Wards of Faerie

  They were deep into the Fangs and beginning to feel numbed by the strain of watching and waiting for something to happen when the insects attacked them.

  The swarm came out of nowhere. The buzzing of wings was the only warning anyone got, and then the creatures were on top of them, biting and stinging. The insects were the size of large birds and quick to avoid all attempts at swatting them away. The Druids threw up various forms of magic to drive them off, but with the company scattered it was impossible to protect everyone at once. Redden and Railing stood back-to-back defending themselves with the magic of the wishsong, turning leaves and twigs into flying shards of metal that twisted and cut at their attackers. They downed a few, but there were hundreds in the swarm, their numbers darkening what little sky was visible overhead. The air filled with their buzzing.

  Then someone began screaming, and the confusion of the attack reached new levels. Over to the left of where they stood fighting off the insects, the twins heard earth and rocks grinding together. Redden caught a glimpse of one of the Trolls tumbling from sight into a hole that had opened in the ground. He saw Farshaun reach for him, grab hold of his arm, try to pull him back, and fail. The Troll tumbled away, thrashing. Then the hole closed over again with a terrible crunching sound, and the Troll was gone.

  Other holes began to open all around them, jagged fissures running six to ten feet long. Redden yanked Railing away from one that yawned right next to them just as his brother lost his balance and began to teeter on the edge. The fissures were actually moving like the jaws of an animal, working their ragged mouths back and forth.

  Skint surged through the middle of the struggling members of the company, leaping the hungry mouths, yelling as he went.

  “Procks!” he screamed. “Get out of here!”

  Members of the company were already falling back, moving out of the area of attack as swiftly as they could manage. Pleysia, the girl Oriantha, a couple of the Trolls, and Crace Coram led the way. Khyber Elessedil, still fighting off swarms of giant insects, backed away last. With the insects in pursuit, everyone began a ragged retreat, swatting at their winged attackers while trying to stay clear of the Procks.

  Redden and Railing had heard about Procks from the Rovers. Found mostly in the mountains of the Eastland, they surfaced in communities hundreds strong. They were living rock, an impossibility given life through a magic long since lost and forgotten. They swallowed anything that came within reach, catching hold of the unwary and chewing their victims to pieces even as they struggled to free themselves.

  The company kept fighting off the snapping mouths, struggling to reach safe ground while avoiding the lethal stings and bites of the insects. It took longer than it should have, and both twins were exhausted by the time they had gone far enough that they could consider themselves safe.

  Farshaun plopped down beside them, winded and red-faced. His arms and face were swollen with stings and bites, and there was blood on his hands. “Did you see what happened to that Troll? His leg went down into a Prock’s mouth, and that was it. Skint and I tried to pull him free, but it was no use. Once they’ve got you, there’s no getting away.”

  “I didn’t think there were any Procks in the Westland,” Railing said, wiping sweat from his face and finding blood, as well. “I thought they were only in the Ravenshorn.”

  Farshaun gave him a look. “There’s everything out here in the Breakline. Everything you don’t want to find.”

  The other members of the company had worked their way free of the Prock community by now, and the flying insects had broken off their attack and flown back to wherever they had come from. Close by where the twins were huddled with Farshaun, Khyber Elessedil was confronting the Speakman.

  “Why didn’t you warn us?” she demanded of him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  The Speakman, matchstick arms and legs collapsed against his scarecrow body, looked at her as if he had never seen her before. His voice was surprisingly soft. “How could I warn you? I never saw those things before. Any of them. Last time I was here, they weren’t.”

  Farshaun came up and crouched beside him. “Speakman. Did you say they were new? But that isn’t possible. Things don’t change out here. You know that.”

  “I know. But they have.”

  Redden and Railing inched closer to listen in.

  “How many did we lose?” Farshaun asked the Ard Rhys.

  She shook her head in disgust, her brow furrowing. “Only the one you couldn’t save. We were lucky it wasn’t more. But we can’t have this happen again. We need the Speakman to warn us. He lives out here! He has to sense these things or we’ll be decimated before we find anything!”

  She kept her voice low, but the force of her words was unmistakable. Farshaun looked over at the Speakman, who nodded silently. “He’ll do the best he can,” the old man assured her.

  “Let’s hope so,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “Because at dawn tomorrow we’re going to try this again.”

  26

  KHYBER ELESSEDIL DID NOT SPEAK TO ANY OF THEM AGAIN that day save for Farshaun. She knew she had become obsessed with finding the missing Elfstones and had reached a point where almost nothing else mattered. She hated seeing anyone die, but she had already accepted it as inevitable, given the nature of the dangers they faced. What she hated most was not being sufficiently prepared for the bad things they would encounter, so she had made up her mind that they would be ready on the morrow for anything.

  How she would accomplish this was not entirely clear, but she knew to begin by speaking at length with Farshaun about making the Speakman look harder for what might be lying in wait.

  Farshaun was obliging, but he insisted the Speakman was already doing all he could, and it was obvious something was happening in the Fangs that was as new to him as it was to the rest of them. If he had never encountered these dangers before—didn’t even know they were there—Farshaun didn’t think there was much the Speakman could do about searching them out now. Perhaps she would do well to put Skint and Seersha at the forefront to help him. Their tracking and wilderness skills were probably the equal of his own, and even if they didn’t know the country they could use their instincts and experience to intuit dangers as well as he could.

  Khyber agreed, although none of this gave her reason to feel confident about the Speakman. She was using him out of necessity, not because she thought he was up to what was being asked of him. He was clearly fragile emotionally, and his reclusive life did not suggest he would function well in this larger community, no matter the importance of his presence.

  But she had no choice in the matter. She needed a guide, and he was the best she had.

  She put aside her ponderings over the fitness of the Speakman long enough to wonder if she should ask the Ohmsford twins to use the magic of their wishsong to help to provide protection for the company, as well. But she was loath to put them at further risk. She was mindful of her promise to herself, as much as to Sarys, to do her best to protect the twins, and she intended to keep it.

  Besides, after today, anyone on the expedition with magic skills would be using them without her having to tell them.

  She had taken the search party all the way back to the Walker Boh, unwilling to risk having them spend the night in the open after today’s encounter. Better to start fresh in the morning, even if it meant covering some of the same ground twice. She went to bed early, more tired than she had realized.

  As she lay rolled up in her blanket on the decks of the airship, listening to the singing of the wind as it blew through the radian draws, an unpleasant feeling that something was very wrong began to creep over her. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, only that it was there and seemed uncomfortably familiar. She pondered it until she fell asleep—a long, slow process—but was not able to pinpoint its source.

  By morning, she had forgotten the matter, and with the same members of the expedition she had chosen for yesterday’s search party—plus
another of Garroneck’s Trolls to replace the one they had lost—she set out again. She had decided they would choose a new starting point and find a different route in, hopefully avoiding the Procks and flying insects by doing so. To accomplish this, she had Farshaun fly the Walker Boh south for several miles to a place the Speakman claimed he knew well enough to anticipate any dangers—if, he was quick to add, nothing had changed. He relayed all this through Farshaun, no longer willing to speak to her directly. He was still traumatized by Khyber’s reaction of the previous day and frightened that he might disappoint her again, Farshaun told her in confidence. He warned her again that the Speakman’s emotional state was uncertain. If she wanted his help she would have to be gentle with him.

  She didn’t like Farshaun speaking to her in such a way, and now she was worried that the Speakman wasn’t stable enough to be relied on. But she had few options in the matter, so she had to try to find a balance between caution and insistence.

  When they left the airship this time, they found themselves in hill country. The Fangs still formed a deep wall in front of them, but now they were confronted with rolling terrain riven by deep gullies that looked to have once been riverbeds. This day, like the previous, was misty and clouded over, the sun and sky completely hidden, the air thick with brume. She kept the members of the company close together as they entered the Fangs, with the Druids interspersed throughout the line of march. She led the way with Farshaun and the Speakman and had Seersha and Crace Coram provide a rearguard.

  Everyone was told to keep close watch.

  Redden and Railing, once again placed in the middle, gave each other a knowing glance. The wishsong, while versatile, wasn’t much good at detecting danger, and their experience with this sort of thing was pretty limited.

  “Hope she’s not counting on us,” Redden murmured to his brother, who simply nodded in reply.

  This day’s trek through the Fangs was very similar to that of the day before, but more draining physically. Going up and down hills as they wound through the maze of stone formations required more effort, and even though they could see no sources of moisture, the air was oddly thick. The farther in they went, the heavier it got. No one was saying much, and when they did it was whispered and short. Even Redden and Railing, normally comfortable with sharing their thoughts and making wry comments, remained silent, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Twice in the next four hours Khyber allowed the company to take short rests. Each time she spoke to the Speakman through Farshaun, reassuring herself that everything was all right and nothing unusual was in evidence. The Speakman indicated through nods and gestures to Farshaun that this was so.

  Nevertheless, she was uneasy. She had discovered about two hours into the Fangs that her compass had quit working. She believed they could find their way out if they needed to even without the Speakman’s help, but she could not be certain in which direction they were going. There were few markers in this wilderness by which to track their forward progress and none to make their way back save those they made themselves. The perpetually haze-clouded sky would not let her read clearly the position of the sun during the day or the stars at night. Everything looked exactly the same. Even after hours of walking she couldn’t be certain which was forward and which was back. She couldn’t even be certain they weren’t going in a circle.

  The Speakman had reassured Farshaun they were maintaining a straight line and approaching the edges of the marshland she was seeking. But her confidence in the recluse’s abilities, already badly eroded, had not improved. His disturbing behavior alone was sufficient to cause her doubts. He had begun to mutter to himself, nodding and shaking his head, gesturing with his hands and addressing the ground in front of him as he walked. He shambled as if his balance was off, and he hugged himself. Sometimes he cried. When she looked at Farshaun for an explanation, the Rover just shrugged. This was the way the Speakman was, he seemed to be saying.

  Worse still was the hermit’s insistence on saying things that suggested it didn’t matter what they did because they were all doomed. He said them only to Farshaun, but she was frequently present when he did. It was unnerving at best. She didn’t believe it, didn’t think for a moment that he knew what was going to happen from one minute to the next. But the constant repetition of the prophecy was wearing on her, and she asked him to stop saying it.

  But he couldn’t seem to help himself, even after Farshaun spoke to him, so she let it go.

  The slog through the Fangs wore on. By now they had been walking for the better part of six hours, and while nothing had attacked and no obvious dangers had threatened, time was slipping away and they still hadn’t found the marshland they were searching for.

  Then suddenly the smell and texture of the air changed; there was a fresh dampness to it and a fetid scent. She glanced down and saw that the hard rocky earth had muddied in places; hints of what had recently been standing water were visible. She caught up to Farshaun and touched his shoulder.

  He turned, saw the questioning look on her face, and nodded. “We’re close now, Mistress. The marshland should be just ahead.”

  They continued through a fresh cluster of rock formations, finding swamp grasses and trees strung with moss more gray than green filling the gaps between. The way forward became clogged with vegetation and required more effort to pass through. The edges of the marshland appeared in stagnant ponds and long fingers of weedy swamp that angled about like snakes. There were still no signs of life except for the steady hum and click of insects that only showed themselves in momentary bursts.

  Everyone was on edge now. Before, they had seen nothing but blasted rock and rutted earth. Now there were plants and trees with hints of color in the foliage and grasses and dampness, and the tedium of their earlier trek gave way to heightened wariness. The improvement in the look of the terrain should have had a heartening effect, but the abruptness of the shift was unnerving.

  Khyber called a halt and walked away from the others a few paces, again going into a deep trance to recall accurately the images skived from Aphenglow’s mind. She settled herself, her breathing slowed, her magic surfaced in an enfolding haze that wrapped her close, and the vision replayed itself in slow motion behind her eyes.

  There should be mountains, she remembered.

  She opened her eyes, rose, and glanced all around. But the rock formations and heavy undergrowth blocked her view. She was down too low to see anything. She needed to get to a higher place. She needed to climb something.

  She shook her head at the idea; she was older now, and had limitations.

  “Skint!” she called to the Gnome Tracker, and the others in the search party drifted over, as well. “Can you climb one of these rock formations? Or maybe one of these trees?”

  “Not the trees,” the Speakman blurted out at once. He cringed at the sound of his own voice, looking for Farshaun, moving over next to him. “No one should climb the trees,” he whispered.

  Skint was studying the nearby rock formations. “I don’t know. There’s not much in the way of handholds.”

  “I can do it.” Railing Ohmsford stepped forward eagerly. “Redden and I both, if you want.”

  Redden appeared beside him, giving him a look. “You brought grippers?”

  Railing nodded. “Do you want us to try?” he asked the Ard Rhys.

  Khyber Elessedil managed to keep from grinning at his obvious eagerness. “One of you will do.”

  “Then I’ll go. It was my idea.” He dropped his backpack and began rummaging through it. “There’s nothing to it, really. Redden and I do it at home all the time with tougher climbs than this one.”

  Moments later he produced a strange pair of gloves and boots that had the appearance of animal paws. He sat down and slipped them over his bare hands and feet, then flexed his fingers and toes and walked over to the closest formation.

  “See you at the top,” he declared, and began climbing the tower as if he were a squirrel goin
g up a tree. His gloves gripped the rock face effortlessly, finding purchase even on the most vertical of surfaces. Using his booted feet for leverage and balance, he shimmied his way to the top—something close to a hundred feet—in a matter of minutes.

  “Now what?” he called down to Khyber.

  She shook her head in amusement. “Do you see any mountains?”

  He took a moment to look around. “I don’t see much of anything but clouds and mist and the tips of these rock pillars. There’s a big body of water to our right—I can see bits and pieces of that.”

  He stopped talking, continuing to look. The other members of the expedition waited expectantly. Khyber was already thinking of which direction they should take if no mountains appeared.

  “Wait!” Railing called out suddenly. “I see them. A cluster of big, narrow peaks, off to our left. The mist was hiding them. A few miles off, over there.” He pointed.

  The Ard Rhys took note. “Good work. You can come down now.”

  Railing engaged in a controlled slide that brought him back to the ground. He took off the boots and gloves and started to stuff them back into his pack, then noticed the way Skint was eyeing them and handed them over. “Here. You take them. Redden and I have another pair.”

  Skint accepted the grippers, nodded his thanks, and immediately began to examine them.