“Keep us flying, Rue!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“What are they doing?” Trefen Morys asked him.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Keep your eyes open.”
He went back to the pilot box and climbed up beside Rue and Bellizen, telling them what he had seen. “They’ve ringed the ruins. I think they’re looking for something. Maybe the same thing we’re looking for.”
He decided to use the wishsong again, to seek anew the traces of Pen’s passing he had sensed that morning. He found them immediately, strong and clear and just ahead in the ruins. The magic was diffuse and fading, days old and no longer clearly defined. But its use had been powerful and reflected both determination and clear intent. Pen had experienced an epiphany or confrontation of major proportions. If he had survived that, Bek thought, then there was some reason to believe he could survive the Forbidding.
“Ahead, five degrees east southeast,” he told Rue, pointing for emphasis.
Swift Sure altered course slightly and flew on, Rue holding the airship’s speed down so that they could scan the ruins below for other signs of life. They were flying along the southern perimeter, and there were Urdas scattered all along it. They seemed reluctant to go farther in. Bek remembered that the Urdas were superstitious about places they considered sacred; the ruins might well be one such place. But the Urdas were clearly there for a reason. If they could not enter, then they were waiting for something that had.
“Smoke,” Rue said suddenly, pointing off to the right.
From just beyond the main body of the ruins, separated by a series of deep, wooded, rifts, a column of black smoke rose from a crumbling blockhouse and tower. The Urdas were all about it, three and four deep within the cover of trees and rocks, showering the fortifications with darts and arrows and spears.
“I’d say we’ve found something,” Rue offered, giving Bek a quick glance.
But it was not something that tracked to the traces of Pen’s passing that Bek had detected. It was something entirely apart. He hesitated, wondering how advisable it was to become distracted by something that might have nothing at all to do with what they were looking for.
“All right,” he said finally, “let’s have a look.”
FOURTEEN
It was like flying into a hornet’s nest.
Swift Sure descended in a long, slow spiral, drawing the attention of the band of Urdas below. Bek had hoped that their appearance alone would prove startling enough to these superstitious people to make them withdraw. But instead of bolting back into the trees and seeking cover, the Urdas immediately turned their weapons on the airship. Trefen Morys barely had time to shout a warning from the bow when a hail of spears and darts struck the underside of the vessel and a wash of arrows arced over the railing in a deadly sweep.
Everyone ducked behind the protective railings as Bek took Swift Sure back up again, out of reach of the attack. As he did so, Trefen Morys came running back.
“There are Rock Trolls down there in that tower!” he shouted up to Pen. “They were waving to us for help!”
Bek turned to Rue. “Load both the port and starboard rail slings. Maybe we can drive the Urdas far enough back into the trees to gain space to get a ladder down.”
The starboard rail sling was still in place from their flight out of Paranor, and with help from Trefen Morys it took Rue only minutes to set up the port weapon and arm them both. Placing the young Druid on the former and herself on the latter, she sent Bellizen amidships to stand ready to lower the rope ladder, then signaled for Bek to take Swift Sure down again.
It was trickier going in the second time. The Urdas were waiting, neither awed nor frightened of the airship. Even from high up, Bek could tell that they were aggressively hostile. Whatever had incensed them had stirred their anger to such intensity that they were beyond caring what happened to them so long as they stopped any rescue attempt. They were clustered at every quarter of the tower walls, and as soon as Swift Sure came within range, they attacked. Bek kept his hold on the airship steady to give Rue and Trefen Morys a chance to chase them off, but even after both rail slings were emptied twice into the attackers, they held their ground, refusing to fall back. Gnarled, hairy forms swarmed through the wooded ravines, keeping the tower and its occupants besieged.
Bek took the airship out of range once more, trying to think what else they might try.
Rue returned from the railing and climbed into the pilot box. “Our weapons aren’t going to work, Bek. If we want to get those Rock Trolls out of that tower, we have to take a different approach.”
She leaned close so that only he could hear. “Could you use the wishsong to help?”
He stared at her in surprise. She hated his magic, hated the legacy that went with it—so much so that he had barely used it since coming back from Parkasia. The search for their son had marked his first serious attempt in several years. In truth, he wasn’t even sure he knew after so long how to employ it in the way that would be necessary.
“I understand,” she said, reading the look on his face. “But we don’t have any choice.”
She was saying that if they wanted to help Pen, this was what it was going to take. The wind shifted and blew across his face, unexpectedly chill and biting as it came down off the mountains. He held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Take the helm.”
He went down on deck to where the young Druids stood waiting and motioned them over to the rope ladder so that both could help with the rescue effort. Then he moved forward to the bow and looked down.
Urdas swarmed through the trees below, too many to count. Rue was right. Even a dozen rail slings wouldn’t be enough to chase them off. A more effective weapon was needed, and there was nothing more effective than the wishsong when it was used in the right way. Grianne had taught him so years ago when she had tried to kill him. He thought it ironic that he would use that lesson now to try to save her.
“Take us back down!” he shouted to Rue, a sudden gust of wind nearly obscuring his words. It was heavy enough that it shook the airship from bow to stern. “Slowly!”
He glanced north to where huge storm clouds were beginning to build on the horizon, sifting down through the peaks toward the Inkrim. A change in the weather was coming, and it did not favor their efforts. If they failed to get a ladder down soon, given the nature of storms in that region, it might not be possible to try again for days.
He looked down again at the Urdas, trying to think how to force them to move back from the walls of the tower. He could do some things safely with the wishsong, but he did not want to risk trying too much after so many years of no practice. The magic was powerful and at times unpredictable. Using it the wrong way could prove disastrous. If it failed to respond as intended, it might send them all crashing down with the airship.
The wind gusted across his face again, and suddenly he remembered that the Druids favored using the elements as allies in their wielding of magic. Perhaps he could do the same here.
He brought up the wishsong in a soft hum, calling it to life, feeling it come awake and then flood through him with a slow, rising heat. He kept his gaze fixed on the scene below as he began to give the magic a shape and a form, a sense and a purpose. He found the wind currents that preceded the coming storm and stirred in the magic. The currents gained force and consistency, and as they gusted about him they began to take on a new intensity. What had begun as a series of uneven bursts now became a steady blow. Changes of pitch evened and slowly built into a howl that suggested the cresting of a tidal wave.
The Urdas began looking around in confusion and then in fear. A storm of that kind wasn’t something they understood. They were unfamiliar with winds of such magnitude. They crouched lower, and then began to back away from the tower toward the deep woods, their superstitious nature warning them that the elements were spirit-driven.
Bek built on the power of his magic, adding fresh layers, giving the wind an extraordinary sound and fe
el, a roar that began to shake trees and earth alike. He did not look back at Rue, trusting her to continue Swift Sure’s descent, to understand what he was doing and not be frightened by it. He didn’t know what the Druids were thinking, but he couldn’t spare time to worry about them. He had the wind tearing across the landscape by then, scattering the Urdas in all directions, their determination to stand fast shattered.
Then the treetops were right below them, and the outer walls of the tower became visible through the gaps. He risked a quick glance back at Trefen Morys and Bellizen and saw them dropping the rope ladder over the side of the railing, down to the besieged Trolls. Almost immediately bulky forms began to emerge, scrambling from their concealment, some helping others, all of them moving swiftly for the ladder. But then they ducked back again, unable to advance. Bek felt his strength beginning to fail, and forced himself to push harder to keep the wind in place. The Trolls had still not begun to climb the ladder, and the Urdas were beginning to reemerge from the trees. Rue was yelling something at him, but he couldn’t hear what. He intensified the magic once more, feeling his hold on it slipping away.
Then Bellizen was beside him, frantic. “Your magic is too strong, Bek! The force of the wind is keeping the Trolls from climbing the ladder!”
He realized it was true, that his efforts at keeping the Urdas at bay were keeping the Trolls pinned down, as well. Rue must have been trying to tell him as much. He slowed his efforts, letting the wind diminish. Within the ruins of the tower, the Trolls recognized their opportunity and scrambled for the ladder. The Urdas, in response, rushed to stop them.
There was nothing more Bek could do to help. Any further use of the magic to intensify the wind would do as much damage as good. The Trolls would have to make it on their own. He kept the wind in place a few moments longer, tuning its sound to an earsplitting shriek in an effort to frighten the Urdas. But the Inkrim natives were no longer intimidated, having seen what was happening and become newly enraged at the thought of losing the intruders to an airship rescue. They came at the Trolls in waves, weapons loosing, the air filling with missiles. Two of the Trolls were struck, and one fell to his death. The others pressed on, climbing steadily through the hail of fire, helping each other as they did so. One of them, he saw, carried a smaller figure tucked under one arm, a squat blocky form that could only be a Dwarf.
Then the Trolls were over the side of the railing and on board the ship, and Rue was lifting away, taking them quickly out of range of their attackers. Bek broke off his efforts with the wishsong, now thoroughly spent, and hurried over to the newcomers. Seven Trolls and a Dwarf, he saw. The Dwarf wrestled free of the Troll who was carrying him and stood clinging to the rail, breathing hard.
“Tagwen?” Bek asked, coming up to him.
Tagwen looked over, his face ashen and his mouth a tight line. There was blood on his neck and right arm from wounds, and his clothing was torn and soiled.
He blinked rapidly at Bek. “I don’t ever want to come to this place again!” he snapped. “Not ever!”
Then he fainted.
There was no time for an exchange of information or for anything but making a quick escape from the fast-approaching storm. If it caught up with them over the Inkrim, their efforts to get free of the Urdas might come to nothing. With Bek at the helm, Rue and Trefen Morys worked the draws and light sheaths by hand to gain speed and maneuverability, heading south and west toward the relative safety of the mountain peaks below the clouds and winds building north. Swift Sure skated hard across the long stretch of the valley, buffeted and tossed as storm winds gusted ahead of rain and dark skies. Lightning began to flash in the heart of the encroaching dark, and thunder rumbled ominously across the heavens in long, crackling peals.
On the decks below the pilothouse, Bellizen worked on the injured Rock Trolls. Two of them were badly hurt, wounded by Urda weapons. According to Kermadec, who had managed to say a few words to Bek before Swift Sure set sail, his little company had tried to slip past the Urdas during the night, convinced that any attempt at fighting to get free was useless. By then, Pen had been gone for almost a day, and they were desperate to find a way to help him. But the Urdas, furious at what they perceived to be a deliberate violation of sacred ground, had been keeping close watch on the intruders and had no intention of letting them escape. They reacted swiftly to the attempt, catching them out in the open and killing two outright. The surviving Trolls and Tagwen had fled into the tower, where they had remained, trapped and under attack.
Rain struck Swift Sure a broadside blow that sent her scudding sideways across the roof of the forest. Bek righted her quickly, trying not to think about Pen and what had happened in the ruins days earlier, concentrating instead on getting them across the valley to the relative safety of the mountains. Inside the peaks, they could find protection from the storm and cross into the valleys beyond. But the rain descended in torrents, inundating the decks and those clustered on them, leaving the entire ship sodden and dripping. Visibility was dropping fast, and Bek turned the ship farther south in an effort to run before the storm and remain clear of its impenetrable shroud of rain and mist.
Then lightning struck the mainmast, dancing down its length and along the conductors to the hull, sparking and flashing in the near dark. The Trolls flattened themselves against the deck until Bellizen signaled for help to get the injured below. Staggering across the slick wood with their burdens, the Trolls did as she asked, and soon everyone had disappeared below, leaving Bek, Rue, and Trefen Morys to sail the airship.
They were flying dangerously low, trying to slip the stronger winds at the higher elevations. But radian draws, stays, and sails were all giving way, tearing loose or shredding, slowing eroding Swift Sure’s maneuverability. Bek held the airship as steady as he could, relying on the power stored in the diapson crystals to keep her flying. When that was gone, they were finished. He could make out gaps in the mountain peaks ahead, dark passages to the valleys beyond, and he pointed toward them as the storm closed about.
The winds howled like a living thing. They slammed into Swift Sure with devastating impact, knocking her off course, forcing Bek to wrestle her back into line again. Rain descended in sheets, and visibility dropped to nothing. Even the dark gaps for which they were headed began to fade. The storm was sweeping the whole of the Inkrim now, a great roiling mass of wind, rain, and darkness.
Then abruptly the mountains ahead disappeared and the gaps toward which Swift Sure had been heading were gone.
We’re not going to make it, Bek thought.
For heart-stopping minutes, they hung suspended in a gray, fathomless void, directionless and lost.
Then the curtain of rain lifted and the rock walls loomed out of the rain-soaked darkness once more, massive slabs of stone lifting thousands of feet into the mists. Bek caught sight of a gap between them and banked Swift Sure sharply toward its dark maw.
Seconds later, they were inside a craggy split that was as dark and still and windless as a subterranean passage.
“Savages!”
Atalan spit the word out as if to rid himself of its bitter taste. It was a word he had used three times in the last two sentences by Bek’s reckoning. Apparently the bitterness had a tendency to linger.
“Killed four of us for no better reason than to punish us for coming into those ruins! A place of dead things! Nothing there but bones and rubble and monsters like that tree!” His blunt Troll features were unreadable, but his eyes were fierce. “We should come back here with the rest of our people and wipe them out!”
He was incensed, even now, hours later. They were seated at the bow—Atalan, Kermadec, Tagwen, the young Druids, Rue, and Bek. They made an odd-looking group. The Trolls were giants with skins of bark and flat, virtually featureless faces. The Druids were much smaller and impossibly young. The Dwarf was squat and solid, his thick beard like a mask. And Bek and Rue, fatigued and weak from the wounds they had received during their flight out of Paranor, had the
look of the walking dead. Swift Sure hung anchored above a valley floor somewhere deep within the Klu, west almost to the Charnals. The Inkrim and the storm had been left behind. It was nightfall, and the Trolls who had been wounded were sleeping below. Everyone was exhausted.
Kermadec shifted his large frame and leaned back against the ship’s railing. His rough face was impassive, his voice calm. “Let it be, Atalan.” He nodded at Bek and Rue. “So young Penderrin has found a way into the Forbidding, after all. Your son is nothing if not resourceful. He has kept his wits about him.”
“He has his wits, but does he have the use of magic, as well?” Rue asked, reminded suddenly of what Bek had revealed of the traces of her son’s passage.
Kermadec shrugged. “He has some. He has that ability to read the responses of living things. He can discern their thinking from that. Like the lichen. Like that moor cat.” He glanced at Tagwen. “It’s a magic I wouldn’t mind having, Bristle Beard.”
“He said it was a small magic,” the Dwarf muttered. He scowled at Kermadec. “Having seen nothing to suggest otherwise, I am inclined to take him at his word. Penderrin is not given to exaggeration.”
Tagwen had recovered from his faint, though he was still embarrassed about the collapse. Kermadec had spent a long time reassuring the Dwarf that it had nothing to do with his courage, but was a result of exhaustion and stress. Anyone might have suffered the same indignity, and it would not be mentioned again. Tagwen, however, did not appear convinced.
“There is the magic he generated during his encounter with the tanequil, as well,” Trefen Morys pointed out. “To create a talisman of such power, a tremendous amount of magic would have to be released. Even if it didn’t come from Pen, traces of it would cling to him. And he carries the darkwand with him. Any reading of magic attached to Pen would be influenced by that.”
It was a reasonable explanation, and even Rue seemed to accept it. Only Bek knew that the reasoning was wrong. The readings given him by the wishsong had told him that the traces of his son’s passage encompassed only magic that belonged to him. The blood connection between father and son was too strong for him to be mistaken. Pen had uncovered a form of magic that was still a mystery, possibly even to himself.