by Terry Brooks
His gaze on her was steady and watchful. “I do.”
“And would you be my guide and companion?”
He straightened expectantly. “I would be honored.”
“No, Minister, you would simply be dead, probably before the first day was out.” She paused to let him absorb the impact of her words. “Put aside your dreams of what you think I might be. Do not let them enter your mind or be persuaded to speak of them again. Ever. I am nothing of what you imagine and less of what you would hope. I am blacker than your worst deeds could ever be. Don’t presume to know me. Keep far away from me, and maybe you’ll stay alive.”
His face had stilled, and there was uncertainty in his eyes. She let him wrestle with it a moment, then whispered words of calming in the silence, and laughed like a girl, soft and low. “Come now, Minister. Harsh words are unnecessary. We are old friends. We are allies. What of my request? Will you aid me?”
“Of course,” he answered swiftly. A political animal first and always, Sen Dunsidan could recognize reality quicker than most. He did not want to anger or alienate her or sever their mutually advantageous connection. He would attempt to move past his clumsy attempt at an assignation as if it had never happened. She, of course, would let him. “A ship, a Captain, and crew,” he assured her, grateful for a chance to accommodate, to be back in her good graces. He brushed at his silver hair and smiled. “All at your disposal, Dark Lady, for as long as you need them.”
“Your best of each, Minister,” she warned. “No weak links. This voyage will not be easy.”
He rose, walked to the study window, and looked out over the city. His home sat in a cluster of Federation government buildings, some residences, some offices, all warded by a walled park into which no one was admitted without invitation. The Ilse Witch smiled. Except for her, of course. She could go anywhere she wished.
“I’ll give you Black Moclips,” Sen Dunsidan announced suddenly. “She is the best of our warships, a Rover-built ship of the line, a proven vessel. Her history is remarkable. She has fought in over two hundred engagements and never been defeated or even disabled. Just now, she has a new Captain and crew, and they are eager to prove themselves. Veterans all, don’t misunderstand me, but new to this ship. They were brought aboard when her Rover crew deserted.”
She studied him. “They are seasoned and reliable? They are tested in battle?”
“Two full years on the Prekkendorran, all of them. They are a strong and dependable unit, well led and thoroughly trained.”
And a full complement of Federation soldiers, she was about to say when the Morgawr’s rough-edged voice stopped her. No soldiers, he hissed, so that only she could hear. It was an unmistakable reminder of his earlier warning, when she had insisted she must have soldiers to combat the Elven forces. A ship, a Captain, and a crew—nothing more. Do not question me. She froze under the lash of his voice, projected from the shadows behind Sen Dunsidan, where he waited in hiding.
“Lady?” the Minister of Defense asked solicitously, sensing the hesitation in her.
“Supplies for a long voyage,” she said, forging ahead as if nothing had intruded on her thinking, looking directly toward the Morgawr, unwilling to concede him anything. She resented his insistence on trying to control matters when he himself had no intention of being involved in the expedition. He saw himself as her mentor, and he was, but she was his equal now and no longer in his thrall. She had always possessed magic, even before he came to her and helped her to rebuild her shattered life. She had never been helpless or unaware, and he seemed too quick to forget how strong she was.
“The ship will be delivered to you fully outfitted and ready to sail.” Sen Dunsidan reclaimed her attention. “I’ll have her ready in a week.”
“Four days,” the Ilse Witch said softly, holding his gaze firmly with her own. “I’ll come for her myself. Have her Captain and crew under orders to obey me in everything. Everything, Minister. There are to be no questions, no arguments, and no hesitations. All decisions are to be mine.”
The Federation Minister nodded without enthusiasm. “The Captain and crew will be advised, Dark Lady.”
“Go back to bed,” she ordered, and turned away, dismissing him.
Standing with her gaze directed out the windows and into the night, she waited until he was gone, then wheeled back to face the Morgawr, who had emerged from hiding, tall and dark and spectral. He had come with her to the city, but kept hidden while she did the talking. He told her that it was best if Sen Dunsidan believed she was the one he must listen to, the one in control. As in fact I am, she had wanted to reply, but instead held her tongue.
“You did well,” he said, sliding into the faint light.
“I don’t appreciate your interference with my efforts!” she snapped, unappeased. “Or your reminders of what you think I should or shouldn’t do! I am the one who risks life and limb to gain possession of the magic!”
“I only seek to supply help where help is needed,” he replied calmly.
“Then do so!” she snapped. Her patience was exhausted. “We need soldiers! We need hardened warriors! Where are they to come from, if not from the Federation?”
He dismissed her anger and displeasure with a wave of his gloved hand. “From me,” he replied casually. “I have already arranged for it. Three dozen Mwellrets, commanded by Cree Bega. They will be your warriors, your fighters. You will have nothing to fear with them beside you.”
Mwellrets. She cringed at the idea. He knew she hated rets. As fighters, they were savage and relentless, but they were deceivers, as well. She did not trust them. She could not see inside their minds. They resisted her magic and employed subterfuges and artifices of their own. It was why the Morgawr liked them, why he was using them. They would be effective fighters in her behalf, but they would act as her keepers, as well. Giving her Mwellrets was a means of keeping her in line.
She could refuse his offer, she knew. But to do so would demonstrate weakness. Besides, the warlock would simply insist that she do as he asked, having already made up his mind that the rets were necessary—
She caught herself in midthought, realizing suddenly what sending the rets really meant. It wasn’t just that the Morgawr no longer trusted her or that he was no longer certain she would do as he ordered.
He was afraid of her.
She smiled, as if deciding she was pleased with his suggestion, careful to keep her true feelings veiled. “You are right, of course,” she agreed. “What better fighters could we find? Who would dare to challenge a ret?”
Only me, she thought darkly. But by the time you discover that, Morgawr, it will already be too late for you.
SEVENTEEN
Four days after departing the Wolfsktaag Mountains, Bek Rowe, his cousin Quentin Leah, and the Dwarf Panax arrived at the Valley of Rhenn.
Bek had heard stories of the valley his entire life, and as the trio rode their horses slowly out of the plains and down its broad, grassy corridor, he found himself remembering them anew. There, more than a thousand years ago, the Elves and their King, Jerle Shannara, stood against the hordes of the Warlock Lord in three days of ferocious fighting that culminated in the renegade Druid’s defeat. There, more than five hundred years ago, the Legion Free Corps rode to the aid of the Elven people when they were beset by the demon hordes freed from the Forbidding. There, less than 150 years ago, the Elf Queen Wren Elessedil commanded the Free-born allies in their defense against the Federation armies of Rimmer Dall, breaking the back of the Federation occupation and destroying the cult of the Shadowen.
Bek glanced upward at the steepening valley slopes and sharp ridgelines. So many critical battles had been fought and pivotal confrontations had taken place within only a few miles of that gateway to the Elven homeland. But as he looked at it, quiet and serene and bathed in sunshine, there was nothing to indicate that anything of importance had ever happened there.
Once, Bek heard a man remark to Coran that this ground was sacred, t
hat the blood of those who had given up their lives to preserve freedom in the Four Lands had made it so. It was a fine and noble thought, Coran Leah replied, but it would mean more if the sacrifice of those countless dead had bought the survivors something more permanent.
The boy thought about that as he rode through the midday silence. The valley narrowed to a defile at its western end, a natural fortress of cliff walls and twisting passes through which all traffic gained entry into the Westland forests leading to Arborlon. It had served as a first line of defense for the Elves each time their homeland was invaded. Bek had never been here, but he knew its history. Remembering his father’s words, he was surprised at how different it felt being here rather than picturing it in his mind. All the events and the tumult faded in the vast quiet, the open spaces, the scent of wildflowers, the soft cool breeze, and the warm sun, masked as if they had never taken place. The past was only an imagining here. He could barely put a face to it, barely envision how it must have been. He wondered if the Elves ever thought of it as he did now, if it was ever for them a reminder of how transitory victories in battle so often were.
He wondered if the journey he was making now would feel any different to him when it was finished. He wondered if he would accomplish anything lasting.
His travel west had been uneventful. All four days had passed without incident. The Highland cousins and the Dwarf had come down out of the Wolfsktaag after their encounter with Truls Rohk, spent what remained of the night and the early morning hours sleeping at Panax’s cabin, then packed their gear, collected their horses, and set out for Arborlon at midday. They traveled light, choosing to forgo pack animals and supplies, foraging on the way. There were countless settlements scattered across the Borderlands, and they had little difficulty obtaining what they needed. Their passage west was straightforward and unobstructed. They crossed the Rabb Plains above the Silver River, followed the north shore of the Rainbow Lake below the Runne, bypassed Varfleet and Tyrsis through Callahorn’s hill country to the flats above the Tirfing, then angled north along the Mermidon River toward the Valley of Rhenn. They traveled steadily, but without haste, the days clear and sunny and pleasant, the nights cool and still.
Not once did they catch sight of or hear from Truls Rohk. Panax said they wouldn’t, and he turned out to be right.
Their encounter with the shadowy, formidable Truls had left both Bek and Quentin shaken, and it wasn’t until the next day, when they were well away from Depo Bent and the Wolfsktaag, that they had felt comfortable enough to pursue the subject. By then, Panax was ready to tell them the rest of what he knew.
“Of course, he’s a man, just like you or me,” he replied to Bek’s inevitable question regarding what sort of creature Truls Rohk really was. “Well, not just like you or me, I guess, or anyone else I’ve ever come across. But he’s a man, not some beast or wraith. He was a Southlander once, before he went into the mountains to live. He came out of the border country below Varfleet, somewhere in the Runne. His people were trappers, poor migrants who lived close to the bone. He told me this once, long time ago. Never spoke of it again, though. Especially not the part about the fire.”
They were somewhere out on the Rabb by then, chasing the sun west, the daylight beginning to fade to twilight. Neither cousin spoke as the Dwarf paused in his narration to gather his thoughts.
“When he was about twelve, I guess, there was a fire. The boy was sleeping with the men in a makeshift shelter of dried skins and it caught fire. The others got out, but the boy ran the wrong way and got tangled up in the tent folds and couldn’t get free. The fire burned him so badly he was unrecognizable afterwards. They thought he was going to die; I think they thought it would be better if he did. But they did what they could for him, and it turned out to be just enough. He says he was a big lad in any case, very strong even then, and some part of him fought back against the pain and misery and kept him alive.
“So he lived, but he was disfigured so badly even his family couldn’t stand to look at him. I can’t imagine what that must have been like. He says he couldn’t look at himself. He kept away from everyone after that, trapping and hunting in the woods, avoiding other people, other places. When he was old enough to manage it, he set out on his own, intending to live apart from everyone. He was bitter and ashamed, and he says that what he really wanted was to die. He went east into the Wolfsktaag, having heard the stories of what lived there, thinking no other man would try living in such a place, so he could at least be alone for whatever time he had left.
“But something happened to him in those mountains—he won’t say what, won’t talk about it. It changed his way of thinking. He decided he wanted to live. He decided he wanted to be healed. He went to the Stors for medicines and balms, for whatever treatments they could offer, then began some sort of self-healing ritual. He won’t talk about that, either. I don’t know whether it worked or not. He says it did, but he still hides himself in that cloak and hood. I’ve never seen him clearly. Not his face, not any part of his body. I don’t think anyone has.”
“But there’s something else about him,” Bek interjected quickly. “You say he’s human, that he’s a man underneath, a man like you and me, but he doesn’t seem so. He doesn’t seem like any man I’ve ever come across.”
“No,” Panax agreed, “he doesn’t. And for good reason. I say he’s a man like you and me mostly so you don’t think he was born anything else. But he’s become something more, and it’s difficult to say just what that something is. A little of it, I know, I understand. He’s found a way of assimilating with the things that live in the Wolfsktaag, a way of becoming like they are. He’s able to shape-shift; I know that for a fact. He can take on the look and feel of animals and spirit creatures; he can become like they are—or, when he chooses, like the things that frighten them. That’s what he did back there with those ur’wolves. That’s why they ran from him. He’s like some force of nature you don’t want to cross; he’s able to become anything he needs to become to kill you. He’s big and strong and quick and fast to begin with; the shape-shifting only enhances that. He’s feral and he’s instinctive; he knows how to fit in where you and I would only know enough to want to run. He’s at home in those mountains. He’s at home in places other men never will be. That’s why the Druid wants him along. Truls Rohk will get past obstacles no one else would dare even to challenge. He’ll solve problems that would leave others scratching their heads.”
“How did Walker meet him?” Quentin asked.
“Heard about him, I believe, rumors mostly, then tracked him down. He’s the only man I know who could do that.” Panax smiled. “I’m not sure he really did track Truls, only that he got close enough to attract his attention. There might not be anyone alive who can track Truls Rohk. But Walker found him somehow and talked him into coming with him on a journey. I’m not sure where they went that first time, but they formed some kind of a bond. Afterwards, Truls was more than willing to go with the Druid.”
He shook his head. “Still, you never know. No one really has his ear. He likes me, trusts me, as much as he likes or trusts anyone, but he doesn’t let me get too close.”
“He’s scary,” Bek offered quietly. “It’s more than how he hides himself or appears like a ghost out of nowhere or shape-shifts. It’s more than knowing what’s happened to him, too. It’s how he looks right through you and makes you feel like he sees things you don’t.”
“He was right about me and the sword,” Quentin agreed. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just fighting to keep the magic under control, to keep those wolves at bay. If he hadn’t come along, they probably would have had us.”
Truls Rohk had seen or recognized something about Bek, as well, but had chosen to keep it to himself. Bek wasn’t able to stop thinking about it. Trust no one, the shape-shifter had said, until you learn to see things better. It was an admonition that revealed Truls Rohk had gained an insight into him that he himself had not yet experienced. All the wa
y down from the Wolfsktaag and on the journey across the Borderlands to Arborlon, he found himself remembering how it had been to have the shape-shifter looking at him, studying him, penetrating beyond what he could see. It was an old Druid trait, Bek knew. Allanon had been famous for the way his eyes looked right through you. There was something of that in Walker, as well. Truls Rohk was not a Druid, but when he looked at you, you felt as if you were being flayed alive.
The discussion of the shape-shifter pretty much died away after the first night, since Panax seemed to have exhausted his store of knowledge and Quentin and Bek chose to keep their thoughts to themselves. Conversation turned to other matters, particularly the journey ahead, of which the Dwarf was now part but knew little. He had been drafted into the cause because Walker had insisted he join them if Truls Rohk agreed to come. So Bek and Quentin filled Panax in on what little they knew, and the three spent much of their time tossing back and forth their ideas about exactly where they might be going and what they might be looking for.
The Dwarf was blunt in his assessment. “There is no treasure big or rich enough to interest a Druid. A Druid cares only for magic. Walker seeks a talisman or spell or some such. He goes in search of something so powerful that to let it fall into the hands of the Ilse Witch or anyone else would be suicide.”
It was a compelling and believable assessment, but no one could think of anything that dangerous. There had been magic in the world since the new races had been born out of the Great Wars, reinvented by the need to survive. Much of it had been potent, and all of it had either been tamed or banished by the Druids. That there might be a new magic, undiscovered all these years and now released solely by chance, felt wrong. Magic didn’t exist in a vacuum. It wouldn’t just appear. Someone had conjured it, perfected it, and set it loose.
