Nearly a thousand Skorenoi gathered at the riverbank now. The temptation to fire into their midst was almost overwhelming, but somehow the horsefolk held back. Finally, pressure from behind pushed the first runners into the water. They plunged in, splashing, and the raging current nearly carried them away as they fought for balance on the pebbly riverbed. They squalled in fear, and on the far bank their comrades laughed. A few chuckles arose among the centaurs too, but the commotion among the Skorenoi was such that none of them heard.
"Hold," Gyrtomon breathed, his heart thundering.
More and more Skorenoi stepped into the river and began the slow, struggling journey across. The crowd on the far bank continued to thicken as more of the twisted creatures came out of the woods. Gyrtomon searched the throng for Leodippos, hoping he would be a target when the killing began, but didn't see him. He was keeping to the rear of the horde.
The first of the foe were nearly across now. The mightier warriors had overtaken the runners, and would be on land again in moments. Behind them, the water was packed with Skorenoi. Gyrtomon held his breath, waiting-and finally, the moment came.
"Loose!" he cried.
As one, more than a thousand bowstrings thrummed. Hundreds of arrows arced skyward, punching through the foliage and soaring toward the river. The Skorenoi stopped, recognizing the sound, and stared up in shock. An eerie silence fell as the shafts hung in midair.
Then they came down, straight into the Skorenoi's midst, and the screaming began.
Arrows tore through flesh, shattered against bone, blew apart as their victims died. Bodies fell like reaped grain, vanishing beneath the water. Shouts of pain and terror filled the air. The centaurs answered with furious war cries, firing again and again.
Panic killed as many of the Skorenoi as did the arrows. Shocked by the sudden attack, they wheeled, trying to flee. But there was nowhere to go-their fellows kept gathering on the far bank, blocking their escape. They fell over one another, stumbling over the bodies of the slain. The larger creatures shoved their smaller kin aside, or tried to clear a path with their clubs and lances. They smashed and gored those who got in their way, destroying their weapons as their victims fell. Some trampled their fellow's, and fell, screaming, as the their legs shattered. Dozens drowned.
While that was going on, the centaurs kept firing. Bodies tumbled, sprawling on the far bank and splashing in the water. The river reddened, ribbons of scarlet snaking downstream. The stones grew slick with blood, making it even harder for the Skorenoi to escape the river. The archers picked off anyone who looked as if he might escape the bloodbath.
It couldn't last forever, though; at last, after long minutes of slaughter, the enemy broke and fled, shouting, back into the woods. The centaurs shot at them as they ran, but most of the Skorenoi escaped.
Then all was still. Bodies lay in tangled heaps all along the far riverbank-hundreds of them, most dead but a few moaning and trying, vainly, to crawl to safety. The river, choked with carcasses, began to overflow its banks. Dead Skorenoi floated downstream, snarling on rocks or vanishing into the pink, foaming rapids.
All along the slope, the centaurs let out victorious whoops. Gyrtomon let them enjoy the moment, then called for silence. Quickly, the horsefolk fell still.
"Is there a count?" called Eucleia from across the slope. "How many did we slay?"
Gyrtomon didn't answer; he was scanning the carnage even now, trying to guess how many Skorenoi lay dead.
Before he could figure it out, however, another voice called out-Arhedion, from halfway down the hillside. "Two thousand, or about!" he cried. "It's a slaughter!"
More cheers rose, and warriors stamped their hooves on the ground. Gyrtomon, however, felt a cold fist grip his heart. He glanced at his father, and saw his dread reflected on Nemeredes's face. Two thousand was a great many Skorenoi, but not as many as he'd hoped. Leodippos's horde still outnumbered Gyrtomon's warriors two-to-one.
"Not enough," Nemeredes said quietly.
Gyrtomon tossed his mane in frustration. Surprise, their greatest advantage, was gone, and the glaring sunlight would soon vanish too. When the next attack began, the river wouldn't stop it. It would become a hand-to-hand fight, a fight he couldn't hope to win.
"We've lost," he murmured, taking care to keep his voice low. It wouldn't do to let his warriors hear such things- although, he knew, many must be reaching the same conclusion. "We can't hope to stand against them."
"Not without help," said a lilting voice.
He stiffened. The buzzing sound that had dogged him before the battle was back. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.
There was nothing there. Then, suddenly, there was: two small, elfin figures-one male, one female-with copper hair and bright clothes appeared out of nowhere. Silver moth wings fluttered on their backs.
"Good morrow to ye!" proclaimed the male, bowing. "I hight Fanuin, and this is Ellianthe. It seems ye're in some trouble. Want some help getting out?"
Gyrtomon blinked, baffled. "What-who-"
Nemeredes strode up beside him and clapped his shoulder, grinning. "It's the sprites!" he exclaimed. "The ones Trephas met. He said they disappeared after they defeated Thenidor."
The winged folk nodded, grinning. "That's true," Ellianthe said. "Once we saw what became of Ithax, we knew ye'd need our help fighting these Skorenoi things."
"So we went back to our realm, as quick as we could, and brought our kin back with us," Fanuin added. "We've been gathering here all day-invisible, o' course."
"It looked for a while like ye wouldn't need us after all," Ellianthe concluded. "But ye're right: There's too many o' those beasts for ye to win. Unless we help, o' course."
Gyrtomon frowned, looking the sprites up and down. "I don't see how much help thou couldst be," he said. "Thy arrows are no bigger than thorns."
Fanuin's eyes sparkled. "That may be," he said, "but ye'll find they have quite a sting." He drew a tiny shaft from his quiver and held it out. Its tip was coated with dark venom.
"That will help," Nemeredes said, smiling. "How many of thee are there?"
Ellianthe frowned, counting on her tiny fingers. "I'd say… oh, about three hundred."
"Three hundred!" Gyrtomon blurted. He glanced around in amazement-could there truly be so many winged folk flitting, unseen, through the air?
"Just so," Fanuin replied. "Each of us invisible, with killing poison on their darts. So…" he added, extending his small hand, "would ye like our help?"
For a long moment, Gyrtomon could only gape in astonishment. Then he nodded as he grasped Fanuin's hand. "Aye," he said. "I'd like it very much."
38
Half a dozen Skorenoi stood watch before the pass leading to Grimbough's vale. The companions stopped thirty paces from them, watching from a copse of rotten oaks.
"This isn't going to be easy," Caramon muttered. He was breathing hard, his face creased with pain. "Trephas, do you think you can put one of them down from this range?"
The centaur glanced at the sky, where the black clouds continued to swirl, their insides blazing with lightning. He frowned, his arrow tapping. "I think so," he answered, "but the way this wind shifts, I can't be sure."
"Try anyway," Dezra said. "Six of them are too many for us to fight past."
Nodding, Caramon pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. As he drew back his bowstring, though, his arms began to tremble. He tried to sight down the shaft, then relaxed his pull.
"Big guy?" Borlos asked, touching his arm.
Caramon shook him off. "Just give me a minute," he grumbled.
Then Dezra's hands were on his, loosening his grip on his bow. "Here," she said. "I'll do it."