But the haze was so thick now that Alt Mer could barely make out the cliffs to either side and could not see the sky overhead at all. Worse, the mist was shifting in a steady wind, swirling so badly that it cast shadows everywhere and rendered it virtually impossible to navigate safely. In these narrow confines, with treacherous peaks, glaciers, and winds all around, it would be foolhardy to attempt to venture out of the channel when they could not see where they were going. Like it or not, they would have to wait for the weather to clear, even if it meant delaying their departure a day or two.
Rue Meridian came up beside him, long red hair as darkened by the damp as his own. It wasn’t raining, but a fine mist settled over them like gauze. She looked out over the railing at the fog and shook her head. “Soup.”
“Soup that Mother Nature feels a need to stir,” he amended with a weary sigh. “All for the purpose of keeping us locked down for the foreseeable future, I expect.”
“We could sail back up the channel and hope for a break in the clouds. Inland, it might be better.”
He nodded. “It might, but the farther back up the channel we go, the harder it becomes to track our course. Better to do it from as close to the coastline as possible.”
She snorted. “Have you forgotten who you have as your navigator?”
“Not likely. Anyway, a day of waiting won’t hurt us. We’ll lie to until tomorrow. If it doesn’t clear up by then, we’ll do as you say and sail back up the channel and try to find a cloud break.”
Her eyes found his momentarily. “No one much cares for this sitting around, Big Red.” She glanced off into the haze. “If you listen closely, you can hear those pillars clashing. You can hear the ice crack and the glaciers shift. Far away, off in the haze.” She shook her head. “It’s spooky.”
“Don’t listen, then.”
She stood with him a moment longer, then moved off. He didn’t care for the waiting either or their proximity to the Squirm or anything about their situation, but he knew better than to overreact. He would be patient if he must.
After a few minutes, he walked back to where Spanner Frew sat working on a diapson crystal that had been damaged in their collision with Black Moclips. The Rover Captain was still perplexed at the appearance of the ship. In all likelihood it meant she was being sailed by a Federation crew. That gave Alt Mer a distinct advantage with his Rover crew, but not one he was eager to test. Black Moclips was much bigger and stronger than the Jerle Shannara, and in close quarters could probably reduce it to kindling. It would be strange in any case to do battle with a ship he had flown for so long and of which he had grown so fond.
“Making any progress?” he asked the shipwright.
The big man scowled. “I’d make more if people didn’t distract me with foolish questions. This is delicate work.”
Alt Mer watched him for a moment. “Did you get a good look at that other airship when she rammed us?”
“As good as your own.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“Black Moclips. Hard to mistake her. Doesn’t give me a good feeling to know she’s the one chasing us, but on the other hand this ship’s quicker and more responsive.” He paused to hold the crystal up to the pale light, squinting as he examined it. “Just keep her from getting too close to us, and we’ll be fine.”
The Rover Captain folded his arms within his cloak. “Can’t be sure of doing anything on a hunt like this. We may have to stand and face her at some point. I don’t relish that happening, I can tell you.”
Spanner Frew stood up, gave the crystal a final check, then grunted in satisfaction. “Won’t be a problem today, at least. Nothing can sail in this.”
“Not safely, anyway,” Alt Mer amended. He resumed staring out into the gloom. The wind had picked up, and the airship was rocking with its sudden gusts. The Rover Captain walked slowly across the deck, checking things in a perfunctory manner, giving himself something to do besides think about their predicament. A low whistle had begun to develop, faint and distant still, but unmistakable. He glanced in its direction, back toward the Squirm. Maybe he should move the Jerle Shannara farther upriver. Maybe they should find a cove in which to take shelter.
He walked the aft railing, the sound of the wind enveloping him like a shroud, strangely warm and comforting. He stopped to listen to it, amazed at its appeal. Winds of this sort were rare in a sailor’s life and as out of place to this land as yesterday’s weather. They belonged in another climate and another part of the world. How could glaciers and snowpacks exist in such close proximity to warm air and green trees?
His thoughts drifted, and he found himself remembering his childhood in March Brume, days he had spent on land, wandering the forests, playing with other children. Those days had been few and passed swiftly, but their memory lingered. Perhaps it was because he had spent so much of his life on the sea and in the air. Perhaps it was because he could never have them back again.
Something moved in the mist, but staring blankly at its darkening form, he could not seem to put a name to it.
To one side, a Rover slid to the decking and lay there, silent and unmoving, asleep. Redden Alt Mer stared in disbelief, then pushed away from the railing to go to him. But his legs wouldn’t work, and his eyes were so heavy he could barely keep them open. All he could seem to focus on was the sound of the wind, risen to a new pitch, wrapping him about, closing him away.
Too late, he realized what was happening.
He staggered a few steps and fell to his knees. On the decks of the airship, the Rovers lay in heaps. Only Furl Hawken was still upright in the pilot box, if barely so, hanging on to the handgrips, draped over the controls.
A huge, dark shape had come alongside the Jerle Shannara. Redden Alt Mer heard the sound of grappling hooks locking in place and caught a glimpse of a cloaked form approaching through the mist. A face lifted out of the shadows of a hood, a young woman who looked at him with blue eyes that were as cold as glacier ice. Helpless, he stared back at her with undisguised fury.
Then everything went black.
Bek glanced over at the strained, frightened face of Ryer Ord Star and smiled reassuringly as they moved with the others of the company through the deepening gloom. The rain had turned to a fine mist. The seer blinked against the droplets that gathered on her eyelids, and brushed at her face with her sleeve. She moved closer to Bek.
The boy peered left and right to where the groups led by Quentin and Ard Patrinell navigated the misted ruins. He caught a glimpse of his cousin and the Captain of the Home Guard, but found no sign of Ahren Elessedil. The buildings were growing larger now and took longer to get around. At times the searchers were separated by walls fifty feet high and would catch only momentary glimpses of one another through sagging doors and burned-out entries. The buildings were all the same, either empty or full of rusted machinery. In some, banks of casings sat in long rows, studded with dials and tiny windows that resembled the blank, staring eyes of dead animals. In some, machines so large they dwarfed the searchers hunkered down like great beasts fallen into endless slumber. Shadows filled the open spaces, layering machines and debris alike, stretching from one building to the next, a dark spiderweb tangled through the city.
He looked again for Ahren, but everyone in the Elven Hunter group looked pretty much the same, hooded and cloaked against the damp. A sudden wave of fear and doubt washed over him. He forced his gaze back to Walker, who was striding just ahead. He was being stupid. It was probably the look on Ryer Ord Star’s face that infused him with such uneasiness. It was probably the day, so dark and misted. It was probably this place, this city.
In the silence and gloom, you could imagine anything.
He thought about the books that Walker had come to find and was troubled anew. What would the people of the Old World be doing with books of spells? No real magic had been practiced in that time. Magic had died out with the Faerie world, and even the Elves, who had survived when so many other species had perished, ha
d lost or forgotten virtually all of theirs. It was only with the emergence of the new Races and the convening of the Druids at Paranor that the process of recovering the magic had begun. Why would Walker believe that books of magic from before the Great Wars even existed?
The more he worried over the matter, the more obsessed with it he became. Soon he found himself wondering about the creature that had lured them here. Ostensibly to steal their magic, it seemed—yet if it already had books of magic at its disposal, why not use these? Surely they were written in a language it could understand. What was it about the magic that Walker and Quentin and he possessed that was so much more attractive? What was it that had doomed Kael Elessedil’s expedition thirty years earlier? He could repeat everything that Walker had told him, had told them all, and still not get past this gaping hole of logic in the Druid’s explanation.
They passed through a cluster of large empty warehouses into a section of low, flat platforms that might have been buildings or something else entirely. Windowless and sealed all about, they appeared to lack any purpose. Pitted with rust and streaked with patches of moss and lichen, they shimmered in the rain like huge ruined mirrors. Walker took a moment to study one, placing his hands on its surface, closing his eyes in concentration. After a moment he stepped away, shook his head at the others, and motioned for them to continue on.
The platform buildings disappeared behind them in the mist. Ahead, a broad metal-carpeted clearing that was studded with odd-shaped walls and partitions materialized out of the gloom. The clearing stretched away for hundreds of yards in all directions, and dominated the surrounding buildings by virtue of its size alone. The walls and partitions ranged in height from five to ten feet and ran in length anywhere from twenty to thirty more. They were unconnected to each other, seemingly placed at random, seemingly constructed without purpose. They did not form rooms. They did not contain furniture or even machinery. Here, unlike the surrounding warehouses, there was no rubble. Or plants, grasses, and scrub. Everything was swept clean and smooth.
At the center of the square, barely visible through the gloom, an obelisk rose more than a hundred feet. A single door opened into it, massive and recessed, but the door was sealed. Above this entryway, a red light blinked on and off in steady sequence.
Walker brought them to a halt with a hand signal and stood staring into the tangle of half walls and partitions to where the obelisk sat like a watchtower, its blinking light a vigilant eye. Bek searched the ruins about them, his uneasiness newly heightened. Nothing moved. He turned back to Walker. The Druid was still studying the obelisk. It was clear that he sensed the possibility of a trap, but equally clear that he believed he must step into it.
Ryer Ord Star bent close to Bek. “It is the entrance we seek,” she whispered. Her breathing was quick and anxious. “The door to the tower opens into Castledown. The keys he carries fit the door’s lock.”
Bek stared at her, wondering how she knew this, but she was staring at the Druid, the boy already forgotten.
Walker turned. His eyes were troubled and his face bore a resigned look. “Wait here for me.” His voice was so low that Bek could barely hear him. He gestured at the Elven Hunters. “All of you.”
He straightened and signaled to Quentin and Panax on his left and Ard Patrinell on his right to remain where they were.
Alone, he started toward the tower.
The Ilse Witch walked the deck of the Jerle Shannara, making certain all of the Rovers were asleep. One by one, she checked them, then signaled for Cree Bega to come aboard and ordered him to send one of his Mwellrets below to search for anyone she might have missed. The chosen ret disappeared down the hatchway and returned again in only moments, shaking his head.
She nodded, satisfied. It had been easier than she had thought. “Take them below and lock them in the storerooms,” she ordered, dismissing Cree Bega with a gesture. “Separate them.”
She walked to the pilot box and climbed up to stand next to the big Rover slumped over the controls. She stood in the box and stared out over the length and breadth of the captured airship, taking in its look and feel. A sleek and able vessel, she saw. Quicker and more maneuverable than her own. Mwellrets were swarming over the sides of Black Moclips to haul the sleeping Rovers belowdecks. She watched them without interest. The magic of her wishsong had overcome the Rovers before they knew what was happening. Not expecting it or able to fight it and without the Druid to ward them, they had been powerless. Her spy had provided her with a link to the Jerle Shannara from the beginning, and it was easy enough to get close once she was through the Squirm. Using the wishsong to put the unsuspecting crew to sleep was child’s play. Transforming her magic to sound like the wind, soft and lulling and irresistible, was all it took.
Even getting past the ice pillars was not much of a challenge, although it required a little inventiveness. Choosing to avoid that approach completely, she used her magic to harness one of the Shrikes that nested on the outer cliffs, mounted it, and had it fly them over the top. Even with the heavy fog, she was able to guide Black Moclips without too much risk. The Shrike was a native and knew its way in and out of the mountains well. The winds were tricky, but not so much so that the airship couldn’t manage them. She had no idea how Walker had managed to navigate the pillars, believing his own magic, while powerful in some ways, not sufficiently adaptable for this. Her spy hadn’t been able to communicate that information. Not that it mattered. Both of them had made it through. They were still on course for their confrontation.
Except that now, for the first time, she had the upper hand. He was ashore and marooned there, even if he didn’t realize it yet. Without the use of an airship, he was helpless to escape her. Sooner or later, she would track him down, either on foot or from the air. The only question that remained to be answered was whether she would get to him before the thing that waited in the ruins did.
Even in this, she had an advantage the Druid did not. She knew what the thing was. Or more to the point, what it wasn’t. She had gone inside Kael Elessedil’s ruined mind to discover why he had been lost for thirty years. By doing so, she had seen through his eyes what it was that had captured him. She had witnessed the tearing out of his tongue and the gouging out of his eyes. She had witnessed the uses to which he had been put. Walker knew none of this. If he wasn’t careful, he might come to the same end. That would achieve her goal of destroying him, but cheat her of the personal satisfaction she would derive by seeing him die at her hands.
Yes, Walker would have to be very careful. The thing that had lured them here was patient and its reach was long. It was dangerous in ways she had not encountered before. So she would have to be careful, too. But she was always careful, always on guard against the unexpected. She had trained herself to be so.
Cree Bega sidled up to her. “The little peopless are all ssafely locked away,” he hissed.
“Leave five of your rets to make sure they stay that way,” she ordered. “Commander Kett will assign two of his crew to watch over the ship. The rest of us will take the Black Moclips after those already ashore.”
I’m coming for you, Druid, she thought triumphantly. Can you feel me getting close?
She climbed down from the pilot box, wrapped in grim fury and fierce determination, and walked back through the mist and gloom.
When the attack came, Walker was a little more than halfway between the others of the company and the obelisk, deep inside the maze of half walls and partitions. He heard a sharp click, like a lock opening or a trigger released, and he threw himself down just as a slender thread of brilliant red fire lanced overhead. Without even thinking, he turned the Druid fire on its source and fused the tiny aperture through which the thread had appeared.
Instantly, a dozen more threads crisscrossed the area in which he lay, some of them burning paths across the metal carpet, seeking him out. He rolled quickly into the shelter of a wall and burned shut one opening after another, snuffing out the threads, exploding aper
tures and entire sections of wall, filling the hazy air with smoke and the acrid stench of scorched metal.
Then he was on his feet and moving swiftly toward the obelisk, sensing that whatever controlled the fire could be found there. His robes hindered his progress, prevented him from running, and kept him to a quick shuffle. Ribbons of fire. He repeated the words as he angled his way through the maze, ducking behind walls and through openings as the slender threads sought him out, Ryer Ord Star’s vision come to life.
He had gotten maybe twenty yards deeper into the maze when the walls began to move. Without warning, they started to raise and lower, a shifting mass of metal that cut off some approaches and opened others, whole sections materializing out of the smooth, polished floor while others disappeared. It was so disorienting and unexpected that he slowed momentarily, and the ribbons of fire began to close on him once more, new ones stabbing out from sections of wall closer to where he hesitated, old ones shifting to target him. In desperation, he threw a wide band of his own fire back at them, knocking some askew, destroying others. He heard shouts behind him, rising from behind a screen of smoke and mist, from out of a well of emptiness and darkness.
“Don’t come in here!” he shouted in warning, hearing the echoes cried of his voice come back at him.
Fire lances burned in faint glimmerings through the haze, penetrating the darkness with killing quickness. Screams rose, and he felt his heart sink at the realization that at least some of those he led had not heard him. He started back for them, but the walls shifted anew, the fire threads barred his path, and he was forced to back away.
Get to the obelisk! he screamed at himself in the silence of his mind.
Heat radiated through his body as he turned and hurried ahead once more, sweat mingling with beads of mist on his taut face. Something moved to one side, and he caught the sound of skittering, of metal scraping metal. Fire exploded next to him, barely missing his head, and he ducked and moved faster, twisting and turning through the shifting walls, the changing maze, losing track of everything but the need to reach the obelisk. He felt a stickiness on his hand, and glanced down to find his fingers red with his blood. A fire lance had opened a gash in his arm just above his wrist.