The Skorenos's attention was focused on Gyrtomon; he didn't see Arhedion until the young scout was upon him. His eyes widened, then Arhedion heaved the massive rock, striking his horselike snout with a horrible crunch. Then the rock burst asunder, turning to gravel as Leodippos fell into the mud, his face a ruin. His legs twitched, then fell still.
Arhedion dashed to Gyrtomon's side and hauled him out of the mud. Gyrtomon sputtered and coughed, then glanced at Arhedion and smiled.
"Thanks," he said when he could draw breath without choking.
But Arhedion only shook his head, looking past Gyrtomon to the body that lay beside Leodippos. "Nay, don't thank me," he said. "I've failed thee, my lord-I didn't save thy father. I should have been quicker."
Gyrtomon followed his gaze, and winced in anguish when he saw Nemeredes. He bowed his head, shuddering, then turned to face the scout, blinking back tears. "Don't be a fool," he said. "Thou wert as quick as could be, and no less. But no time for that now." He offered Arhedion his hand. "Let's get back to the fight. We can grieve when the last of these beasts are slain."
Arhedion hesitated, staring at the bodies, then nodded and clasped Gyrtomon's arm. Together, they turned back toward the battle.
It was soon over. The sprites made it across the river, leaving nothing but twisted corpses in their wake. The Skorenoi line gave way, and the clash along the riverbank deteriorated to isolated skirmishes, then fell still. The centaurs spared none of the Skorenoi. Even when the battle was done, they strode across the killing ground, spears upraised as they searched for enemies who still breathed. Now and again, a shout and the sound of splintering wood marked where they found one.
When that grim business was done, they saw to their own dead. The centaurs' victory had come with a heavy cost: Of the two thousand who'd fought at the river, more than six hundred had perished. Silently, too tired to weep, the centaurs pulled their slain from the tangle of Skorenoi corpses and laid them out upon the slope.
Among the bodies, Gyrtomon and Arhedion stood over Nemeredes the Elder. They'd borne him away from Leodippos's corpse when the fighting ended, and laid him out with his weapons. His eyes were shut, his wounds washed with clean water from upstream of the ford. Gyrtomon looked dully at his father's corpse, saying nothing. Arhedion rested a hand on his shoulder.
The sound of hoofbeats drew near, and Gyrtomon looked up to see who approached. It was the rest of the Circle-the other three chiefs had survived the battle, though Pleuron had taken a deep cut across his cheek and Lanorica, Menelachos's daughter, walked with a limp, wincing with every other step. With them flew the sprites, Fanuin and Ellianthe.
Eucleia came forward to stand beside Gyrtomon, and looked down at Nemeredes, shaking her head. "This is a terrible thing," she said. "Thy father and I were often at odds, Gyrtomon, but still he was my friend." She hesitated, then gripped his shoulders, turning him away from the body. "Thou art chief now, Gyrtomon-and a hero of our people. Thou hast saved us from our doom."
He thought on this, then shook his head. "No, my lady- not just me. All of us-centaurs and winged folk both. But still it might come to nothing." He nodded past her, across the forest.
The horsefolk and sprites turned, following his gaze. In the east, over Sangelior, the stormclouds still roiled, aglow with lightning.
39
Hailstones as large as robin's eggs pelted down into the pass. The clamor as they rattled down the cliffsides drowned out even the bellowing thunder. The companions held cloaks and shields over their heads to protect themselves as they pushed on, their feet slipping over the ice-slick stones.
High above, a forked levin-bolt struck a rocky crag, blowing it apart. Chips of stone showered down. A blast of wind, channeled by the narrow pass, struck them head-on; Borlos cursed as it tore his cloak from his hands, sending it spinning off into the darkness. He started back after it, but Dezra caught his arm and shoved him forward. At last, ahead, the rocky walls of the pass came to an end. The companions stopped, staring in awe and terror.
The pass emerged atop a rocky slope that descended into a narrow, bowl-shaped valley. Trees, still in full leaf, carpeted the vale, undulating in the gusting wind like the ocean in a hurricane. In the midst of this shifting sea was a massive, black-leafed oak, whose mighty limbs spread high above the rest. It stood still, in the eye of the storm, emanating a sense of disquiet, of wrongness, that jangled the companions' spines. The muttering of leaves rose from it, audible through the fury of thunder and wind. It flooded their ears, clawed at their minds: the sound of madness, dark and sweet and seductive.
Borlos cleared his throat. "That had better be Grimbough," he declared. "Because if it isn't, I don't want to see the real thing."
"It is," Trephas said. His knuckles whitened as he clutched his spear. "And if the daemon tree is here, then Lord Chrethon cannot be far away."
"And the Forestmaster?" Caramon put in.
The centaur nodded. "If she yet lives."
"What are we waiting for, then?" Dezra demanded. Lifting her sword, she started down the slope, hailstones clattering all around her. The others hurried to catch up.
The forest was dark, the oaks looming close on all sides. The stormlight shone through in swiftly stabbing shafts, lighting the black trees in flashes that left blood-red stains floating before the companions' eyes. Trephas led the way, lance at the ready, while Dezra and Caramon walked behind. Borlos brought up the rear, glancing about with wild eyes.
"I feel something," he hissed as they wended among the trees, stepping over exposed roots and pushing aside drooping boughs. "Like something's in pain… ."
"The Forestmaster," Caramon breathed. He looked at Trephas, who nodded. "Chrethon hasn't killed her yet, then," he said. "We've still got time."
The going got harder, the trees growing thicker as they moved toward the middle of the vale. Again and again, they found the way ahead blocked, the oaks clumped too tightly to pass. They had to search for paths among the clustered trees, guided by the anguish that flowed from the grove's heart.
Branches creaked ominously in the wind. The leaves' muttering surrounded them. Then there was a new sound: a low, roaring whistle above them. Dezra had heard the sound before, in Pallidice's glade, and threw herself flat. "Look out!" she shouted.
The others stared at her, then looked up and saw branches swinging down, jagged leaves fluttering. Caramon got his shield up to block a stout bough; it struck with a resounding crash, knocking him to one knee. Trephas twisted away from a branch, and caught the twigs at its end across his backside. He grunted in pain-it was like being struck with a switch swung by an ogre-and lashed out with his broad-bladed lance, slashing off the end of the limb as it drew back up into the heights.
Borlos, however, was too surprised to get out of the way. A bough caught him across the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying. He hit the knotted trunk of an oak, his lyre making a horrendous clamor, then collapsed with a groan.
"What is this?" Caramon asked, bringing up his sword as more branches swept down. He slashed at them, steel slicing through wood. "Even the trees are against us!"
Dezra grimaced, rising into a crouch. As she did, a gnarled root burst from the earth and groped toward her. She recoiled, then brought her sword down, cleaving it in half. The stump twitched, weeping black ichor, then slid back into the ground.
Borlos stirred groggily, his head lolling. Roots burst through the earth around him: one coiled about his left ankle, another grabbed his right wrist, tightening painfully. Slowly, they began to twist and pull. He regained his senses with a start and struggled against their grasp. "Dez!" he yelped. "Big guy! Help me!"