by Terry Brooks
Pen was instantly furious, but he kept his tongue in check as he looked out again into the mist and gloom, thinking it through, weighing the Druid’s words. Slowly, he felt his anger soften.
“You’re right,” he admitted finally. “I don’t think I can save her. I don’t see how I can manage it. I’m not strong or talented enough. I don’t have magic like my father. I’m nothing special. I’m just ordinary.” He looked at the Druid. “What am I going to do if that isn’t enough?”
Ahren Elessedil pursed his lips. “I was your age when I sailed on the Jerle Shannara. Just a boy. My brother sent me because he was secretly hoping I wouldn’t come back. Ostensibly, I was sent to regain possession of the Elfstones, but mostly I was sent with the expectation that I would be killed. But I wasn’t, and when I found the Elfstones, I was able to use them. I didn’t think such a thing was possible. I ran from my first battle, so frightened I barely knew what I was doing. I hid until someone found me, someone who was able to tell me what I am telling you—that you will do your best and your best might surprise you.”
“But you just said you had the Elfstones to rely on. I don’t.”
“But you do have magic. Don’t underrate it. You don’t know how important it might turn out to be. But that isn’t what will make the difference when it matters. It is the strength of your heart. It is your determination.”
He leaned forward. “Remember this, Penderrin. You are the one who was chosen to save the Ard Rhys. That was not a mistake. The King of the Silver River sees the future better than anyone, better even than the shades of the Druids. He would not have come to you if you were not the right person to undertake this quest.”
Pen searched Ahren’s eyes uncertainly. “I wish I could believe that.”
“I wished the same thing twenty years ago. But you have to take it on faith. You have to believe that it will happen. You have to make it come true. No one can do it for you.”
Pen nodded. Words of wisdom, well meant, but he didn’t find them helpful. All he could think about was how ill equipped he was to rescue anyone from a place like the Forbidding.
“I still think it would have been better to send you,” he said quietly. “I still don’t understand why the King of the Silver River decided on me.”
“Because he knows more about you than you know yourself,” the Druid answered. He rose and stretched. “The watch is mine now. Go to sleep. You need to rest, to be ready to help us again tomorrow. We aren’t out of danger yet. We are depending on you.”
Pen moved away without comment, sliding to one side, joining Khyber and Tagwen at the other end of the raft, where both were sleeping fitfully. He lay down and pulled his cloak closer, resting his head in the crook of his arm. He didn’t sleep right away, but stared out into the misty gloom, the swirling of the haze hypnotic and suggestive of other things. His thoughts drifted to the events that had brought him to that place and time and then to Ahren Elessedil’s encouraging words. That he should believe so strongly in Pen was surprising, especially after how badly the boy had handled the matter of Cinnaminson and Gar Hatch. But Pen could tell when someone was lying to him, and he did not sense falsehood in the other’s words. The Druid saw him as the rescuer he had been charged with being. Pen would find a way, he believed, even if the boy did not yet know what that way was.
Pen breathed deeply, feeling a calmness settle through him. Weariness played a part in that, but there was peace, as well.
If my father was here, he would have spoken those same words to me, he thought.
There was comfort in knowing that. He closed his eyes and slept.
They woke to a dawn shrouded in mist and gloom, their bodies aching with the cold and damp. Once again, there was nothing to eat or drink, so they put their hunger and thirst aside and set out. As they poled through the murky waters, stands of swamp grass clutched at them with anxious tendrils. Everywhere, shadows stretched across the water and through the trees, snakes they didn’t want to wake. No one spoke. Chilled by the swamp’s gray emptiness, they retreated inside themselves. Their determination kept them going. Somewhere up ahead was an end to the morass, and there was only one way to reach it.
At midday they were confronted by a huge stretch of open water surrounded by vine-draped trees and clogged by heavy swamp grass. Islands dotted the lake, grassy hummocks littered with rotting logs. Overhead, mist swirled like thick soup in a kettle, sunlight weakened by its oily mix, a hazy wash that spilled gossamer-pale through the heavy branches of the trees.
They stopped poling and stared out across the marshy, ragged expanse. The islands jutted from the water like reptile eyes. Pen looked at Ahren Elessedil and shook his head. He didn’t like the feel of the lake and did not care to try to cross it. Ripples at its center hinted at the presence of things best avoided.
“Follow the lakeshore,” the Druid said, glancing at the sky. “Stay under the cover of the trees. Watch the surface of the water for movement.”
They chose to veer left, where the shallows were not as densely clogged with grasses and deadwood. Poling along some twenty feet offshore, Pen kept one eye on the broad expanse of the lake, scanning for ripples. He knew the others were depending on his instincts to keep them safe. Out on the open water, trailers of mist skimmed the viscous surface. A sudden squall came and went like a ghost. The air felt heavy and thick, and condensation dripped from the trees in a slow, steady rhythm. Within the shadowy interior of the woods surrounding the lake, the silence was deep and oppressive.
At the lake’s center, something huge lifted in a shadowy parting of waters and was gone again, silent as smoke. Pen glanced at Khyber, who was poling next to him on the raft. He saw the fierce concentration in her eyes waver.
They had gone some distance when the shoreline receded into a deep bay overhung with vines that dipped all the way to the water’s dark surface. Cautiously, they maneuvered under the canopy, sliding through the still waters with barely a whisper of movement, eyes searching. The hairs on the back of Pen’s neck prickled in warning. Something felt wrong. Then he realized what it was. He wasn’t hearing anything from the life around him, not a sound, not a single movement, nothing.
A vine brushed against his face, sliding away almost reluctantly, leaving a glistening trail of slime on his skin. He wiped the sticky stuff from his face, grimacing, and glanced upward. A huge mass of similar vines was writhing and twisting directly overhead. Not quite sure what he was looking at, he stared in disbelief, then in fear.
“Ahren,” he whispered.
Too late. The vines dropped down like snakes to encircle them, a cascade of long arms and supple fingers, tentacles of all sizes and shapes, attacking with such ferocity and purpose that they had no time even to think of reaching for their weapons. His arms pinned to his sides, Pen was swept off the raft and into the air. Tagwen flew past him, similarly wrapped about. The boy looked up and saw so many of the vines entwined in the forest canopy that it felt as if he were being drawn into a basket of snakes.
Then he saw something else, something much worse. Within the masses of tentacles were mouths, huge beaked maws that clacked and snapped and pulsed with life. Like squids, he thought, waiting to feed. It had taken only seconds for the vines to immobilize him, only seconds more for them to lift him toward the waiting mouths, all of it so quick he barely had time to comprehend what was happening. Now he fought like a wild man, kicking and screaming, determined to break free. But the vines held him securely, and slowly, inexorably, they drew him in.
Then spears of fire thrust into the beaks and tentacles from below, their flames a brilliant azure, burning through the shadows and gloom. The vines shuddered violently, shaking Pen with such force that he lost all sense of which way was up. An instant later, they released him altogether, dropping him stunned and disoriented into the swamp. He struck with an impact that jarred his bones and knocked the breath from his body, and he was underwater almost instantly, fighting to right himself, to reach air again.
“Pen!” someone yelled.
Khyber had surfaced next to the raft and was hanging on one end, trying to balance the uneven platform so that her uncle could defend them. The swamp waters had turned choppy and rough, and it was all the Druid could do to keep from being tossed overboard. Pen swam to their aid, seizing the end of the raft opposite the Elven girl, the vines whipping all about him.
An instant later, Tagwen dropped out of the canopy, his bearded face a mask of confusion and terror as he plunged into the murky waters and then surfaced next to Pen.
“Push us out into the bay!” Ahren Elessedil shouted, dropping to one knee as his tiny platform tilted precariously.
Kicking strongly, Pen and Khyber propelled the raft toward open water, fighting to get clear of the deadly trap. Tagwen hung on tenaciously, and Ahren continued to send shards of fire into the clutching vines, which were still trying to get at him but were unable to break past his defenses. Smoke billowed and roiled in heavy clouds, mingling with swamp mist to form an impenetrable curtain. From somewhere distant, the frightened cries of water birds rose.
When at last they were far enough from the vines to pause in their efforts, Pen and Khyber crawled onto the raft beside Ahren Elessedil, pulled Tagwen up after them, and collapsed, gasping for breath. For several long seconds, no one said anything, their eyes fixed on the smoky mass of tree vines now some distance off.
“We were lucky,” Pen said finally.
“Don’t be stupid!” Khyber snapped in reply. “Look what we’ve done! We’ve given ourselves away!”
Pen stared at her, recognition setting in. She was right. He had forgotten what Ahren Elessedil had said about how using magic would reveal their presence to those who hunted them. Ahren had saved them, but he had betrayed them, as well. Terek Molt would know exactly where they were. The Galaphile would track them to the bay.
“What can we do?” he asked in dismay.
Khyber turned to her uncle. “How much time do we have, Uncle Ahren?”
The Druid shook his head. “Not much. They will come for us quickly.” He climbed to his knees and looked around. Everything was clouded with smoke. “If they are close, we won’t even have time to get off this bay.”
“We can hide!” Pen suggested hurriedly, glancing skyward for movement, for any sign of their pursuers. “Perhaps on one of the islands. We can sink the raft . . .”
Ahren shook his head. “No, Penderrin. We need to go ashore and find a place to make a stand. We need space in which to move and solid ground on which to do it.” He handed the boy one of the two remaining poles. “Try to get us ashore, Pen. Choose a direction. Do the best you can, but do it quickly.”
With Ahren working on the opposite side, Pen began poling toward shore once more, farther down from where the vines still thrashed and burned, farther along in the direction they had been heading. They made good time, borne on the crest of a tide stirred by their battle with the vines, a tide that swept them east. But Pen sensed that however swiftly they moved, it wasn’t going to be swift enough.
This is all my fault, he kept thinking. Again.
The haze continued thick and unbroken, layering the surface of the water in a roiling blanket that stank of burning wood and leaves. Slowly, the bay went quiet again, the waters turning slate black and oily once more, a dark reflection of the shadows creeping in from the shoreline. Pen poled furiously, thinking that if they could just reach a safe place to land, they might lose themselves in the trees. It would not be easy to find them in this jungle, this swamp, this morass, not even for Terek Molt. All they needed to do was gain the shore.
They did so, finally. They beached on a mud bank fronting a thick stand of cypress, tangled all about with vines and banked with heavy grasses. They pulled their raft ashore, hauled it back into the trees, and set out walking. The silence of the Slags closed about them, deep and pervasive, an intrusive and brooding companion. Pen could hear the sound of his breathing. He could feel the pumping of his heart.
Still there was no sign of their pursuers.
We’re going to escape them after all, he thought in sudden relief.
They walked for several hours, well past midday and deep into the afternoon. The shoreline snaked in and out of the trees, and they stayed at its edge, keeping a sharp eye out for more of the deadly vines and any sign of movement on the bay waters. They did not talk, their efforts concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, Ahren Elessedil setting a pace that even Pen, who was accustomed to long treks, found difficult to match.
It was late in the afternoon, the shadows of twilight beginning to lengthen out of the west, when they found the eastern end of the lake. It swung south in a broad curve, the ground lifting to a wall of old growth through which dozens of waterways opened. Pen searched the gloom ahead without finding anything reassuring, then took a moment to read his compass, affirming what Ahren, with his Druidic senses, had already determined. They were on course, but not yet clear of the swamp.
Then sudden brightness flared behind them, dispersing the mist and brightening the gloom as if dawn had broken. They wheeled back as one, shielding their eyes. It looked as if the swamp were boiling from a volcanic eruption, its waters churning, steaming with an intense heat. The dark prow of an airship nosed through the fading haze like a great lumbering bear, slowly settling toward the waters of the bay, black nose sniffing the air. Pen fought to keep from shaking with the chill that swept through him.
The Galaphile had found them.
Twenty-six
The huge curved horns of the Galaphile’s bow swung slowly about to point like a compass needle toward the four who stood frozen on the muddy shoreline. There was no mistaking that she had found what she was searching for. Through the fading screen of mist and twilight’s deepening shadows, the vessel settled onto the reed-choked surface of the bay, not fifty yards away, and slowly began to advance. Her sails were furled and her masts and spars as bare and black as charred bones. She had the stark, blasted look of a specter.
“What do we do?” Khyber hissed.
“We can run,” Pen answered at once, already poised to do so. “There’s still time to gain the trees, get deep into the woods, split up if we have to . . .”
He trailed off hopelessly. It was pointless to talk about running away. Ahren had already said that it was too late to hide, so running would not help, either. The Galaphile had already found them once; even if they ran, it would have no trouble doing so again. Terek Molt would track them down like rabbits. They were going to have to make a stand, even without an airship in which to maneuver or weapons with which to fight. Ahren Elessedil’s Druid magic and whatever resources the rest of them could muster were going to have to be enough.
What other choice do we have? Pen thought in despair.
The Galaphile had come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline, advanced as close to the mud bank as her draft would allow. Atop her decks, dark figures moved, taking up positions along the railing. Gnome Hunters. Pen saw the glittering surfaces of their blades. Perhaps the Gnome Hunters simply meant to kill them, having no need to do otherwise.
“Do you see how she shimmers?” Ahren Elessedil asked them suddenly. His voice was eerily calm. “The ship, about her hull and rigging? Do you see?”
Pen looked with the others. At first, he couldn’t make it out, but then slowly his eyes adjusted to the heavy twilight and he saw a sort of glow that pulsed all about the warship, an aura of glistening dampne
ss.
“What is it?” Khyber whispered, brushing back her mop of dark hair, twisting loose strands of it in her fingers.
“Magic,” her uncle answered softly. “Terek Molt is sheathing the Galaphile in magic to protect her from an attack. He is wary of what we did to him last time, of another storm, of the elements I can summon to disrupt his efforts.”
The Druid exhaled slowly. “He has made a mistake. He has given us a chance.”
A rope ladder was lowered over the side of the airship, one end dropping through a railing gap and into the water. A solitary figure began to descend. Even from a distance and through the heavy gloom, there was no doubt about who it was.
Pen glanced up again at the cloaked figures lining the Galaphile’s railing. All their weapons were pointed at himself and his companions.
“Khyber,” Ahren Elessedil called softly.
When she looked over, he passed her something, a quick exchange that was barely noticeable. Pen caught a glimpse of the small pouch as her hand opened just far enough to permit her to see that it was the Elfstones she had been given. Her quick intake of breath was audible.
“Listen carefully,” her uncle said without looking at her, his eyes fixed on Terek Molt, who was almost to the water now. “When I tell you, use the Elfstones against the Galaphile. Do as you have been taught. Open your mind, summon their power, and direct it at the airship.”
Khyber was already shaking her head, her Elven features taut with dismay. “It won’t work, Uncle Ahren! The magic is only good against other magic—magic that threatens the holder of the stones! You taught me that yourself! The Galaphile is an airship, wood and iron only!”
“She is,” the Druid agreed. “But thanks to Terek Molt, the magic that sheathes her is not. It is his magic, Druid magic. Trust me, Khyber. It is our only chance. I am skilled, but Terek Molt was trained as a warrior Druid and is more powerful than I am. Do as I say. Watch for my signal. Do not reveal that you have the Elfstones before then. Do nothing to demonstrate that you are a danger to him. If you do, if you give yourself away too early, even to help me, we are finished.”