by Terry Brooks
His first thought was wishful thinking: Perhaps they had not sensed him. Faint hope, for their twisted cat faces looked up immediately, gleaming eyes fixing on him. Their sinewy bodies shifted at once into an attack posture, all turning in unison. Grianne had categorized them as mindless killers. You might stop one or two—more, if you were capable of summoning real magic—but you could not stop them all, because once committed to a battle they would never give up. You couldn’t run from them; they were too swift and agile. And if they reached you, there was little hope against their razor-sharp teeth and claws.
Drisker—having already considered the choice of the weapons he could call on before setting out—immediately vanished.
It was the same skill he had used in his lessons with Tarsha, and he had learned not only how to hide himself physically, but also how to mask his scent. He did so now, shifting sideways in order to move farther away while still keeping the Furies in view. He executed this perfectly, and the Furies were left confused and—after a few further curious cat moments—disinterested. But Drisker took no chances. He kept his disguise in place—even though it drained him of strength—until he was well clear.
Then, near exhaustion, he breathed deeply of the fetid air, almost gagging from the taste, before setting off once more. He could not use his magic this way often. If he did, he would soon grow too weary to summon it, and his hunters would have him. Other means of protection were needed if there were many more of these encounters. Plus, soon he would have to stop for the night. It had been a long time since he had last slept, and his struggles had left him exhausted in both body and mind. He was still functioning, if not on a particularly high level.
But there was nowhere he could sleep safely, so he had no choice but to press on, even though the world about him was growing darker and his ability to sense what was out there in the gloom was lessening. He found himself once more regretting his impulsive nature. First there was his rash decision to go back into Paranor once the Skaar had taken control so that he might release the Guardian to destroy them, and now it was his insistence on trying to put an end to Clizia Porse on his own.
He shook his head ruefully, but regrets accomplished nothing at this point. What would save him now was caution and quick thinking.
Still, he could feel his weariness starting to work against him. His mind was wandering. Not enough to cause him to drop his protection or cease scanning the world about him—not yet, anyway—but soon enough it would. The erosion was not so gradual that he couldn’t recognize it was happening, but gradual enough that he was finding it harder to recognize the extent to which it diminished him.
He thought about his long-ago decision to leave the Druid order and seek refuge in Emberen. Abandoning his obligations and forsaking the other Druids had been a poor solution to the misbehavior and recalcitrance of those he had been elected to lead. Looking back on it, he imagined it was the beginning of everything bad that had happened in the Four Lands. He could make a good argument that, had he stayed, he would have spied out the traitor Kassen, disposed of him, and blocked the Skaar efforts to breach the walls of Paranor. Everything that had transpired since was born of that failure. The weight of guilt engendered by this knowledge was enough to bury him, if he were foolish enough to dwell on it.
Yet he realized—upon acknowledging this—that it was exactly what he had been doing all along.
Ahead, a broad patch of trees and brush came into view. He turned toward it at once, immediately searching for creatures in hiding. He found a few, but not many. They were not huge in size, though perhaps dangerous for other reasons, but Drisker could no longer afford to be picky about where he spent the night. His choices were few, and what remained of the daylight was slowly leaching away. The trees ahead were going to be the safest place he would find in the time that remained.
As it turned out, the choice was better than he had expected.
He did not think sleeping on the ground was a good idea, and at first glance the trees seemed tall and limbless for the first twenty feet. But he soon discovered one that had been used for a watchtower; handgrips and footholds had been fastened into the trunk to allow for climbing, and there was even a platform. On further investigation, he found a vine studded with razor-sharp thorns that could provide a barrier against anything trying to reach him. So he cut loose the vine, tied a length of cord he carried in his belt around one end, and hauled the vine up behind him as he climbed to his perch. Several yards down from the platform, at a place when the grips and holds ended, he wrapped his thorny protection about the entire trunk, concealing it as best he could within the leafy lower branches. That would be enough to stop anyone or anything from climbing up or over. Any effort to cut their way past the vine or to try to bypass it was almost certain to cause harm, and he would hear it.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would do, and Drisker was too exhausted to do more. He was hungry and thirsty as well, but there was no way to find anything until morning. Stumbling about in the darkness was an invitation to disaster.
Wrapped in his cloak against inclement weather and unexpected attacks, he situated himself on the platform with his back braced against the trunk, about thirty feet off the ground, and paused to make certain he was safe.
But staying awake any longer proved impossible, and he was asleep almost at once.
FIVE
When Drisker woke the following morning, the dawn light had already begun to cast the world around him in the familiar ominous gray color he remembered from the day before. He had slept poorly, restless and aware of the dangers all around him. The platform on which he had settled himself had proved a poor substitute for a bed, and as a result his body ached everywhere. Had he been anywhere else, he would have been certain he had contracted an illness of some sort, or perhaps a wasting disease.
It took a while for his body to regain feeling in all its various cramped and sore parts, and he spent long minutes stretching and testing before he was satisfied that everything still functioned. As he made whatever adjustments to his body he could to prepare it for what lay ahead, he studied the terrain around him and listened to its sounds. There were several screams from off in the distance and a few grunts and roars, as if animals might be waking, but nothing close. Birds—or an approximation of birds—passed in silent flight overhead: solitary creatures that looked more like rodents with wings.
Already he was telling himself that he had to find a way out of the Forbidding—and soon. But he was also aware that if he failed to find Grianne Ohmsford, he had no way to make that happen and was in danger of finding himself trapped in this wretched twilight prison forever.
When he was sufficiently mobile, he rose and climbed down from his perch to the ground below, keeping close watch as he did so, his senses pricked and his protective magic at the ready. But there seemed to be nothing lingering close by. The gloom was also providing sufficient light by now that he could find his way and spy out the pitfalls of the terrain.
More to the point, it was enough to help him find food and drink, which he needed to do immediately. He was hungry and thirsty beyond belief.
Where he would find sustenance in maybe whatever form it might take was another matter. He had seen no drinkable water yesterday—only gray, rank-smelling pools. The river he was traveling toward might provide something better, but the prospect of catching and eating anything that lived here seemed risky.
Still, for lack of any better options, he began walking south, making for the river. Behind him, mountains that approximated the Dragon’s Teeth rose skyward, jagged and threatening. The river, he decided, was the Forbidding’s version of the Mermidon. What must this world’s approximation of the Rainbow Lake look like—bands of black and gray arching over a murky body of fetid water? The Forbidding’s rank smell was ever-present and intrusive. How anything could live here was unimaginable. And yet live here they did.
In
the distance, a huge winged creature swept through the skies, its sinewy body covered in scales, its wings leathery and batlike, its jaws filled with razor-sharp teeth. It soared with silent purpose over the land below. Hunting, Drisker supposed. In this land, everything was hunting. He recognized the creature from descriptions he had read in the Histories. A dragon—Dracha, as it was called over here. They came in all shapes and sizes and were a dominant species.
Yet there were other, worse things living in the Forbidding. Much worse.
He walked for perhaps an hour, the world about him unchangingly dismal. The light, such as it was, did not brighten. He sensed the creatures about him as he passed, but none came near enough to offer a threat. Nevertheless, the threat was there, a constant presence. It made him fearful in a way he seldom ever was. With so much magic at his command—with so many weapons—he was not often overmatched or inclined to be afraid of what he might encounter. But that was not so here. In the Forbidding, the sheer number of predators was enough to overwhelm him. And in the Forbidding, everything was not only a predator, but also prey.
He tried to focus on other things, such as the whereabouts of Tarsha and Tavo, but quickly gave it up as pointless when the dark thoughts and the fear returned. He wondered if anyone would ever know what had happened to him. If the Kaynin siblings were both dead, how would anyone know? And even if they were still alive and had somehow escaped the witch, would they have any idea at all what had become of him? How would they find out? There was no one to tell them, no way to track him, no hint of his fate. Even if Tarsha wanted an answer to this question, she lacked the means to find it.
Ahead, the river came into view. And with it, directly in front of him, was a placid, clear pond. He stopped to make sure the pond wasn’t a mirage and, after deciding it wasn’t, pondered further whether its waters were safe to drink. But his thirst was raging, and the lure of potable water was so strong that he determined he must take the chance. The smell might be bad, and the taste foul, but it would fill a need he could no longer afford to ignore.
He walked to the edge of the pond, knelt, and slowly leaned down to test its water.
“What are you doing?” a voice cried out.
He straightened at once. A spindly, spider-like creature stood to one side of him, its Gnome-like face scrunched in disapproval. Hair sprouted everywhere from its crooked body, bulking up its otherwise scrawny form and giving it a wild, untamed look. A memory tugged at him.
“Do you intend to kill yourself?” the creature demanded. “Is that why you wish to drink toxic water? These waters”—he gestured at the pond—“will kill you in five seconds!”
Drisker’s memory returned. “You’re an Ulk Bog.”
“Brilliant. I suppose next you will announce that you have found yourself in the Forbidding and discovered how terrible it is!”
Drisker smiled. “And who are you?”
“I am one who is honored to serve she who was once Grianne of the trees and earth, she who was and remains the Straken Queen. She who I am proud to call my friend. I am Weka Dart!”
Drisker couldn’t believe his good fortune. “I know of you!”
The Ulk Bog beamed. “Everyone knows of me. They know of my intelligence and my skills. They know of my clever wits. They know of the value of my services.”
It was all coming together. Drisker rose. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”
Weka Dart nodded. “But you couldn’t tell I was there, could you? I was too clever for you.”
“You were. Now tell me, why were you following me? Did Grianne send you?”
“Ah, you are not so dim-witted as you appear. Of course she sent me. I am to make certain you reach her in one piece. That is possible, is it not? You are a Straken, aren’t you?”
Straken. Witch, in the common language of those imprisoned within the Forbidding. “I am a Druid. Like Grianne Ohmsford, your Straken Queen. She was once a Druid, too. We are alike.”
Weka Dart shook his head at once. “No, you are not like her. No one is like her. You aspire to be, perhaps, but you can never hope to compare.”
Drisker didn’t care to argue the point. “But she sent you to find me. So she knew I was here.”
“She knows everything—even your name. Drisker Arc.” He gave Drisker a determined look. “Do you hope she will take you for a mate?”
“What? No! I come for another reason.” Drisker changed the subject quickly. “So if you were sent to find me, why did you wait so long to show yourself?”
The Ulk Bog shrugged. “You seemed to be doing fine on your own. You managed to fool the Furies. You were traveling in the right direction and avoiding all the other bad things that might make a meal of you. You found a place to sleep that was safe enough—although I did have to dispatch a tree serpent during the night so it would not find you. But when you bent to drink the water, it was not something I could stand by and watch. My lady would have been very disappointed in me if I had.”
“Because I would have been dead.”
“Very.”
Drisker took a moment to assess the situation, as he now understood it. “Why did Grianne send you to find me?”
Weka Dart smiled, showing all of his sharp-pointed teeth. “That is for her to say, not me. We must leave now so you can find out.”
* * *
—
They set out at once. The Ulk Bog soon proved annoying beyond reason, chattering away as if it were as necessary as breathing. He never once paused and seemed to have no interest in any response the Druid might care to give. He talked about only one thing: Grianne Ohmsford. He extolled her virtues endlessly, going on and on about her intelligence and consideration for others, about her ability to lead the other creatures in the Forbidding, and about her wondrous accomplishments. Now and then, he also cataloged a few of his own small but valuable contributions to her efforts and the extent to which she relied upon his services.
Drisker put up with it for as long as he could, then stopped him midsentence. “I need to find water,” he insisted.
After grumbling about being interrupted, the voluble fellow advised patience and to trust in his intentions to help as soon as help was available. Which meant, Drisker discovered, until they reached the river. Once there, almost an hour later, the Ulk Bog found a stream coming out of the mountains that, while silt-filled and discolored, was drinkable. Drisker swallowed the water greedily and without hesitation, deciding he would have to trust this strange creature, like it or not, because there was no one else to turn to.
“We will eat when we stop for the night,” Weka Dart added before Drisker could ask.
“How far are we going?”
His guide scrunched up his features. “Three days’ journey. We must cross the length of the Pashanon to Kraal Reach. She waits for us there, in her castle.”
“Her castle?”
“She destroyed the Straken Lord. She threw down Tael Riverine when he came into your world with his followers to take it for himself. But when the demons were returned to the Forbidding, she was sent with them. Now she rules the creatures trapped here. She is the Straken Queen.”
Drisker knew Grianne was a prisoner in the Forbidding. Having reverted to her identity as the Ilse Witch during her confrontation with Tael Riverine, she had been swept up at the birth of the new Ellcrys and carried away with all the other demons into this limbo prison. When she had appeared to him at the Hadeshorn, she had told Drisker that she was not dead, but alive and well. What she had not said was that she was now ruler over all those imprisoned with her. He supposed it was a logical result of her having destroyed their former ruler, but it troubled him to find her so deeply enmeshed in this world’s affairs. If she was not only one of the demons but their leader, what might he expect of her if he found a way to return them both to the Four Lands?
But he had made a barga
in with her. He had given his word. She wanted to be free of the Forbidding and returned to the life and the world from which she had been taken. She had said she wanted to die as the creature she had been before: a Faerie creature in service to Mother Tanequil. For that was what she had been, hadn’t she? That was what Pen Ohmsford had given her the chance to become at the end of her life.
All this she had lost with the dying of the old Ellcrys and the fall of the Forbidding. And this was what she wanted back. He thought she was being genuine when she said it, and there was no reason to doubt her yet. She had been alive—such as life might be in her present circumstances—for almost a thousand years, but these past two hundred had seen her returned to the terrible creature she had once been and had fought so hard to escape. She was, no doubt, immensely unhappy and desperate to be free.
It might not seem possible now, but he knew he had to try to find a way to give her back what had been stolen from her.
Weka Dart was nattering on, skipping ahead and then back again, always moving—a bundle of energy that would not be contained, and much of it centered on his mouth. Drisker endured it, because to try to stop it would have been both futile and petty, and he needed the Ulk Bog to help him reach Grianne Ohmsford.
Three days of this journey lay ahead of him, and he was dreading every step.
They walked until nightfall, their journey uneventful. Now and then, Weka Dart urged them quickly into hiding, but only once did they actually see what it was that threatened. In that single viewing, Drisker caught sight of a huge, lumbering beast that was crossing an open space in front of them and did not deviate from its path as it went. Had they been seen, he was unsure what would have transpired, but he was just as glad he would never find out. He was grateful in those moments that he had the services of the Ulk Bog to make certain they stayed alive.
