He swung away immediately and started downward in a slow glide, unable to make the single wing respond with any greater agility or speed. It was like canoeing in rapids; you had to ride the current. Opening the vents all the way would drop him from the skies like a stone. The single wing wasn’t designed for quick maneuvers. It wasn’t built to flee Shrikes.
He spiraled toward the land below, toward peaks and cliffs, defiles and ravines, already able to tell that there was nowhere safe to land. But there was no time to worry about it and nothing he could do to change things. The best he could hope for was to get down before the Shrikes reached him. His flight was over. All that remained to be seen was how it would end.
He was still almost a thousand feet up when the first Shrike swept past him, claws raking the canvas and wood frame, sending him skidding sideways with a sickening lurch. He straightened out and angled sharply away, casting about for the others. If he had been frightened before, he was terrified now. He was helpless up here, strapped into his flimsy flying device, suspended in midair, unable to outrun or hide from his pursuers.
A second Shrike attacked, slamming into the single wing with such force that it jarred Ahren to his bones. He dropped dozens of feet before leveling out, and when he did, the single wing’s flight had turned shaky and uneven, and he could hear the flapping of torn canvas.
All about him, the Shrikes circled, beaks lifted, claws extended, eyes reflecting like pools of hard light in the darkness of their predatory faces.
Use the Elfstones!
But he couldn’t reach them without releasing his grip on the control bar, and if he did that, he might go straight down. He also risked dropping the Stones, fumbling them away as he tried to bring them to bear. Nevertheless, he took the gamble, certain that he was doomed otherwise. He let go of the bar and plunged his right hand into his tunic, tearing open the drawstrings of the pouch to fish out the stones.
Instantly, the single wing went into a steep dive. The Shrikes attacked from everywhere, but the wing was skewing sideways so badly that they were unable to get a grip on it. Shrieking, they dived past Ahren in a flurry of movement, wings whipping the air, talons extended, huge black shadows descending and then lifting away. He closed his eyes to sharpen his concentration, forcing his fingers to find and tighten about the Elfstones, drawing them clear.
He thrust his hand out in front of him, called up the power of the magic, and sent it sweeping out into the dark in a wall of blue fire.
The result was unexpected. The magic flooded the air with its sudden brightness, frightening the Shrikes but not harming them. Ahren, however, was sent spinning off into the void, the backlash from the magic nearly collapsing the single wing about his body. Belatedly, he remembered that the magic of the Elfstones was useless against creatures that did not rely on magic themselves. The Shrikes were immune to the power of the only weapon he possessed.
Still clutching the Elfstones, he tried to maneuver downward, diving between cliff faces so sheer that if he struck one, he would slide all the way to its base unimpeded. The Shrikes followed, screaming in frustration and rage, whipping past him in one series of near misses after another, the wake of their passing spinning him around until he could no longer determine where he was.
He was finished, he knew. He was a dead man. The whirl of land and sky formed a kaleidoscope of indigo and quicksilver, stars and darkness melding as he fought to slow his descent. A strut snapped with the sharpness of broken deadwood. His left wing shuddered and dipped.
Then something bigger than the Shrikes appeared at the corner of his eye, there for only a moment before the single wing spun him a different way. The Shrikes screamed anew, but the sound was different, and the Elven Prince detected fear in it. An instant later they were winging away, their dark shadows fading as quickly as their cries.
Something huge loomed over him, its shadow blacking out the sky. He tried to look upward to see what it was, but it collided with his single wing, knocking it askew once more, then latched on to the frame. He fought wildly to free it, to regain some control, but the control straps refused to respond or the grapples release.
The Morgawr! he thought in terror. The Morgawr has found me once more!
Then a second shadow appeared, lifting out of the well of cliffs and valleys in a spread of massive wings and a shining of great, gimlet eyes.
“Let go, Elven Prince!” Hunter Predd called out through the haze of shadows, reaching up from Obsidian’s back to catch hold of his dangling legs.
Ahren quit struggling and did as he was told, releasing first the control straps and then the buckles and ties that secured him to the harness. In a rush of wind and blackness, he slid down into the Wing Rider’s arms, scarcely able to believe the other was really there. In a daze, he watched the single wing and its harness tumble away, a tangle of crumpled wreckage.
“Hold tight,” Hunter Predd whispered in his ear, rough-bearded face pressing close to his own, strong arms fastening a safety line in place. “We have a ways to go, but you’re safe now.”
Safe, Ahren repeated silently, gratefully, and began to shake all over.
Hunter Predd’s strong arms tightened about him reassuringly, and with Po Kelles and Niciannon leading the way, they flew into the night.
Miles away in the same darkness that cloaked the fleeing Wing Riders and the Elven Prince, Ryer Ord Star hung from the yardarm of Black Moclips, swaying gently at the ends of the ropes tied about her wrists. Blood coated her arms from the deep gouges the ropes had made in her flesh, and sweat ran down her face and body in spite of the cool night air. Her pain was all encompassing, racking her slender body from head to toe, rising and falling in steady waves as she waited to die.
“Walker,” she begged softly, “please help me.”
She had called to him all night, but this time he responded. He appeared out of nowhere, suspended in air before her, his dark countenance pale and haunted, but so comforting to her that she would have welcomed it even if it was nothing more than a mirage. Wrapped in his Druid robes, he was a shade come from death’s gate, a presence less of this world than the one beyond, yet in his eyes she found what she was seeking.
“Let me go,” she whispered, the words thick and clotted in her throat. “Set me free.”
He reached for her with his one good arm, his strong hand brushing against her ravaged cheeks, and his voice was filled with healing.
–Come with me–
She shook her head helplessly. “I cannot. The ropes hold me.”
–Only because you cling to them. Release your grip–
She did so, not knowing how exactly, only knowing that because he said so, she could. She slipped from her bonds as if they were loose cords and stepped out into the air as if she weighed nothing. Her pain and her fear fell away like old clothes she had tossed aside. Her heartache subsided. She stood next to him, and when he reached out a second time, she took his hand in her own.
He smiled then and drew her close.
–Come away–
She did so, at rest and at peace, redeemed and forgiven, made whole by her sacrifice, and she did not look back.
When he went to look for Ahren Elessedil shortly after dawn, Bek Ohmsford found him sitting at the stern of the Jerle Shannara. They had been airborne for more than three hours by then, flying south through heavy clouds and gray skies, intent on reaching the coast before nightfall.
The Elven Prince glanced up at him with tired eyes. He had been asleep for almost twelve hours, but looked haggard even so. “Hello, Bek,” he said.
“Hello, yourself.” He plopped down next to Ahren, resting his back against the ship’s railing. “It’s good to have you back. I thought we might have lost you.”
“I thought so, too. More than once.”
“You were lucky Hunter Predd found you when he did. I heard the story. I don’t know how you did it. I don’t think I could have. Flying all that way without food or rest.”
Ahren Elessedil’
s smile was faint and sad. “You can do anything if you’re scared enough.”
They were silent then, sitting shoulder to shoulder, staring down the length of the airship as she nosed ahead through ragged wisps of cloud and mist. The air had a damp feel to it and smelled of the sea. Redden Alt Mer and his Rovers had cut short the repairs to the Jerle Shannara last night, installed the recovered diapson crystals early this morning, and lifted off at first light. The Rover Captain knew that the Morgawr had some control over the Shrikes that inhabited the coastal regions of Parkasia, and he was afraid that the birds that had attacked Ahren would alert the warlock and lead him to them. He could have used another day of work on his vessel, but the risk of staying on the ground any longer was too great. No one was upset with his decision. Memories of the Crake Rain Forest were fresh in everyone’s minds.
In the pilot box, Spanner Frew stood at the helm, his big frame blocking the movements of his hands as he worked the controls. Now and then he shouted orders to one of the Rovers walking the deck, his rough voice booming through the creaking of the rigging, his bearded face turning to reveal its fierce set. There weren’t all that many of them left to shout at, Bek thought. He numbered them in his head. Ten, counting himself. Twelve, if you added in the Wing Riders. Out of more than thirty who had started out all those months ago, that was all. Just twelve.
Make that thirteen, he corrected himself, adding in Grianne. Lucky thirteen.
“How is your sister?” Ahren asked him, as if reading his mind.
“Still the same. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t see me, doesn’t respond to anything, won’t eat or drink. Just sits there and stares at nothing.” He looked over at the Elf. “Except for two nights ago. The night you were rescued, she saved Quentin.”
He told Ahren the details as he had done for everyone else, aware that by doing so he was giving hope to himself as much as to them that Grianne might recover, and that when she did, she might not be the Ilse Witch anymore. It remained a faint hope, but he needed to believe that the losses suffered and the pain endured might count for something in the end. Ahren listened attentively, his young face expressionless, but his eyes distant and reflective.
When Bek was finished, he said quietly, “At least you were able to save someone other than yourself. I couldn’t even do that.”
Bek had heard the story of his escape from Black Moclips from Hunter Predd. He knew what the Elf was talking about.
“I don’t see what else you could have done,” Bek said, seeking words that would ease the other’s sense of guilt. “She didn’t want to come with you. She had already made up her mind to stay. You couldn’t have changed that.”
“Maybe. I wish I were sure. I was so eager to get away, to get off that ship, I didn’t even think to try. I just let her tell me what to do.”
Bek scuffed his boot against the deck. “Well, you don’t know. She might have gotten away. She might have done what she said she was going to do. The Wing Riders are out looking for her. Don’t give up yet.”
Ahren stared off into space, his eyes haunted. “They won’t find her, Bek. She’s dead. I knew it last night. I woke up for no reason, and I knew it. I think she realized what was going to happen when she sent me away, but she wouldn’t tell me because she knew that if she did, I wouldn’t go. She had promised Walker she would stay, and she refused to break her word, even at the cost of her life.”
He sounded bitter and confused, as if his realization of that premonition defied logical explanation.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Bek told him, not knowing what else to say.
Ahren kept his gaze directed out toward the misty horizon, above the sweep of the airship’s curved rams, and did not reply.
Redden Alt Mer walked down the main passageway belowdecks to the Captain’s quarters—his quarters, once upon a time—searching for his sister. He was pretty sure by now, having walked the upper decks without success, that she had retired once more to the temporary shelter assigned to the wounded Quentin Leah and the unresponsive Grianne Ohmsford. It was the witch Little Red would go to see, to look at and study, to contemplate in a way that bothered him more than he cared to admit. He was feeling better about himself since braving the horrors of the Crake to recover the lost diapson crystals, especially after hearing from Bek how the witch had wakened from her dead-eyed sleep long enough to do the unexpected and use her magic to help heal the Highlander. Big Red was feeling better, but not entirely well. His brush with death in the rain forest had left him hollowed out, and he wasn’t sure yet what it would take to fill him up again. Recovering the crystals was a start, but he was still entirely too conscious of his own mortality, and given the nature of his life, that wasn’t healthy.
But for the moment his concern was for his sister. Rue had always been more tightly wound than he was, the cautious one, the captain of her life, determined that she would decide what was best for those she felt responsible for, no matter the obstacles she faced. But, of late, she had begun to show signs of vacillation that had never been apparent before. It wasn’t that she seemed any less determined, but that she seemed uncertain what it was she should be determined about.
Her attitude toward the Ilse Witch was such a case. In the beginning, there had been no question in his mind that as soon as she could find a way to do so, Rue would dispose of her. She would do so in a way that would remove all suspicion from herself, especially because of how she felt about Bek, but do it she would. Hawk’s death demanded it. Yet something had happened to change her mind, something he had missed entirely, and it was impacting her in a way that suggested a major shift in her thinking.
He shook his head, wishing he understood what that something was. Since yesterday, when she had returned from the Crake with Bek after completing a mission he would have put a stop to in a minute had he known about it, she had come down here at every opportunity. She had taken up watch over the witch, as if to see what would happen when she woke, as if trying to ascertain what manner of creature she really was. At first, he had thought she was waiting for an opportunity to finish her off. But as time passed and opportunities came and went, he had begun to wonder. This wasn’t about revenge for Hawk and the others; this was about something else. Whatever it was, he was baffled.
He pushed open the door to his cabin, and there she was, sitting next to Bek’s sister, holding her hand and staring into her vacant eyes. It was such a strange scene that for a moment he simply stood there, speechless.
“Close the door,” she said quietly, not bothering to look over.
He did so, then moved to where she could see him, and knelt at Quentin Leah’s bedside for a moment, placing his fingers on the Highlander’s wrist to read his pulse.
“Strong and steady,” Little Red said. “Bek was right. She saved Quentin’s life, whether she intended to or not.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked, standing up again, giving the Highlander a final glance. “Trying to decide if it was an accident or not?”
“No,” she said.
“What, then?”
“I’m trying to find out where she is. I’m trying to figure out how to reach her.”
He stared at her, not quite believing what he was hearing. She was leaning forward as she sat in front of the witch, her face only inches away. There was no fear in her green eyes, no suggestion that she felt at risk. She held Grianne’s hands loosely in her own, and she was moving her fingers over their smooth, pale backs in small circles.
“Bek said she was hiding from the truth about herself, that when the magic of the Sword of Shannara showed her that truth, it was too much for her, so she fled from it. Walker told him that she would come back when she found a way to forgive herself for the worst of her sins. A tall order, even to sort them all out, I’d think.” She paused. “I’m trying to see if a woman can reach her when a man can’t.”
He nodded. “I guess it’s possible it might happen that way.”
“But you don’t know why I have to
be the one to find out.”
“I guess I don’t.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time, sitting silent and unmoving before Grianne Ohmsford, staring into her strange blue eyes. The Ilse Witch was little more than a child, Alt Mer realized. She was so young that any attempt to define her in terms of the acts she was said to have committed was impossible. In her comatose state, blank-faced and unseeing, she bore a look of complete innocence, as if incapable of evil or wrongdoing or any form of madness. Somehow, they had got it all wrong, and it needed only for her to come awake again to put it right.
It was a dangerous way to feel, he thought.
She looked over at him. “I’m doing it for Bek,” she said, as if to explain, then quickly turned her attention back to Grianne. “Maybe because of Bek.”
Alt Mer moved to where she could no longer see him, doubt clouding his sunburned features. “Bek doesn’t expect this of you. His sister isn’t your responsibility. Why are you making her so?”
“You don’t understand,” she said.
He waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t. He cleared his throat. “What don’t I understand, Rue?”
She let him wait a long time before she answered, and he realized afterwards that she was trying to decide whether to tell him the truth, that the choice was more difficult for her than she had anticipated. “I’m in love with him,” she said finally.
He wasn’t expecting that, hadn’t considered the possibility for a moment, although on hearing it, it made perfect sense. He remembered her reaction to his decision to take Bek with him into the Crake while leaving her behind. He remembered how she had cared for the boy when Hunter Predd had flown him in from the mountain wilderness, as if she alone could make him well.