"Well," said Lord Chrethon. His lips pulled back, revealing small, sharp teeth. "Perhaps we can use this one. Bring him to the tree."
The oak crouched amid the darkness like an ant lion in its pit, awaiting its prey. It was massive, looming higher than any of the centuries-old trees around it. Its night-black bark was deeply gnarled, cloaked with shelf fungi and rusty moss. Its enormous roots snaked through the ground; its branches clawed skyward like skeletal arms; its sharp-toothed leaves whispered in a hundred susurrant voices. Hurach clapped his hands over his ears, trying to drown the voices out, but it did no good. Small wonder the Skorenoi were mad—who could bear that whispering for long, and remain sane?
Lord Chrethon laughed. It was a hard, mirthless sound, glittering like the edge of a knife. He gestured, and Leodippos threw Hurach to the ground.
"We wait here," Chrethon said, nodding toward the daemon tree. "It's not finished feeding yet."
Hurach didn't want to look, but he couldn't help it. A small, dark shape huddled, shivering, on the ground, halfway between them and the daemon tree. It was another satyr, one of his kinfolk. Hurach saw the curve of the goat-man's horns, the white fringe on his black, hairy legs, and put a name to him: Druthed. Hurach couldn't hear him for the hissing leaves, but he imagined Druthed was weeping.
"Wait," Lord Chrethon murmured, his face aglow. "Wait----"
A faint creak, so low it was almost a rumble, sounded from the tree. Hurach watched, eyes wide, as Grimbough began to move. Its branches bent, curling down slowly toward the cowering satyr, twigs groping like talons. Hurach tried to look away, but Leodippos held him fast, forcing him to watch as the oak shrouded Druthed with its leaves.
It happened so suddenly that Leodippos grunted in surprise, tightening his grip on Hurach's shoulders. With a loud, tearing sound, the ground beneath Druthed's sobbing form ripped open. Roots, pallid and smelling of fresh earth, clawed up from below. They coiled around Druthed's wrists, ankles, shoulders… even the goat-man's throat. They cradled him a moment, and he shivered like a newborn kid. Then, slowly, they began to pull.
Druthed screamed.
The satyr's agonized cries were the most horrible sound Hurach had ever heard. Hurach closed his eyes, but he couldn't shut out the shrieking, nor the gruesome sound that joined it: a wet, popping sound that put him in mind of a joint of lamb being pulled apart. Then, abruptly, Druthed's howling ended. The grisly crunching continued a while longer, accompanied by thick, sucking sounds that made Hurach want to vomit. Finally, even these stopped. Only the creaking of Grimbough's limbs remained.
Hurach steeled himself against what he might see when he opened his eyes. It didn't help. Pieces of Druthed were strewn about the clearing, drained of blood. Flushed, the grasping roots pulled away and slipped back into the ground. The earth sealed shut. Slowly, Grimbough's branches straightened.
Hurach stared at the shredded meat, shuddering. That will be me soon, he thought. Mere blood to slake the tree's thirst.
Still grinning, Lord Chrethon raised a bony arm. "Grimbough!" he called. "I would speak with thee."
The oak stirred slightly. Something rumbled deep beneath the ground. Hurach heard words in the sound; the muttering leaves echoed them as Grimbough spoke.
"Again?" boomed the sepulchral voice. "Have you brought another offering for me?"
… me? whispered the leaves.
"If it is thy wish," Chrethon replied solicitously. "But this one, I think, may be of better use."
Without warning, Grimbough's mind entered Hurach's, a rusty spear cleaving his skull. He drew breath to cry out, but the terrible presence was just as swiftly gone.
"Bring it forward," the tree bade.
… forward, the leaves hissed.
Well past panic, Hurach felt almost serene as Leodippos shoved him toward the tree. Chrethon followed. They stopped amid Druthed's remains. Now that he was closer, Hurach saw Grimbough's trunk was throbbing, swelling like a great, slow-beating heart. He waited, with calm fascination, for the branches to bend down, the ground to open, the unbearable strain as the roots ripped him apart… .
"Yes," said the tree. "This one will suffice."
… suffice, echoed the leaves.
Hurach tore his gaze from the pulsating trunk and looked at Chrethon. The emaciated centaur nodded. "Wilt thou take him now?"
"No," Grimbough said. "Let him see the prize first."
…first…
Chrethon bowed, then exchanged nods with Leodippos. If anything, his too-broad smile grew even wider.
Leodippos gave Hurach a shove. The satyr stumbled, nearly fell, and followed Chrethon past Grimbough, toward the grove's far side.
"Where are we going?" he asked, glancing around.
"Never fear, little goat," Leodippos leered. "It isn't far."
Fewer than a hundred paces from Grimbough, they came to a clearing in the woods. In its midst stood a huge briar-patch, an dense thicket that rose above even the Skorenoi's heads. The brambles twisted and coiled restlessly, bristling with wicked, curving thorns the size of daggers.
"Go," Chrethon bade. "Look inside."
Against his will, Hurach found himself walking forward until he stood before the thicket, staring into its senselessly writhing depths. There was something inside, almost invisible amid the briars: a white shape, frail and feeble. Hurach let out a cry when he saw it.
It was the Forestmaster.
He'd seen the unicorn only once before, during a pilgrimage to her grove when he came of age. She'd been beautiful then, a creature of grace and silver light. He'd wept with joy at the sight of her; now he wept again, with grief. She was as wasted as Chrethon, ribs showing clearly through her skin. Her coat had turned mangy and dull, marked with rusty patches of dried blood where the vicious thorns had dug into her flesh. Her mane and tail were matted and filthy, tangled with burrs. A muzzle of leather and steel covered her face, save for her dull, pleading eyes. Only her horn, gleaming like moonlit pearls, bore any of her former splendor.
Hurach dropped to his knees on the barren ground, sobbing. "Mistress," he choked. "Oh, Mistress… what have they done to you?"
"Nothing, compared with what awaits her," Chrethon said, chuckling cruelly. "Now rise, goat-man. Grimbough awaits."
Hurach didn't move. He stared at the wretched form of the Forestmaster, trapped within the snaking thornbushes. Finally, Leodippos came forward, war harness jingling, and grabbed his arm. The satyr knew he should struggle, fight, try to break free, but he did nothing. He was as limp as a corpse as Leodippos yanked him to his feet and dragged him back toward Grimbough.
When they were near the daemon tree again, Leodippos threw him down on the ground. Hurach made no effort to rise.
Grimbough was pleased. "Good," it boomed. "He is ready. You may leave, Chrethon. I will summon you when I am done."
… done.
Hurach heard the Skorenoi withdraw, but didn't turn to watch them go. There was a loud, low creaking from above, and shadows blocked out the moonlight as Grimbough's branches bent down. The ground beneath him tore open. He didn't flinch as the roots burst forth and caught his legs, arms and waist. A tendril wound about his neck, choking him. He waited for pain, for the tree to rend him to pieces. For an end.
But that didn't happen. Instead, Grimbough pulled him under. Spongy, dank earth pressed tight around him, closed in, sealed over. The dull rumble of Grimbough's voice began to speak in his mind. It talked for a long time. The satyr wept brokenly, then slid into blackness.
While he slept, Hurach began to change.
12
"Big guy. Hey." Borlos's voice.
Caramon brought his hands to his face, pressed their heels against his eyes. "G'way," he moaned. "Lemme sleep."
"I don't think so." The bard shook Caramon's shoulder. "You'd better get up.”
Muttering a curse, Caramon sat up and cracked his eyes open. He had a moment, as daylight blinded him, to notice how badly he ached. How long had it been since he'd
slept on the ground?
It was a little past dawn, the sky dotted with golden clouds. Darken Wood loomed to his left; to his right, Uwen was stamping out the fire's ashes. Past him were their horses, tethered and contentedly cropping grass. Caramon twisted, joints cracking, and looked around. A moment later he stiffened, hissing through his teeth.
"Where's Trephas?" he asked. "And Dezra? Bor, where's my daughter?"
"Well," Borlos began, spreading his hands as Caramon staggered to his feet. "It's like this, big guy—they're gone."
"You had last watch, you damned fool!" Caramon snapped. "What happened?"
The bard flushed. "I'm sorry. I, uh, guess I dozed off."
Caramon swore again, balling his hands into fists.
Borlos stepped back warily. "Easy, big guy. Breaking my teeth won't help anyone. Here." He offered Caramon a creased scrap of parchment. "She left this."
Caramon snatched the parchment from his hand and unfolded it. It was a notice proclaiming the Spring Dawning feast, back at Solace.
"What—" he began.
"Turn it over."
He did. On the back of the parchment were hastily scribed words, scratched out with a bit of charcoal.
Father,
They read.
We made a bargain yesterday. I kept my side—you know what's happening in Darken Wood now, and why the centaurs want my help. Now you're going to keep yours.
Go home. Take Bor and Uwen with you. None of you are up to this. I neither need nor want your help.
Say good-bye to Laura for me.
— D.
"Goblin spit," Caramon snarled. He clenched his fist, crumpling the message.
Uwen walked over. He wore his armor and axe, and his blue eyes were ablaze with purpose. "We're going after her, right?" he asked.
"Whoa," Borlos said, raising his hands. His armor was still by his bedroll, with his packs. "Hold on, lad. Dez has a point—that isn't just any forest." He jerked his thumb at Darken Wood. "Do you really feel like heading straight into a war, with deformed centaurs and daemon trees and all that? Because I don't."
Uwen's face was stony. "I'm going after her."
"And what if you do?" Borlos argued. "How will you find her in there? There aren't any roads to follow, and I don't know a whit about tracking." He turned to Caramon. "What about you, big guy? Think you can follow her trail?"
Caramon shook his head. In the old days, tracking had been up to the likes of Tanis and Riverwind.
Borlos threw up his hands. "So. How do you propose to—"
"I can track her," Uwen said.
"—find her in the middle of—huh?" Borlos asked. "You can?"
Uwen nodded. "My father keeps sheep at our farm. We had trouble with wolves a couple years ago. Papa taught me wood-lore, so we could hunt them down."
"Oh. Well, then," Borlos grumbled. "That makes everything better."
"I'm going," Uwen vowed. "You go back to Solace if you want."
Borlos glanced at the heavens, beseeching, then looked to Caramon. "Would you talk some sense into him?"
Caramon scowled at Uwen, who looked back with earnest defiance, then he snorted and strode toward his horse.
"See?" Borlos asked. "The big guy has sense enough not to go traipsing off into—hey." He stopped, staring, as Caramon started unbuckling his horse's bridle. "What are you doing?"
"What do you think?" Caramon replied. The horse tossed its head as the bridle came off. "I'm setting her free. I can't use her where I'm going."
Grinning, Uwen jogged to his own gelding and began to undo its harness. "You can always take them back with you, if you're worried about them," he told the bard.
Borlos hesitated, then shook his head. "No way. I'm coming too."
Caramon shot the bard an amused glance.
"What can I say?" Borlos replied, shrugging as he walked toward his mare. "I'd rather run across that daemon tree than face Tika if I come back without you or Dez."
They unharnessed the horses, then untied their tethers. As they raised their hands to slap the animals' rumps, however, the horses wheeled and cantered back up the hill, toward the road. Taken aback, Caramon, Uwen and Borlos watched as they climbed the steep slope, then turned north and galloped out of sight.
"Wow," Borlos remarked as the pounding of their hooves faded in the distance. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they knew where they were going."
Caramon considered. He had an inkling they were going back home, and another thought that Trephas had told them to do so. He wondered what Tika would think if they returned, riderless, to the Inn.
He sighed, thrusting the thought aside, and went to gather his gear. "Come on," he said. "They've got enough of a head start as it is."
There were few virgin forests left in Ansalon. Even the homelands of the elves and kender, though idyllic, peaceful places, had been quietly shaped by their sylvan inhabitants. Although dwarves and humans wouldn't recognize them as such, they were civilized.
Darken Wood, however, remained a wild place, utterly untamed. Its black oaks grew close together, their branches mingling to weave a blanket of twig and leaf that stretched overhead for miles. Shadows cloaked the forest floor. Apart from occasional spears of brilliant, golden sunshine, the only light was a dim, green glow. It made everything look as though it lay at the bottom of the sea. Despite the gloom, though, the forest floor wasn't barren. Ferns, saplings and shrubs grew between the oaks' mossy trunks. Fat bees drifted drowsily among white and blue flowers.
There were animals, too. Dozens of different kinds of birds flitted among the boughs, bright-feathered males twittering and swooping to draw the attention of their drab mates. Red squirrels darted up and down the oaks' trunks. Holes beneath the trees marked the burrows of badgers and spiny trevils, who tended to come out at night. Deer moved among the shadows, white tails held high; here and there, bloody gouges scored a tree where a young stag had rubbed the velvety skin off his new-grown antlers.
It wasn't badgers or deer Dezra was thinking about, though; it was the large, brown bear in front of her.
Dezra had seen bears before. They were common in Solace Vale, though those were small and black. She'd never been this close, though—near enough to smell salmon on the great animal's breath. It was, she decided, an experience she could have done without.
She and Trephas had been walking quietly, several leagues from the forest's edge. She'd looked behind them for a moment, and when she turned around, the bear had been there, ambling out of the shadows to sit down before them. That had been several minutes ago; neither Dezra nor the bear had moved since.
Trephas looked at her, nonplussed. "What's the trouble? Why hast thou stopped?"
"You're kidding, right?" Dezra asked through tight lips.
Trephas followed her gaze to the bear, then laughed. "Ah," he said. For such a small sound, it was remarkably condescending. "Of course. I forgot thy kind fear our forest-biethren. Rest easy; the beast means no harm, so long as thou dost not harm him."
"Oh," Dezra said. "That's nice."
The bear yawned, revealing a mouthful of fangs. Trephas was within its reach. If it decided to give him a swat, he'd be lying on the ground in tatters. He turned his back on it, glancing at her. "Come on. We can't wait here all day."
"Crap," Dezra muttered, swallowing. Nervously, she edged forward, making a wide circuit around the bear. In time, she made her way past the animal. She glanced back, and saw it staring at her over its shoulder, its tongue lolling from its mouth.
"See?" Trephas asked. His booming voice made her jump. "He's never met thy kind before—only mine, and the other woodfolk. He doesn't fear us."
"Lovely," Dezra said. "And what if that wasn't just a friendly old bear? What if it had… Crossed? Like the Skorenoi?"
"I would have known," Trephas said magnanimously. "Never fear."
Dezra glanced up at the leaves, her face sour. Above their heads, a pair of jays flapped from branch to branch, squalling. She and Trephas w
alked on. She didn't ride. Neither of them had enjoyed it very much yesterday, and they were no longer in so great a hurry. He'd assured her, before they set out, that their path would be free of danger. They would walk to the Darkwater River, then follow it downstream and arrive in Ithax two days hence.
Around midday—it was hard to keep track of time, with the sun hidden behind the shifting leaves—she heard a new sound ahead: the babble of a flowing stream. She glanced at Trephas.
"The Darkwater," he said, nodding. "We can stop there and rest, if it pleases thee."
"I don't have to rest," Dezra said pointedly. The idea was appealing, but Trephas's attitude—that if they stopped, it would be to humor her—irritated her. "I can keep up."
He glanced at her, his brow furrowed, and shrugged. "Even so, we should tarry to eat. Our waterskins could use filling, also."
"Suit yourself."
The black oaks yielded to golden willows. The Darkwater snaked among them, shrouded by their drooping branches. Their shadows made it live up to its name, though a cataract foamed white, a ways upstream. Green and blue dragonflies danced above its surface, and fish darted beneath. Dezra knelt at its edge to fill her waterskin, then sat down in the grass and ate the food she'd stolen from the fair. Between mouthfuls, she snuck sips of dwarf spirits from her flask.
She smiled as the liquor warmed her, then glanced toward Trephas. The centaur knelt several yards downstream. As she watched, he plucked a fistful of grass from the ground and tucked it in his mouth. She let out a quick laugh, then looked away, covering her grin with her hand. Sure, he was half horse, but she'd never thought he'd graze like one.
He ate other things, too—some soft cheese from his pouch, plus a few velvety leaves off a bush that grew beside one of the willows. There was another shrub like it near Dezra, and while Trephas wasn't looking she plucked a leaf and put it in her mouth. She spat it out again immediately, grimacing, and downed a swig of dwarf spirits to kill the astringent taste.
Dezra's Quest Page 9
