Thessalonica

“If we’re lucky, they’ll take one look at the centaurs and run screaming,” George answered, punctuating that with a sharp “oof!” as he came down awkwardly on Crotus’ back after the male took a particularly long bound. “Of course, if we were lucky, God wouldn’t have inflicted the Slavs and Avars on us in the first place, would He? I expect we’ll have a fight on our hands.”

Bishop Eusebius would sure have droned out some pious platitudes on the topic of all mankind’s being able to live together in peace and understanding and everyone’s worshiping God--in, of course, the orthodox fashion. That would have been wonderful, except that the Slavs and Avars had no interest in peace, understanding, or, for that matter, God.

And Father Luke, unlike most clergymen of George’s acquaintance, had little use for pious platitudes: not that he wasn’t pious--far from it--but he expressed his piety more through his life than through his talk. Now he nodded, and said, “That’s what I think, too.” He looked worried again. “I hope we aren’t too late.”

Off to one side of the main band of centaurs, a scream rose in the woods. It was not the sort of scream that might have come from the throat of one of the Slavic demons or demigods: it was a simple scream of human terror. The Slavs had had men hunting in the woods since before their assault on Thessalonica, as George knew full well. No doubt Slavs still roamed the woods, trying to keep their larders full. One of the small groups of centaurs that had peeled off from the main band in pursuit of a wolf-demon must have come upon a hunter instead. By the sounds the fellow had made, he wouldn’t be making any more sounds in the near future--or in the distant future, either.

A few minutes later, a centaur let out a screech filled with both fury and pain. An arrow sprouted from the creature’s right hindmost leg. Another centaur tore the shaft out, which caused the wounded male to screech again. Its bleeding slowed as quickly as George had seen to be commonplace among immortal beings. He hoped the Slav hadn’t poisoned the arrow, as his kind were known to do. If the Slav had poisoned it, he hoped the venom was not of a sort to harm supernatural creatures.

The male centaur ran on as if not badly hurt, so George supposed the arrow was either unpoisoned or harmless to the centaur regardless of poison. He did not have long to contemplate such things, for several centaurs, both males and females, galloped in the direction from which the arrow had come. Shouts rang out, some theirs, others from a man. When they rejoined the main band, blood dappled their human arms and torsos.

Before long, as they drew nearer to the encampments of the Slavs and Avars, more and more arrows began coming their way. “Keep on!” George shouted to Crotus. “If you waste your time chasing down a few archers, you won’t get to the main body of the foe till too late.”

More and more, as power built in the air around him, he got the feeling they had very little time. Whatever the Slavs and Avars were going to do, it was on the point of being done. “So that we slay them, what boots it an we slay them individually or collectively?” Crorus shouted back.

That was, George realized, the wine raging in the centaur. Sober, Crotus liked nothing better than to deliberate, to choose with great care the best possible course. Drunk, none of that mattered. All the male wanted to do was kick and stamp and tear and kill. Hows and whys and wherefores concerned it not at all.

“We have to get down to the city and break up the magic they’re working,” George said desperately. “Can’t you feel it? Can’t you sense it? If their gods fully come through into the hills we know--” He broke off. If that happened, God would have to intervene, perhaps through St. Demetrius, to save Thessalonica--if He chose to save it if He was strong enough to save it. But Crotus cared nothing about God and little about Thessalonica. George tried a different explanation: “If they manifest themselves in these hills, they’ll be too strong for you.”

Crotus bounded along, seemingly tireless. But after a few more strides, the male let out a great rambling bellow: “Thessalonica! To Thessalonica! Straight on to Thessalonica!”

The centaur sprang out ahead of the rest of the band, leading not just by shouts but by example. Straight on they went. They did not turn aside for holy ground of any sort. Maybe, in their drunken madness, the power in patches of holy ground had less effect on them than had been so while they were sober. Maybe, too, they simply happened not to run across any. George was too busy trying to stay on Crotus’ back to be sure.