studied him a moment, then shook the boot at him, unable to keep from grinning. "You'd better be. If I have to come back up here, I'll find something harder than this to throw at you."

"I believe it," he said.

Tika dropped the boot and left the room.

Caramon stood quietly beside the bed, listening as her footsteps creaked down the stairs. Sighing, he went to fill the washbasin.

Mostly, the folk of Solace preferred not to come down from the trees. True, some of the town's buildings-smithy, stables, storehouses-were on the ground, but many of the villagers could spend weeks at a time up among the boughs. Town fairs, however, were a different matter: it was easier, and safer, to hold them in the broad town square on the ground. So, at least once a season, the townsfolk descended to the forest floor to make merry.

The Spring Dawning fair was a tumult of activity. Merchants from all over Ansalon had set up tents and counters, selling everything from leather pouches to gemstones, steel weapons to vallenwood carvings. There was food, too-venison and honeycakes, culberries and elven quith-pa- and everywhere one looked, someone was hawking ale or wine.

There was more than just things to buy, of course. Bards and entertainers of all sorts had come to ply their trades. Wandering about the fair, Caramon counted a dozen minstrels and storytellers, a company of acrobats, a puppet show, stilt-walkers, jugglers, jesters and a fire-eater. He and Tika stopped to watch, and left coins in hats here and there.

There were others, too: reminders of what the world had lost ten years ago. False prophets preached to the masses, seeking converts for their faiths. Caramon cast them a baleful eye-in his youth, he and his friends had run afoul of their like many times-but he left them alone. Some people needed gods to believe in, and the real ones weren't coming back soon.

It hurt more to see the magicians. To the delight of onlookers, they made coins dance in the air, conjured white birds out of nothing, and cut ropes to pieces, only to make them whole again. It was all fakery and flash powder, of course. Caramon's brother had performed most of the tricks when they were boys. For Raistlin, such illusions had been a means to the end of learning true magic. Raist was gone with the gods, though, and sorcery with him. Caramon was sure some of the "magicians" on the fairgrounds today had once been real wizards, wielding true spells. It saddened him to see them, reduced to roadside spectacles.

Besides watching the buskers perform, the townsfolk also made their own fun. A riddling contest was due to take place later on. On the far side of the square, human and elven archers feathered targets with lethal accuracy. Footraces, javelin throws, and other contests drew the skillful and foolish. Caramon and Tika stopped for a while beside one game, where two young men with quarterstaffs stood on a beam above a mud pit, trying to knock each other off. The crack of wood against wood sounded above the crowd's shouts.

The combatants traded blows, dodging and blocking, until finally one gained the upper hand. He struck his opponent's knee with the end of his staff, then swept his weapon up and hit him again in the chest. The stricken man toppled from the beam, landing in the pit with a splash that spattered mud on the onlookers.

Laughter and curses rose as bets were settled and young men yelled challenges against the champion. Soaking with mud, the defeated man rose from the pit and stormed off into the crowd.

"Look at this," Tika groaned, brushing her mud-flecked skirts. "We've been here an hour, and my frock's ruined. You'll have to buy me a new one."

Caramon grunted but said nothing, staring wistfully at the beam.

Tika groaned. "No," she told him. "I know that look. Just forget about it."

He sighed, not seeming to hear. "I used to fight in competitions like that, when I was young." He nodded at the champion, who arrogantly straddled the beam. "I could have knocked that whelp halfway to Haven."

Tika snorted. "That was fifty years ago, you dolt," she scolded. "I could have done the same, back then. But you're not seventeen any more, Caramon. That's a game for young men."

Reluctantly, Caramon turned to face her. "So what's left for me to do?"

Sensing another mood coming on, Tika looked around. "There's always the eating contests," she said, pointing.

Caramon's eyes drifted to a table where several large men were cramming a seemingly endless supply of sausages into their mouths while the watching crowd laughed. "I will not do that," he sulked, grimacing. "I'd look less of a fool if I locked myself in the pillory and let people throw rotten fruit at me."

"And you'd have looked better, getting knocked on your backside in the mud?"

Caramon looked down at Tika, saw the fire in her eyes, and grinned. "Point taken."

He turned, peering over the heads of the other fairgoers. At six and a half feet, he towered above nearly everyone. After a moment, he started shoving through the mob.

Tika hurried to keep pace. "What is it?" she asked. "I can't see a thing-"

He gave no answer, leading the way to a shouting knot of people, crowded about a table on a crude, wooden dais. As the crowd parted to let him pass, Tika saw what had caught his attention. A doubtful frown appeared on her face.

Atop the dais, two muscular, sweating men sat across from each other at the table. One was a young, beefy farmboy; the other was Japeth, a woodcutter and frequent patron of the Inn. Their right elbows were on the table, their hands clenched together. The arm-wrestlers grimaced and grunted, muscles bunching in their arms and necks as they pitted strength against strength.

"Well, this is exciting," Tika said dryly.

Caramon shushed her, his eyes on the contest. Japeth had a slight advantage, his quivering arm slowly pushing the farm-boy's over. The onlookers roared with approval, and Japeth started to grin.

Then the farmboy smiled too. The crowd fell still as, with a burst of new strength, he pushed back. In a heartbeat they were deadlocked again; in another, Japeth was faltering. He held out a few moments longer, but in the end it wasn't enough. Still grinning, the farmboy pushed him all the way over, slamming his arm against the tabletop. Japeth slumped as a short, bald man came forward.

"Uwen wins!" shouted the bald man, raising the farmboy's hand. "That's three in a row, lad. Want to try for a fourth?"

The boy nodded, grinning, as Japeth's friends led the woodcutter away.

"All right, then!" The bald man turned to the crowd. "Who's next?"

Tika slumped. She didn't need to glance at Caramon to see the look on his face. He'd mope the rest of the day if she didn't let him wrestle. With a small shrug, she let go of his arm and shoved him forward.

"Right here!" she called.

It bad seemed a good idea at the time.

Dezra Majere had woken before dawn, dressed quietly, and snuck out of her room, past her parents' chamber to the stairs. Her hand had been on the banister when she heard the dick of a door opening behind her.

She'd frozen, stomach clenching, and glanced back, expecting to see her father. It was just Laura, though. Relieved, Dezra had raised a finger to her lips, then nodded down the stairs.

Soundlessly, the sisters had crept down to the tavern. Dezra had slipped into the kitchen to grab a wedge of cheese, given half to her sister, wolfed the rest down.

"What's happening?" Laura had asked. "Why are you up so early?"

"I'm going out," Dezra had answered.

Laura's face had tightened with concern. "Father's tapping the spring beer today," she'd said. "He's bound to miss you."

"Let him. I'm not running tankards to a bunch of drunks."

"He'll ask me where you went."

Dezra had thrown up her hands. "Laura, don't be hopeless. Just cover for me, and I'll never ask you again."

"That's what you said last week. And the week before that."

"And you did a good job, both times," Dezra had answered, flashing a lopsided grin.

Laura had sighed. "Sure, Dez. Whatever you say."

With a bow-a masculine gesture, to go with her men's clothes and short, brown hair-Dezra had padded out of the Inn.

The fairgrounds had already been busy when she arrived. Workmen built stalls and platforms for the festival; merchants set up their wares outside their tents. She'd walked among them freely, but not unnoticed. Dezra had always been a tomboy, but she was nineteen, and many of the men stopped to watch her pass. Instead of blushing, as Laura might have done, or glaring, like her mother would have, she played along, pouting and winking. One didn't grow up in an inn without learning to flirt.

She hadn't come to the square just to parade in front of a bunch of clods with callused hands, though. She had work to do. She'd eyed the stalls the craftsmen were setting up, and noted two in particular: a moneychanger and a gemcutter. Both tradesmen were from out of town, weren't particularly attentive, and had goods within easy reach.

Both easy marks for a young thief.

Satisfied, she'd left the town square and headed south, to the seedier side of town, where she'd entered the Rusty Shield Tavern and ordered a whiskey and a dark ale from Brandel, the scruffy, eyepatched tapman. She'd downed the whiskey in a gulp, then nursed the beer, not speaking to Brandel or the tavern's mangy regulars. Finally, at mid-afternoon, she'd thrown back another whiskey and headed back to the fairgrounds.

She'd wandered the fair a while, careful not to draw attention to herself. Bought a baked apple, stuffed with raisins and spices. Talked with several young men, laughing and leading them on-even kissed one, full on the mouth, to his astonishment-before leaving them behind. Through it all, she'd watched the merchants she'd marked, waiting.

The first opportunity came when she was near the moneychanger's counter. Several stalls down, a weaver had caught a kender wandering off with a colorful blanket under his arm. As the weaver shouted for the guards and the bewildered kender protested that he was only taking the blanket to show a friend, the moneychanger's patrons had turned to watch. Dezra had bided patiently by the counter, and when the moneychanger glanced up toward the ruckus, she'd snatched a stack of coins and slipped them into her pocket.

It wasn't much, only about fifty pieces of steel. As she strode away, though, she'd relished the surge of energy that rushed through her. She loved that thrill-except for a tumble in the stables with a young man, Dezra thought there was nothing better.

Ganlamar, the gemcutter, was more difficult. He was shrewd, but she was confident she could beat him. She'd moved in, repeating the pattern: hover nearby, wait for a diversion, then move… .

It had seemed like a good idea, anyway.

This time, the distraction came from across the square, where a barker was announcing an arm-wrestling contest. One of the contestants was a centaur, of all things: a swaggering beast who drew everyone's attention. The other was Caramon. Dezra had laughed at the irony: her own father, providing the distraction she needed.

The crowd around Ganlamar's booth began to thin as people hurried over to watch the match. Dezra sidled closer to the table, one eye on the contest and the other on the fat gemcutter. Ganlamar was in the middle of selling a pair of opals to an overstuffed spice merchant. Stones and money changed hands, then the gemcutter turned too, to get a glimpse of the horse-man.

Lightning-quick, Dezra reached out and seized a shining amethyst. At the same moment, on the other end of the counter, a young child knocked over Ganlamar's scales.

The balances clattered loudly as they fell, and the gemcutter whirled to see what was the matter. Dezra pocketed the amethyst, but it was too late. Ganlamar's eyes met hers, then narrowed to angry slits.

Dezra ran.

"Stop!" Ganlamar shouted, leaving his apprentice to watch his wares as he gave chase. "Thief! Come back!"

Sure, thought Dezra as she dashed away, into the mob. She elbowed her way through the press of bodies, sending people sprawling. Some idiot, hearing Ganlamar's cries, grabbed for her sleeve; she shoved him into a baker's counter, then charged onward. Loaves of bread flew everywhere.

Ganlamar was surprisingly fleet-footed. Glancing back, she saw he was catching up to her. She cast about, looking for something to slow him down, then bolted for a potter's stall. She vaulted over the counter, smashing a clay urn and drawing an outraged shout from the potter, then lunged for one of the ropes that held up his tent. She drew a dagger from her belt, and, with a flick of her wrist, slashed the rope. The tent collapsed.

The potter and several townsfolk crowded around, grabbing for the fluttering canvas. The sudden commotion blocked Ganlamar's way, and Dezra gained another dozen strides on him before he resumed the chase. She slammed her dirk back in its sheath, laughing as she ran.

She hadn't been heading toward the arm-wrestling contest on purpose, but there it was, just ahead. She considered turning aside, going the long way around, but Ganlamar was gaining ground again. Lowering her head, she plunged on. As she skirted the edge of the mob surrounding the contest-a mob that was now watching her instead of her father and the centaur-she caught a glimpse of her mother. Tika stood beside Caramon on the dais, staring straight at Dezra.

"Crap," Dezra muttered as she darted past.

There was a rope ladder ahead, hanging from a walkway. Dezra bolted for it and leapt. It swung wildly as she grabbed its rungs and began to climb. Ganlamar shouted furiously below.

She was nearly at the top when she heard the whistles. The shrill sounds were all around her, moving along the walkways among the trees. She knew what they meant: Solace's town guards were up there, trying to head her off. There were more guards below, too, grabbing for the swaying ladder. She swore again, climbing faster, and pulled herself up onto the walkway, far above the staring crowd.

"Over there!" shouted a voice to her left.

Glancing over, she saw guards heading toward her, carrying spears and clad in leather cuirasses and iron helmets. She whirled and ran the other way. She led a merry chase, dashing across bridges from treehouse to treehouse, but the guards were well coordinated, several staying on her tail while the others ran ahead, trying to outflank her. Far below, the onlookers yelled and laughed. Dezra was sure some were cheering for her.

She barreled across a walkway, which jounced wildly with each pounding step, then reached the balcony at the other end and pulled up short. Half a dozen guardsmen were waiting for her.

They started forward. "C'mon, Dez," said the one in the lead, a youth she remembered from one particularly unsatisfactory stable-grope. "Give up before you get yourself hurt."

"Bite my breeches," she snarled.

She heard boots on wood behind her. Looking back, she saw several guards blocking the way she'd come. Angrily, she spat and glanced around, seeking escape.

Then, suddenly, she saw her chance: To her right, a few feet from the balcony's railing, was another bridge. It wasn't attached to the balcony where she stood, instead linking two neighboring trees, but it was tantalizingly close, swaying gently in the breeze.

"The Abyss with it," she muttered, and ran for it.

There was a single guard in her way. She hit him hard, ducking low and driving her elbow into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath. Below, the crowd gasped as Dezra hopped up onto the railing, teetered for a heartbeat a hundred feet above their heads, then leapt off, toward the bridge.

It was a day full of bad ideas.

She made the jump, but just barely, catching the walkway with her arms and scrabbling for purchase. Her legs churned beneath her as her fingers clutched the bridge's planks. One of her boots came off, falling to the ground below.

"Dezra!" bellowed her father, below. "What are you doing?"

"I wish to Reorx I knew," she muttered, trying to pull herself up.

"Help her!" her mother shrieked. "Someone get to her before she falls!"

The guards didn't sound so coordinated any more. Their clattering footsteps milled about the balcony behind her, spreading out as they tried to find their way to her. She made another try to haul herself up, but she had no leverage. She started to lose her grip.

She wondered which would hit the ground first: her head or her feet.

Suddenly, the tromp of footsteps rattled the bridge. It shook so badly, she nearly let go. "Careful, damn it!" she snapped. "You'll knock me loose!"

The man coming toward her must have heard, because he slowed his pace. She continued to slip, dimly aware of her parents' panicked shouts below. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a meaty hand grabbed her wrist. She looked up, expecting a guard, but instead saw a broad, guileless face, surmounted by a mop of blond hair.

"Who the-" she blurted.

He reached for her with his other hand. "My name's Uwen."

Before she could ask more, he grabbed her arm and jerked her upward, muscles bulging. He lifted her like she was a child, then set her down on the bridge. Below, the tenor of the crowd's cries changed from fear to relief.

She leaned against him, breathing hard. "Thanks," she gasped.

"You're welcome," he said. He grinned at her, his simple, blue eyes almost glowing, and Dezra groaned inside. She'd seen that look on many a drunk's face. It was dumb infatuation.

Hobnail boots clomped toward her, from either end of the bridge. There wasn't anywhere left to run, so she pushed herself away from Uwen with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry to leave you like this," she said, turning toward the approaching guardsmen. "But I think I'm about to be arrested."

Caramon followed his daughter across the Ranging walkway to the Inn of the Last Home. He stared at her back, trying to control his stewing anger. He'd spent the afternoon dealing with the wreckage Dezra had left behind. He'd paid the merchants she'd robbed for their troubles, made amends with the one whose tent she'd collapsed, then gone to the jail to get Dezra out.

Retark, the town sheriff, had led him to her cell. She'd been leaning against the door, flirting with one of the guards. Seeing Caramon, she'd rolled her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she'd asked.

Caramon let out an explosive snort and stopped walking. Dezra sauntered on a moment, then glanced back, smiling crookedly.

"Coming?" she asked. "I must have a good talking to lined up for me. Let's get it over with."

Caramon stared at her, simmering, then shook his head. "Where did I go wrong?" he muttered at the vallenwoods' boughs as he followed his daughter.

In time, Dezra slowed her pace. Moonlight or no, it was getting hard to see. To her right was the gleam of a bonfire, the sounds of music and laughter-the feast, no doubt. In its ruddy glow she saw moss on the vallenwoods' trunks. She was heading south, into the disreputable part of town.

She smiled. It had been her wont, through her teenage years, to head this way whenever she and her parents had a blazing row. Why should tonight be different? She walked on, resting her hand on the pommel of her dagger. This was no part of town for a young woman to go unarmed, no matter how self-assured she was.

The path opened into a weed-choked courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings. Most were dark, their doors shut, but the one on the far side stood open, lamplight shining within. Above its door, creaking in the breeze, was a well-rusted shield.

The Inn of the Last Home had, since time out of mind, kept a policy of refusing business from truly unsavory folk. Before the Summer of Chaos, the ruffians and rogues the Inn turned away had gathered at a ramshackle alehall called the Trough. The Knights of Takhisis had burned the place down during the Chaos War, but soon after they retreated from town, the Rusty Shield had taken its place.

Ten years later, it had settled into comfortable decrepitude. Its slate-shingled roof buckled, and the paint peeled on its walls. It had no windows, nor a proper sign. Various stenches-smoke, soured ale, and worse-hung about it. Dezra smiled as she approached. She spat in a row of scrubby bushes beside the tavern's door, then stepped inside.

"Well, if it ain't the Flying Majere," said the tapman, his good eye crinkling mirthfully.

"Leave it alone, Brandel," she shot back. She swaggered to the bar, tossing down a few coppers. "Get me a drink."

Still grinning, Brandel snatched up the coins and turned to a keg behind him. He talked as he poured. "I'm surprised to see you. Reckoned your parents wouldn't let you out of sight after what you did today."

"Can we leave alone what I did today?" Dezra snapped. "I'm sick of hearing about it."

"Whatever you say." He set her ale in front of her.

Dezra drank in silence. The beer was stale, but she finished it and ordered another. While Brandel refilled her stoup, she turned and surveyed the taproom.

The place was nearly empty. Besides Brandel, the only person working was the barmaid, Edelle. Youth had left Edelle behind, but that didn't stop her from trifling with customers half her age. Right now she was whispering with Fingers, a pickpocket who'd lost half his hand years ago in a failed snatch-and-grab. A couple local drunks snored in the shadows. And sitting by the door was a big, blond-bearded man with a battle-axe strapped across his back: a sellsword. She'd seen plenty of his kind in the Shield over the years, and was used to the leer that creased his face as he looked her up and down. Sneering, she turned back to the bar.

After a moment, she heard a chair push back, and the jingling of chainmail. A shape appeared beside her, eclipsing the lamplight. He said nothing, but simply stared, breathing heavily and leaning against the bar.

Dezra glowered. "Looking at something?"

"I'll say," he answered, grinning drunkenly. "I'm Storvald. Storvald of-" he stifled a belch "-of Wayend. What's your name, lovely?"

Lummox, Dezra thought, studiously ignoring him.

His hand reached out, touched hers. His fingers were callused and crooked. "Have I seen you somewhere? At the fair, maybe?"

A strangled laugh came from behind the bar. Dezra glared at Brandel, who quickly strolled into the storeroom in the back of the tavern.

"I doubt it," she told the sellsword.

"Well, no mind," Storvald declared. "We know each other now, don't we?"

Suddenly, his fingers seized Dezra's wrist. His bearded face lunged toward hers, and he kissed her on the mouth. His breath was sour.

Dezra leaned back, breaking the kiss. "Let go."

Storvald snarled, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. "Now, love, be nice. We'll find someplace quiet, a hayloft maybe-"

Brandel came back into the taproom. His lips tightened when he saw Dezra's red face. "Everything all right, Dez?" he asked. He held a knotted wooden cudgel. "You-don't make me use this."

For someone so drunk, Storvald was surprisingly fast. Reaching over his shoulder, he yanked his massive axe from its harness and slammed it down on the bar. It buried itself an inch deep in the wood.

"This ain't your trouble," he growled.

Brandel stopped, staring. His cudgel fell to the floor with a thump.

"That's better," Storvald said. "Now, the girl and me are leaving to find a nice, quiet hayloft." He jerked Dezra's arm. "And no one's stopping us, right?"

"Wrong," Dezra said, and stomped on his ankle.

Her attack came with no warning. Storvald howled in pain, staggering. He let Dezra go, grabbing the bar with both hands. Her fist slammed into his jaw. She wore a ring, set with a green cat's-eye gem. It opened his cheek, and blood ran down his face.

Reeling, Storvald shook his head and lunged for her. She danced aside, however, and he stumbled against the bar, flattening his hand against the countertop. Dezra drew her dagger and drove it through that hand, pinning it to the bar. There was more blood, and Storvald cried out again. He clawed for her clumsily. She ducked, spun, and hooked his uninjured leg with her foot, then hit his forehead with her knee as he fell. He went limp, hanging from the bar by his impaled hand.

Dezra straightened and pulled her dagger free. Storvald crumpled in a heap.

The Rusty Shield was silent. She pried Storvald's axe out of the bar and handed it to Brandel. “Yours," she said, nodding at the cudgel on the floor. "Thanks for trying to help-but next time, stay out of it."

She drained her half-empty tankard, then bent over the unconscious sellsword and grabbed his arms. "Give me a hand, Edelle," she said.

Grinning, the barmaid hurried over and took Storvald's legs. They carried him out and dumped him in the prickly hedgerow. "What if he wakes up?" Edelle wondered.

"He won't," Dezra said, and kicked him, hard, in the head. "That should keep him till morning."

They went back inside. Now that the surprise had worn off, the patrons carried on with their business. This wasn't the first time someone had been beaten senseless in the Rusty Shield.

Brandel poured Dezra another beer. "I'm looking for new muscle," he said.

Dezra laughed, taking a deep drink. "Look somewhere else. I'm leaving this louse-ridden town."

"Sure. You say that every week."

She shrugged, tracing her fingers around the rim of her stoup. "I mean it this time. Tomorrow morning, I'm gone."

"Dost thou, perchance, want company?" asked a voice from the doorway.

Dezra sighed. "Not another one," she muttered, quaffing her ale. "Can't a woman have a drink without every lout in town thinking-Brandel? What's wrong?"

The barkeep didn't say a word; he just gaped at the door. Curious, Dezra glanced over her shoulder, did a double-take, and stared.

It was the centaur, the one her father had been wrestling when Ganlamar caught her stealing the amethyst. He stooped down awkwardly, half in and half out the door. He wore a quiver of arrows and an enormous bow, and there was a long-bladed lance strapped to his war harness.

"Sorry, friend," Brandel said. "No horses allowed."

The centaur's eyes blazed. "I'm no horse!" he blustered, chin rising. "I am Trephas, son of Nemeredes!"

"Son of an old nag," Brandel muttered.

"Easy," Dezra said.

"No," the barkeep shot back, loud enough for Trephas to hear. "I don't want him in here, stinking the place up."

Trephas's face darkened. He lifted his head, sniffing disdainfully. "I hardly think my smell would hurt this place."

"Let him in, Brandel," Dezra murmured. "You've heard the stories about how much his kind drink. That's a lot of money to turn away."

Brandel thought it over. "Good point," he noted. "But if he craps on the floor, you're cleaning it up." He beckoned to the centaur, smiling thinly. "Come in, then, whatever your name is."

With some difficulty, Trephas squeezed through the door. He glanced around, then walked toward the bar, his iron shoes clacking against the wooden floor.

Edelle bustled over to Dezra with a tray of empty mugs. "You should see him from behind," she whispered, grinning. "Now I know where that saying comes from."

Brandel and Dezra snickered, drawing another hot look from the centaur. "What'll you have?" the barkeep asked, composing himself. "A glass of wine?"

Trephas regarded him like something he'd just scraped off his hoof. “A glass?" he asked scornfully. "You may as well fill a thimble, man. Bring me a pitcher!"

Brandel bristled, but Dezra gave him a look, and he brought himself under control. "Fine," he said.

"And it had best not be watered." Tossing his mane, Trephas pulled his lance from his harness and leaned it against the bar.

"Of course not," Brandel said tightly. He disappeared into the back. He carried a ewer, brimming with red wine, when he returned. Trephas reached for it, and he snatched it back. "I think you're forgetting something."

"What?" Trephas blurted. Then he chuckled haughtily. "Oh, of course. I forgot-humans pay for their drinks." He reached for the purse that hung from his harness. "Will five pieces of silver suffice?"

Brandel had been about to ask for only two pieces, but he quickly swallowed his words. "Er, yeah, that's right," he declared. "Five." He waited while the centaur counted the coins-they were old, dating back to before the first Cataclysm-then handed him his wine.

The pitcher was heavy, but Trephas hoisted it as easily as a human might lift a flagon. Then he poured a large measure- enough to fill a goblet-on the ground.

"Hey!" Brandel exclaimed. "My floor!"

Trephas waved him off. "That was a sacred libation," he said. "For Chislev the Beast. The gods must have their due, departed though they may be."

Brandel peered over the bar at the dark stain before the centaur's hooves, then at Trephas's full purse. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you say."

Trephas blew out his lips-a peculiarly horselike gesture- and brought the pitcher to his mouth. He drank it down in one draught. Wine spilled around the corners of his mouth, flowing in twin runnels down his bearded cheeks. Most, however, went straight down his throat. Everyone in the tavern stared. He slammed the empty pitcher on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Ahhh," he declared lustily. "A bit plain, but 'twill do. Fetch me another."

Brandel was too awed to reply. He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed for the back room again.

Trephas turned to Dezra, his thick eyebrows rising. "Now. Thou wert saying, when I came in, that thou art planning to quit this town?"

Dezra blinked. "Well," she said, "planning's a strong word, but… yeah, I'm leaving."

The centaur nodded. Brandel brought a second pitcher, and Trephas traded another handful of silver coins for it, then poured another libation and drank. He didn't finish it in one gulp this time, but still put it away with astonishing speed.

"Come with me, then," he said. "I have use for thee."

"Use for me?" Dezra repeated. "That's a hell of a way to put it. Anyway, I thought your kind preferred to take young women without asking their permission."

Trephas snorted and let out a braying laugh. "Oh, ho!" he declared. "Of course-those childish tales thy people tell. My folk kidnapping and ravishing maidens and such. No, that isn't my meaning. I want thee to come to Darken Wood, Dezra Majere. I need thy help."

It was Dezra's turn to laugh. “My help? What in Hiddukel's name for?"

The centaur waved his hand. "My people are having trouble with some renegades in the forest. We have need of human aid to put a stop to the trouble. I saw what thou didst at the fair today, and again with that sells word." He set down the pitcher and folded his arms across his chest. "I think thou wouldst be fine for the job."

Dezra pursed her lips, then shook her head. "You've got the wrong Majere. I'm not the one who goes off on grand quests for people I hardly know. Why don't you ask my father?"

"I already did. He refused."

Dezra looked at him sharply, her eyes narrowing. They were both silent for a time. At length, Dezra coughed and glanced away. "Maybe I am interested, after all," she said. "What's in it for me?"

Trephas looked at her, confused.

Dezra nodded at the centaur's purse. "I'm not going to Darken Wood for free, you know."

"Oh," he said. He thought on this. "I suppose I could give thee some silver… ."

"Steel," she corrected. "Two hundred pieces-and that's just for me to go to Darken Wood with you. Once I'm there, if I decide to help, I'll expect more."

He pondered, pawing the floor with his forehoof. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize thy people sold themselves so, but there it is. I'll pay thee, if thou wilt go. We leave in the morning."

"It's a deal," she said, offering her hand. He took it, clasping her wrist painfully tight. She raised her stoup. "To Darken Wood, then."

"To Darken Wood," Trephas echoed, flashing his big-toothed grin as he lifted his pitcher.

Fortunately Caramon saw the mug coming, he ducked as it flew toward him, and it hit the wall behind him with a crash. Its shards clattered down around his feet.

"She's gone!" Uka shouted. "He took her, damn you!"

"What are you talking about?" Caramon asked, raising his hands to ward off more flying tankards.

Tika looked behind her. "You tell him."

Looking past her, Caramon saw the farmboy he'd wrestled at the fair. "Uwen?"

"It-it isn't my fault," the boy stammered. His eyes were wide, his face pale. "I wanted to stop him-"

"Hold on," Caramon said. "Slow down, lad. What's the matter?"

Uwen told him, pale and terrified: He'd seen Dezra at dawn, watched her pilfer traveling gear from half a dozen different merchants, then seen her and the centaur ride west out of Solace. Caramon bowed his head, a hollow feeling in his gut.

"It's your fault!" Tika yelled, letting another mug fly. He grunted as it glanced off his elbow. "Blast it, Caramon! How could you?"

"You'd have done the same thing."

"Exactly," she said, tears on her cheeks. "That's why I asked you to deal with her. I didn't trust my temper." She gestured at the shattered mugs. "I thought you'd go easier on her. You've always been the reasonable one. Was it reasonable to throw her out?"

Caramon sighed. He walked toward her, took her hands, gazed into her eyes. "Maybe it's time she was on her own. The boys were, when they were her age."

Tika's eyes flashed. "Look where that got them."

Caramon winced as he thought of Tanin and Sturm, their graves overgrown with ferns and myrtle. "Palm was young too, the first time he left home," he murmured. "If we'd kept him here, he wouldn't have met Usha, or had children of his own." There was unspoken meaning behind his words. If they'd sheltered Palin, Krynn might no longer exist. His magic had helped stop the mad god Chaos from destroying the world.

Tika shook her head stubbornly. "We're not talking about Palin. We're talking about our little girl."

"Gods, Tika," Caramon said, throwing up his hands, "what am I supposed to do?"

"Find her, you dolt! Get her back from that centaur."

Uwen stepped forward. "I think he kidnapped her," he said. "Like in the stories."

"I don't know," Caramon said, scratching his head. "You say she was wearing a sword… ."

"Kidnapped or not, she's riding into Darken Wood," Tika argued. "She doesn't know what she's getting into."

Caramon thought she probably did, but didn't say so. He bowed his head, gesturing at himself. "Look at me, Tika," he said. "Even Lord Gunthar quit sallying forth from his keep when he was my age-and he was a Knight of Solamnia."

"Gunthar would have gone, if it had been his daughter."

Yes, Caramon thought, I guess he would, damn it.

"And I know another man who wasn't much younger than you are now when he set out on a quest," Tika pressed. "A quest much more dangerous than following a runaway daughter into Darken Wood… ."

He shut his eyes. "Don't-"

"Riverwind."

Caramon blew out a long breath. Riverwind of Que-shu had been sixty-five when he'd gone east to defend Kendermore. But the kender hadn't approached him first-they'd asked Caramon. He'd turned them down, so Riverwind had gone instead. And Riverwind had died. Of all the burdens Caramon had shouldered in his life, it was one of the heaviest.

He took Tika's hand, squeezed it tightly. "I guess I'd better go find my armor then, eh?"

Dezra felt like death on a platter.

She'd still been drunk at dawn, when she stole her gear and rode out on Trephas's back. That was long past now, and sobriety wasn't being friendly. Her stomach kept trying to climb up her throat; her head wanted to hatch. Trephas wasn't being very considerate, either. He kept at a canter along the winding Haven Road, bouncing her mercilessly with every step.

Finally, as the sun began to wester, she could take no more. "Stop," she moaned. "Now."

Trephas glanced at her, then halted and knelt in the road. She slid off his back and stumbled over to lean, wheezing, against a mossy boulder. Trephas pulled some flat bread and black olives from his pack and ate. He chuckled. "Ah, yes," he said. "I've heard thy kind get terrible sick from too much drink. A… hangover, is that word?"

Last night, his arrogance had seemed charming; now it rankled her. Blithely, he pulled out a wineskin and took a long swig. "I wouldn't know the feeling," he said. "It's never happened to me before."

That, Dezra thought as she rubbed her throbbing temples, was not fair.

She looked around blearily. The Haven Road was busy most spring days, but this was the day after a festival. There were no travelers to be seen. Ahead on the left loomed a tall mountain, its cleft top shaped like a pair of giant, beseeching hands.

"There's Prayer's Eye Peak," she said. "There should be a path to it up ahead."

"There is." Trephas clenched his jaw, pawing the ground. "We shan't use it, though."

"What?" Dezra returned. "Prayer's Eye Peak's the only pass into Darken Wood around here. If we don't take it, we'll have to go miles out of the way."

The centaur's eyes narrowed, lingering on the cleft mountain. "Even so," he said.

Dezra shook her head. "You're going to have to say more than that. I don't know how it is with your people, but I'm not some… filly you can order around without-"

"Whist!" Trephas hissed, holding up a hand.

"Whist?" Dezra exclaimed. "Who uses words like 'whist' any more?"

"Be still!"

The centaur's sharp tone silenced her. She touched her sword as he reached over his shoulder and pulled out his bow. He slid an arrow out of his quiver and notched it on the string. It tapped nervously against the bow-stave.

Dezra glanced about, searching for whatever trouble Trephas sensed. For a moment all was silent, save the moan of the wind and the soft tap-tap-tap of the centaur's arrow. Then, faintly, she heard something ahead: the thud of hoofbeats, the rattle of harnesses.

Trephas's tail twitched edgily. "Mount up," he hissed. "We must ride before the trap is set."

Dezra caught her breath, then lunged toward the centaur and climbed onto his back. She almost slid off the other side, then caught her arms about his waist to right herself.

Trephas's reflexes were quicker than any horse's. One moment he was standing still, the next he was halfway to a gallop and gaming speed. Startled, Dezra nearly lost her grip, and clutched him even tighter. Her heels pounded his flanks, spurring him on.

"Stop kicking me!" he barked. "And loosen thy grasp. I can't breathe with thee squeezing me so!"

Reluctantly, she obeyed. Trephas surged down the path, mane flying, dust billowing behind him. Dezra considered drawing her sword, but only for a moment: it was hard enough to stay on the centaur's back with two hands. She didn't want to risk one.

The path curved ahead. It was a sharp turn, after which, Dezra knew, it descended into a gully where an old trail led to Prayer's Eye Peak. That was where the approaching hoof-beats were coming from. She didn't know who would get to the crossroads first.

"Hang on," Trephas warned.

She gripped with arms and knees as Trephas flew around the turn. They charged downhill, at a pace that promised broken bones, or worse, if either of them fell. Dezra craned her neck, brushing aside his mane to peer ahead. The path to Prayer's Eye Peak was a narrow game trail, bristling with grass and leafy weeds. It cut through the mountains toward the cleft crag, barely wide enough for a lone rider to negotiate. So, instead of coming two or three abreast, the ambushers had to move single file.

They were centaurs, Dezra saw. But something was wrong with them.

At first glance, they looked like they were kin to Trephas, but something was different. They moved with unnatural fluidity, plucking arrows from their quivers and nocking them on their bowstrings. Every now and then, they twitched and jerked, like a man stung by a wasp. They were shaped oddly, too. One was so thin as to be skeletal; others were masses of corded muscle; another still was disgustingly obese. Some had lost patches of hair, others were too hairy by half. Their legs were too long, or of mismatched lengths; arms too short; ears like horses' instead of men's. None of them had tails. Their eyes had no whites, but were all dull, empty pupil: blank, dark, devoid of feeling.

Dezra shuddered as she met their cold, empty gaze. Branchala bite me, she thought. What are these?

Now they were a hundred paces away. One, a hulking, bay brute whose upper half resembled an ogre more than a man, raised his bow and loosed a shot. The arrow soared high, then dove to shatter before Trephas's flashing hooves.

Sixty paces.

"Thenidor," Trephas snorted as the bay readied another arrow. "I should have guessed." Keeping up the charge, he brought up his bow, pulled back the string. The misshapen horsefolk did the same, arrowheads glinting in the sun. Dezra clenched her teeth.

Forty paces. Trephas's bowstring thrummed. To the bay's left, a gray, hunchbacked centaur dropped, its breast pierced. It thrashed on the ground, limbs flailing.

It saved them.

The bay, Thenidor, stumbled sideways as the dying gray kicked at him. He fired, but his aim was ruined. The shot soared away uselessly. Beside him, a wiry black centaur lowered his weapon and leapt aside. At the end of the row, a shaggy brown whose long face had at least as much horse as man to it launched his own shot. Dezra ducked as the arrow streaked straight toward them. Trephas swerved, and she heard a hum as the shaft flashed past.

Twenty paces.

She peeked over Trephas's shoulder. Ahead, the misshapen centaurs milled about in confusion. Thenidor dropped his bow and pulled a halberd from his war harness.

Ten.

Dezra ducked behind Trephas, squeezing her eyes shut and gripping him tightly.

There was shouting all around, and the clatter of hooves. Trephas struck something hard, glanced off, and kept running. A low whistle split the air-Thenidor's halberd-then the commotion was behind them: horseshoes ringing on stone, snarled curses, creaking bows.

She opened her eyes and glanced about. Trephas was bleeding from a gash across his flank, but he kept up his desperate, galloping pace. The road ahead was dear. She twisted, glancing back, and saw their would-be ambushers in disarray. The gray was no longer moving. Awkwardly, the other centaurs wheeled around. Thenidor still gripped his halberd, but the wiry black and the shaggy brown raised their bows and fired. One shot fell to Trephas's right, splintering against the stones; the other grazed the tip of his tail before clattering to the ground.

"We made it!" Dezra whooped, pounding his back.

Trephas ignored her, plunging on without slowing. Soon, Dezra saw why: The misshapen horse-men leapt into motion. She counted their pursuers-six, it looked like-before Trephas crested the rise and rounded another bend in the road. Then they were gone from sight, though she still could hear their thundering hooves.

"So much for Prayer's Eye Peak," Dezra said, watching the mountain drop away behind them. "What in the Abyss were those… things?"

Trephas didn't answer. He lowered his head, charging along the winding Haven Road into the heart of the Sentinel Peaks. Their pursuers' hoofbeats kept pace.

"Hey!" Dezra yelled. "Aren't you listen-"

"I can run," Trephas snarled, "or I can talk. I haven't the wind for both." He drew a ragged breath, as if to emphasize the point.

Dezra scowled. "All right. Don't be so damn touchy."

Trephas grunted and galloped onward, mane and tail streaming. Dezra held on, her hangover forgotten.

The wind shrieked like a banshee as they charged through Sentinel Gap, blasting their faces with stinging ice. Patches of pebbly snow covered the stony ground, wreathed in meltwater. In the midst of the pass, a deep pool had accumulated. Trephas plunged into it without hesitation. Dezra gritted her teeth as the frigid water splashed her. If it bothered the centaur, he gave no sign.

Then they were out the other side, the road rising steeply. They stopped atop the ridge at the gap's far side. Before them, the road descended again, winding south through the mountains. Behind, the narrow defile stretched out beneath them.

Trephas squinted. "Chislev's withers," he cursed. "I see them."

Peering, Dezra spotted them too: three indistinct forms, halfway down the near slope. "Damn," she swore. "They've gained ground."

"The climb slowed us," Trephas said. "We should waste no more time. Shadow Canyon still lies ahead, and night comes on."

The view from the Haven Road was spectacular, they were still high up in the hills, and the forest stretched out below them, the trees crowded together with little space between. The breaks among them were small and few: here a gap marking a meadow, there a snaking line where a stream flowed. The rest was a verdant ocean, rippling as the wind hissed through the leaves. It was the witchery of the place that made it lush when Solace's vallenwoods were still budding. The trees looked ordinary-aspens on the hills, dark oaks below-but something about them exuded a wild, deep power that was more felt than seen.

"Are we going to stand up here forever?" Dezra asked. "Or can we go down now?"

"D-down?" Uwen blurted, wide-eyed with awe.

"You're not scared, are you?" Dezra scoffed. She laughed as the farmboy's face reddened.

Borlos glared at her. "Have done, Dez. There's enough stories about Darken Wood to shiver a kender's skin."

"Ghost stories, you mean." She nodded at the trees. "The dead don't walk there any more."

Caramon nodded. "True. But what about those things who attacked you at Prayer's Eye?"

"The Skorenoi won't trouble us," Trephas declared. "These lands still belong to my people. But even so, we'll camp outside the Wood until morning."

Uwen let out a thankful sigh, and even Borlos and Caramon looked relieved. Dezra, however, eyed the centaur skeptically. She picked up an aspen leaf and began to rip pieces off it.

"What now, then?" she asked.

Caramon nodded down the slope. "We camp. There's a spot down there, at the wood's edge."

They followed his gaze, seeing a green sward, dotted with wildflowers, down by the tree line. A creek wended through it, forming a pond at the forest's rim.

"S-so close?" Uwen asked nervously. "Isn't there somewhere else?"

"You can stay in the middle of the road, if you want," Dezra snapped.

"Dezra," Borlos interjected. "Leave the kid alone."

She shot him a scathing look. "Why don't you go play your lute?" Turning, she started downhill.

It was a hard climb. The ground was loose and gravelly. The horses flared their nostrils, shying back when Caramon and the others tried to coax them down the slope. Finally Trephas, who'd followed Dezra partway down the hill, turned and climbed back up. He strode from one fidgeting horse to the next, making strange sounds. He blew out his lips, pranced sideways, and shook himself, whickering. The horses eyed him, then lowered their heads.

"Release the reins," he said. "Leave them to me."

Astonished, the others did as he bade. When he started back down the hill, the horses followed. The others gaped.

"Did he just do what I think he did?" asked Borlos. "Did he talk to them?"

"Why not?" Dezra called up. "He's at least as much horse as man, and he can speak our language well enough."

Down in the sward, Caramon and Uwen tethered the horses while Trephas walked in a broad circle, flattening the grass. Borlos sat on a log, tuning his lute. Dezra went to the creek and filled her waterskin.

It was dark when she returned. Caramon and Uwen walked toward the camp from the tree line, carrying armloads of dry, gray wood. "Don't worry," Caramon told Trephas. "It's all windfall-we didn't cut any. My brother Raist warned me never to harm anything in Darken Wood."

"I've heard tales of thy brother," Trephas said. "His wisdom is renowned, but in this case he overstated. It isn't forbidden to cut timber in Darken Wood, or gather berries or nutmeats… or even hunt. The only law is not to take more than we need. It's the way of Chislev: We don't mourn that which dies fulfilling its purpose in this world."

"I remember," Caramon replied. "The Forestmaster told my friends and me that, during the War-" He stopped, eyebrows rising. "What's wrong?"

The centaur's ruddy skin had grown suddenly pale, and his nostrils were flared wide. He bowed his head, his mane spilling over his face.

"Trephas?" Dezra asked.

He was silent a moment, then drew a deep breath and blew it out. "I'll find us supper," he said. He moved away, to the forest's edge.

The others watched him go. Dezra chewed her lip, then turned to her father. "You should see to the fire."

Nodding, Caramon set up the firewood on a patch of bare earth and ringed it with stones. Satisfied, he picked up a rock and struck it against his dagger. Nothing happened. He struck them again and again, to no avail.

"Come on, you bastard," he muttered. "Light."

Sighing, Dezra strode over and crouched beside him. She scraped another stone against her own dirk, and made a bright spark that fell into the firewood. The tinder caught quickly, issuing a curl of smoke that she coaxed into a crackling fire.

Caramon looked from the flames to Dezra, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged, her mouth curling into a lopsided grin as she slapped her dagger back into its sheath.

The sound of plucked strings rang across the sward: Borlos was playing his lute. He strummed a few chords, tightened a string, then began a sweet, wistful ballad. He sang in a quiet tenor:

The silver moon shines down on me,

The satyr darted through the forest, and knew he wasn't fast enough. His goatish legs were good for climbing and leaping, but not for running. The end of the chase was clear, but Hurach ran on anyway.

Stubbornness ran deep among his people. His clan had refused to leave their village, even when the forest around it began to change. The oaks, which had long stood straight and tall, had grown withered and twisted, weeping acrid sap and swarming with pale insects. The swards, where the goat-men had capered to pipe-music beneath the moon, became barren. Streams turned brown, brackish. Still, the headstrong satyrs had remained.

Then, today, the Skorenoi had come.

The goat-men had been asleep, as was their wont when the sun was up. Hurach had woken to screaming, smoke and blood. Half the village had been in flames, the ground strewn with corpses. The Skorenoi were everywhere. He'd watched as they slaughtered his kinfolk, shooting them with their great bows or goring them with lances. They hadn't killed everyone, though; some twisted centaurs had wielded huge nets to snare the goat-men. Those satyrs' screams were worse even than those of the dying.

Hurach had fled, wading down the murky creek that flowed by his hut. Before long, though, he'd heard hoofbeats behind him, unseen among the sickly, weeping trees, but undeniably there. He'd been the Skorenoi's sport for hours, on past dusk. It was dark now. It would soon be over.

He stumbled over a rock and winced as he wrenched his leg, sending a hot lance of pain up his spine. He staggered, slumping against a tree. A black-fletched arrow struck the bark beside him. Rancid sap sprayed forth.

He lurched forward, sobbing. The hoofbeats were very close. "Sweet Chislev," he wept. "Help me… ."

Ahead, Hurach heard a new sound: the rush of water flowing over stones. A river lay before him, its waters high with meltwater from the mountains. He ran faster. If he could reach the banks, he could clean his wounds, wash away the scent of blood, and try to hide. He felt hope surge inside his breast.

He was almost to the river when half a dozen shadowy forms appeared before him, moving with terrible, fluid grace to block his way.

With a shriek, Hurach whirled and started back the way he'd come. More Skorenoi stood behind, bows drawn. Two let fly; their shafts struck the ground before him. He cast about desperately. The Skorenoi between him and the river closed in, unfurling their nets.

"No!" he snarled. "If this is a hunt, make it proper! Kill me!"

One of the archers lowered his bow. His body was shaped differently from the others-almost normal, for a centaur. His head, however, was a monstrosity: it was grotesquely elongated, halfway between horse and man. He snorted derisively.

"Leodippos," Hurach spat.

The Skorenos angled his gruesome head. "Thou led a merry chase, little goat," he growled roughly. "But that is done."

The net-bearers were almost upon him. Bleating desperately, he dove for the arrows the centaurs had fired at the ground.

"Stop him!" yelled Leodippos, waving.

Hurach landed next to the arrows, and grabbed one. The Skorenoi sprang into motion as he pressed the shaft's head against his breast, then braced its notch against the ground. All he had to do now was fall.

Then, suddenly, he was rising through the air as a net caught him from behind, sweeping him up off the ground. He squealed and thrashed as the Skorenoi wrapped the mesh around him. In a moment, Leodippos was beside him. He no longer had his bow; instead, he held a heavy cudgel. He smiled coldly.

"Sleep, little goat," he said. "It will make the rest easier."

Leodippos raised the club, brought it down. Hurach's world went white with pain, then faded to darkness.

"Big guy. Hey." Borlos's voice.

Caramon brought his hands to his face, pressed their heels against his eyes. "G'way," he moaned. "Lemme sleep."

"I don't think so." The bard shook Caramon's shoulder. "You'd better get up.”

Muttering a curse, Caramon sat up and cracked his eyes open. He had a moment, as daylight blinded him, to notice how badly he ached. How long had it been since he'd slept on the ground?

It was a little past dawn, the sky dotted with golden clouds. Darken Wood loomed to his left; to his right, Uwen was stamping out the fire's ashes. Past him were their horses, tethered and contentedly cropping grass. Caramon twisted, joints cracking, and looked around. A moment later he stiffened, hissing through his teeth.

"Where's Trephas?" he asked. "And Dezra? Bor, where's my daughter?"

"Well," Borlos began, spreading his hands as Caramon staggered to his feet. "It's like this, big guy-they're gone."

"You had last watch, you damned fool!" Caramon snapped. "What happened?"

The bard flushed. "I'm sorry. I, uh, guess I dozed off."

Caramon swore again, balling his hands into fists.

Borlos stepped back warily. "Easy, big guy. Breaking my teeth won't help anyone. Here." He offered Caramon a creased scrap of parchment. "She left this."

Caramon snatched the parchment from his hand and unfolded it. It was a notice proclaiming the Spring Dawning feast, back at Solace.

"What-" he began.

"Turn it over."

He did. On the back of the parchment were hastily scribed words, scratched out with a bit of charcoal.

Father,

They read.

We made a bargain yesterday. I kept my side-you know what's happening in Darken Wood now, and why the centaurs want my help. Now you're going to keep yours.

Dezra swallowed a mouthful of frigid water, struggling as Uwen's body bore her down. She tried to push him off, but his limp arms entangled her. Her struggles began to weaken.

Then the weight came off, pulled up from above. Hands grabbed her tunic, hauled her up. She emerged choking, and her rescuer-Borlos, of all people-dragged her to the river's edge, and pounded her back until she spat out a racking gout of water.

"Easy, Dez," he said as she wheezed, her face and hair fouled with clay. He looked past her. "How is he?"

Caramon didn't answer. Dezra twisted, gasping, and saw him standing in the stream over Uwen. The water around him was red with blood. He met her gaze accusingly, then another arrow flashed overhead, hitting him in the chest. It glanced off his breastplate with a loud ping!, then splashed into the water.

"Down!" Borlos shouted, hunkering low behind the embankment. "Leave him," he added when Caramon glanced at Uwen. "Move, before you end up the same way!"

A third arrow dove into the river to Caramon's left. He lunged forward, his legs churning the water, and threw himself down beside Dezra. He looked at her again, then turned away.

"Uh, big guy?" Borlos ventured. "I don't mean to be rude, but you do have a bow… ."

Caramon blinked. Awkwardly, he readied his shortbow, notched an arrow and pushed himself to his knees. Peering over the grassy embankment, he pulled back the string and let fly. Dezra heard a grunt, then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

"Got him," Caramon said. "One of those Skorenoi things. I think he's-"

A loud crack rang out before he could say more. He recoiled, ducking down.

"What was that?" Borlos asked.

"It blew up," Caramon said incredulously. "The arrow-it exploded when that creature died."

"Like the daemon warriors," Borlos said. "Chaos's legions in the war. The weapons that killed them were destroyed when they died, too. Huma's teeth: if all the Skorenoi are like that-"

Three more arrows arced above. Two vanished into the Darkwater; the third hit Uwen's body, floating in the stream.

Dezra pushed herself up, her hand on her sword. "How many are there?" she asked.

Caramon shrugged. "Hard to tell. Maybe six."

"Six," Borlos muttered. "Where'd your centaur chum get to, Dez?"

She ignored him, turning to her father. "How many more can you shoot?"

"I was lucky to hit the one."

Yet another arrow flew. It rose high, then dove sharply, striking the clay near Borlos's ankle. The bard flinched, drawing his leg in toward his body.

"We can't stay here," Dezra declared.

"Where are we supposed to go?" Borlos demanded.

"Give me a second." She rose to peer over the embankment, shaking off her father as he tried to pull her back. She saw the body of the one Caramon had shot-and the splintered remnants of the killing arrow-then looked past it, to the trees. She counted five misshapen shadows in the undergrowth, then drew back again when a shaft struck the ground in front of her.

"I think it's Thenidor's lot," she said. "They must have figured we'd come this way, and tried to head us off. They're close-I think we can rush them."

"Rush them?" Borlos gasped. "Are you insane?"

"You have a better idea?" Dezra shot back.

"You bet," the bard replied. "Dive in the river and swim."

Caramon shook his head. "They'11 just pick us off from the bank. No, Dez is right. If someone draws their fire, we might get to them before they can shoot again."

The bard swallowed. "So who gets to draw their fire?"

Dezra and Caramon looked at each other, then at him.

"I thought so," he said grimly.

Lord Chrethon stood atop a ridge overlooking Sangelior, a shadow against the waning moon. The wind was frigid, but Chrethon cared nothing about the cold. He tossed his head, his lipless mouth curling into a smile.

The town below seethed with activity. Firelight flickered among the Skorenoi's skin tents. A cacophony of sounds rose: wild laughter, bestial howls, strangled screams. Through it all threaded tangled, dissonant music-lyres, drums and pipes that made no attempt to play in time or time. It was the sound of damned souls.

Chrethon didn't turn at Leodippos's approach. The horse-headed Skorenos halted behind him, his harness jingling. "A fine sight," Leodippos declared. "It makes the blood sing in my veins."

Chrethon's smile shifted into a scowl. "What is it, Leodippos?"

Leodippos, once Chrethon's peer in Circle, bowed deferentially. "Thenidor and his company have returned," he said. "He has captives, lord."

Chrethon glanced back. "Where?"

"Below. I bade him wait while I fetched thee."

Chrethon's gaze lingered on Sangelior a moment longer, then he turned away. "Very well," he said. "Take me to him."

They traveled in darkness, the centaurs holding guttering torches. The humans walked among them. They'd ridden only the first two hours from where they'd fought Thenidor and his men, then continued afoot the rest of the way.

Not for the first time, Gyrtomon's warriors began to sing. They were fond of music, and knew many songs. They sang in the centaurs' ancient language, so the humans didn't understood the words:

Elessan ho palethai nisi,

Ithar was a jumble of buildings with little sign of order. There were no real roads, but rather meandering trails that wound this way and that. Its huts were simple, made of daub and wattle, interspersed with tall oak trees. None was taller than a single story-the horsefolk had no love for stairs-and few had foundations. There were skin tents as well, painted with spirals and knotwork patterns. Many structures were simple frameworks with open sides beneath thatch or bark roofs. Torches mounted on stakes guttered, and bonfires crackled in the open.

Then, of course, there were the centaurs. They were as varied as horses and men. Some were jet black, others brown or gray, bay or chestnut. A few were mottled with more than one color, as Arhedion was, and even those who weren't had some mark of another color on them-white fetlocks on one, a black streak running down another's face. They wore their manes and beards long, though some tied them in braids or tassels, and others had shaved parts of their heads. None, however, tied their tails. These they left long, free of tangles and burrs.

There were signs everywhere of the ongoing war. Most of the horsefolk wore harnesses and quivers, and carried cudgels or spears. Many were scarred, and some were missing an arm or hand. They nodded in recognition as Trephas and Gyrtomon passed, but regarded Caramon, Borlos and Dezra with mistrust.

"Where are all the women?" Caramon asked.

"Most will be preparing for the funeral," Trephas said softly. "Though there are some about, here and there." He pointed with his chin. "See? There's a filly, over by that stump."

Caramon looked, and spotted her. He wasn't surprised he hadn't noticed any other females before. At first glance, her beardless face was all that marked her apart from the stallions. She was well-muscled, with a brown mane that tumbled down over her shoulders, hiding her bare breasts. She wore a longbow across her back, and had the same hard look about her as the males. The horse-women were warriors, just like the men of their race.

The huts grew larger and grander as the party wended toward the middle of Ithax. Some had antlers and animal skulls mounted on their walls; others sported bone-and-wood windchimes or bright hangings of woven wool. A few stood dark and empty, with no fires burning inside or out. Leafy bundles were nailed to their lintels.

"Those are the homes of dead warriors," said Trephas. "Our brother, it seems, was not the only one slain. Their bodies rest within, and the fennel stalks"-he nodded at the leafy bundles-"protect them from evil. Tomorrow, they'll be tom down and made into pyres for the fallen."

"Whist," Gyrtomon bade. "We're almost to the Yard of Gathering."

At the crest of the hillock the town was built upon was a broad, open pasture. Torches flickered at its edges, illuminating green, sweet-smelling grass. The Yard was large enough to accommodate hundreds of centaurs, but now it was nearly empty. In its midst, nearly lost in darkness, stood a handful of horsefolk. They looked up, toward Gyrtomon and Trephas, then turned away again, murmuring in hushed voices.

"What now?" Caramon whispered.

"We wait, until the Circle calls us," Trephas replied. "Then we'll partake of the grass and go to stand before them."

"Partake?" Borlos's eyes widened. "As in eat?"

"Aye," said Trephas. "That's the custom."

"I don't know if you realize," Dezra said, "but humans don't eat grass."

Trephas frowned, but Gyrtomon nodded. "We understand," he said. "It isn't necessary for thee to observe the rite."

"No," Caramon said. "We'll follow the ritual."

Dezra and Borlos looked at him. "But-" Dezra began.

"We'll follow the ritual."

"And spend the rest of the night ritually puking up our suppers," Borlos muttered.

"Here comes Rhedogar," Trephas said, looking out across the Yard.

The silver-furred centaur trotted back across the meadow. Arhedion was with him. They stopped before the companions, bowing.

"The Circle of Four welcomes thee," Rhedogar declared. "They ask the sons of Nemeredes and the humans to partake and come forward."

Solemnly, Gyrtomon and Trephas knelt, plucked handfuls of grass from the ground, and placed it in their mouths. Caramon followed suit, chewing a few blades and swallowing hard. Shrugging, Dezra followed suit. Borlos went last, and smacked his lips in distaste as they strode across the Yard, toward the Circle. The rest of the party stayed behind, with Rhedogar and Arhedion.

A ring of stones, worn with age, stood in the Yard's midst. Within, a brass brazier gave off a low, ruddy light. Three centaurs stood around it, their faces shadowed, watching as a fourth laid something on the glowing coals. Steam billowed, accompanied by loud sizzling. The smell of burning fat wafted to meet the companions.

Caramon's stomach rumbled like an ogre in full battle rage. "Gods, that smells good," he sighed.

"That," Gyrtomon snapped, "is a sacrifice. The deer fat is for the gods to savor, not mortals."

"Sacrifices, libations," Dezra said. "You do know the gods are gone, right?"

"They've left before," Gyrtomon said quietly. "When thy kind brought down the fiery mountain. They returned then; they will return again."

Dezra opened her mouth to argue, but caught a glance from Caramon and held her tongue.

They were almost to the standing stones, and could make out the features of the centaurs by the brazier. One was the color of coal and immensely fat, his girth putting Caramon's to shame. His right arm ended in a stump below the elbow. Beside him was a gray mare, whose iron hair was tied in a tight bun, and whose eyes glittered like ice. Next to her was a tall bay stallion, almost Caramon's age but still in fighting trim, with hard, corded muscles. His long beard hung in braids beneath a scarred face. Before them, kneeling by the brazier, was the fourth member of the Circle. He was quite old, his chestnut fur shot through with white. His age-lined face was wet with tears. Not seeming to notice anyone was approaching, he picked up another ragged piece of deer fat and laid it on the brazier. Smoke rose, and he vanished for a moment.

"Your father?" Borlos murmured.

Trephas nodded slightly. "The rest of the chiefs stand with him-Pleuron the Fat, Lady Eucleia, and High Chief Menelachos."

They stopped at the stone ring's edge. Trephas and Gyrtomon prostrated themselves, extending their right forehooves. Caramon knelt a moment later, and Borlos did the same. Only Dezra remained standing, hands on her hips.

"So," she said, "you must be the Circle."

The chiefs regarded her coldly. Dezra didn't quail before them, however, and after a moment the muscular bay raised his hand. Golden bracers gleamed on his wrists. He wore a matching tore, studded with sapphires, about his neck. "Rise," he bade in a booming voice. "Stand before the Circle, guests, and be welcome."

They obeyed, Caramon wincing as his knees popped. The chiefs watched in stony silence. Old Nemeredes rose unsteadily from behind the brazier, smiling sadly as he beheld his sons.

"Gyrtomon, Trephas," he quavered. He strode forward to clasp their arms. "This lightens a heavy heart. We must share wine later. Thou hast heard about thy brother?"

The brothers nodded. "Rhedogar told us," Gyrtomon replied. "He didn't say what happened, though."

Nemeredes sighed wearily. "What is it ever, in these dark days? Yesterday morn the scouts reported a party of Skorenoi, not five leagues from this place. Thy brother took a war-band out-a large enough company, he thought, to put a quick end to them."

"But it wasn't?"' Trephas guessed.

"No." Nemeredes shook his head. "It was a trap. Thy brother led his company straight into slaughter."

Gyrtomon bowed his head. "Were all slain?"

"Not all. The Skorenoi took a score of thy brother's warriors captive, back to Sangelior," Nemeredes replied. The centaurs all made warding signs, their faces grim. "Thy brother, thanks be to Chislev, wasn't one of them. He died, taken through the heart by a spear. It was quick… he didn't suffer… ." He stopped, choking with tears.

Pleuron came forward, his girth bobbing, and laid his good hand on Nemeredes's shoulder. Trephas and Gyrtomon each held one of their father's hands, comforting him.

Caramon found himself weeping as well. He'd lost two sons, and knew the agony the old chief was going through. He looked up at the cloudy sky, blinking back tears.

"As usual, the Skorenoi sent back one survivor, to tell what happened," said Pleuron. His eyes flashed. "I rode out today, with a much larger company, to bring back the bodies. Thy brother lies in his hut, his wounds washed and his weapons laid out with him."

Gyrtomon looked up, his face damp with tears. "My thanks, Pleuron," he said. "We would see him tonight."

Dezra had watched the tearful scene with growing restlessness. Now she cleared her throat loudly. "Excuse me," she said.

Everyone turned to look. The centaurs were incensed, their nostrils flared with anger. "Be still, girl," Caramon growled.

"Nay," Menelachos said. "The lass is right. We shouldn't neglect our guests, no matter how deep our loss might be." He looked the humans up and down. "These are the ones thou hast brought back, Trephas?"

Wiping his eyes, Trephas stepped back from his father and faced the High Chief. "Aye, my lord," he said. "There was a fourth, a young man, but he was slain on the way here. My brother wasn't the only one to fall into a Skorenoi trap-Thenidor and his lot waylaid us, on the banks of the Darkwater."

Menelachos's bushy eyebrows lowered. "Then we owe the Skorenoi double for what they've wrought. But please, introduce our guests."

"Of course, my lord." Trephas waved his hand. "This is Borlos, a bard of Solace, and Caramon and Dezra Majere."

"Caramon?" Menelachos repeated. His hawklike eyes studied Caramon critically. "The same Caramon Majere who knew the Forestmaster, and fought the dragon-armies?"

Caramon's face burned. "That's me," he said. "I'm sorry to hear what's happened to the Forestmaster. I want to help."

Eucleia's lip curled with disdain as she regarded the humans. "This is the best thou couldst do, Trephas? An unmannered girl, a bard and an old man?"

Dezra glared at the steely-eyed mare. Before she could retort, however, Menelachos interjected. "Lady Eucleia," he said, "these humans are our guests, and are to be shown respect. We bade Trephas to bring back a Majere-he has brought two. They are our hope of surviving the war with Chrethon-and of saving the Forestmaster."

"Then we're likely doomed," the mare said. She tossed her head, leveling her glinting gaze on Trephas.

That was enough for Caramon. "Pardon me, lady," he said, "but we've come a long way from home, although we don't know exactly why-and one of us has already died because he wouldn't turn back. If you expect me to stand here while you insult me, you can go to the Abyss."

The Yard of Gathering fell silent, save for the hiss of the sacrificial fat on the coals. After a moment, Eucleia smiled tightly.

"I misjudged thee, Majere," she said. "I took you for a man with no fire left in him. It seems I was wrong. I apologize for speaking ill of thee."

"Oh," Caramon said lamely. He hadn't expected to win the argument so easily. "Well, good then."

Dezra shook her head. "I don't want your apologies. I didn't come here for you, or for the Forestmaster. I was promised steel."

The Circle looked at Trephas. "Is this true?" asked Menelachos.

Reluctantly, the young centaur nodded. "It was the only way I could convince her to come."

The High Chief regarded Dezra sternly. "Very well, lass," he said, his voice heavy with disdain. "We centaurs honor our bargains. We will pay thee… and then, thou wilt learn why we've summoned thee here."

"I can't believe you," Caramon said, disgusted. "Asking the centaurs for money when they're in mourning."

The horsefolk had left them alone in the Yard of Gathering. Trephas and Gyrtomon had gone with their father to grieve over their brother's body, and the rest of the Circle had withdrawn to confer. Several young colts brought the humans cold venison and wine-their amazement when Caramon asked for water instead was almost comical-then left them alone.

"Are you listening to me, girl?" Caramon asked.

Dezra raised her eyebrows. "When was I supposed to bring it up? The way it sounds like the war's going, there probably isn't any time they aren’t in mourning."

"Will both of you shut up?" Borlos snapped.

Caramon and Dezra started. The bard had been so quiet, nursing flask after flask of centaur wine, that they'd all but forgotten he was there. Now he glared at them, swaying slightly.

"Don't you two ever get tired of bickering?" he asked. "I've known ogres who are less ornery! It's this bloody arguing that got Uwen killed at the Darkwater. Who'll it be next time? Trephas? Me? All of us?"

"You could always leave," Dezra suggested dourly.

"No," Borlos replied. "There's grand things happening in this forest. One way or another, there'll be a tale to be told, and I'm the only bard around to see it happen. No, I'm seeing this through. But you're going to have to quit being such a pair of stubborn asses."

No one spoke after that. They were still quiet, half an hour later, when the thud of hooves approached across the Yard. They looked up and saw the Circle approaching, Trephas and Gyrtomon with them. The brothers' faces were creased with sorrow. The horsefolk drew to a halt before the humans, who quickly got to their feet. Lord Menelachos tossed a jingling sack at Dezra's feet.

"As was agreed," he declared. "Three hundred pieces of steel."

Dezra nodded, nudging the sack with her foot. "Thanks."

Menelachos inclined his head. "Now, if thou art not too tired to listen, we'll tell what we need of thee."

Caramon glanced at Dezra and Borlos, then nodded. "Go ahead," he said.

Old Nemeredes stepped forward. "My son says he's already told thee about the war, and the foes we face. Not just Chrethon and his Skorenoi, but also the daemon tree. He also told thee about the Forestmaster."

"Is that it?" Caramon asked. "Do you want us to rescue her?"

Menelachos shook his head. "No. We've tried that before. We lost many good warriors. If our finest couldn't help her, then thou certainly cannot, either. We need thy help destroying Grimbough."

Silence hung over the Yard, save for the crackling of the torches.

"Chrethon's power comes from the daemon tree," Nemeredes said. "If we're to stop him, we must dam the river at its spring. Grimbough must die."

"But how?" Caramon asked. "If the tree's as powerful as you say, how can we harm it?"

"We wondered about that for some time," Eucleia admitted. "But we've found an answer: Soulsplitter."

Nemeredes's sons glanced at her in alarm. The humans, however, frowned in confusion.

"Who?" Dezra asked.

"Not who," Menelachos corrected. "What. Thou hast not heard of Soulsplitter?"

Dezra and Caramon shook their heads, then looked at Borlos. The bard spread his hands.

The Circle exchanged glances. "I see," said Menelachos. "This shall take more explaining than I'd expected." He clapped his hands, and a colt galloped across the Yard to him. "Fetch Olinia," he bade. As the messenger bolted away, Menelachos turned back to face the humans. "I've sent for a minstrel, a history-speaker. She'll tell thee Soulsplitter's story."

In time, the runner returned, walking with a young mare. She was lovely, her skin and coat the color of ivory. Her golden tresses flowed down to her withers; her face, with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose, would have been at home on a marble statue. In the crook of her arm she carried a finely carved lyre; her other hand rested on the messenger's shoulder. After a moment, the humans realized she was blind.

She stopped, staring into the distance. "My lords?" she asked, her voice like honey. "Thou hast summoned me?"

"Aye, Olinia," Menelachos said. "We have guests who must hear the tale of Soulsplitter."

"Ah." Her smile set her face aglow. "One of our oldest stories. Aye, I will tell it-I ask but a moment to tune my lyre."

With that, she started plucking chords on the instrument. Its dulcet tones rang out across the Yard. As she was preparing, Dezra nudged her father. "Look at Borlos," she said.

Caramon did, and broke into a broad grin. The bard was staring at the minstrel in rapt attention, a dazed smile on his face.

"I think someone's smitten," Caramon said, chuckling.

Olinia finished tuning, and ran her long fingers across the strings, a waterfall of notes. Plucking her lyre, she began the tale.

The horsefolk began arriving at the yard of Catering shortly before sunset. There was no shouting or laughter among them, no music or games. It was no time for gaiety, with the dead among them.

Nemeredes the Younger's company had been more than fifty strong. The centaurs had recovered nearly thirty bodies. Now the slain lay atop their pyres, their weapons arrayed about them. Woolen blankets shrouded those who had died badly.

Those dear to the dead warriors gathered about the pyres, many weeping openly. They burned deer fat, poured wine on the ground, and laid tokens-bronze and silver jewelry, wreaths of laurel and oak-beside the dead. A father, a sister, a husband, a daughter, a lover, a friend. Nearly everyone had lost someone dear to them.

Nemeredes the Younger's pyre stood within the stone ring. His brothers stood beside him. His hands were folded across his chest, gripping the stout cudgel he'd held when he died. His face was peaceful; he might have been sleeping, but for the pallor of his skin and the ragged wounds where the enemy's lances had pierced him.

Dezra, Caramon and Borlos stood nearby. Though none of them had ever known Nemeredes, Caramon had placed three arrows from his quiver on the pyre, one for. each of them. Trephas and Gyrtomon thanked him, their eyes shining in the twilight.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the stars winked into view. Darken Wood faded into night, and the centaurs began to wail.

It began quietly, rising across the Yard. Stallions rumbled deeply, and mares keened in reply. Slowly, it grew in pitch and fervor, building to a bellowing, shrieking crescendo. Centaurs pulled their manes and beards, pounded their breasts, stamped their hooves. Some smashed wine-jugs, then trampled the potsherds into dust. Many fell to their knees, shouting and shaking their fists at the sky. Others reared on their hind legs, flinging their arms wide. The humans clapped their hands over their ears. The air itself seemed to shudder with the horsefolk's grief.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the wailing stopped. The evening wind sighed among the trees. Crickets sang. From the Yard's edge came the slow thud of hoofbeats.

The crowd turned, began to part. Four banners, flapping in the breeze, moved through the gap: a green willow in full leaf, a blue river, a pair of gray horseshoes, and a long, black spear. The Circle had arrived. They strode behind their standard-bearers, backs erect and tails held high. On their heads were silver masks, engraved in the images of animals. Pleuron was a boar, old Nemeredes a hawk, Eucleia a wolf. Menelachos, a stag with a spreading rack of antlers, walked with Olinia the minstrel, her hand on his arm. Each of the masks had been crafted as though wracked by woe, with etched tears spilling down their cheeks.

The processional stopped at the stone ring, staring at the body upon the pyre. "Kin of the slain," Menelachos intoned. "Come forward."

Obediently, Gyrtomon strode around his brother's body to stand before the Circle. Trephas walked behind him.

"Gyrtomon, son of Nemeredes the Elder," declared Menelachos. "We come to grieve for thy brother."

Gyrtomon trembled, struggling to contain himself. "What tribute hast thou brought?"

"We bring nothing," said old Nemeredes, "save our tears and the blood in our veins." His shoulders shook as he spoke.

Bowing their heads, Gyrtomon and Trephas stepped aside. "It is enough," Gyrtomon said. "Pass, and be welcome."

Slowly, the chiefs strode forward to stand before the pyre. Old Nemeredes wept, his sobs echoing within his mask. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood beside him, resting their hands on his shoulders.

Menelachos raised his arms, holding his hands over the dead centaur's body. "Again, our young ones die before their time," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "For ten years now, we've lost those we loved to Lord Chrethon's wrath. So we have lost Nemeredes, son of Nemeredes, and those who rode with him. Chrethon believes that by slaying those dear to us, he can rob of us of our will to resist.

"He is wrong. With every centaur he murders or gives to the daemon tree, our resolve strengthens. So with young Nemeredes and his riders. Their memory gives us the will to carry on. When their flesh is ashes, their spirits will fight on, beside us."

The High Chief lowered his right hand, keeping his left outstretched over the body, and drew a bronze dagger from a sheath on his harness. It gleamed with moonlight as he raised it before him.

"We give our blood to the dead," he declared, "and pray they will bear our memories with us, as they ride beyond the stars. In Chislev's name."

Swiftly, he raked the dagger across his open palm. Blood welled forth, and he cupped his hand, letting it gather. Sheathing the dirk, he tipped his hand and poured the blood onto young Nemeredes's body.

One by one, the other chiefs repeated the ritual, staining the centaur's chestnut coat with their blood-old Nemeredes last of all, his dagger quivering as he opened his flesh. When the Circle was finished, Trephas and Gyrtomon followed the ritual as well. Across the Yard, mourners did the same, washing the bodies with blood. Finally, when the last dagger was sheathed, all eyes returned to the High Chief.

"Nemeredes the Younger lived a good life," Menelachos declared. "He died well, defending his people. We should not grieve overlong for those who die fulfilling their purpose. Let the mourning end."

"Let it end," the gathered centaurs murmured.

The four chiefs reached up as one, and the masks came off. Their solemn faces glistened with sweat in the cool evening air. Menelachos raised his voice in a shout. "Light the torches!"

All over the Yard, flames flared as the mourners lit firebrands and held them aloft. Again, the centaurs looked to Circle.

Menelachos, his torch raised high, turned to old Nemeredes. "My friend," he said, "he is thy child. The first touch is thine."

Nemeredes regarded the High Chief, his eyes like open wounds, then bowed his head. He bent low to kiss his dead son's forehead; then, tears running down his cheeks, he placed his torch on the pyre. The flames leapt up swiftly, spreading around the centaur's body. As the fire rose, the rest of the Circle added their brands, then Gyrtomon and Trephas did the same. The horsefolk at the other pyres did the same, and soon the Yard of Gathering shone with golden light. Glowing embers drifted up toward the stars.

As the pyres burned, Olinia stepped forward. She set her fingers to her lyre and raised her voice in song:

From the sky the rain,

Chrethon plunged through the dark, twisted forest, laughing wildly. There was blood on the wind. It maddened him, more intoxicating than strong wine. He understood what the smell meant. One of the new Skorenoi had wounded its quarry.

It was a thing he always did, whenever new centaurs Crossed. From the beginning, he'd taken the newest Skorenoi into the woods to hunt. It was the best way to test his followers' prowess. Those who caught the first prey became leaders in his growing horde.

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Thenidor ran behind, halberd upraised, his coat dark with sweat. "They're close!" Chrethon bellowed. "They'll have their first kill soon!"

Thenidor nodded enthusiastically. Before either of them could say anything more, however, someone called out ahead of them. The pounding of hooves stopped, then turned right. A bowstring thrummed, followed by a squeal of pain. The blood-scent grew stronger, headier as the Skorenoi pursued the boar up a craggy hill. With a glance to make sure Thenidor was still with them, Chrethon followed.

They clambered upward for more then half a mile. The hillside was more sparsely wooded than the valley below, and Chrethon caught glimpses of the hunters in the silver moonlight. He squinted past them, but couldn't see the boar. He kept going, slowly gaining ground on the Skorenoi. One of the hunters raised a bow and let fly. The boar answered with an even more furious shriek than before, then changed direction again, angling downhill.

They cornered it soon after, driving the panicked beast into a rocky cleft near the hill's bottom. Trapped, it turned to face them. When Chrethon and Thenidor caught up, the Skorenoi had formed a half-circle about the cleft's mouth. One shot his bow, feathering the boar’s neck. It screamed and thrashed, stubbornly refusing to go down.

The Skorenoi turned at Chrethon's approach. The one who'd fired held up a hand, and the others lowered their bows. He strode toward Chrethon, bowing.

Chrethon looked him up and down: Grimbough had done worse than usual with this one. His face was neither human nor horse, but a mass of leathery skin so malformed that it was all but impossible to make out his features. His forelegs ended not with hooves, but with fat, stubby-fingered hands that gripped the rock beneath.

The faceless Skorenos bowed. "We have it trapped, my lord. The killing blow is thine, if thou wish it."

Chrethon stared into the black pits of the creature's eyes, then strode past, toward the boar. The animal snorted fiercely, drawing back. Its tusks glistened: if Chrethon got too close, it would surely try to run underneath him, gore him from below. He kept his distance: he'd been hunting boar since long before he Crossed.

He extended his lance one-handed toward the boar, raising his other arm over his head and waving to distract the wounded beast. It froze, its small eyes squinting, and he lunged, driving the spear into its neck.

The boar shrieked and thrashed. Chrethon bore down, twisting the weapon and shoving the animal back with all his strength. It backed against a boulder, collapsed, and died. Satisfied it wasn't going to get back up again, he jerked the spear free, wiped its head on the animal's hide, and turned back toward the other Skorenoi. Without a word, he strode up to their leader and smashed its shapeless face with the butt of his spear.

There was a satisfying crunch. The Skorenos dropped its bow and clutched its face, howling. Blood sprayed between its fingers. Without hesitating, Chrethon brought his spear-butt up again and struck it in the gut. It doubled over, sinking to its knees.

"Never give up a kill!" Chrethon snarled. "Not even to me. Finish, and don't hesitate. Dost thou understand?"

The Skorenos managed to nod, whimpering. "My lord… I'm sorry… ."

Chrethon turned away in disgust. He glared at the other five Skorenoi. "I still hunger for the chase," he said. "Continue the hunt."

The Skorenoi wheeled, bows in hand, and charged out of the gully. Chrethon followed, Thenidor coming behind. They left the faceless one lying on the ground with the dead boar.

An hour later, a wolf-eared Skorenos stopped at the crest of a low, wooded hillock and raised its head to sniff the air. Somehow, though Chrethon could smell nothing, he picked up a spoor. Nostrils flared, he turned east, cantering down the hill. The others followed.

They tracked the scent for miles, moving east in a more or less straight line. Finally, the wolfish Skorenos held up a hand, bringing the company to a halt. Without a glance at Chrethon, it crept toward a clump of blackthorns, whose branches drooped with shriveled fruit. The shadows around the bushes were deep enough to hide a large animal-a wolf, perhaps. Chrethon squinted, trying to see what the Skorenos was stalking, but the darkness was too thick to make anything out.

Twenty paces from the bushes, the hunter stopped again, raising his bow. The bow's limbs creaked as he pulled back the string.

"Wait!" a voice bleated. "Don't shoot!"

Chrethon drew up, his eyes widening. "Hurach?"

The shadows seemed to solidify, revealing the shape of a one-horned satyr. "My lord!" the goat-man yelped.

The wolfish Skorenos hesitated, confused. He risked a look at Chrethon.

"It's all right," Chrethon said. "He's a friend. Put up thy bow."

With a nod, the Skorenos relaxed his pull. As soon as he was no longer in danger of getting shot, Hurach crept out of the shadows and strode forward to kneel before Chrethon.

"What art thou doing out here, Hurach?" Chrethon snarled.

"I was on my way to Sangelior, lord," Hurach answered. "I thought you'd be there, not out hunting. I surely didn't think you'd be hunting me."

Chrethon smiled slightly. "Thou hast news? Thou hast been to Ithax?"

"Aye, lord," the satyr said. "I spied upon the Circle itself. The sons of Nemeredes were there, too, and the humans."

Thenidor snarled a curse, reminded of his failure by the Darkwater. His hand strayed to the bandaged arrow-wound Gyrtomon had dealt him.

"Be still!" Chrethon barked, not bothering to turn. "What then, Hurach? What didst thou hear?"

The satyr hesitated. "My lord… I think it would be better if I told you without so many ears about." He nodded toward the other Skorenoi.

Chrethon glowered, but finally he relented. "Very well, Hurach." He gestured past the blackthorns. "Come-let us walk together, alone."

Dezra woke to loud snoring. She fumbled for her flask of dwarf spirits, took a quick drink, then rose and quietly gathered her gear. Carefully, she crept to the door, nearly tripping over Borlos's slumbering form along the way. Stepping over the bard, she slipped out of the hut, into the early morning light.

The sky was overcast, promising rain. Mist clung to the earth. The breeze was cold and damp. She pulled her cloak tight against its chill.

"Going somewhere?"

She dropped her packs and spun, dagger in hand.

Caramon perched on a log next to the hut, wearing his armor and his old, dragon-winged helm. He looked like he'd been sitting there for a while.

"I thought you might try to sneak out," he said. "Could you put that knife away? Unless you mean to use it, of course."

With a flick of her wrist, she reversed her grip on the dagger and flung it. It buried itself in the log, a hand's breadth from Caramon's leg.

He regarded the knife, then reached down and prized it free. "That was supposed to prove something, I suppose."

"I could have put it through your throat just as easily," Dezra said haughtily. "I can take care of myself."

"You can, eh?" He lobbed the dagger, hilt-first, back to her. She caught it easily. "What about just now? I certainly seemed to take you by surprise. If I'd meant you harm, I'd be cleaning your blood off my sword right now."

"You're a fine one to talk. I saw the way you looked after that fight by the Darkwater."

"You've got a point. No, I admit it," he said, seeing her brows knit. "If I go on this quest, there's a good chance I won't come back-especially if there's much fighting. Still, I'm going. I owe it to the Forestmaster-and besides, if that daemon tree corrupts all of Darken Wood, it won't be long before it turns on Solace."

She shrugged and started picking up her things. "Go wake Borlos," she told him. The bard still snored inside the hut. "I won't leave without you. Far be it from me to keep you from getting yourself killed."

She turned and walked swiftly away. Caramon watched her go, then went back into the hut.

There was blood on the boot: not much, but enough to set Dezra's heart hammering against her ribs. She glanced around with her torch held high. The forest was dark, silent save for the rustling of leaves in the wind.

"Damn it, Borlos, where are you?" she muttered.

She'd woken from a dream she immediately forgot to find the bard missing and Trephas asleep. She'd tried to wake the centaur, Arhedion, and even her father, but no amount of shaking, shouting or slapping would rouse them. Finally she'd given up, grabbed her blade and a torch, and gone to look alone.

Borlos's trail had been easy to find. She'd followed trampled plants and broken branches until something caught her eye. That something was the boot that lay at her feet.

"Bor!" she hissed. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

She saw footprints in the rain-softened earth. They led away, deeper into the woods: one bare, one shod. She followed them, and before long found the bard's second boot. After that, she started encountering his clothes: his leather armor scattered about; his tunic snarled in a thornbush; his trousers crumpled beneath a poplar tree. The tracks went past all these.

Finally, some distance from the camp, the trail stopped before a massive, ebon oak. Its branches creaked in the breeze as Dezra crept toward it. A man's breechcloth lay at the base of its mighty trunk. Beside it was a torch, which had guttered out.

"Borlos?" she called, her voice trembling.

“Dzzz…"

The voice was faint, muffled. She stepped back, waving her torch. "Bor? Where are you?"

Something moved, partway up the oak's trunk. At first she thought it was an animal: a chipmunk, perhaps, or a markle. Then she saw it clearly, and her jaw dropped. It was a hand, sticking out of the tree.

She watched in horrified fascination as the bard's fingers scratched feebly at the bark. Cautiously, she circled the tree, trying to understand what was going on. The oak looked perfectly normal-except for the hand.

A muffled noise, half-screech, half-whimper, sounded from within the tree. She reached out and touched the twitching fingers. The hand made a grab for her, and she yelled and jerked free. It clenched into a shaking fist. She heard Borlos's voice again.

"Hlp," he pleaded. "Gt… out… hrrr."

Dezra stuck her sword in the ground and pressed her ear against the bark. "Bor?" she asked

"Dry -ad."

Her brows knitted. "You let her bring you here?"

"Yes, I'm an idiot," he snapped. "Now get me out!"

"Sure. How?"

The hand drooped, and Borlos sighed. "I don't know. Just think of something."

Carefully, she probed the bark around Borlos's wrist. It was thick and gnarled, and didn't yield to her touch. She gouged at it with her dagger, flaking away a piece. The wood beneath was dense, however, and she couldn't do more than score it with her blade.

She stepped back, glancing around, and looked at his breechcloth on the ground. "Borlos," she asked, "are you naked?"

"No," he growled. "I'm wearing an enormous bloody tree. Or hadn't you noticed?"

Her eyes settled on the torch that lay, extinguished, beside it. She pursed her lips, then sheathed her dirk and leaned close to the tree again.

"I've got an idea," she said. "Don't wander off."

"Oh. Ha, ha."

Smiling crookedly, she picked up Borlos's torch and lit it with her own brand. When she had it burning, she took a deep breath and thrust it at the oak.

After a moment, the bark near Borlos's hand began to smolder. The whole tree shuddered, from its roots to its topmost boughs. Leaves and twigs fell around Dezra. She held the torch in place, letting it scorch the bark, char the wood beneath.

"Come on," she muttered. "Let him go."

The bark around Borlos's wrist began to open. She dropped the brand she'd brought with her, keeping Borlos's torch next to the wood, and grabbed his hand. She tugged, and his arm started sliding free. Planting her foot against the trunk, she pulled with all her strength.

"Ow!" Borlos grunted. The wood had opened enough for her to see his face, glistening with sap. "Dez, she's in here with me. She's not letting go…

Dezra heard a faint whistling sound from above. She looked up, saw a branch swinging down, and had just enough time to turn her face away before it hit, sending her reeling. She lost her grip on Borlos and hit the ground hard, ears ringing.

When she got her wind back, she turned back to face the tree. She'd gotten Borlos halfway out. Now his arm, his head and part of his chest were outside the tree, while the rest stayed trapped within.

"Well, that didn't work," he said sourly.

"Hold on," Dezra said, raising the torch. "Maybe if I try again-"

Another branch swung down. She felt the wind as its leaves whipped past her face, and stopped in her tracks.

"Or maybe not," she muttered.

She fell back, rubbing her forehead. Borlos winced as, slowly, the dryad started pulling him back in.

Then came another voice, behind her. "Dezra!" it called. "Borlos! Where art thou?"

She spun. "Trephas?" she shouted. "Over here! Hurry!"

They waited, listening to the sound of approaching hoof-beats. At last, Trephas emerged from the darkness, armed with torch and lance. Behind him rode Arhedion; at the rear, red-faced and puffing, jogged Caramon.

"What in the Abyss is going on?" Caramon asked as he stumbled toward Dezra. He stopped suddenly, gaping at Borlos. Only the bard's forearm and face poked through the bark now.

"Hi, big guy," Borlos said. "You happen to bring a hatchet with you?"

"No!" Trephas barked. "Don't harm the tree. It will only make things worse."

"Uh-oh," Dezra muttered.

The centaur looked at her sharply. "I thought so," he grumbled. "Only pain could have broken the spell of sleeping the dryad cast on us. What didst thou do to it?"

Dezra lowered her torch. "I burned it, a little."

Trephas winced. "Pray thou didn't hurt her too badly, then," he said. Dropping his lance, he strode toward the tree. A branch lashed down at him, but he caught it in his hand. "Be easy, Pallidice," he said. "It's me, Trephas."

The branch slipped free and withdrew into the heights. Trephas laid a hand on the tree's bark. "Oak-maiden," he said softly. "The human isn't yours to take. Release him."

A musical voice called from the tree. "I will not!" it huffed. "I love him. He wants to be with me."

"I don't!" Borlos protested.

"There," Trephas said. "Did you hear him? Release him, Pallidice, and come forth."

"Oh… very well."

The tree split open. Borlos tumbled out, naked and glistening. Arhedion hurried forward, helping him rise and stagger away from the tree. Dezra tossed the bard his breechcloth. While he was girding himself, his face red, the dryad emerged from the oak.

Her green hair shimmered in the firelight as she strode toward Trephas. He knelt before her, and she flung her arms about his neck, kissing him repeatedly.

"Trephas!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how wonderful! My tree's gained many rings since I saw you last!"

Arhedion laughed out loud. "She remembers thee well enough."

"So it seems," Trephas said, chuckling. Flushed, he grabbed the dryad's shoulders and held her away from him. "Pallidice, I need your help."

She looked at him, wide-eyed. "Truly?"

"Truly."

The dryad shrieked with delight and spun in a circle, her hair flying outward and revealing her dark, nubile body. When she stopped, she planted her fists on her hips and smiled at Trephas.

"Tell me, then," she said. "What is it you want?"

Later, Caramon managed to convince himself he hadn't enjoyed a moment of his time inside the dryad's oak. At the time, though, he forgot everything, aware only of her touch, scent and taste, and of the undulating movements of the tree and its roots as they pushed him and Tessonda down into the earth.

Then, with a shout, he fell through open air, dropping with a clatter of armor and weapons onto solid ground. Tessonda landed nimbly beside him.

"Are you all right, my love?" she asked, concerned.

Caramon lay on his side, wheezing. "I'm fine. Just give me a moment's peace."

"Of course, dear one," Tessonda answered. "Shall I fetch a light?"

"That'd be nice," Caramon said. It was utterly dark. The air was warm and moist, and smelled of rich soil.

After a moment, a dim, blue-white glow kindled in the gloom. The dryad appeared before him, a crystal globe cupped in either hand. Inside the globes crawled countless tiny, glowing beetles.

"Bug-lamps," he said, standing up. Tessonda handed him one of the globes. He'd seen them before, years ago: they'd lit the Forestmaster's glade when he and his friends appeared before her during the war.

The thought of the Forestmaster jolted him back to the present. He glanced around. He and Tessonda were in a close, tight cavern of loose earth. Clots of soil fell from the ceiling and slid down the walls. Hairy tendrils-the lowest extremities of Tessonda's oak-dangled down, tickling his face. He could see no way out, and he stiffened as he realized he was buried alive.

"Be easy," the dryad said, smiling. "No harm will come to you. Your friends are close-follow."

As Caramon watched, Tessonda walked to a wall, and the earth parted before her, forming a narrow tunnel. She stepped inside, beckoning. "Come."

Caramon walked after her. The passage widened, making itself large enough to admit him. He stepped in, holding the bug lamp high. When he was ten paces down the tunnel, he heard a rumble behind him. Glancing back, he saw the chamber he'd just left collapse in a shower of earth. Swallowing, he hurried on, resolving to stay very close to the dryad.

Soon, the passage opened into a broader, higher chamber than the one they'd just left. He and Tessonda stepped inside, the tunnel sealing shut behind them. Trephas and Gamaia were in the cavern already. Tessonda flounced over to her sister dryad, and they whispered and giggled together. Caramon flushed, knowing they were discussing him and the centaur, then turned to regard the horse-man. Trephas, who also held a bug lamp, looked about in awe.

"Seen the others yet?" Caramon asked.

"No," Trephas replied. "They'll be along."

Before long, another passage opened in the chamber's far wall. Elirope emerged, Dezra right behind. Caramon saw his daughter's face was pale, except for two small blossoms of pink on her cheeks. She didn't even look at Elirope as the dryad went to join the others.

She glanced around. "Where are Bor and Pallidice?"

"I don't-" Caramon started.

Before he could finish, a shower of earth pattered down on his dragon-helm. He glanced up, shielding his face from the falling dirt.

"Get back!" Dezra shouted, grabbing his arm and hauling him away.

An eyeblink later, Borlos plunged through the ceiling, falling in a heap where Caramon had been. His lyre made a hideous sound as he hit the ground. Pallidice dropped down beside him, then offered Borlos a hand and helped him rise.

Pallidice conferred with the other dryads for a moment, then embraced each in turn. One by one, Tessonda, Gamaia and Elirope strode to the cavern's walls, stepped into the tunnels that opened there, and disappeared. When the dryads were gone, Caramon turned to his daughter, a bemused grin on his lips.

"I don't want to talk about it," she growled.

"Come," Pallidice said. She strode to the wall, opening another tunnel. "This is the way to Laird Guithern's realm."

They followed the dryad out of the chamber, Dezra going first, then Trephas. Caramon fell in behind, glancing back as Borlos shuffled after. The bard's mouth had curled into a lazy smile.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Caramon said.

Borlos nodded, still grinning. "Let's just say I could get used to this."

"Gnats and midges!" swore the lilting voice. "His snoring's so loud, it's like the world's coming to an end!"

Caramon groaned. He tried to fight it, but slowly, inevitably, consciousness was returning.

"Quiet, ye twit!" snapped a second voice-a woman's, with the same strange, trilling accent as the first. It was very close. "And for Branchala's sake, stay away from his mouth. Ye want to get sucked in?"

"G'way," Caramon mumbled, rolling on his side.

The voices fell silent. There was a peculiar fluttering sound, moving swiftly away. Caramon snorted, broke wind, and continued his ascent from sleep. The fluttering came close again. A breeze touched his cheek.

"Now ye've done it, Fanuin," scolded the woman. "I told meself, he's gonna wake the giant-"

"Bah!" replied the man. "You brushed his nose, Ellianthe. It's a wonder he didn't sneeze and kill us both-"

Caramon's patience snapped. "Shut up, both of you!" he growled, squinching his eyes shut.

Desperately, he clutched at the pleasant dream he'd been having-it had involved Tika and roast mutton-but to no avail. Giving up, he opened his eyes, and found himself staring at two small, curious faces. Hovering an arm's length from his nose were two tiny people, each about two feet tall. Their bodies were reed-slim, their elfin features framed by curly, copper-red hair. They were brightly garbed-him in gold and green, her in scarlet and sky-blue-and both wore tiny poniards on their belts. Silvery moth wings fluttered on their backs.

Winged kender? Caramon thought. Merciful vanished gods, please let this be a nightmare.

"Good morrow!" beamed the male, swooping toward Caramon's face. "I hight Fanuin. Glad to meet-"

Caramon shrank back with a yelp, waving at the air. The winged folk cried out, flitted about, then darted away, wings buzzing. Caramon lay stunned.

"Confounded way to wake up," he grumbled. Stiffly, joints popping, he sat up and peered about. He was alone, in a small cavern of gray stone. His daughter and the others weren't with him. His heart thudded-what had become of them?

He relaxed somewhat when he saw the cavern had a door: a low, narrow portal of bronze-girded oak. The cave was spartan, brightly lit by bug-lamps. The bed he sat upon was woven of reeds and cedar branches. A few small jars and a basin of gleaming water, sat nearby. The rough walls and vaulted ceiling were unadorned. Whoever had brought him here had even less regard for furniture than the centaurs did. They'd left him his gear, he soon saw: his packs and shield, even his sword, lay piled by the wall. So did his armor and clothes-he realized, belatedly, that he was naked.

He pushed himself to his feet. The ceiling was low, and he stooped to make himself fit. He shuffled over and grabbed his clothes. They were clean, and had even been mended. Wiping sleepglue from his eyes, he donned his breechcloth and pants. He dragged his tunic over his head, then took it off and put it on the right way around. He opened one of the jugs, and was pleased to discover it was full of water instead of wine. He took a long drink, then stopped, feeling an uncomfortable pressure on his bladder. Setting the jug down again, he searched for something to use for a chamber pot. Finding none, he stumbled to the door and opened it.

There were many bug-lamps in the large cavern on the door's other side. He raised his arm as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He heard fluttering again. This time, though, it came from many pairs of wings instead of just two. Slowly, he lowered his arm.

He was surrounded. A dozen of the little moth-winged people hovered about him. They were gaily garbed, and most held small bows with tiny arrows nocked and aimed. In their midst was an older creature, whose hair gleamed like quicksilver and who wore a purple tunic over white hose. He held a little sword, glinting in the bug-light. Behind him hovered the pair who'd interrupted Caramon's sleep.

"Hold there," said the one with the sword. His dark eyes glittered. "If ye move, my men will shoot."

Caramon froze, more out of surprise than fear. Despite the arrows, he couldn't take the winged folk seriously. It was like being waylaid by squirrels.

"That's him, Da!" exclaimed Fanuin, pointing at Caramon. "He's the one who tried to kill us!"

"What?" Caramon blurted, seeing the silver-haired one scowl. "I never-"

"Ye did so," retorted Ellianthe, her face reddening to the tips of her long, pointed ears. "Ye tried to swat us out of the air like bugs!"

"Easy, girl," said the silver-haired one. "He's a human. He's likely never seen our like afore."

"What like?" Caramon demanded. "What are you?"

"Why, we're sprites, o'course," Fanuin replied. "Like I was sayin' just now, before ye started swinging, I hight Fanuin, and this is my sister, Ellianthe." His female companion bowed. "We're son and daughter of Laird Guithern o' the fey folk."

"At yer service," said the silver-haired sprite, doffing his feathered cap. "Now, since we all know each other, Caramon Majere, suppose ye tell me why ye tried to murder my children?"

Caramon blinked, at a loss. "I didn't mean to. They just startled me." He nodded at Fanuin. "He came straight at my face."

Guithern glanced over his shoulder at his son. "Is this true?" he asked testily. "I told ye, lad, when we brought the lot o' them here-make like ye mean to fly up someone's nose, and ye'll get smashed."

"Aye, Da," Fanuin grumbled. He studied his pointed shoes and said nothing more.

"I'm dreadful sorry, friend," said Guithern, turning back to Caramon. He sheathed his tiny sword. "Fanuin means well, but sometimes he's a bit dense. No hard feelings?"

It dawned on Caramon then: This small creature was the one the Circle had sent him and the others to find, the one who held Soulsplitter! He sighed in relief.

"No hard feelings," he agreed, and extended his massive hand toward the sprite king.

An odd sound, like a harpstring being plucked, rang out. A sharp pain flared in his backside, as if a wasp had stung him. "Ow!" he exclaimed, reaching back.

To his surprise, he found something embedded in his buttocks. Wincing, he plucked it out and held it up before his eyes. It was a tiny arrow, no bigger than a needle.

Guithern darted forward and snatched the shaft from Caramon's fingers. His eyes flashed with anger as he regarded the bowmen around the old innkeeper.

"Who fired this?' the sprite king barked.

One of the archers flinched. He'd been groping at his quiver for another dart; now he stopped and began to stammer. "I-I'm sorry, H-Highness," he said. "Ye said shoot if he moved…

"I'd put my sword away, ye dolt!" snapped Guithern. "What's 'twixt yer ears? Dandelion wool?"

"Don't worry," Caramon protested. The wound was minor, though for some reason it itched furiously. "It's nothing."

The Laird gave him an odd look. "If only that were so," he said. "Ye'd best lie down, Majere. Not as far to fall, that way."

"Huh?" Caramon asked. "What do you mean?"

Guithern held up the arrow for him to see. On its tip was something dark, sticky. It took Caramon a moment to understand: poison. Suddenly he was swaying on his feet, his brain full of cobwebs.

"Wh-" he mumbled through lips that no longer felt like part of his own face. "Unnnnh… ."

"He's going down!" shouted Ellianthe. The sprites scattered as his knees buckled, and he toppled forward. He was already snoring when he hit the ground.

For a while, Caramon dreamed of mutton and Tika again.

Spring passed, and summer came, Darken Wood grew darker still as the leaves thickened upon the trees. In all that time, no word came back to Ithax from Trephas, or the humans who had gone with him.

The centaurs had had high hopes at first. The Circle had dispatched extra scouts to watch for Trephas's return. That had lasted three weeks, to no avail. After that, Arhedion had begged leave to ride to Pallidice's grove, once a week, to seek some sign of the travelers. So he had, for another two months. Stubbornly, he'd refused to stop-until a fortnight ago, on his return from yet another unsuccessful sojourn, when Nemeredes the Elder had met him at Ithax's gates. The sorrow on the old chieftain's face had told the young scout all he needed to know.

"My son is gone," Nemeredes had explained, his voice hoarse with sorrow. "We'll not see him again, nor the humans. Soulsplitter will not be ours. I know he was thy friend, Arhedion, but thou must let him go."

Arhedion hadn't returned to Pallidice's grove since. There'd been other duties to see to. The troubles in Darken Wood had grown worse. The Skorenoi continued to advance, slaughtering those they couldn't capture and give over to Grimbough. With each attack, they claimed more of the forest, and the daemon tree's corruption spread. Woods the centaurs had hunted for millennia became twisted and foul.

Despite Chrethon's growing power, the horsefolk remained defiant. They fought valiantly, slaying two Skorenoi for every centaur who fell. It wasn't enough, though. There were too many enemies to hold out forever.

There'd been talk of sending another rider out for human aid. Pleuron and Nemeredes had favored the idea, but Eucleia had argued vehemently against it. Menelachos, to his sorrow, had been forced to agree with her, and that had settled the matter. The centaurs of Darken Wood would stand or fall on their own.

Four days ago, less than a week before Midyear Day, Skorenoi raiders had attacked and killed several herdsmen, as well as their flocks and families. This was nothing new, but these herdsmen had lived less than a half-day's ride from Ithax. Outraged, the Circle had sent forth a hundred warriors, led by Zerian, Menelachos's son, to retaliate. They too had vanished, leaving only a few bloodied corpses scattered in the hills, a feast for the crows.

Now Arhedion rode in their stead, leading fifty centaurs toward the enemy's territory-not to fight, like the previous band, but to spy on the enemy. He wondered, as he crept through the woods, if Zerian had been as frightened as he was.

The sun was high, shafts of light lancing through the foliage, when he called a halt by a narrow creek. "Food and wine," he told his party. "We ride again in ten minutes."

Gratefully, the scouts stopped to eat. Arhedion ordered six to keep watch, and sent a pair ahead to make sure no one waited in ambush. Then he unstopped a wine-flask and devoured a handful of olives, spitting their pits into the bushes. He scanned the undergrowth, his scalp prickling.

Something wasn't right. He gestured to a slender, black mare. "Iasta! Come here!"

Iasta was the band's most skilled woodsman. She knew as much about the forest as anyone Arhedion knew. She cantered over, swigging wine as she came. "What's the trouble?"

"The forest. It isn't right-dost thou feel it?"

"Truly," Iasta agreed gravely. "It's been so for the past mile, perhaps more. Shall I take a closer look?"

Arhedion nodded, and they walked to a young poplar tree. Iasta drew a knife and carved a strip of bark from the tree. She sniffed it, then broke off a bit and put it in her mouth. Grimacing, she spat it out. Raising the knife again, she cut three slashes across the wood she'd exposed. Brown, oily sap ran out. Tiny white worms oozed forth with it, and fell, squirming, on the ground.

"Stones and shoes!" Arhedion swore.

"As I thought," Iasta said, wiping her dagger on a fern. "Grimbough's magic. It isn't strong yet, but there's no mistaking it. The trees near my village became like this, three years ago. A season later, they were beyond help."

Arhedion swallowed. The Circle would want to hear of this. Perhaps he should send a pair of runners back to Ithax-

No sooner had he put together that thought than he heard hoofbeats approaching the camp. He whistled to his warriors. They dropped their packs and flasks and grabbed their weapons, in case the approaching riders were Skorenoi.

They weren't; it was the two outriders Arhedion had sent ahead. They lunged out of the undergrowth, red-faced and blowing hard, then pulled up when they saw the lances and arrows arrayed against them.

"Don't shoot!" gasped one, a yellow-coated mare whose flanks were daubed with whorls of war-paint. "Put up thy weapons. We weren't followed."

"Followed?" Arhedion asked. His tail twitched. "By whom?"

The yellow mare's partner, a gray stallion whose head was shaved save for a white braid above his left ear, cleared his throat. "Skorenoi," he said.

Arhedion's skin bumped with gooseflesh. He blew out his lips. "Show me. I would see for myself."

They waited until the outriders regained their wind, then he named Iasta and a dozen others to go with him. They rode half a league, to a ridge where tall pines swayed.

"Be silent," the yellow mare warned, and started up the slope.

It was a difficult climb: the ridge was steep, carpeted with needles that slid beneath their hooves. They made their way to the top without a sound, then hunkered low, below the rocky crest. Bow and arrow ready, Arhedion peered over the edge, into the broad valley below.

"Chislev's withers," he breathed.

The valley was blanketed with oaks and aspens, but there was no missing what lay beneath the shifting leaves. The woods were crawling with Skorenoi-thousands of them.

"Looks like an army," Iasta murmured shakily.

Arhedion nodded, feeling cold all over. "I think we'd better get back to Ithax."

There was no telling what gave them away. It could have been the jingling of a war harness, the glint of sunlight on an arrowhead-even their scent, borne by the wind into the valley. Whatever it was, though, the blare of horns sounded from behind as Arhedion and the others climbed back down the ridge. Then hooves rumbled, headed toward them.

Arhedion cursed, glancing around. Several of his scouts had frozen in horror. "Move!" he roared, waving his arms. "Run! Go!"

They slid down the ridge, sending showers of needles before them. Arhedion landed hard, losing half the arrows out of his quiver, then Iasta hauled on his arm and they bolted into the woods. The other scouts ran too, galloping recklessly through the trees. Before long, arrows began to fall around them. Arhedion glanced back, and saw the ridge was lined with Skorenoi archers. The gray outrider grunted and fell, an arrow between his shoulders. He started to rise, then another shaft pierced his skull.

Panic seized the horsefolk. Yelling, they pelted onward. An arrow grazed Arhedion's shoulder, drawing a line of blood; another shattered against his war harness. He ran on, heedless.

When the arrows finally stopped and the centaurs dared slow their pace, half the party was gone-including Iasta. Arhedion felt sick at this, but resisted the temptation to go back. Several of the other centaurs started to turn, clearly having the same urge.

"No!" he snapped. "They're gone! Get back to the others!"

They did, hearts hammering, pausing briefly to gather the rest of the party before plunging on. Finally, after they'd been galloping for more than an hour, they slowed their pace.

"We lost them," said one of the scouts. "They gave up the chase!"

Arhedion shook his head. "No. They'll come, sooner or later, all the way to Ithax. This is just the beginning."

Like the cave where the dryad had left them, there were no doors or tunnels leading out of the sprites' cavernous prison. Fanuin and Ellianthe solved the problem by flying up to a wall and parting the stone. A passage opened with a loud scraping sound.

Unlike the way Pallidice had taken them, the passage was solid granite, shot through with white crystals that glittered in the bug-lamps' light. It was cold, and their footsteps echoed eerily. Behind them, the stone sealed shut again, grinding noisily.

Caramon and Dezra shared Trephas's impatience. With the time they spent here multiplied thirtyfold in Darken Wood, even the passage of minutes became dreadful. Only Borlos seemed at ease, sharing stories with the sprites as they walked. The fey folk had an insatiable appetite for tales, and for them, even the War of the Lance was little more than a year in the past. There was much they hadn't heard. In turn, they told Borlos of times long past. Though Fanuin and Ellianthe were young, they remembered the glory of Istar and other ancient realms. Borlos listened to their stories, his gaze distant, a bemused smile curling his lips. It was a simpleton's grin, the same look he'd had after the dryad pulled him into her tree.

The gray stone surrounding them yielded, more and more, to shining crystal. The air grew warmer. Then, with no more warning than a sudden blast of wind, the tunnel ended in open air and a dark, starry sky. The sprites flew out of the passage; Borlos nearly followed, but Trephas pulled him back.

"Careful," the centaur warned. "Another step, and thou would have regretted it."

Borlos looked down, past his feet, and gasped.

"What's the matter?" Caramon asked, craning to see.

Dezra elbowed forward and followed Borlos's gaze down. She caught her breath, her eyes wide. "Huma's wooden teeth," she swore.

The tunnel had opened in the middle of a sheer cliff of white crystal, high above the ground. They were somewhere in the mountains-that much was clear from the shadowed crags before them-but that was all Dezra could tell. "Oh," she grumbled. "Well, that's just marvelous."

"Where are the sprites?" Caramon asked.

"Gone. Bloody bugs stranded us here," Dezra said. She threw up her hands. "What do we do now? Grow wings?"

Trephas chuckled. "That's what I said yesterday, when they took me to the Laird. Don't fret: they'll come back."

A brief eternity later, they heard a familiar sound: the flutter of wings. The sound grew steadily louder, then a broad, flat shape emerged from the darkness.

Caramon squinted, trying to make it out. "It looks like a blanket."

They saw, as it got closer, that it was just that: large enough to cover a king's bed, and well-woven in blue and gold. Several dozen sprites carried it toward the cliff, pulling it taut as they approached. They swooped down out of sight, then rose back up, coming to a hovering stop a yard past the tunnel's end. Fanuin and Ellianthe flew forward to float before the companions.

"It would be best," said Ellianthe, "if ye take off yer boots afore ye climb on the lugruidh."

The companions stared at the blanket, their faces the color of whey. "It'll never hold us all," Caramon hissed. "Even if it was just Trephas or me-"

"It was just me, yesterday," the centaur put in. "And earlier today, when I came back to fetch thee. Besides, we don't have much choice-this is the only way to go."

"All right," Borlos said. "I'll go first."

He pulled off his boots, then tossed them and his packs over. Holding his breath, he sprung forward, into the void. The lugruidh dipped slightly as he landed, then the sprites recovered and lifted it back up again. Borlos turned back to the others and grinned.

"It's fine," he said. "Come over."

Trephas followed, then, reluctantly, Caramon stepped across the gap. He let out a yell, the lugruidh dropping several feet, then sat down heavily as the sprites again arrested its fall. Dezra wrung her hands, staring at it in disgust.

"Come on, Dez," Caramon said. The lugruidh wobbled as he got to his feet. "I'll catch you."

"No," Dezra insisted. "I'll do it myself."

They gave her room, clearing as large a space as they could. She tossed her boots to Trephas, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Just then, she heard the scraping sound of the stone against stone. She didn't need to glance back to know the tunnel was closing behind her. She leapt, and the passage sealed shut, as if it had never been.

Chrethon strode along the line of the Skorenoi camp, gazing at Ithax's walls. The town's defenders lined the palisade, gripping their bows, staring back across the killing ground that had, not long ago, been a pleasant meadow. Now the grass and clover were gone, the earth trampled to blood-drenched mud. Spent arrows sprouted from the waste, a mocking memory of the daisies that had been in bloom when the siege began. Crows and flies feasted upon the slain. The stench in the air was horrible, but Chrethon reveled in it. To him, it was the scent of triumph.

Forty days ago, the Skorenoi had finally reached Ithax. It had been a long advance, with much hard fighting along the way, but now, except for a few scattered marauders, the horsefolk were penned up within their walls. The Skorenoi had put the vineyards and fields to the torch, slaughtering any horsefolk they'd encountered in those last leagues.

The day they invested the town, Chrethon had ordered an assault on the gates. That had been a mistake. The centaurs had been ready for him. The Skorenoi had lost many to the archers and stake-riddled trenches that protected the town, and hadn't been able to get their rams near the town's gates. In the end, they'd been forced to withdraw.

There'd been celebration among the defenders that night, but their victory was hollow. Now Skorenoi tents and fires ringed the mound where Ithax stood. They'd been there more than a month, keeping anyone from entering or leaving. The siege had been mostly quiet, with only the occasional skirmish as a parties of warriors emerged from the gates, trying to break through the Skorenoi lines. None had gotten through. Their flyblown heads were mounted on stakes within clear view of the town.

Siegecraft was difficult for the Skorenoi. Most accepted means of breaching a wall were impractical, thanks to their shape. Ladders and siege towers were useless to creatures who couldn't climb them. Tunneling to collapse the walls was no easier. There were other strategies, of course, but none had worked so far. The centaurs drenched their walls with water from their spring-fed wells, thwarting attempts to bum them. Rams were useless as long as those who carried them died before they reached the gates. Even starvation, which won more sieges than any other means, was proving difficult. The centaurs had stockpiled a great deal of food. They would run out, of course, but not before autumn.

Chrethon didn't have that long to wait. The Skorenoi were growing impatient. Ithax had to fall, and soon.

He glanced east. The sky was starting to glimmer with dawn. He called for a runner, and one came: a gangly creature with long, muscular legs. It moved toward him with astonishing speed, then bowed.

"What is thy will, my lord?" it asked.

"Find Hurach," Chrethon said quietly. "Tell him to meet me on the north front, behind the lines."

The runner sprinted off. Chrethon glanced once more toward the palisade, then turned north, making his way through the camp. He passed warriors sparring, smiths sharpening lances, fletchers shaping new arrows. As in Sangelior, there was little order to the ranks, but they all bowed to him as he passed.

Hurach was waiting for him, in the shadows. "How may I serve you, lord?" he asked.

Chrethon glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. "I have a task for thee," he answered softly.

The sward atop the spire-stone was small, only fifty paces across, with sharp drops on all sides to the steaming tarn below. Bug-lamps rested on the grass, bathing it and the trunks of the firs in blue light. The sprites had laid out pheasant and fish, mushrooms and berries, with milk and their incomparable mead to accompany the feast; the companions devoured it all, then sat, waiting. Borlos stared into the distance, plucking his lyre. In time, Laird Guithern and the other winged folk joined them, and the talk turned to the war, Grimbough, and Soulsplitter.

"So," Guithern declared, folding his arms as he hovered in the air, "if ye take the axe back, ye'll use it to destroy this daemon tree?"

Trephas nodded. "That's what the Circle hopes, as I told thee yesterday."

Guithern nodded, then lapsed into deep thought. He and the other sprites who'd gathered for the moot-Fanuin and Ellianthe, several elders, and a number of warriors-bobbed up and down as the night wind blew about them.

"My father told me about Soulsplitter," Guithern mused at length. "It was his da the horsefolk brought it to, seventy summers ago-or two thousand of them, as time passes in yer world. They asked for his word, in the names of Branchala and Chislev, that if any centaur came seeking it, he'd refuse to give it over. 'Twas too great a danger, they said: it slew their High Chief, and only the gods knew what other evil it might wreak if one of yer kind ever raised it again.

"My grandfather made my father take the same oath, and so, also, with me. I swore, before the gods of the wilds, never to surrender the axe." He stared at Caramon, his dark eyes glinting. "And here you are, at the centaurs' behest, asking me to break that very oath."

Dezra snorted, rolling her eyes. "I don't care if you swore before Paladine, Takhisis, or the gnomes of Mount Nevermind," she said. "We still need it back."

"That ye may," Guithern replied coldly. "But even if all the dragons of Krynn were arrayed against ye, I couldn't relinquish it. We fey folk might be capricious, but we abide by our word."

"But thou must!" Trephas insisted, his voice rising. "Too many of my people have died already. Wilt thou condemn the rest of us?"

The Laird shook his head. "I don't say this on a whim, friend centaur. Thy ancestors felt Soulsplitter bore too much power, that after what befell Lord Hyrtamos, they should never use it again-not even against the most dangerous foe."

"Then they were fools!" Dezra snapped, rising to her feet. The sprites darted back, reaching for their weapons. "And you're no better, Your Highness, if you'd keep an oath so blindly!"

A hush fell over the sward. The elder sprites glared at Dezra, their narrow faces severe. She returned their gaze coolly, hands on her hips.

"If ye think insulting me is the way to get what ye want," Guithern hissed, "then it's you who are the fool. With a word, I could have ye drugged and taken back to Darken Wood. No dryad would ever let ye return here."

Dezra sucked in a breath to retort, her eyes ablaze. Before she could speak, however, Caramon interjected. "Your pardon, Highness. But blunt as my daughter may be," he said carefully, giving Dezra a warning look, "she's also not far off the mark. When the Circle gave your people the axe, they couldn't have anticipated what's happening now, that there is a threat dire enough to warrant its return."

"If Grimbough is victorious," Trephas added, "the dryads will perish, as surely as my people will. Or worse, they'll Cross, as have the Skorenoi and many of the satyrs. And once they're Grimbough's thralls, they'll seek out this place." The centaur waved a hairy arm, encompassing the whole vale. "Don't think thou wilt go untouched. Thy home will become as corrupt as mine."

Guithern was silent, his face clouded with thought. He studied Caramon and Trephas. "It's truly that bad?"

"Aye," the centaur said. "I wouldn't lie about this, Highness."

"No," the sprite murmured, "ye wouldn't." He drew a delicate hand down his face. "So, then. What good is an oath if it dooms all it was meant to protect?"

"Then you'll give us the axe?" Caramon asked.

Guithern shook his head, his silver locks shimmering. "No," he said. "I don't have it to give."

"What?" blurted Dezra.

"My grandfather protected it the best way he knew," Guithern declared, "by putting it where my people dare not- and the centaurs cannot-go."

"Tell us," Trephas bade.

The sprite hesitated, then nodded. "There's a place, in the mountains north of here-an old, ruined tower, where a wizard once lived. I don't know the sorcerer's name, but he was powerful. He did terrible things there: summoning demons from the Abyss, tormenting the dead. He even sought to create life."

Caramon shuddered. At the height of Raistlin's power, his brother had done the same thing. He'd never seen the fruit of that horrible experiment, but he'd heard stories. The Live Ones had been tormented, repulsive things, in constant pain, begging to die.

"Did… did he succeed?" he breathed.

Guithern shook his head. "I think not. If he did, the flesh of the creatures he made is surely long since dust. The tower stood outside my kingdom, and the wizard was dead when the centaurs gave Soulsplitter to my grandfather. All that remains is the pit beneath: a deep shaft, leading down into the living rock of the mountain.

"It's to that pit my grandfather took the axe. He threw it in and left it there, in the depths. Since then, my people haven't entered the place."

Caramon frowned. "I don't get it. You just said the tower fell apart thousands of years ago, that it's abandoned-why do you fear it?"

"Because," Guithern said solemnly, "it isn't abandoned. The Guardian, the last of the wizard's creations, still dwells there."

Dezra's eyes narrowed. "But you said the things he made were gone-their flesh was dust."

"Aye," Guithern answered. "But the Guardian isn't flesh. It's shaped of the stone itself, a creature the wizard built to watch over his keep. It remains there, waiting to slay anyone who enters. My people wouldn't go into that place even if I ordered them to."

"Then we'll have to try," Dezra said.

Caramon bit his lip. "Dez, this Guardian thing sounds like a golem. Raist told me about them, when we were young. They're really powerful. I don't think-"

"I'll do it," Dezra insisted. "I'm not going back empty-handed. You're free to stay and wait for me, if you're too scared to go."

If she'd meant to anger him, she was disappointed. He only stared at his hands, folded in his lap. "You're right, girl," he murmured. "We've come too far to stop now. We'll all go." He looked toward the Laird. "We're going to need help getting there, though."

If the sprites hadn't pointed out the tower to her, Dezra wouldn't have recognized it. The centuries had left nothing but a tumble of stones, standing on a broad shelf halfway up a towering, snow-capped peak. The black-veined marble that had been its walls was jumbled with slabs of slate that had broken loose from the slope above.

She shivered as the lugruidh descended. A hand touched her shoulder, startling her. "Dez?" her father asked. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," she snapped. "Just leave me alone."

He was silent a moment, then turned away, shrugging.

The lugruidh stopped at the edge of the shelf. They slipped on the frost-rimed rocks when they stepped off, but soon found purchase, their breath fogging in the chill air. Steel rasped as Caramon drew his sword. He eyed the ruins and the mountainside, then turned to Fanuin and Ellianthe, who hovered nearby.

"Anything live around here?" he asked. "Mountain cats, trolls, wyverns?"

"Nay," Fanuin answered, shaking his head. "Nothing's dwelt here for ages. I reckon beasts fear it, for what the wizard once did here."

"They do," Trephas said quietly. His nostrils were wide, his tail twitching. He shifted from hoof to hoof. "I can feel it. If I were more horse and less man, I might panic at being so close."

Borlos eyed him nervously. "But you're fine now?"

The centaur grinned. "Don't worry. If I have the urge to bolt, I'll tell thee first."

The wind whipping their cloaks and hair, they strode toward the ruins. Fanuin and Ellianthe flew along, but the other sprites remained behind. Caramon kicked at a small, jagged chunk of slate, then nodded at the stone pile. It was taller than even Trephas could reach, and fifty paces across.

"So," he asked the sprites, "where's this pit your great-granddad threw the axe into?"

"Near the middle, according to the story," replied Ellianthe. "I'll look ahead." She flitted to the top of the rubble, then perched on a jagged shard of slate, staring down. She turned and nodded. "I can see it from here. There's some big stones blocking it, though."

Fanuin darted after her and drew up alongside. "Aye," he said, then glanced at the peak above. "Reckon there's been a rockslide in the past century."

"Is it totally choked?" Dezra asked.

Ellianthe shook her head. "Not totally. Come look for yer-selves."

They climbed slowly, the slate shifting beneath their feet. Trephas's hooves scrabbled as he made his way up the rubble. Dezra reached the top first, Borlos right behind, then Caramon and the centaur. Together, they stared down into the ruins.

For a moment none of them saw anything amid the shattered stone; then Dezra pointed. "There," she said. "Under that big slab."

Then they saw it: a sliver of darkness, mostly blocked by a massive chunk of slate that had smashed down and cracked into pieces. The huge, flat rock nearly plugged the hole shut.

"Great," Borlos muttered. "That isn't big enough to fit a greased kender, let alone any of us."

They climbed down to it, but the gap didn't get any bigger up close. Testing, heedless of what might lurk in the darkness, Dezra stuck her foot into the hole. She slipped her leg in up to the knee before getting stuck, then pulled herself out again.

"No luck," she muttered. "Now what do we do?"

Trephas ran his fingers over the slab, probing the cracks where it had split. "How much rope do we have?" he asked after a moment.

Caramon, who had the rope looped over his shoulder, unslung it and let it slide down onto the rubble. "Guithern said three hundred feet."

"And pitons?" the centaur pressed.

"About a dozen. What's your plan, Trephas?"

"Bring them to me," he said, resting a hand on the slab. "I'll show thee."

"You don't understand," Caramon protested. "We don't have time to waste, waiting here with your people. The centaurs need Soulsplitter now!"

Laird Guithern shook his head. "I know. But there's naught I can do to get ye back to Darken Wood faster. I sent a messenger to the dryads after ye left for the tower, but 'twill take time afore Pallidice returns to guide ye back. Ye may have been nearly a day outside the vale, but here ye were gone less than an hour."

"How long must we wait?" Trephas asked anxiously. Soulsplitter, secured to his war harness, gleamed in the sunlight.

Guithern thought a moment. "About a day, I reckon."

"But that's another whole month, outside this place!" Dezra exclaimed. "At that rate, there might be nothing to get back to!"

"I'm sorry," Guithern repeated. Though his words were contrite, there was an unmistakable crispness to his voice. "I can't change how quick or slow the river of time flows. It's best ye forget yer cares for now. I'll summon food, and mead and music-"

Caramon shook his head. "No. Bring us one of those flying blankets, so we can leave. We can go as far as those caves in the mountains. No offense, Highness, but I'd feel better waiting there."

The Laird bowed, acquiescing, and took his leave. The other sprites swarmed with him up to the palace at the top of the fir tree, leaving the companions alone.

Caramon cleared his throat. "I'll check on Borlos."

The bard sat at the edge of the spire-stone, staring out across the tarn. In the distance, the sprites' wings made the air over Gwethyryn sparkle. He held his lyre across his lap, plucking a quiet, sad melody. He didn't turn at Caramon's approach.

"Well?" Caramon asked. "Are you coming with us, or is this good-bye?"

The bard sighed slowly. "I want to stay," he murmured. "I can't bear to leave."

"It's witchery, Bor," Caramon said, gesturing at the lake. "This place has worked some kind of magic over you. I look at it and I see beauty, but I'd never dream of not going back."

"Of course you wouldn't," Borlos stated. "You have a family to go home to, an inn to run. What do I have? Clemen and Osier? How many years have I wasted playing cards with them, night after night?"

"So you're staying." Caramon couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice.

"Let me finish." Borlos laid a hand across his strings. "I could stay, but I'd always wonder if I could have done more to help the centaurs. I'd never be happy, no matter how beautiful this place is, or how much pleasure I find with Pallidice."

Caramon coughed. "So what you're saying is…

"I'm leaving," Borlos said. He took a deep breath, then let it out.

"Sure, Bor," Caramon said. He patted the bard's arm, then, sensing he wanted to be alone, turned and walked back to join the others.

Borlos turned back toward the tarn, staring across the water. His fingers strayed back to his lyre. The wind caught the chords he plucked and snatched them away.

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.

"She was a friend," Trephas said softly. "One of Arhedion's patrol. I recognize her harness. The three of us played together when we were children. Oh, Iasta… they took thy tail… ."

They did what they could for the dead mare, which wasn't much at all. Caramon helped Trephas free her from the brambles, then took her skull and placed it with the rest of her. There was no time to build a pyre; in the rain, it wouldn't have burned anyway. Borlos played a dirge on his lyre, and Trephas cut his hand and bled on her corrupted form. Then they went on, leaving her.

Dezra motioned her father to her as they walked. She glanced at Trephas, to make sure he was out of earshot. He stomped ahead, slashing at the briars.

"Wouldn't the centaurs have brought her body back to Ithax?" she whispered.

"I'd think so," Caramon agreed. "If they could."

There were more corpses ahead: dozens of them, all savaged like Iasta. Trephas went from one to the next, naming those he recognized. "Parimon… Chostos… Endrathimar…" he recited dully. "Chrethon will answer for this." He stared up at the sky, squinting as frigid rain lashed his face. "I swear, I'll live to see him pay in blood."

Darkness was settling over Darken Wood when they reached Ithax. By then, they all knew what they'd find. The crows circling above the forest were no surprise, nor was the fact that no fireglow glimmered in the gathering night. They slowed their pace when they emerged into the pastures surrounding the town-pastures littered with corpses and churned to mud by the passage of many hoofed feet-then stopped atop the rise overlooking the valley, staring in awe at the carnage below.

Ithax was gone. Atop the mound where it had stood, there was only rubble, ash and razed earth. The ground was scattered with the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi. The stench of death thickened the air.

"Paladine's bollocks," Dezra swore.

No one moved for several minutes. All eyes turned to Trephas. The centaur's throat bobbed as he fought to speak. "Let's go down there," he said finally. "I must know if any of my people survived this slaughter."

"Are you sure?" Borlos asked. "I mean, with night coming on-"

"I said we go down!" Trephas bellowed. Without waiting, he broke into a gallop, charging down into the corpse-littered valley.

The others glanced uncertainly at one another as the centaur rode away. "Well?" Borlos asked.

"You heard him," Caramon answered. "We go down."

"Big guy! It's Thenidor! Don't-"

Then silence.

Everyone stared at each other in mute horror. Caramon peered into the gloom. "Bor?" he called, resting a hand on his sword. He started forward. "Borlos!"

Dezra grabbed his arm, hauling him to a stop. "Whoa," she said. "Hold up."

"Let go of me, girl," Caramon growled, shoving her back. She held firm, though. He whirled, furious. "I said let go!"

"Not a chance," Dezra replied. "Stop and use that thick head of yours. Didn't you hear what he just said? The Skorenoi are out there."

"And they've got Borlos," Caramon growled. "I've got to go help him."

"How?" Dezra snapped. "By lumbering off into the dark, so they can get you too? We need to think, or we'll end up dead-and they'll get the axe."

"What do you suggest?" Caramon snapped.

Dezra peered into the night, her brow furrowing. "Give me a moment. It would help if we knew where they are, and how many there are."

"Which we don't," Caramon said.

"Be still, both of thee!" Trephas interjected hotly. "There has to be something we can do."

"Maybe we can help," said a lilting voice, very close by.

They started in alarm, reaching for their weapons and searching for the man who'd spoken. There was nothing but darkness.

"Who's there?" Caramon whispered harshly.

"Ye don't remember us?" asked a second voice, a woman. She clucked her tongue in disappointment. "And I thought we'd gotten to be friends."

There was a rapid, fluttering sound. Then, suddenly, two small, elfin figures appeared before them. Silver moth wings sprouted from their backs. The companions stared in astonishment as the sprites doffed their caps, bowing as they hovered above the ground. "There," said the female, grinning. "Does that help?"

Caramon blinked. "Ellianthe?" he asked. "Fanuin?"

"Aha!" Fanuin declared, his green eyes glinting. "Ye do remember us!"

"But-" Trephas sputtered. "How… ?"

"Oh, we've been with ye since ye left our kingdom," Ellianthe answered blithely.

Caramon frowned, then understanding dawned on his face. "I remember now. I tried to say good-bye, before we left, but you'd disappeared. I thought you'd gone, but you were with us the whole time, invisible. Right?"

The sprites beamed. "Very good," Fanuin said.

"But why?" Dezra asked.

An awkward silence followed. Fanuin coughed. "Our da sent us along in secret, to see if the troubles in Darken Wood were as bad as ye said. Now we know they are," he declared, staring sadly at the battered bodies. "We were going to hie back home when ye left this place, and none o' ye would be the wiser."

"That was the plan, anyway," Ellianthe remarked. "But since ye're in trouble, we figured ye could use the help."

"We sure can," Dezra said. She smiled, thinking fast. "Can the two of you make yourselves invisible again?"

"Aye," Ellianthe stated, her chest swelling proudly. "Just say the word."

Caramon looked at his daughter, a smile curling his lips. Dezra returned the grin crookedly. "Great," she said. "I think it's time we found out what we're up against."

Arhedion's hand strayed over his shoulder, toward his quiver. He started as his fingers touched fletching, then cursed softly and lowered his hand back to his side. Chewing on a wild parsnip, he stared down into the rocky defile where his patrol stood guard.

In the month since Ithax fell, the tenor of the war had changed. When Leodippos pursued the centaurs into the highlands, Gyrtomon-who'd taken Rhedogar's place as war leader-had taken the fight to him. Again and again they'd struck, using the craggy terrain to scatter the foe. They'd inflicted heavy losses each time, fleeing into the hills before the Skorenoi could counter. Arhedion had been among the best at this, knowing how to find the best spots for an ambush. He and his twenty scouts had slain more than a hundred Skorenoi, losing only two of their number in return.

Two days ago, though, their duties had changed. Over Arhedion's protests, Gyrtomon had ordered them back and put them on guard duty. Since then, they'd stood at the mouth of this ravine, which was the only path to the horse-folk's stronghold. It was a prestigious duty, but Arhedion chafed at it nonetheless. He longed to be back in the hills, stalking the enemy.

He'd said as much to Gyrtomon, when the war chief and his own fighters passed by on their way to harry the foe. Gyrtomon had laughed. "Maybe it is dull," he'd admitted, "but this kind of fighting can't last. There'll be a direct attack, once they discover where we are. When that happens, I'll need my best warriors guarding this pass."

Arhedion knew it was flattery, but took pride in it anyway. He did as the war chief bade.

He raised his gaze, for a moment, from the defile to what lay beyond. Darken Wood stretched out to the horizon, tainted by Grimbough's curse. He only spared a momentary thought for the blighted forest; to do more was to court despair. He'd seen more than one stalwart warrior driven to tears by what had become of their home. Better to mind the ravine, and not what was happening in the lowlands. He stared into the gap, his sharp eyes combing the trees at its far end… .

Suddenly he stiffened, snorting in alarm. He reached over his shoulder again, plucked a shaft from his quiver and notched it on his bowstring. He let out a trilling whistle, and along the ravine's mouth his scouts readied their own bows.

Arhedion spat parsnip juice, licking his lips anxiously. Then the rowan trees at the bottom of the defile rustled, bright orange berries falling from their branches. Arhedion whistled again, sharper this time. All along the ravine's mouth, bows creaked as centaurs pulled back their strings. A third signal would send a score of deadly shafts soaring down the slope.

A heartbeat later, a lone figure stepped out of the trees. Arhedion trained his sights on it, then checked himself suddenly, gaping in disbelief. The figure at the bottom of the ravine was neither Skorenos nor centaur. It walked on two legs instead of four. Sunlight glinted on its bronze, winged helmet.

"Shave my tail," Arhedion swore. "I don't believe it,"

As he watched, two more humans joined the first. Last of all came a horse-man, whose chestnut coat and ash-blond mane he knew well enough. Arhedion laughed aloud.

"Trephas!" he called. "Chislev's withers, is it really thee?"

Below, Trephas answered with a shout of his own, then reached to his back and produced a gleaming, double-bladed axe. Seeing this, Arhedion stood bolt upright, then dropped his bow and flung his arms up toward the sky, yelling with wild joy.

His warriors stared at him as though he'd gone mad; it only made him laugh harder, until tears streaked his cheeks. "Put up thy bows, fellows," he said. "At last, we've got a chance."

When Borlos plucked the final chord from his lyre, the centaurs were silent a moment, then, slowly, began to stamp their hooves upon the ground. Beaming with pride as they shouted and whistled, he lifted his wine-jar, poured a measure on the ground, then took a long, deep drink.

Eucleia came forward once more, to stand behind him. She doffed her mask-the other chiefs followed suit-and flung up her hands, reaching toward the starry sky.

"Let the revels begin!"

At that, the shouting centaurs surged forward, filling the clearing they'd made for the Circle. Other musicians began to play, on lyres and pipes, hand-drums and tambourines. Laughing, Borlos joined them.

The dancing was was wild and boisterous, gleefully anarchic. The centaurs reeled in ones and twos, lines and circles, hooves clomping on the grass. More wine flowed, strong and plentiful. Shouts and laughter carried out into the darkness.

Dezra was finishing her second flask of resin-wine, light-headed and laughing as she watched the centaurs cavort, when she turned to her father and grinned crookedly. "Dance with me," she said.

Caramon, almost the only one in the Yard who was still sober, looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"Dance with me!" she shouted, tugging his hand. "You always used to, when I was a girl."

Caramon's face twitched with memory, then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dez," he said. "I'd love to, but… I'm just so tired."

Dezra's face fell. Her father had changed since the fight at Ithax ruins. He seemed smaller somehow, weaker and wearier. There were dark smudges under his eyes, standing out against the pallor of his face. His hand felt clammy in her grasp; the other strayed to his shoulder and rubbed it absently.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Caramon tensed, his hand dropping into his lap. "Fine. A bit stiff, that's all." He looked past her and grinned. "Here comes someone who'll be your partner."

Surprised, Dezra turned to see a tattooed, piebald centaur lunge toward her, arms outstretched. She had enough time to drop her wine-jar and yelp in surprise before Arhedion grabbed her about the waist and hoisted her off the ground.

"Hoy!" he bellowed gleefully and spun her away, into the milling crowd.

Dezra spent much of the next hour being whirled about by various young stallions. It made her uncomfortable, at first, to be manhandled so, but soon she was laughing wildly as the centaurs passed her back and forth. Finally, though, she ran out of breath. Exhausted, she shouted for them to put her down. They complied, then bounded away to cavort elsewhere. Before he left her Arhedion bent down and kissed her on the lips.

She stumbled dizzily across the Yard, the crowd spinning around her. She got her hands on another wine-flask and downed it as she wended among the merry-makers.

In time, she realized she was looking for Trephas, and began to call his name. A young, brown mare, whose black mane spilled down over her withers, waved her over. The mare tossed her head, then gestured past the far side of the Yard, into the darkness. Nodding, Dezra went that way, through the milling crowd.

She found him standing in the shadows, beneath a rustling aspen. He smiled as she approached, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. "It took you long enough," he said.

Dezra stopped short, scowling. "Really," she said sourly. "And you were sure I'd come."

"Of course. You're here, aren't you?"

Dezra shrugged. "So are you. And you just called me 'you' again."

"So I did." Trephas's cocksure grin turned sheepish. She favored him with a crooked smirk of her own. He blew out his lips, then shook his head, his mane flying. "I could tell you it's because I owe you my life."

"You could," she said. "Of course, you'd be lying."

He nodded slowly. "So… ."

"So."

He looked at her, his dark eyes wistful. "Dezra, this isn't simple. My people and yours… we're not made for each other, if you understand. And besides, my father wouldn't allow it."

"You think mine would?" she replied, laughing.

He nodded sadly. "No," he said. He fell silent, looking away-then, impulsively, took her hands in his. He bent down, his head angling toward hers; she let him. Their lips crushed together, their bodies pressed close, hands grasping and searching.

Neither of them saw nor heard the dark, goat-legged shape that stole toward them, through the shadows.

Caramon woke suddenly, in the early light of dawn, to blazing pain. He ground his teeth together, trying to sit up. The agony was too excruciating. It felt like a flaming arrow was lodged in his shoulder-the same sensation he'd felt after the battle at Ithax, and earlier at the Darkwater. It was stronger now, stealing his breath and making black dots whirl before his eyes.

He knew, now, that it was his heart-he'd had his doubts before, but there was no mistaking how the pain rose and fell in rhythm with his lifebeat. The same thing had killed old Flint Fireforge, forty years ago. Was it going to take him too? He thought of Tika and Laura, Palin and his grandchildren- could he leave them behind? Then he remembered Flint and Sturm, Tanis and Riverwind, and all the friends who'd died before him. He thought of his sons. It would be good to see them. And maybe… maybe Raistlin would come, from wherever he was, and visit him too.

Yes, he thought as he lay upon his bed of rushes, staring at the roof of the tent the centaurs had given him. Maybe it is time… .

But it wasn't. After a while, the pain ebbed, the fist that had clenched within his ribs loosening its grip. When he drew breath, there was only a dull ache. He blew a long sigh through his lips, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

The sunlight that streamed through the tent-flap was too bright to go back to sleep. Scratching his balding pate, he sat up and glanced at the other beds the horsefolk had laid out. Borlos lay sprawled on one of them, his arm flung across his eyes, mouth hanging open. The bard had enjoyed a great deal of resin-wine at the festivities: Caramon had had to carry him back to their tent. That was probably what had set his heart off this time, he decided.

The other bed was empty. The rushes were undisturbed, the blanket still folded. Dezra hadn't slept in the tent last night. But if not here, where? He was scowling, an idea forming in his head, when the flap opened, and his daughter ducked in.

She started in surprise when she saw him, then flushed. "You're up early," she said, not meeting his gaze. "Are you well? You look pale."

"I'm fine," he said. "You were out late."

He picked up her worn pouch and handed it to her. As she reached for it, though, he saw something dark on her wrist. He caught her arm and pushed back her sleeve. In the morning light he saw what he'd spotted: a blue tattoo. It was a knotwork pattern, encircling her wrist.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She snatched her arm back. "None of your business," she snapped. "But if you must know, it's a warrior's mark. Arhedion and his men gave it to me. I ran into them after-after the dance," she finished awkwardly, turning away.

Caramon scowled. "So you must be ready to leave this place. Which way are you going?"

"West," she replied. "Trephas says it's a short way to the Haven Road from here."

"Bor and I'll come with you," Caramon asked. "It's probably best that you don't go wandering the mountains alone, with so much trouble about."

She glanced at him sharply, then tossed her pack out of the tent. "Sure," she said, shrugging. "But when we reach the road, I imagine you'll want to go back to Solace, instead of tagging along with me."

Caramon swallowed. "You're not coming home?"

"No, I'm bound for Haven, then probably Ankatavaka on the coast. I'll be able to afford passage on a ship, once the centaurs pay me."

"Good," Caramon grumbled. "That tattoo will make you popular with the sailors."

She started to snarl a retort, then glanced over her shoulder. The pounding of hooves rose outside, moving closer. She turned, frowning, and reached for the flap. Just as her fingers brushed it, it flew open. Trephas came in, sweating and pale. His eyes were wide, his nostrils flared. His tail twitched anxiously.

"What's wrong?" Dezra asked, stepping toward him.

He shied back, glancing at Caramon. He started to speak, but his voice caught, and he had to clear his throat to get it back. "There's been trouble," he said. "The Circle wishes to see thee."

"The Circle?" Caramon echoed, alarmed. He shoved himself to his feet. "Why?"

"It's the axe," Dezra said suddenly. "Something happened to Soulsplitter, didn't it?"

The centaur pawed the ground. "It would be best if thou just came," he said. "Dress thyselves and wash, but be quick. I'll wait outside."

He withdrew, letting the flap close behind him. Dezra flashed a worried glance at her father, then followed Trephas into the daylight.

Absently, Caramon began to rub his shoulder again. He sighed, shaking his head, then bent down to wake Borlos.

Dezra was sitting on a mossy boulder just outside Lysandon's guardposts, irritably tossing acorns down the mountainside, when she heard footsteps behind her. At first she thought it was Trephas, but there were two feet, not four. Her father? No-she knew Caramon's lumbering gait. Which meant-

"Dez?" Borlos called. "I've been looking for you."

She flung the acorns away. They rattled down the slope. "Go away, Bor."

Ignoring her, he climbed up on the boulder and sat down, cradling a clay jar in his lap.

"What's that?" Dezra asked.

Borlos laughed. "Hair of the dog." He lifted the jug, sloshed it around a little. "Want some?"

She looked at him dourly, then shrugged and took the jug from his hand. She took a long swig of resin-wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So," she said. "This is how you're going to convince me to come to Sangelior, is it? By plying me with drink?"

The bard laughed, taking the jug back, and drank a swallow. "Not at all," he said. "Your mind's made up. I just wanted to let you know why I'm about to say what I'm going to say-that I do it because I love your father like he was my own.

"I used to have a crush on you, Dez. It started a year ago, I guess: I'd watched you grow into an interesting woman- much more interesting than your poor homebody of a sister. It guess it was part of the reason I came along when Caramon went after you-just like poor Uwen did."

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up his hand. "Let me finish. Since we came to Darken Wood, I've discovered something about you, Dez: I don't like you very much. You're breaking Caramon's heart, and you seem to enjoy it. Not to put too fine a point on it, you've still got a lot of growing up to do. So go on. Leave. We'll all be better off, but especially your father."

Dezra stared at him, thunderstruck. Then the surprise faded from her eyes, giving way to glittering anger. "Is that it, then?" she snapped. "Because if it is, you can go."

"Sure, Dez," Borlos said. He slid off the rock, then started to leave. He hesitated, though, and turned back to her. "One more thing."

She glared at him, and he reached into his cloak and produced a heavy, bulging sack. He tossed it to her. It jingled as she caught it.

"I talked to the Circle before I came looking for you, and picked up your reward," he said, nodding at the sack. "You've got your money now. I hope it makes you happy."

With that, he turned and walked back toward Lysandon. Stunned, Dezra watched him go. She looked at the sack of coins, then out at Darken Wood for a while, then back at the coins again.

Cursing under her breath, she drained the wine jug, and threw it, spinning, down the mountainside.

Sarken Wood had grown worse, the daemon tree's corruption spreading farther west. The companions rode with weapons in hand, watching the shadows, and imagining ail sorts of nameless horrors lurking within the gloom.

Despite their fears, however, the forest was empty. Except for the occasional crow or scuttling beetle, the birds and beasts were either dead or had fled into the highlands. There was no sign of the Skorenoi, either. They were all in the hills, searching for Lysandon.

The deeper they went, the worse the woods became. The earth beneath the unclean, eddying haze grew treacherous. For a while it was a spongy morass, then it became barren, choked with sharp stones. The centaurs struggled through it all, moving ever eastward.

Night fell over the forest, but they didn't stop. The humans raised guttering torches to light their way, letting the centaurs keep both hands free to hold their bows. The brands' flickering glow seemed horribly weak in the vast, befouled forest. They rode on through the darkness, the leaves whispering madly above.

Finally, as the sky began to brighten again, the party drew to a halt. "We're here," Trephas said.

Pallidice's grove was even more blighted than when they'd left it nearly a week ago. Some of the oaks had burst open, scattering shreds of rotten wood upon the ground. Others stood like gray skeletons, seemingly devoid of life. Only a few withered, brown leaves still clung to the branches of Pallidice's tree, rattling in the chill wind. Its bark was cracked and pitted, the color of bone. It might have been dead, but for the dark, thick sap that trickled in bubbling rivulets down its trunk.

“Gods," Caramon murmured, his voice choked with horror. He swung down from his mount's back, staring at the oak. "How can Pallidice live inside that?"

"She has no choice," Trephas replied as Dezra and Borlos both dismounted as well. "Her soul is one with the tree. I only pray she survives."

"There's only one way to find out," Dezra said. She pointed toward the tree with her sword-the centaurs had given her a new blade, as well as a dagger to replace the one that had killed Thenidor. "Go on, Bor."

The bard's eyes widened. "Me?"

"You're the one she knows best," Caramon said. "If anyone can bring her out of the tree, it's you."

Borlos glanced at Trephas, who nodded. "She'll remember thee. Just put thy hand on the trunk, and speak her name."

Bowing his head, Borlos let out a long, slow sigh. Hesitantly, he stepped toward the tree. He raised his hand and touched the bark. The sap that coated it was warm and sticky.

"P-Pallidice?" he stuttered. He took a deep breath. "Can you hear me? It's me, Borlos."

For a long moment, all was silent. Then, slowly, the oak split open and a pale, withered shape emerged. Borlos stumbled back, crying out at the sight of the dryad.

Pallidice was gnarled and bent, her skin the color of parchment, mottled with crimson welts. Her once-thick hair clung in brown wisps to her scalp. She stared at Borlos, one of her eyes milky-blind, and smiled. Most of her teeth had fallen out. "My love," she breathed, her voice raspy and thin. She reached out with a shriveled hand, tipped with cracked, yellow nails. "You've returned to me after all… ."

Borlos stepped back, his face stricken with pity and disgust.

"Pallidice," Trephas said. "We need your aid."

The dryad glanced at the centaur, then at the others, seeing them for the first time. "No!" she exclaimed. "You promised you wouldn't ask me for help again. I cannot-"

"The Skorenoi have Soulsplitter, Pallidice," Trephas interrupted. "Even now, one of Chrethon's minions takes it to Sangelior."

Pallidice stared, horrified. "How did this happen?"

"That isn't important now," Dezra interjected. "If you don't take us to Grimbough's grove, your tree will die, slowly and painfully-and you with it."

The dryad blanched, hesitating. She bowed her head a moment, trembling, then nodded. "Very well," she said. "I'll find my sisters, and we'll do as you say. I can only take the four of you-not those two," she added, pointing at other centaurs, standing behind Trephas. "I lack the strength to open a passage large enough for them as well as you."

She stepped back into her tree, and it sealed shut behind her. When she was gone, Trephas turned and spoke to the other centaurs. Bowing, they wheeled and trotted away, into the noisome mist. The companions waited in silence, eyeing the shadows. Finally, the oak opened again, and Pallidice emerged. Three other dryads-each horribly misshapen- also approached, from their own trees.

"You remember Gamaia and Tessonda," Pallidice said, gesturing toward the other oak-maidens. "The third is Anethae. She will take the girl."

Dezra frowned. "What about Elirope?"

Pallidice shook her head, gesturing toward the trees. Elirope's oak had collapsed, felled by rot. Dezra shut her eyes, sickened.

They split up, the dryads leading the companions to their trees. Borlos remained, staring at Pallidice with trepidation. The oak-maiden smiled sadly.

"You needn't fear me, my love," she said. "My tree can still be healed: my sisters and I fight Grimbough's blight with all our power. If the daemon tree is destroyed, we can yet reclaim these woods. I shall be young again, as you remember me." She spread her arms; wrinkled skin hung from them in flaps.

Weeping, the bard stepped into her arms. She embraced him, drawing him into her tree. The parched wood closed around him, and they were gone.

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.

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.

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.

The others were almost to the edge of Grimbough's sward when Trephas screamed. Dezra stiffened, then broke into a run, limping toward the daemon tree.

"Dez, wait!" Caramon yelped. He grabbed for her, catching her wrist, but she shook him off. Then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows. "Damn and blast!" he swore as the trees writhed in her wake. "Borlos-"

"Right behind you, big guy," the bard said.

They hurried after her, but she was quicker. When they reached the edge of the sward, she was already halfway across, sprinting toward a dark form that struggled on the ground. They only glimpsed her for a moment, however, before Grimbough stole their attention away. Stopping, they stared up at the seething form of the daemon tree. It writhed and shuddered, its branches clawing at the stormy sky. The voices in its leaves were heavy with wrath, filling their minds with images of darkness, blood and suffering. They staggered beneath its fury.

"Father!" Dezra yelled. "Come quickly!"

Caramon blinked and shivered, his head aching from the tree's terrible thoughts. Grabbing Borlos's arm, he started running again, across the sward. Grimbough creaked and groaned above them. They drew up behind Dezra, gasping for breath.

She sat on the ground before the dark shape they'd seen from the sward's edge. It was Trephas; the centaur was buried in the earth up to his chest, with only his head and arms free. His face twitched with pain, eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled back from his teeth. Dezra leaned back, pulling his arms with all her might, but to no avail-he wouldn't budge.

"The tree's got him!" Dezra snarled. "Help me!"

Caramon knelt beside her, took one of the centaur's arms, and pulled. Something yanked back from beneath the ground, matching his strength easily.

Trephas's face contorted even more. He moaned, a violent shudder wracking his body.

"What is it?" Dezra demanded. "What's happening?"

He shook uncontrollably, foam flecking his lips. When he spoke, the words came thick and slow. "I don't know," he moaned. "Something's… happening. I can feel it… ."

Borlos paled. "Are you Crossing? Is it trying to change you?"

Trephas opened his eyes, and his companions recoiled in horror. A deep blackness swirled in them, like some great beast under the surface of the sea.

"No!" Dezra yelled, pulling even harder. "We have to get him out!"

The centaur shook his head, twitching. "Not me. The Forestmaster," he murmured. "She must be freed… ."

"I'm not leaving you," Dezra told him.

"Please," Trephas whimpered.

"No," Caramon told him. "It's all right. Stay with him, Dez. Bor and I'll take care of the rest."

He and Borlos left Dezra with the centaur, hurrying toward the huddled shape of the unicorn. Caramon winced when he saw what had become of the Forestmaster. He remembered what she'd looked like forty years ago, all silvery majesty, and had to look away from her wretched, withered form.

"Come on, big guy," Borlos urged, bending down. He grabbed one of the tendrils that held the unicorn and tugged at it. "Help me get her loose."

As Caramon turned back toward the Forestmaster, something caught his eye: a glint of steel, shining on the ground as lightning flashed above. He caught his breath, then turned and hurried away, toward the gleam.

"Hey!" Borlos shouted, still trying to prize the tendril from the Forestmaster's throat.

Caramon ignored him. Soon he saw what had glimmered in the lightning's glow. Catching his breath, he bent down and picked up Soulsplitter.

"Big guy!" Borlos snapped. "Get back and help me!"

"No," Caramon said. "There's only one way to end this."

"What are you talking about?" Borlos asked.

Caramon hefted Soulsplitter. "My father was a woodcutter," he said. "His father too, and so on, back more years than I can count. I was the first Majere son in generations not to follow the family trade." He smiled. "I think it's time I started."

Borlos blinked, then glanced at the daemon tree and grinned. "Sure thing, big guy," he said. "Just make sure it doesn't fall this way, all right?"

Chuckling, Caramon shouldered the axe and turned toward Grimbough. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then started forward.

In that moment, the daemon tree's furious muttering found a focus. Its rage struck at him, an almost physical force that clawed at his mind with talons of hate. With an effort of will, Caramon forced himself to ignore it. He concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other as he strode toward the oak's pulsing, gnarled trunk.

The tree lashed out at him with a mighty branch as he approached. He swung the axe to meet it. Soulsplitter sliced through six inches of hardwood as if it wasn't there, and then half of the branch was on the ground, oozing dark sap. Grimbough tried again and again, boughs swinging down and roots rising from the moist earth, but every time Soulsplitter was there to block the tree's attacks. Caramon kept coming, leaving a trail of broken, black wood in his wake. Grimbough's rage continued to flood his mind, but there was something else now, quaking beneath the anger.

The daemon tree was afraid.

He stopped at the foot of the oak, staring at its trunk in awe. Its girth was greater than any tree he'd ever seen, save the vallenwoods of Solace. It would have daunted even the most skilled woodcutter.

But no woodcutter had ever used an axe like the one he held.

He shrugged off his shield, tossing it on the ground. Then, gripping Soulsplitter in both hands, he touched the weapon's blade to Grimbough's trunk. The axe's blade parted the oak's tough bark like water and notched the wood beneath. Rancid sap seeped from the cut. Grimbough let out a terrified, creaking moan. Gritting his teeth, Caramon braced his feet, brought the axe back, and swung.

The axe struck, biting deep. A booming roar, so loud it made Caramon's ears buzz, rang out across the vale. High above, branches convulsed with agony. Sap coursed, steaming, from the gash in Grimbough's trunk.

Caramon wrenched Soulsplitter free, then brought it back and struck again. The tree howled louder.

So it went, slow but steady. Chips of dark wood flew, and the earth grew sodden with ichor. Caramon chopped again and again, not stopping to rest as he drove Soulsplitter's twin-bladed head ever deeper. His breath came hard and shallow, and his arms and back burned, but he ignored everything, focusing solely on axe and wood.

Then, after how long he didn't know, a new sound joined the tree's screams: the groan of straining wood. He was almost halfway through the trunk now, and what remained could no longer bear the tree's weight. Grimbough crackled and popped, split and splintered. Smiling with satisfaction, Caramon raised the axe for the final blow.

The pain hit him then, a burning spear that ripped through his chest and sent fire lancing up his neck and down his arm. It hammered him to his knees, and Soulsplitter dropped from his hand as, groaning, he fell on his side. He rolled onto his back, clutching at his breastplate with fingers bent like claws.

Above him, the daemon tree shuddered-but it did not fall.

"Father!" Dezra cried from across the sward, her voice breaking. He heard feet running toward him.

Weakly, he turned his head. His daughter flung herself down beside him, grabbing his hands.

"Father," she gasped, out of breath. "How can I help? What can I do?"

He ground his teeth as another wave of pain broke over him, swelling out from his failing heart. "F-f-f-" he started to say, then his voice failed him.

He lay still for a moment, taking a weak, shuddering breath-it was terrifying, how much even that hurt-then he pulled his hand from her grasp, reaching to his side. His fingers were numb and weak, but in a moment they found what they sought: the iron haft of Peldarin's axe.

He took another breath, let it out. "Finish … ."

Dezra's plaintive eyes became clear. She smiled-not the least bit crookedly-and took Soulsplitter from him. Gripping it with both hands, she rose and stepped toward the tree. Caramon twisted, trying to ignore the surging pain in his breast, and watched her raise the axe, pause for an eye-blink, then swing.

Grimbough gave a long, despairing howl, then fell silent. Dezra let go of the axe and stepped away, leaving it buried in the daemon tree's trunk. For a moment, everything was still. Then Soulsplitter shattered into countless glittering pieces.

With a deafening crash, Grimbough smashed to the ground. At once, everything stopped: the raging storm, the quaking of the ground, the hateful muttering of the leaves. Stillness settled over the grove.

Weakly, Caramon began to laugh.

Then another burst of pain tore through him, and he let it all fall away. His friends were waiting for him.

Winter was coming.

It was weeks away still-autumn was only halfway done, and the first snows were still a month or more away-but Caramon could feel its approach in his bones. Another marvel of growing old, he thought. It was worse this year than last, but that was no surprise. He'd ended last summer by brewing harvest beer; this summer he'd nearly died.

He sighed, staring out across Darken Wood. He stood on a vantage just outside Lysandon, listening to birdsong and feeling the chill mountain wind on his face. Below, the forest stretched out to the horizon. It had changed in the past few weeks, while he remained with the centaurs. The dark stain that had spread across the wood was fading. Many trees that had been blighted at the start of the autumn grew healthy once more; from what Arhedion and the horsefolk's other scouts said, most of the forest would recover with time. Even so, there were patches of woodland that would never regain their former glory. In some places-especially around Sangelior, where the few surviving Skorenoi still dwelt-the decay had gone too far. Darken Wood would heal, but it would never quite be the same.

I know how it feels, he thought with a wry chuckle.

He could only remember flashes of what had happened after Dezra felled Grimbough. He recalled the soothing touch of the Forestmaster's horn, the sound of his daughter's voice, the gentleness with which the others had lifted him onto Trephas's back. The ride back to Lysandon was a blur; between leaving Grimbough's vale and meeting Arhedion's scouts in the highlands, he only knew flashes of trees and the music of Borlos's lyre.

He'd stayed in Lysandon since his return. The unicorn's magic had saved him from death, nothing more. Recovering his strength took time. He'd longed to go home, worrying that Tika and Laura would think he was dead, but he'd quickly learned not to push himself too hard. Barely a week after returning, he'd collapsed after stubbornly trying to rise and walk out of his hut. That had put enough of a scare into him to make him stay put until the horsefolk's chirurgeons told him otherwise.

There had been celebrations, of course, when the companions returned. Every night, for more than a week, the mountains surrounding the town had echoed with song and laughter. There'd been games, a ritual hunt, feasting and dancing. Caramon had missed most of the merrymaking, but Borlos had played for him, and Dezra had snuck him a bit of venison from the stag she'd brought down in the hunt. That had helped.

Fanuin, Ellianthe, and the rest of the sprites had left soon after the festivities ended, flitting off into the forest to return to their hidden realm. Caramon had been certain his daughter would follow. Borlos clearly enjoyed staying with the centaurs, but Dezra, he was sure, would take her money and go. To his surprise, however, she'd remained, and had even checked in on him several times a day. She didn't fuss over him, but she was there.

At first, he'd thought she stayed because of Trephas. He was convinced the two had trysted together the night Soulsplitter was stolen, and that it was continuing now. But he'd learned he was wrong. Since their return, Trephas had spent much of his time with Lanorica, the chief of the Ebon Lance tribe. Finally, a month ago, he'd promised himself to her in marriage, placing a wreath of willow withes upon her head as was the horsefolk's custom.

Dezra didn't seem to mind. "Centaurs and humans don't make good matches anyway," she'd told Caramon the morning after the betrothal. Then she'd winked. "And besides, there's plenty of men in the world."

The rest of Caramon's time in Lysandon had passed with little event. Three weeks ago, the healers had let him rise from his bed, but he was still weak and couldn't walk far. Since then, he'd fought to build his strength. Now, at last, he could move about without tiring, though he still had to use a walking stick and would need to for some time. Still, he was capable of travel. And so, at last, it was time to go.

He heard a scuff behind him: boots on stone. He didn't turn, his eyes on the forest. "What is it, girl?" he asked.

Dezra stopped several paces behind him. "What do you think?" she asked, irritated. "I've been looking all over for you. Everyone's waiting at the Yard."

Caramon nodded. He took a deep breath, then turned to face her. "Well, then," he said. "I guess we'd better get going."

He hobbled to her, leaning on his stick. She didn't offer him her arm, and he didn't ask. They walked back toward Lysandon side by side.