by Terry Brooks
She pondered her discomfort all that day and had not come close to resolving it on her return to the camp. The signal fire was a guiding beacon, and she followed its glow to where Garth waited. He was anxious for her—she could see it in his eyes. But he said nothing, passing her food and drink and sitting back quietly to watch her eat. She told him she had not found any trace of other Shadowen. She did not tell him that she was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole business. She had asked herself once before, once right at the beginning when she had decided she would try to learn something about who she was, What would happen if she did not like what she discovered? She had dismissed the possibility. She was worried now that she had made a very big mistake.
The second night passed without incident. They kept the signal fire burning steadily, feeding it new wood as the old was consumed, patiently waiting. Another day began and ended, and still no one appeared. They searched the skies and the land from horizon to horizon, but there was no sign of anyone. By nightfall, both were edgy. Garth, his superficial wounds already healed and the deeper ones beginning to close, prowled the campsite like a caged animal, repeating meaningless tasks to keep from having to sit. Wren sat to keep from prowling. They slept as often as they could, resting themselves because they needed to and because it was something to do. Wren found herself doubting the Addershag, questioning the old woman’s words. How long had the Addershag been a captive of those men, chained and imprisoned in that cellar? Perhaps her memory had failed her in some way. Perhaps she had become confused. But she had not sounded feeble or confused. She had sounded dangerous. And what about the Shadowen that had tracked them the length and breadth of the Westland? All those weeks it had kept hidden, following at a distance. It had shown itself only after the signal fire had been lit. Then it had come forth to destroy them. Wasn’t it reasonable to assume that its appearance had been brought about by what it was seeing them do, that it believed the signal lire posed some sort of threat and so must be stopped? Why else would it have chosen that moment to strike?
So don’t give up, Wren kept telling herself, the words a litany of hope to keep her confidence from failing completely. Don’t give up.
The third night dragged away, minutes into hours. They changed the watch frequently because by now neither could sleep for more than a short time without waking. More often than not they kept watch together—uneasy, anxious, worried. They fed deadwood into the flames and watched the fire dance against the night. They stared out over the black void above the Blue Divide. They sifted through the night sounds and their scattered thoughts.
Nothing happened. No one came.
It was nearing morning when Wren dozed off in spite of herself, some time during the final hour of her watch. She was still sitting up, her legs crossed, her arms about her knees, and her head dipped forward. It seemed only moments had passed when she jerked awake again. She glanced about warily. Garth was asleep a few feet away, wrapped in his great cloak. The fire continued to burn fiercely. The land was cloaked in a frost-tipped blanket of shadows and half-light, the sunrise no more than a faint silver lightening at the rim of the mountains east. A scattering of stars still brightened the sky west, although the moon had long since disappeared. Wren yawned and stood up. Clouds were moving in from out on the ocean, low-hanging, dark . . .
She started. She was seeing something else, she realized, something blacker and swifter, moving out of the darkness for the bluffs, streaking directly for her. She blinked to make certain, then stepped back hurriedly and reached down for Garth. The big Rover was on his feet at once. Together they faced out across the Divide, watching the black thing take shape. It was a Roc, they realized after a few seconds more, winging its way toward the fire like a moth drawn by the flames. It swept across the bluff and wheeled back again, its outline barely visible in the faint light. It flew over them twice, turning each time, crossing and recrossing as if studying what lay below. Wren and Garth watched wordlessly, unable to do anything else.
Finally, the Roc plummeted toward them, its massive body whistling overhead, so close it might have snatched them up with its great claws if it had wished. Wren and Garth flattened themselves against the rocks protectively and stared as the bird settled comfortably down at the edge of the cliffs, a giant, black-bodied creature with a head as scarlet as fire and wings greater than those on the bird that Wren had barely escaped days earlier.
Wren and Garth climbed back to their feet and brushed themselves off.
There was a man seated astride the Roc, held in place by straps from a leather harness. They watched as the man released the straps and slid smoothly to the ground. He stood next to the bird and studied them momentarily, then started forward. He was small and bent, wearing a tunic, pants, boots, and gloves made of leather. He walked with an oddly rolling gait, as if not altogether comfortable with the task. His features were Elven, narrow and sharp, and his face was deeply lined. He wore no beard, and his brown hair was short cropped and peppered with gray. Fierce black eyes blinked at them with alarming rapidity.
He came to a stop when he was a dozen feet away.
“Did you light that fire?” be demanded. His voice was high-pitched and rough about the edges.
“Yes,” Wren answered him.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I was told to.”
“Were you now? By whom, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind at all. I was told to light it by the Addershag.”
The eyes blinked twice as fast. “By the what?”
“An old woman, a seer I spoke with in Grimpen Ward. She is called the Addershag.”
The little man grunted. “Grimpen Ward. Ugh! No one in his right mind goes there.” His mouth tightened. “Well, why did this Addershag tell you to light the fire, eh?”
Wren sighed impatiently. She had waited three days for someone to come and she was anxious to discover if this gnarled little fellow was the person she had been expecting or not. “Let me ask you something first,” she replied. “Do you have a name?”
The frown deepened. “I might. Why don’t you tell me yours first?”
Wren put her hands on her hips challengingly. “My name is Wren Ohmsford. This is my friend Garth. We’re Rovers.”
“Hah, is that so now? Rovers, are you?” The little man chuckled as if enjoying some private joke. “Got a bit of Elf in you, too, it looks.”
“Got a bit in you as well,” she replied. “What’s your name?”
“Tiger Ty,” the other said. “At least, that’s what everyone calls me. All right now, Miss Wren. We’ve introduced ourselves and said hello. What are you doing out here, Addershag and what-all notwithstanding? Why’d you light that fire?”
Wren smiled. “Maybe to bring you and your bird, if you’re the one who can take us to the Elves.”
Tiger grunted and spit. “That bird is a Roc, Miss Wren. He’s called Spirit. Best of them all, he is. And there aren’t any Elves. Everyone knows that.”
Wren nodded. “Not everyone. Some think there are Elves. I’ve been sent to see if that’s so. Can you and Spirit help?”
There was a long silence as Tiger Ty scrunched his face into a dozen different expressions. “Big fellow, your friend Garth, isn’t he? I see you telling him what we’re saying with your hands. Bet he hears better than we do, push come to shove.” He paused. “Who are you, Miss Wren, that you would care to know whether there are Elves or not?”
She told him, certain now that he was the one for whom the signal fire was intended and that he was simply being cautious about what he revealed until he found out whom he was dealing with. She disclosed her background, revealing that she was the child of an Elf and a Rover, searching for some link to her past. She advised him of her meeting with the shade of Allanon and the Druid’s charge that she go in search of the missing Elves, that she discover what had become of them, and that she return them to the world of Men so that they could take part in the battle against
the Shadowen.
She kept quiet about the Elfstones. She was not yet ready to trust anyone with that information.
Tiger Ty shifted and fidgeted as she talked, his face worrying itself into a dozen different expressions. He seemed heedless of Garth, his attention focused on Wren. He carried no weapons save for a long knife, but with Spirit standing watch she supposed he had no need of weapons. The Roc was clearly his protector.
“Let’s sit,” Tiger Ty said when she had finished, pulling off his leather gloves. “Got anything to eat?”
They seated themselves beside the now-forgotten signal fire, and Wren produced a collection of dried fruit, a little bread, and some ale. They ate and drank in silence, Wren and Garth exchanging occasional glances, Tiger Ty ignoring them both, absorbed in the task of eating.
When they were finished, Tiger Ty smiled for the first time. “A good start to the day, Miss Wren. Thanks very much.”
Wren nodded. “You’re welcome. Now tell me. Was our fire meant for you?”
The leathery face furrowed. “Well, now. Depends, you know. Let me ask you, Miss Wren. Do you know anything of Wing Riders?”
Wren shook her head no.
“Because that’s what I am, you see,” the other explained. “A Wing Rider. A flyer of the skylanes, a watcher of the Westland coast. Spirit is my Roc, trained by my father, given to me when I became old enough. One day he’ll go to my son, if my son proves out. There’s some question about it just now. Fool boy keeps winging about where he’s not supposed to. Doesn’t pay attention to what I tell him. Impetuous. Anyway, Wing Riders have flown their Rocs along the Blue Divide for hundreds of years. This very spot, right here—and back there in the valley—was our home once. It was called the Wing Hove. That was in the time of the Druid Allanon. You see, I know a few things.”
“Do you know the Ohmsford name?” Wren asked impulsively.
“There was a tale about an Ohmsford some several hundred years ago when the Elves fought demons released out of the Forbidding. Wing Riders fought in that war, too, they say. But there was an Ohmsford, I’m told. Relation of yours?”
“Yes,” she said. “Twelve generations removed.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So that’s you, is it? A child of the house of Shannara?”
Wren nodded. “I suppose that’s why I’ve been sent to find the Elves, Tiger Ty.”
Tiger Ty looked doubtful. “Wing Riders are Elves, you know,” he said carefully. “But we’re not the Elves you’re looking for. The Elves you’re looking for are Land Elves, not Sky Elves. Do you understand the difference?”
She shook her head no once more. He explained then that the members of the Wing Hove were Sky Elves and considered themselves a separate people. The majority of the Elves were called Land Elves because they had no command of the Rocs and therefore could not fly.
“That’s why they didn’t take us with them when they left,” he finished, eyebrows arched. “That’s why we wouldn’t have gone with them in any case.”
Wren felt her pulse quicken. “Then there are still Elves, aren’t there? Where are they, Tiger Ty?”
The gnarled little man blinked and squinched up his leathery face. “Don’t know if I should tell you that,” he opined. “Don’t know if I should tell you anything. You might be who you say. Then again, you might not. Even if you are, maybe it’s not for you to know about the Elves. The Druid Allanon sent you, you say? Told you to find the Elves and bring them back? Tall order, if you ask me.”
“I could use a little help,” Wren admitted. “What would it hurt you to give it to me, Tiger Ty?”
He ceased his ruminations and rocked back thoughtfully. “Well, now, you’ve got a point there, Miss Wren,” he replied, nodding in agreement with himself “Besides, I sort of like what I see in you. My son could use a little of what you’ve got. On the other hand, maybe that’s what he’s already got too much of! Humph!”
He cocked his head and his sharp eyes fixed her. “Out there,” he said, pointing to the Blue Divide. “That’s where they are, the ones that are left.” He paused, scowling. “It’s a long story, so make certain you listen close because I don’t intend to repeat myself. You, too, big fellow.” He indicated Garth with a menacing finger.
Then he took a deep breath and sat back. “Long time ago, better than a hundred years, the Land Elves held a council and decided to migrate out of the Westland. Don’t ask me why; I don’t pretend to know. The Federation, mostly, I’d guess. Pushing in, taking over, pretending everything that ever was or ever would be belonged to them. And blaming everything on the magic and saying it was all the fault of the Elves. Lot of nonsense. Land Elves didn’t like it in any case and decided to leave. Problem was, where could they go? Wasn’t as if there was anywhere a whole people could move to without upsetting someone already settled in. Eastland, Southland, Northland—all taken. So they asked us. Sky Elves get around more than most, see places others don’t even know exist. So we said to them, well, there’s some islands out there in the Blue Divide that no one lives on, and they thought it over, talked about it, took a few flights out on the Rocs with Wing Riders, and came to a decision. They picked a gathering spot, built boats—hundreds of them, all in secret—and off they went.”
“All of them?”
“Every last one, so I’m told. Sailed away.”
“To live on the islands?” Wren asked, incredulous.
“One island.” Tiger Ty held up a single finger for emphasis. “Morrowindl.”
“That was its name? Morrowindl?”
The other nodded. “Biggest of all the islands, better than two hundred miles across, ideal for farming, something like the Sarandanon already planted. Fruits, vegetables, trees, good soil, shelter—everything. Hunting was good, too. The Land Elves had some notion about starting over, taking themselves out of the old world, and beginning again in the new. Isolate themselves all over again, let the other races do what they wanted with themselves. Wanted their magic back, too—that was part of it.”
He cleared his throat. “As I said, that was a long time ago. After a while, we migrated, too. Not so far, you understand—just to the islands offshore, just far enough away to keep the Federation from hunting us. Elves are Elves to them. We’d had enough of that kind of thinking. Not so many of us to make the move, of course; not like the Land Elves. We needed less space and could settle for the smaller islands. That’s where we still are, Miss Wren. Out there, couple miles offshore. Only come back to the mainland when it’s necessary—like when someone lights a signal fire. That was the agreement we made.”
“Agreement with whom?”
“With the Land Elves. A few who remained behind of the other races knew to light the fire if there was need to talk to us. And a few of the Elves came back over the years. So some knew about the fire. But most have long since died. This Addershag—I don’t know how she found out.”
“Back up a moment, Tiger Ty,” Wren requested, holding out her hands placatingly. “Finish your story about the Land Elves first. What happened to them? You said they migrated more than a hundred years ago. What became of them after that?”
Tiger Ty shrugged. “They settled in, made a home, raised their families, and were happy. Everything worked out the way they thought it would—at first. Then about twenty years ago, they started having trouble. It was hard to tell what the problem was; they wouldn’t discuss it with us. We only saw them now and again, you see. Still didn’t mix much, even after we’d migrated out, too. Anyway, everything on Morrowindl began to change. It started with Killeshan, the volcano. Dormant for hundreds of years and suddenly it came awake again. Started smoking, spitting, erupted once or twice. Clouds of vog—you know, volcanic ash—started flung, the skies. The air, the land, the water about—it was all different.” He paused, a hard look darkening his face. “They changed, too—the Land Elves. Wouldn’t admit it, but we saw that something was different. You could see it in the way they behaved when we were about—guarded, secretive abo
ut everything. Armed to the teeth everywhere they went. And strange creatures began appearing on the island, monstrous things, things that had never been there be-fore. Just appeared, just out of nothing. And the land began to grow sick, changing like everything else.”
He sighed. “The Land Elves began to die off then, a few at a time, more after a while. They had lived all over the island once; they quit doing that and moved into their city, all jammed together like rats in a sinking ship. They built fortifications and reinforced them with magic. Old magic, you know, brought back out of time and the old ways. Sky Elves want nothing to do with it, but we’ve never used the magic anyway like them.”
He sat back. “Ten years ago, they disappeared completely.”
Wren started. “Disappeared?”
“Vanished. Still on Morrowindl, mind. But gone. Island was a mass of ash and mist and steamy heat by then, of course. Changed so completely it might have been a different place entirely.” He tightened his frown. “We couldn’t get in to find out what had happened. Sent half a dozen Wing Riders. Not a one came back. Not even the birds. And no one came out. No one, Miss Wren. Not in all that time.”
Wren was silent for a moment, thinking. The sun was up now, warm light cascading down from atop the Irrybis, the cloudless morning sky bright and friendly. Spirit remained perched on the cliff edge, oblivious to them. The Roc was a statue frozen in place. Only his sharp, searching eyes registered life.
“So if there are any Elves left,” Wren said finally, “any Land Elves, that is, they’re still on Morrowindl somewhere. You’re sure about that, Tiger Ty?”
