When her horse stumbled and went down, she rolled free, rose, went back to him, got him to his feet again, unstrapped his saddle and bridle, and set him free. She began walking, limping because her injuries were still painful and inhibiting, angry and tired and determined not to be taken again. She walked without looking back for a long time, until the night had settled in completely, and the whole of the plains were bathed in white light. The plains were silent and empty, and she knew her pursuers were not close enough yet to worry about or she would have heard them, and so she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and simply going on.
When she finally did look back, no one was there.
She stared in disbelief. There wasn’t one rider, not a single horse, no one afoot, nothing. She took a deep breath to calm herself and looked again—not just east, but all about this time, thinking in sudden fear that she had been flanked. But there was no one out there. She was alone.
She smiled in bewilderment.
And then she saw the dark shadow high overhead winging its way toward her, slow and lazy and as inevitable as winter cold. Her heart lurched in dismay as she watched it take shape. Not for a second did she think it was one of the Wing Riders come in search of her. Not for an instant did she mistake it for a friend. It was Gloon she was seeing. She knew him instantly. She recognized the blocky muscled body, the jut of the war shrike’s fierce crested head, the sharp hook of the broad wings. She swallowed against her fear. No wonder the Seekers had fallen back. There was no need to hurry with Gloon to hunt her down.
Tib Arne would be riding him, of course. In her mind she saw the boy’s chameleon face, first friend, then foe; human, then Shadowen. She could hear his grating laughter, feel the heat of his breath on her face as he struck her, taste the blood in her mouth from the blows …
She looked about for a place to hide and quickly discarded the idea. She was already seen, and wherever she hid she would be found. She could either run or fight—and she was tired of running.
She reached down into her tunic and took out the Elfstones. She balanced them in her hand, as if the weight of their magic could be determined and so the outcome of her battle decided early. She glanced west to the horizon, but there was nothing to see, the forests still lost below the horizon. No one would be searching for her anyway—not this far out and not at night. She gritted her teeth, thinking of Garth again, wondering what he would do. She watched Gloon wing his way closer, taking his time, riding the wind currents smoothly, easily, confident in his power and skill, in what he could do. The war shrike would try to take her on his first pass, she thought—quick and decisive, before she could bring the magic of the Elfstones to bear. And it would not be easy using the Elfstones against a moving target.
She edged across the plains to put a small rise at her back. Better than nothing, she told herself, keeping her eyes on Gloon. She thought of what the war shrike had done to Grayl. She felt small and cold and vulnerable, alone in the vastness of the grasslands, nothing for as far as she could see, no one to help her. No Morgan Leah this time. No reprieve from an unexpected source. She would fight on her own, and how well she fought—and how lucky she was—would determine whether she lived or died.
Her hand tightened on the Elfstones. Come see me, Gloon. Come see what I have for you. The war shrike soared and dipped, sweeping out and back again, rising and falling in careless disregard, a dark motion against the sky’s blue velvet. Wren waited impatiently. Come on! Come on!
Then abruptly Gloon dropped like a stone and was gone.
Wren jerked forward, startled. The night spread away before her, vast and dark and empty. What had happened? She felt sweat run down her back. Where had the shrike gone? Not into the earth, it wouldn’t have driven itself into the earth, that didn’t make any sense …
And then she realized what was happening. Gloon was attacking. He had dropped level with the ground so that his shadow could no longer be seen, and he was coming at her. How fast? How soon? She panicked, staggering backward in fear. She couldn’t see him! She tried to pick out the shrike against the dark horizon, but could see nothing. She tried to hear him, but there was only silence.
Where is it? Where …?
Instinct alone saved her. She threw herself aside on impulse and felt the massive weight of the shrike rip past her, talons tearing at the air inches away. She struck and rolled wildly, tasting dust and blood in her mouth, feeling the pain of her injured body rush through her anew.
She came back to her feet instantly, whirled in the direction she thought the shrike had gone, summoned the magic of the Elfstones, and sent it careening out into the night in a fan of blue fire. But the fire blazed into the void and struck nothing. Wren dropped into a crouch, desperately scanning the moonlit blackness. It would be coming back—but she couldn’t see it! She had lost it! Below the horizon it was invisible. Despair raced through her. Which way was it coming? Which way?
She struck out blindly, right and then left, and threw herself down, rolling, coming up and striking out again. She heard the magic collide with something. There was a shriek, followed by Gloon’s heavy passage as the shrike winged off to her left, hissing like steam. She peered after the sound, wiping at the dust in her eyes. Nothing.
She got up and ran. Forcing down all thoughts of pain, she sprinted across the empty grasslands to a wash that lay some hundred feet away. She reached it and dove into it on a dead run. There was the now-familiar rush of wind and the passing of something dark overhead. Gloon had just missed her again. She flattened herself in the wash and peered skyward. The moon was there, and the stars, and nothing else. Shades! She came to her knees. The wash offered her some protection, but not nearly enough. And the night was no friend, for the war shrike’s eyesight was ten times better than her own. It could see her clearly in the wash, and she could see nothing of it.
She rose and sent the Elven magic stabbing out, hoping to get lucky. The fire raced away, working across the flats, and she felt the power rush through her. She howled in exhilaration, unable to help herself, saw the war shrike coming just an instant before it reached her, swung the magic about furiously—too late—and threw herself down once more. But her quickness saved her, the blue fire of the Elfstones forcing the shrike to change direction at the last minute, causing it to miss her once again.
She saw Tib Arne this time, just a glimpse as he streaked past, blond hair flying. She heard his cry of rage and frustration, and she shrieked out after him, furious, taunting.
The skies went still, the land silent. She huddled in the wash, shaking and sweating, the Elfstones clenched in her hand. She was going to lose this fight if she didn’t do something to change the odds. Sooner or later, Gloon was going to get through.
Then she heard a new cry, this one far off to the west, a wild shriek that pierced the suffocating silence. She turned toward it, recognizing it yet unable to place it. A bird, a Roc. It came again, quick and challenging.
Spirit! It was Spirit!
She watched his dark shadow race out of the night, coming down from high up, as swift as thought. Spirit, she thought—and that meant Tiger Ty! Hope surged through her. She started to rise, to cry out in response, then flattened herself again quickly. Gloon was still out there, looking for an opportunity to finish her off. Her eyes swept the darkness, searching in vain. Where was the shrike?
Then Gloon rose out of the dark to meet this new challenger, thick black body gathering speed. Wren scrambled to her feet, shouting in warning. Spirit came on, then at the last possible moment veered aside so that the war shrike swept past harmlessly and wheeled about to give chase. The giant birds circled each other cautiously, feinting and dodging, working for an advantage. Wren gritted her teeth, earthbound and helpless. Gloon was bigger than Spirit and trained to kill. Gloon was a Shadowen, and had the magic to sustain him. Spirit was brave and quick, but what chance did he stand?
There was a flurry of movement as the birds came at each other, locked moment
arily in a shriek of rage, and then broke apart again. Once more they began to circle, each trying to get above the other. Wren came out of the wash and back onto the flat of the plain. She moved after them as they edged away, following because she did not want to lose contact, still determined to help. She could not leave this battle to Tiger Ty and the Roc. This was not their fight. It was hers.
Again the birds dove at each other and locked, talons and beaks tearing and ripping. Black shadows against the moonlit sky, they twisted and turned, their wings flailing madly as they spiraled down. Wren raced after them, Elfstones in hand. Just let me get close enough! was all she could think.
At what seemed the last possible second the birds broke apart, staggering rather than flying away from each other, feathers and gristle and blood falling away from their tattered bodies. Wren gritted her teeth in rage. Gloon shook himself and rose, flattening out in a long slow spiral. Spirit arced upward and fell back, wobbly and unsure. He tried to right himself, shuddered once, dropped earthward, and vanished. Wren gasped in dismay—then caught her breath in wonder as Spirit suddenly reappeared, steady once more, miraculously recovered. A feint! Directly under Gloon now, he rose from the ground like a missile, hurtling through the night to slam into the war shrike. It sounded like rocks crunching, a sharp grating. Both birds cried out and then broke apart, talons raking the air.
Then one of the riders fell, dislodged by the impact. Arms and legs flailing the air, shrieking in horror, he plummeted earthward. He fell like a stone, unable to help himself, and struck with an audible thud. Overhead, the struggle continued, the Roc and war shrike battling on across the skies as if the loss of a rider made no difference. Wren could not tell who had fallen. She ran across the flats, her heart pumping wildly, her throat closing in fear. She ran for a long time without seeing anything. Then all at once there was a crumpled heap in front of her, a bloodied, ragged form trying to rise off the ground, somehow still alive.
She slowed her rush, and a shattered, broken visage turned toward her. She shuddered as the eyes met her own. It was Tib Arne. He tried to speak, a thick gurgle that would not let the words form, and she could hear his hatred of her in the sound. He was a boy still beneath the leaking wounds, but it was the Shadowen that broke free finally, rising like black smoke to come at her. She brought up the Elfstones instantly, and the blue fire tore through the dark thing and consumed it.
When she looked again, Tib Arne’s blue eyes were staring up at her sightlessly.
She heard a shriek from overhead then, either war shrike or Roc, and looked up just in time to see Gloon descending with Spirit in pursuit. The shrike had abandoned his sky battle and was coming for her. She crouched beneath its shadow, no place to hide now, the wash too far away to reach. She brought up the Elfstones, but her movements were leaden, and she knew she didn’t have enough time to save herself.
And then Spirit gave a final surge and caught Gloon from behind, hammering into the war shrike, knocking it off balance and away. Gloon whipped about, tearing at the Roc, and in that instant Wren unleashed the magic of the Elfstones a final time. It caught Gloon full on, enfolded the shrike, and began to burn it apart, eating at it even as it tried to escape. Gloon shrieked in rage, twisted wildly, and tried to fly. But the Elven magic had set the bird afire, and the flames were everywhere. It rolled and straightened, wings beating. Wren struck it again, the blue fire turning white hot. Down went the war shrike, flames trailing from its body. It struck the earth, shuddered, and went still.
In seconds, the fire had turned it to ash.
In the hush that followed, Spirit made a silent descent to the grasslands. Tiger Ty climbed down and came over to Wren, walking in that shuffling, bowlegged gait, leathery face streaked with sweat. She reached out her hands to clasp his.
“Are you all right, girl?” he asked quietly, and she could see the deep concern in his sharp eyes.
She smiled. “Thanks to you. That’s twice in one day I’ve been saved by friends I’d thought I’d lost.” And she told him of Morgan Leah and the Shadowen at Southwatch.
“I found the free-born in the Dragon’s Teeth yesterday morning.” The gnarled hands would not release her, holding on as if afraid she might fade away. “Their leader told me he didn’t send the boy, that he’d sent someone else. I knew what had happened. I left them to follow when they could and came back for you. Too late, I thought. You were already missing. We searched for you all day. Found Rift and Grayl, but there was no sign of you. I knew the boy had taken you. But I knew as well that if there was a way, you’d escape. I took Spirit out alone after the others gave it up for the night and kept looking.” He gave her a hard look. “Good thing I did.”
“Good thing,” she agreed.
“Confound it, what did I tell you about going up with anybody but me?”
She leaned close, and for a moment the emotions were so strong she couldn’t speak. “Don’t make me say it,” she whispered.
Perhaps he saw the pain in her eyes. Perhaps he heard it in her voice. He held her gaze a moment longer, then released her hands and stepped back. “Just so you don’t ever do it again. I’ve got a lot of time and effort invested in you.” He cleared his throat. “Let me see to Spirit, make sure there’s no real damage.”
He spent a few minutes checking the big Roc, hands moving carefully over the dark feathered body. Spirit watched him with a fierce eye. When the Wing Rider spoke to him, the Roc dipped his beak, spread his great wings, and shook himself.
Satisfied, Tiger Ty beckoned her over. He gave the bird a proud glare. “He would have won, you know,” he said gruffly.
Wren didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she smiled. “I thought he did.”
Tiger Ty helped her aboard and strapped her in. He stroked Spirit appreciatively, nodded to himself, and joined her. Wren glanced out across the night-frozen landscape, empty and still save where Gloon’s remains smoldered and steamed. She felt light-headed and worn, but she felt alive, too. The effects of the Elven magic lingered, racing through her like sparks of fire.
She had survived again, she thought, and wondered how long she could keep doing it.
“They’re not going to win,” she said suddenly. “I won’t let them.”
He did not ask her what she meant. He did not speak at all. He just looked at her and nodded once. Then he whistled Spirit into the air, and the great bird rose and flew swiftly away into the dark.
XXIX
Morgan Leah watched Wren disappear into night’s retreating darkness, his disappointment at not finding Par tempered by the satisfaction he felt in knowing that his efforts hadn’t been wasted. Imagine—finding Wren, of all people! It made him think that the world was a smaller place than it seemed, and that because it was, perhaps the children of Shannara and their allies had a chance against the Shadowen after all.
He turned back east then, looking off to the brightening skyline, to the silver-gray light spilling down through the treetops and mountain slopes in slowly widening pools. Daybreak was upon him. The cover of night that had protected him was already gone, and he was at risk beyond what he had planned.
He glanced briefly at the shell of the toppled wagon and the black tangle of the fallen Shadowen and could not help thinking, I did it. I stood up against them all.
But where was he to go now? The Shadowen at Southwatch would be coming. They would have no trouble finding his tracks, and they would hunt him down and repay him for what he had done. He took a deep breath and looked about some more, as if in looking he might find the escape he needed. He could not go back to the bluff; that would be the first place they would look. They would find his trail and retrace his steps, hoping he was stupid enough to return to wherever he had been hiding.
He smiled faintly. He wasn’t that stupid, of course, but it wasn’t a bad idea to make them think he was.
He recrossed the narrows to where he had first come in and retraced his steps back through the trees and hills, not bothering to hide his
tracks but messing them up as best he could to disguise how many of him there were, then turned and came back again, more cautious now because the Shadowen might have arrived in his absence. They had not, however; the narrows and the flats beyond remained empty save for the dead. He moved back up the trail that had brought the wagon in, using the ruts to hide his bootprints, following the wheel marks for several miles through the hills before turning abruptly north into high grass where he edged carefully away into the rocks of a ridgeline. If he was lucky, they would not find where he had broken off and would be forced to scour the countryside blindly. That might give him the extra time he needed to get to where he had decided to go.
Of course, none of this meant anything if the Shadowen could track by smell. If they could hunt like animals, then he was in trouble whatever he did short of rolling in mud and applying stinkweed, and he was not prepared for that. What could these quasi-Elves do? He wished he knew more about them, wished he had taken time to ask Wren, but there was no help for it now. He would have to take his chances. He breathed in the morning air and thought how lucky he was to have the Sword of Leah’s magic to protect him, then realized that he had been given an answer to his question of whether the power would save or consume him. Of course, it didn’t mean that he was safe with it, that he could relax in its use, that he could even be assured things would turn out the same way next time. It only meant he had survived for now, but it was becoming increasingly clear that survival on any terms was the most he could hope for—that any of them could hope for—in their battle against the Shadowen.
One day it will be different, he told himself—but wondered if it was so.
The country before him tightened into a mass of hills, ridges, scrub-choked hollows, and dense forests backed up against the Runne. He was moving over rock, taking his time, working at stepping lightly where scuffed stones and bent twigs might give him away. He had reasoned it through like this. South lay the bluff where he had kept watch, and the Shadowen, if hunting him, would start there. West was the direction in which Wren had ridden, and they would surely hunt him there as well. North lay the cities of Callahorn—Tyrsis, Kern, and Varfleet—and that would be the next logical choice. The last place they would look was east in the country surrounding Southwatch, their fortress citadel, because it would not seem likely to them that someone who had just destroyed one of their patrols to rescue the Queen of the Elves would head for the very same place the patrol had been going.