by Terry Brooks
The sun was just reaching its zenith when Challa Nand found him sitting forward of the mainmast, his back against the heavy wooden pillar, and sat down next to him. Surprised, the boy glanced over at the giant Troll, but his newly arrived companion simply stared ahead toward the bow and said nothing.
Then, after a few endless minutes of silence, Challa Nand said, “Thinking of your brother, Railing?”
The boy stared at him. “How do you know about Redden?”
The other shrugged. “Men talk. Everyone talks. On a ship this size, there aren’t many secrets. I found out about your brother this morning. I found out a few other things, too.”
Railing reached up and tightened the headband that held back his red hair, which he hadn’t cut in weeks. It had grown long and unruly.
“It seems you haven’t been in the least forthcoming with me,” the Troll added. “Shame on you.”
Railing almost laughed. “What is it that you think you know?”
“That your brother is missing and you want to find him. That he might be someone’s prisoner and you want to free him. That you are twins. That we are going in search of your great-aunt the witch because, for some reason, you think she might be alive after more than a hundred years. And that if she is, she might be able to help your brother.” He paused. “All of which suggests that we might be on a fool’s errand, just as I feared, and therefore I have every right to abandon you at the first sign of trouble.”
No mention of the Forbidding. None of the Ellcrys or the Straken Lord or the danger to the Four Lands. His informants were being selective in their disclosures, it seemed. Railing supposed it was inevitable that some of what he was keeping from Challa Nand would leak out. He was only surprised it wasn’t more.
What he wondered, all at once, was how much of it was worth hiding from this man—especially when he was hiding so much more from the rest of them. He had believed it a good idea to be discreet, to reveal as little as possible, but now he was questioning himself. Was he exercising good judgment or just being stubborn in his refusal to trust the only man aboard who could get them where they were going?
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said finally.
The Troll nodded. “I don’t expect I do. Why don’t you just tell me the rest? You’re going to have to sooner or later.”
So Railing did. Just like that, he made the decision and he told the Troll everything. About the collapse of the Forbidding, about his brother’s capture and imprisonment by the Straken Lord, about the destruction of the Druids and their companions, about the failing of the Ellcrys—all of it. Except for what he was hiding from the others aboard—about his meetings with the King of the Silver River and the Grimpond and what they had told him. That, he continued to keep to himself.
He felt surprisingly better when he had finished. Perhaps it helped relieve him of the stress he was under to give up a few of his secrets. Or perhaps it was just the right thing to do.
“I would say you were lying, except no one could make up such a story.” Challa Nand growled, a deep rumbling in his throat. “It might be better if you were lying, given what this all means. At least I see the point in agreeing to guide you to Stridegate. Not that I am persuaded for a second that what you are trying to do is even remotely possible.”
“No one really thinks it is possible—no matter what they claim—except me.” Though he wondered about Mirai.
Challa Nand went quiet for a few long minutes. “The witch might still be alive and might be persuaded to come back with you to face the Straken Lord. You believe this to be true?” The big man shook his head slowly. “Either you are deeply delusional or you know something that the others don’t. Which is it?”
“I’m just trying not to give up in the face of what seem impossible odds.” Railing kept his eyes lowered. “I don’t want to lose Redden.”
He felt the Troll’s eyes watching him. “I think you are a complicated boy,” the other said finally. “And I think you are good at keeping secrets. But be careful. Kept secrets have a way of coming back to bite you. Remember where you are—on a ship with your companions and all of you in this together. It’s hard to separate yourself out when you know that, if things go wrong, you won’t be the only one who gets hurt.”
They sat together in silence after that, neither looking at the other. Railing found himself drawn to Challa Nand once again, admiring the other’s steadiness and perseverance, and still wondering why he had revealed so much to him. But there was something trustworthy and reliable about the Troll, and even after so short a time he believed the other would stand by him—by all of them—when it was needed.
A while later, without so much as a word, Challa Nand rose and moved off. Railing watched him go—part of him wanting to call the Troll back so they could speak further, part of him relieved the conversation was over. His conflicted feelings on the matter troubled him, but not enough that he was moved to do anything about them.
Fifteen minutes later, while he was still leaning against the mainmast, staring out at nothing, the Quickening was attacked.
Austrum saw the enemy first, working the lines on the port side. “Raiders!” he shouted.
There were more than a dozen of them, Gnomes in stripped-down flits fitted with swivel crossbows. The flits were fast and maneuverable, but highly vulnerable, as well. A single shot from a rail sling could knock any one of them out of the sky and send its rider tumbling to his death. The flits relied on speed and skill and superior numbers to overwhelm the larger and better-equipped airships they preyed upon.
“Get below!” Railing heard Farshaun yell at Woostra, and then Railing was on his feet, racing back toward the pilot box. As he fled, he caught sight of Mirai at the stern rail, crouched behind a rail sling with another of the Rovers.
Challa Nand charged past, all size and speed, shouting at Farshaun to take them higher. But the old man, a veteran of countless air battles, had already thought of that, and the Quickening had begun a steep climb that would enable her to find stronger air currents, causing problems for the lighter, less stable flits.
Even so, the Gnome raiders gave chase, pursuing the larger ship like troublesome gnats, swivel crossbows firing on its passengers and crew. But the Rovers were prepared for an attack, because Challa Nand had warned them in advance that it might come. As a consequence, the rail slings and both fire launchers were mounted and ready when the raiders struck, and in only minutes the Rovers had them aimed and firing. Two of the flits were brought down in the span of thirty seconds, and another was damaged and had to turn back. The rest zigged and zagged in reckless patterns, their riders trying to damage the Quickening’s light sheaths or disable its crew so that the ship would be forced to descend. The raiders would have other attackers waiting in reserve, and if the airship were crippled, they would join the fight. Then the weight of numbers would bring the Rover vessel all the way down.
For a few furious moments, the fighting was intense, but the outcome was clear. The flits were making no progress against the better-defended Quickening, and five of the raiders were destroyed or damaged. Challa Nand’s efforts at preparing the crew for the attack had prevented the raiders from catching them by surprise, and the weapons on the larger airship were far superior to the crossbows and javelins the attackers were using to try to shred the sails.
Then a fresh cluster of Gnome flits emerged from a cut in the mountains ahead, trying to cut off the Quickening’s advance. There were more than twenty of them, swarming out of the rocks and coming in at full speed. The Rovers shifted their weapons toward this new threat, but there were too many to even think of stopping them all. Arrows from the crossbows began to make sizable rips in the light sheaths. Two of the Rovers were down, and one of the rail slings was out of service, its mechanism jammed. Challa Nand, standing at the starboard fire launcher, was sweeping his weapon’s barrel across the rows of flits. But the launchers were big and cumbersome and difficult to aim accurately. A couple more of the flits
went down, but it made little difference in the fury of the attack.
In the pilot box, arrows protruded from the protective walls like porcupine quills, bristling in bunches about the control shields. Farshaun had been wounded twice, seriously enough the second time that he had relinquished the controls to Railing. The boy was working hard at keeping the airship steady so that the defenders could use the slings and launchers effectively, but the flits were everywhere, and when they were this close the Rovers couldn’t use the deck weapons for fear of hitting their own vessel.
“Farshaun!” Railing shouted over his shoulder at where the other was crouched down in a corner of the box. “Take the controls from me!”
But the old man had collapsed, his arms gone limp, his head sagging. It looked as if he had lost consciousness.
“Farshaun!” the boy screamed.
Abruptly, Mirai appeared, leaping into the box and taking the controls. She exchanged a quick look with Railing as she did so, and he could see at once that she knew what he intended.
Then he was over the protective walls and racing across the decking toward the bow, already singing, the wishsong summoned and responding. Arrows flew at him, but the wall of his magic shielded him and the missiles bounced away harmlessly. As he ran, he heard Challa Nand call his name, and he watched in disbelief as the big Troll charged toward him protectively.
“Get back!” he screamed at the other, his warning quick and hard-edged in the tumult of the attack. But Challa Nand either didn’t hear him or refused to pay attention, and even though Railing tried to shift the wishsong’s magic away from him, the big Troll ran straight into its wall and went down in a crumpled heap.
But Railing had no time to worry about Challa Nand. His concentration now was entirely on manipulating the wishsong to strike out at the attacking Gnome raiders. He sent it spiraling outward, the sound as dense and impenetrable as stone. All the while he kept moving toward the deck rail, forming and re-forming, molding the magic, pulling together elements in the air and wind to create a protective shield, angling it so that the Quickening would not be harmed.
The flits were not so fortunate. Unable to see what blocked their way, they flew into the wall of sound heedlessly, shattering against its hard surface and tumbling away. A dozen went down before the rest broke off in terror and went flying back into the cover of the mountains, their riders hunkered down, thrusters shoved forward to attain maximum speed.
In seconds the skies were clear and the Quickening and its crew were flying alone once more.
Railing quit singing, allowing the magic of the wishsong to die into silence. He stood watching the fleeing Gnome raiders a few seconds longer before turning back to the others. Several, Austrum among them, were staring at him in disbelief. Challa Nand was awake again, sitting on the decking, rubbing his head. He had a look of confusion on his face until he caught sight of Railing coming over; then the look abruptly changed to one of rage. He staggered to his feet to face the boy.
“What else are you keeping from me that I ought to know about?” he snarled. “Because I have had just about enough of you!”
“I tried to warn you,” Railing shouted back, aware of how angry the Troll was. He slowed his approach, but Challa Nand was right on top of him, his huge body towering over the boy as if intending to crush him. “You just kept coming! What was I supposed to do?”
The Troll glared at him a moment, then turned away dismissively. “You used your magic to save the airship. That’s good enough for me. But a word or two in advance to the rest of us wouldn’t hurt!”
Then he stomped away, beginning the task of clearing pieces of wreckage and debris from the decking. The Rovers joined him in this effort, leaving Railing free to continue on to where Mirai was kneeling beside Farshaun in the pilot box.
“How bad is he?” the boy asked.
She shook her head. “I can’t be sure. He’s bleeding internally, and he’s very weak. He’s old, Railing. He doesn’t recover from injuries like he once did. Help me carry him below. I’ll do what I can for him down there.”
They picked up Farshaun and hauled him out of the pilot box and down the ladder to the interior of the airship. Austrum came over to give them a hand, then disappeared topside again.
“That was quick thinking,” MIrai said as she worked to cut away Farshaun’s clothing from his wounds; Railing was standing by in case there was something he could do to help. “You saved us.”
“I waited too long to act.” He was feeling anything but happy about how things had gone. “I should have used the wishsong right away. I was too slow.”
“You can’t think of everything in situations like that one. We were fighting for our lives.” She stayed bent over Farshaun, studying the crossbow wound, looking for a way to stanch the bleeding. “Everyone does the best they can.”
“Maybe.”
She kept working, and finally she was satisfied with her efforts. The crossbow bolt was removed, the bleeding slowed, and the wound washed and stitched up sufficiently that infection might be prevented. All through this, the old man slept, unconscious and unaware.
“Have you thought about what I told you earlier? About sharing whatever it is you’re hiding?”
Railing pushed back his long red hair and retied the band that held it in place. “You have to stop asking me. I don’t want to talk about it.”
She shrugged. “I think you probably do. You just don’t want to talk about it with me.”
“It isn’t that …”
“What is it, then?”
“I can’t tell you. I just can’t. I have to work my way through it on my own. There’s more at stake than you know.” He looked away. “I’m in love with you, you know. There, I’ve said it out loud. I love you. I always have.”
She nodded, standing up and moving next to him. “I’m not sure you know what that means.”
“What? It’s difficult to understand that, because of how I feel about you, I can’t just open up and tell you certain things? Well, I can’t! Not yet, at least. Maybe when we reach Stridegate. Maybe then.”
She stared at him a moment. “You should listen to yourself. You should hear yourself the way I do. Railing, if you were really in love with me, you could always open up to me. You wouldn’t have to hide things.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I think it does.” She stepped away again. “Don’t let the clock tick all the way down. Don’t wait so long that, by the time you decide to confide in the rest of us, it’s too late to matter. Because that can happen. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I wonder if you do.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Four
They flew Quickening on through the sun’s setting and into twilight, reaching the place where the Charnals began to broaden into a split range with multiple layers before setting down for the night. Here, the mountains were visible for miles in all directions, vast and immutable, great silent sentinels of the Northland east. The attack by the Gnome raiders was far behind them by then, and the town of Rampling Steep farther still. There were no settlements this far north, only hundreds of miles of empty space and broken rock. Staring out at it, Railing could only think of how bleak his life had become.
They slept aboard the ship that night with a close watch at both the bow and stern. Too many dangerous creatures prowled this region of the world, Challa Nand had warned. Gnome raiders were one thing; Gnawls and the like were another. Railing didn’t bother asking what a Gnawl was. He didn’t want to know.
He wasn’t asked to stand watch on either shift, however, and when Mirai showed no interest in speaking with him further, he rolled into his blanket and quickly fell asleep.
When he woke, after what felt like only a few hours, it was raining again.
The sound of it brought him awake. He heard the thrumming against the decking overhead and rose, wrapping himself in his w
eather cloak, and went topside to find himself caught in a torrential downpour. It was raining so hard, it was coming down in sheets that obscured everything more than a few feet away. He peered about for the other members of the crew but could see no one. Ducking his head and pulling the cloak and hood tight against his face and body, he fought his way through the deluge to the pilot box, thinking to find someone there.
But the box was empty.
He left and went to the stern railing. Nothing.
Suddenly he was panicked. Was the entire ship deserted? No, he had seen Farshaun wrapped in his bandages and blankets, asleep below. One of the injured Rovers was resting close by the old man—the only one hurt badly enough in yesterday’s attack to be so confined. He also seemed to remember catching sight of someone moving through the gloom, a shadow passing along the walls of the vessel in the faint light of the smokeless torches the Rover airships relied on. But that might have been a dream.
He went back down the ladder and inside the ship. Farshaun was still sleeping, as was the injured Rover. Over in another corner, he found Woostra asleep as well. He hesitated, then knelt and shook the Druid scribe awake.
Woostra peered up at him. “What’s wrong?”
Railing hesitated. “I can’t find anyone aboard but you and Farshaun and that injured Rover. Can’t think of his name.”
“His name is Aleppo.” The scribe rubbed his beard, then his eyes and yawned. “I’ve been asleep. Are you sure about all this?”
“Aleppo. I knew that. I just forgot. And yes, I’m sure.”
In fact, he was embarrassed at his lapse of memory. He rose. “I’m going back out on deck. Please watch out for Farshaun.” He started away and then turned back again, a premonition tugging at him. “Don’t try to come after me. Wait until I come back for you.”