"Bring it forward," the tree bade.
… forward, the leaves hissed.
Well past panic, Hurach felt almost serene as Leodippos shoved him toward the tree. Chrethon followed. They stopped amid Druthed's remains. Now that he was closer, Hurach saw Grimbough's trunk was throbbing, swelling like a great, slow-beating heart. He waited, with calm fascination, for the branches to bend down, the ground to open, the unbearable strain as the roots ripped him apart… .
"Yes," said the tree. "This one will suffice."
… suffice, echoed the leaves.
Hurach tore his gaze from the pulsating trunk and looked at Chrethon. The emaciated centaur nodded. "Wilt thou take him now?"
"No," Grimbough said. "Let him see the prize first."
…first…
Chrethon bowed, then exchanged nods with Leodippos. If anything, his too-broad smile grew even wider.
Leodippos gave Hurach a shove. The satyr stumbled, nearly fell, and followed Chrethon past Grimbough, toward the grove's far side.
"Where are we going?" he asked, glancing around.
"Never fear, little goat," Leodippos leered. "It isn't far."
Fewer than a hundred paces from Grimbough, they came to a clearing in the woods. In its midst stood a huge briar-patch, an dense thicket that rose above even the Skorenoi's heads. The brambles twisted and coiled restlessly, bristling with wicked, curving thorns the size of daggers.
"Go," Chrethon bade. "Look inside."
Against his will, Hurach found himself walking forward until he stood before the thicket, staring into its senselessly writhing depths. There was something inside, almost invisible amid the briars: a white shape, frail and feeble. Hurach let out a cry when he saw it.
It was the Forestmaster.
He'd seen the unicorn only once before, during a pilgrimage to her grove when he came of age. She'd been beautiful then, a creature of grace and silver light. He'd wept with joy at the sight of her; now he wept again, with grief. She was as wasted as Chrethon, ribs showing clearly through her skin. Her coat had turned mangy and dull, marked with rusty patches of dried blood where the vicious thorns had dug into her flesh. Her mane and tail were matted and filthy, tangled with burrs. A muzzle of leather and steel covered her face, save for her dull, pleading eyes. Only her horn, gleaming like moonlit pearls, bore any of her former splendor.
Hurach dropped to his knees on the barren ground, sobbing. "Mistress," he choked. "Oh, Mistress… what have they done to you?"
"Nothing, compared with what awaits her," Chrethon said, chuckling cruelly. "Now rise, goat-man. Grimbough awaits."
Hurach didn't move. He stared at the wretched form of the Forestmaster, trapped within the snaking thornbushes. Finally, Leodippos came forward, war harness jingling, and grabbed his arm. The satyr knew he should struggle, fight, try to break free, but he did nothing. He was as limp as a corpse as Leodippos yanked him to his feet and dragged him back toward Grimbough.
When they were near the daemon tree again, Leodippos threw him down on the ground. Hurach made no effort to rise.
Grimbough was pleased. "Good," it boomed. "He is ready. You may leave, Chrethon. I will summon you when I am done."
… done.
Hurach heard the Skorenoi withdraw, but didn't turn to watch them go. There was a loud, low creaking from above, and shadows blocked out the moonlight as Grimbough's branches bent down. The ground beneath him tore open. He didn't flinch as the roots burst forth and caught his legs, arms and waist. A tendril wound about his neck, choking him. He waited for pain, for the tree to rend him to pieces. For an end.
But that didn't happen. Instead, Grimbough pulled him under. Spongy, dank earth pressed tight around him, closed in, sealed over. The dull rumble of Grimbough's voice began to speak in his mind. It talked for a long time. The satyr wept brokenly, then slid into blackness.
While he slept, Hurach began to change.
12
"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.
Go home. Take Bor and Uwen with you. None of you are up to this. I neither need nor want your help.
Say good-bye to Laura for me.
– D.
"Goblin spit," Caramon snarled. He clenched his fist, crumpling the message.
Uwen walked over. He wore his armor and axe, and his blue eyes were ablaze with purpose. "We're going after her, right?" he asked.
"Whoa," Borlos said, raising his hands. His armor was still by his bedroll, with his packs. "Hold on, lad. Dez has a point-that isn't just any forest." He jerked his thumb at Darken Wood. "Do you really feel like heading straight into a war, with deformed centaurs and daemon trees and all that? Because I don't."
Uwen's face was stony. "I'm going after her."
"And what if you do?" Borlos argued. "How will you find her in there? There aren't any roads to follow, and I don't know a whit about tracking." He turned to Caramon. "What about you, big guy? Think you can follow her trail?"
Caramon shook his head. In the old days, tracking had been up to the likes of Tanis and Riverwind.
Borlos threw up his hands. "So. How do you propose to-"
"I can track her," Uwen said.
"-find her in the middle of-huh?" Borlos asked. "You can?"
Uwen nodded. "My father keeps sheep at our farm. We had trouble with wolves a couple years ago. Papa taught me wood-lore, so we could hunt them down."
"Oh. Well, then," Borlos grumbled. "That makes everything better."
"I'm going," Uwen vowed. "You go back to Solace if you want."
Borlos glanced at the heavens, beseeching, then looked to Caramon. "Would you talk some sense into him?"
Caramon scowled at Uwen, who looked back with earnest defiance, then he snorted and strode toward his horse.
"See?" Borlos asked. "The big guy has sense enough not to go traipsing off into-hey." He stopped, staring, as Caramon started unbuckling his horse's bridle. "What are you doing?"