by Terry Brooks
And now he was the last. The very last.
He couldn’t know this for sure. He had seen most of them die right in front of him, had seen the bodies or pieces of the bodies afterward, so of those he had no doubt. Oriantha and Crace Coram were unaccounted for, but he was certain they were dead, too. He could sense it in the same way he could sense what it would do to him to look out the window. They had been carried off by a dragon and had died in a faraway place, but they had died all the same. There was no point in pretending otherwise.
Just as there was no point in pretending any longer that he might find a way out of this nightmare.
He would have cried, thinking of it, but he was all cried out. He had shed all the tears he had left to shed. He was frightened and desperate and burdened with an unshakable sense of hopelessness. His chances of ever going home again, of ever returning to his old life, were gone. All prospects of such a miracle had dimmed to darkness. He was passing his time now awaiting the arrival of his own death. It was coming to claim him; he could feel it. It was just a question of when.
His days had grown endless. He had lost all track of time. When he had been brought back to the fortress following the battle between Khyber and Tael Riverine, he had been taken immediately to this cell and left there. No one had spoken to him during the return trip. The only words uttered were those of the rabble that tracked his cage as it rolled through the countryside, an indecipherable barrage of taunts and jeers. He could still recall the sound, a cacophony rising up from the mob’s dark mass. His champion had died defending herself, and his turn was coming. What weapons did he have to call upon? What magic did he have that could defeat the power of their Straken Lord?
None, he knew.
He had no weapons and no magic that would ever make a difference. Not while he wore the conjure collar.
He felt the weight of the collar around his neck, a constant reminder of his reduced state. Even thinking of it caused him to wince involuntarily. He had tried over and over again to remove it or at least loosen it to relieve its pressure. But each time the pain it had generated was so intense that it doubled him over and left him writhing on the stone floor. Each time the extent of his helplessness had been reinforced.
Until at last he had stopped trying.
Until finally he had accepted that it was never coming off.
There was nothing left for him after that. He sat in his cell, his prison, his jail, and waited for his inevitable execution. He had no meaningful expectations left. What expectations could there be? That a miracle would happen and someone would come for him? That he could still find a way out of this madness? Impossible! Who even knew where he was? Even those who had remained behind, stranded on that ledge with the Goblins coming at them from every direction, were probably dead by now.
Even Railing.
But he didn’t believe it. Oddly, it was the one hope he clung to. Railing was still alive, still out there somewhere searching. His brother would never give up. It might be hopeless for him, but it wouldn’t be for Railing. Not now, not ever. Railing was his twin, his other half, his shadow self, and he was alive and well and hunting for Redden. Railing would never be satisfied with leaving things as they were. Even if it killed him, he would find a way to reach his brother.
Of course, he was aware of the impossibility of this happening. And the thought of Railing dying, too, brought down by his efforts to reach him, was more than he could bear.
They brought him food and water, and sometimes he ate and drank. But mostly not. Sometimes they pulled back the metal plate set in the cell door that served as a peephole and looked in on him to see what he was doing. He never bothered to look up, never cared if they were looking at him or not. He ignored them. He tried to pretend they didn’t exist.
For a while, he tried disappearing into memories, but that hurt too much. Memories were reminders of what he had lost, and what he could never have back.
So he ended up studying the floor and tried not to think of anything. He just sat there, staring at the lines of grout that connected the stone slabs of the cell flooring, fascinated by the intricacy of the workmanship.
That worked much better.
Except that without realizing it he was slowly disappearing from the real world. He was slowly treading his way down an endless spiral stairway that descended into darkness and finally insanity.
And then, unexpectedly, they came for him.
Oriantha was stretched out in the shade of an overhang among the boulders, taking a short nap while she waited for the cover of darkness, when she heard an earsplitting creaking of iron fastenings followed by two massive booms. She was up instantly, catching sight of Tesla Dart charging back into the rocks from the perimeter where she had been keeping watch.
“He’s coming out!” Fear was etched deep in her wizened features.
At first Oriantha thought the Ulk Bog was speaking of Redden Ohmsford, which made no sense at all. But then she realized Tesla meant Tael Riverine. Moving swiftly through the rocks, she reached their perimeter just as the first ranks of the Straken Lord’s army appeared through the west gates and moved out into the open in a semi-organized procession of creatures that marched, plodded, shuffled, trudged, rolled, and crawled in what soon seemed to be an endless line. There were members of all of the species imprisoned within the Forbidding save for dragons, which she assumed even Tael Riverine could not find a way to control. Even the terrifying Furies appeared at one point, a ragged cluster of them, cat faces contorted, hissing and screeching, prowling this way and that. A phalanx of Goblins, split into two ranks, bracketed them in a way that kept them from straying too far out of line. How the Goblins managed to keep them in check defied Oriantha’s understanding, though she made a mental note to ask Tesla Dart later.
The Straken Lord’s army was so huge that it was still winding its way clear of the gates of Kraal Reach an hour later. Amid the ranks of creatures were wagons of various sizes and shapes, although there was nothing to indicate what was in them. There were no siege machines or catapults or other mechanized weapons, and she presumed this was because an army comprising creatures such as this hardly needed such cumbersome tools. Even without experience of what it could do, she was sufficiently informed of the possibilities based on what she had endured while coming through the Fangs and finding herself trapped in this monstrous world. The denizens of the Forbidding, she had discovered, wasted little time on subterfuge. These were creatures that hunted and fought and killed by getting close enough to look you in the eye. These were creatures that attacked in a barely controlled frenzy and did not stop until the last semblance of life had gone out of you or them.
“What’s Tael Riverine doing?” she asked Tesla Dart.
The Ulk Bog gave her a look. “What I said. What I warned. He takes his army into your world to destroy it.”
“Now? But how can he do that? The Forbidding isn’t down yet!”
Tesla Dart looked confused. “The wall crumbles. A place to cross will be found. No reason to wait longer. He will begin his search.”
“Search? Search for what?”
“Are you stupid? Her! His Queen! I told you. He wants the witch Grianne. He demands her return. Give her to me, he will say. If she comes with him, he will turn around. If not, he will use his army to grind all those who stand in his way to dust and take her anyway.”
Oriantha searched the ranks of the army as it wound its way across the countryside, but there was no sign of the Straken Lord.
“Where is Tael Riverine?” she demanded of Tesla Dart, but the Ulk Bog only shrugged and shook her head.
Then, unexpectedly, a wheeled cage rolled through the gates, surrounded by wolves and Goblins, with a lean, feral creature riding in the driver’s seat. As a pair of massive bull-like creatures strained against the traces, the driver snapped his long whip and shouted at the beasts, urging them on. Alongside the cage, the wolves snarled and snapped their jaws at both the vehicle and its lone inhabitant.
Redden Ohmsford, chained and imprisoned, hunkered down in a pile of straw at the cage’s center.
“He lives!” Tesla Dart hissed in disbelief.
“Lives and breathes and waits for us to save him. And save him we will, Tesla.”
The Ulk Bog turned to look at her and then began laughing madly. “Should be easy! Only thousands stand in the way. Should not stop big strong shape-shifter you!”
She continued to chuckle, but Oriantha was already thinking of ways she could manage to even the odds, disrupt the flow, get through the sentry lines, do whatever was needed to reach the boy and free him.
The last of the procession, the final ranks of the army, cleared the gates, which immediately began to swing shut behind them. A shrieking of metal hinges, a crashing of ironbound portals slamming into place, and Kraal Reach was sealed once more.
Overhead, scores of Harpies appeared, crooked black carrion creatures flooding the skies, trailing after the army. The shape-shifter and the Ulk Bog held their places within the rocks as the half birds, half women passed, patient and watchful. When the Harpies had gone, Oriantha waited awhile longer. There was no urgency. It would be easy to keep pace with an army the size of this one.
She let it get almost a mile ahead before saying to her companion, “Now we track them.”
Tesla Dart groaned in dismay but got to her feet anyway. Together they set out, following the clouds of dust raised by the army’s passing.
“Wait!” Tesla said suddenly, hunching forward and casting about. “Can use Chzyks to track! Chzyks be anywhere, and no one sees them. Come back to tell us everything they learn. Better than us getting too close.”
“You can summon them?”
“Always.”
“Then do so tonight and let’s have them take a close look at that cage and the guards watching over it. Can you get them to do that?”
“Always, with Lada. I call, he is here. Very smart. Do whatever I ask of him.” She glared at Oriantha. “Why? Do you think me stupid, Halfling? I say so, it be so!”
“All right. Calm down. I was just asking. It would help us to know how closely they watch Redden.”
Tesla snorted. “Close so that if you can see him, they can see you. That close. This is a foolish chance. All yours to take. But not me.”
Oriantha believed she could live with that. She had never expected Tesla Dart to do more than provide information and guidance. But if she used her Chzyks, she would be able to offer firsthand information regarding the location of the cage and guard arrangements. That would be enough.
So bold, she thought. I am so bold, and I have no reason to be so. Mother would hate it.
But her mother was gone, and with her most of what Oriantha had thought would become her new life.
“Halfling!” the Ulk Bog snapped, grabbing her arm and pulling her to the ground, then falling on top of her to keep her pinned.
“What are you—” she began.
“Don’t move!” the other hissed, and motioned skyward. “Look!”
A dragon was rising out of Kraal Reach—a huge burnt-red monster that was at least as big as, if not bigger than, the one Oriantha had ridden with Crace Coram in what now seemed another lifetime. The beast shrieked and swung north after the departing army, winging hard to catch up.
Astride the dragon’s long neck rode a solitary black-cloaked figure.
The shape-shifter girl knew at a glance that it was Tael Riverine.
30
Aphenglow stared at the empty clearing in shock and then started to rush forward. “Cymrian! Where is she?”
He caught her arm. “Wait. There will be signs to tell us. Let me have a look.”
He released her and moved slowly toward the place where they had left Arlingfant, stepping carefully, crouching often to study the ground, searching for indications of what had happened. He reached the flattened grasses and bloodied earth where she had lain and paused. Then he began to move slowly about the spot, one cautious step at a time. Aphen waited impatiently, desperate to find her sister, frantic for her safety. Arling could not have gone off by herself. She wasn’t strong enough for that. So someone—or something—had taken her.
She had a momentary vision of those mutants, and a shiver went up her back like a blade’s razor edge. “Have you found anything?”
He held up his hand in a gesture that asked her to hold on and continued his search. He was moving away from where Arling had been lying, heading across the clearing, apparently having found something. He was moving steadily now, still reading the signs but not pausing as often as before to consider what he was seeing.
Finally, he straightened and beckoned her over. She rushed to his side. “She was found and carried away by two people, a man and perhaps a woman. Both wore boots that are old and worn. Their tracks show they are not young, but not physically impaired, either. They were strong enough to pick up Arling and carry her off. They came in from this way”—he pointed ahead of them—“and left pretty much the same way.”
“Why would they do this? Why would they take her?”
“Hard to answer that without knowing who they are. Come on. We can track them.”
They set out, Cymrian reading the signs as they went. Because the ground was thick with grasses and brush, footprints were indistinct and passage was hard to determine. Aphen could make out nothing at all, and if not for the Elven Hunter she would have been lost. But Cymrian seemed able to find what he was looking for, and so they made their way forward.
Nevertheless, Cymrian was badly weakened from his battle with the mutants and the assassin, and his strength was limited. He could not go quickly even if he wanted to, and Aphen had to fight down her impatience to go charging ahead. She could not stand the thought that something bad might have happened to Arling—that it might be happening even now. Speed was imperative.
But there was no help for it. They could only go as fast as Cymrian’s constitution and his interpretation of the trail would allow.
It began to rain, a squall appearing out of nowhere, the gloom and mist of Drey Wood deepening. Water sheeted down and quickly layered everything, the whole of the forest taking on a shimmery, reflective look. The dampness increased and pools of water began to cover the ground. Soon, Aphen knew, any traces of footprints or similar signs would disappear into the murk and damp and they would lose the trail completely.
Finally, they broke through the screen of tree trunks and found a narrow trail that wound through the murk. The path was barely wide enough for two people walking shoulder-to-shoulder, and yet when they bent to study the rutted earth, they found the imprint of wagon wheels.
Aphen was flushed and angry. “What would anyone be doing with a wagon this far into the woods?”
Cymrian shook his head. “Hunters, foragers, tramps, Rovers, travelers—take your choice. And a cart made these tracks, not a wagon. A mule pulled it. The signs are clear enough. But …”
He didn’t finish, kneeling now, bending even closer to study the wheel marks and hoofprints. Aphen realized the problem. The trail did not end where they stood. It ran both east and west. The hoofprints and wheel marks did the same. Because of the rain and prior usage, it was difficult to tell in which direction the wagon had gone this time.
“What do we do?” she said.
He looked up. “We make an educated guess. They carried Arling to the cart and put her in the bed, and now they are taking her somewhere. Either deeper into the woods west, or back out onto the Streleheim east.”
He stood up. “If they live in these woods, if they have a cabin or a hut, they might live deeper in. If they live elsewhere, they would have gone back out onto the plains. It’s too far to the western edge of the woods for this trail to go all the way through. It dead-ends somewhere farther on, but we can’t know for sure how far that might be.” He glanced west. “There’s not much to sustain anyone living in these woods. I think they went back out to the east.”<
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They set off at once, Aphen unwilling to waste even one more second debating. She thought repeatedly about using the Elfstones, but worried that the magic would give them away. Better to wait until calling up the magic became the only alternative. She thought Cymrian was right about what had happened to Arling in any case, and he was the one best able to read the signs.
She considered leaving him behind and going on ahead, moving fast enough that she could catch the wagon and its occupants before they got out onto the plains and disappeared. But if they turned off the trail at any point, would she know? She couldn’t read the signs the way Cymrian could, and if she lost her way without him she might lose him, as well. So as difficult as it was to restrain herself, she slowed her pace to stay with him and trust that their progress was sufficient.
Who would have taken her sister like this?
Someone who was trying to get to her.
She gritted her teeth, furious at herself for falling asleep after helping Cymrian when she should have stayed awake and gone back for her sister. She hadn’t meant for that to happen, but that didn’t make her feel any better. She had left Arling alone, and what was happening now was the consequence of her foolishness.
The rain was increasing, turning from a squall into a full-blown thunderstorm. Overhead, the skies were roiling and black. Lightning streaked the darkness in brilliant flashes and thunder boomed out in long, deep peals.
Resolutely, she pressed on.
Irritable, Sora tried to ignore Aquinel’s constant complaining, but in the end found it impossible.
“Will you stop talking about it, woman? The matter’s decided. Let it be!”
“I just don’t feel right about it,” she replied. “In my bones. Don’t you sense it? We don’t know anything about these people.”
She was small and stocky, tough as nails and hard to move once she set her mind. Right now he wished she would stop harping on the girl and what he had decided to do with her. Why couldn’t she see it was an opportunity for them and a chance at life for her?
