by Terry Brooks
Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Half a day’s light remained to them, and he intended to take advantage of it. They were still following Walker’s map, sailing on toward the last of the three islands. Even though the Druid was lost to them for now, continuing on made better sense than turning back or standing still. If the Druid died, a different decision might be necessary, but he would make it only then.
“Bring everyone topside and put them to work cleaning up,” he told his sister. “And check on the Druid.”
She left at once, but it was Bek Rowe who appeared with the news he sought. “He’s sleeping better now, and Joad Rish thinks he will recover.” Bek looked exhausted, but pleased. “I don’t need to be down there anymore. I can help with what’s needed up here.”
Alt Mer smiled and clapped the boy on the back. “You are a game lad, Bek. I’m lucky to have you for my good right hand. All right, then. You go where you want for now. Lend a hand where it’s needed.”
The boy went at once to join Rue Meridian, who was clearing away one of the broken spars. Big Red watched him for a moment, then moved back into the pilot box with Furl Hawken and watched Bek some more.
“That boy’s in love with her, Hawk,” he declared with a wistful sigh.
Furl Hawken nodded. “Aren’t they all. Much good that it will do him or any of them.”
Redden Alt Mer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Maybe Bek Rowe will surprise us.”
His friend grunted. “Maybe cows will fly.”
They turned their attention to determining the ship’s position, taking compass and sextant readings, and beginning a search for landmarks. For now, they could do little but wait. The stars would give them a better reading come nightfall. Tomorrow would see a return of good weather and clear sailing. Maybe the Wing Riders would reappear from wherever they had gone. Maybe Walker would be back on his feet.
Redden Alt Mer glanced over at his sister and Bek Rowe once more and smiled. Maybe cows would fly.
It was almost twenty-four hours later when the Wing Riders soared into view out of the eastern horizon, winging for the airship across clear skies and over placid waters. Hunter Predd rode the lead bird. He was steady and calm as he swung close enough to shout across at Redden Alt Mer.
“Well met, Captain! Are you all right?”
“We survived, Wing Rider! What kept you?”
Hunter Predd grimaced. Rover humor. “We saw the storm coming and found an island on which to wait it out! You don’t want to be caught aloft on a Roc in a storm like that! You’ve been blown well off course, you know!”
Alt Mer nodded. “We’re working our way back! What we need now is fresh water! Can you find us some?”
The Wing Rider waved. “We’ll take a look! Don’t wander off while we’re gone!”
With Gill and Po Kelles in tow, he swung Obsidian south and west and began tracking the path of the sun in search of an island. The Wing Riders had weathered the storm on an island some miles east, in a cove sheltered by hills and trees. They had lost all contact with the airship and its company, but there was no help for that. Flying their Rocs in winds that heavy would have killed them all. Experience had taught them to take whatever shelter they could find when a bad storm appeared. They had remained on the island through the night and set off again at dawn. Rocs were intelligent birds possessed of extraordinary eyesight, and their tracking instincts were almost infallible. Using a method they had employed countless times before, the Wing Riders had flown a spiral search pattern that eventually brought them back on course with the Jerle Shannara.
Hunter Predd sighed. Storms and other navigational challenges did not concern him all that much. Losing Walker was a different matter. He assumed that Walker was still alive from the simple fact that Redden Alt Mer hadn’t said otherwise. Perhaps the Druid had even improved. But having him incapacitated even temporarily pointed up dramatically the weak link in the chain that anchored this entire expedition—only Walker understood what it was that they were trying to accomplish. Granted, a handful of others knew about the keys and the islands and the nature of their destination. Granted, as well, the seer had her visions and whatever information they supplied. Perhaps there were even a few additional things known to one or two others that were crucial to the success of the voyage.
But Walker was the glue that held them all together and the only one who understood completely the larger picture. He had told Hunter Predd that he needed the Wing Rider’s experience and insight to help him succeed on this expedition. He had intimated that the Wing Rider was to keep a sharp eye out. But half the time Hunter felt as if he were groping in the dark. He was never entirely sure what he was watching out for, save in the very narrow context of momentary circumstance. It was bad enough to operate in this fashion with Walker safe and sound. But if the Druid was incapacitated, how were the rest of them supposed to function reliably knowing as little as they did? It would be guesswork at best.
He made up his mind that he could not allow this situation to continue. Foraging and scouting in unknown territory, miles from any mainland, were sufficiently dangerous. But doing so without a clear idea of their purpose was intolerable. Certainly others aboard ship must feel the same. What about Bek Rowe and Quentin Leah? They had been taken into the Druid’s confidence, as well. They had been given the same charge he had. He had barely spoken to either since they had set out, but surely they must be having the same misgivings he was.
Still, Hunter Predd was reluctant to force the issue. He was a trained Rider of the Wing Hove, and he understood the importance of obeying orders without questioning them. Leaders did not always impart everything they knew to those they led. Certainly he did not do so with Gill and Po. They were expected to accept the assignments they were given and to do as they were told.
He shook his head. If there was no order, you ran the risk of anarchy. But if there was too much, you ran the risk of revolt. It was a fine line to walk.
He was still pondering this dilemma, trying to reason it through, when he sighted the island.
There were storm clouds lingering ahead, and at first he thought the island was a part of them. But as he drew nearer, he saw that what he had mistaken for dark clouds were rugged cliffs of the sort they had encountered on Shatterstone, their craggy faces exposed and windswept. The island’s foliage grew thick and lush inland on the lee side. The Wing Rider squinted against the glare of waterfalls cascading out of the rocks in long silver streams and sunlight where it reflected off the brilliant green of the trees. There would be fresh water available here, he thought.
Then something strange caught his eye. Hundreds of dark spots dotted the cliffs, making it look as if deep pockmarks had formed in the crevices and ridges after long years of severe weathering.
“What is that?” Hunter Predd muttered to himself.
He swung Obsidian about, motioning for Gill to move off to his left and Po Kelles to flank him on the right. On a long, sweeping glide, they approached the island and its cliffs, peering through the brightness of the afternoon sun.
Hunter Predd blinked. Had one of the dark spots moved? He glanced over at Po. The young Wing Rider nodded in response. He had seen it, too. Hunter Predd motioned for him to fall back.
He was trying to signal Gill, whose concentration had been distracted by a passing pod of whales, when several of the dark spots lifted away from the cliffs entirely.
Beneath him, Obsidian tensed and then screamed in alarm. Wings were unfolding from the black dots, giving them size and shape. Hunter Predd went cold. The Roc had recognized the danger before he had. Shrikes! War Shrikes! The fiercest and most savage of the breed. This island, which the Rocs and Wing Riders had stumbled upon unwittingly, must be their nesting ground. The War Shrikes would not ignore a trespass on their home ground, regardless of the reason for it. Rocs were their natural enemies, and the Shrikes would attack.
Hunter Predd wheeled Obsidian around hurriedly, watching Po Kelles and Niciannon follow his l
ead. To his astonishment, Gill continued to advance. Either he hadn’t seen the Shrikes or hadn’t recognized what they were. It was useless to yell warnings from that distance, so he used the signal whistle. Startled, Gill glanced over his shoulder and saw his companions pointing. Then he caught sight of the Shrikes. Frantically, he reined in Tashin. But the Roc panicked, and instead of wheeling back, he went into a steep dive, spiraling toward the ocean, pulling up and leveling out only at the last possible moment.
Then he was streaking after Obsidian and Niciannon, but he was still far behind and the Shrikes were closing. War Shrikes were swift and powerful short-range fliers. A Roc’s best hope was to gain height and distance. Hunter Predd realized that Tashin had failed to do either and would not escape.
He brought Obsidian back around swiftly and flew at the Shrikes in challenge, trying to distract them. Po Kelles and Niciannon were beside him almost instantly. Both Rocs screamed in fury at the approaching Shrikes, their hatred of their enemies as great as that of their enemies for them. Secured to their riding harnesses by safety lines and gripping their mounts with knees and boots, both Wing Riders brought out their long bows and the arrows that were dipped in an extract from fire nettles and nightshade. Close enough now to find their targets, they began to fire on the Shrikes.
Some of their missiles struck home. Some of the Shrikes even broke off the attack and wheeled back toward the island. But the bulk, more than twenty, descended on Gill and Tashin like a black cloud and caught them just off the surface of the water. Gill was torn from his Roc’s back on the first pass. Sharp talons and hooked beaks scattered parts of him everywhere in a red spray. Tashin lasted only seconds longer. Shuddering from the blows he received, he righted himself momentarily, then disappeared under a swarm of black bodies. Forced down into the ocean, he was quickly ripped to shreds.
Hunter Predd stared down at the carnage in helpless rage and frustration. It had happened so fast. One minute there, the next gone. Alive, and then a memory, a senseless loss of life that shouldn’t have happened. But what could have been done to avoid it? What could he have done?
He wheeled Obsidian about. Po Kelles and Niciannon followed. Swiftly they gained height and then distance, and in a matter of moments, they were safely away. Their pursuers did not give chase; they were otherwise occupied, wheeling above the broad patch of rolling ocean streaked with feathers and blood. The Wing Riders flew on and did not look back.
TWENTY-THREE
After having their number reduced by three in a matter of a few days, the men and women of the Jerle Shannara continued their voyage for another six weeks without incident. Even so, tempers flared more easily than before. Perhaps it was the strain of prolonged confinement or the increased uncertainty of their fate or just the change in climate as the ship turned north, the air grew cold and sharp, and storms became more frequent, but everyone was on edge.
The change in Walker was pronounced. Recovered from his ordeal on Shatterstone, he had nevertheless grown increasingly aloof and less approachable. He seemed as sure of himself as ever and as fixed of purpose, but he distanced himself in ways that left no doubt that he preferred his own company to that of others. He consulted regularly on the ship’s progress with Redden Alt Mer and spoke in a civil way to everyone he came upon, but he seemed to do so from a long way off. He canceled the nightly meetings in the Rover Captain’s quarters, announcing that they were no longer necessary. Ryer Ord Star still followed him around like a lost puppy, but he seemed unaware of her. Even Bek Rowe found him difficult to talk to, enough so that the boy put off asking why he, in particular, had been mind-summoned on Shatterstone.
Nor was Walker the only member of the company affected. Ard Patrinell still worked his Elven Hunters daily, as well as Quentin Leah and Ahren Elessedil, but he was virtually invisible the rest of the time. Spanner Frew was a thunderhead waiting to burst. One time he engaged in a shouting match with Big Red that brought everyone on deck to stare at them. Rue Meridian grew tight-lipped and somber toward everyone except her brother and Bek. She clearly liked being with Bek, and spent much of her time exchanging stories with him. No one understood her attraction for the boy, but Bek basked in it. Panax shook his head at everything and spent all of his time whittling. Truls Rohk was a ghost.
Once, Hunter Predd came aboard for a hard-edged, whispered confrontation with Walker that seemed to satisfy neither and left the Wing Rider angry when it was finished.
They had been gone for almost four months, and the voyage was beginning to wear on them. Days would pass with no land sighted, and sometimes those days would stretch into weeks. The number of islands they passed diminished, and it became necessary to ration their stores and water more strictly. Fresh fruit was seldom available, and rainwater was caught in tarps stretched over the decking to supplement what was foraged. Routines grew boring and change more difficult to invent. The course of their lives settled into a numbing sameness that left everyone disgruntled.
There was no help for it, Rue Meridian explained to Bek one day as they sat talking. Life aboard ship did that to you, and long voyages were the worst. Some of it had to do with the fact that explorers and adventurers detested confinement. Even the members of the Rover crew liked to move around more than was permitted here. None of them had ever sailed on a voyage of such length, and they were discovering feelings and reactions they hadn’t even known were there. It would all change when they reached their destination, but until then they simply had to live with their discomfort.
“There’s a lot of luck involved in being a sailor, Bek,” she told him. “Flying airships is tricky business, even with a Captain as experienced as Big Red. His crews like him more for his luck than his skill. Rovers are a superstitious bunch, and they’re constantly looking for favorable signs. They don’t feel good about new experiences and unknown places if they come at the price of their shipmates’ lives. They’re drawn to the unknown, but they take comfort in what’s familiar and reassuring. Sort of a contradiction, isn’t it?”
“I thought Rovers might be more adaptable,” he replied.
She shrugged. “Rovers are a paradox. They like movement and new places. They don’t like the unknown. They don’t trust magic. They believe in fate and omens. My mother read bones to determine her children’s future. My father read the stars. It doesn’t always make sense, but what does? Is it better to be a Dwarf or a Rover? Is it better to have your life fixed and settled or to have it change with every shift in the wind? It depends on your point of view, doesn’t it? The demands of this particular voyage are a new experience for everyone, and each of us has to find a way to deal with them.”
Bek didn’t mind doing that. He was by nature an accepting sort, and he had learned a long time ago to live with whatever conditions and circumstances he was provided. Maybe this came from being an orphan delivered into the hands of a stranger’s family and being brought up with someone else’s history. Maybe it came from an approach to life that questioned everything as a matter of course, so that the uncertainties of their expedition didn’t wear at him so cruelly. After all, he hadn’t gone into this with the same high spirits as many of the others, and his emotional equilibrium was more easily balanced.
To a measurable extent, he found he was a calming influence on the other members of the company. When they were around him, they seemed more at ease and less irritable. He didn’t know why that was, but he was pleased to be able to offer something of tangible value and did his best to soothe ruffled feathers when he encountered them. Quentin was of some use in this regard, as well. Nothing ever seemed to change Bek’s cousin. He continued as eager and bright-eyed and hopeful as ever, the only member of the company who genuinely enjoyed each day and looked forward to the next. It was the nature of his personality, of course, but it provided a needed measure of inspiration to those who possessed a less generous attitude.
Shortly after their encounter with the Shrikes, the airship assumed a more northerly heading in accordance with
the dictates of the map. As the days passed, the weather turned colder. Autumn had arrived at home, and a fresh chill was apparent in the sea air as well. The sky took on an iron-gray cast much of the time, and on the colder mornings a thin layer of ice formed on the railings of the ship. Furl Hawken broke out heavy coats, gloves, and boots for the company, and warming fires were lit on deck at night for the watch. The days grew shorter and the nights longer, and the sun rose farther south in the eastern sky with each new dawn.
Snow flurries appeared for the first time only two nights before the Jerle Shannara arrived at the island of Mephitic.
Walker stood at the bow of the airship to study the island during their approach. The Wing Riders had discovered it several hours earlier while making their customary sweep forward and to either side of the ship’s line of flight. Redden Alt Mer had adjusted their course at once on being informed, and now Mephitic lay directly ahead, a green jewel shining brightly in the midday sun.
This island was different from the other two, as Walker had known it would be. Mephitic was low and broad, comprising rolling hills, thickly wooded forests, and wide smooth grasslands. It lacked the high cliffs of Shatterstone and the barren rocky shoals of Flay Creech. It was much larger than either, big enough that in the haze of the midday autumn light, Walker could not see its far end. It did not appear forbidding. It had the look of the Westland where it bordered the Plains of Streleheim north and abutted the Myrian south. As the airship descended toward its shores and began a slow circle about its coastline, he could see small deer grazing peacefully and flocks of birds in flight. Nothing seemed out of place or dangerous. Nothing threatened.
Walker found what he was looking for on their first pass. A massive castle sat on a low bluff facing west, backed up against a deep forest and fronted by a broad plain. The castle was old and crumbling, its portcullis collapsed, its windows and doors dark empty holes, and its battlements and courtyards deserted. It had been a mighty fortress in another age and time, and its walls and outbuildings sprawled across the grasslands for perhaps a mile in all directions. The castle proper was as large as Paranor and every bit as formidable.
