"So our enemy grew, and we weakened. We fled lands we'd walked for centuries. Even in the places we thought safest, we found danger from within. Our own kin deserted us, gave themselves into Chrethon's service."
Dezra stared in disbelief. "But why?"
"What reasons are there ever for betrayal?" Trephas replied. "Many warriors sympathized with Lord Chrethon. They went over to his side. Thenidor and his fellows were the first to do so. Once they did, others followed-young stallions, mostly.
"Others did it simply for power," he added, and spat in the fire. "They saw Chrethon was winning, and changed sides. The worst happened two summers ago. One of the chieftains, Leodippos of the Leaping Hart, renounced the Circle and took most of his tribe to Sangelior, the Skorenoi's stronghold. Now Leodippos is Chrethon's right hand, leading many of the attacks himself. And every time, he drives us back even farther.
"That's how it stands today," Trephas finished sadly. "We are outmatched. The Circle believes we won't see summer's end, unless something's done."
"So they sent you to find help," Caramon said.
The centaur nodded.
Dezra glanced around the sward, looking at Uwen, Borlos and her father. "And this is the best you could do?" she asked. "You should have gotten an army of Solamnic Knights, or at least a gang of sellswords."
"The Circle didn't send me for help fighting the Skorenoi," Trephas replied. "We need thee for something else."
"What, then?" Caramon pressed.
Trephas leveled his dark gaze on them. "Thou asked what stood behind Chrethon-what sort of magic begat the Skorenoi."
"I thought you said you didn't know," noted Dezra.
"Not so. I said it was a mystery, and it was, for many years. But now we know the truth." He paused, then blew out his lips. "During our first battle against Lord Leodippos, after he and his tribe Crossed, my brother Gyrtomon captured several Skorenoi. We lost the battle, and many of our warriors were dragged away to serve Chrethon, but we kept the prisoners to question them.
"Most of them took their own lives, rather than telling us anything. One we kept from harming himself, though, and our herbalists plied him with draughts to make him speak. That was how we learned about the daemon tree."
Dezra blinked. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't think I heard that right. Did you say daemon-"
"Tree, aye."
"I see," Dezra said skeptically. "And it's this… tree… ."
"That changes my people into Skorenoi," Trephas finished.
"How?" Uwen asked.
Caramon spoke before the centaur could answer. "Chaos," he breathed. "That's it, isn't it?"
"What?" Dezra scoffed. "That's impossible. Chaos was banished ten years ago, at the end of the war. How can he be back?"
"He isn't," Trephas said. "If he were, Darken Wood would no longer stand. But his children remain, just as the children of the gods-elves, ogres, humans-stayed when their makers departed. Even now, shadow-wights and fire dragons still roam the land."
Borlos nodded. "I've heard the same."
"And there are others, too," Trephas continued. "Beings of immense power. One dwells in Darken Wood, in the east. Its true name is not known, but my people call it Grim-bough. Once, it was one of the forest's grandest oaks, but Chaos touched it, perverted it with his power. When the change was done, Grimbough could think and speak, and lusted for blood. Like all minions of Chaos, its power comes from corrupting others. Such is the case with the Skorenoi. Grimbough twists them when they Cross-in body, mind and soul."
No one spoke for a long time. A wolf howled mournfully, deep within the wood.
"Grimbough isn't just corrupting my people, either," Trephas added. "It wants to destroy the forest itself. That's why Darken Wood's in pain." He drew a hand across his face, his eyes shining. "In the east, Grimbough has worked its corruption on the forest, just as it has marked the Skorenoi. Its stain still hasn't spread far, praise Chislev, but it grows every day. My people strive to preserve the wood, but if Chrethon defeats us, Darken Wood will be lost."
"It's something to do with the tree, right?" Borlos asked. "That's why you want our help."
"Aye. Don't ask what thy task shall be," the centaur added before they could speak. "The Circle didn't tell me."
Caramon shifted, giving Trephas a hard look. "So… you tricked me into coming," he said slowly. The fire popped, sending sparks soaring.
"Father," Dezra said impatiently, "he didn't come for you. I'm the one who went with him, remember?"
"Only to lure me after you," Caramon said. "Isn't that right, Trephas?"
The centaur hunched his shoulders, staring at the ground. "Aye," he replied. "I proposed the wager at the fair to trick thee into accompanying me, but when thou refused, I had to find another way. I took thy daughter, knowing thou wouldst follow."
Dezra rose, her face red. "So I was what, then?" she snapped. "Bait?"
"Not just that," Trephas answered. "The Circle bade me bring back a Majere-they didn't specify which. At first, I wanted thy father, because of his renown. But when I saw what thou didst at the fair, and again to that sellsword in the tavern, I thought the Circle would find thee as useful as Caramon-perhaps even more." He flashed an apologetic glance at her father. "I mean no offense, but I thought thou wouldst be… more like thou once were."
"Then you don't need him after all," Dezra declared triumphantly. "I'm the better choice."
The centaur hesitated. "Perhaps… ."
"Good," Dezra finished. "Because you can only have one of us. If he goes with you, I'm out."
"Dez-" Caramon began.
"No!" she snapped. "I don't want you tagging along, hanging over my shoulder. Go back to Solace. If you don't, I'll leave, and go on to Haven."
No one spoke. The others looked from daughter to father, not sure what would happen next. They stared stonily at each other. Finally, Caramon sighed, slumping.
"If that's the choice, then," Caramon said, "you go to Haven. I won't let you do go into Darken Wood alone."
Dezra scowled. "Fine. Sorry, Trephas-I hope you can make do with an old man instead of me."
More silence.
At length, Borlos frowned. "One thing I don't get," he said. "What about the Forestmaster? She's Darken Wood's guardian. Can't she stop this daemon tree?"
Trephas drew himself up righteously. "The Forestmaster fought Grimbough with all her strength. That's why more of the forest hasn't changed."
Caramon stared at the centaur, his face pale, forgetting his quarrel with Dezra. " 'Fought' ?" he repeated. "Is… is the Forestmaster dead?"
"Nay," the centaur answered sadly. "But perhaps 'twould be better if she were… ."
11
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.