by Terry Brooks
And Railing couldn’t walk with his broken leg. He would have to be carried. Helpless.
Redden walked in silence for a long time, watching Pleysia lead them—almost as if she knew where she was going. He tried to imagine Oriantha as the Elf Druid’s daughter and failed. They seemed nothing alike. Yet there was a clear connection between them, one that went beyond friendship. He shifted his gaze to Carrick and watched the tall Druid for a time, his aspect somber and detached. Then he glanced over at the Trolls, muttering among themselves as they lumbered along.
Finally he moved up alongside the Ard Rhys.
“Do you think one of the others might come looking for us?” he asked her quietly. “Maybe Seersha or Skint?”
“Maybe. If they do, the tag I left on the opening will alert me. If it’s Seersha, she will recognize it and know it for a warning to stay back until I return for her.” She glanced over. “Is that what you were wondering? If I made a mistake in deciding to leave and come along with Pleysia?”
He flushed. “It had crossed my mind.”
She smiled, the wrinkles in her face smoothing in a way that made her seem decidedly younger. “I thought so. I considered staying where we were. But we would have had to come looking for Oriantha and Crace Coram eventually. We couldn’t leave either of them behind.” She paused. “You have your wits about you, Redden Ohmsford. You’ll be fine.”
He nodded, not so sure about that. “So you think the Elfstones are really in here somewhere? Like Aphenglow was shown by the vision?”
She nodded. “It would explain why they couldn’t be found for so long. Aleia Omarosian’s Darkling boy must have had the missing Elfstones in his possession when the Forbidding went up. The magic took all the dark creatures and whatever possessions they had on them and locked them away. Others trying to find the Stones after that wouldn’t have been looking in the right place—not even in the right world. And the seeking-Stones wouldn’t have been able to penetrate the wall of the Forbidding until now, when it’s begun to fail. The blue Stones found a chink in the armor. Too bad we didn’t recognize it for what it was.”
“But at least now we know where they are, and we have a chance of finding them.”
“Maybe we know. Maybe we have a chance. But finding the missing Elfstones isn’t necessarily what we need to do at this point. Even if we found them, we couldn’t be sure they would help us get out of this mess. With the Forbidding crumbling, our priorities have changed. If the wall goes down, everyone in the Four Lands is at risk. We need to escape and give warning of the danger. We need to find out why this is happening.”
She shook her head, as if to emphasize the dilemma. “I would like nothing better than to complete our search. But to find the Stones now, we would need time to search them out—and that’s time we don’t have. Even then, I wonder if it would be worth it. I wonder if any of this has been worth it.”
There was more than a hint of discouragement and frustration in her voice. He walked on with her for a few minutes more and then dropped away, leaving her to her own thoughts, thinking how hard it must be for her to know she had been seduced and deceived by the vision. Lives had been lost because of it, and more still might be lost before this was over.
His own among them.
The trek continued through the remainder of the day, but there was no sign of the dragon or their missing companions. They came down from the mountains to the plains of the south, moving in the general direction the dragon had taken. The terrain was barren and empty, a mixture of rutted earth dotted with scrub and rock, and forests in which leaves and grasses had turned gray and the trees had a skeletal look. There was no sign of water. There was no movement on the ground or in the air. The land looked dead and broken.
Every so often, the Ard Rhys or one of the other Druids would use magic to search the countryside ahead, but each time the effort failed. Once, they caught sight of something huge in the distance, a massive creature lumbering across the plains toward the mountains beyond. The Ard Rhys had them stop and hold their positions until it was safely past before allowing them to continue on. More than once, they came across piles of bones, sometimes acres of them. It was hard even to guess at their identity from what remained, and they skirted these killing grounds warily.
By nightfall, they were confronted by an impassable wilderness of swamp and saw grasses, and they were forced to turn west to seek a way around. After walking awhile longer, the Druids agreed they should make camp before it got too dark to see. The Ard Rhys chose a patch of desiccated spruce that offered cover and at least marginal protection from the things that might be hunting them. No one felt comfortable spending the night in such an exposed position, but there was nothing better anywhere close at hand. The Ard Rhys strung a warding chain around their sleeping ground that would sound an audible alert should anything try to attack. The company agreed to set a watch that would work through the night in two-hour shifts.
They arranged themselves in a circle so that the ravaged spruce trees provided a wall around them. The trees were almost completely stripped of needles, and their twisted limbs cast crosshatched shadows over the little party like a cage. Redden was so uncomfortable and on edge that he offered to sit the first watch, hoping that by the time it ended he might be tired enough to sleep.
They ate their meal cold, aware that their supplies were meager and would not last more than another day or so. They might be able to replenish their food, but water would become a problem quickly. How could they know what was safe to drink in this world? Sitting together and speaking quietly, aware of the darkness deepening as night closed in about them, they tried not to talk about it.
We don’t belong here, Redden kept repeating.
He was dirty and hot, and his skin itched. He found a pool of stagnant water while it was still light and took a quick look at his reflection. Same red hair, blue eyes, and sunburned face that he remembered, but all three looked leached of color and the rest of him resembled a scarecrow set free of its pole. He brushed at himself for a moment and then gave up. Nothing he did would make any difference.
When the others went to sleep, Redden kept the first watch in the company of one of the Trolls, sitting back to back with him at the edge of the circle of sleepers. Time dragged like an anchor, and to ease its weight he summoned his best memories of Railing and himself flying Sprints through the tangle of the Shredder and out over the flat blue surface of Rainbow Lake. It was as good a way as any to distract himself, replaying the twists and turns of the courses they had flown, remembering the rough spots and the wild dips and leaps, and even letting himself recall what he had felt on seeing Railing crash on their last flight before leaving for Bakrabru and the start of this journey.
Eyes sifting through the layered shadows in the darkness, ears sorting out sounds that he recognized from those that were new, he kept himself alert and wide awake. But when his watch was finished and he rolled himself into his blanket and closed his eyes, he was asleep in moments.
And then awake again faster still.
Something was wrong.
He forced himself to remain perfectly still while he scanned the darkness, trying to determine what had woken him. It took him only a moment.
Carrick and another of the Trolls had taken the second watch. Redden saw the body of the latter sprawled on the ground close to where he had been sitting when the boy fell asleep. It was clear from the twisted position of his limbs and the way his head was thrown back that he was dead and had died hard.
There was no sign of Carrick.
Redden sat up slowly, looking around in all directions, finding nothing but the still forms of the other sleepers and the dead Troll.
Then he looked up.
Carrick was hanging head-down about twenty feet above him, firmly grasped in the jaws of something that resembled a giant insect. His eyes were open and rolling wildly, but he hung limp and unmoving as he was hauled upward through the skeletal branches. His eyes found Redden’s and h
is mouth worked in silent anguish.
Then a second of the insect creatures appeared from out of the trees to seize the body of the Troll and begin to lift it away.
In the shadows, just visible as bits of movement in the gloom, more of the creatures were advancing.
Redden threw off his blanket, scrambled to his feet, and summoned the wishsong. He reacted instinctively—not out of bravery or daring, but out of fear. The magic surfaced in an explosion of brightness that lit up the whole sleeping area, brought all of the sleepers awake instantly, and caused the insects to hesitate. Fighting to keep it under control, Redden concentrated the magic in the cradle of his hands and turned it on the creature that had hold of Carrick. The wishsong flared upward in a burst of power that exploded into the monster with such force that it was cut in half. Down came the beast and Carrick both, the severed pieces of the former thrashing as if still alive, the latter a limp rag doll unable to do anything to help himself.
Redden threw himself aside as the head of the insect slammed into the ground only feet from where he was standing, mandibles snapping wildly.
By now Khyber Elessedil and Pleysia were striking out at the other insect creatures, using their Druid magic to drive their attackers away from the camp. The Trolls were clustered next to them, weapons extended in a circle of sharp steel. But the insects kept attacking, trying to find a way past the fire and sharp blades. One or two would hang back while the others tried to distract the defenders and then rush in suddenly, hoping to catch someone unprepared.
But Redden had regained control of the wishsong and quickly joined the battle, sending a wall of sound from his magic into the largest cluster of the giant insects, throwing them back, slamming them into trees and rocks. Overmatched, the advantage of surprise lost, the insects wheeled about and skittered back into the darkness and were gone.
Redden was suddenly drained. He slumped to one knee and was surprised to find Pleysia next to him, holding him. “Are you all right, boy?” she asked, leaning close. He nodded. “Good. I don’t think we can afford to lose you. That was quick thinking.”
A few feet away, the Ard Rhys had gone to Carrick, carefully turned him over, and laid him on the ground with his head cradled in her lap. The Druid’s eyes had stopped rolling and his gaze had steadied, but he was bleeding from his nose and ears, and his face was as white as chalk. Khyber was murmuring quietly, her hands making small gestures as she fought to hold back the death that was already claiming him.
“They came right over the top of my wards,” she muttered to herself.
“They knew they were there!” Pleysia snapped. “The wards drew them!”
“Steady, Carrick,” Khyber soothed. She leaned close so that he could see her. “Don’t give up.”
His eyes shifted to find her. “So quick … no chance … to do …”
He shuddered and went still, dead in her arms.
Pleysia released her hold on Redden and stood next to him. “We’re all going that way before this is done,” she whispered. “All of us.”
Then she turned her back on them and walked off.
6
They waited until it was light again before they interred the bodies of Carrick and the Troll. The ground was so hard they couldn’t have penetrated it even if they had possessed digging tools, which they didn’t. Nor did the Ard Rhys think it wise to try burning the bodies, since that would almost certainly attract the attention of the very things they were trying to avoid.
So they lay the dead in shallow depressions and covered them over with heavy rocks hauled and set in place by the surviving Trolls, hoping that this would be enough to discourage scavengers. When the cairns were complete and the Ard Rhys had used magic to help seal them, the others gathered around and she said a few words about the commitment and sacrifice both had given to the Druid order. She took a moment at the end to thank Redden for his alert response to an attack that might very well have meant the end of all of them if he hadn’t realized what was happening. Redden felt sheepish and embarrassed; he still didn’t know why he had come awake like that. Presumably, it was the wishsong’s magic that had alerted him—something it had never done before. But then he had never been in a situation like this one, either. In any case, the recognition bestowed a new responsibility on him; now everyone expected him to be able to give warning if danger threatened. They didn’t say as much, but he could see it in the way they looked at him. He wouldn’t have minded so much if he could have been certain the wishsong would respond in the same way again when the need arose. But he didn’t know if the magic was something he could depend upon to ward even himself, let alone his companions.
He was new to this. He was riddled with doubt. The wishsong had always been something of a toy. His mother had discouraged the boys from using it at all, and both brothers had experimented sparingly. They knew they could use it to enhance the power of their Sprints and to provide protection against the mishaps they were forever encountering in their wildness. But Redden wasn’t at all sure he could use it to defend himself successfully against the things that lived within the Forbidding.
Leaving the bodies of both their companions and the giant insects behind, they set out walking again, moving once more in a southern direction, still tracking the Dracha that had carried off Crace Coram and Oriantha. There were only six of them left—less than half their original number. Carrick, Garroneck, and five other trolls were dead. Crace Coram and Oriantha were missing. That left the Ard Rhys, Pleysia, three of the Trolls from the Druid Guard, and Redden himself. With so few remaining, he thought they should turn back. They should return to the place where they had found their way in and wait for someone to come for them or the passage back to the Four Lands to reappear. But Khyber Elessedil seemed convinced that continuing on was the best choice. With Pleysia equally committed to that course of action—still adamant that she would not leave her daughter behind—there was no chance that either the Trolls or he could change the course of things.
But his thoughts were as dark and empty of hope as the land through which they passed, shifting between agonizing over Railing’s fate and despairing of his own. He was just a boy, and he had come a long way to die for nothing. He was scared and he was lonely. Nothing had gone the way he had imagined it. He was trapped in another world, with no real expectation that he would ever get out again. His original purpose in coming—the search for the missing Elfstones—seemed distant and unimportant. Given their present circumstances, it even felt pointless. Staying alive was all that mattered now, and he was having difficulty imagining that.
He said nothing of his fears to the others; there was no need to do so, because they would almost certainly be struggling with the same feelings. He told himself not to be distracted, but to remember that while there was life there was hope. He was not helpless; he was not without intelligence and common sense. The magic of the wishsong was a formidable weapon. He just needed to stay alert and keep moving. Sooner or later, something would happen that would help them all get free again.
He told himself all of this, and believed almost none of it.
Time stretched out in singularly bleak fashion as they made their way through country that never changed in any appreciable way. Already Redden was beginning to wonder what they were going to do for water when their own ran out. They had encountered only stagnant swamp water, none of it drinkable. Eventually the food would run out, too. He was wondering how long Khyber Elessedil would let them go on without finding anything before she turned them back. He could not imagine it would be for much longer.
In fact, he told himself when they were hours into their march and the first suggestion of real twilight crept over the land, she would announce it that night.
And then they saw the dragon.
It was flying out of the south, coming toward them in an unmistakable looping, undulating fashion, great wings spread wide, legs tucked up close to its body.
“Mistress!” Pleysia hissed, bringing them all to
a halt.
They crouched down at once, doing the best they could to blend into the terrain as the dragon approached at an oblique angle that would carry it just west of them. Redden knew it at once for the dragon that had carried off Oriantha and Crace Coram—unless this was an exact double—thanks to the strange striping along the trailing edges of its wings.
When it flew past them, heading north and west, they could see clearly that it carried no passengers.
Pleysia climbed to her feet slowly in the wake of its passing, her face twisted and grim. “It’s left them somewhere,” she declared at once.
“If it’s the same beast,” the Ard Rhys answered.
Pleysia wheeled on her. “No two Drachas share the same markings! You know that as well as I. All the histories say so. Drachas are unique. You, boy!” She turned the bright glare of her eyes on Redden. “Was it the same beast or not? You saw it clearly when it flew off. Were the markings on its wings a match?”
Redden nodded reluctantly. “They were.”
“There! Even the boy agrees. It is the same beast. Oriantha and the Dwarf have escaped it. We must go on!”
The Ard Rhys gave her a brief smile. “No one ever said we wouldn’t, Pleysia. Please take the lead.”
The other woman did so, striding out with grim determination. Within seconds she was twenty yards ahead of the rest of them.
Redden moved up alongside the Ard Rhys and whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I should lie.”
“Don’t apologize for telling the truth. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. I know it’s the same dragon.”
