The Elf Queen of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  “Hssttt, yes, I hear it, too,” Stresa announced, rising hurriedly. “The Wisteron. It begins to hunt, to check its snares for food. We have to get away from here quickly. Once it discovers I’ve escaped, it will come looking for me.” The Splinterscat shook out its quills. “Hhgggh. Since you don’t appear to know your way, you had better follow me.”

  He started off abruptly. Wren hurried to catch up, Garth trailing. “Wait a moment! What sort of creature is this Wisteron?” she asked.

  “Better for you if you never find out,” Stresa replied enigmatically, and all of his quills stood on end. “This swamp is called the In Ju. The Wisteron makes its home here. The In Ju stretches all the way to Blackledge—and that is a long way off. Phffaghh.”

  He shambled away, moving far more quickly than Wren would have expected. “I still don’t understand how you know so much about the Elves,” she said, hastening after. “Or how it is that you can talk, for that matter. Does everything on Morrowindl talk?”

  Stresa glanced back, a cat look, sharp and knowing. “Rraarggh—did I forget to tell you? The reason I can talk is that the Elves made me, too. Hsssstt.” The Splinterscat turned away. “Enough questions for now. Better if we keep still for a while.”

  He moved rapidly into the trees, as silent as smoke, leaving Wren with Garth to follow, pondering her confusion and disbelief.

  VII

  They fled swiftly, silently through the In Ju. The Splinterscat led, his brownish quilled body shambling through brush and into grasses, under brambles and over logs as if they were all one, a single obstacle that required the same amount of effort to surmount. Wren and Garth followed, forced to skirt the heavier undergrowth, to pick their way more cautiously, to test the ground before they walked upon it. They managed to keep pace only because Stresa had sufficient presence of mind to look back for them now and again and wait until they caught up.

  None of them spoke as they hastened on, but they all listened carefully for sounds of the Wisteron’s pursuit.

  The jungle grew darker and webs began to appear everywhere. Many were trailers from snares long since sprung or worn away, yet an equal number were triggers to nets stretched through the treetops, across brush, even over pits in the earth. The webbing was clear and invisible except where leaves or dirt had become attached and gave color and definition, and even then it was hard to detect. Wren soon gave up searching for anything else, concentrating solely on the dangerous nets. A spider would spin webs such as these, she thought to herself, and pictured the Wisteron so in her mind.

  They had been fleeing for only a handful of minutes when she finally heard it moving. The sound reached her clearly—brush and scrub thrashing, the limbs of trees snapping, bark scraping, and water splashing and churning. The Wisteron was big and it was making no effort to hide its coming. It sounded as if a juggernaut were rolling over everything, implacable, inescapable. The In Ju was a monstrous green cathedral in which the silence had been snatched away Wren was suddenly very afraid.

  They passed through a broad clearing in which a lake had formed, forcing them to change direction. After a moment’s hesitation, they skirted right along a low ridge on which a thick patch of brambles grew. Stresa tunneled ahead, oblivious. Wren and Garth followed bravely, ignoring the scrapes and cuts they received, the sounds of the Wisteron’s coming growing louder behind them.

  Then abruptly the sounds disappeared.

  Stresa stopped instantly, freezing in place. The Rovers did so as well. Wren listened, motionless. Garth put his hands against the earth. All was still. The trees hovered motionless about them, the misted half-light a curtain of gauze. The only sound was a rustling of the wind . . . Except that there was no wind. Wren went cold. The air was as still as death. She looked quickly at Stresa. The Splinterscat was looking up.

  The Wisteron was moving through the trees.

  Garth was on his feet again, his long knife sliding free. Wren searched the canopy of limbs and branches overhead in a frantic, futile effort to catch sight of something. The rustling was closer, more recognizable, no longer the whisper of wind against leaves but the movement of something huge.

  Stresa began to run, an odd-shaped chunk of prickly earth skimming toward a stand of koa, silent somehow, but frantic as well. Wren and Garth went, too, unbidden, unquestioning. Wren was sweating freely beneath her clothes, and her body ached from the effort to remain still. She moved in a crouch, afraid now to look back, to look up, or to look anywhere but ahead to where the Splinterscat raced. The rustling of leaves filled her ears, and there was a snapping of branches. Birds darted through the cavernous forest, spurts of color and movement that were gone in the blink of an eye. The jungle shimmered damp and frozen about her, a still life in which only they moved. The koa rose ahead, massive trunks trailing yards of mossy vines, great hoary giants rooted in time.

  Wren started unexpectedly. Nestled against her breast, the Elfstones had begun to burn.

  Not again, she thought desperately, I won’t use the magic again, but knew even as she thought it she would.

  They reached the shelter of the koa, moving hurriedly within, down a hall formed of trunks and shadows. Wren looked up, searching for snares. There were none to be seen. She watched Stresa scurry to one side toward a gathering of brush and push within. She and Garth followed, stooping to make their way past the branches, pulling their packs after them, clutching them close to mask any sound.

  Crouched in blackness and breathing heavily, they knelt against the jungle floor and waited. The minutes slipped by. The leafy branches of their shelter muffled any sound from without, so they could no longer hear the rustling. It was close within their concealment, and the stench of rotting wood seeped up from the earth. Wren felt trapped. It would be better to be out in the open where she could run, where she could see. She felt a sudden urge to bolt. But she glanced at Garth and saw the calm set of the big man’s face and held her ground. Stresa had eased back toward the opening, flattened against the earth, head cocked, stubby cat’s ears pricked.

  Wren eased down next to the creature and peered out.

  The Splinterscat’s quills bristled.

  In that same instant she saw the Wisteron. It was still in the trees, so distant from where they hid that it was little more than a shadow against the screen of vog. Even so, there was no mistaking it. It crept through the branches like some massive wraith . . . No, she corrected. It wasn’t creeping. It was stalking. Not like a cat, but something far more confident, far more determined. It stole the life out of the air as it went, a shadow that swallowed sound and movement. It had four legs and a tail and it used all five to grasp the branches of the trees and pull itself along. It might have been an animal once; it still had the look of one. But it moved like an insect. It was all misshapen and distorted, the parts of its body hinged like giant grapples that allowed it to swing freely in any direction. It was sleek and sinewy and grotesque beyond even the wolf thing that had tracked them out of Grimpen Ward.

  The Wisteron paused, turning.

  Wren’s breath caught in her throat, and she held it there with a single-mindedness that was heartstopping. The Wisteron hung suspended against the gray, a huge, terrifying shadow. Then abruptly it swung away. It passed before her like the promise of her own death, hinting, teasing, and whispering silent threats. Yet it did not see her; it did not slow. On this afternoon, it had other victims to claim.

  Then it was gone.

  They emerged from hiding after a time to continue on, edgy and furtive, traveling mostly because it was necessary to do so if they ever wanted to get clear of the In Ju. Even so, they had not succeeded when darkness fell and so spent that night within the swamp. Stresa found a large hollow in the trunk of a dead banyan, and the Rovers reluctantly crawled in at the Splinterscat’s urging. They were not anxious to be confined, but it was better than sleeping out in the open where the creatures of the swamp could creep up on them. In any event, it was dry within the trunk, and the chill of night was l
ess evident. The Rovers wrapped themselves in their heavy cloaks and sat facing the opening, staring out into the murky dark, smelling rot and mold and damp, watching the ever-present shadows flit past.

  “What is it that’s moving out there?” Wren asked Stresa finally, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. They had just finished eating. The Splinterscat seemed capable of devouring just about anything—the cheese, bread, and dried meats they carried in equal measure with the grubs and insects he foraged on his own. At the moment he was sitting just to one side of the opening in the banyan, gnawing on a root.

  He glanced up alertly. “Out there?” he repeated. The words were so guttural Wren could barely understand them. “Grrrssst. Nothing much, really. Some ugly, little creatures that wouldn’t dare show their faces in other circumstances. They creep about now—hhhrrgg—because all the really dangerous things—except the wwwssst Wisteron—are at Arborlon, waiting for the Keel to give out.”

  “Tell me about the Keel,” she urged. Her fingers signed to Garth, translating the Splinterscat’s words.

  Stresa put down the root. The purr was back in his rough voice. “The Keel is the wall that surrounds the city. It was formed of the magic, and the magic keeps the demons out. Hggghhhh. But the magic weakens, and the demons grow stronger. The Elves don’t seem to be able to do anything about either.” The Splinterscat paused. “How did you find out about the demons? Hssttt. What is your name again? Grrllwren? Wren? Who told you about Morrowindl?”

  Wren leaned back against the banyan trunk. “It’s a long story, Stresa. A Wing Rider brought us here. He was the one who warned us about the demons, except that he called them monsters. Do you know about Wing Riders?”

  “Ssttppft! The Elves with the giant birds—yes, I know. They used to come here all the time. Not anymore. Now when they come, the demons are waiting. They pull them down and kill them. Fffftt—quick. That’s what would have happened to you as well if they weren’t all at Arborlon—or at least most of them. The Wisteron doesn’t bother with such things.”

  Arborlon, Wren was thinking, had been the home city of the Elves when they had lived in the Westland. It had disappeared when they did. Had they rebuilt it on Morrowindl? What had they done with the Ellcrys? Had they brought it with them? Or had it died out once again as it had in the time of Wil Ohmsford? Was that why there were demons on Morrowindl?

  “How far are we from the city?” she asked, pushing the questions aside.

  “A long way yet,” Stresa answered. The cat face cocked. “The In Ju runs to a mountain wall called Blackledge that stretches all the way across the south end of the island. Beyond that lies a valley where the Rowen flows. Rrwwwn. Beyond that sits Arborlon, high on a bluff below Killeshan’s mouth. Is that where you are trying to go?”

  Wren nodded.

  “Ppffahh! Whatever for?”

  “To find the Elves,” Wren answered. “I have been sent to give them a message.”

  Stresa shook his head and fanned his quills away from his body an inch or so. “I hope the message is important. I don’t see how you will ever manage to deliver it with demons all about the city—if the city is even there anymore. Ssstt.”

  “We will find a way.” Wren wanted to change the subject. “You said earlier that the Elves made you, Stresa. And the demons. But you didn’t explain how.”

  The Splinterscat gave her an impatient look. “Magic, of course!” he rasped. “Hrrrwwll! Elven magic allows you to do just about anything. I was one of the first, long before they decided on the demons or any of the others. That was almost fifty years ago. Splinterscats live a long time. Ssppptt. They made me to guard the farms, to keep away the scavengers and such. I was very good at it. We all were. Pfftt. We could live off the land, required very little looking after, and could stay out for weeks. But then the demons came and killed most of us off, and the farms all failed and were abandoned, and that was that. We were left to fend for ourselves—grrrsssst—which was all right because we had gotten pretty used to it by then. We could survive on our own. Actually, it was better that way. I would hate to be shut up inside that city with demons—hssstt—all about.” The creature gave a low growl. “I hate even to think about it.”

  Wren was still trying to figure out what the Elves were doing using magic again. Where had the magic come from? They hadn’t had the use of magic when they had lived in the Westland—hadn’t had it since the time of faerie except for their healing powers. The real magic had been lost for years. Now, somehow, they had gotten it back again. Enough, it appeared, to allow them to create demons. Or to summon them, perhaps. A black choice, if ever there was one. What could have possessed them to do such a thing?

  She wondered suddenly what her parents had to do with all of this. Were they involved in using the magic? If they were, then why had they given the Elfstones—the most powerful magic of all—to her?

  “If the Elves . . . created these demons with their magic, why can’t they destroy them?” she asked, curious still about where these so-called demons had come from and whether they were really demons at all. “Why can’t they use their magic to free themselves?”

  Stresa shook his head and picked up the root again. “I haven’t any idea. No one has ever explained any of it to me. I never go to the city. I haven’t spoken to an Elf in years. You are the first—and you’re not wholly elf, are you? Prruufft. Your blood is mixed. And your friend is something else altogether.”

  “He is human,” she said.

  “Ssspttt. if you say so. I haven’t seen anyone like him before. Where does he come from?”

  Wren realized for the first time that Stresa probably didn’t know that there was anyone out there other than Elves and Wing Riders or any place other than the islands.

  “We both come from the Westland, which is part of a country called the Four Lands, which is where all the Elves came from years ago. There are lots of different kinds of people there. Garth and I are just one of them.”

  Stresa studied her thoughtfully. His quilled body bunched as his legs inched together. “After you find the Elves—rrrgggghh—and deliver your message, what will you do then? Will you go back to where you came from?”

  Wren nodded.

  “The Westland, you called it. Is it anything like—grwwl—Morrowindl?”

  “No, Stresa. There are things that are dangerous, though. Still, the Westland is nothing like Morrowindl.” But even as she finished speaking, she thought, Not yet anyway, but for how long with the Shadowen gaining strength?

  The Splinterscat chewed on the root for a moment, then remarked, “Pfftt. I don’t think you can get to Arborlon on your own.” The strange blue eyes fixed on Wren.

  “No?” she replied.

  “Pft, pft. I don’t see how. You haven’t any idea how to scale Blackledge. Whatever happens you have to avoid the hrrrwwll Harrow and the Drakuls. Below, in the valley, there’s the Revenants. Those are just the worst of the demons; there are dozens of others as well. Ssspht. Once they discover you . . .”

  The quilled body bristled meaningfully and smoothed out again. Wren was tempted to ask about the Drakuls and the Revenants. Instead, she glanced at Garth for an opinion. Garth merely shrugged his indifference. He was used to finding his own way.

  “Well, what do you suggest we do?” she asked the Splinterscat.

  The eyes blinked. The purr lifted from the creature’s throat. “I would suggest that we make a bargain. I will guide you to the city. If you get past the demons and deliver your message and get out again, I will guide you back. Hrrrwwll.” Stresa paused. “In return, you will take me with you when you leave the island.”

  Wren frowned. “To the Westland? You want to leave Morrowindl?”

  The Splinterscat nodded. “Sppppttt. I don’t like it here much anymore. You can’t really blame me. I have survived for a long time on wits and experience and instinct, but mostly on luck. Today my luck ran out. If you hadn’t happened along, I would be dead. I am tired of this life. I want to go ba
ck to the way things were before. Perhaps I can do that where you live.”

  Perhaps, Wren thought. Perhaps not.

  She looked at Garth. The big man’s fingers moved swiftly in response. We don’t know anything about this creature. Be careful what you decide.

  Wren nodded. Typical Garth. He was wrong, of course—they did know one thing. The Splinterscat had saved them from the Wisteron as surely as they had saved him. And he might prove useful to have along, particularly since he knew the dangers of Morrowindl far better than they did. Agreeing to take him with them when they left the island was a small enough trade-off.

  Unless Garth’s suspicions should prove correct and the Splinterscat was playing some sort of game.

  Don’t trust anyone, the Addershag had warned her.

  She hesitated a moment, thinking the matter through. Then she shrugged the warning aside. “We have a bargain,” she announced abruptly. “I think it is a good idea.”

  The Splinterscat spread his quills with a flourish. “Hrrwwll. I thought you would,” he said, and yawned. Then he stretched out full length before them and placed his head comfortably on his paws. “Don’t touch me while I’m sleeping,” he advised. “If you do, you will end up with a face full of quills. I would feel badly if our partnership ended that way. Phfftt.”

  Before Wren could finish communicating the warning to Garth, Stresa’s eyes were closed, and the Splinterscat was asleep.

  Wren took the early watch, then slept soundly until dawn. She woke to Stresa’s stirrings—the rustle of quills, the scrape of claws against wood. She rose, her mind fuzzy and her eyes dry and scratchy. She felt weak and unsettled, but ignored her discomfort as Garth passed her the aleskin and some bread. Their food was being depleted rapidly, she knew; much of it had simply gone bad. They would have to forage soon. She hoped that Stresa, despite his odd eating habits, might be of some help in sorting out what was edible. She chewed a bit of the bread and spit it out. It tasted of mold.