Dezra's Quest

by Chris Pierson

  He shut his eyes. "Don't—"

  "Riverwind."

  Caramon blew out a long breath. Riverwind of Que-shu had been sixty-five when he'd gone east to defend Kendermore. But the kender hadn't approached him first—they'd asked Caramon. He'd turned them down, so Riverwind had gone instead. And Riverwind had died. Of all the burdens Caramon had shouldered in his life, it was one of the heaviest.

  He took Tika's hand, squeezed it tightly. "I guess I'd better go find my armor then, eh?"

  Caramon Majere had grown up with his half-sister Kitiara, the roughest woman he'd ever known. He'd lived among mercenaries, sailors and gladiators. He'd led an army of bandits and dwarves, and had run an inn for forty years. All of this, put together, made him one of Krynn's foremost experts on cursing.

  The words that erupted from his bedroom as he tried on his armor would have made a pack of ogres run for cover.

  He hadn't worn his armor since the Summer of Chaos. He took it out now and then to polish it, and it shone as he laid it out on the bed—gleaming plates and glistening mail, supple straps and glinting buckles—but he hadn't donned it in ten years.

  Caramon knew he was in trouble as soon as he pulled on his chainmail shirt. It had hung loose on him when he was young, but now he could barely get it down over his belly. When he did, the mail bit into his flesh, leaving a web of red marks when he dragged it off again.

  That was when the swearing started.

  He tried to buckle his plate greaves on his shins, but the straps wouldn't reach. He had the same problem with his vambraces. After he tried—and failed—to put on his leather thigh guards, he started throwing things. He broke the washbasin with a gauntlet and gouged a furrow in the wall with a pauldron. He grunted and groaned, yanked and winced, but in the end only two pieces of armor still fit. One was his breastplate, an ornate Solamnic piece he'd acquired during the Dwarfgate War. The other was the piece he'd owned the longest, since his youth: a battered bronze helm with a crest shaped like a winged dragon. Once he had it on, he gathered the rest of his armor and stowed it away again. He kept the greaves and vambraces—a stop at the smithy would procure some larger straps—cursed a few more times for good measure, then went to fetch the rest of his armaments.

  His dented, oval shield also needed new straps. He tossed it on the bed. He found an old spear, a shortbow without a string, and a half-empty quiver of arrows. He added a trip to Tavis the fletcher's shop to his list of errands, then walked to the mantel and pulled his sword off the wall. It was a formidable weapon, with a keen, well-tempered blade. Most men would have needed both hands to wield it, but Caramon could use it one-handed easily. He slid it out of its scabbard and took a few practice swings, satisfying himself that years of hoisting kegs had kept him strong.

  Then he glimpsed himself in the silver wall mirror, and his smile faltered. He didn't see the young, brawny warrior who'd once swung the sword. It was a fat old man, and it didn't change no matter how much he sucked in his paunch.

  Habbakuk's bollocks, he thought. Look at yourself. If you make it a league out of town without keeling over, it'll be a bloody miracle.

  Laughing ruefully, he grabbed his gear, kicked open the door, and headed back downstairs.

  Tika had laid several leather pouches and a pair of waterskins on the bar. Caramon dumped his gear on a table and went to examine them.

  “It's trail food," Tika said. "Hardtack, salt pork, some prunes."

  "Yum," Caramon said sourly. "Seems a bit much, doesn't it? I don't think I'll be gone longer than a few days." He unstopped a waterskin and took a sniff, then looked at Tika in alarm. "This is ale! You know I can't drink this stuff."

  Tika nodded. "It isn't for you."

  Caramon's eyes narrowed, then he shook his head, his helm glinting. "No," he told her. "You're staying here."

  "It's not for her either, sir." Uwen stepped forward. "I volunteered to go with you."

  "Eh?" Caramon gave the boy a hard look; Uwen lowered his gaze, his cheeks going red. "This isn't like scaring off some goblins who've been stealing your cattle, lad. Most folk who go into Darken Wood don't come out again."

  "Darling," Tika said. "A word with you?"

  She led him to the kitchen, leaving Uwen flushed and silent behind them. "He insisted," she said when they were beyond the boy's hearing. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. I think he's sweet on Dez."

  "Sweet Reorx," Caramon swore. "Does she even know he exists?"

  "Well, he did save her from falling yesterday."

  Caramon grunted, unconvinced.

  "If you tell him no, he'll follow you anyway," Tika said.

  Caramon studied Uwen. Solace was probably the farthest the boy ever been from his family's farm. And shouldn't he be going back there, now that the fair was over? Better that than bumbling after Dezra. He was likely to get himself killed.

  Still, it didn't look like any of that mattered. Tika was right; even if he left without the boy, he'd turn around later today and see Uwen walking behind him. Better to begin the journey as friends. "All right," he said, raising his voice. "He can come."

  The boy's face shone like a lantern. Caramon winced, and Tika hid a sudden grin.

  "Well, then," Caramon said finally, gathering his gear again. "We'd best be off. Grab the food, Uwen, and—"

  The door banged open. Caramon and Tika both looked at it, vainly hoping to see Dezra standing there. They were disappointed.

  "Hey, big guy!" Borlos beamed.

  He tromped into the tavern, lute slung over his shoulder. Clemen and Osier came in with him, and headed to their table by the kitchen. Clemen started shuffling cards as soon as he sat. Borlos stopped halfway across the room, however, looking at the pouches on the bar.

  "Going somewhere, big guy?" he asked. "Looks like you're packed for a trip."

  "We're going to Darken Wood," Uwen declared. "A centaur kidnapped Dezra. We're gonna rescue her."

  "Really?" Borlos asked, nodding. The comers of his mouth twitched.

  "Oh no," Caramon muttered. "Please don't smile."

  The bard grinned. "A little adventure then, eh?" he asked. "To rescue the damsel fair. I know a song or three of the sort." He patted his lute.

  "Bor!" called Clemen, riffling the deck. "We're setting up for a game of Blind Dwarf. Grab a seat."

  "Not today, thanks," Borlos said. "Bigger things afoot. Don't want to miss an adventure, you know. I'll play when I get back."

  "Get b—" Caramon started, then closed his mouth, scowling. It was the same with Borlos as with Uwen—he'd trail along, and nothing Caramon said would sway him.

  The bard was even more of a problem, though. At least the farmboy was young and strong; Borlos was short and skinny, and at somewhere around forty winters he was past his prime. Still, he'd fought both the Knights of Takhisis and the hordes of Chaos ten years ago. At the least, he'd be good company.

  "Fine," Caramon said at last. "You can come too."

  "Great," Borlos answered, doffing his cap. "Maybe there'll even be a ballad in this, eh?"

  We can only hope, Caramon thought wryly. "Dear," he said, "I think you'd better—"

  Tika, however, was a step ahead. She'd already gone to the larder to pack more food. Shrugging, Caramon grabbed an empty waterskin and went to fill it with his spring brew.

  They got horses from the stables, quick steeds Caramon kept to sell to travelers who needed fresh mounts. Uwen swung astride his easily, saddle creaking, but Borlos was a another story. He fumbled about with one foot in the stirrup while his horse twitched its ears in irritation. In the end, it took a boost from Caramon to get him up.

  Caramon surveyed his companions and tried not to sigh. "You both might need armor," he said, gathering his horse's reins. "Boiled leather, at the least. I don't suppose either of you has a weapon?"

  Uwen shook his head.

  "I've got this," Borlos said. He drew a stiletto from his belt. Its narrow blade glinted in the sun.

  "Tha
t won't do," Caramon said. "We'll find something simple—an axe or a hammer, or something. Can either of you pay?"

  "I have some silver," Uwen declared.

  Caramon turned to Borlos.

  "Sorry, big guy," the bard said blithely. "I'm in debt to Clem and Osier a fair bit of steel just now. I'll have to owe you."

  "Ah," Caramon declared without surprise. He eyed the both of them one last time, then trudged toward the smithy. This was going to be quite the adventure, all right.

  8

  Dezra felt like death on a platter.

  She'd still been drunk at dawn, when she stole her gear and rode out on Trephas's back. That was long past now, and sobriety wasn't being friendly. Her stomach kept trying to climb up her throat; her head wanted to hatch. Trephas wasn't being very considerate, either. He kept at a canter along the winding Haven Road, bouncing her mercilessly with every step.

  Finally, as the sun began to wester, she could take no more. "Stop," she moaned. "Now."

  Trephas glanced at her, then halted and knelt in the road. She slid off his back and stumbled over to lean, wheezing, against a mossy boulder. Trephas pulled some flat bread and black olives from his pack and ate. He chuckled. "Ah, yes," he said. "I've heard thy kind get terrible sick from too much drink. A… hangover, is that word?"

  Last night, his arrogance had seemed charming; now it rankled her. Blithely, he pulled out a wineskin and took a long swig. "I wouldn't know the feeling," he said. "It's never happened to me before."

  That, Dezra thought as she rubbed her throbbing temples, was not fair.

  She looked around blearily. The Haven Road was busy most spring days, but this was the day after a festival. There were no travelers to be seen. Ahead on the left loomed a tall mountain, its cleft top shaped like a pair of giant, beseeching hands.

  "There's Prayer's Eye Peak," she said. "There should be a path to it up ahead."

  "There is." Trephas clenched his jaw, pawing the ground. "We shan't use it, though."

  "What?" Dezra returned. "Prayer's Eye Peak's the only pass into Darken Wood around here. If we don't take it, we'll have to go miles out of the way."

  The centaur's eyes narrowed, lingering on the cleft mountain. "Even so," he said.

  Dezra shook her head. "You're going to have to say more than that. I don't know how it is with your people, but I'm not some… filly you can order around without—"

  "Whist!" Trephas hissed, holding up a hand.

  "Whist?" Dezra exclaimed. "Who uses words like 'whist' any more?"

  "Be still!"

  The centaur's sharp tone silenced her. She touched her sword as he reached over his shoulder and pulled out his bow. He slid an arrow out of his quiver and notched it on the string. It tapped nervously against the bow-stave.

  Dezra glanced about, searching for whatever trouble Trephas sensed. For a moment all was silent, save the moan of the wind and the soft tap-tap-tap of the centaur's arrow. Then, faintly, she heard something ahead: the thud of hoofbeats, the rattle of harnesses.

  Trephas's tail twitched edgily. "Mount up," he hissed. "We must ride before the trap is set."

  Dezra caught her breath, then lunged toward the centaur and climbed onto his back. She almost slid off the other side, then caught her arms about his waist to right herself.

  Trephas's reflexes were quicker than any horse's. One moment he was standing still, the next he was halfway to a gallop and gaming speed. Startled, Dezra nearly lost her grip, and clutched him even tighter. Her heels pounded his flanks, spurring him on.

  "Stop kicking me!" he barked. "And loosen thy grasp. I can't breathe with thee squeezing me so!"

  Reluctantly, she obeyed. Trephas surged down the path, mane flying, dust billowing behind him. Dezra considered drawing her sword, but only for a moment: it was hard enough to stay on the centaur's back with two hands. She didn't want to risk one.

  The path curved ahead. It was a sharp turn, after which, Dezra knew, it descended into a gully where an old trail led to Prayer's Eye Peak. That was where the approaching hoof-beats were coming from. She didn't know who would get to the crossroads first.

  "Hang on," Trephas warned.

  She gripped with arms and knees as Trephas flew around the turn. They charged downhill, at a pace that promised broken bones, or worse, if either of them fell. Dezra craned her neck, brushing aside his mane to peer ahead. The path to Prayer's Eye Peak was a narrow game trail, bristling with grass and leafy weeds. It cut through the mountains toward the cleft crag, barely wide enough for a lone rider to negotiate. So, instead of coming two or three abreast, the ambushers had to move single file.

  They were centaurs, Dezra saw. But something was wrong with them.

  At first glance, they looked like they were kin to Trephas, but something was different. They moved with unnatural fluidity, plucking arrows from their quivers and nocking them on their bowstrings. Every now and then, they twitched and jerked, like a man stung by a wasp. They were shaped oddly, too. One was so thin as to be skeletal; others were masses of corded muscle; another still was disgustingly obese. Some had lost patches of hair, others were too hairy by half. Their legs were too long, or of mismatched lengths; arms too short; ears like horses' instead of men's. None of them had tails. Their eyes had no whites, but were all dull, empty pupil: blank, dark, devoid of feeling.

  Dezra shuddered as she met their cold, empty gaze. Branchala bite me, she thought. What are these?

  Now they were a hundred paces away. One, a hulking, bay brute whose upper half resembled an ogre more than a man, raised his bow and loosed a shot. The arrow soared high, then dove to shatter before Trephas's flashing hooves.

  Sixty paces.

  "Thenidor," Trephas snorted as the bay readied another arrow. "I should have guessed." Keeping up the charge, he brought up his bow, pulled back the string. The misshapen horsefolk did the same, arrowheads glinting in the sun. Dezra clenched her teeth.

  Forty paces. Trephas's bowstring thrummed. To the bay's left, a gray, hunchbacked centaur dropped, its breast pierced. It thrashed on the ground, limbs flailing.

  It saved them.

  The bay, Thenidor, stumbled sideways as the dying gray kicked at him. He fired, but his aim was ruined. The shot soared away uselessly. Beside him, a wiry black centaur lowered his weapon and leapt aside. At the end of the row, a shaggy brown whose long face had at least as much horse as man to it launched his own shot. Dezra ducked as the arrow streaked straight toward them. Trephas swerved, and she heard a hum as the shaft flashed past.

  Twenty paces.

  She peeked over Trephas's shoulder. Ahead, the misshapen centaurs milled about in confusion. Thenidor dropped his bow and pulled a halberd from his war harness.

  Ten.

  Dezra ducked behind Trephas, squeezing her eyes shut and gripping him tightly.

  There was shouting all around, and the clatter of hooves. Trephas struck something hard, glanced off, and kept running. A low whistle split the air—Thenidor's halberd—then the commotion was behind them: horseshoes ringing on stone, snarled curses, creaking bows.

  She opened her eyes and glanced about. Trephas was bleeding from a gash across his flank, but he kept up his desperate, galloping pace. The road ahead was dear. She twisted, glancing back, and saw their would-be ambushers in disarray. The gray was no longer moving. Awkwardly, the other centaurs wheeled around. Thenidor still gripped his halberd, but the wiry black and the shaggy brown raised their bows and fired. One shot fell to Trephas's right, splintering against the stones; the other grazed the tip of his tail before clattering to the ground.

  "We made it!" Dezra whooped, pounding his back.

  Trephas ignored her, plunging on without slowing. Soon, Dezra saw why: The misshapen horse-men leapt into motion. She counted their pursuers—six, it looked like—before Trephas crested the rise and rounded another bend in the road. Then they were gone from sight, though she still could hear their thundering hooves.

  "So much for Prayer's Eye Peak," Dezr
a said, watching the mountain drop away behind them. "What in the Abyss were those… things?"

  Trephas didn't answer. He lowered his head, charging along the winding Haven Road into the heart of the Sentinel Peaks. Their pursuers' hoofbeats kept pace.

  "Hey!" Dezra yelled. "Aren't you listen—"

  "I can run," Trephas snarled, "or I can talk. I haven't the wind for both." He drew a ragged breath, as if to emphasize the point.

  Dezra scowled. "All right. Don't be so damn touchy."

  Trephas grunted and galloped onward, mane and tail streaming. Dezra held on, her hangover forgotten.

  They rode hard and fast, for what seemed like hours. When they slow'ed again at last, Dezra was exhausted. Every bone in her body throbbed from the centaur's jarring gait. Lathered with sweat, Trephas eased into a trot and glanced back.

  They'd seen their pursuers only twice since Prayer's Eye Peak, and then only for a few moments. The misshapen centaurs had loosed a few shots, which Trephas had evaded nimbly. Now, however, there was no one behind them.

  "Are they gone?" Dezra asked.

  Trephas cocked an ear, sucking his teeth, then nodded. "I reckon so. They kept us from the Wood, which was their aim—though I'm sure Thenidor's fuming that he didn't kill us. Now," he added, coming to a halt, "I must rest. Get off."

  Dezra slumped off his back and sat on a tree stump by the roadside. She winced as her legs tried to cramp up, took a nip from the flask of dwarf spirits she'd purloined, and looked about, getting her bearings.

  They had come a long way. The vallenwoods of Solace Vale had given way to swaying pines and spruces. They were almost to the Sentinel Gap, where the Haven Road turned south, toward Shadow Canyon and the lowlands beyond. The sun almost touched the mountaintops ahead.

  "So," she asked, glancing back. The road remained deserted. "Now that we've lost your friends back there, would you mind telling me what that was about?"