by Terry Brooks
She tried to envision the thing that followed her. What manner of creature was the Werebeast? It had come to her as Allanon—or had that merely been a trick of the mist and her imagination? She shook her head in voiceless confusion.
Something small and wet skittered away from beneath her feet, flitting off into the dark. She turned away from it, moving down a broad incline into a vast, marshy bowl. Muck and swamp sucked at her boots, and wintry grasses slapped at her legs, clutching. She slowed, sensing the unpleasant give in the ground, then backed away toward the rim again. Quicksand lay at the bottom of that bowl and it would draw her down and swallow her. She must stay clear of it and follow the harder, dryer earth. Mist swirled thickly all about, obscuring her vision as she sought to see her way clear. Still she had no sense of direction. For all she knew, she had been traveling in a circle.
She tramped on. The mists of Olden Moor swirled and thickened in the deep night about her, and shadows moved through their dampened haze—Werebeasts. There was more than one of them trailing her now. Brin stared out at them, following their quicksilver movements as they swam like fish through twilight waters. Grimly she quickened her pace, slipping through the marsh grass, keeping to the high ground. They still came after her. But they would not have her, she swore in silent promise. She belonged to another fate.
She hastened onward, running now, the pumping of her heart and blood a dull pounding in her ears. Anger, fear, and determination all mingled as one and drove her forward. The moor rose before her gently, and she scrambled to the center of a small rise thick with long grasses and scrub. Slowing, she glanced about in disbelief.
The shadows were everywhere.
Then a tall, lean figure appeared from out of the mist before her, wrapped in a highlander’s cloak and bearing a giant broadsword strapped across its back. Brin stiffened in surprise. It was Rone! Arms lifted from out of the robes, reaching for her, beckoning her close. Willingly she started toward the highlander, her hand stretching to take his.
And then something stopped her.
She blinked. Rone? No!
A red veil fell across her vision, rage sweeping through her as she recognized the deception. It was not Rone Leah she saw. It was again the Werebeast that tracked her.
It came forward, a shimmering and fluid apparition. Robes and sword fell away, bits of the mist through which it passed. Nothing of the highlander was there now, but only a shadow, huge and changing. Swiftly it drew together, a massive body crouched on thick, clawed hindlegs, great forearms crooked and bristling with shaggy hair, and a head wrinkled and twisted about jaws that split to reveal whitened teeth.
It rose up through the mist, twice her size, swathed in the moor’s haze. Soundless, it bent its head and snapped at her, a mass of hair and scales, muscle, spiked bone, teeth, and slitted eyes. It was a thing born of darkest nightmares, one Brin might have dreamed in the anguish of her own despair.
Was it real? Or was it simply born out of the mist and the wanderings of her imagination?
It made no difference. Forsaking the oath she had taken only minutes earlier, she used the wishsong. Hardened with purpose, maddened by what she saw, she called it forth. She was not meant to die here within Olden Moor at the hands of this monster. This one further time she would use the magic—on a thing whose destruction did not matter.
She sang, and the wishsong froze in her throat.
It was her father who stood before her now.
The Werebeast slouched toward her, form shifting and changing in the haze, jaws slavering in anticipation of how the Valegirl’s life would sate its needs. Brin staggered back, seeing now her mother’s dark and gentle face. She called out in desperation, a wild, anguished cry that seemed locked in the silence of her mind.
Back came an answering cry, calling her name. Brin! Confusion swept through her; the cry seemed real, but who . . . ?
“Brin!”
The monster loomed over her, and she could smell the evil of it. But the wishsong stayed locked in her throat, imprisoned by the image she retained of its power tearing into her mother’s slim form, leaving it broken and lifeless.
“Brin!”
Then a frightening roar shattered the stillness of the night. A sleek shadow flew out of the mist, and five hundred pounds of enraged moor cat crashed into the Werebeast, flinging it back from Brin. Teeth and claws slashing, the cat tore into the monstrous apparition and both went tumbling headlong through the deep grasses.
“Brin! Where are you?”
Brin stumbled back, barely able to hear the voices over the sounds of the battle. Frantic, she called back to them. An instant later Kimber appeared, darting through the haze, her long hair streaming out behind her. Cogline followed, shouting wildly, his crooked body struggling to keep pace with the girl.
Whisper and the Werebeast surged back into view, lunging and feinting. The moor cat was the stronger of the two; although the mist thing sought to break past, it was blocked at every turn. But now other shadows were gathering in the darkness beyond, huge and shapeless, ringing them all close about. Too many shadows!
“Leah! Leah!”
And then Rone was there, his slim form bolting through the mass of shadows, sword lifted. Eerie, green incandescence swirled about the ebony blade. The Werebeast cornered by Whisper whirled instantly, sensing the greater danger of the sword’s magic. Thrusting away from the moor cat, the monster leaped at Rone. But the Prince of Leah was ready. His sword arced down, knifing through the mist into the Werebeast. Green fire flared sharply through the night, and the mist thing exploded in a shower of flames.
Then the light died away, and the night and the mist returned. The shadows that had gathered in the darkness beyond melted back into the void.
The highlander turned, the sword dropping forgotten at his side. He came quickly to Brin, his face stricken.
“I’m sorry, sorry,” he whispered. “The magic . . .” He shook his head helplessly. “When I found the sword again, when I touched it . . . I couldn’t seem to think of anything else. I picked it up and I ran with it. I forgot everything—even you. It was the magic, Brin . . .”
He faltered, and she nodded into his chest, hugging him close. “I know.”
“I won’t leave you like that again,” he promised. “I won’t.”
“I know that, too,” she replied softly.
But she said nothing of her decision to leave him.
XXXVII
It was the third day after leaving the prisons at Dun Fee Aran before Jair and the little company from Culhaven reached the towering mountain range they called the Ravenshorn. Unable to use the open roadways that ran close to the banks of the Silver River as it wound south out of the mountains for fear of being seen, they were forced to traverse the deep forests above, picking their way at a slower pace through the tangled wilderness. The rains finally ceased on the second day out, slowed to a drizzle by midmorning, and turned to mist by noon. The air warmed as the skies cleared, and the clouds drifted east. When darkness slipped across the land, the moon and stars became visible through the trees. Their pace was slow, even after the rains had subsided, for the saturated earth could not absorb all of the surface water that had gathered, and the ground was muddied and slick with it. Stopping only for short periods of time to rest and eat, the company did its best to ignore the poor travel conditions and resolutely pressed ahead.
The sun appeared on the third day, brilliant and warm, filtering down in friendly streamers through the forest shadows, returning bits and pieces of color to the sodden land. The dark mass of the Ravenshorn came into view, barren rock rising up above the treeline. All morning they worked their way toward it, then on through the noonday, and by midafternoon they had reached the lower slopes and were starting up.
It was then that Slanter brought them to a halt.
“We have a problem,” he announced matter-of-factly. “If we try to cross through these mountains, it will take us days—weeks, maybe. Only other way in is by f
ollowing the Silver River upstream to its source at Heaven’s Well. We can do that—if we’re careful—but sooner or later we will have to pass right under Graymark. Walkers will see us coming for sure.”
Foraker frowned. “There must be some way we can slip past them.”
“There isn’t,” Slanter grunted. “I ought to know.”
“Can we follow the river until we’re close to Graymark and then cross into the mountains?” Helt asked, his big frame lowering onto a boulder. “Can we come at it from another direction?”
The Gnome shook his head. “Not from where we are. Graymark sits on a cliff shelf that overlooks the whole of the land about it—the Ravenshorn, the Silver River, everything. Rock is barren and open—no cover at all.” He glanced at Stythys, who sat sullenly to one side. “That’s why the lizards like it there so well. Nothing could ever creep up on them.”
“Then we’ll have to go in at night,” Garet Jax said softly.
Again Slanter shook his head. “Break your neck if you try it. Cliffs are sheer drops all the way in and the paths are narrow and guarded. You’ll never make it.”
There was a long silence. “Well, what do you suggest?” Foraker asked finally.
Slanter shrugged. “I don’t suggest anything. I got you this far; the rest is up to you. Maybe the boy can hide you with his magic again.” He lifted his eyebrows at Jair. “How about it—can you sing for half the night?”
Jair flushed. “There must be some way to get past the guards, Slanter!”
“Oh, it’s no problem for me.” The Gnome sniffed. “But the rest of you might have some trouble.”
“Helt has the night vision . . .” Foraker began thoughtfully.
But Garet Jax cut him short, beckoning to Stythys. “What suggestion would you make, Mwellret? This is your home. What would you do?”
Stythys let his lidded eyes narrow. “Findss your own way, little peopless. Sseekss another’ss foolissh aid. Leavess me be!”
Garet Jax studied him a moment, then walked over to him wordlessly, gray eyes so cold that Jair stepped back involuntarily. The Weapons Master’s finger lifted and came to rest on the Mwellret’s cloaked form.
“You seem to be telling me that you are no longer of any use to us,” he said softly.
The Mwellret seemed to shrink back within the robes then, slitted eyes glittering with hate. But he held no power over Garet Jax. The Weapons Master stood where he was, waiting.
Then a low hiss escaped the lizard’s mouth and its forked tongue licked out slowly. “Helpss you if you ssetss me free,” he whispered. “Takess you where no one sseess you.”
There was a long silence as the members of the little company glanced at one another suspiciously. “Don’t trust him,” Slanter said.
“Sstupid little Gnome cannot help you now,” Stythys sneered. “Needss my help, little friendss. Knowss wayss that no other can passs.”
“What ways do you know?” Garet Jax asked, his voice still soft.
But the Mwellret shook his head stubbornly. “Promisse firsst to sset me free, little peopless. Promisse.”
The Weapons Master’s lean face showed nothing of what he was thinking. “If you can get us into Graymark, you go free.”
Slanter’s face wrinkled with disapproval, and he spit into the earth. Standing with the others of the company, Jair waited for Stythys to say something more. But the Mwellret seemed to be thinking.
“You have our promise,” Foraker interjected, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Now tell us what way we must go.”
Stythys grinned, an evil, unpleasant smile that appeared to be almost a grimace. “Takess little peopless through Cavess of Night!”
“Why, you black . . . !” Slanter exploded in fury and came at the Mwellret in a rush. Helt caught him about the waist as he tried to push past and hauled him back, the Gnome yelling and struggling as if he had gone mad. Stythys’ laughter was a soft hiss as the members of the little company closed about Slanter to keep him back.
“What is it, Gnome?” Garet Jax demanded, one hand fastening about Slanter’s arm. “Do you know of these caves?”
Slanter wrenched himself free of the Weapons Master, though Helt still maintained his grip. “The Caves of Night, Garet Jax!” the Gnome snarled. “Death bins for the mountain Gnomes since the time they fell under the rule of the lizards! Thousands of my people were given over to the Caves, thrown within and lost! Now this . . . monster would do likewise with us!”
Garet Jax turned quickly back to Stythys. The long knife appeared as if by magic in one hand. “Be careful of your answer this time, Mwellret,” he advised softly.
But Stythys seemed unperturbed. “Liess from little Gnome. Cavess are passsagess into Graymark. Takess you beneath the mountainss, passt the walkerss. No one sseess.”
“Is there truly passage in?” Foraker asked Slanter.
The Gnome went suddenly still, rigid in Helt’s firm grip. “Doesn’t matter if there is. The Caves are no place for the living. Miles of tunnels cut within the Ravenshorn, black as any pit and filled with Procks! Have you heard of Procks? They are living things, formed of magic older than the lands—magic from the old world, it’s said. Living mouths of rock, all through the Caves. Everywhere you walk, the Procks are there in the cavern floor. One wrong step and they open, swallowing you up, closing about you, crushing you into . . .” He was shaking with fury. “That was the way the lizards disposed of the mountain Gnomes—pushed them into the Caves!”
“But the Caves do offer a passage through.” Garet Jax turned Foraker’s question into a statement of fact.
“A passage useless to us!” Slanter exploded once more. “We can’t see to find our way! A dozen steps in and the Procks would have us!”
“Havess not me!” Stythys cut him short with a hiss. “Mine iss the ssecret of the Cavess of Night! Little peopless cannot passs, but my peopless know the way. Prockss cannot harm uss!”
They were all still then. Garet Jax stalked back to stand before the Mwellret. “The Caves of Night run to Graymark beneath the Ravenshorn—safe from the eyes of the walkers? And you can lead us through?”
“Yess, little friendss,” Stythys rasped softly. “Takess you through.”
Garet Jax turned to the others. For a moment no one spoke. Then Helt gave a quick nod. “There are only six of us. If we are to have any chance at all, we have to reach the fortress unseen.”
Foraker and Edain Elessedil nodded as well. Jair looked at Slanter. “You’re all fools!” the Gnome exclaimed bitterly. “Blind, stupid fools! You can’t trust the lizards!”
There was an awkward silence. “You don’t have to go any farther, if you don’t want to, Slanter,” Jair told him.
The Gnome stiffened. “I can take care of myself, boy!”
“I know. I just thought that . . .”
“Well, keep your thoughts to yourself!” the other cut him short. “As for not going any farther, you’d be better off taking that advice yourself. But you won’t, I’m sure. So we’ll all be fools together.” He glanced darkly at Stythys. “But this fool will be keeping close watch, and if anything goes wrong in this, I’ll be there to make certain the lizard doesn’t see the end of it!”
Garet Jax turned back to Stythys. “You’ll take us through then, Mwellret. Just remember—it will be as the Gnome says. What happens to us happens as well to you. Don’t play games with us. If you try . . .”
Stythys’ smile was quick and hard. “No gamess with you, little friendss.”
They waited until nightfall to resume their journey, then slipped down out of the rocks above the Silver River and turned north into the mountains. Light from the gibbous moon and stars brightened the dark mass of the Ravenshorn as it rose about them, great barren peaks towering against the deep blue of the skyline. A worn pathway ran parallel to the riverbank through a scattering of trees and brush, and the little company from Culhaven followed it in until the forestland south was lost from view.
All night they
walked, Helt and Slanter in the lead, the others following in cautious silence. The dark peaks drew steadily closer about the channel of the Silver River to wall them in. Save for the steady rush of the river, it was oddly silent within these peaks, a deep and pervasive stillness wrapping about the barren rock as if Mother Nature cradled her sleeping child. As the hours slipped away, Jair found himself growing increasingly uneasy with the silence, staring about at the massive walls of rock, peering into the shadows, and searching for something he could not see yet sensed was there, watching. The company chanced upon no other living creature that night, save for the great cliff birds that winged silently overhead across their nocturnal haunts, and still the Valeman sensed that they were not alone.
A part of this feeling sprang, he knew, from the continued presence of Stythys. Trailing, he could see the black figure of the Mwellret immediately in front of him. He could feel the creature’s green eyes constantly shifting to find him, watching him, waiting. Like Slanter, he did not trust the Mwellret. Whatever promises Stythys might have made to aid them, Jair was certain that behind it all lay a ruthless determination to gain mastery over the Valeman’s Elven magic. Whatever else happened, the creature meant to have that power. The certainty of it was frightening. The days he had spent walled away in the prisons at Dun Fee Aran haunted him like a specter so terrible that nothing could ever entirely banish it. It was Stythys who was responsible for that specter, and Stythys who would see life breathed back into it once more. While Jair now seemed free of the Mwellret, he could not shake the feeling that in some insidious way the creature had not lost control of him entirely.
But as night lengthened into early morning and weariness blunted the sharp edge of his doubt and his fear, Jair found himself thinking instead of Brin. In his mind he saw her face again as he had seen it twice so recently in the vision crystal—once ravaged as she experienced some unspeakable grief, once awestruck as she looked upon the twisted image of herself in the form of that shade. Glimpses only, those two brief visions, and nothing in either could tell the Valeman what had come to pass. Much had befallen his sister, he sensed—some of it frightening. An empty feeling opened within him as he thought of her, gone so long now from the Vale and from him, on a quest that the King of the Silver River had said would cause her to be lost. It was odd, but in a sense she seemed already lost to him, for the distance and the time that separated them was strangely magnified by the events that had transpired since last he had seen her. So much had happened, and he was so far from what and who he had been.
