The bard raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he let her go, and she turned back to the oak. She stepped inside, and was gone.
Borlos stared at the tree for a moment, then bowed his head, sighing. Caramon rested a hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We've got a long way left to go."
Borlos nodded. "Sure, big guy," he said. "Lead on, Trephas."
37
Sangelior was nearly deserted. Most of the remaining Skorenoi had ridden west, to join Leodippos's horde. The town was almost wholly dark, its tents and huts standing empty.
The companions hid in a copse of dead birches, whose papery bark fluttered in the chill wind. They kept their weapons stowed, not wanting an errant gleam of afternoon sunlight on metal to give them away.
Trephas tapped his arrow against his bow as his eyes scoured Sangelior's scattered hovels. "From what I know of this place, Grimbough's vale is on the far side of the town," he said.
"We'd better go around the long way," Caramon whispered. He was ashen-faced and breathing hard. They'd jogged most of the way from where Pallidice had left them. "There's still enough Skorenoi about to make life hard if we're seen."
They were just starting to rise and creep away when Dezra raised her hand. "Wait," she whispered, pointing.
They froze. Fifty paces away was a clump of leafless blackthorn shrubs, heavy with wrinkled fruit. The companions stared, seeing nothing at first. Then the bushes' shadows shifted, their thorny branches rattling.
"Something's there," Borlos murmured. He rested his hand on his mace. "What is it?"
Caramon shook his head, squinting. "I can't make it out. It's too dark."
Abruptly, the shadows swelled, and the blackthorns parted. A black, misshapen figure, with one horn and shaggy goat's legs, emerged from the darkness. In its hand, a familiar, double-bladed axe glistened, reflecting the rays of the westering sun.
"Oh, damn," Dezra gasped.
Trephas moved swiftly, raising his bow and pulling back its string. He sighted down his arrow, training its broad, steel head on the shadowy goat-man. Biting his lip, he loosed his shot.
The arrow soared through the air, lightning-quick-and struck the bushes a hand's breadth from the satyr.
The noise startled the goat-man. With a glance at the companions, he whirled and dashed away, as quick as his hooves could move.
Caramon fumbled with his own bow, bringing it up, then cursed and lowered it again: Hurach was out of range.
Trephas stared at the bushes, uncomprehending. His ruddy face had turned ashen. He dropped his bow and clutched at his mane, shuddering. A low sob escaped his lips. "I missed," he moaned. "Missed! We've come so far… ." He bowed his head, his body going limp.
"No, you don't," Dezra said, grabbing his shoulders. "Pull yourself together. We still need you."
He raised his eyes, blinking tears of frustration. "You're right," he said. "We must go on, hope for another chance. Better to die trying than quit and live, eh?"
Dezra made a sour face. "Well, I really hope there's a third choice." She rose to her feet. "All right, let's get going. One way or another, we have to finish this."
Caramon and Borlos looked at her in surprise. Ignoring them, she turned and ran, keeping within the tree line, out of sight of Sangelior. Trephas followed. Borlos and Caramon came last, glancing warily at the town as they made their way along the fringe of the wasted forest.
Gyrtomon stood on the riverbank, his face grave, trying to think like the enemy. The Skorenoi would come this way. The stream before him could only be forded here. For miles either way, it was a foaming torrent, tumbling over sharp rocks. Even here it flowed swift and deep, reaching up to the thighs of any centaur who waded through. Leodippos's horde would need to slow its pace to cross. There was no better place to fight them.
Satisfied, he turned to survey his army. The centaurs of Lysandon were dressed for battle, wearing leather harnesses studded with bronze and iron, their long manes tied so a foe couldn't grab them. They gripped bows and cudgels, lances and scythes. Many had daubed their coats with slashes and whorls of red, green and white war paint. Their faces, some painted with chalk and woad, were set into fierce expressions. They were ready to die here, if it came to that.
Gyrtomon hoped it would do. The centaurs had sent forth everyone who could lift a bow, from colts and fillies who wouldn't come of age for years yet to veterans even older than his father. Even so, they numbered only two thousand- only a third as many as Leodippos's horde. Surprise and the river would help even the odds, but still… .
He shook his head. Such doubts were the last thing he needed. His gaze drifted to the warriors nearest him. In their midst, beneath their colorful standards, stood the Circle.
Eucleia turned toward him, her woad-painted face solemn. "Is there any word from Arhedion yet?"
Gyrtomon shook his head. He'd dispatched the scout and his warriors an hour ago, sending them ahead to watch for the Skorenoi. They hadn't returned yet, for which Gyrtomon was glad. The longer the enemy took, the lower the sun would be in the sky, and the more the glare would blind them. He'd take any advantage he could get.
Eucleia grunted, jabbing her lance at the ground. "That's good," she said. "Even so, though, we should start to place our warriors. I'd rather we were ready before time than unprepared when the foe arrived."
Gyrtomon glanced around, surveying the terrain. On their side of the river, the ground sloped up, covered with pines and rowans. Rocky outcroppings, spotted with lichen, stood here and there. Between the trees and the boulders, there was plenty of cover to conceal his warriors.
"Very well," he said. "Be sure the archers have a clear shot at the river and plenty of arrows."
The chiefs nodded, then trotted away to give their orders to their warriors. Gyrtomon stayed put, chewing olives and watching the centaurs take their places on the slope, hidden among the trees and rocks. The concealment wasn't perfect-here and there he could see a shadow move, or the glint of a lance or arrowhead. It was good enough, though. He could spot them because he knew they were there, but Leodippos wouldn't expect to find a fight so far from Lysandon. The ruse would be good enough to fool him into starting his army across the river. Gyrtomon prayed to Chislev that it would be enough.
Time passed, the sun casting long shadows down the hillside. Archers fingered their bowstrings, watching the far side of the river. Some of the horsefolk chanted softly in their liquid tongue, asking Chislev and the spirits of their ancestors for strength and courage. Gyrtomon strode along the slope, watching the river.
Twice he heard a strange, fluttering noise. He was far from alone, too: when he asked, many of the other centaurs admitted they'd heard the sound as well. He became convinced it was no mere trick of the wind. But what, then?
While he was wondering, a loud skirl, as of a hawk, sounded from the riverbank. He whirled to stare downhill, his hand reaching toward his quiver. The screech was a signal; the warriors closest to the ford had heard someone approaching. Soon another sound rose, so all the waiting centaurs could hear: hoofbeats, moving swiftly toward them.
All over the hillside, wood and sinew creaked as archers drew back their bowstrings. After a moment, though, Gyrtomon trilled a loud, descending whistle, and the horsefolk relaxed again. It wasn't the Skorenoi coming: the hooves were too few, moving too fast.
A few moments later, Arhedion cantered into view, leading his scouts. Giving another whistle to tell the archers to hold their fire, Gyrtomon broke from cover and ran down the hill. He stopped on the riverbank, waiting while the scouts made their way through the cold, deep water, then offered Arhedion a hand. The scout took it, and emerged, dripping.