There'd been celebration among the defenders that night, but their victory was hollow. Now Skorenoi tents and fires ringed the mound where Ithax stood. They'd been there more than a month, keeping anyone from entering or leaving. The siege had been mostly quiet, with only the occasional skirmish as a parties of warriors emerged from the gates, trying to break through the Skorenoi lines. None had gotten through. Their flyblown heads were mounted on stakes within clear view of the town.
Siegecraft was difficult for the Skorenoi. Most accepted means of breaching a wall were impractical, thanks to their shape. Ladders and siege towers were useless to creatures who couldn't climb them. Tunneling to collapse the walls was no easier. There were other strategies, of course, but none had worked so far. The centaurs drenched their walls with water from their spring-fed wells, thwarting attempts to bum them. Rams were useless as long as those who carried them died before they reached the gates. Even starvation, which won more sieges than any other means, was proving difficult. The centaurs had stockpiled a great deal of food. They would run out, of course, but not before autumn.
Chrethon didn't have that long to wait. The Skorenoi were growing impatient. Ithax had to fall, and soon.
He glanced east. The sky was starting to glimmer with dawn. He called for a runner, and one came: a gangly creature with long, muscular legs. It moved toward him with astonishing speed, then bowed.
"What is thy will, my lord?" it asked.
"Find Hurach," Chrethon said quietly. "Tell him to meet me on the north front, behind the lines."
The runner sprinted off. Chrethon glanced once more toward the palisade, then turned north, making his way through the camp. He passed warriors sparring, smiths sharpening lances, fletchers shaping new arrows. As in Sangelior, there was little order to the ranks, but they all bowed to him as he passed.
Hurach was waiting for him, in the shadows. "How may I serve you, lord?" he asked.
Chrethon glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. "I have a task for thee," he answered softly.
"I won't have this!" Eucleia raged. Her tail thrashed as her voice rang out across the Yard of Gathering. "We can't simply sit here, biding, while Chrethon waits for us to starve!"
The other chiefs looked at one another uneasily. The Circle had gathered in the Yard at midday, as they'd done each of the past forty days. There'd been more shouting than discussion. Eucleia and old Nemeredes were responsible for most of the hot words. They'd never been friendly, and tempers had frayed during the siege. Now, as the sun sank toward the mountains, their discord began all over again.
Nemeredes snorted. "What wouldst thou have us do?" he demanded. "Sally forth into their midst? They'd cut us down like barley!"
"Aye, they would," Eucleia shot back. "But if we try to fight through, some might escape into the mountains. If we stay and the Skorenoi wear us down-how many of us will survive then?"
Nemeredes's scowl deepened. Before he could reply, however, Pleuron raised a hand. "Why canst thou not admit it, Nemeredes?" he asked, not unkindly. "She makes sense. They have the upper hand, and no one's coming to rescue us. What other choice do we have?"
Nemeredes shook his head, his white mane flying. "Thou hast always been a fool, Pleuron, but I never doubted thy courage before."
The fat centaur drew himself up, nostrils flared, and pointed the stump of his arm at Nemeredes. "Dost thou call me a coward?" he snapped. "How brave art thou, hiding behind these walls?"
"Enough!" bellowed Lord Menelachos. The High Chief had been silent, calmly listening to both sides. Now, his patience had broken. "All of thee, quit bickering like colts and fillies!"
Pleuron bowed his head. "I ask thy pardon, lord."
"I give it-to all of thee," Menelachos replied, glowering at Nemeredes and Eucleia. The two chiefs continued to seethe at each other silently. "As to this talk of leaving Ithax, it is no new thing. I've spoken against it before. Now, I fear I've been wrong to do so."
Eucleia's face, which had begun to harden, suddenly flared with hope. Nemeredes looked at the High Chief in alarm. "My lord-"
"Whist," Menelachos bade. "I've heard thy opinion on the matter, old friend. And while I value thy counsel, I fear this time thou art misguided. Eucleia's right-we must act, before it's too late."
"If only Trephas and the humans had brought back the axe," Pleuron sighed.
"No," Menelachos declared. "We have no time for 'if only.' We must deal with now. I believe we should ride out before the week ends, and fight our way past the Skorenoi. Who's with me?"
"I am," Eucleia said, her chin rising.
Pleuron hesitated, then nodded.
Nemeredes blew out his lips in defeat, pawing the ground. "What does it matter what I think? If the three of thee have made up thy minds-"
"My lords!"
The shout came from across the Yard. The chiefs turned and saw a young, war-painted piebald pluck a handful of grass, put it in his mouth, and hasten toward them.
"Arhedion?" called Lord Pleuron.
The scout's nostrils were wide, and his tail twitched as he bowed before the chiefs. "My lords, I regret interrupting thy conclave… ."
"What?" Eucleia snapped. "Out with it!"
Arhedion flinched, then nodded. "Of course, my lady. I come from the gates, at Rhedogar's behest. The Skorenoi are advancing."
"Burrs in my fetlocks," Pleuron swore. Eucleia reached for her sword, and Nemeredes spat on the ground.
"How many?" Menelachos asked.
Arhedion coughed. "All of them, my lord."
The air beyond the gates was thick with arrows as Arhedion led the chiefs toward the palisade. In place of stairs, a long wooden ramp led to the battlements; the Circle climbed at a canter, hooves clattering against the planks. Rhedogar hurried to meet them, making his way past the archers who were peppering the ground below. Cries of pain rose outside, punctuated by explosive cracks as killing shots exploded within their victims' bodies. Atop the palisade, a score of Ithax's defenders had already fallen, pierced by enemy arrows. Their fellows shoved their bodies off the battlements, keeping the catwalk clear.
Rhedogar caught Lord Menelachos's arm as the High Chief reached the ramp's top; Nemeredes pushed past them both, heading swiftly to where his son, Gyrtomon, was barking orders to the archers.
To the right, a centaur cried out as an arrow arced over the battlements, piercing his chest. As Rhedogar and the chiefs watched, he reached up to touch the shaft, then collapsed. The archers to either side of him stopped shooting long enough to dump his carcass off the catwalk, then returned to the fighting.
"It's foolish of him to attack like this," Rhedogar growled, "and risk losing so many of his warriors." A flaming arrow flew past, clearing the battlements to land inside the town. It smoldered stubbornly for a moment, then went out. "We can hold him off if all else remains equal. Now with all respect, my lords, I should get back to the fighting."
"Of course," Menelachos replied.
The grizzled centaur bowed quickly, then hurried back to the battlements, loading his bow as he went. Yelling, he let fly at the town's attackers, then plucked another shaft from his quiver and fired again.
Menelachos turned to the others. "We must talk."
"Aye," Pleuron agreed. He glanced down the catwalk as another archer crumpled, an arrow in his eye. "Let's do it somewhere we're not getting shot at, though. I'll get Nemeredes," he added, starting forward.
"Don't," Menelachos said, catching his arm. "He's lost two of his sons already. Let him stay here. If Gyrtomon dies today, Nemeredes should be with him. Now come quickly. Arhedion, stay with us."
They strode back down the ramp. Below, the piles of corpses at the bottom of the wall grew as more of the town's defenders fell. The pounding of hooves and shouts of pain and rage grew steadily louder outside.