"What news?" Gyrtomon asked as the other scouts stepped onto the bank. "Leodippos?"
Arhedion nodded, his single braid bobbing, and waved a painted arm behind him. "They're coming," he replied. "About a league off, not very quickly. An hour, maybe."
Gyrtomon smiled. "Excellent," he said. "Did they see thee?"
The scout shook his head, grinning. "We were stealthy as the wind. I heard them talking about attacking Lysandon tonight. They don't suspect a thing."
Gyrtomon smiled. He had every advantage he could ask for. He clapped Arhedion on the arm. "Well done. Go get some food, then find thy place."
The scout bowed again, then led his warriors up the slope. Gyrtomon turned to follow, then stopped, cocking an ear. The fluttering sound had returned again. He glanced about, but saw nothing. Then it was gone.
Scowling, he shook his head and started uphill.
The storm grew over Grimbough's vale with astonishing speed. One moment, the sky was clear, dotted with wispy clouds that glowed golden with the coming sunset. The next, black thunderheads boiled above, flashing wildly as lightning played within. They didn't move as clouds should, but in random directions, colliding and breaking apart, speeding up and slowing down, churning like mud in water. Thunder roared, and the wind screamed. Rain and hail slashed the air, battering the trees without mercy. Amid it all the daemon tree loomed, writhing. Its trunk pulsed hungrily, its squirming roots churning the earth.
Lord Chrethon gazed at Grimbough in exultation. The tree had called him to the grove nearly two days ago, telling him the glorious news: Hurach was returning to Sangelior bearing the axe. Leodippos was also marching on the Circle's stronghold, but that paled beside the knowledge that soon Soulsplitter would be in his hands.
"It is coming," the tree's voice rumbled. "Soon it will be in the vale."
…vale, hissed its black, rotting leaves.
Chrethon laughed, turning his face up into the driving rain. After a moment, though, worry creased his face. "And the humans? Nemeredes's son?"
"They come also," Grimbough replied. "I have not been able to stop them. But it matters little-even if they get past your guards, they will be too late."
…late…
Chrethon's grin returned. Grimbough had warned him Trephas and the humans were coming, through the dryads' secret ways. He'd ordered guards placed at the mouth of the vale. Half a dozen Skorenoi now stood watch, with orders to kill anyone but the satyr.
Content, he turned away from the daemon tree and cantered through the tangled forest, coming to a halt before the thicket where the Forestmaster lay. Trembling, he strode to the brambles and thrust his hand into their midst. They recoiled, pulling back from the unicorn's face. A thrill ran through him when he saw the fear in the Forestmaster's eyes.
"Thy end is at hand, my lady," he murmured, running his fingers down her ivory horn, relishing her anguish.
On an impulse/he reached down and unclasped the muzzle that covered the unicorn's mouth. It fell away, revealing angry sores where it had chafed her flesh. The Forestmaster drew a ragged breath, her flanks shuddering.
"And when I am dead?" she asked. The words came slow and thick. "What will you have gained?"
"Revenge." Chrethon's black eyes gleamed. "Ten years ago, thou stripped me of all I was. And all because I chose to fight evil!"
"Against Chislev's wishes."
"Chislev!" he scoffed, laughing. "And where is she now? Fled the world, like the coward she is!"
Weakly, the unicorn shook her head. "Chislev left the world to save us, just as she bade us not fight the Knights for the greater good. She didn't want the world to fall to Chaos." She regarded Chrethon sadly. "Your thirst for vengeance has driven you to embrace the very thing she meant to fight, that seeks to destroy all you once held dear. I weep for you, Chrethon."
Chrethon hesitated, uncertain, then sneered. "I remember now why I had thee muzzled. Keep thy honeyed words, my lady. I shall be avenged."
"This is folly," the unicorn said. "Grimbough is using you. Why can you not see it? Chaos cares for no one, Chrethon. When it no longer needs you, it will consign you to oblivion, and not shed a single tear."
But Chrethon was no longer listening. He cocked his head, glancing toward the clearing's edge. His eyes narrowed, seeking. Then lightning flashed, illuminating the whole grove as bright as day, and he saw. Hurach stood at the grove's edge, dark as night even in the levin-bolt's flare. In his hand was Soulsplitter.
Chrethon's mouth fell open. Wordlessly, he strode toward the goat-man. Hurach came forward and bowed. "My lord," he murmured, proffering the axe.
A jolt of energy ran through Chrethon as his fingers grasped Soulsplitter's haft. He turned to leer mockingly at the Forestmaster, raising the axe above his head.
She didn't see him: her eyes were shut in despair.
Scowling, Chrethon turned back to Hurach. "Thou hast done a great thing today," he said. "When this is over, I shall reward thee. But now, there is one more task I ask of thee."
The satyr bowed his head. "Anything, lord."
"Go, then," Chrethon said. "Trephas and the humans approach the vale even now. If the guards fail to stop them, thou must see to it."
"Of course, lord," Hurach said. "It shall be done." He vanished into the shadows once more.
Grinning, Chrethon turned back to the Forestmaster. Tears streamed down the unicorn's face as he approached her, axe in hand. Roughly, he reached into the thicket and seized her horn.
"Now, my lady," he said. "Farewell."
"No!" boomed a rumbling voice. "Not like this."
…this, came the whispering echo.
Chrethon froze, tensing. He glanced back toward Grimbough. Above the treetops, he saw its limbs claw at the storm-wracked sky.
"What-" he began.
"Not like this," the daemon tree repeated. "If I am to claim this land, I must slake myself upon her life's blood."
…blood…
Chrethon thought for a moment to protest, then relented. It would take time to free the unicorn from the brambles, but what was another hour, when he'd waited ten years for this moment?
"Very well," he murmured. Letting go of the Forestmaster's horn, he began to part the thornbushes.
Gyrtomon was staring east, at the seething, black clouds that had appeared above the forest, when one of the warriors by the riverside skirled. Listening, he heard a distant, ominous rumbling. There was no mistaking it: thousands of hooves, pounding the earth. Leodippos and his horde were near.
Up and down the slope, archers raised their weapons. Gyrtomon followed suit, plucking an arrow from his quiver and fitting it on his bowstring. He glanced at his father, who stood beside him on his vantage overlooking the river. Nemeredes nodded. Together, they pulled back their strings and waited while the hoofbeats thundered closer.
The din of the approaching horde grew so loud that yellow-brown leaves began to rain down from the rowan trees. Finally, when it seemed it might go on forever, the first of the Skorenoi appeared on the far side of the ford. The vanguard was composed mainly of fast, long-legged runners, but there were stouter creatures among them as well. They slowed their pace, pulling up as they neared the water and squinting into the ruddy sunlight. Some threw up their arms, fighting to see.
"Hold," Gyrtomon murmured through clenched teeth. If any of the centaurs shot before he gave the signal, the ambush would fail. The horsefolk knew that, but there was always the chance someone would fire early, out of eagerness or fear. "Hold… ."
The Skorenoi bunched at the ford's edge, shying back from the river-first one hundred, then two, then five. For a moment, Gyrtomon wondered if they'd smelled the trap, but angry shouts and curses arose within the horde, and he knew the runners had stopped simply because they were leery of the water.