Ilse Witch

by Terry Brooks

  When Bek asked Walker at one point what happened to them at night, the Druid told him it varied. Sometimes they flew right on through until daybreak, matching the slower pace that the airship set in darkness. Rocs were enormously strong and resilient, and they could fly without stopping for up to three days. Most of the time, however, the Wing Riders would take their Rocs ahead to an island or atoll and land long enough to feed, water, and rest the birds and their riders before continuing on. They worked mostly in shifts, with one Wing Rider always warding the ship, even at night, as a protective measure. With the Rocs on watch, nothing could approach without being detected.

  They traveled without incident for ten days, the time sliding away for Bek Rowe in a slow, unchanging daily routine. Each morning he would rise and eat his breakfast with the Rovers, then follow Redden Alt Mer as he completed a thorough inspection of the airship and its crew. After that, he would stand with the Rover Captain in the pilot box, sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with another Rover at the controls, and Bek would first recite what he knew about a particular function of the ship’s operating system and then be instructed in some further area or nuance. Later, he would operate the controls and rudders, drawing down power from the light sheaths or unhooding the crystals or tightening the radian draws.

  Sometimes, when Big Red was busy elsewhere, Bek would be placed in the care of Little Red or Furl Hawken or even the burly Spanner Frew. The shipbuilder mostly yelled at him, driving him from pillar to post with his sharp tongue and acid criticism, forcing him to think harder and act faster than normal. It helped steady him, in an odd sort of way. After an hour or two of surviving Spanner Frew, he felt he was ready for anything.

  Between sessions with the Rovers, he would perform a cabin boy’s chores, which included running messages from Captain to crew and back again, cleaning the Captain’s and his sister’s quarters, inventorying supplies every third day, and helping serve the meals and clear the dishes. Most of it wasn’t very pleasant or exciting, but it did put him in close proximity to almost everyone several times a day and gave him a chance to listen in on conversations and observe behavior. Nothing of what he saw seemed of much use, but he did as Walker had asked and kept his eyes and ears open.

  He saw little of Quentin during the day, for the Highlander was constantly training with the Elven Hunters and learning combat skills and technique from Ard Patrinell. He saw more of Ahren Elessedil, who never trained with the others and was often at loose ends. Bek took it upon himself to include the young Elf in most of what he did, teaching him what little he knew of airships and how they flew and sharing confidences and stories. He did not tell Ahren any more than he told Quentin, but he told him almost as much. As they spent more time together, he began to see what Walker had meant about Kylen Elessedil misjudging his brother. Ahren was young, but he had grown up in a family and political situation that did not foster or tolerate naïveté or weakness. Ahren was strong in ways that weren’t immediately apparent, and Bek gained a new measure of respect for him almost daily.

  Now and again he visited with Panax and even Hunter Predd, when the Wing Rider came aboard to speak with Walker or Redden Alt Mer. Bek knew most of the Rovers by name, and they had accepted him into their group in a loose and easy sort of way that offered companionship if not necessarily trust. The Elves had little to do with him, mostly because they were always somewhere else. He did speak with the Healer, Joad Rish, a tall, stooped man with a kind face and reassuring manner. The Healer, like Bek, was not certain of his usefulness and felt more than a little out of place. But he was a good conversationalist, and he liked talking with the boy about cures and healings that transcended the standard forms of care and were the peculiar province of Elven Healers.

  Bek even talked once or twice with the wistful seer, Ryer Ord Star, but she was so reclusive and shy that she avoided everyone except Walker, whom she followed everywhere. As if in thrall to the Druid, she was his shadow on the airship, trailing after him like a small child, hanging on his every word and watching his every move. Her fixation was a steady topic of conversation for everyone, but never within Walker’s hearing. No one cared to broach the strangeness of the young woman’s attachment directly to the Druid when it was apparent it did not matter to him.

  Of Truls Rohk, there was still no sign. Panax insisted he was aboard, but Bek never saw any evidence of it.

  Then, ten days out of land’s view, they came in sight of the island of Flay Creech. It was nearing midday, the sky clouded and gray, the weather beginning to turn raw for the first time since they had set out. Thunderheads were massed to the west, approaching at a slow, steady roll across the back of a still-calm wind, and the burn of the sun through gaps in the thinner clouds east was giving way before cooler air. Below them, the sea rose and fell in gentle waves, a silver-tipped azure carpet where it broke against the shores of the island ahead, but beyond, out on the horizon, it was dark and threatening.

  Flay Creech was not a welcoming sight. The island was gray and barren, a collection of mostly smooth mounds irrigated by an irregular patchwork of deep gullies that deposited seawater in shallow ponds all across its surface. Save for clusters of scrub trees and heavy weed patches, nothing grew. The island was small, barely a half mile across, and marked by a rocky outcropping just off the coast to the south that bore a distinct resemblance to a lizard’s head with its mouth agape and its crest lifted in warning. On the map that Walker had drawn for the ship’s company, the lizard’s head was the landmark that identified the island.

  Redden Alt Mer took the Jerle Shannara slowly around the island, keeping several hundred feet above its surface, while the ship’s company gathered at the railings to survey the forbidding terrain. Bek looked downward with the others, but saw nothing of interest. There was no sign of life and no movement of any kind. The island appeared deserted.

  When they had completed several passes, Walker signaled to Hunter Predd, who with his complement of Wing Riders had been gliding silently overhead. The grizzled rider swung close aboard Obsidian and shook his head. They had seen nothing either. But they would not descend to the island for a closer look, Bek knew, because they were under orders from the Druid not to land on any of the three islands where the talismans were hidden until a party from the airship had gone down first. The Rocs and their riders were too valuable to risk; if lost, they could not be replaced.

  Walker called Redden Alt Mer and Ard Patrinell to his side, and Bek and Quentin eased nearer to listen to what was being said.

  “What do you see?” the Druid was asking the Rover Captain as they drew close enough to hear.

  “The same as you. Nothing. But there’s something not right about the look of the island. What made those gullies that crisscross everything?”

  However unhappy Redden Alt Mer was, Ard Patrinell was even more so. “I don’t like what I’m seeing at all. The terrain of this island doesn’t fit with anything I’ve ever come across. It’s the shape of it. False, somehow. Unnatural.”

  Walker nodded. Bek could tell that he was troubled, too. There was something odd about the formation of the gullies and the smoothness of the island.

  The Druid walked over to where Ryer Ord Star stood watching and bent down to speak softly with her. The seer listened carefully, then pressed her thin, small hands against her breast, closed her eyes and went completely still. Bek watched with the others, wondering what was happening. Then her eyes opened, and she began to speak to the Druid in rapid, breathless sentences. When she was finished, he held her gaze for a moment, squeezed her hand, and turned away.

  He came back to where Ard Patrinell and Redden Alt Mer stood waiting. “I’m going down for a closer look,” he said quietly. “Lower me in the basket and stand ready to bring me up again when I signal. Don’t come down for me with either the ship or the Rocs if anything goes wrong.”

  “I don’t think you should go alone,” Ard Patrinell said at once.

  Walker smiled. “All right. I’ll tak
e one man with me.”

  Leaving them, he walked over to Quentin Leah. “Highlander, I need a swift, sure blade to protect me. Are you interested in the job?”

  Quentin nodded instantly, a grin breaking out on his sun-browned face. He hitched up the Sword of Leah, where it was strapped across his back, and gave Bek a wink before hastening to follow the Druid, who was already walking over to stand with Furl Hawken while he readied the winch basket for lowering.

  Ahren Elessedil appeared at Bek’s elbow and put a hand on his shoulder. Panax came up beside him, as well. “What’s going on?” the Dwarf rumbled.

  Bek was too stunned to answer, still trying to come to grips with the idea of his untested cousin being selected to go with the Druid rather than the Elf Captain or one of his Hunters. Walker was already in the basket, his dark robes drawn close, and Quentin quickly climbed in after him. Redden Alt Mer was at the airship’s controls, swinging her around and then descending to within twenty feet of a flat place at the island’s eastern tip. Bek wanted to shout something encouraging to his cousin, to warn him to be careful and to come back safe. But he couldn’t manage to get the words out. Instead, he just stood there staring as the Rover crew winched the basket and its occupants aloft, then pushed them out over the railing and into space.

  With the remainder of the ship’s company looking on, the crew slowly lowered the basket and the two men who rode within it toward Flay Creech.

  Walker’s mind was working swiftly as the basket began its descent to the island, the words of the seer repeating over and over in his mind with harsh urgency.

  “Three dark holes in place and time do I see, Walker. Three, that would swallow you up. They lie in deep blue waters that spread away forever beneath skies and wind. One is blind and cannot see, but will find you anyway. One has mouths that would swallow you whole. One is everything and nothing and will steal your soul. All guard keys that look to be other than what they are and are nothing of what they seem. I see this in a haze of shadow that tracks you everywhere and seeks to place itself about you like a shroud.”

  These were the words she had spoken to him last night when she had come to him unexpectedly after midnight, waking from a dream that had shown her something new of their quest. Wide-eyed and frightened, her childlike face twisted with fear for him, she had shaken him from his sleep to share her strange vision. It had come unbidden, as they almost always did, buried in a mix of other dreams and no dreams, the only part of her mind’s sight that had reason for being, clear and certain to her, a glimpse of a future that would unfailingly come to pass.

  He steadied her, held her because she was shaking and not yet even fully awake. She was tied to him, he knew, in a way neither of them yet understood. She had accompanied him on the voyage because she believed it was her destiny, but her bonds to him were as much emotional as psychic. She had found in him a kindred soul, another part of her being, and she had given herself into his care completely. He did not approve and would have it otherwise, but he had not found a way as yet to set her free.

  Her eyes glistened with tears and her hands clasped his arm as she told him of the dream and struggled with what it meant. She saw no more than what she was given to see, had no insights to aid him, and therefore felt inadequate and useless. But he told her that her vision was clear to him and would help to keep him safe, and he held her for a time until she quieted and went back to sleep.

  But his words to her were false, for he did not understand her vision beyond what was immediately apparent. The black holes were the islands they sought. On each, something dark and dangerous awaited. The keys he would find did not look like the keys with which he was familiar. The haze of shadow that followed after and sought to wrap about him was the Ilse Witch.

  Of the eyes and mouths and spirits, he had no opinion. Had she seen them in order of appearance? Were they manifestations of real dangers or metaphors for something else? He had gone to her again, just before making this descent, asking her to repeat what she had seen, everything. He had hoped she might reveal something new, something she had forgotten in the rush of last night’s telling. But her description of the dream remained unchanged. Nor had there been a new vision from which to draw. So he could not know what waited on the island, and he must look for any of the three dangers she had foreseen until one revealed itself.

  Taking the Highlander with him was a risk. But Quentin Leah possessed the only other true magic of those accompanying him, save Truls Rohk, and he must have someone at his back while he sought out the first of the three keys. Quentin was young and inexperienced, but the Sword of Leah was a powerful weapon, and Quentin had trained for almost two weeks now with Ard Patrinell, whom Walker believed to be the finest swordsman he had ever seen. No mention had been made of Patrinell’s great skill by the other Elves, but Walker had watched him spar for days now with the Highlander and could tell it was there. Quentin was a quick study, and already he was showing signs that one day he might be a match for the Elf. It was enough to persuade the Druid to take a chance on him.

  It could be argued that Truls Rohk was a more logical choice for this than Quentin, but it would have meant waiting until nightfall. Walker did not like the look of the storm approaching, and he felt it better in any case to keep the shape-shifter’s presence a secret for a little longer.

  The basket bumped against the surface of the island, and the Druid and the Highlander scrambled out. The latter had his sword held ready, gripped in both hands, blade upward. “Stay close to me, Quentin,” Walker ordered. “Do not stray. Watch my back and your own, as well.”

  They hastened across the flats in a low crouch, eyes watchful. The surface was rocky and slick with dampness and moss. Up close, the deep furrows were even more mysterious, worn into the rock like open irrigation runnels, not straight and even, but twisty and irregular, some of them as deep as four feet, their strange network laid all across the island. Walker cast about for bolt-holes in the rock in which something might burrow and hide, but there was nothing to be seen, only the exposed rock and the shallow ponds.

  They continued on, Walker searching now for a trace of the key, a hint of its presence in the solid rock and shifting sea-waters that lay all about. Where would such a key be hidden? If it was infused with magic, he should detect its presence quickly. If not, their search would take longer—time, perhaps, they did not have.

  He glanced about warily. The island lay still and unmoving save for the soft wave of sea grasses buffeted by the approaching storm winds.

  Suddenly Walker sensed something unfamiliar, not the magic he had anticipated, but an object that nevertheless had a living presence—though not one he could identify. It was over to his left, within a jumble of broken rock that formed a pocket on the high ground close to the southern tip of the island. The Druid swung toward it at once, working his way along the lip of one of the odd gullies, staying where he could see what lay about him. Pressed close to the dark-robed leader, Quentin Leah followed, his sword gleaming in the sunlight.

  Then the sun slipped behind a bank of heavy clouds, and the island of Flay Creech was cloaked in shadow.

  In the next instant, the sea came alive in a frenzy of movement.

  Aboard ship, Bek Rowe gasped sharply as the waters surrounding Flay Creech began to boil and surge with terrible ferocity. The bright azure color darkened, the crystalline stillness churned, and dozens of squirming dark bodies surged from the ocean’s depth in a twisting mass. Giant eels, some more than thirty feet long, their huge bodies sleek and speckled and their mouths agape to reveal hundreds of razor-sharp teeth, squirmed out of the water and onto the island. They came from everywhere, sliding smoothly into the deep channels that fit their bodies perfectly, that Bek could see now had been formed by their countless comings and goings over the years. In a rush they slithered from the ocean onto the land, then along the gullies from shallow pond to shallow pond, closing on the two men who were racing for a cluster of broken rocks to make a stand against them.


  “Shades!” Bek heard Panax hiss as he watched the eels advance in a thrashing, frenzied mass.

  The eels were so maddened they were colliding with each other as they twisted and squirmed down the gullies toward their prey. Some ascended the high ground long enough to gain a momentary advantage over their brethren before dropping back into the grooved channels they favored. Some, perhaps enraged at being crowded, perhaps simply ravenous with hunger, snapped and tore at others. It gave the impression that the entire island was being overrun at once, all slithery bodies and movement. Bek had never heard of such huge eels or imagined that so many could be in any one place. What could possibly sustain such a massive number on this barren atoll? Even the occasional presence of other creatures could not be enough to keep them all alive.

  Walker was digging frantically in the rocks, his back to the approaching monsters. Quentin faced them alone, standing close to the Druid, elevated on an abutment so that he could bring his sword to bear without hindrance. He shifted from right to left and back again on his chosen defensive ground, watching the mass of sea hunters come at him, readying himself.

  Oh, but there were so many! Bek thought in horror.

  The first eel reached Quentin and launched itself like a striking snake, snapping its body from the depression. The Highlander brought the Sword of Leah around in a short whipping motion, the magic flaring to life along the length of the heavy blade, and the eel was severed just behind its gaping maw and fell back again, thrashing in pain and confusion. Other eels fed upon it instantly, tearing it to shreds. A second eel struck at Quentin, but he brought his sword to bear again, swift and steady, and that one fell away, too. On the backswing, he dispatched a third that had come up behind him, flinging it away.