Hurach bowed again. "It shall be done, my lord."
"Good," Chrethon declared, dismissing him.
The satyr was gone in an instant, melding with the shadows. Nodding to himself, Chrethon glanced back at the thicket, and the tormented form within.
"I will take it," he murmured again, then turned and galloped into the tortured forest.
15
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,
He temon adrabai leomon,
Pithandcr, gonaios salisi,
He oidren lelemoras tomon.
It went on, a steady drone that set a good pace for marching. The centaurs' rich, baritone voices reverberated among the shadowed trees. Soon Caramon began to hum along. Dezra glared at him, but he didn't notice. With a muttered oath, she slowed down, letting her father and the other centaurs pass. She resumed her pace again when Borlos caught up with her. The bard walked with his head bowed, his forehead sporting a yellow bruise.
"You're awfully quiet," Dezra noted.
The bard cast her a despairing look. "Do you expect me to sing with them? Without my lute to play? I can't believe you and Caramon left it behind."
Dezra shrugged. She'd last seen the instrument floating down the Darkwater, riddled with arrows. "It wouldn't have played properly anyway," she told him. "It sounded bad enough when it wasn't full of holes. Besides, you had better luck than some."
Borlos paused, then glanced over his shoulder at the second-last centaur in the party. The horse-man still carried Uwen Gondil's cold, stiff body.
"Poor lad," he said. "At least it was quick. I'd sing a dirge for him… if I still had my lute, that is."
"Leave it lie, Bor."
Dezra looked around, surveying the horse-men. They were still chanting. She suspected they could go on for hours. She tapped the nearest centaur on the arm. "What's this bloody song about, anyway?"
He stared at her, annoyed by the interruption; she met his gaze steadily. He stopped singing, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.
"Is very old," he replied, chin rising. He spoke with a thick accent: Unlike Trephas and Gyrtomon, he was unfamiliar with the common tongue. "We are always singing, after good hunting or fight. Is come-home song."
"You mean a homecoming song."
The centaur regarded her as if she were slow-witted. "Is what I say, yes?"
Dezra let it pass. She raised her eyebrows. "We're almost to Ithax, then?"
"Almost," the centaur agreed. "Soon we in hills-then town."
Sure enough, before long the land began to slope. The forest thinned, letting shafts of pale moonlight through the leaves. Oaks yielded to groves of olive trees. Dezra was impressed that they could grow this far south, where the winters were so harsh.
More of the forest's magic, she told herself. Who's to say there is winter here?
Suddenly, a sound rose before them that made Dezra stiffen: the creak of drawn bows. She clapped a hand to her sword as she peered ahead, trying to make out the archers in the darkness. The centaurs stopped, but didn't reach for their own weapons.
"Phante!" came a harsh call. "Po khansi?"
Dezra understood. "Who goes there?" had a certain tenor, no matter what the language.
"Gyrtomon ot Trephas" Gyrtomon replied. He extended his hands, showing they were empty. “Nemeredou mokhai.”
A moment passed as several voices muttered together in the darkness. Then the speaker uttered a sharp word, and all fell silent. The unseen bows creaked again as the horse-men relaxed their grips.
A strange centaur stepped out of the shadows. He was piebald, his coat and skin a patchwork of black and white. He wore a war harness and a quiver of arrows to go with the longbow in his hand. There was war paint on his fur and tattoos upon his skin. Rings hung from his ears and nose. His mane was shaven, save for a long, white braid.
"Arhedion!" Trephas called. He strode toward the piebald, beaming. They clasped arms, then the piebald did the same with Gyrtomon.
"Welcome back," Arhedion said. He spoke the common tongue easily, so the humans could understand. "I see thy journey bore fruit, Trephas."
"Aye," Trephas declared, gesturing toward the humans. "Any news from Ithax?"
The piebald shrugged. "Very little, since thou left. It's been quiet, mostly. Except-" He stopped suddenly.
"Except what?" Trephas asked sharply.
"A war party. They left town some hours after thee, Gyrtomon. Nemeredes the Younger led them."
"Our brother?" Gyrtomon asked, glancing at Trephas. "Where was he bound?"
"North and east. I… know not where."
Trephas regarded the piebald, his brow furrowing. "That isn't all, is it?"
Arhedion looked down, pawing the ground with his forehoof. "Forgive me," he said. "I should not say. Thy father will tell thee."
Gyrtomon and Trephas exchanged worried glances.
"I'll ride on ahead and herald thy return," Arhedion continued, still not meeting the brothers' gaze. "The Circle shall wish to meet with thee, I'm sure."
"Wait," Trephas said. "Arhedion, what about-"
Before he could say anything more, the piebald wheeled and trotted away into the forest. Trephas and Gyrtomon stood still, listening as he rode away, then turned and signaled to the others.
"Come on," Gyrtomon declared. "Ithax awaits."
"There should be music," Trephas murmured. "Flutes, lyres and drums-and singing, too."
The humans had moved up to walk near the front of the party, alongside the brothers. The hills around them were nearly treeless-a strange thing, in the heart of Darken Wood-and rowed with vines. The vineyards were poorly tended. The plants were sickly and brown, and weeds grew among them. The war had turned so dire that the wine-loving centaurs had neglected the coming year's vintage.
"Music?" Dezra repeated skeptically. "In the middle of a war?"
Gyrtomon nodded. "It's our custom to welcome chieftains' sons that way, even when times are dark."
"There should be folk dancing among the vines, colts and fillies tossing silverwood blossoms across our path," Trephas said, worried. "Instead, no one. Something ill has happened, I fear."
They wound onward. They passed several thatched huts, crudely built of branches bound with withes. All of them were dark. Gyrtomon's warriors grew nervous, reaching for their weapons at every shadow. Finally, they crested a low ridge and came to a halt, looking down into the broad valley below. In its midst stood a mound, and on top of that was a town.
It was surprisingly large, a mass of trees and roofs made from thatch or bark shingles. Smoke drifted from stone chimneys, glowing orange with reflected firelight. A tall palisade of sharpened logs ringed the mound. Torches blazed atop the wall, illuminating the guards who paced the battlements.
"Ithax," proclaimed Gyrtomon.
Trephas nodded, smiling. "Home."
"Sure seems well-guarded," Caramon observed.
"The Skorenoi have tried to attack before," Trephas replied.
"They'll try again," Gyrtomon added, "before the summer is ended-the Circle is sure of it."
Below, one of the guards peered across the valley and saw the torches Gyrtomon's party bore. He waved an arm, shouting: "Hai! Gyrtomon temerikhai keleion!"