by Terry Brooks
“Neither,” Pan answered, a flush rising from his neck to his face. “I knew the two that were killed. They were Trackers, too. But I don’t think what did it is anything we’ve ever seen before. So I thought we ought to get a look so we would know what it is that we’re hunting later on when there are more of us.”
The speaker was quiet for a moment. “You must be pretty good at the Tracker business. The girl, too. I had trouble following your prints where there wasn’t snow to mark the way. Even then, it was easier following the tracks of the creatures than your own.”
He had shifted somehow while he talked, gone more to the left. Pan could tell this by the change in the direction of his voice. But he hadn’t heard the other move at all, not a single rustle. He studied the swamp again, and then cast another glance over at Prue.
To his horror, he saw that she had left her position and was coming toward him in a stealthy crouch.
“Tell her to stop!” the speaker hissed.
But Prue ignored his hand signals, seeing something now that he couldn’t, which meant that the speaker had done something to give himself away and she was now aware of him.
“Can you fight as well as you track?” the speaker asked hurriedly.
A sword was shoved over Panterra’s shoulder, handle-first. “Take this. You’ll need it if you hope to stay alive. Don’t engage—just fend it off, keep it at bay. I’ll help you if I can, but the girl will need me more.”
“What are we fight—” Pan started to ask.
The rest of his question was cut short by an explosion of movement from two different points at the edges of the swamp, one directly across from him, the other from his far left no more than fifty feet behind Prue. The brush and grasses burst apart, stagnant water geysered skyward into the low-hanging branches of the trees, and two monstrous apparitions came charging out of the gloom. They were down on all fours now, great hulking beasts that were barely visible through the gouts of swamp water and flying bits and pieces of plants and might have been almost anything.
Pan came to his feet, bracing himself. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a gray shadow as it whipped through the grasses behind him, heading for Prue. A man, but so quick and light on his feet that it seemed to the boy he must be an apparition. He reached Prue ahead of the attacking beast, picked her up in one smooth motion, and bolted toward a huge old cedar. A second later he had tossed the girl ten feet into the air, her outstretched arms catching hold of a nest of thick branches from which she then hung desperately.
Pan liked the idea of a big tree, not wishing to climb it so much as to put it between himself and the monster that was now almost on top of him, tearing through the swamp as if it could sense where there was solid footing. Its head was wedge-shaped and armored with thick scales, and its maw was a mass of blackened teeth ready to rend its quarry. Pan fled at once, racing for a second cedar, aware of the closeness of the thing behind him. It moved more quickly than something that big should have been able to, and it was terrifying. Pan got to the tree just ahead of the beast, wheeled around, and struck the creature as its momentum carried it past him.
It was like striking a rock. His blade bounced off without effect, and the force of the blow numbed his arms all the way from his hands to his shoulders. He ducked back around the tree once more, watching the beast skid to a halt amid tufts of flying earth and grass. He needed a better plan than this one, he thought, and he didn’t have one.
Then the stranger was suddenly there once more, flashing out of nowhere to stand between the beast and Pan. He held a black staff with markings that glowed as white as brilliant sunlight. The armored monster never hesitated when it saw the man. It came at him at once, a juggernaut thundering through gloom and tall grasses with singular intent. The man faced it without trying to escape, the staff held vertically before him, its entire length on fire now.
Run! Pan wanted to scream, but the word wouldn’t come.
An instant later white fire erupted from the staff, lancing like a great, long spear into the attacker. It caught the creature just below its armored head, just inside one huge front shoulder. It picked the creature up as if it were a rag doll and threw it backward in a sprawling heap where it lay twitching and smoking.
Panterra stared in disbelief.
The man was moving again, vaulting through the foliage toward the second beast, not once looking back. Prue was under attack, the beast that had come around the swamp from the back trying to climb into the tree in which she perched. It reared up on its hind legs, becoming fully fifteen feet tall by doing so, and was clawing and tearing at the bark of the cedar, trying to reach the girl. Prue, realizing the danger, had climbed into the highest branches. But the tree was shaking and swaying so badly that she was in danger of being dislodged, and she wouldn’t last long if the beast succeeded in tearing the tree out by its roots.
Then her rescuer was there, the staff afire once more, whirling and twisting in his hands, a weapon of wild magic. He sent the white fire slamming into the beast, knocking it away from the tree, tumbling it head-over-heels into the dense foliage. The beast came back to its feet, shook itself, roared in fury, and struck anew.
When it attacked directly, Panterra saw, you couldn’t see much of anything past the armor of the head and shoulders. It was the creature’s main defense. But their rescuer seemed ready for this, and he let the beast almost reach him before dodging aside and avoiding its rush. It said something about his skills that Pan was unable to tell which way the man was going to jump until after he had done so. Apparently the beast was fooled as well, because it failed to change direction until it was too late.
Exposed now from the rear, it tried to turn back around to protect itself, its strange voice sounding like the rasp of metal on metal. But it was far too slow. The white fire lanced from the staff, caught it midstride and hammered it backward in a fresh explosion of power. The force of the blow knocked it off its solid footing on the forested ground and into the mire of the swamp. Thrashing amid the fouled waters, it tried to rise. But the stranger used the staff a final time, striking at the big head, pinning it down, keeping it submerged. The beast fought to rise again and again, but finally it could no longer manage to lift its head and sank.
The stranger turned back, and Panterra did the same, searching for the second beast. But it was gone. Pan would not have thought it possible, given the damage it had sustained, but somehow it had risen and lumbered off, finding its way back through the trees toward the upper slopes of the mountain, backtracking in the direction it had originally come.
Ignoring Panterra, the stranger walked over to the cedar and directed Prue down, lifting her gently off the lower branches when she reached them.
“It will try to go back the way it came,” he advised, nodding in the direction of the second creature.
“What are those things?” Prue asked, unable to suppress a shiver.
The man shook his head. “Beasts from another world, things we don’t yet have a name for. What are your names?”
Pan told him, adding that they were sorry they hadn’t been more careful in their efforts to track the creatures. He was seeing the man clearly for the first time, a tall, lean hunter wearing a strange combination of well-made boots and harness and clothes that were loose and tattered, the sleeves and pant legs ragged at the ends and the cloak shredded through. It lent him a ghostly appearance, even though his face was bearded, his black hair worn long, and his wind-burned, sun-browned skin as dusky as damp earth. He carried himself in a relaxed, easy fashion and seemed very much at ease, barely breathing hard even after his battle with the creatures. But his eyes never stopped moving, keeping watch.
“You’re Sider Ament,” Panterra said finally. “The one they call the Gray Man.”
The stranger nodded. “Have we met before? How do you know me?”
Pan shrugged, glancing at Prue. “I don’t know you. But we both know of you. We’ve heard the stories; Trow Ravenlock, who leads t
he Trackers of Glensk Wood, has told them to us. He described you. Especially that black staff. He says it was a talisman once. He says you are descended from the old Knights of the Word who served the Hawk.”
Sider Ament shook his head. “He says a lot of things about me, doesn’t he? For someone I’ve never met. I don’t know the truth of most of what you say. I’ve heard the stories, too. But no one asked me to whom I was related or any of that. I’m a hunter born, a wanderer by nature, and I was given this staff by the one who carried it before me on the day he died. Now you know more of the truth than Trow what’s-his-name and you can tell the stories better.”
He looked off into the distance in the direction of the fleeing creature. “I’m going to have to go after it. I can’t let it get out of the valley and let others know we’re here. But I guess there’s time enough for that when we’re done speaking. This is important, too.”
“Out of the valley?” Prue repeated, disbelief in her voice.
For the first time, the stranger smiled. “You are quick, little one. How is it you’re a Tracker, though? You seem very young and small for such work.” He glanced back at Panterra. “Even your protector seems a bit young, although at least he seems strong enough. And you both have some skills, that’s clear. Tell me about them. About yourselves.”
Ordinarily, neither would have told anyone anything unless they knew the person well enough to call him a friend. But the Gray Man’s reputation was such that it never even occurred to them not to reply. So Prue revealed the truth about their talents and how these had set them apart from the other members of the community since they were children. Pan listened without saying anything, vaguely uncertain about whether Prue was wise in revealing all this, but unwilling to intervene.
When she was done, Sider Ament nodded slowly. “There were others like you once,” he said. “Others who came into this valley back in the beginning.” He looked as if he might say more, then made a dismissive gesture. “But that’s the past, and the past can’t help us. It’s the present that matters, and you two seem capable enough of doing what’s needed in my absence. Will you agree to help me?”
“If we can,” Pan agreed carefully.
“Then go back to Glensk Wood and tell its council what’s happened. Describe everything. Leave nothing out. Make them understand that what you are telling them is no exaggeration. Tell them that these things are just the first of others that are coming. Tell them that—”
He stopped suddenly. “Well, tell them what I am about to tell you. You have to know first, and you have to believe what I’m going to tell you for this to work. Here, sit a moment.”
He took them over to a fallen log where they seated themselves. Sider Ament’s gray eyes held them pinned as he spoke.
“The world you know is ending, young ones. It isn’t happening in the way that the Children of the Hawk have foretold and that many others would like. There’s no return of the one who sealed us in here, no resurrection of the dead, and no turning back to what’s long past. The mists that have sealed the valley away and kept us safe are dissipating. Soon they will be gone entirely. The world outside, the one we left behind all those centuries ago, is going to come in to have a look around. Those creatures we just fought were only the first that will find their way here.”
He paused. “Actually, they aren’t even the first. There have been others before them. But they were less dangerous and did little real damage. They took a few wild creatures, a stray farm animal or two—that was it. Even then, I thought the mists would re-form and strengthen. But they didn’t and they won’t. I know that now. They will only continue to weaken.”
Panterra and Prue exchanged a quick glance. “We don’t believe as do the Seraphic sect,” Pan said. “We’re Trackers, and we believe in a world outside this valley. But we didn’t know about the mists. We didn’t know anything had changed.”
“No one does. Yet.” Sider Ament rocked back slightly, cradling the black staff in his arms. “But they need to. They need to prepare themselves. Not only for the emotional shock, but for the fighting, as well. There will be dangerous things out there in the wastelands of the old world. What was left behind was caught in a world of poisons and savagery, and only the worst and the strongest will have survived. It won’t be easy keeping them out.”
He paused. “Let’s be honest. We won’t be able to keep them out. Some will get through. Our chances for survival will depend on how few manage to do that.”
Neither Panterra nor Prue said anything for a moment. Then Prue shifted uncomfortably on the log. “They won’t believe us,” she said. “The members of the council, the members of the sect, the Seraphic, none of them.”
“Most won’t. But one or two will. Enough to nurture a seed of doubt that will start to grow in the others. There will be other incursions into the valley, other killings, and then more will believe. But we don’t want to wait on that. We have to start telling people now.”
“What about the Elves and Lizards and the others?” Pan asked quickly. “Especially the Elves. We know some of their Trackers and Hunters are already looking to finding a way to leave the valley. They just don’t know it’s possible yet. But they will be quicker to believe.”
The Gray Man nodded. “Then tell them. Or someone else from your village can. But I would think you would do the job best, if you can persuade your unit commander to let you.”
The boy and the girl exchanged a doubtful look. Trow Ravenlock was a member of the sect and not likely to receive their news with an open mind.
“We’ll do what we can,” Prue said quickly.
Sider Ament smiled for the second time. “That’s all I can ask. Spread the word, ask people to prepare.” He rose. “I must be going.”
Panterra and Prue stood up with him. “Will we see you again?” the girl asked.
“I imagine so.” The Gray Man stretched his lean frame and rolled his shoulders. “Once I’ve tracked down that other beast, I’ll come looking for you.” He paused. “It might take a while, though. If it goes through the mists. It came in that way, after all. I imagine it will try to go back out.”
“You haven’t been there yourself?” Panterra asked.
Sider Ament shook his head. “Not yet. No reason to go looking for trouble when it will find you all on its own. I was hoping, of course, that I wouldn’t have to go out at all, that a healing would take place. But it hasn’t, so now maybe I’ll have to go.”
He gave Pan an enigmatic smile. “Maybe all of us will.”
The boy’s throat tightened in response, and he tried to imagine just for a moment what that would mean. He could not.
Sider Ament stepped close to them. “Now you listen. You’re young, but you’re capable. I regret having to ask this of you, though sometimes life doesn’t give us the choices we might like. You have to do what needs doing here, but you can be careful about it. This is a dangerous time, and some of what’s dangerous about it might not come from the direction you’re looking, if you take my meaning.”
Pan nodded. He understood.
“So you watch out for each other and you do what’s right in this. Don’t doubt yourselves and don’t be turned aside from what’s needed. A lot is going to depend on how quickly people of all the Races come around to seeing the truth of things. You can help make that happen, and what you do might make all the difference.”
“We can do what’s needed,” Prue volunteered. “Can’t we, Pan?”
Panterra nodded. “We can.”
“I’ll tell you more about all this the next time we meet.” Sider Ament stepped away again. “One thing more. Remember what it felt like today, having one of those things bearing down on you like a landslide. Remember what it made you feel. That was real. And those things aren’t the worst of what’s waiting out there. I don’t know that for sure, you understand. But I feel it in my bones.”
He hefted the black staff and turned away. “Walk softly, Trackers, until we meet again.”
They watched him stride off into the trees, a tattered wraith wrapped in what might have been the trappings of the dead, sliding from trunk to trunk, silent as dust falling, until at last he was gone.
The woods were silent now, the swamp a vast graveyard of dead things, the air rank with their smells. Panterra took a deep breath and looked over at Prue. Her small face was set with that familiar determined look, and her green eyes were serious.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” she told him.
He nodded. “I know.”
“We have to think it through.”
“I know that, too.”
“Then we better get to it.”
FOUR
NEITHER PANTERRA NOR PRUE SPOKE UNTIL THEY had retraced their steps through the deep woods and were back in the relatively clear stretch below the snow line, and then they both began talking at once.
“I should have asked him about that staff …”
“He’s nothing like the stories we’ve heard …”
They stopped speaking and looked at each other, and then Prue said, “He doesn’t seem at all like the person in the stories.” She wrinkled her freckled nose. “What does that suggest?”
“That the stories are either mistaken or lies.” Pan walked with his eyes sweeping the woods along the lower slopes and the craggy rock along the upper. He didn’t intend to get caught off guard again, even if he supposed that the danger was past. “Or maybe some of each.”
“Trow told us most of them,” she said.
“Most, but not all. And the stories are always the same. The Gray Man is a wild man, a recluse living in the upper reaches of the valley, keeping apart from everyone. He wanders from this place to that, his clothes ragged and torn, his face haunted by memories that no one knows but him. He carries that black staff, a remnant of the old world, a talisman once, but an outdated symbol of something long since turned to dust. He scavenges to stay alive, and you don’t want him near your children because it is said he sometimes takes them and they are never seen again.”