The Voyage of the Jerle Shannara Trilogy

  She nodded. “What about the others? What about Ard Patrinell?”

  The Elven Hunter shook his head. “Couldn’t tell. Too much smoke and confusion. Everyone disappeared after the fighting started.” He nodded at Quentin. “The Highlander saved us. If we hadn’t had him and that sword, we would have been finished.”

  Tamis gave Quentin an ironic look. “It must run in the family. Look, you’re going in the wrong direction. You’re going inland instead of back toward the bay.”

  “We’ve just been running,” Quentin admitted. He blinked at the Tracker in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘It must run in the family’? What are you saying?”

  “That young Bek saved us, as well. If it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have gotten clear. He smashed those creepers as if they were made of paper. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Quentin stared at her. “Bek? Bek did that?”

  She studied him carefully. “Didn’t he tell you? Or did he just discover it for himself, I wonder? He didn’t seem all that sure about what he was doing, I’ll grant you. But to have that kind of power and not know anything about it … Well, maybe so. Anyway, this is what happened.”

  She related the details of their escape, of how they had fled back through the ruins, the three Elven Hunters, Ryer Ord Star, and Bek, until the creepers had hemmed them in. The other two Elves had died quickly, but she and the seer were saved when Bek used his voice to call up magic.

  “It was eerie,” she admitted. Her eyes held Quentin’s. “He was singing, a strange sound, but it tore the creepers apart, like a wind or a weapon cutting through them. One minute they were there, killing us, and the next they were scrap.” She nodded solemnly. “Bek saved us. And you don’t know a thing about what I’m saying, do you?”

  Quentin was thinking, Bek has magic? How could that be? He shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  He found himself wondering suddenly about Bek’s background. Bek was the child of a cousin, but which cousin? Or was he related at all? Coran Leah had always been closemouthed about Bek’s background, but that was the way he was with private information, and Quentin had never pressed the subject. But if Bek really did have the use of magic …

  But Bek?

  All of a sudden Quentin realized why Walker had wanted Bek to come along. It wasn’t because he was Quentin’s cousin. It was because he possessed magic as powerful as the Sword of Leah. Bek was every bit as necessary to the expedition as he was. Maybe more so. He never questioned for a moment that Walker would know about it. What he questioned instead was how much the Druid knew that he was still keeping to himself.

  “We have to get going,” Tamis advised, drawing him away from his thoughts. “I don’t like leaving Bek and the seer alone. Even with his magic to protect him, he’s still not experienced enough to know what to look out for.”

  They started back through the ruins, Tamis leading the way. When queried by Panax about what sort of trouble she had encountered on the way, she said that she suspected there were creepers hiding all through the ruins, but they showed themselves only in response to certain things. Maybe it was a signal of some sort. Maybe it was only when intruders entered restricted areas. Maybe someone or something was guiding them. But she hadn’t seen a single one on her way back.

  The Dwarf grunted and said there wasn’t much more damage they could do anyway. Walker was missing and the expedition was in shambles. It was a miracle any of them were still alive.

  But Quentin didn’t hear any of it. He was still thinking about Bek. His cousin was suddenly an enigma, an entirely different person than he had seemed. Quentin had no reason not to believe what Tamis was telling him. But what did it mean? If Bek had the use of magic, particularly magic that was as much a part of him as his voice, where had it come from? It must be in his bloodline and therefore a part of his heritage. So who was his real family? Not some distant Leah cousins, he knew that much. There weren’t any Leahs who’d had the use of that sort of magic, not ever. No, Bek was the child of someone else. But someone the Druid knew. Someone his father knew, as well, because otherwise Bek wouldn’t have been brought to Coran as a baby.

  Someone …

  Suddenly he found himself remembering all those stories Bek was so fond of telling—about the Druids and the history of the Races. The Leahs were a part of that history, but there was another family that had been part of it, as well. Their name was Ohmsford. They had been close to the Leahs once, not so long ago. Even the great Elven Queen, Wren Elessedil, was rumored to be related to that family. There hadn’t been an Ohmsford in Leah or Shady Vale or anywhere in that part of the world in fifty years. There hadn’t even been a mention of them.

  But the Ohmsfords had magic in their blood. It had surfaced in a pair of brothers who had joined with Walker to battle the Shadowen over a century ago. He remembered the story now, bits and pieces of it. The brothers were supposed to have had magic in their voices, just like Bek. What if the family hadn’t died out after all? What if Bek was one of them? If there were Ohmsfords alive anywhere in the world, certainly Walker would know. He would have made it a point to know. That would explain how he had managed to track down Bek. It would explain why he had been so determined to bring Bek along.

  Quentin felt an odd suspicion creep through him. Perhaps it was Bek that Walker was after all along, and he had used Quentin as a lever to persuade the boy to come.

  Was his cousin Bek Ohmsford? Was that who he really was?

  The Highlander blinked away his weariness and confusion. He couldn’t trust his thinking just now. He might be completely off track on this. He was just guessing. He was just trying to make the pieces fit when he didn’t even have a clear picture to work from. Could anything he imagined be trusted?

  Truls Rohk had warned them on their first encounter that they couldn’t trust a Druid. Games-playing, he’d called it. It was almost the first word out of his mouth, a clear indication of the usage to which he felt the Druid might be putting them. Games-playing. They might be pieces being moved about a board. It was possible, he was forced to admit.

  They made their way back through the city as the sun rose in a cloudless sky and the last of the night faded. The air was heavy and still within the ruined buildings, and the heat rose off the stone and metal in waves. Nothing moved in the silence. The creepers had gone to ground once more, almost as if they had never been there. Tamis gave a wide berth to the square where they had encountered the monsters earlier, and it was not much past midmorning when they reached the edge of the woods bordering the city.

  She paused there, listening.

  “I thought I heard something,” she said after a moment, her gray eyes sharp and searching. Her slender hand made a circular motion. “I can’t tell where it came from, though. It sounded like a voice.”

  They entered the woods and began to thread their way through the trees. Birds flitted past them, small bits of sound and movement in bright swatches of sunlight, no longer in hiding. The haze that had cloaked the ruins earlier had cleared, and the edges of the buildings glinted sharply as they disappeared from view. Within the forest there were only the trees and brush, a thick concealment rising all about, green and soft in a mix of shadows and light. The familiar, welcome smells revived Quentin’s spirits and helped push back his fatigue. At least Bek was all right. Whatever the story behind his magic and his family, they would work it all out once they were together again.

  They had gone a fair distance from the ruins when Tamis turned to them. “The clearing is just ahead. Stay quiet.”

  They approached it cautiously and were all the way to its edge when the Tracker abruptly picked up the pace, burst into the open space almost at a run, and drew up short.

  The clearing was empty. “They’re gone,” she whispered in disbelief.

  Ordering the others to stay where they were, she crept slowly about the clearing’s perimeter, sometimes dropping to her hands and knees to read the signs. Quentin stood frozen in place, frus
trated and angry. Where was Bek? This was the Tracker’s fault. She shouldn’t have left Bek alone, no matter the reason or what she thought Bek could do with his magic or anything else. But he forced his anger down, quick to realize that it was misplaced. Tamis had done what was best, and there was no point in second-guessing her.

  She came back to them finally, her face grim, but her gray eyes calm. “I can’t tell what’s happened for sure,” she announced. “There are tracks all over the place, and the last set has obscured the others. Those belong to Mwellrets. There was some sort of struggle, but it doesn’t look like anyone was injured, because there are no traces of blood.”

  Quentin exhaled sharply. “So where are Bek and Ryer Ord Star? What’s happened to them?”

  Tamis shook her head. “I told Bek that if anyone came, they were to hide. I left it to him to make the decision, but he knew to keep watch. I think he probably did as I instructed, and when he saw the Mwellrets, he got out of here. You know him better than I do. Does that sound like what he would do?”

  The Highlander nodded. “He’s hunted the Highlands for years. He knows how to hide when it’s needed. I don’t think he would have been caught off guard.”

  “All right,” she said. “Here’s the rest of it then. The Mwellrets spent some time here doing something, then continued on toward the city, not back the way they had come. If they’d taken Bek and the seer prisoner, they likely would have sent them to the airship under guard. No tracks lead back that way. Someone may have gone off in the direction from which we came, inland, but I can’t be sure. The signs are very faint and difficult to read. Anyway, the Mwellret signs are very clear. They don’t continue on in the same way; there is a change of direction. From the way several sets of prints start out and come back again, then all move off together in a pack, I’d say they were tracking someone.”

  “Bek,” Quentin said at once.

  “Or the girl,” Panax offered quietly.

  “He wouldn’t leave her,” Quentin said. “Not Bek. He’d take her with him. Which might explain why the Mwellrets could track him. Without her, I’m not sure they could. Bek is good at concealing his trail.”

  Tamis nodded, her gaze steady and considering. “I say we go after them. What do you say, Highlander?”

  “We go after them,” he said at once.

  She looked at Panax. The Dwarf shrugged. “Doesn’t make any sense to go the other way. The Jerle Shannara’s gone off to the coast. Whoever’s left that matters is back in those ruins. I don’t want to leave them to the rets and the witch.”

  Quentin had forgotten about the Ilse Witch. If there were Mwellrets ashore, Black Moclips had found its way through the pillars of ice and into the bay. That meant the Ilse Witch was somewhere close at hand. He realized all at once how dangerous going back toward the ruins would be. They were tired and worn, and they had been fighting and running for hours. It wouldn’t take much for them to make a mistake, and it wouldn’t take much of a mistake to finish them.

  But he was not going to leave Bek. He had already made up his mind about that.

  Kian and Wye were speaking with Tamis. They wanted to go back into the ruins. They wanted a chance to find Ard Patrinell and the others. They knew that would be dangerous, but they agreed with her. If anyone was still alive back there, they wanted to lend what help they could.

  While the Elves conferred, Panax moved over to stand next to Quentin. “I hope you’re up to saving all of us again,” he said. “Because you might have to.”

  He smiled tightly as he said it, but there was no humor in his voice.

  Ahren Elessedil crouched in the darkest corner of an abandoned warehouse well beyond the perimeter of the deadly trap from which he had escaped, and tried to think what he should do. The warehouse was a cavernous shelter with holes in three of its four walls. It had a roof that was mostly intact, ceiling-high doors on two sides that had slid back on rollers and rusted in place, and barely more space than debris. He had been there for a very long time, pressed so tightly against the walls that he’d begun to feel as if he were a part of them. He had been there long enough to memorize every feature, to plan for every contingency, and to rethink every painful detail of what had brought him to that spot. Outside, the sun had risen to cast its light across the ravaged city in a broad sweep that chased the night’s shadows back into the surrounding woods. The sounds of death and dying had long since vanished, the battle cries, the clash of weapons against armor, and the desperate gasps and moans of human life leaking away. He watched and listened for the faintest hint of any of them, but there was only silence.

  It was time for him to get out of there, to stand up and walk away—or run if he must—while the chance was there. He had to do something besides cower in his corner and relive in his mind the horrific memories of what he had been through.

  But he could not make himself move. He could not make himself do anything but try to disappear into the metal and stone.

  To say that he was frightened would be a gross understatement. He was frightened in a way he had never thought possible. He was frightened into near catatonia. He was so frightened that he had shamed himself beyond recognition of whom and what he had always believed himself to be, and probably beyond all redemption.

  He closed his eyes against what he was feeling and thought back once more to what had happened, searching for a clue that would help him to better understand. He saw his friends and companions spread out across the maze of walls and partitions of that seemingly empty square—his group on the right, Quentin Leah’s on the left, and Bek’s in the center. Elven Hunters warded them all, and there seemed no reason to think they could not manage against whatever might confront them. Ahead, Walker crept deeper into the maze. The lowering sun cast shadows everywhere, but there was no movement and no sound to suggest danger. There was no hint of what was about to happen.

  Then the fire threads appeared, razoring after the Druid first, then after those who tried to reach him, then even after those who had remained where they were. With Ard Patrinell, Joad Rish, and the three Elven Hunters who accompanied them, Ahren ducked behind a wall to escape being burned. Smoke filled the square and mingled with the haze to obscure everything in moments. He heard the shouts from Quentin’s group, the unexpected clank and scrape of metal parts, and the screams from across the way. Huddled behind his wall, filled with dread and panic, he realized quickly how bad things had become.

  When the creepers had appeared behind him, he was already on the verge of bolting. He could not explain what had happened, only that the courage and determination that had infused and sustained him earlier had drained away in an instant’s time. The creepers seemed to materialize out of nowhere, metal beasts lumbering from the haze. Razor-sharp pincers protruded from their metal bodies, giving him a clear indication of the fate that awaited him. He stood his ground anyway, perhaps as much from an inability to move as anything, his sword lifted defensively, if futilely. The creepers attacked in a staggered rush, and he pressed himself away from them, back behind a wall, into a corner. To his amazement, they passed him by, choosing other adversaries, descending on his companions. One Elven Hunter—he couldn’t tell which one—went down almost at once, limp and bloodied. Ard Patrinell surged to the forefront of the defenders, throwing back the creepers single-handedly, a warrior responding to a need, a small wall against an attacking wave. For a moment he withstood the charge, but then the creepers closed over him and he disappeared.

  Ahren left his hiding place then, desperate to help his friend and mentor, forgetting for an instant his fear, pushing back his panic. But then one of the fire threads found Joad Rish kneeling by the first Elf who had fallen, trying to drag him to safety. Joad was looking up when it happened, staring right at Ahren, as if beseeching his help. The fire thread caught him in the face, and his head exploded in a shower of red. For an instant he remained where he was, kneeling by the fallen Elven Hunter, hands still grasping the other’s arms, headless body turned towar
d Ahren. Then slowly, almost languidly, he collapsed to the metal floor.

  That was all it took. Ahren lost all control over himself. He screamed, backed away, threw down his sword, and ran. He never paused to think about what he was doing or even where he was going. He only knew he had to get away as fast and as far as he could manage. The headless image of Joad Rish hung right in front of him, burned into the smoky air, into his eyes and mind. He could not make it go away, could not avoid its presence, could do nothing but flee from it even when fleeing did no good. He forgot the others of the company, all of them. He forgot what had brought him to that charnel house. He forgot his training and his promises to himself to stand with the others. He forgot everything that had ever meant anything to him.

  He had no idea how long he ran or how he found his way to the empty warehouse. He could hear the screams of the others for a long time afterwards, even there. He could hear the sounds of battle, and then the faint scrape of metal legs as the creepers moved away. He could smell the smoke of burning metal and the stench of seared flesh. Curled in a tight ball with his face buried in his chest and knees, he cried.

  After a time, he regained sufficient presence of mind to wonder if any of the creepers had followed him. He forced himself to lift his head, to wipe away his tears, and to look around. He was alone. He kept careful watch after that, still huddled in that same corner, still wrapped in a ball of arms and legs, still haunted by the image of Joad Rish in his final moments.

  Don’t let that happen to me, he kept repeating in his mind, as if by thinking it he could somehow save himself.

  But now he knew he had to do more than huddle in his corner and hope he would never be found. He had to try to get out of there. It had been long enough that he thought he might have a chance. The attack had ended long ago. There had been no sound or movement anywhere in all that time. The smoke had faded, and the sun had risen. It was bright and clear outside, and he should be able to see anything that threatened. It would take him several hours to work his way back through the city and longer still to retrace his steps to the bay where he could wait for the return of the Jerle Shannara. He thought he could make it.