The Bloodfire Quest

by Terry Brooks

  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 working 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 through 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 that 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.”

  “But you think they’re dead, don’t you? Crace Coram and Oriantha. What’s going to happen when she finds out?”

  “I’m not so sure either of them is dead, Redden. But knowing is necessary before she will agree to
give up the search.” She gave him a long look. “I know you want to go back. I know you worry for your brother. I worry for him and for the others, too. But until we know there is nothing more we can do for our missing friends, we can’t quit looking. We owe them that.”

  They marched on through the twilight until Khyber Elessedil brought them to a halt on a broad, open rise that gave them a clear view of everything approaching from all directions.

  “We’ll spend the night here. Three on watch, three asleep in four-hour shifts. We won’t be caught by surprise again. Pleysia, I can see by your face that you want to continue on. But it is too dangerous to go farther this day. We don’t know enough about what’s hunting out there. We’ll wait until morning.”

  “Waiting is a mistake,” Pleysia snapped. “Morning may come too late for us to be of any use to my daughter or the Dwarf.”

  “We won’t be of much use if we are dead or crippled, either.”

  Pleysia stared out at the sweep of the land south. “I could go on alone. You could catch up to me in the morning.”

  The Ard Rhys shook her head. “We agreed to stay together. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  They sat down on the rise and ate their meager dinner, their eyes scanning the horizon, watchful of shadows, uneasy with the growing dark. In the lengthy silences, they tightened their resolve and prepared themselves for how they would confront the hours ahead. No one had put the events of the previous night entirely in the past, and no one expected to sleep well.

  When the meal was finished and the darkness was complete—the sky so overcast with haze you could barely see in front of your nose—Pleysia and two of the Trolls rolled into their blankets while the Ard Rhys, Redden, and the other Troll took the first watch.

  In the distance, something cried out—a long and mournful wail—and the echo seemed to linger through the hours that followed. Time drifted. Redden’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and he found he could see better than he had imagined as he sat with his knees pulled up to his chest and his blanket wrapped about him to ward off the chill. Once, a small creature approached, getting close enough to him that he could just make out its features. It looked like a lizard—maybe a foot long, covered with spikes. Its body was supple and lean, its eyes gleaming as it studied him. It was there and then gone again, vanished as if it were a ghost. He stared at the space it had occupied for a long time afterward, waiting for it to reappear. He had a faint memory of having seen it—or one just like it—the night before. He had caught a glimpse of it just after the attack by the giant insects, and then it had skittered away, a flash of movement in the darkness. He remembered it now and was certain his memory was not playing games with him.

  When his watch ended and he lay down to sleep, he knew the effort was a waste of time. He was too awake, too nervous. He could not possibly sleep this night.

  But then he did, and when he woke it was morning and something was prodding his leg. He glanced down and found the lizard nudging him with its horn-encrusted head. It would move close, poke at him once or twice, and then withdraw, waiting a moment before repeating the action. When it saw it had succeeded in getting his attention, it backed off just a little farther than he could reach and crouched down, watching him.

  That was when he saw the second creature. This one was bigger and had the look of a Spider Gnome, although it was clearly something else. It was sitting cross-legged about a dozen yards away, its elongated arms folded in like wings, its body hunched forward with its head cocked. Patches of coarse black hair sprouted from leathery skin, and its face was crisscrossed with wrinkles. It wore plain clothing decorated with colored thread; clusters of feathers and knots of what appeared to be bones were sewn to the fabric. Even sitting, it seemed disproportionate, as if its arms and legs were too long for its body and its head too small.

  Redden raised himself up on his elbow and looked around. The others were all asleep—even those who were supposed to be on watch.

  Except for Pleysia. She wasn’t even there.

  The Spider Gnome look-alike made a short hissing sound and the lizard prodding Redden bolted away—a blur of motion until it reappeared at the watcher’s side. The creature reached down with bony fingers to pet the lizard, then looked up at the boy and smiled, revealing a mouthful of sharp white teeth.

  Redden sat all the way up, eyes locked on the creature and its pet lizard. The creature didn’t appear threatening, and a quick look around revealed that it was alone. Redden didn’t miss the curved, serrated blades it carried—two shoved in a leather belt at its waist and a third, much longer knife slung over one shoulder on a strap—but it showed no interest in using either.

  “Mistress,” Redden called softly to the Ard Rhys.

  She came awake at once, pulling off her blanket and sitting up, her eyes looking where he was pointing. She took a moment to count heads, obviously noting the absence of Pleysia, and then she moved over to sit next to him.

  The creature said something to them, but it was in a language the boy didn’t recognize. She shook her head at it, and the creature’s smile broadened.

  “You are not Jarka Ruus?” it asked her in broken Elfish. “You are not of the free peoples, the ca’rel orren pu’u?”

  Jarka Ruus. The name given to those imprisoned by the Forbidding. She shook her head. “No.”

  “Then you don’t belong here. Why are you come?”

  “We came by mistake. Through the wall of the Forbidding. What are you?”

  The creature shrugged. “An Ulk Bog. What do you think I am?” The sharp eyes brightened. “Do you know of us?”

  Khyber Elessedil nodded slowly. “I knew of another Ulk Bog. One from a long time ago. His name was Weka Dart.”

  “Ha!” The creature clapped its hands in glee. “At last! You are the one I have been waiting for.”

  “No, I don’t …”

  “For very long. For years. I wait for so long!” The Ulk Bog talked right over her. “All through years after my uncle passes to other side, long since. I have wait and wait. Now you return, finally! You! I know of you! Your story, your name, your history, I know all!” He released a deep, explosive breath. “You are Straken Queen!”

  For long seconds, there was a shocked silence. Then Khyber Elessedil held up her hands in a gesture or denial. “Wait. Your uncle was Weka Dart?”

  The Ulk Bog danced to its feet, quick and lively. “Yes, yes! Do you remember him?”

  “Only from the stories I was told. I am not the one who came here before. I am not the one your uncle knew. That was a different woman, one who served as Ard Rhys before me. Not a Straken or a Straken Queen, but an Ard Rhys. We are not witches. We are Druids. This other woman, the one your uncle knew. Her name was Grianne Ohmsford?”

  “That was her name!” The Ulk Bog darted closer, crouched, and cocked its head. “Why do you say it isn’t you?”

  The Trolls were awake now, standing behind Khyber and Redden and staring at this strange creature. Since they didn’t speak much Elfish, they had no idea what was going on.

  “Grianne Ohmsford is gone. I am her successor. I have never been inside the Forbidding before now. I have never met Weka Dart.”

  The Ulk Bog looked unconvinced. “You are described to me. It must be you! You have Straken magic. You know of Weka Dart. Of the Jarka Ruus. Why do you lie?”

  “No, she isn’t Grianne Ohmsford,” Redden interjected impulsively. “I would know. Grianne Ohmsford was my great-grandfather’s sister. We are family. This isn’t her.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, Redden Ohmsford knew he had made a mistake. The look that flashed across the Ulk Bog’s face was of anger as black as demon’s blood. It appeared and was instantly gone again. The boy saw it—or maybe he just thought he saw it because he felt it so strongly—reflected in the creature’s eyes and in a twisting of its features.

  “Who are you?” the Ulk Bog asked, the words a soft hiss. “What is your name?”

  “Redden Ohmsford.”
<
br />   “Ohmsford. Of the family of the Straken Queen?”

  “Of the …” He stopped himself, angered he was suddenly feeling so intimidated. “Who are you?”

  The creature smiled, revealing all its teeth. “Tesla Dart is my name.” The smile vanished. “What are you doing in the land of Jarka Ruus?”

  “Trying to get out!” Redden snapped.

  “Trying to find two of our friends,” the Ard Rhys corrected, putting a warning hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We are here by accident. I told you before. We came through a breach in the wall we didn’t know was there, and it closed behind us. Now we are trapped.”

  The Ulk Bog scooted back a few feet, his eyes darting left and right. “I think you lie. There are no others. Only the woman who left during the night.”

  Pleysia. “Did you see which way she went?” the Ard Rhys asked.

  Tesla Dart pointed south. Of course, Redden thought. Still searching for Oriantha. Going it alone.

  “How long have you been tracking us?” the Ard Rhys pressed.

  The Ulk Bog looked angry. It yanked on a patch of black hair in irritation. “Why do you ask stupid questions? I don’t track you. I don’t have to. My Chzyks do so for me. This one”—he gestured to the lizard—“is called Lada. He tracks you. He was there last night when you fought the Mantis Styx.” He gestured at Redden. “This one saw him.”

  The boy glanced at the Ard Rhys. “He’s right. I did see him. Right after we were attacked. I forgot about it until I woke just now and found him poking at me.”

  Tesla Dart nodded. “He watches you fight. Sees you and comes to tell me of it. Brings me here so we can talk.” He scrunched up his face. “But you are not who I thought? You are sure?”

  “You’ve never seen Grianne Ohmsford, have you?”

  “No. But I hear the stories. From Weka Dart. He tells me. You have magic like hers. You can do what she could. You are a Straken. Perhaps a Straken Queen, even if you say you are not. Lada knows this. So he tells me.”