"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.
"We horsefolk use many weapons in battle," Olinia said. "Spears, cudgels, swords and scythes. But there is one none of us will wield, nor has any in a hundred generations. Not since our people were young has any centaur swung an axe in war. This is the story of why this is so.
"Our people were born of chaos. Ages past, when the Graygem was freed to wander the earth, it left none who beheld it unchanged. Trolls, goblins, minotaurs-even the dwarves and kender sprang from its magic. It changed people according to their nature, and so, when it found tribes of barbarian horsemen, it made horse and rider into one. Thus did our people first appear.
"The time of the Graygem was also a time of fear. Those it had not touched reviled those it had, fearing them for their differences. Men hated us, drove us out. We became nomads, wandering the face of Ansalon. Our scattered clans joined together, forming the seven great tribes: Ebon Lance, Laughing Brook, Iron Hooves, Green Willow, Soaring Mane, Leaping Hart and Keening Wind.
"We found no peace. We would settle in one land or another, sometimes for years, but in the end we were always forced to leave.
"There were those among us," Olinia continued, her tone growing ominous, "who said we should fight, to win a place for us to live for good. One of those was Peldarin of the Ebon Lance tribe. Peldarin was a brave warrior. Whenever the fearful attacked, Peldarin was always the last to withdraw. He fought with great skill and no mercy, slaying hundreds with his war axe, Soulsplitter.
"No one knows for certain whence Soulsplitter came. Some say it is of dwarven make, and that the mountain folk gave it to Peldarin as they would later give the Hammer of Kharas to Huma Dragonbane. Others claim Peldarin forged it himself, from the ashes of a fallen star. Still others say he found it in an ancient, ruined temple. Whatever the case, Soulsplitter was a weapon of might. It cut through armor as if it weren't there, and could cleave a stone in a single blow. Some tales claim Peldarin could sunder mountains with the axe: indeed, one legend claims he is the one who cleft the peak called Prayer's Eye.
"Without Peldarin and Soulsplitter to defend them, our people may well have perished. Certainly, we would have been far fewer when we at last found Darken Wood. Here, at last, we were safe-few humans lived in Abanasinia then. Lord Hyrtamos, who was High Chief in Peldarin's time, befriended the fey folk and satyrs who dwelt in the wood, and swore fealty to the Forestmaster and Chislev. At last, after years of wandering, we'd found a home.
"Not all were content with peace, however. Peldarin yearned to lead war bands into the lands of humans, to wreak vengeance upon those who'd tried to destroy us. When he asked the Circle of Seven for leave to do so, however, the High Chief forbade it.
"That should have been the end of it. Then as now, the word of the Circle was law. But Peldarin wouldn't have it, and took matters into his own hands. He secretly led marauders into southern Ergoth, and to the villages that would later become Xak Tsaroth and other great cities. They slew many humans on their raids, always taking care not to lead pursuit back to Darken Wood.
"Peldarin couldn't hide his activities from the Circle forever, though. Hyrtamos began to suspect, and confronted him several times. Each time Peldarin denied having done any wrong. At last, however, he made a mistake he couldn't hide. He returned from a raid with human blood still on Soulsplitter's blade.
"Hyrtamos should have brought Peldarin before the Circle when he learned of this. Instead, foolishly, he accused Peldarin in private, hoping to talk sense into him. Instead, they quarrelled bitterly, and the High Chief threatened to have Peldarin's tail shorn. Then he turned his back to leave.