Scowling, he pulled an arrow from his quiver. He notched it, doing a quick count of the surviving Skorenoi: five. He could sneak up, kill one from behind-two if he was lucky. He shook his head. It wasn't enough. Nervously, he began to tap the arrow against his bow. Ahead, the Skorenoi's shadows shifted, turning toward him. He froze as Thenidor gestured to one of his fellows, a stoop-shouldered skewbald who turned and started stealthily back into the woods. Trephas watched him approach, pulling back his bowstring.
Then, suddenly, Borlos's voice rang out from the river, singing a bawdy drinking song in something between music and shout:
Sing as the spirits move you,
Sing to your doubling eye.
Plain fane becomes lovable Lindas
When six moons shine in the sky…
"Hey, you ugly buggers!" Borlos shouted, apparently content with just the one verse. "Over here!"
The Skorenoi-including the skewbald-turned toward the voice. As they did, something small and round, the size of a head, rose from behind the grassy riverbank. Reflexively, Thenidor and his fellows fired. The shafts hit the object with a hollow, thrumming sound.
It wasn't a head after all; it was the bard's lute. Riddled with arrows, it flew back and splashed into the river.
Trephas didn't think twice. Seizing the distraction, he loosed his arrow. It struck the skewbald in the neck, then exploded in a storm of splinters as the creature crumpled.
Thenidor whirled, eyes flaring with rage. Furious, he started toward Trephas. His fellows watched him go.
Then everything went crazy. Dezra and Caramon leapt onto the riverbank and charged, sword and spear upraised. The Skorenoi hesitated, confused. One managed to fire at Caramon, but he deflected the arrow with his shield and kept on coming. Dezra, who was quicker on her feet, didn't give them even that much chance. She lunged toward a Skorenos, sword flashing, and it leapt back, fumbling for its cudgel.
Caramon charged spear-first at a bowlegged, harelipped gray. It knocked his weapon aside with its war-scythe, and another of the twisted centaurs, a shaggy brown, swung a massive, two-handed club at him. Caramon blocked the blow with his shield, then gave ground and turned to face both foes at once.
Dezra continued to press her opponent, a wart-covered sorrel. She had a dagger in her off-hand now, and cut the sorrel's shoulder with it as she parried his cudgel with her sword. Behind her, Borlos hoisted himself up from the Dark-water and ran toward the battle, yanking his mace from his belt.
Thenidor, halfway to Trephas, glanced back in bewilderment. Trephas laughed aloud-until the Skorenos turned back around, his lips curled into a vicious smile. "Hai!" Thenidor bellowed. "My warriors! To me!"
Trephas stopped, a cold feeling in his gut. Suddenly, there was movement behind him. Another half-dozen Skorenoi rose from the forest's shadows, lances ready. He gaped, astonished.
It was Thenidor's turn to laugh. "There, now!" he shouted above the clash of battle. "Give thyself to us, son of Nemeredes."
"And become like thee?" Trephas spat. "I'll die first."
Thenidor nodded. "Aye, thou wilt-and thy human friends with thee." His warriors started forward, lowering their spears.
Dezra gave ground, parrying a vicious flurry of attacks from the sorrel. Borlos fought beside her, but the bard was no warrior, and the tentative swipes he made with his mace didn't accomplish much. She bumped into him as she dodged a high, whistling swing.
"Get out of my way!" she snapped, raising her sword to block the cudgel's backswing. She stepped back, jostled Borlos again, and elbowed him aside. "Move, for Paladine's sake!"
The sorrel pressed forward, his club moving with frightening speed. He swung again and again, his face contorted into a snarl.
"Oh, enough of this," Dezra muttered.
She ducked, thrusting her sword at the sorrel's belly. The blade scraped against his war harness, drawing blood but not cutting deep. The Skorenos reeled, then reared, lashing out with his hooves. Twisting, she brought her dagger up and stabbed him between his forelegs. The sorrel whinnied in pain.
Dezra yanked the dagger free, and he crashed to his knees, dropping his club. She stabbed him again, between the ribs. He stiffened, and her dagger shuddered in her grasp. She let go, and it exploded in a cloud of flashing shards.
"Guess he's dead," she muttered.
She kicked him to make sure, then glanced at her father. Caramon was holding his own, blocking his foes' attacks with his shield while he stabbed with his spear. She drew another dagger from her boot and took a step toward him.
"Dez!" shouted Borlos. "It's Trephas! He's in trouble!"
Dezra hesitated, her gaze following the bard's waving arms. Trephas was backed against a poplar tree, swinging his spear to keep six Skorenoi at bay. She gaped for a moment as she watched them jab at Trephas with their lances. They were toying with him, wearing him down so they could take him alive. Thenidor stood behind them, laughing.
Dezra wavered for a moment, then turned away from Caramon and sprinted to Trephas's aid.
Caramon's spear and shield felt like they were made of lead, and his arms burned as he thrust and blocked. Each attack was harder than the last. Cramps clutched his legs. Sweat coursed down his face. The Skorenoi, meanwhile, weren't the least bit tired. They grinned viciously, relishing his desperation.
Luckily, the Skorenoi were wild, undisciplined fighters, attacking with fury rather than skill. Caramon, on the other hand, had trained in the Istarian arena, learning to take advantage of his enemies' smallest mistakes. So, when the gray overextended himself after a wicked slash with his scythe, Caramon didn't hesitate. He ducked, jabbing the creature's right foreleg with his spear. The gray fell with a cry. Caramon brought his spear up-blocking the brown Skorenos's club with his shield at the same time-then thrust it into the gray's throat.
The spear blew apart, leaving only a short, jagged bit of its shaft in his hand. He stumbled back, then tripped and fell to one knee. The brown Skorenos loomed above him, club raised.
Borlos came out of nowhere. Howling furiously, he charged the brown from behind. He raised his mace, aiming for the creature's hindquarters.
The blow never landed. As Borlos started to swing the mace, the Skorenos whirled, lashing out with its club. Borlos's shout turned ragged. He ducked, lost his balance, and hit the ground head-first. He didn't rise again.
Again, Caramon's training took hold. Seizing the dead gray's scythe, he lunged and cut a gash across the brown's flank. It bellowed in pain, staggering. Caramon brought the scythe around and struck the creature's neck, shearing its head from its shoulders. He tossed the scythe away. It blew apart before it hit the ground.
Caramon knelt beside Borlos: the bard was senseless but alive. Then he raised his eyes toward the forest, where Dezra had run. He could see only shadows. The jumbled sounds of battle gave no clue as to what was happening. Wheezing, he grabbed Borlos's mace, then lurched toward Trephas and his daughter.
"You said this part of the forest was safe," Dezra growled.
She'd fought her way to Trephas, but hadn't been able to turn the tide of the battle. There were just too many Skorenoi. Trephas had killed one-its body sprawled at their feet, surrounded by the remnants of the centaur's cudgel-but now the two of them fought solely to stay alive. Dezra faced two foes at once, Trephas three. Thenidor stood back, his sinewy arms folded across his chest. It was only a matter of time.