Ilse Witch

by Terry Brooks

  Bek knew the stories. He knew them all, just as he knew the history of the Druids and the Wars of the Races and all the rest. No one had seen this talisman in over five hundred years, when Shea Ohmsford stood against the Warlock Lord and destroyed him—though there were rumors it had resurfaced in the battle with the Shadowen. Rumors, the Druid’s words would suggest, that were true.

  “The sword is a talisman for truth, Bek. It was forged to defend against lies that enslave and conceal. It is a powerful talisman, and it requires strength of will and heart to wield. It needs a bearer who will not shrink from the pain and doubt and fear that embracing the truth sometimes engenders. You are a worthy successor to those others of your family who have been called to the sword’s service. You are strong and determined. Much of what I exposed you to on this voyage was meant to measure that. I will be frank with you. Without your help, without the Sword’s power to aid us, we are probably lost.”

  He turned back to the casing and passed his hand in front of it once more. The Sword of Shannara disappeared, and the wrappings of canvas and chains were restored.

  Bek continued staring at them, as if still seeing the talisman they concealed. “You’re giving the Sword of Shannara to me?”

  The Druid nodded.

  The boy’s voice was shaking as he spoke. “Walker, I don’t know if I can—”

  “No, Bek,” the Druid interrupted him quickly, gently. “Say nothing tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough. There is much to discuss, and we will do so then. You’ll have questions, and I will do my best to answer them. We will work together to prepare for what will happen when it is necessary for you to summon the sword’s magic.”

  Bek’s eyes shifted anxiously, and the Druid met the question mirrored there with a reassuring smile. “Not against your sister, though one day you might have to use it in that way. No, this first time the magic will serve another purpose. If I have read the map correctly, Bek, the Sword of Shannara is the key to our gaining entry into Ice Henge.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Come daybreak, Bek rose and went about his morning duties as cabin boy in something of a daze, still struggling with the previous night’s revelations, when the Druid intercepted him coming out of Rue Meridian’s cabin and told him to follow. It was an hour after sunrise, and Bek had dressed and eaten breakfast. He still had tasks to perform, but Walker’s summons didn’t leave room for discussion on the matter.

  They climbed topside and walked forward to the bow railing, very close to where they had stood the night before. The sky around them was unchanged, gray and misted and impenetrable. Everywhere Bek looked, right or left, up or down, the color and light were the same. Visibility was still limited to thirty feet or so. Those of the ship’s company already on deck had the look of ghosts, ethereal and not quite fully formed. Redden Alt Mer stood in the pilot box with Furl Hawken, two Rovers were at work aft, braiding new ends on the portside radian draws, and Quentin sparred with the Elven Hunters on the foredeck under Ard Patrinell’s steady gaze. No one looked up as Bek passed or acted as if anything about the boy had changed, even though in his mind everything had.

  “To begin with, you are still Bek Rowe,” Walker told him when they were seated together on a casing filled with light sheaths. “You are not to use the name Ohmsford. It is too recognizable, and you don’t want to draw unneeded attention to yourself.”

  Bek nodded. “All right.”

  “Also, I don’t want you to tell anyone what you’ve told me or what you’ve learned from me about your magic, your history, or the Sword of Shannara. Not even Quentin. Not one word.”

  He waited. Bek nodded once more.

  “Finally, you are not to forget that you are here to serve as my eyes and ears, to listen and keep watch. That wasn’t an idle assignment, meant to give you something to do until it was time to tell you who you were. Your magic gives you powers of observation that are lacking in most. I still need you to use those talents. They are no less important now than they were before.”

  “I can’t see that I’ve put them to much use so far,” Bek observed. “Nothing I’ve told you has been particularly useful.”

  The Druid’s ironic smile flashed momentarily and was gone. “You don’t think so? Maybe you’re not paying close enough attention.”

  “Does Ryer Ord Star see anything in her dreams that could help you? Is she keeping watch as well?”

  “She does what she can. But your sight, Bek, though not a seer’s, is the more valuable.” He shifted so that he was leaning very close. “She dreams of outcomes before they happen, but you spy out causes while they’re still seeking to create an effect. That’s the difference in the magic you wield. Remember that.”

  Bek had no idea what Walker was talking about, but decided to mull over it another time. He nodded.

  Curtains of gray mist drifted past, and the sounds of sword-play and of metal tools in use echoed eerily in the enshrouding haze. It was as if each group of men formed a separate island, and only the sounds they made connected them in any real way.

  “The Sword of Shannara,” Walker began quietly, “is not like any other weapon. Or any other magic. It seeks truth where truth is concealed by deception and lies, and through revelation, it empowers. But empowerment comes at a cost. Like all Elven talismans, the sword draws its power from the wielder. Its strength, and thereby its effectiveness, depends entirely on the strength of the bearer. The stronger the bearer, the more effective the magic. But the connection between the two is established by subtle means. The Sword of Shannara relies on the bearer’s willingness to shed personal deceptions, half-truths, and lies in order to see clearly the same in others.”

  He gave Bek a moment to digest this. “This is what will happen, Bek. When you call up the power of the sword, it will seek to reveal the larger truths that other magic and magic wielders mask. But in order to understand those larger truths, you must first accept the smaller truths about yourself. This requires sacrifice. We live our lives hiding from the things that displease and discomfort us. We reinvent ourselves and our history, constantly placing things in a light most favorable to us. It is in the nature of mankind to do this. Mostly, our deceptions are small ones. But they gather weight through numbers, and having them revealed all at once can be crushing. As well, there are larger truths that, exposed, seem more than we can bear, and so we hide them most carefully.

  “After you have been confronted by these personal truths, you will be confronted by truths about those you love and care for, then of the world you know through your own experience, and finally of the deception or lie you seek to unmask. This will not be easy or pleasant. Truth will assault you as surely as an ordinary metal blade. It will have impact and cutting edges. It can kill you if you do not ward against it. Knowledge and acceptance of what is coming are your best defense. You can do what you need to do to protect yourself and adapt. Do you understand?”

  Bek nodded. “I think so. But I don’t know how I can prepare myself for something like this. I don’t know what sorts of lies and deceptions I have concealed over the years. Am I to try to catalogue them all before using the sword?”

  “No. You’ve said it yourself. You can’t separate them out easily. Some you will have forgotten entirely. Some you will have tried to shade with a better interpretation than you should. Some you will never even have identified. What you need to do, Bek, is to understand how the sword works so that you will not be surprised by its power and will be better able to survive its demands.” He paused. “Let me tell you a story.”

  He spent the next few minutes relating the tale of the Elven King Jerle Shannara and his confrontation with the Warlock Lord a thousand years earlier. The Sword of Shannara had been forged out of Druid fire by Bremen in the Southland city of Dechtera and carried north so that a champion could do combat with the Dark Lord and destroy him. But Bremen had misjudged the Elf King’s ability to adapt to the sword’s demands and not sufficiently prepared him. When Jerle Shannara called up the magic
of the sword, he failed to bring sufficient strength to bear. As a result, he broke down the Dark Lord’s physical form but did not destroy him completely. It would be left to his descendant, Shea Ohmsford, five hundred years later, to complete the job.

  “My task with you, Bek,” Walker finished, “is to make certain you do not falter as Jerle Shannara did, that once you summon the sword’s magic, you employ it to the degree necessary. Your first usage of the talisman is not so demanding. It does not involve an encounter with another creature of magic that seeks to destroy you. It involves a portal that is warded by an impersonal and indiscriminate barrier. It is a good test with which to begin your training.”

  Bek looked down at his feet, then up into the Druid’s dark eyes. “But my sister, the Ilse Witch, will be waiting to test me, as well.”

  “Not waiting. She knows nothing of you or the sword. But, yes, the possibility is good that you will have to face her eventually. Even so, that is not your principal concern. Your testing will come from other sources, as well. Everything connected with this expedition is shrouded in deception and lies, Bek. It might seem straightforward enough, a map and a castaway found floating on the Blue Divide, a trail to a place reached by other Elves and their ships thirty years ago before they disappeared, and the lure of a treasure beyond price. But few things are as they seem in this matter. If we are to succeed—indeed, if we are to survive—we will require the power of the Sword of Shannara to see us through. Only you can use the sword, Bek, so you must be ready to do so when the magic is needed. I bring a Druid’s fire and insight to our task. Quentin brings the power of the Sword of Leah. Others bring their own gifts and experience. Perhaps we will find the missing Elfstones. But your use of the Sword of Shannara is vital and necessary to everything we attempt to do. And your training in that use begins now.”

  They spent the remainder of that day and much of every day after talking about the sword’s magic and how it would work. Walker understood the principles, but he had never experienced the power of the sword’s magic himself, so they were reduced to fencing without weapons. It wasn’t so different, Bek supposed, than what Quentin did in his training with the Elven Hunters. He sparred, but the combat wasn’t real. Because there was no way to call up the magic of the sword until it was actually needed, there was no way to test its effect on Bek. What Walker did mostly, besides talk about the nature of self-deception, was to teach a form of acceptance that came with finding inner peace, with going deep inside to let go of extraneous matters and concerns, and with opening up instead of closing down as a way of dealing with the things that caused pain.

  It was a grueling and often frustrating exercise that sometimes left Bek more confused than when he started. Already reeling from revelations of his identity and history, the boy was staggered by the responsibility the Druid was giving him for the safety of the ship’s company. But he understood the importance of that responsibility and so trained and studied hard, working to prepare himself, to become more adaptable, to be ready for what would happen when he was infused with the sword’s power.

  Nor did he neglect his other duties. He was still the ship’s cabin boy and must continue to behave as such. The combination of time spent with the Druid talking about magic, with Redden Alt Mer in the pilot box, and with carrying out his daily chores pretty much filled up the day. He saw less and less of Quentin and Ahren Elessedil, but that saved him from having to work so hard at keeping what he knew to himself.

  A few days after their encounter with the Ilse Witch, the fog dissipated, the skies cleared, and the broad expanse of the Blue Divide lay revealed once more and the Wing Riders had returned. Repairs were made to the airship, and foraging resumed with the discovery of several clusters of islands. The air became sharp and cold, and the members of the expedition wore winter coats and gloves most of the time now. Ice floes were spotted between the channels of the islands, and the skies turned gray and wintry. Days grew shorter, and the light took on a pale, thin cast that washed the earth and sky of color.

  All the while, Bek wondered what lay ahead. Walker had cautioned him that everything surrounding the expedition was mired in deception and lies. If so, how much of it had the Druid uncovered? What else did he know that he was keeping secret?

  Nine weeks after leaving Mephitic, with thin sheets of sleet driving out of the north on the back of a polar wind, they arrived at the cliff-walled fortress of Ice Henge, and the boy found out.

  The land appeared as a low dark rumpling of the horizon’s thin line and was a long time taking shape. It stretched away to either side of center for miles, sprawled like a twisted snake atop the blue-gray sea. Hours passed before they drew close enough to make out a wall of cliffs so sheer they dropped straight down into the ocean and so towering that their peaks disappeared into clouds of mist and gloom. Cracked and broken, the carcasses of trees bleached by the sun and stripped bare by the wind jutted out of the rock. White-and-black flashes against the gloom, seabirds screamed as they soared from hidden aeries to the waters below. Smaller islands led up to the cliffs like stepping-stones trod upon by time and weather, barren atolls offering little of shelter or sustenance, devoid of vegetation save for hardy sea grasses and wintry gray scrub.

  Walker held up the airship when they were still miles away and sent the Wing Riders ahead for a quick look. They were back again very quickly. Shrikes inhabited the cliffs, and the Rocs could fly no nearer. Leaving Hunter Predd and Po Kelles on one of the larger atolls, Walker had Redden Alt Mer sail the Jerle Shannara right up to the landmass. A closer inspection did nothing to lessen his concerns. The cliffs formed a solid, impenetrable wall, split now and then by narrow fissures that were flooded with mist and rain and virtually impassable. As Shrikes regarded them warily from their perches, waiting to see what they would do, winds blew off the cliffs in sharp, unpredictable gusts, knocking the airship about even before it reached the wall.

  Walker had them sail the coastline for a time. Caverns had been carved into the cliffs by the ocean, and clusters of rock tumbled from the heights formed odd monuments and outcroppings. Waves crashed against and retreated from the base of the cliffs, surging in and out of the caverns, washing over the rocks and debris. No passage inland revealed itself. Alt Mer refused to fly into the mist and wind that clogged the fissures; suicide, he declared, and put an end to any discussion of it. He shook his head when asked by Walker if they might fly over the mist. A thousand feet higher into thicker mist and stronger winds? Not hardly. The castaway’s map revealed that this was a peninsula warded by miles of such cliffs and that the only opening lay through pillars of ice. Big Red was inclined to believe the map.

  They sailed on, continuing their search, and the look of the land never changed.

  Then, late in the day, the cliffs opened abruptly into a deep, broad bay that ran back through the mist and gloom to a towering range of snowcapped mountains. Through gaps in the barren peaks, glaciers wound their way down to the water’s edge, massive chunks of ice, blue-green and jagged, a grinding jumble of frozen moraine that emptied into the bay in blocks so huge they formed small islands, some rising several hundred feet off the surface of the water. Within the bay the winds died, the seabirds huddled in their rookeries, and the ocean’s crash faded. Only the occasional crack of the ice as it split and re-formed, chunks breaking away from the larger mass to tumble down slides and ravines, disturbed the deep stillness.

  The Jerle Shannara sailed through the cliffs into the bay, sliding between icebergs and rock walls, listening to the eerie sound of the shifting ice, searching the gloom for passage. The opening to the bay narrowed to a channel, then opened into a second bay and continued on. The mist thickened above them, forming a roof so dense that it shut out the sun and left the light as pale and gray as the mist. Colors washed away until ice, water, mist, and gloom were all of a piece. With the deepening of the light and the fading of color came a sense of the land’s presence that was inexplicably terrifying—a feeling of size and powe
r, of a giant hidden somewhere in the gloom, crouched and waiting to spring. The sounds it emitted were of glaciers breaking apart and sliding into the bay, of fissures opening and closing, of mass shifting constantly from the pressure and cold. The men and women aboard the Jerle Shannara listened to it the way a traveler would listen to a storm tear at his lean-to, waiting for something to give way, to fail.

  Then the channel narrowed once more, this time clogged by pillars of ice so huge they blocked the way completely, crystal towers that rose out of the bay’s liquid floor like spikes. Through gaps in the pillars Bek could see a brightening of the light and a lessening of the mist, as if the weather and geography might be different on the other side. Walker, standing close, touched his shoulder and nodded. Then he turned to Redden Alt Mer and told him to hold the airship where it was.

  Hovering before the pillars of ice, clustered at the railings in silent groups, the ship’s company stood waiting. The cold air shimmered and seabirds glided in silence. Through the deep mist, the ice continued to rumble and crack, the reverberations distant and ominous.

  Then abruptly the pillars began to shift, tilting in a series of thrusts and twists that mimicked the closing of jaws and the grinding of teeth. As the awestruck company watched, the icy towers came together in a series of grating collisions, smashing into each other with booming explosions, closing off the channel’s entry and clogging all passage through. Shards of ice catapulted through the air and into the bay’s waters, and new cracks opened along the huge towers as they collided then retreated, shifting leviathans hammering at each other in mindless fury. Waves surged and the bay boiled with the force of the furious movement.

  Minutes later, the pillars retreated once more, backing away from each other, taking new positions, bobbing gently in the dying swells.

  “That,” the Druid whispered in Bek’s ear, “is called the Squirm. That is what the Sword of Shannara must overcome.”