by Terry Brooks
“I tell them to.” She looked sullen once more. “I stay to watch.”
“But why? Why would you do that?”
Tesla Dart’s face darkened further. “Because.”
“Why, Tesla?” he pressed.
Tears appeared unexpectedly at the corners of the Ulk Bog’s dark eyes. “She must say she is sorry! She must tell me so. She must say why she leave Weka behind.” She hissed furiously. “If she doesn’t, I kill her. Kill her for him!”
There was such fury in her voice that Redden was left speechless. Oriantha, standing to one side, shook her head and turned away.
They set out walking across the broad fields and grasslands, heading in the direction Oriantha had indicated earlier. Redden was still trying to absorb the impact of the Ulk Bog’s scorching condemnation of Grianne. He wanted to ask her more, wanted to know how Weka had found her, how long they were together, if she really was his niece, and what had become of him.
But he sensed there was nothing to be gained from this, and after a time he stopped thinking about it and began searching for signs that would tell him they were going the right way. Maybe Oriantha didn’t need such signs, but Redden would have preferred to find one or two if only to give him peace of mind about what they were doing.
Because a little reassurance at this point was something he could sorely use.
His recovery from his ordeal as the Straken Lord’s prisoner continued to be slow. He was emotionally stronger since putting an end to Tarwick and his hunters. After all, he had escaped being captured and returned to the Straken Lord. He had found and gained possession of the missing Elfstones—something no one else had been able to do. He was free of the Forbidding once more and on his way to Arborlon and a reunion with Railing. He had reason to feel good about all of this.
On the other hand, another encounter with the Straken Lord was not out of the question. Even the thought of it caused a shiver to run up his spine, his memories of his previous imprisonment and the prospect of a repeat experience a nightmare.
Nor was he recovered physically. If anything, he was feeling worse than ever. He was keeping it to himself, but something very troubling had happened to him when he had combined the magic of the crimson Elfstones and the wishsong to destroy the Catcher and his minions. His body had been left hollowed out and his strength diminished in a way that suggested he had suffered at least a part of the fate of the creatures he had emptied of their lives. He knew enough of the ways of magic to understand there was always a price exacted for its use. The more powerful and destructive the magic, the higher the cost.
The crimson Elfstones might have stolen away the mortal substance of their victims, but it felt as if they had stolen some of the same from him, as well.
Still, there was nothing to be done about it. He had saved their lives, and so there could be no regrets now about how he had accomplished it. Nor was there any point in worrying about healing himself until he found Railing again. All he could do was keep going and remember what was at stake.
He clutched the box with the Elfstones to his chest, aware of the irony implicit in doing so. Even though their magic had damaged him, he held on to that box as if he would never let it go. Only the crimson stones were elsewhere, still shoved down inside his pants pocket. He had thought many times to return them to their designated space, but each time he started to do so he changed his mind.
Because beneath his fear of what it meant to use them again was another fear, one that was even more overpowering.
If he did not have them, he could not protect himself or his companions. If he did not have them, they could still all be killed. Or they could be imprisoned, as he had been before. They could be caged and left to die. He would never see his brother or his mother or Mirai or any of his friends again.
He could hardly bear even to think on it.
They walked for hours through the gloom and emptiness, searching for a town or a village where they might find an airship. Walking was too slow and wearing. They were already close to exhaustion. Redden in particular, but even Tesla Dart, who never seemed to tire, was showing signs of weariness. She no longer darted ahead or scurried about like a bug. She mostly stayed next to her companions, her wizened face taut, her eyes searching everywhere at once. In part, Redden thought, it was the effect of the land—an unfamiliar place to which she was not yet accustomed. She was more cautious, less certain of herself, more inclined to hang back and stay watchful.
Oriantha set the pace, the Ulk Bog matched it, and the boy did the best he could to keep up, even when what he wanted most was to sleep.
When they finally stopped to rest, sometime much deeper into the night—the blackness still vast and complete and the countryside still a vague and shadowy place all about them—he felt like he might never be able to rise again.
“You look terrible,” Oriantha noted, bending close to study his face.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You might be tired, but you are not fine. Something is wrong. It’s using the Elfstones like you did, isn’t it? That did something to you.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tesla Dart moved over as well, looking interested.
“You used them when you shouldn’t have,” the shape-shifter declared, not accusatorily, but in sympathy. “Only an Elf is supposed to use them, and you are not an Elf. You are of mixed blood, and the magic doesn’t work for you like it would for a full-blooded Elf. Am I right?”
“I suppose so. But it’s not as if anything can be done about it now. It’s over and done with.”
“But it hurts?” Tesla asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t feel right, but I think it will pass. I just have to give it time.”
“Meanwhile,” Oriantha said, “give me that.”
She took the case with the Elfstones out of his hands before he could think to tighten his grip. “Hey!” he protested.
“I can carry them as easily as you. There is no immediate need for them. You need to conserve your strength. Let me keep the box for now. You can have it back again in Arborlon.”
He started to object and then decided against it. What was the point? She was right to think that relieving him of the box would help.
“We should start walking again,” Oriantha said abruptly, rising.
They set out once more, Oriantha taking the lead and carrying the case with the Elfstones, Tesla Dart close behind her, and Redden trailing. He thought Oriantha was right, and the effects of using the Elfstone magic were not a consequence of using it with the wishsong, but rather using it at all. He knew from his family’s history that only Elves could use Elven magic safely.
History repeating itself, he thought. Lessons learned long ago so often needed to be learned all over again in the present. It might be true here, and he might be the student who was being taught.
But he did not dwell on it, putting the matter aside and thinking instead of Railing and home, of Mirai and Sarys, of better days behind and more ahead. This would be ended soon, the Straken Lord defeated and sent back into the Forbidding and his old life restored. Things would return to how they had been.
Just so long as he didn’t think about those who had died inside the Forbidding.
Or forget that the Druid order was decimated.
Or assume that Railing would be waiting for him, safe and whole.
Oriantha came to a stop, peering ahead. “There are lights less than a mile off. A cluster of them. Maybe we’ve found the help we need.”
And she picked up the pace.
32
Railing Ohmsford hooded the parse tubes sufficiently to slow the Quickening to a crawl as they came out of the darkness into the first light of the new day just north of the entrance to the Valley of Rhenn. Below and as far south as they could see, hordes of creatures were massed across the open grasslands, pressing toward the pass that led into the valley. The size of the Straken Lord’s army seemed limitless—a vast sprawling m
igration that darkened the plains like a tidal wave threatening to inundate the entire Westland.
Everyone aboard—save Railing and Mirai standing in the pilot box, and the Ilse Witch crouched by the foremast—gathered at the ship’s railing and stared down at the invading army, trying to make sense of what they were seeing. Austrum and his Rovers, Skint, Challa Nand, and even Woostra—but no one was saying anything. There were no words for something like this.
Mirai, standing close to Railing, whispered, “Shades! How can there be so many?”
He didn’t know. Those hundreds of creatures he had fought against in the Fangs seemed like a mere handful compared with the seething maelstrom roiling below them. What chance did the Elves have of turning back so large a force?
For that matter, what chance did Grianne Ohmsford have, Ilse Witch or not? She was still only one, and they were millions.
“Railing, look!” Mirai said suddenly.
To the east, still far distant, a fleet of airships was approaching. Railing snatched the spyglass from its rack and trained it on the newcomers. There was a handful of fighting vessels, but mostly hundreds of skiffs pulling flatbeds crammed with soldiers.
“Dwarves,” he told Mirai. “Come to aid the Elves. But there aren’t nearly enough of them—and they’re mostly foot soldiers, not fliers. If they land those barges, they will be destroyed before they can even get off the ground again.”
“I’d guess they can see that for themselves. But what else can they do? They’ve come all this way; you don’t expect them to turn around and go back again, do you?”
He didn’t know what he expected. A miracle, he supposed. Dwarves or no, the army of the Straken Lord was too massive to be stopped. The Elves might hold the passes through the Valley of Rhenn for a while, but in the end they would fall and Arborlon and the entire Westland would fall with them.
The creatures below were milling about but not yet advancing, just growling and shrieking, making aggressive gestures and sudden rushes that ended after only a few yards. They were working themselves up, readying for the coming battle. Railing brought the spyglass up again and swept the rim of the mountain walls warding the valley. He saw Elven Hunters everywhere, but no sign of Seersha or Crace Coram. He wondered if perhaps they were responsible for the Dwarves’ appearance and were aboard the skiffs, but that didn’t seem right.
“What are we going to do?” Mirai demanded. “We can’t just watch this happen. We have to do something!”
As she said it, a handful of winged creatures—Harpies and huge vampire bats—lifted off the ground and came at them. They were agile and swift as they closed on the Quickening. The men at the railing backed away, realizing the danger. Weapons appeared. A couple of the Rovers rushed to the rail slings and swung them about protectively.
But before the winged attackers could reach the airship, the witch wraith rose from her crouch and walked to the railing, ragged clothing flying in the wind, dark visage gone almost black. For just a second it seemed to Railing, watching from the pilot box, as if she weren’t there at all. As if all that inhabited the inside of her tattered clothing was a shadow.
The Harpies and bats must have seen something of it, too, and they didn’t like it one bit. As if formed of a single creature, they broke off their attack and swung away abruptly, gathering speed as they went.
The witch wraith turned to him. “Fly to the mouth of the pass!”
He did so without hesitating. Whatever was going to happen now was not something he cared to interfere with. They were here at the witch’s behest; she must have known she would find the Straken Lord’s army attacking the Westland or she wouldn’t have bothered. How she had known he had no idea. But now that they were here, it stood to reason that she intended to face her nemesis—perhaps to do what she had been asked, or perhaps to do something else altogether.
The witch stood where she was, staring down at the army beneath them as they neared the pass. She didn’t speak or move; she gave no indication of what she was thinking. They might have been invisible for all the interest she evidenced. Railing thought it better that way. The less attention she paid to them, the better.
They were closing on the pass when the dragon flew out of the east.
Redden and his companions reached Arborlon before dawn, flying in from the Elven Hunter outpost they had stumbled on several hours earlier, aboard an ancient transport they had persuaded the garrison to put at their disposal. It wasn’t so much what they were asking as the force with which they asked it. Redden in particular had invoked both Aphenglow and her grandfather as friends and protectors. Mention of the latter immediately led to the revelation that the old King was dead, assassinated by his brother, and that the city was preparing for war. But the Hunters agreed it was a good idea that the strange trio proceed to their destination so they could give their report to someone who might act on it—especially after the young girl had begun to cry uncontrollably.
Oriantha, it turned out, could shape-shift in more than one way when the need was present.
But when they arrived in Arborlon, they found the city in chaos, with rumors of another attack on the royal family, this time on the King’s son; of several others killed in the attack, including the Captain of the Home Guard, Sian Aresh; and of a demon army massed at the passes east in the Valley of Rhenn where a terrible battle had been fought the previous day and was expected to continue at sunrise.
The tension and fear they encountered were palpable, and there was a strong sense of panic setting in. It was impossible to get an accurate story from anyone, especially since Tesla’s appearance seemed to scare them away. Not able to find anyone they knew personally or to learn what was happening from those they didn’t, they decided to fly to the site of the pending battle, reasoning that wherever there was fighting they were likely to find one or more of their friends.
So Redden and Oriantha boarded their transport once more, hauling a decidedly uncertain and fearful Ulk Bog with them, and flew out toward the Rhenn as the sky ahead slowly began to lighten.
“Did you hear the woman who claimed there was a Druid involved in last night’s attack?” Redden asked Oriantha over the rush of the wind in the open cockpit.
“I heard there was and that she might have been killed. I also heard it was only Aresh. I heard lots of things. Did you learn anything useful?”
Redden shook his head. “What are we going to do once we get to the passes?”
Oriantha shrugged. “Look around?”
She was weighing her options, he imagined. His own were troubling. If Railing wasn’t in the Rhenn, did he join in the fighting anyway to help the Elves? Or did he continue looking for his brother? Where were Seersha and Crace Coram while all this was happening? Where were Skint and the Rovers? Oriantha knew no one except Coram, who had been part of their group when she had left him at the portal leading out of the Forbidding but of whom she had heard nothing since.
Still, someone had to know something about what had become of the other members of the expedition.
They flew on, their uneasiness increasing the closer they got to their destination. All Redden could think about was what waited there—Tael Riverine and the entire demon army. He could not stop imagining what it would feel like to be back in their hands—a very real possibility if he were forced into a fight against them. His insides recoiled at the prospect, and if it hadn’t been for his even more pressing fears about his brother, he would have turned around on the spot.
I don’t have to be a part of this fight, he kept telling himself. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. I just need to find Railing. I just need to make sure my brother is safe.
But he knew this wasn’t so. He was an irrevocable part of what was happening and had been from the moment he had left in search of the missing Elfstones. He was even more committed now that he had found the Stones and knew they might make a difference in any struggle with the Jarka Ruus. He could tell himself anything he wanted, but the path hi
s feet were set upon would take him in only one direction.
At one point, Tesla Dart wormed her way forward and pressed up against him. “You don’t forget your promise to me?” she asked, bending close.
He glanced over at her worried face. “I will keep my promise,” he said.
He would try to keep all his promises, he thought, even the ones he had made to himself and was afraid he could not face.
Time passed. The sun crested the horizon, a blazing light shining out on a bright clear day. Ahead, the passes loomed dark and shadowy in the lee of the Rhenn’s forested walls.
They flew straight across the near pass and continued on toward the far. No one tried to stop them; apparently, no one thought it worth the effort since they were flying such a harmless, decrepit vessel. There was no battle yet, it seemed. There were no sounds of it or activity atop the valley rim. If anything, it was unusually quiet.
“What’s happening?” Redden asked over his shoulder, but Oriantha only shook her head and moved closer to where he sat, peering ahead with him to see what waited.
They had just reached the opening through the second pass when they heard a thunderous roar rise from the creatures massed without.
The witch wraith half turned toward the monstrous dragon when it appeared, facing it with no indication of concern.
“Take me down,” she called over her shoulder to Railing. “Land at the mouth of the pass. Not inside. Out in front, where all those gathered can see.”
Railing did as she ordered. He banked the Quickening a quarter turn and began dropping it earthward. His heart was racing, anticipating what was going to happen next. Clearly, the witch intended to let the Straken Lord know she was there. What more she would do remained to be seen.
Challa Nand moved away from the rail where he had been watching the army of the Jarka Ruus and stepped closer to the pilot box.
