"Her things are still here," he told Borlos, who stood behind him, craning to see. "I thought for a moment she'd left Ithax."
"Me too," the bard agreed. "Nothing else?"
Caramon shook his head.
They went on, walking deeper into the darkness of the centaur town. The horsefolk's chanting and the light from the pyres faded behind them. Finally, as they neared the southern palisade, they came to another expanse of grass and trees. It was small compared with the Yard of Gathering, but large enough that the shadowy form of Uwen Gondil's pyre looked little from where Caramon and Borlos stopped.
"There she is," said the bard.
Squinting, Caramon saw the silhouette of a woman by the pyre. Dezra's back was to them. If she heard their approach, she gave no sign.
Their eyes never left her as they crossed the grass. When they were twenty paces from her, Caramon touched Borlos's arm and gestured for him to stop. The bard gave him a questioning look, and Caramon nodded toward his daughter. Borlos looked, and after a moment he saw what her father had spotted. Her shoulders were hunched, and shook slightly as she gazed down at the farmboy's body.
"You go ahead," the bard said. "I'll wait here."
Caramon smiled, patting Borlos's arm, then walked on alone. He stopped behind his daughter, coughing quietly.
"We can come back, if you want," Caramon said.
"No." She glanced over her shoulder, and he saw her eyes were red. "We should get this over with. You bring a torch?"
Caramon had one, tucked into his belt. He stepped forward, joining his daughter by the pyre. He looked down at Uwen's face: the hollow cheeks, the waxen skin. He wondered what he'd tell the boy's family when he went home.
"Bloody shame," Dezra murmured.
They were both silent a moment, then Dezra reached to her belt. Steel scraped as she drew her dagger, then cut her palm, as the centaurs had done. Blood dripped onto Uwen's face, ran back into his shaggy, blond hair.
Clenching her fist, Dezra offered the dirk to her father. He looked at it a moment, then nodded and took it. He added her blood to hers, then returned the blade.
"You have your aunt's smile, you know," he said quietly.
Dezra's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Kitiara's smile. It was just like yours." He nodded. "All crooked, one corner higher than the other. It always meant she was up to something. I remember one time, when Tanis and Sturm were-"
"Spare me," Dezra snarled abruptly. She shook her head. "Just this once, keep your bloody stories about Tanis and Sturm and Kitiara to yourself."
Caramon flushed, his mouth working soundlessly. "Dezra…" he growled.
"Get something straight, Father," she went on. "I don't care. You may have been as big a hero, once, as you claim to be, but that was a long time ago. I look at you now, and all I see is an old man living in the past."
Something in Caramon gave way. "Hold your tongue, girl!" he barked, drawing back his hand.
Dezra flinched. A heartbeat later, however, she raised her chin, silently offering it to him. Caramon flushed, ashamed, and let his arm drop to his side. Never, in his life, had he raised his hand against his children. That was for other men-weaker men.
They stood silently a while, then Dezra shrugged. "Well," she said, turning to go.
Caramon slumped, shaking his head. Borlos crept forward. "You all right, big guy?"
"Help me get this torch lit," Caramon snarled.
Borlos studied Caramon's face, then nodded, reaching into his pouch for flint and steel. "Sure thing, big guy."
It took a few strikes before a spark kindled on the brand. When the torch was burning brightly, Caramon turned to face Uwen's body. He should say something, he knew, but all that came to him was the thought that had been rolling in his head, ever since the arrow struck the boy dead: I should never have let you come along.
Softly, Borlos cleared his throat. He began to chant, echoing the horsefolk at the Yard of Gathering:
From the sky the rain,
he rain kisses the earth.
From the earth the tree,
The tree yields its fruit…
Sighing, Caramon laid the flickering torch on the pyre. He bowed his head, feeling tired, as the flames rose.
19
Chrethon plunged through the dark, twisted forest, laughing wildly. There was blood on the wind. It maddened him, more intoxicating than strong wine. He understood what the smell meant. One of the new Skorenoi had wounded its quarry.
It was a thing he always did, whenever new centaurs Crossed. From the beginning, he'd taken the newest Skorenoi into the woods to hunt. It was the best way to test his followers' prowess. Those who caught the first prey became leaders in his growing horde.
He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Thenidor ran behind, halberd upraised, his coat dark with sweat. "They're close!" Chrethon bellowed. "They'll have their first kill soon!"
Thenidor nodded enthusiastically. Before either of them could say anything more, however, someone called out ahead of them. The pounding of hooves stopped, then turned right. A bowstring thrummed, followed by a squeal of pain. The blood-scent grew stronger, headier as the Skorenoi pursued the boar up a craggy hill. With a glance to make sure Thenidor was still with them, Chrethon followed.
They clambered upward for more then half a mile. The hillside was more sparsely wooded than the valley below, and Chrethon caught glimpses of the hunters in the silver moonlight. He squinted past them, but couldn't see the boar. He kept going, slowly gaining ground on the Skorenoi. One of the hunters raised a bow and let fly. The boar answered with an even more furious shriek than before, then changed direction again, angling downhill.
They cornered it soon after, driving the panicked beast into a rocky cleft near the hill's bottom. Trapped, it turned to face them. When Chrethon and Thenidor caught up, the Skorenoi had formed a half-circle about the cleft's mouth. One shot his bow, feathering the boar’s neck. It screamed and thrashed, stubbornly refusing to go down.
The Skorenoi turned at Chrethon's approach. The one who'd fired held up a hand, and the others lowered their bows. He strode toward Chrethon, bowing.
Chrethon looked him up and down: Grimbough had done worse than usual with this one. His face was neither human nor horse, but a mass of leathery skin so malformed that it was all but impossible to make out his features. His forelegs ended not with hooves, but with fat, stubby-fingered hands that gripped the rock beneath.
The faceless Skorenos bowed. "We have it trapped, my lord. The killing blow is thine, if thou wish it."
Chrethon stared into the black pits of the creature's eyes, then strode past, toward the boar. The animal snorted fiercely, drawing back. Its tusks glistened: if Chrethon got too close, it would surely try to run underneath him, gore him from below. He kept his distance: he'd been hunting boar since long before he Crossed.
He extended his lance one-handed toward the boar, raising his other arm over his head and waving to distract the wounded beast. It froze, its small eyes squinting, and he lunged, driving the spear into its neck.
The boar shrieked and thrashed. Chrethon bore down, twisting the weapon and shoving the animal back with all his strength. It backed against a boulder, collapsed, and died. Satisfied it wasn't going to get back up again, he jerked the spear free, wiped its head on the animal's hide, and turned back toward the other Skorenoi. Without a word, he strode up to their leader and smashed its shapeless face with the butt of his spear.
There was a satisfying crunch. The Skorenos dropped its bow and clutched its face, howling. Blood sprayed between its fingers. Without hesitating, Chrethon brought his spear-butt up again and struck it in the gut. It doubled over, sinking to its knees.