The runner bolted away. Soon after, a third of the Skorenoi broke off to circle around the town. Chrethon watched them go, then returned his attention to Ithax. The rams were in place now, beginning to swing as bloodthirsty Skorenoi crowded around.
Chrethon smiled. The rams drew back.
Then, suddenly, the gates swung open on their own. A volley of arrows-hundreds of them-fired through the gap. The rams fell as their bearers died or ran for cover.
"What?" Chrethon exclaimed, astounded.
Before he could say more, a column of centaurs charged out through the gates, weapons flashing. They caught the waiting Skorenoi by surprise, cutting a swath through their midst. As Chrethon watched, his troops fell away from the gates and milled about in confusion, all but letting the fleeing centaurs pass. And still the horsefolk kept coming, fighting and dying valiantly as they pressed outward from the doomed town.
He understood, then: The centaurs were fleeing, using their last chance to escape. It was mad, desperate, but it was working. If he'd still had Leodippos and his legion to call upon, he might be able to stop it happening; now, though, there were no longer enough Skorenoi before the gates to contain the horsefolk.
Rage broke over him in a red, burning rush. Plucking his lance from his harness, he charged toward Ithax, shrieking wildly for blood.
For a time, as the Skorenoi gave ground in confusion and disarray, it seemed the centaurs might escape all but unscathed. Rhedogar, leading the charge, ordered his warriors forward, cleaving through the foe with desperate fury. Many Skorenoi fell back; others died, gored by lances and arrow-riddled by archers who fired as they ran. Behind the horsefolk's warriors, the common folk made their way out across the battlefield as the sounds of fighting spread throughout Ithax behind them. Most carried clubs or spears, but there was little need. The centaur warriors pushed onward, toward the dark hills to the west, the Skorenoi yielding before them.
Then, howling, Lord Chrethon and the rest of his host descended upon them.
Rhedogar had expected this. Barking furious orders, he gathered five hundred of his bravest warriors and led them away from the fleeing masses. Gyrtomon, left in charge of the rest, continued to lead the fleeing centaurs away. There were tears in his eyes as he did, for he knew what Rhedogar meant to do. Five hundred warriors wouldn't be enough to beat Chrethon on the field. But it would slow him down.
Chrethon understood this as he thundered toward the centaurs, lance held aloft. He saw the warriors coming to meet him, and understood Rhedogar's plan. He couldn't help but smile as he cursed the old, cunning war-leader. With a snarl, he lowered his lance and pushed himself even faster, clots of mud flying behind his churning hooves.
The centaurs and Skorenoi exchanged savage flights of arrows, firing without breaking pace. Bodies fell in tangles on either side, some toppling their fellows or those behind. Then the two forces struck, lances piercing flesh, cudgels shattering bone. Screams of rage and pain filled the air. Wood and metal shattered as the Skorenoi died; the centaurs plucked more weapons, from their harnesses and the hands of the dead, to continue the fight.
Rhedogar fought furiously, laying about him on all sides as he sought Lord Chrethon. He lost his lance as he slew one foe, then his sword, and a scythe he snatched from a dying Skorenos. Finally, as he bent to lift a spear from the blood-damp earth, he saw his quarry. He raised the lance high and bellowed a challenge. Chrethon, his face wild with battle lust and glistening with centaur blood, wheeled to face him. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, then they charged.
Rhedogar's lance, the longer of the two, struck first. At the last moment, however, Chrethon twisted, and the spear's point, which had been aimed at his breast, instead opened a furrow in his shoulder, then caught on his iron-studded war harness. The weapon's shaft snapped. Rhedogar's eyes widened-
And emptied, with shocking suddenness, as Chrethon's spear took him through the heart.
The silver centaur collapsed in a lifeless heap. Whooping with mad glee, Chrethon yanked his lance free, then pushed on, deeper into the fight. The battle continued around him, but already the horsefolk were flagging, their numbers depleted. Here and there, Skorenoi won through their ranks and bolted onward, toward the fleeing mass of Ithax's centaurs. Chrethon killed two more warriors-a mare and a stallion, both barely of age-then charged onward, toward the enemy, Skorenoi galloping with him on all sides.
It was too late, though, and Chrethon cursed, knowing it. Rhedogar and his five hundred had lasted only a short while, but long enough. The centaurs were at the edge of the battlefield now, moving at a gallop, archers firing back to ward off pursuit. He watched, not slowing his pace, as they vanished into night's shadows, into the hills. Too fast to catch.
Even so, he and his warriors followed them into the highlands. They caught stragglers, killed them without mercy- colts and fillies, the old and sick, and those warriors who followed Rhedogar's example and valiantly sought to delay the Skorenoi. A third of Ithax's centaurs died, on the field and in the hills-but the rest escaped, coursing westward through the night, out of Chrethon's reach. Finally, long after the chase became fruitless, he raised his war horn and blew three long blasts, recalling his warriors. With a snarl, he wheeled and started back toward the blazing ruins of Ithax.
Hours later, as dawn approached and the flames were dying, Chrethon stood in the Yard of Gathering, surrounded by the bodies of centaurs and Skorenoi alike. He stared down at one in particular, sprawled before him. For the first time since the centaurs' escape, his needle-sharp teeth bared in a smile.
Lord Menelachos had fought ferociously, to the last. His arms were broken, his fingers shattered. Even when he could find no more weapons to use, he'd killed with his bare hands. The same magic that broke whatever weapons slew the Skorenoi had maimed him, left him helpless before the killing stroke: a crushing blow to the temple, which had smashed his skull.
Chrethon looked at the crowd of Skorenoi who'd gathered around the body. "Who slew him?"
No one spoke. Chrethon nodded. More likely than not, he'd never know the answer. He shrugged.
Leodippos and Thenidor stood by, smeared with blood. "I want this town razed," Chrethon hissed at them. "Nothing must remain, save ashes and rubble."
"It shall be done," Leodippos snarled. "And after? What of the survivors?"
"Fled into the hills, most likely. When we're done here, thou shalt hunt them down."
The horse-headed Skorenos bowed. "It will be an honor, lord."
"And I?" ventured Thenidor. "Shall I join the hunt?"
Chrethon shook his head. "No, Thenidor. Thou wilt return to Sangelior with me. I would have thee near, in case I need thee."
Thenidor looked disappointed, but bowed nonetheless. He nodded toward Menelachos's body. "What shall we do with that, lord?"
Chrethon considered a moment, then a cruel leer spread across his face. He bent down, drawing his sword, and set its edge against the High Chief's tail. He sighed at the sound of steel slicing through flesh: it was a sound he'd waited ten years to hear.
He rose, gesturing at Menelachos's mutilated corpse. "Stake his head," he said. "As for the rest of him, let Ithax be his pyre."
With that, he whirled and galloped away through the ruins, holding aloft the High Chief's tail.
27
The sward atop the spire-stone was small, only fifty paces across, with sharp drops on all sides to the steaming tarn below. Bug-lamps rested on the grass, bathing it and the trunks of the firs in blue light. The sprites had laid out pheasant and fish, mushrooms and berries, with milk and their incomparable mead to accompany the feast; the companions devoured it all, then sat, waiting. Borlos stared into the distance, plucking his lyre. In time, Laird Guithern and the other winged folk joined them, and the talk turned to the war, Grimbough, and Soulsplitter.