Heritage of Shannara 03 – Brooks, Terry

CHAPTER

I

 

FIRE.

It sputtered in the oil lamps that hung distant and

solitary in the windows and entryways of her people’s

homes. It spat and hissed as it licked at the pitch-coated

torches bracketing road intersections and gates. It glowed

through breaks in the leafy branches of the ancient oak and

hickory where glassed lanterns lined the treelanes. Bits and pieces

of flickering light, the flames were like tiny creatures that the

night threatened to search out and consume.

      Like ourselves, she thought.

      Like the Elves.

      Her gaze lifted, traveling beyond the buildings and walls of

the city to where Killeshan steamed.

      Fire.

      It glowed redly out of the volcano’s ragged mouth, the glare

of its molten core reflected in the clouds of vog-volcanic ash-

that hung in sullen banks across the empty sky. Killeshan loomed

over them, vast and intractable, a phenomenon of nature that

no Elven magic could hope to withstand. For weeks now the

rumbling had sounded from deep within the earth, dissatisfied,

purposeful, a buildingup of pressure that would eventually de-

mand release.

      For now, the lava burrowed and tunneled through cracks

and fissures in its walls and ran down into the waters of the

ocean in long, twisting ribbons that burned off the jungle and

the things that lived within it. One day soon now, she knew,

this secondary venting would not be enough, and Killeshan

would erupt in a conflagration that would destroy them all.

      If any of them remained by then.

      She stood at the edge of the Gardens of Life close to where

the Elicrys grew. The ancient tree lifted skyward as if to fight

through the vog and breathe the cleaner air that lay sealed

above. Silver branches glimmered faintly with the light of lan-

terns and torches; scarlet leaves reflected the volcano’s darker

glow. Scatterings of fire danced in strange patterns through

breaks in the tree as if trying to form a picture. She watched

the images appear and fade, a mirror of her thoughts, and the

sadness she felt threatened to overwhelm her.

      What am I to do? she thought desperately. What choices are

left me?

      None, she knew. None, but to wait.

      She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and all she

could do was to wait.

      She gripped the Ruhk Staff tightly and glanced skyward with

a grimace. There were no stars or moon this night. There had

been little of either for weeks, only the vog, thick and impene-

trable, a shroud waiting to descend, to cover their bodies, to

enfold them all, and to wrap them away forever.

      She stood stiffly as a hot breeze blew over her, ruffling the

fine linen of her clothing. She was tall, her body angular and

long limbed. The bones of her face were prominent, shaping

features that were instantly recognizable. Her cheekbones were

high, her forehead broad, and her jaw sharp-edged and smooth

beneath her wide, thin mouth. Her skin was drawn tight against

her face, giving her a sculpted look. Flaxen hair tumbled to her

shoulders in thick, unruly curls. Her eyes were a strange, pierc-

ing blue and always seemed to be seeing things not immediately

apparent to others. She seemed much younger than her fifty-

odd years. When she smiled, which was often, she brought

smiles to the faces of others almost effortlessly.

      She was not smiling now. It was late, well after midnight,

and her weariness was like a chain that would not let her go.

She could not sleep and had come to walk in the Gardens, to

listen to the night, to be alone with her thoughts, and to try to

find some small measure of peace. But peace was elusive, her

thoughts were small demons that taunted and teased, and the

night was a great, hungering black cloud that waited patiently

for the moment when it would at last extinguish the frail spark

of their lives.

      Fire, again. Fire to give life and fire to snuff it out. The image

whispered at her insidiously.

      She turned abruptly and began walking through the Gar-

dens. Cort trailed behind her, a silent, invisible presence. If she

bothered to look for him, he would not be there. She could

picture him in her mind, a small, stocky youth with incredible

quickness and strength. He was one of the Home Guard, pro-

tectors of the Elven rulers, the weapons that defended them, the

lives that were given up to preserve their own. Cort was her

shadow, and if not Cort, then Dal. One or the other of them

was always there, keeping her safe. As she moved along the

pathway, her thoughts slipped rapidly, one to the next. She felt

the roughness of the ground through the thin lining of her slip-

pers. Arborlon, the city of the Elves, her home, brought out of

the Westland more than a hundred years ago-here, to this .

      She left the thought unfinished. She lacked the words to

complete it.

      Elven magic, conjured anew out of faerie time, sheltered the

city, but the magic was beginning to fail. The mingled fragrances

of the Garden’s flowers were overshadowed by the acrid smells

of Killeshan’s gases where they had penetrated the outer barri-

er of the Keel. Night birds sang gently from the trees and cov-

erings, but even here their songs were undercut by the guttural

sounds of the dark things that lurked beyond the city’s walls in

the jungles and swamps, that pressed up against the Keel, wait-

ing.

      The monsters.

      The trail she followed ended at the northern most edge of

the Gardens on a promontory overlooking her home. The pal-

ace windows were dark, the people within asleep, all but her.

Beyond lay the city, clusters of homes and shops tucked behind

the Keel’s protective barrier like frightened animals hunkered

down in their dens. Nothing moved, as if fear made movement

Impossible, as if movement would give them away. She shook

her head sadly. Arborlon was an island surrounded by enemies.

Behind, to the east, was Killeshan, rising up over the city, a

great, jagged mountain formed by lava rock from eruptions over

the centuries, the volcano dormant until only twenty years ago,

now alive and anxious. North and south the jungle grew, thick

and impenetrable, stretching away in a tangle of green to the

shores of the ocean. West, below the slopes on which Arborlon

was seated, lay the Rowen, and beyond the wall of Blackledge.

None of it belonged to the Elves. Once the entire world had

belonged to them, before the coming of Man. Once there had

been nowhere they could not go. Even in the time of the Druid

Allanon, just three hundred years before, the whole of the West-

land had been theirs. Now they were reduced to this small space,

besieged on all sides, imprisoned behind the wall of their failing

magic. All of them, all that remained, trapped.

      She looked out at the darkness beyond the Keel, picturing

in her mind what waited there. She thought momentarily of the

irony of it-the Elves, made victims of their own magic, of their

own clever, misguided plans, and of fears that should never have

been heeded. How could they have been so foolish?

      Far down from where she stood, near the end of the Keel

where it buttressed the hardened lava of some long past runoff,

there was a sudden flare of light-a spurt of fire followed by a

quick, brilliant explosion and a shriek. There were brief shouts

and then silence. Another attempt to breach the walls and an-

other death. It was a nightly occurrence now as the creatures

grew bolder and the magic continued to fail.

      She glanced behind her to where the topmost branches of

the Ellcrys lifted above the Garden trees, a canopy of life. The

tree had protected the Elves from so much for so long. It had

renewed and restored. It had given peace. But it could not pro-

tect them now, not against what threatened this time.

      Not against themselves.

      She grasped the Rukh Staff in defiance and felt the magic

surge within, a warming against her palm and fingers. The Staff

wac thick and gnarled and polished to a fine sheen. It had been

hewn from black walnut and imbued with the magic of her

people. Fixed to its tip was the Loden, white brilliance against

the darkness of the night. She could see herself reflected in its

facets. She could feel herself reach within. The Ruhk Staff had

given strength to the rulers of Arborlon for more than a century

 

      But the Staff could not protect the Elves either.

      “Cort?” she called softly.

      The Home Guard materialized beside her.

      “Stand with me a moment,” she said.

      They stood without speaking and looked out over the city.

She felt impossibly alone. Her people were threatened with ex-

tinction. She should be doing something. Anything. What if the

dreams were wrong? What if the visions of Eowen Cerise were

mistaken? That had never happened, of course, but there was

so much at stake! Her mouth tightened angrily. She must be-

lieve. It was necessary that she believe. The visions would come

to pass. The girl would appear to them as promised, blood of

her blood. The girl would appear.

      But would even she be enough?

      She shook the question away. She could not permit it. She

could not give way to her despair.

      She wheeled about and walked swiftly back through the

Gardens to the pathway leading down again. Cort stayed with

her for a moment, then faded away into the shadows. She did

not see him go. Her mind was on the future, on the foretellings

of Eowen, and on the fate of the Elven people. She was deter-

mined that her people would survive. She would wait for the

girl for as long as she could, for as long as the magic would keep

their enemies away. She would pray that Eowen’s visions were

true.

      She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and she

would do what she must.

      Fire.

      It burned within as well.

      Sheathed in the armor of her convictions, she went down

out of the Gardens of Life in the slow hours of the early morn-

ing to sleep.

 

CHAPTER

2

 

REN OHMSFORD YAWNED. She sat on a bluff overlooking

the Blue Divide, her back to the smooth trunk of an

ancient willow. The ocean stretched away before her,

a shimmering kaleidoscope of colors at the horizons

edge where the sunset streaked the waters with splashes of red

and gold and purple and low-hanging clouds formed strange pat-

terns against the darkening sky. Twilight was settling comfort-

ably in place, a graying of the light, a whisper of an evening

breeze off the water, a calm descending. Crickets were begin-

ning to chirp, and fireflies were winking into view.

      Wren drew her knees up against her chest, struggling to stay

upright when what she really wanted to do was lie down. She

hadn’t slept for almost two days now, and fatigue was catching

up with her. It was shadowed and cool where she sat beneath

the willow’s canopy, and it would have been easy to let go, slip

down, curl up beneath her cloak, and drift away. Her eyes closed

involuntarily at the prospect, then snapped open again instantly.

She could not sleep until Garth returned, she knew. She must

stay alert.

      She rose and walked out to the edge of the bluff, feeling the

breeze against her face, letting the sea smells fill her senses.

Cranes and gulls glided and swooped across the waters, graceful

and languid as they flew. Far out, too far to be seen clearly,

some great fish cleared the water with an enormous splash and

disappeared. She let her gaze wander. The coastline ran unbro-

ken from where she stood for as far as the eye could see, ragged,

tree-grown bluffs backed by the stark, whitecapped mountains

of the Rock Spur north and the Irrybis south. A series of rocky

 

beaches separated the bluffs from the water, their stretches lit-

tered with driftwood and shells and ropes of seaweed.

      Beyond the beaches, there was only the empty expanse of

the Blue Divide. She had traveled to the end of the known

world, she thought wryly, and still her search for the Elves

went on.

      An owl hooted in the deep woods behind her, causing her

to turn. She cast about cautiously for movement, for any sign

of disturbance, and found none. There was no hint of Garth.

He was still out, tracking .

      She ambled back to the cooling ashes of the cooking fire

and nudged the remains with her boot. Garth had forbidden

any sort of real fire until he made certain they were safe. He

had been edgy and suspicious all day, troubled by something

that neither of them could see, a sense of something not being

right. Wren was inclined to attribute his uneasiness to lack of

sleep. On the other hand, Garth’s hunches were seldom wrong.

If he was disturbed, she knew better than to question him.

      She wished he would return.

      A pool sat just within the trees behind the bluff and she

walked to it, knelt, and splashed water on her face. The pond’s

surface rippled with the touch of her hands and cleared. She

could see herself in its reflection, the distortion clearing until

her image was almost mirrorlike. She stared down at it-at a girl

barely grown, her features decidedly Elven with sharply pointed

ears and slanted brows, her face narrow and high cheeked, and

her skin nut-brown. She saw hazel eyes that seldom stayed fixed,

an off-center smile that suggested she enjoyed some private joke,

and ash-blond hair cut short and tightly curled. There was a

tautness to her, she thought-a tension that would not be dis-

pelled no matter how valiant the effort employed.

      She rocked back on her heels and permitted herself a wry

smile, deciding that she liked what she saw well enough to live

with it awhile longer.

      She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head. The

Search for the Elves-how long had it been going on now? How

long Since the old man-the one who claimed he was Cogline-

had come to her and told her of the dreams? Weeks? But how

many? She had lost count. The old man had known of the

dreams and challenged her to discover for herself the truth be-

hind them. She had decided to accept his challenge, to go to

the Hadeshorn in the Valley of Shale and meet with the shade

of Allanon. Why shouldn’t she? Perhaps she would learn some-

thing of where she had come from, of the parents she had never

known, or of her history.

      Odd. Until the old man had appeared, she had been disin-

terested in her lineage. She had persuaded herself that it didn’t

matter. But something in the way he spoke to her, in the words

he used-something-had changed her.

      She reached up to finger the leather bag about her neck self-

consciously, feeling the hard outline of the painted rocks, the

play Elfstones, her only link to the past. Where did they come

from? Why had they been given to her?

      Elven features, Ohmsford blood, and Rover heart and skills-

they all belonged to her. But how had she come by them?

      Who was she?

      She hadn’t found out at the Hadeshorn. Allanon had come

as promised, dark and forbidding even in death. But he had told

her nothing. Instead, he had given her a charge-had given each

of them a charge, the children of Shannara, as he called them,

Par and Walker and herself. But hers? Well. She shook her head

at the memory. She was to go in search of the Elves, to find

them and bring them back into the world of men. The Elves,

who hadn’t been seen by anyone in over a hundred years, who

were believed by most never even to have existed, and who

were presumed a child’s faerie tale-she was to find them.

      She had not planned to look at first, disturbed by what she

had heard and how it had made her feel, unwilling to become

involved, or to risk herself for something she did not understand

or care about. She had left the others and with Garth once again

her only companion had gone back into the Westland. She had

thought to resume her life as a Rover. The Shadowen were not

her concern. The problems of the races were not her own. But

the Druid’s admonition had stayed with her, and almost without

realizing it she had begun her search after all. It had started with

a few questions, asked here and there. Had anyone heard if there

reallY were any Elves? Had anyone ever seen one? Did anyone

know where they might be found? They were questions that

were asked lightly at first, self-consciously, but with growing

curiositY as time wore on, then almost an urgency.

      What if Allanon were right? What if the Elves were still out

there somewhere? What if they alone possessed whatever was

necessary to overcome the Shadowen plague?

      But the answers to her questions had all been the same. No

one knew anything of the Elves. No one cared to know.

      And then someone had begun following them-someone or

something-their shadow as they came to call it, a thing clever

enough to track them despite their precautions and stealthy

enough to avoid being caught at it. Twice they had thought to

trap it and failed. Any number of times they had tried to back-

track to get around behind it and been unable to do so. They

had never seen its face, never even caught a glimpse of it. They

had no idea who or what it was.

      It had still been with them when they had entered the Wilde-

run and gone down into Grimpen Ward. There, two nights ear-

lier, they had found the Addershag. A Rover had told them of

the old woman, a seer it was said who knew secrets and who

might know something of the Elves. They had found her in the

basement of a tavern, chained and imprisoned by a group of

men who thought to make money from her gift. Wren had

tricked the men into letting her speak to the old woman, a

creature far more dangerous and cunning than the men holding

her had suspected.

      The memory of that meeting was still vivid and frightening.

      The old woman was a dried husk, and her face had withered into a

maze of lines and furrows. Ragged white hair tumbled down about her frail

shoulders Wren approached and knelt before her. The ancient head lifted,

revealing blind eyes that were milky and fixed.

      “Are you the seer they call the Addershag, old mother?” Wren asked

softly.

      The staring eyes blinked and a thin voice rasped. “Who wishes to know?

Tell me your name.”

      “My name is Wren Ohmsford.”

Aged bands reached out to touch her face, exploring its lines and hollows,

scraping along the skin like dried leaves. The hands withdrew.

      “You are an Elf.”

      “I have Elven blood.”

      “An Elf!” The old woman’s voice was rough and insistent, a hiss against

the silence of the alehouse cellar. The wrinkled face cocked to one side as if

reflecting. “I am the Addershag. What do you wish of me?”

      Wren rocked back slightly on the heels of her boots. “I am searching

for the Westland Elves. I was told a week ago that you might know where

to find them-if they still exist.”

      The Adders hag cackled. “Oh, they exist, all right. They do indeed.

But it’s not to everyone they show themselves-to none at all in many years.

Is it so important to you, Elf-girl, that you see them? Do you search them

out because you have need of your own kind?” The milky eyes stared

unseeing at Wren’s face. “No, not you. Why, then?”

      “Because it is a charge I have been given a charge I have chosen to

accept,” Wren answered carefully.

      “A charge, is it?” The lines and furrows of the old woman’s face deep-

ened. “Bend close to me, Elf-girl.”

      Wren hesitated, then leaned forward tentatively. The Addershag’s hands

came up again, the fingers exploring. They passed once more across Wren’s

face, then down her neck to her body. When they touched the front of the

girl’s blouse, they jerked back as if burned and the old woman gasped.

“Magic!” she howled.

      Wren started, then seized the other’s wrists impulsively. “What magic?

What are you saying?”

      But the Addershag shook her head violently, her lips clamped shut, and

her head sunk into her shrunken breast. Wren held her a moment longer,

then let her go.

      “Elf-girl,” the old woman whispered, “who sends you in search of the

Westland Elves?”

      Wren took a deep breath against her fears and answered, “The shade of

Allanon.”

      The aged head lifted with a snap. “Allanon!” She breathed the name

like a curse. “So! A Druid’s charge, is it? Very well. Listen to me, then.

Go south through the Wilderun, cross the Irrybis and follow the coast of

the Blue Divide. When you have reached the caves of the Rocs, build a fire

and keep it burning three days and nights. One will come who can help

you. Do you understand?”

      “Yes,” Wren replied, wondering at the same time if she really did.

      “Beware, Elf-girl,” the other warned, a stick-thin hand lifting. “I see

danger ahead for you, hard times, and treachery and evil beyond imagining.

My visions are in my head, truths that haunt me with their madness. Heed

me, then. Keep your own counsel, girl. Trust no one!”

      Trust no one!

      Wren had left the old woman then, admonished to leave

even though she had offered to stay and help. She had rejoined

Garth, and the men had tried to kill them then, of course, be-

cause that had been their plan all along. They had failed in their

attempt and paid for their foolishness-perhaps with their lives

by now if the Addershag had tired of them.

      Slipping clear of Grimpen Ward, Wren and Garth had come

south, following the old seer’s instructions, still in search of the

disappeared Elves. They had traveled for two days without stop-

ping to sleep, anxious to put as much distance between them-

selves and Grimpen Ward as possible and eager as well to make

yet another attempt to shake loose of their shadow. Wren had

thought earlier that day they might have done so. Garth was

not so certain. His uneasiness would not be dispelled. So when

they had stopped for the night, needing at last to sleep and

regain their strength, he had backtracked once more. Perhaps

he would find something to settle the matter, he told her. Per-

haps not. But he wanted to give it a try.

      That was Garth. Never leave anything to chance.

      Behind her, in the woods, one of the horses pawed restlessly

and went still again. Garth had hidden the animals behind the

trees before leaving. Wren waited a moment to be certain all

was well, then stood and moved over again beneath the willow,

losing herself in the deep shadows formed by its canopy, easing

herself down once more against the broad trunk. Far to the west,

the light had faded to a glimmer of silver where the water met

the sky.

      Magic, the Addershag had said. How could that be?

      If there were still Elves, and if she was able to find them,

would they be able to tell her what the old woman had not?

      She leaned back and closed her eyes momentarily, feeling

herself drifting, letting it happen.

      When she jerked awake again, twilight had given way to

night, the darkness all around save where moon and stars bathed

the Open spaces in a silver glow. The campfire had gone cold,

and she shivered with the chill that had invaded the coastal air.

Rising, she moved over to her pack, withdrew her travel cloak,

and wrapped it about her for warmth. After moving back be-

neath the tree, she settled herself once more.

      You fell asleep, she chided herself. What would Garth say if he

were to discover that?

      She remained awake after that until he returned. It was near-

ing midnight, the world about her gone still save for the lulling

rush of the ocean waves as they washed onto the beach below.

Garth appeared soundlessly, yet she had sensed he was coming

before she saw him and took some small satisfaction from that.

He moved out of the trees and came directly to where she hid,

motionless in the night, a part of the old willow. He seated him-

self before her, huge and dark, faceless in the shadows. His big

hands lifted, and he began to sign. His fingers moved swiftly.

      Their shadow was still back there, following after them.

      Wren felt her stomach grow cold and she hugged herself

crossly.

“Did you see it?” she asked, signing as she spoke.

No.

“Do you know yet what it is?”

No.

“Nothing? Nothing about it at all?”

      He shook his head. She was irritated by the obvious frustra-

tion she had allowed to creep into her voice. She wanted to be

as calm as he was, as clear thinking as he had taught her to be.

She wanted to be a good student for him.

      She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Is it coming

for us yet, Garth? Or waiting still?”

      Waiting, he signed.

      He shrugged, his craggy, bearded face expressionless, care-

fully composed. His hunter’s look. Wren knew that look. It ap-

peared when Garth felt threatened, a mask to hide what was

happening inside.

      Waiting, she repeated soundlessly to herself. Why? For

what?

      Garth rose, strode over to his pack, extracted a hunk of

cheese and an aleskin, and reseated himself. Wren moved over

to join him. He ate and drank without looking at her, staring

0ff at the black expanse of the Blue Divide, seemingly obliv-

IOUS 0f everything. Wren studied him thoughtfully. He was a

giant of a man, strong as iron, quick as a cat, skilled in hunt-

ing and tracking, the best she had ever known at staying alive.

He had been her protector and teacher from the time she was

a little girl, after she had been brought back into the Westland

and given over to the care of the Rovers, after her brief stay

with the Ohmsford family. How had that all come about? Her

father had been an Ohmsford, her mother a Rover, yet she

could not remember either of them. Why had she been given

back to the Rovers rather than allowed to stay with the

Ohmsfords? Who had made that decision? It had never really

been explained. Garth claimed not to know. Garth claimed that

he knew only what others had told him, which was little, and

that his only instruction, the charge he had accepted, was to

look after her. He had done so by giving her the benefit of his

knowledge, training her in the skills he had mastered, and

making her as good at what he did as he was himself. He had

worked hard to see that she learned her lessons. She had. What-

ever else Wren Ohmsford might know, she knew first and fore-

most how to stay alive. Garth had made certain of that. But this

was not training that a normal Rover child would receive-

especially a girl-child-and Wren had known as much almost

from the beginning. It led her to believe Garth knew more

than he was telling. After a time, she became convinced

of it.

      Yet Garth would admit nothing when she pressed the mat-

ter. He would simply shake his head and sign that she needed

special skills, that she was an orphan and alone, and that she

must be stronger and smarter than the others. He said it, but he

refused to explain it.

      She became aware suddenly that he had finished eating and

was watching her. The weathered, bearded face was no longer

hidden by shadows. She could see the set of his features clearly

and read what she found there. She saw concern etched in his

brow. She saw kindness mirrored in his eyes. She sensed deter-

mination everywhere. It was odd, she thought, but he had al-

ways been able to convey more to her in a single glance than

others could with a basketful of words.

      “I don’t like being hunted like this,” she said, signing. “I don’t

like waiting to find out what is happening.”

      He nodded, his dark eyes intense.

      “It has something to do with the Elves,” she followed up

impulsively. “I don’t know why I feel that is so, but I do. I feel

certain of it.”

Then we should know something shortly, he replied.

      “When we reach the caves of the Rocs,” she agreed. “Yes.

Because then we’ll know if the Addershag spoke the truth, if

there really are still Elves.”

And what follows us will perhaps want to know, too.

      Her smile was tight. They regarded each other wordlessly

for a moment, measuring what they saw in each other’s eyes,

considering the possibility of what lay ahead.

      Then Garth rose and indicated the woods. They picked up

their gear and moved back beneath the willow. After settIing

themselves at the base of its trunk, they spread their bedrolls

and wrapped themselves in their forest cloaks. Despite her wear-

iness, Wren offered to stand the first watch, and Garth agreed.

He rolled himself in his cloak, then lay down beside her and

was asleep in seconds.

      Wren listened as his breathing slowed, then shifted her at-

tention to the night sounds beyond. It remained quiet atop the

bluff, the birds and insects gone still, the wind a whisper, and

the ocean a soothing, distant murmur. Whatever was out there

hunting them seemed very far away. It was an illusion, she

warned herself, and became all the more wary.

      She touched the bag with its make-believe Elfstones where

it rested against her breast. It was her good-luck charm, she:

thought, a charm to ward off evil, to protect against danger, and

to carry her safely through whatever challenge she undertook.

Three painted rocks that were symbols of a magic that had been

real once but was now lost, like the Elves, like her past. She

wondered if any of it could be recovered.

      Or even if it should be.

      She leaned back against the willow’s trunk and stared out

into the night, searching in vain for her answers.

 

CHAPTER

3

 

AT SUNRISE the following morning, Wren and Garth re-

sumed their journey south in search of the caves of the

Rocs. It was a journey of faith, for while both had trav-

eled parts of the coastline neither had come across caves

large enough to be what they were looking for or had ever seen

a Roc. Both had heard tales of the legendary birds great winged

creatures that had once carried men. But the tales were only

that, campfire stories that passed the time and conjured up im-

ages of things that might be but probably never were. There

were sightings claimed, of course, as with every fairy-tale mon-

ster. But none was reliable. Like the Elves, the Rocs were ap-

parently invisible.

      Still, there didn’t need to be Rocs in order for there to be

Elves. The Addershag’s admonition to Wren could prove out in

any case. They had oniy to discover the caves, Rocs or no,

build the signal fire, and wait three days. Then they would learn

the truth. There was every chance that the truth would disap-

point them, of course, but since they both recognized and ac-

cepted the possibility, there was no reason not to continue on.

Iheir only concession to the unfavorable odds was to pointedly

avoid speaking of them.

      The day began clear and cricp, the skies unclouded and blue,

the sunrise a bright splash across the eastern horizon that sil-

houetted the mountains in stark, jagged relief. The air filled with

the mingled smells of sea and forest, and the songs of starlings

and mockingbirds rose out of the trees. Sunshine quickly chased

the chill left by the night and warmed the land beneath. The

heat rose inland, thick and sweltering where the mountains

trapped it, continuing to burn the grasses of the plains and hills

a dusty brown as it had all summer, but the coastline remained

cool and pleasant as a steady breeze blew in off the water. Wren

and Garth kept their horses at a walk, following the narrow,

winding coastal trails that navigated the bluffs and beaches front-

ing the mountains east. They were in no hurry. They had all

the time they needed to get to where they were going.

      There was time enough to be cautious in their passage

through this unfamiliar country-time enough to keep an eye

out for their shadow in case it was still following after them.

      But they chose not to speak of that either.

      Choosing not to speak about it, however, did not keep Wren

from thinking about it. She found herself pondering the possi-

bility of what might be back there as she rode, her mind free

to wander where it chose as she looked out over the vast ex-

panse of the Blue Divide and let her horse pick its way. Her

darker suspicions warned her that what tracked them was some-

thing of the sort that had tracked Par and Coil on their journey

from Culhaven to Hearthstone when they had gone in search

of Walker Boh-a thing like the Gnawl. But could even a Gnaw!

avoid them as completely as their shadow had succeeded in

doing? Could something that was basically an animal find them

again and again when they had worked so hard to lose it? It

seemed more likely that what tracked them was human-with a

human’s cunning and intelligence and skill: a Seeker, perhaps-

sent by Rimmer Dali, a Tracker of extraordinary abilities, or an

assassin, even, though he would have to be more than that to

have managed to stay with them.

      It was possible, too, she thought, that whoever was back

there was not an enemy at all, but something else. “Friend” was

hardly the right word, she supposed, but perhaps someone who

had a purpose similar to their own, someone with an interest in

the Elves, someone who . .

      She stopped herself. Someone who insisted on staying hid-

den, even knowing Garth and she had discovered they were

being followed? Someone who continued playing cat and mouse

with them so deliberately?

      Her darker suspicions reemerged to push the other possibil-

ities aside.

      By midday they had reached the northern fringe of the Ir-

rybis. The mountains split off in two directions, the high range

turning east to parallel the northern Rock Spur and enclose the

Wilderun, the low running south along the coastline they fol-

lowed. The coastal lrrybis were thickly forested and less for-

midable, scattered in clusters along the Blue Divide, sheltering

valleys and ridges, and forming passes that connected the inland

hill country to the beaches. Nevertheless, travel slowed because

the trails were less well defined, often disappearing entirely for

long stretches. At times the mountains ran right up against the

water, falling away in steep, impassable drops so that Wren and

Garth were required to circle back to find another route. Heavy

stands of timber blocked their path as well, forcing them to go

around. They found themselves moving away from the beaches,

higher into the mountain passes where the land was more open

and accepting. They worked their way ahead slowly, watching

as the sun drifted west to sink into the sea.

      Night passed uneventfully, and they were awake again at

daybreak and on their way. The morning chill again gave ground

to midday heat. The ocean breezes that had cooled the previous

day were less noticeable in the passes, and Wren found herself

sweating freely. She shoved back her tousled hair, tied a scarf

about her head, splashed water on her face, and forced herself

to think about other things. She cataloged her memories as a

child in Shady Vale, trying to recall once again what her parents

had been like. As usual, she found that she couldn’t. What she

remembered was vague and fragmented-bits and pieces of con-

versation, small moments out of time, or words or phrases out

of Context. All of what she recalled could as easily be identified

with Par’s parents as with her own. Had any of it come from

her Parents-or had it all come from Jaralan and Mirianna

Ohmsford? Had she ever really known her parents? Had they

ever been with her in Shady Vale? She had been told so. She

had been told they had died. Yet she had no memory of it. Why

Was that so? Why had nothing about them stayed with her?

      She glanced back at Garth, irritation mirrored in her eyes.

Then she looked away again, refusing to explain.

      They stopped to eat at midday and rode on. Wren ques-

tioned Garth briefly about their shadow. Was it still following?

Did he sense anything? Garth shrugged and signed that he was

no longer certain and that he no longer trusted himself on the

matter. Wren frowned doubtfully, but Garth would say nothing

further, his dark, bearded face unreadable.

      The afternoon was spent crossing a ridgeline over which a

raging forest fire had swept a year ago, leveling the land so

thoroughly that only the blackened stumps of the old growth

and the first green shoots of the new remained. From atop the

spine of the ridge Wren could look back across the land for

miles, her view unobstructed. There was nowhere that their

shadow could hide, no space it could traverse without being

seen. Wren looked for it carefully and saw nothing.

      Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was still back there.

      Nightfall brought them back along the rim of a high, narrow

bluff that dropped away abruptly into the sea. Below where they

rode, the waters of the Blue Divide crashed and boomed against

the cliffs, and seabirds wheeled and shrieked above the white

foam. They made camp in a grove of alder, close to where a

stream trickled down out of the mountain rock and provided

them with drinking water. To Wren’s surprise, Garth built a fire

so they could eat a hot meal. When Wren looked at him askance,

the giant Rover cocked his head and signed that if their shadow

was still following, it was also still waiting. They had nothing to

fear yet. Wren was not so sure, but Garth seemed confident, so

she let the matter drop.

      She dreamed that night of her mother, the mother she could

not remember and was uncertain if she had ever known. In the

dream, her mother had no name. She was a small, quick woman

with Wren’s ash-blond hair and intense hazel eyes, her face warm

and open and caring. Her mother said to her, “Remember me.

Wren could not remember her, of course; she had nothing tO

remember her by. Yet her mother kept repeating the words over

and over. Remember me. Remember me.

      When Wren woke, a picture of her mother’s face and the

sound of her words remained. Garth did not seem to notice how

distracted she was. They dressed, ate their breakfast, packed,

and set out again-and the memory of the dream lingered. Wren

began to wonder if the dream might be the resurrection of a

truth that she had somehow kept buried over the years. Perhaps

it really was her mother she had dreamed about, her mother’s

face she had remembered after all these years. She was hesitant

to believe, but at the same time reluctant not to.

      She rode in silence, trying in vain to decide which choice

would end up hurting worse.

 

 

MIDMORNING CAME AND WENT, and the heat grew oppressive.

As the sun lifted from behind the rim of the mountains, the

breezes off the ocean died away completely. The air grew still.

Wren and Garth walked their horses to rest them, following the

bluff until it disappeared completely and they were on a rocky

trail leading upward toward a huge cliff mass. Sweat beaded and

dried on their skin as they walked, and their feet became tired

and sore. The seabirds disappeared, gone to roost, waiting for

the cool of the evening to venture forth again to fish. The land

and its hidden life grew silent. The only sound was the sluggish

lapping of the waters of the Blue Divide against the rocky shores,

a slow, weary cadence. Far out on the horizon, clouds began to

build, dark and threatening. Wren glanced at Garth. There

would be a storm before nightfall.

      The trail they followed continued to snake upward toward

the summit of the cliffs. Trees disappeared, spruce and fir and

cedar first, then even the small, resilient strands of alder. The

rock lay bare and exposed beneath the sun, radiating heat in

thick, dull waves. Wren’s vision began to swim, and she paused

to wet her cloth headband. Garth turned to wait for her, im-

passive. When she nodded, they pressed on again, anxious to

put this exhausting climb behind them.

      It was nearing midday when they finally succeeded in doing

so. Ihe sun was directly overhead, white-hot and burning. The

Clouds that had begun massing earlier were advancing inland

rapidly, and there was a hush in the air that was palpable. Paus-

ing at the head of the trail, Wren and Garth glanced around

sPeculatively. They stood at the edge of a mountain plain that

Was choked with heavy grasses and dotted with strands of

gnarled wind-bent trees that looked to be some variety of fir.

The plain ran south between the high peaks and the ocean for

as far as the eye could see, a broad, uneven collection of flats

across which the sultry air hung thick and unmoving.

      Wren and Garth glanced wearily at each other and started

across. Overhead, the storm clouds inched closer to the sun.

Finally they enveloped it completely, and a low breeze sprang

up. The heat faded, and shadows began to blanket the land.

      Wren slipped the headband into her pocket and waited for

her body to cool.

      They discovered the valley a short time after that, a deep

cleft in the plain that was hidden until one was almost on top

of it. The valley was broad, nearly half a mile across, sheltered

against the weather by a line of knobby hills that lay east and a

rise in the cliffs west and by broad stands of trees that filled it

wall to wall. Streams ran through the valley; Wren could hear

the gurgle even from atop the rim, rippling along rocks and

down gullies. With Garth trailing, she descended into the valley,

intrigued by the prospect of what she might find there. Within

a short time they came upon a clearing. The clearing was thick

with weeds and small trees, but devoid of any old growth. A

quick inspection revealed the rubble of stone foundations buried

beneath the undergrowth. The old growth had been cut away

to make room for houses. People had lived here once-a large

number of them.

      Wren looked about thoughtfully. Was this what they were

looking for? She shook her head. There were no caves at least

not here, but .

      She left the thought unfinished, beckoned hurriedly to

Garth, mounted her horse, and started for the cliffs west.

      They rode out of the valley and onto the rocks that sepa-

rated them from the ocean. The rocks were virtually treeless,

but scrub and grasses grew out of every crack and crevice. Wren

maneuvered to reach the highest point, a sort of shelf that over-

hung the cliffs and the ocean. When she was atop it, she dis-

mounted. Leaving her horse, she walked forward. The rock was

bare here, a broad depression on which nothing seemed able to

grow. She studied it momentarily. It reminded her of a fire pit,

scoured and cleansed by the flames. She avoided looking at

Garth and walked to the edge. The wind was blowing steadily

now and whipped against her face in sudden gusts as she peered

down. Garth joined her silently. The cliffs fell away in a sheer

drop. Pockets of scrub grew out of the rock in a series of thick

clusters. Tiny blue and yellow flowers bloomed, curiously out

of place. Far below, the ocean rolled onto a narrow, empty

shoreline, the waves beginning to build again as the storm

neared, turning to white foam as they broke apart on the rocks.

      Wren studied the drop for a long time. The growing dark-

ness made it difficult to see clearly. Shadows overlay everything,

and the movement of the clouds caused the light to shift across

the face of the rock.

      The Rover girl frowned. There was something wrong with

what she was looking at; something was out of place. She could

not decide what it was. She sat back on her heels and waited

for the answer to come.

      Finally she had it. There were no seabirds anywhere-not a

one.

      She considered what that meant for a moment, then turned

to Garth and signed for him to wait. She rose and trotted to her

horse, pulled a rope free from her pack, and returned. Garth

studied her curiously. She signed quickly, anxiously. She wanted

him to lower her over the side. She wanted to have a look at

what was down there.

      Working silently, they knotted one end of the rope in sling

fashion beneath Wren’s arms and the other end about a projec-

tion close to the cliff edge. Wren tested the knots and nodded.

Bracing himself, Garth began lowering the girl slowly over the

edge. Wren descended cautiously, choosing hand and footholds

as she went. She soon lost sight of Garth and began a prear-

ranged series of tugs on the rope to tell him what she wanted.

      The wind rushed at her, growing stronger now, pushing at

her angrily. She hugged the cliff face to avoid being blown

about. The clouds masked the sky overhead completely, build-

ing on themselves. A few stray drops of rain began to fall.

      She gritted her teeth. She did not fancy being caught out in

the open like this if the storm broke. She had to finish her

exploration and climb up again quickly.

      She backed down into a pocket of scrub. Thorns raked her

legs and arms, and she pushed away angrily. Working through

the brush, she continued down. Glancing over her shoulder, she

could see something that had not been apparent before, a dark-

ness against the wall, a depression. She fought to contain her

excitement. She signaled Garth to give her more slack and

dropped quickly along the rock. The darkness grew closer. It

was larger than she had believed, a great black hole in the face.

She peered through the gloom. She couldn’t see what lay inside,

but there were others as well, there, off to the side, two of

them, and there, another, partially obscured by the brush, hid-

den by the rock

Caves!

      She signaled for more slack. The rope released, and she slid

slowly toward the closest of the openings, eased toward its

blackness, her eyes squinting

      Then she heard the sound, a rustling, from just below and

within, It startled her, and for a moment she froze. She peered

down again. Shadows shrouded everything, layers of darkness.

She could see nothing. The wind blew shrilly, muffling other

sounds.

Had she been mistaken’

      She dropped another few feet, uncertain.

There, something

      She jerked frantically on the rope to halt her descent, hang-

ing inches above the dark opening.

      The Roc burst into view beneath her, exploding from the

blackness as if shot from a catapult. It seemed to fill the air,

wings stretched wide against the gray waters of the Blue Divide,

across the shadows and clouds. It passed so close that its body

brushed her feet and sent her spinning like a web-tangled piece

of cotton. She curled into a ball instinctively, clinging to the

rope as she would a lifeline, bouncing against the rough surface

of the rock and fighting not to cry out, all the while praying the

bird wouldn’t see her. The Roc lifted away, oblivious to her

presence or uncaring of it, a golden-hued body with a head the

color of fire. It looked wild and ferocious, its plumage in disar-

ray, its wings marked and scarred. It soared into the storm-filled

skies west and disappeared.

      And that’s why there are no seabirds about, Wren confirmed to

herself in a frightened daze.

      She hung paralyzed against the cliff face for long moments,

waiting to be certain that the Roc would not return, then gave

a cautious tug on the rope and let Garth haul her to safety.

 

 

IT BEGAN TO RAIN shortly after she regained the summit of the

cliffs. Garth wrapped her in his cloak and hustled her back to

the valley where they found temporary shelter in a stand of fir.

Garth built a fire and made soup to warm her. She stayed cold

for a long time, shivering with the memory of hanging there

helplessly as the Roc swept underneath, close enough to snatch

her away, to make an end of her. Her mind was numb. She had

thought to find the Roc caves in making her descent. She had

never dreamed she would find the Rocs as well.

      After she had recovered sufficiently to move again, after the

soup had chased the chill from within her stomach, she began

conversing with Garth.

      “If there are Rocs, there might be Elves as well,” she said,

fingers translating. “What do you think?”

Garth made a face. I think you almost got yourself killed.

      “I know,” she admitted grudgingly. “Can we let that pass for

now? I feel foolish enough.”

      Good, he indicated impassively.

      “If the Addershag was right about the caves of the Rocs,

don’t you think there is a pretty fair chance she was right about

the Elves as well?” Wren forged ahead. “I think so. I think some-

one will come if we light a signal fire. Right up on that ledge.

In that pit. There have been fires there before. You saw. Maybe

this valley was home to the Elves once. Maybe it still is. To-

morrow we’ll build that signal fire and see what happens.”

      She ignored his shrug and settled back comfortably, her

blankets wrapped close, her eyes bright with determination. The

incident with the Roc was already beginning to recede into the

back corners of her mind.

      She slept until well after midnight, taking watch late because

Garth chose not to wake her. She was alert for the remainder

of the night, keeping her mind active with thoughts of what was

to come. The rain ended, and by daybreak the summer heat

Was back steamy and thick. They foraged for dry wood, cut

pieces small enough to load, built a sled, and used the horses to

haul their cuttings to the cliff edge. They worked steadily

through the heat, careful not to overexert themselves or their

animals, taking frequent rests, and drinking sufficient water to

prevent heat stroke. The day stayed clear and sultry, the rains

a distant memory. An occasional breeze brew in off the water

but did little to cool them. The sea stretched away from the

land in a smooth, glassy surface that from the cliff heights

seemed as flat and hard as iron.

      They saw nothing further of the Rocs. Garth believed them

to be night birds, hunters that preferred the cover of darkness

before venturing forth. Once or twice Wren thought she might

have heard their call, faint and muffled. She would have liked

to know how many nested in the caves and whether there were

babies. But one brush with the giant birds was enough, and she

was content to let her curiosity remain unsatisfied.

      They built their signal fire in the stone depression on the

rock ledge overlooking the Blue Divide. When sunset ap-

proached, Garth used his flint to ignite the kindling, and soon

the larger pieces of wood were burning as well. The flames

soared skyward, a red and gold glare against the fading light,

crackling in the stillness. Wren glanced about in satisfaction.

From this height, the fire could be seen for miles in every

direction. If there were anyone out there looking, they would

see it.

      They ate dinner in silence, seated a short distance from the

signal fire, their eyes on the flames, their minds elsewhere. Wren

found herself thinking about her cousins, Par and Coll, and about

Walker Boh. She wondered whether they had been persuaded,

as she had, to take up the charges of Allanon. Find the Sword

of Shannara, the shade had told Par. Find the Druids and lost

Paranor, it had told Walker. And to her, find the missing Elves.

If they did not, if any of them failed, then the vision it had

shown them of a world turned barren and empty would come

to pass, and the people of the races would become the play-

things of the Shadowen. Her lean face tightened, and she

brushed absently at a loose curl. The Shadowen-what were

they? Cogline had spoken of them, she reflected, without ac

tually revealing much. The history he had given them that night

at the Hadeshorn was surprisingly vague. Creatures formed in

the vacuum left with the failing of the magic at Allanon’s death.

Creatures born out of stray magic. What did that mean?

      She finished her meal, rose, and walked out to the cliff edge.

The night was clear and the sky filled with a thousand stars,

their white light shimmering on the surface of the ocean to form

a glittering tapestry of silver. Wren lost herself in the beauty of

it for a time, basking in the evening cool, freed momentarily of

her darker thoughts. When she came back to herself, she wished

she knew better where she was going. What had once been a

very certain, structured existence had turned surprisingly quix-

oti C.

      She moved back to the fire and rejoined Garth. The big

man was arranging bedrolls carried up from the valley. They

were to sleep by the fire and tend it until the three days elapsed

or until someone came. The horses were tethered back in the

trees at the edge of the valley. As long as it didn’t rain, they

would be comfortable enough sleeping in the open.

      Garth offered to stand the first watch, and Wren agreed.

She wrapped herself in her blankets at the edge of the fire’s

warmth and lay back. She watched the flames dance against the

darkness, losing herself in their hypnotic motion, letting herself

drift. She thought again of her mother, of her face and voice in

the dream, and wondered if any of it was real.

Remember me.

      Why couldn’t she?

      She was still mulling it over when she fell asleep.

 

 

SHE CAME AWAKE AGAIN with Garth’s hand on her shoulder. He

had woken her hundreds of times over the years, and she had

learned to tell from his touch alone what he was feeling. His

touch now told her he was worried.

      She rolled to her feet instantly, sleep forgotten. It was early

yet; she could tell that much by a quick glance at the night sky.

The fire burned on beside them, its glow undiminished. Garth

Was facing away, back toward the valley. Wren could hear

something approaching-a scraping, a clicking, the sound of

claws on rock. Whatever was out there wasn’t bothering to hide

its coming.

      Garth turned to her and signed that everything had been

completely still until just moments before. Their visitor must

have drawn close at first on cat’s feet, then changed its mind.

Wren did not question what she was being told. Garth heard

with his nose and his fingers and mostly with his instincts. Even

deaf, he heard better than she did. A Roc? she suggested quickly,

reminded of their clawed feet. Garth shook his head. Then perhaps

it was whoever the Addershag had promised would come? Garth did not

respond. He didn’t have to. What approached was something

else, something dangerous .

      Their eyes locked, and abruptly she knew.

      It was their shadow, come to reveal itself at last.

      The scraping grew louder, more prolonged, as if whatever

approached was dragging itself. Wren and Garth moved away

from the fire a few steps, trying to put some of the light between

themselves and their visitor, trying to put some of the darkness

at their backs.

      Wren felt for the long knife at her waist. Not much of a

weapon. Garth gripped his hardened quarter staff. She wished

she had thought to gather up hers, but she had left it with the

horses.

      Then a misshapen face pushed into the light, shoving out of

the darkness as if tearing free of something. A muscled body

followed. Wren went cold in the pit of her stomach. What stood

before her wasn’t real. It had the look of a huge wolf, all bristling

gray hair, dark muzzle, and eyes that glittered with the fire’s

light. But it was grotesquely human, too. It had a human’s fore-

legs with hands and fingers, though the hair grew everywhere,

and the fingers ended in claws and were misshapen and thick

with callouses. The head had something of a human cast to it

as well-as if someone had fitted it with a wolf’s mask and

worked it like clay to make it fit.

      The creature’s head swung toward the fire and away again.

Its hard eyes locked on them.

      So this was their shadow. Wren took a slow breath. This

was the thing that had tracked them relentlessly across the

Westland, the thing that had followed after them for weeks.

It had stayed hidden all that time. Why was it showing itself

now?

      She watched the muzzle draw back to reveal long rows of

hooked teeth. The glittering eyes seemed to brighten. It made

no sound as it stood before them.

      It is showing itself now because it has decided to kill us, Wren real-

ized, and was suddenly terrified.

      Garth gave her a quick glance, a look that said everything.

He had no illusions as to what was about to happen. He took a

step toward the beast.

      Instantly it came at him, a lunge that carried it into the big

Rover almost before he could brace himself. Garth jerked his

head back just in time to keep it from being ripped from his

shoulders, whipped the quarter staff around, and flung his at-

tacker aside. The wolf creature landed with a grunt, regained its

footing in a scramble of clawed feet, and wheeled about, teeth

bared. It came at Garth a second time, ignoring Wren com-

pletely. Garth was ready this time and slammed the end of the

heavy quarter staff into the gnarled body. Wren heard the sound

of bone cracking. The wolf thing tumbled away, came to its feet

again, and began to circle. It continued to pay no attention to

Wren, other than to make certain it could see what she was

doing. It had apparently decided that Garth was the greater

threat and must be dealt with first.

      What are you? Wren wanted to scream. What manner of thing?

      The beast tore into Garth again, barreling recklessly into the

waiting staff. Pain did not seem to faze it. Garth flung it away,

and it attacked again instantly, teeth snapping. Back it came,

time after time, and nothing Garth did seemed to slow it. Wren

crouched and watched, helpless to intervene without risking her

friend. The wolf thing allowed her no opening and gave her no

opportunity to strike. And it was quick, so swift that it was

never down for more than an instant, moving with a fluid grace

that suggested the agility of both man and beast. Certainly no

wolf had ever moved like this, Wren knew.

      The battle wore on. There were wounds to both combat-

ants, but while Garth’s blood streamed from the cuts he had

suffered, the damage to the wolf creature seemed to heal almost

instantly. Its cracked ribs should have slowed it, should have

hampered its movements, but they did not. The blood from its

cuts disappeared in seconds. Its injuries appeared not to concern

it, almost as if .

      And suddenly Wren remembered the story Par had told her

of the Shadowen that he and Coil and Morgan Leah had en-

countered during their journey to Culhaven-that monstrous

man thing, reattaching its severed arm as if pain meant nothing

to it.

      This wolf thing was a Shadowen!

      The realization impelled her forward almost without think-

ing. She came at the creature with her long knife drawn, angry

and determined as she bounded toward it. It turned, a hint of

surprise reflected in its hard eyes, distracted momentarily from

Garth. She reached it at the same instant that Garth did, and

they had the beast trapped between them. Garth’s staff ham-

mered down across its skull, splintering with the force of the

impact. Wren’s blade buried itself in the bristling chest, sliding

in smoothly. The creature jerked up and back, and for the first

time made a sound. It shrieked, the cry of a woman in pain.

Then it wheeled sharply and launched itself at Wren, bearing

her down. It was enormously strong. Wren tumbled back, kick-

ing up with her feet as she struggled to keep the hooked teeth

from tearing her face. The wolf thing’s momentum saved her,

carrying it head over heels into the darkness. Wren scrambled

to her feet. The long knife was gone, still buried in the beast’s

body. Garth’s staff was ruined. He was already gripping a short

sword.

      The wolf thing came back into the light. It moved without

pain, without effort, teeth bared in a terrifying grin.

      The wolf thing.

      The Shadowen.

      Wren knew suddenly that they would not be able to kill it-

that it was going to kill them.

      She backed quickly to stand with Garth, frantic now, fight-

ing to keep her reason. He withdrew his long knife and passed

it to her. She could hear the ragged sound of his breathing. She

could not bring herself to look at him.

      The Shadowen came for them, hurtling forward in a rush.

It shifted at the last instant toward Garth. The big Rover met

its rush and turned it, but the force of the attack knocked him

from his feet. Instantly the Shadowen was on him, snarling.

Garth forced the sword between them, holding the wolf jaws

back. Garth was stronger than any man Wren had ever known.

But not stronger than this monster. Already she could see him

weakening.

      Garth!

      She launched herself at the wolf thing, slamming the long

knife into its body. It did not seem to notice. She clutched at

the beast, struggling to dislodge it. Beneath, she could glimpse

Garth’s dark face, sweat stained and rigid. She screamed in fury.

      Then the Shadowen shook itself, and she was thrown clear.

She sprawled in a heap, weaponless, helpless. She hauled herself

to her knees, aware suddenly that she was burning from the

heat of the fire. The burning was intense-how long had it been

there?-centered in her chest. She clawed at herself, thinking

she had caught fire somehow. No, there were no flames, she

realized, nothing at all except .

      Her fingers flinched as they found the little leather bag with

its painted rocks. The burning was there!

      She yanked the bag free and almost without thinking about

what she was doing poured the rocks into her palm.

      Instantly they exploded into light, dazzling, terrifying. She

found that she could not release them. The paint covering the

rocks disappeared, and the rocks became . . . She could not

bring herself to think the word, and there was no time for think-

ing in any case. The light flared and gathered like a living thing.

From across the clearing, she saw the Shadowen’s wolfish head

jerk up. She saw the glitter of its eyes. She and Garth might

still have a chance to survive, if . .

      She acted out of instinct, sending the light hurtling ahead

with only a thought. It launched itself with frightening speed

and hammered into the Shadowen. The wolf creature was flung

away from Garth, twisting and shrieking. The light wrapped it

about, fire everywhere, burning, consuming. Wren held her

hand forth, commanding the fire. The magic terrified her, but

she forced her terror down. Power coursed through her, dark

and exhilarating, both at once. The Shadowen fought back,

wrestling with the light, fighting to break free. It could not.

Wren howled triumphantly as the Shadowen died, watching it

explode and turn to dust and disappear.

      Then the light disappeared as well, and she and Garth were

alone.

 

CHAPTER

4

 

REN WORKED SWIFTLY to bind Garth’s wounds. No

 bones were broken, but he had suffered a series of deep

 lacerations on his forearms and chest, and he was cut

and bruised from head to root. foot He lay back against tne

earth as she knelt above him applying the healing salves and

herbs that Rovers carried everywhere, his dark face calm. Iron

Garth. The great, muscular body flinched once or twice as she

cleaned and bandaged, stitched and bound, but that was all.

Nothing showed on his face or revealed in his eyes the trauma

and pain he had endured.

      Tears came to her eyes momentarily, and she bent her head

so he would not see. He was her closest friend, and she had

very nearly lost him.

      If not for the Elfstones .

      And they were Elfstones. Real Elfstones.

Don’t think about it!

      She concentrated harder on what she was doing, blocking

out her anxious, frightened thoughts. The signal fire burned on,

flames leaping at the darkness, and wood crackling as it disin-

tegrated with the heat. She labored in silence, yet she could

hear everything about her-the fire’s roar, the whistle of the

wind across the rocks, the lapping of waves against the shore,

the hum of insects far back in the valley, and the hiss of her

own breathing. It was as if all of the night sounds had been

magnified a hundredfold-as if she had been placed in a great,

empty canyon where even the smallest whisper had an echo.

      She finished with Garth and for a moment felt faint, a swarm

of images swimming before her eyes. She saw again the wolf

thing that was a Shadowen, all teeth and claws and bristling hair.

She saw Garth, locked in combat with the monster. She saw

herself as she rushed to help him, a vain attempt. She saw the

fire’s glow spread across them all like blood. She saw the Elf-

stones come to life, flaring with white light, with ancient power,

filling the night with their brilliance, lancing out and striking

the Shadowen, burning it as it struggled to break free

      She tried to rise and fell back. Garth caught her in his arms,

having risen somehow to his knees, and eased her to the ground.

He held her for a moment, cradled her as he might a child, and

she let him, her face buried against his body. Then she pushed

gently away, taking slow, deep breaths to steady herself. She

rose and moved over to their cloaks, retrieved them and

brought them back to where Garth waited. They wrapped

themselves against the night’s chill and sat staring at each other

wordlessly.

      Finally Wren lifted her hands and began to sign. Did you

know about the Elfstones? she asked.

      Garth’s gaze was steady. No.

      Not that they were real, not what they could do, nothing?

      No.

      She studied his face for a moment without moving. Then

she reached into her tunic and drew out the leather bag that

hung about her neck. She had slipped the Elfstones back inside

when she had gone to help Garth. She wondered if they had

transformed again, if they had returned to being the painted

rocks they once were. She even wondered if she had somehow

been mistaken in what she had seen. She turned the bag upside

down and shook it over her hand.

      Three bright blue stones tumbled free, painted rocks no

longer, but glittering Elfstones-the Elfstones that had been given

to Shea Ohmsford by Allanon over five hundred years ago and

had belonged to the Ohmsford family ever since. She stared at

them, entranced by their beauty, awed that she should be hold-

ing them. She shivered at the memory of their power.

      “Garth,” she whispered. She placed the Elfstones in her lap.

Her fingers moved. “You must know something. You must. I

was given into your care, Garth. The Elfstones were with me

even then. Tell me. Where did they really come from?”

      You already know. Your parents gave them to you.

      My parents. She felt a welling up of pain and frustration.

“Tell me about them. Everything. There are secrets, Garth.

There have always been secrets. I have to know now. Tell me.”

      Garth’s dark face was frozen as he hesitated, then signed to

her that her mother had been a Rover and that her father had

been an Ohmsford. They brought her to the Rovers when she

was a baby. He was told that the last thing they did before

leaving was to place the leather bag with its painted rocks about

her neck.

      “You did not see my mother. Or my father?”

      Garth shook his head. He was away when they came and

when he returned they were gone. They never came back. Wren

was taken to Shady Vale to be raised by Jaralan and Mirianna

Ohmsford. When she was five, the Rovers took her back again.

That was the agreement the Ohmsfords had made. It was what

her parents had insisted upon.

      “But why?” Wren interrupted, bewildered.

      Garth didn’t know. He had never even been told who had

made the bargain on behalf of the Rovers. She was given into

his care by one of the family elders, a man who had died shortly

after. No one had ever explained why he was to train her as he

did-only what was to be done. She was to be quicker, stronger,

smarter, and better able to survive than any of them. Garth was

to make her that way.

      Wren sat back in frustration. She already knew everything

that Garth was telling her. He had told it all to her before. Her

jaw tightened angrily. There must be something more, some-

thing that would give her some insight into where she had come

from and why she was carrying the Elfstones.

      “Garth,” she tried again, insistent now. “What is it that you

haven’t told me? Something about my mother? I dreamed of

her, you know. I saw her face. Tell me what you are hiding!”

      The big man was expressionless, but there was hurt in his

eyes. Wren almost reached out to reassure him, but her need

to know kept her from doing so. Garth stared at her for long

moments without responding. Then his fingers signed briefly.

      I can tell you nothing that you cannot see for yourself.

      She flinched. “What do you mean?”

      You have Elven features, Wren. More so than any Ohmsford. Why

do you think that is?

      She shook her head, unable to answer.

      His brow furrowed. It is because your parents were both Elves.

      Wren stared in disbelief. She had no memory at all of her

parents looking like Elves and she had always thought of herself

as simply a Rover girl.

      “How do you know this?” she asked, stunned.

      I was told by one who saw them. I was also told that it would be

dangerous for you to know.

      “Yet you choose to tell me now?”

      Garth shrugged, as much as if to say, What difference does

it make after what has happened? How much more danger can

you be in by knowing? Wren nodded. Her mother a Rover. Her

father an Ohmsford. But both of them Elves. How could that

be? Rovers weren’t Elves.

      “You’re sure about this?” she repeated. “Elves, not humans

with Elven blood, but Elves?”

      Garth nodded firmly and signed, It was made very clear.

      To everyone but her, she thought. How had her parents

come to be Elves? None of the Ohmsfords had been Elves, only

of Elven descent with some percentage of Elven blood. Did this

mean that her parents had lived with the Elves? Did it mean

that they had come from them and that this was why Allanon

had sent her in search of the Elves, because she herself was one?

      She looked away, momentarily overwhelmed by the impli-

cations. She saw her mother’s face again as she had seen it in

her dream-a girl’s face, of the race of Man, not Elf. That part

of her that was Elf, those more distinctive features, had not been

evident. Or had she simply missed seeing them? What about

her father? Funny, she thought. He had never seemed very im-

portant in her musings of what might have been, never as real,

and she had no idea why. He was faceless to her. He was invis-

ible.

      She looked back again. Garth was waiting patiently. “You

did not know that the painted rocks were Elfstones?” she asked

one final time. “You knew nothing of what they were?”

      Nothing.

      What if she had discarded them? she asked herself peevishly.

What then of her parent’s plans-whatever they were-for her?

But she knew the answer to that question. She would never have

given up the painted rocks, her only link to her past, all she had

to remind her of her parents. Had they relied on that? Why

had they given her the Elfstones in the first place? To protect

her? Against what? Shadowen? Something more? Something that

hadn’t even existed when she was born?

      “Why do you think I was given these Stones?” she asked

Garth, genuinely confused.

      Garth looked down a moment, then up again. His great body

shifted. He signed. Perhaps to protect you in your search for the Elves.

      Wren stared, blank faced. She had not considered that pos-

sibility. But how could her parents have known she would go

in search of the Elves? Or had they simply known she would

one day seek out her own heritage, that she would insist on

knowing where she had come from and who her people were?

      “Garth, I don’t understand,” she confessed to him. “What is

this all about?”

      But the big man simply shook his head and looked sad.

      They kept watch together through the night, one dozing

while the other stayed awake, until finally dawn’s light bright-

ened the eastern skies. Then Garth fell asleep until noon, his

strength exhausted. Wren cat staring out at the vast expanse of

the Blue Divide, pondering the implications behind her discov-

ery of the Elfstones. They were the Elfstones of Shea Ohmsford

she decided. She had heard them described often enough, lis-

tened to stories of their history. They belonged to whomever

they were given and they had been given to the Ohmsford fam-

ily-and then lost again, supposedly. But perhaps not. Perhaps

they had been simply taken away at some point. It was possible.

There had been many Ohmsfords after Brin and Jair and three

hundred years in which to lose track of the magic-even a magic

as personal and powerful as the Elfstones. There had been a time

when no one could use them, she reminded herself. Only those

with sufficient Elven blood could invoke the magic with impu-

nity. Wil Ohmsford had been damaged that way. His use of the

Stones had caused him to absorb some of their magic. When

his children were born, Brin and Jair, the magic had transformed

itself into the wishsong. So perhaps one of the Ohmsfords had

decided to take the Elfstones back to those who could use them

safely-to the Elves. Was that how they had found their way to

her parents?

      The questions persisted, overwhelming, insistent, and unan-

swerable. What was it that Cogline had said to her when he had

found her that first time in the Tirfing and persuaded her to

come with him to the Hadeshorn to meet with Allanon? It is not

nearly so important to know who you are as who you might be. She was

beginning to see how that might be true in a way she had never

envisioned.

      Garth rose at noon and ate the vegetable stew and fresh

bread she had prepared. He was stiff and sore, and his strength

had not yet returned. Nevertheless, he thought it necessary that

he make a sweep of the area to make certain that there wasn’t

another of the wolf things about. Wren had not considered the

possibility. Both of them had recognized their attacker as a

Shadowen-a thing once human that had become part beast, a

thing that could track and hunt, that could hide and stalk, and

that could think as well as they and kill without compunction.

No wonder it had tracked them so easily. She had assumed it

had come alone. It was an assumption she could not afford to

make. She told Garth that she was the one who would go. She

was better suited at the moment than he, and she had the Elf-

stones. She would be protected.

      She did not tell him how frightened she was of the Elven

magic or how difficult she would find it if she were required to

invoke it again.

      As she backtracked the country south and east, searching

for prints, for signs, or for anything out of place, relying mostly

on her instincts to warn her of any danger, she thought about

what it meant to be in possession of such magic. She remem-

bered when Par had kidded her about the dreams, saying that

she had the same Elven blood as he and perhaps some part

of the magic. She had laughed. She had only her painted rocks,

she had said. She remembered the Addershag’s touch at her

breast where the Elfstones hung in their leather bag and the

unbidden cry of “Magic!” She hadn’t even thought of the painted

rocks that time. All her life she had known of the Ohmsford

legacy, of the magic that had belonged to them as the descen-

dants of the Elven house of Shannara. Yet she had never thought

to have use of the magic herself, never even desired it. Now it

was hers as the Elfstones were hers, and what was she to do

about it? She did not want the responsibility of the Stones or

their magic. She wanted nothing of the legacy. The legacy was

a millstone that would drag her down. She was a Rover, born

and raised free, and that was what she knew and was comfort-

able with being-not any of this other. She had accepted her

Elven looks without questioning what they might imply. They

were part of her, but a lesser part, and nothing at all of the

Rover she was. She felt as if she had been turned inside out by

the discovery of the Elfstones, as if the magic by coming into

her life was somehow taking life out of her and making her over.

She did not like the feeling. She was not anxious to be changed

into someone other than who she was.

      She pondered her discomfort all that day and had not come

close to resolving it on her return to the camp. The signal fire

was a guiding beacon, and she followed its glow to where Garth

waited. He was anxious for her-she could see it in his eyes.

But he said nothing, passing her food and drink and sitting back

quietly to watch her eat. She told him she had not found any

trace of other Shadowen. She did not tell him that she was

beginning to have second thoughts about this whole business.

She had asked herself once before, once right at the beginning

when she had decided she would try to learn something about

who she was, What would happen if she did not like what she

discovered? She had dismissed the possibility. She was worried

now that she had made a very big mistake.

      The second night passed without incident. They kept the

signal fire burning steadily, feeding it new wood as the old was

consumed, patiently waiting. Another day began and ended, and

still no one appeared. They searched the skies and the land from

horizon to horizon, but there was no sign of anyone. By night-

fall, both were edgy. Garth, his superficial wounds already

healed and the deeper ones beginning to close, prowled the

campsite like a caged animal, repeating meaningless tasks to keep

from having to sit. Wren sat to keep from prowling. They slept

as often as they could, resting themselves because they needed

to and because it was something to do. Wren found herself

doubting the Addershag, questioning the old woman’s words.

How long had the Addershag been a captive of those men,

chained and imprisoned in that cellar? Perhaps her memory had

failed her in some way. Perhaps she had become confused. But

she had not sounded feeble or confused. She had sounded dan-

gerous. And what about the Shadowen that had tracked them

the length and breadth of the Westland? All those weeks it had

kept hidden, following at a distance. It had shown itself only

after the signal fire had been lit. Then it had come forth to

destroy them. Wasn’t it reasonable to assume that its appearance

had been brought about by what it was seeing them do, that it

believed the signal fire posed some sort of threat and so must

be stopped? Why else would it have chosen that moment to

strike?

      So don’t give up, Wren kept telling herself, the words a litany

of hope to keep her confidence from failing completely. Don’t

give up.

      The third night dragged away, minutes into hours. They

changed the watch frequently because by now neither could

sleep for more than a short time without waking. More often

than not they kept watch together-uneasy, anxious, worried.

They fed deadwood into the flames and watched the fire dance

against the night. They stared out over the black void above

the Blue Divide. They sifted through the night sounds and their

scattered thoughts.

      Nothing happened. No one came.

      It was nearing morning when Wren dozed off in spite of

herself, some time during the final hour of her watch. She was

still sitting up, her legs crossed, her arms about her knees, and

her head dipped forward. It seemed only moments had passed

when she jerked awake again. She glanced about warily. Garth

was asleep a few feet away, wrapped in his great cloak. The fire

continued to burn fiercely. The land was cloaked in a frost-

tipped blanket of shadows and half-light, the sunrise no more

than a faint silver lightening at the rim of the mountains east. A

scattering of stars still brightened the sky west, although the

moon had long since disappeared. Wren yawned and stood up.

Clouds were moving in from out on the ocean, low-hanging,

dark .

      She started. She was seeing something else, she realized,

something blacker and swifter, moving out of the darkness for

the bluffs, streaking directly for her. She blinked to make cer-

tain, then stepped back hurriedly and reached down for Garth.

The big Rover was on his feet at once. Together they faced out

across the Divide, watching the black thing take shape. It was a

Roc, they realized after a few seconds more, winging its way

toward the fire like a moth drawn by the flames. It swept across

the bluff and wheeled back again, its outline barely visible in

the faint light. It flew over them twice, turning each time, cross-

ing and recrossing as if studying what lay below. Wren and

Garth watched wordlessly, unable to do anything else.

      Finally, the Roc plummeted toward them, its massive body

whistling overhead, so close it might have snatched them up

with its great claws if it had wished. Wren and Garth flattened

themselves against the rocks protectively and stared as the bird

settled comfortably down at the edge of the cliffs, a giant, black-

bodied creature with a head as scarlet as fire and wings greater

than those on the bird that Wren had barely escaped days ear-

lier.

      Wren and Garth climbed back to their feet and brushed

themselves off.

      There was a man seated astride the Roc, held in place by

straps from a leather harness. They watched as the man released

the straps and slid smoothly to the ground. He stood next to

the bird and studied them momentarily, then started forward.

He was small and bent, wearing a tunic, pants, boots, and gloves

made of leather. He walked with an oddly rolling gait, as if not

altogether comfortable with the task. His features were Elven,

narrow and sharp, and his face was deeply lined. He wore no

beard, and his brown hair was short cropped and peppered with

gray. Fierce black eyes blinked at them with alarming rapidity.

      He came to a stop when he was a dozen feet away.

      “Did you light that fire?” he demanded. His voice was high-

pitched and rough about the edges.

      “Yes,” Wren answered him.

      “Why did you do that?”

      “Because I was told to.”

      “Were you now? By whom, if you don’t mind my asking?”

      “I don’t mind at all. I was told to light it by the Addershag.”

      The eyes blinked twice as fast. “By the what?”

      “An old woman, a seer I spoke with in Grimpen Ward. She

is called the Addershag.”

      The little man grunted. “Grimpen Ward. Ugh! No one in

his right mind goes there.” His mouth tightened. “Well, why did

this Addershag tell you to light the fire, eh?”

      Wren sighed impatiently. She had waited three days for

someone to come and she was anxious to discover if this gnarled

little fellow was the person she had been expecting or not. “Let

me ask you something first,” she replied. “Do you have a name?”

      The frown deepened. “I might. Why don’t you tell me yours

first?”

      Wren put her hands on her hips challengingly. “My name is

Wren Ohmsford. This is my friend Garth. We’re Rovers.”

      “Hah, is that so now? Rovers, are you?” The little man

chuckled as if enjoying some private joke. “Got a bit of Elf in

you, too, it looks.”

      “Got a bit in you as well,” she replied. “What’s your name?”

      “Tiger Ty,” the other said. “At least, that’s what everyone

calls me. All right now, Miss Wren. We’ve introduced ourselves

and said hello. What are you doing out here, Addershag and

what-all notwithstanding? Why’d you light that fire?”

      Wren smiled. “Maybe to bring you and your bird, if you’re

the one who can take us to the Elves.”

      Tiger Ty grunted and spit. “That bird is a Roc, Miss Wren.

He’s called Spirit. Best of them all, he is. And there aren’t any

Elves. Everyone knows that.”

      Wren nodded. “Not everyone. Some think there are Elves.

I’ve been sent to see if that’s so. Can you and Spirit help?”

      There was a long silence as Tiger Ty scrunched his face into

a dozen different expressions. “Big fellow, your friend Garth,

isn’t he? I see you telling him what we’re saying with your

hands. Bet he hears better than we do, push come to shove.”

He paused. “Who are you, Miss Wren, that you would care to

know whether there are Elves or not?”

      She told him, certain now that he was the one for whom

the signal fire was intended and that he was simply being cau-

tious about what he revealed until he found out whom he was

dealing with. She disclosed her background, revealing that she

was the child of an Elf and a Rover, searching for some link to

her past. She advised him of her meeting with the shade of

Allanon and the Druid’s charge that she go in search of the

missing Elves, that she discover what had become of them, and

that she return them to the world of Men so that they could

take part in the battle against the Shadowen.

      She kept quiet about the Elfstones. She was not yet ready

to trust anyone with that information.

      Tiger Ty shifted and fidgeted as she talked, his face worrying

itself into a dozen different expressions. He seemed heedless of

Garth, his attention focused on Wren. He carried no weapons

save for a long knife, but with Spirit standing watch she sup-

posed he had no need of weapons. The Roc was clearly his

protector.

      “Let’s sit,” Tiger Ty said when she had finished, pulling off

his leather gloves. “Got anything to eat?”

      They seated themselves beside the now-forgotten signal fire,

and Wren produced a collection of dried fruit, a little bread,

and some ale. They ate and drank in silence, Wren and Garth

exchanging occasional glances, Tiger Ty ignoring them both,

absorbed in the task of eating.

      When they were finished, Tiger Ty smiled for the first time.

“A good start to the day, Miss Wren. Thanks very much.”

      Wren nodded. “You’re welcome. Now tell me. Was our fire

meant for you?”

      The leathery face furrowed. “Well, now. Depends, you

know. Let me ask you, Miss Wren. Do you know anything of

Wing Riders?”

      Wren shook her head no.

      “Because that’s what I am, you see,” the other explained. “A

Wing Rider. A flyer of the skylanes, a watcher of the Westland

coast. Spirit is my Roc, trained by my father, given to me when

I became old enough. One day he’ll go to my son, if my son

Proves out. There’s some question about it just now. Fool boy

keeps winging about where he’s not supposed to. Doesn’t pay

attention to what I tell him. Impetuous. Anyway, Wing Riders

have flown their Rocs along the Blue Divide for hundreds of

years. This very spot, right here-and back there in the valley-

was our home once. It was called the Wing Hove. That was in

the time of the Druid Allanon. You see, I know a few things.”

      “Do you know the Ohmsford name?” Wren asked impul-

sively.

      “There was a tale about an Ohmsford some several hundred

years ago when the Elves fought demons released out of the

Forbidding. Wing Riders fought in that war, too, they say. But

there was an Ohmsford, I’m told. Relation of yours?”

      “Yes,” she said. “Twelve generations removed.”

      He nodded thoughtfully. “So that’s you, is it? A child of the

house of Shannara?”

      Wren nodded. “I suppose that’s why I’ve been sent to find

the Elves, Tiger Ty.”

      Tiger Ty looked doubtful. “Wing Riders are Elves, you

know,” he said carefully. “But we’re not the Elves you’re looking

for. The Elves you’re looking for are Land Elves, not Sky Elves.

Do you understand the difference?”

      She shook her head no once more. He explained then that

the members of the Wing Hove were Sky Elves and considered

themselves a separate people. The majority of the Elves were

called Land Elves because they had no command of the Rocs

and therefore could not fly.

      “That’s why they didn’t take us with them when they left,”

he finished, eyebrows arched. “That’s why we wouldn’t have

gone with them in any case.”

      Wren felt her pulse quicken. “Then there are still Elves,

aren’t there? Where are they, Tiger Ty?”

      The gnarled little man blinked and squinched up his leathery

face. “Don’t know if I should tell you that,” he opined. “Don’t

know if I should tell you anything. You might be who you say.

Then again, you might not. Even if you are, maybe it’s not for

you to know about the Elves. The Druid Allanon sent you, you

say? Told you to find the Elves and bring them back? Tall order,

if you ask me.”

      “I could use a little help,” Wren admitted. “What would it

hurt you to give it to me, Tiger Ty?”

      He ceased his ruminations and rocked back thoughtfully.

“Well, now, you’ve got a point there, Miss Wren,” he replied,

nodding in agreement with himself. “Besides, I sort of like what

I see in you. My son could use a little of what you’ve got. On

the other hand, maybe that’s what he’s already got too much of!

Humph!”

      He cocked his head and his sharp eyes fixed her. “Out there,”

he said, pointing to the Blue Divide. “That’s where they are, the

ones that are left.” He paused, scowling. “It’s a long story, so

make certain you listen close because I don’t intend to repeat

myself. You, too, big fellow.” He indicated Garth with a men-

acing finger.

      Then he took a deep breath and sat back. “Long time ago,

better than a hundred years, the Land Elves held a council and

decided to migrate out of the Westland. Don’t ask me why; I

don’t pretend to know. The Federation, mostly, I’d guess. Push-

ing in, taking over, pretending everything that ever was or ever

would be belonged to them. And blaming everything on the

magic and saying it was all the fault of the Elves. Lot of non-

sense. Land Elves didn’t like it in any case and decided to leave.

Problem was, where could they go? Wasn’t as if there was any-

where a whole people could move to without upsetting someone

already settled in. Eastland, Southland, Northland-all taken. So

they asked us. Sky Elves get around more than most, see places

others don’t even know exist. So we said to them, well, there’s

some islands out there in the Blue Divide that no one lives on,

and they thought it over, talked about it, took a few flights out

on the Rocs with Wing Riders, and came to a decision. They

picked a gathering spot, built boats-hundreds of them, all in

secret-and off they went.”

      “All of them?”

      “Every last one, so I’m told. Sailed away.”

      “To live on the islands?” Wren asked, incredulous.

      One island.” Tiger Ty held up a single finger for emphasis.

Morrowi ndl.”

      “That was its name? Morrowindl?”

      The other nodded. “Biggest of all the islands, better than

two hundred miles across, ideal for farming, something like the

Sarandanon already planted. Fruits, vegetables, trees, good soil,

Shelter-everything. Hunting was good, too. The Land Elves

had some notion about starting over, taking themselves out of

the old world, and beginning again in the new. Isolate them-

selves all over again, let the other races do what they wanted

with themselves. Wanted their magic back, too-that was part

of it.”

      He cleared his throat. “As I said, that was a long time ago.

After a while, we migrated, too. Not so far, you understand

just to the islands offshore, just far enough away to keep the

Federation from hunting us. Elves are Elves to them. We’d had

enough of that kind of thinking. Not so many of us to make the

move, of course; not like the Land Elves. We needed less space

and could settle for the smaller islands. That’s where we still are,

Miss Wren. Out there, couple miles offshore. Only come back

to the mainland when it’s necessary-like when someone lights

a signal fire. That was the agreement we made.”

      “Agreement with whom?”

      “With the Land Elves. A few who remained behind of the

other races knew to light the fire if there was need to talk to

us. And a few of the Elves came back over the years. So some

knew about the fire. But most have long since died. This Ad-

dershag-I don’t know how she found out.”

      “Back up a moment, Tiger Ty,” Wren requested, holding out

her hands placatingly. “Finish your story about the Land Elves

first. What happened to them? You said they migrated more

than a hundred years ago. What became of them after that?”

      Tiger Ty shrugged. “They settled in, made a home, raised

their families, and were happy. Everything worked out the

way they thought it would at first. Then about twenty years

ago, they started having trouble. It was hard to tell what the

problem was; they wouldn’t discuss it with us. We only saw

them now and again, you see. Still didn’t mix much, even after

we’d migrated out, too. Anyway, everything on Morrowindl be-

gan to change. It started with Killeshan, the volcano. Dormant

for hundreds of years and suddenly it came awake again. Started

smoking, spitting, erupted once or twice. Clouds of vog-you

know, volcanic ash-started filling the skies. The air, the land,

the water about-it was all different.” He paused, a hard look

darkening his face. “They changed, too-the Land Elves.

Wouldn’t admit it, but we saw that something was different. You

could see it in the way they behaved when we were about-

guarded, secretive about everything. Armed to the teeth every-

where they went. And strange creatures began appearing on the

island, monstrous things, things that had never been there be-

fore. Just appeared, just out of nothing. And the land began to

grow sick, changing like everything else.”

      He sighed. “The Land Elves began to die off then, a few at

a time, more after a while. They had lived all over the island

once; they quit doing that and moved into their city, all jammed

together like rats in a sinking ship. They built fortifications and

reinforced them with magic. Old magic, you know, brought

back out of time and the old ways. Sky Elves want nothing to

do with it, but we’ve never used the magic anyway like them.”

      He sat back. “Ten years ago, they disappeared completely.”

      Wren started. “Disappeared?”

      “Vanished. Still on Morrowindl, mind. But gone. Island was

a mass of ash and mist and steamy heat by then, of course.

Changed so completely it might have been a different place

entirely.” He tightened his frown. “We couldn’t get in to find

out what had happened. Sent half a dozen Wing Riders. Not a

one came back. Not even the birds. And no one came out. No

one, Miss Wren. Not in all that time.”

      Wren was silent for a moment, thinking. The sun was up

now, warm light cascading down from atop the Irrybis, the

cloudless morning sky bright and friendly. Spirit remained

perched on the cliff edge, oblivious to them. The Roc was a

statue frozen in place. Only his sharp, searching eyes registered

life.

      “So if there are any Elves left,” Wren said finally, “any Land

Elves, that is, they’re still on Morrowindl somewhere. You’re

sure about that, Tiger Ty?”

      The Wing Rider shrugged. “Sure as I can be. I suppose they

could have disappeared to somewhere else, but it’s odd that they

didn’t get word to us.”

      Wren took a deep breath. “Can you take us to Morrowindl?”

she asked.

      It was an impulsive request, born out of a fierce and quixotic

determination to discover a truth that was apparently hidden

not only from herself but from everyone else as well. She rec

ognized how selfish she was being. She had not even considered

asking Garth for his thoughts; she had not even bothered to

remember how badly he had been injured in their fight with

the Shadowen. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him now.

She kept her eyes fastened on Tiger Ty.

      There was no mistaking what he thought of the idea. The

little man scowled fiercely. “I could take you to Morrowindl,” he

said. “But I won’t.”

      “I have to know if there are any Elves left,” she insisted,

trying to keep her voice level. Now she risked a quick glance

at Garth. The big Rover’s face registered nothing of what he

was thinking. “I have to discover if they can be brought back

into the world of Men. It was Allanon’s charge to me, and I

guess I believe it important enough to carry it out.”

      “Allanon, again!” Tiger Ty snapped irritably. “You’d risk your

life on the word of a shade? Do you have any idea what Mor-

rowindl is like? No, of course you don’t! Why do I even ask?

You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? You think you can just

walk in and look around and walk out again? Well, you can’t!

You wouldn’t get twenty feet, Miss Wren you or your big

friend! That whole island is a death trap! Swamp and jungle,

vog choking off everything, Killeshan spitting fire. And the

things that live there, the monsters? What sort of chance do

you think you’ll have against them? If a Wing Rider and his Roc

couldn’t land and come out again, you sure as demon’s blood

can’t either!”

      “Maybe,” Wren agreed. “But I have to try.” She glanced again

at Garth, who signed briefly, not a rebuke, but a caution. Are

you certain about this? She nodded resolutely, saying to Tiger Ty

“Don’t you want to know what’s happened to them? What if

they need help?”

      “What if they do?” he growled. “What are the Sky Elves

supposed to do? There’s only a handful of us. There were thou-

sands of them. If they couldn’t deal with what’s there, what

chance would we have? Or you, Miss Rescuer?”

      “Will you take us?” she repeated.

      “No, I will not! Forget the whole business!” He rose in a

huff.

      “Very well. Then we’ll build a boat and reach Morrowindl

that way.”

      “Build a boat! What do you know about building boats! Or

sailing them for that matter!” Tiger Ty was incensed. “Of all the

foolish, pigheaded . .

      He stormed off toward Spirit, then stopped, kicked at the

earth, wheeled, and came back again. His seamed face was crim-

son, his hands knotted into fists.

      “You mean to do this thing, don’t you?” he demanded.

“Whether I help you or not?”

      “I have to,” she answered calmly.

      “But you’re just . . . You’re only . . .” He sputtered, seem-

ingly unable to complete the thought.

      She knew what he was trying to say and she didn’t like it.

“I’m stronger than you think,” she told him, a hard edge to her

voice now. “I’m not afraid.”

      Tiger Ty stared long and hard at her, glanced briefly at

Garth, and threw up his hands. “All right, then!” He leveled a

scorching glare at her. “I’ll take you! Just to the shoreline, mind,

because unlike you I’m good and scared and I don’t fancy risking

my neck or Spirit’s just to satisfy your curiosity!”

      She met his gaze coolly. “This doesn’t have anything to do

with satisfying my curiosity, Tiger Ty. You know that.”

      He dropped down in front of her, his sun-browned face only

inches from her own. “Maybe. But you listen. I want your prom-

ise that after you see what you’re up against, you’ll rethink this

whole business. Because despite the fact that you’re a bit short

of common sense, I kind of like you and I’d hate to see anything

bad happen to you. This isn’t going to turn out the way you

think. You’ll see that soon enough. So you promise me. Agreed?”

      Wren nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

      Tiger Ty stood up, hands on hips, defiant to the end. “Come

on, then,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

CHAPTER

5

 

 TIGER TY WAS ANXIOUS to be off, but he was forced to

wait almost an hour while Wren and Garth went back

down into the valley to gather up the gear and weapons

they would carry with them on their journey and to

provide for their horses. The horses were tethered, and Garth

released them so that they could graze and drink as they needed.

The valley provided grass and water enough on which to sur-

vive, and the horses were trained not to wander. Wren sorted

through their provisions, choosing what they would need and

be able to carry. Most of their supplies were too cumbersome,

and she stashed them for when they returned.

      If they returned, she thought darkly.

      What had she done? Her mind spun with the enormity of the

commitment she was making, and she was forced to wonder, if

only in the privacy of her own thoughts, whether she would

have cause to regret her brashness.

      When they regained the cliffs, Tiger Ty was waiting impa-

tiently. Bidding Spirit to stand, he helped Wren and Garth climb

atop the giant bird and fasten themselves in place with the straps

of the harness. There were foot loops, knotted hand grips, and

a waist restraint, all designed to keep them safely in place. The

Wing Rider spent long moments telling them how the Roc would

react once in flight and how flying would make them feel. He

gave them each a bit of bitter-tasting root to chew on, advising

that it would keep them from being sick.

      “Not that a couple of seasoned veterans of the Rover life

should be bothered by any of this,” he chided, managing a grin

that was worse than his scowl.

      He clambered aboard in front of them, settled himself com-

fortably, pulled on his heavy gloves, and without warning gave

a shout and whacked Spirit on the neck The giant bird shrieked

in response, spread his wings, and lifted into the air. They

cleared the edge of the cliffs, dipped sharply downward, caught

a current of wind, and rose skyward. Wren felt her stomach

lurch. She closed her eyes against what she was feeling, then

opened them again, aware that Tiger Ty was looking over his

shoulder at her, chuckling. She smiled back bravely. Spirit flat-

tened out above the Blue Divide, wings barely moving, letting

the wind do the work. The coastline behind them grew small,

then lost definition. Soon it was nothing more than a thin dark

line against the horizon.

      Time slipped away. They saw nothing below them save for

a scattering of rocky atolls and the occasional splash of a large

fish. Seabirds wheeled and dived in small white flashes, and

clouds lay along the western horizon like strips of gauze. The

ocean stretched away, a vast, flat blue surface streaked with the

foaming crests of waves that rolled endlessly toward distant

shores. After a time Wren was able to dismiss her initial uneas-

iness and settle back. Garth was less successful in adjusting. He

was seated immediately behind her, and whenever she glanced

back at him she found his dark face rigid and his hands clutched

about the restraining straps. Wren quit looking at him and con-

centrated on the sweep of the ocean ahead.

      She soon began thinking about Morrowindl and the Elves.

Tiger Ty did not seem the sort to exaggerate the danger she

faced if she persisted in trying to penetrate the island. It was

true enough that she was determined to discover what had be-

come of the Elves; it was also true that her discovery would

serve little purpose if she didn’t survive to do something about

It. And what exactly did she expect to do? Suppose the Elves

Were still there on Morrowindl? Suppose they were alive? If no

one had gotten in or out in ten years, how was her appearance

going to change anything? Why, whatever their present circum

stances, would the Elves even consider what Allanon had sent

her to propose-that they abandon life outside the Four Lands

and return?

      She had no answers to these questions, of course. It was

pointless to try to find any. She had made her decisions up to

now based strictly on instinct-to search for the Elves in the

first place, to seek out the Addershag in Grimpen Ward and

then to follow her directions, to persuade Tiger Ty to convey

them to Morrowindl. She could not help but wonder if her

instincts had misled her. Garth had stayed with her, virtually

without argument, but Garth could be doing so out of loyalty

or friendship. He might have resolved to see this matter through,

but that didn’t mean he had any better sense of what they were

about than she did. She scanned the empty expanse of the Blue

Divide, feeling small and vulnerable. Morrowindl was an island

in the middle of the ocean, a tiny speck of earth amid all that

water. Once she and Garth were there, they would be isolated

from everything familiar. There would be no way off again with-

out the aid of a Roc or a boat, nor was it certain there would

be anyone on the island who could help them. There might no

longer be any Elves. There might be only the monsters .

      Monsters. She considered for a moment the question of what

sort of monsters were there. Tiger Ty had failed to say. Were

they as dangerous as the Shadowen? If so, then that would ex-

plain why the Elves had disappeared. Enough of these monsters

could have trapped them, she supposed, or even destroyed them.

But how had the Elves let such a thing happen? And if the

monsters hadn’t trapped them, then why did the Elves still re-

main on Morrowindl? Why hadn’t even one of them escaped to

seek help?