by Terry Brooks
The horsemen passed and the wagon thudded by, entering the narrows of the draw. Morgan rose, silent and fluid, and brought up the Sword of Leah. Be swift. Be sure. Don’t hesitate.
He left his cover and moved in behind the trailing riders. The leaders and the wagon had entered the narrows. He caught the trailing riders at its mouth, brought his blade around in an arc, the whole of his strength behind it, and cut them apart at the waist. They toppled from their horses like logs falling, soundless after a single surprised grunt, dead instantly. Their blood was greenish and thick on their robes as they tumbled down, and some of it smeared on Morgan’s hands. The horses shied, pulling to either side as the Highlander surged past, springing for the wagon. Ahead, the draw was shadowed and thick with brush and trees, and the procession did not slow. Morgan reached the wagon, leaped for the canvas flaps, and pulled himself aboard He sliced through the ties and jumped inside. The faint dawn light revealed a single figure lying motionless in the bed, hands and feet bound. He went past without slowing, seeing the dark figures seated ahead beginning to turn. His momentum carried him to the wagon front in a rush, his body twisting as he brought back his Sword. Somebody spoke, a cry of warning, and then he was ripping through the canvas with a fury, shredding it as if it weren’t there, slashing the Seekers as they tried to free their weapons. They screamed and toppled from view, and in Morgan’s hands the Sword of Leah began to glow like fire.
He pushed past the shredded flaps onto the wagon seat, kicking off what remained of one Seeker. He snatched up the reins, howled in fury, and whipped at the team. The horses screamed and bolted ahead, charging into the lead riders, who were in the process of turning about to see what was happening. The wagon bore down on them, still within the narrows, and there was no place for them to go. They tried to turn back again, tried to spring out of the way, lunged and twisted in the narrowing gap like contortionists, black robes flying. But the wagon hammered into them, taking two down instantly, crushing one Seeker beneath the wheels, slamming the other back into the trees. The wagon lurched and bucked, and the horses shied at the contact. Morgan rose in the seat as he swept past the two riders who remained, the Sword of Leah lifting to block the blows directed at him.
Thundering out of the draw and onto the flats beyond, he yanked on the reins and brought the team about, nearly overturning the wagon in the effort. The wheels skidded on the damp grass, and Morgan dropped his Sword into the boot to free both hands to control the team. Behind, the remaining two riders came at him, dark shapes materializing out of the mist. One of the two riders who had fallen appeared as well, now afoot. Morgan whipped the team toward them, building speed. Sweat ran down his face, and his vision blurred. He reached back into the boot for the Sword of Leah and brought it up, the magic racing down its length like fire. The mounted Seekers reached him first, splitting to either side, blades drawn. He pushed himself as far to the right as he could, concentrating on the horseman closest, hammering past the other’s defenses and crushing his skull. He felt a red-hot searing in his shoulder as the other Seeker leaped from his horse onto the wagon seat and struck him a slashing, off-balance blow. He reeled away, nearly falling off, kicking out with his boot to knock the other back. The wagon swung wide and this time did not correct. It snapped loose from its traces and tongue and went over, throwing the combatants to the earth. Morgan landed hard, a red mist sweeping across his vision, pain lancing through his body, but came back to his feet instantly.
The Seeker who had wounded him was waiting, and the one afoot was coming up fast. Both were reverting to Shadowen, lifting from their black-robed bodies in a mist of darkness, eyes red and chilling. They had seen the fire race the length of his sword and knew Morgan possessed the magic. Shedding their Seeker disguise, they were calling up magic of their own. Crimson fire launched from their weapons at Morgan, but he blocked it, rushing them with single-minded determination, no longer thinking, acting now out of need. He slammed into the first and bowled him over. The Sword of Leah swept down, shattering the other’s weapon, and the fire burned from throat to stomach, through one side and out the other. The Shadowen screamed, shuddered, and went still.
Morgan went after the other without slowing, consumed by the magic’s elixir, driven by forces he no longer controlled. The Shadowen hesitated, seeing his face, realizing belatedly that he was overmatched. He threw up the fire, and it splintered apart on Morgan’s blade. Then Morgan was on top of him, striking once, twice, three times, the magic racing up and down the talisman, a sudden white heat. The Shadowen shrieked, tearing to get free, and then the fire exploded through him in a brilliant flash of light, and he was gone.
Morgan whirled about, searching the gloom—left, right, behind, in front again. The land was still and empty. East, the sun crested the horizon in a burst of silver gold, light streaming through the trees to penetrate the shadows and mist. The draw was a dark tunnel in which nothing moved. The Shadowen lay lifeless about him. A single horse remained, a dark blur some fifty feet off, reins trailing as it shook its head and stamped the earth, uncertain of what to do. Morgan looked at it, steadied his sweating hands, and slowly straightened. The magic of the Sword faded, and the blade turned depthless black again.
Close at hand, a thrush called once. Morgan Leah listened without moving, and his breath whistled harshly in his ears. The Shadowen at Southwatch will have heard. They will come for you. Move!
He sheathed the Sword of Leah and hurried over to the collapsed wagon, remembering Par, anxious to discover if the Valeman was all right. It was Par in there, he insisted to himself. It had to be. He was dazed and bleeding, his clothing torn and soiled, his skin coated in dust and sweat. He felt light-headed and dangerously invincible.
Of course it was Par!
He climbed into the upended wagon and moved to the bound figure, who was slumped against one splintered side, looking up at him. Shadows hid the other’s face, and he bent close, blinked, and stared.
It wasn’t Par he had rescued.
It was Wren.
XXVIII
Wren was as surprised to see Morgan Leah as he was to see her. Tall and lean and quick-eyed, he was exactly as she remembered him—and at the same time he was different. He seemed older somehow, more worn. And there was something in the look he gave her. She blinked up at him. What was he doing here? She tried to straighten up, but her strength failed her and she would have fallen back again if the Highlander hadn’t reached down to catch her. He knelt at her side, withdrew a hunting knife from his belt, and severed her bonds and gag.
“Morgan,” she breathed, relieved beyond measure, and reached up to embrace him. “I’m sure glad to see you.”
He managed a quick, tight smile, and a bit of the mischievousness returned to his haggard face. “You look a wreck, Wren. What happened?”
She smiled back wearily, aware of how she must appear, her face all bruised and swollen. “I made a serious error in judgment, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, I’m all right now.”
He picked her up anyway and carried her from the ruins of the wagon into the dawn light, setting her gingerly back on her feet. She rubbed her wrists and ankles to restore the circulation, then knelt to wet her hands with dew from the still-damp grasses and dabbed tentatively at her injured face.
She looked up at him. “I thought there was no hope for me at all. How did you find me?”
He shook his head. “Blind luck. I wasn’t even looking for you. I was looking for Par. I thought the Shadowen were transporting him in the wagon. I had no idea at all it was you.”
There had been disappointment in his eyes when he had recognized her. She understood now why. He had been certain it was Par he had rescued.
“I’m sorry I’m not Par,” she told him. “But thanks anyway.”
He shrugged, and grimaced with the movement, and she saw the mix of red and green blood on his clothing. “What are you doing here, Wren?”
She rose to face him. “It’s a long story. How much time do
we have?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Not much. Southwatch is only a few miles away. The Shadowen will have heard the fighting. We have to get, away as soon as we can.”
“Then I’ll keep it short.” She felt stronger now, flushed with urgency and renewed determination. She was free again, and she intended to make the most of it. “The Elves have returned to the Four Lands, Morgan. I found them on an island in the Blue Divide where they’ve been living for almost a hundred years, and I brought them back. It was Allanon’s charge to me, and I finally accepted it. Their queen, Ellenroh Elessedil was my grandmother. She died on the way, and now I am queen.” She saw the astonishment in his eyes and gripped his arm to silence him. “Just listen. The Elves are besieged by a Federation army ten times their size. They fight a delaying action just south of the Valley of Rhenn. I have to get back to them at once. Do you want to come with me?”
The Highlander stared. “Wren Elessedil,” he said softly, trying the name out. Then he shook his head, and his voice tightened. “No, I can’t, Wren. I have to find Par. He may be a prisoner of the Shadowen at Southwatch. There are others out looking for him as well. I promised to wait for them.”
His voice had an edge to it that did not allow for argument, but he added reluctantly, “But if you really need me …”
She stopped him with a squeeze of her hand. “I can make it back on my own. But there is something I have to tell you first, and you have to promise me that you will tell the others when you see them again.” Her grip tightened. “Where are they, anyway? What’s become of them? What’s happened with Allanon’s charges? Did the others fulfill them as well?” She was speaking too rapidly, and she forced herself to slow down, to stay calm, not to look off to the east and the brightening sky. “Here, sit down. Let me have a look at your wound.”
She took his arm and led him to a moss-covered log where she seated him, stripped off his shirt, tore it in strips, and cleaned and bound the sword slash as best she could.
“Par and Coll found the Sword of Shannara, but then they disappeared,” he told her as she worked. “It’s too long a story for now. I’ve been tracking Par; he may be tracking Coll. I don’t know who has the Sword. As for Walker, I was with him when he went north to recover a magic that would restore Paranor and the Druids. He was successful, and we came back together, but I haven’t seen him since.” He shook his head. “Paranor’s back. The Sword’s found. The charges are all fulfilled, but I don’t know what difference it makes.”
She finished tying up his wound and moved back around in front of him. “Neither do I. But in some way it does. We just have to find out how.” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, and her hazel eyes fixed him. “Now, listen. This is what you are to tell the others.” She took a deep breath. “The Shadowen are Elves. They are Elves who rediscovered the old magic and thought to use it recklessly. They stayed behind when the rest of the Elven nation fled the Four Lands and the Federation. The magic subverted them as it does everything; it made them into the Shadowen. They are another form of the Skull Bearers of old, dark wraiths for which the magic is a craving they cannot resist. I don’t know how they can be destroyed, but it must be done. Allanon was right—they are an evil that threatens us all. The answers we need lie in the purpose of fulfilling the charges that we were given. One of us will discover the truth. We must. Tell them what I’ve told to you, Morgan. Promise me.”
Morgan rose. “I’ll tell them.”
A heron’s cry pierced the morning stillness, and Wren jerked about. “Wait here,” she said.
She hobbled over to the fallen Shadowen and began rifling through their clothing. One of them, she knew, had the Elfstones, stolen from her by Tib Arne. Her anger at him burned anew. She searched the closest two and found nothing. She stirred the ashes of the one Morgan had burned through and found nothing there either. Then she went back to the driver and his companion, to their severed bodies, and ignoring what had been done to them, she worked her way carefully through their robes.
In the cloak pocket of one she found the pouch and the Stones. Exhaling sharply, she stuffed the pouch into her tunic and limped back toward Morgan.
Halfway there, she saw the Shadowen horse that hadn’t run grazing at the edge of the trees. She stopped, considered momentarily, then put her fingers to her mouth and gave a strange, low-pitched whistle. The horse looked up, ears pricking toward the sound. She whistled again, varying the pitch slightly. The horse stared at her, then pawed the earth. She walked over to the animal slowly, talking softly and holding out her hand. The horse sniffed at her, and she reached out to stroke his neck and flank. For a few moments they tested each other, and then suddenly she was on his back, still talking soothingly, the reins in her hands.
The horse whinnied and pranced at her touch. She guided him back to where Morgan waited and climbed down.
“I’ll need him if I expect to make any time,” she said, one hand still firmly gripping the reins. “What we find belongs to us, the Rovers used to say. Guess I haven’t forgotten everything they taught me.” She smiled and reached out to touch his arm. “I don’t know when we’ll meet up again, Morgan.”
He nodded. “You better get going.”
“I owe you, Highlander. I won’t forget.” She vaulted back into the saddle. “We’ve come a long way from the Hadeshorn, haven’t we?”
“From the Hadeshorn, from everything. Farther than I would have dreamed. Watch out for yourself, Wren.”
“And you. Good luck to us both.”
She met his eyes a moment longer, drawing on the strength she found there, taking heart in the fact that she was not as alone as she had believed, that help sometimes came from unexpected sources.
Then she dug her boots into the horse’s flanks and galloped away.
She rode west after the retreating night until daylight overtook her, then stopped to rest the horse and let him drink from a pool of water. She rubbed at her wrists and ankles some more, washing clean the deep cuts and dark bruises, and swore to herself that when she caught up with Tib Arne she would make him pay dearly. She had not eaten or drunk in almost twelve hours, but there was no time to search for food or drinking water now. Once the Shadowen discovered she had escaped, they would be after her. They would be after Morgan Leah as well, she thought, and hoped he knew a good hiding place.
She remounted and rode on, following the grasslands out of the hill country to the plains below Tyrsis that led into the Tirfing. The day was turning hot and humid, the sky a cloudless blue and the sun a white-fire furnace. The trees thinned into scattered groves and then into stands of two and three and finally disappeared altogether. Midday arrived, and she crossed the Mermidon at a narrows, the river’s waters low and sluggish here, dwindling away into the flats. Her body and face ached from the beating and the trussing, but she ignored her discomfort, thinking instead of the havoc that her disappearance must have caused. By now they would be searching for her everywhere. Perhaps they had found Erring Rift and Grayl and thought her dead as well. Perhaps they had given up on her, choosing to concentrate on the Federation army and the Creepers. Some would surely recommend that she be forgotten. Some would find her disappearance a blessing …
She brushed the prospect aside. She had nothing to prove to anyone. The fact remained that she needed to get back. Barsimmon Oridio would be nearing the Rhenn with the main body of the Elven army. With luck, Tiger Ty would be returning with the Federation. If she could reach them before any fighting began …
She stopped herself.
What?
What would she do?
She blocked the question away. It didn’t matter what she did. It would be enough that she was there, that the Elves knew they had their queen back, that the Federation must deal with her anew.
She turned north to follow the Mermidon and found water for the horse on the plains, but none for herself. The sun beat down overhead, and the air sucked the moisture from her body. She was tired, and the hor
se was tiring as well. She could not keep on much longer. She would have to stop and wait out the heat. The thought made her grind her teeth. She didn’t have time for that! She didn’t have time for anything but going on!
She rested finally, knowing she must, finding a grove of ash close to the riverbank where it was cool enough to escape the worst of the heat. She found some berries that were more bitter than sweet and a gum root that gave her something to chew on. She stripped the horse of his saddle and tethered him. Resting back within the trees, she watched the river flow past, and though she did not mean to do so she fell asleep.
It was late in the afternoon when she woke again, startled out of a restless doze by the soft whicker of her horse. She came to her feet instantly, seeing its shaggy head pointed south, and she looked off across the plains and river to find horsemen coming toward her from several miles off—black-cloaked, hooded horsemen, whose identity was no secret.
She saddled her mount and was off. She rode several miles along the riverbank at a quick trot, glancing back to see if her pursuers were following. They were, of course, and she had the feeling that more might be waiting ahead at Tyrsis. The light faded west, turning silver, then rose, then gray, and when the haze of early twilight set in, she turned away from the river and headed west onto the plains. She would have a better chance of losing her pursuit there, she reasoned. She was a Rover, after all. Once it was dark, no one would be able to track her. All she needed was a little time and luck.
She found neither. Shortly after, her horse began to falter. She urged him on with whispered promises and encouraging pats about the neck and ears, but he was played out. Behind, her pursuers had fanned out across the horizon, distant still, but coming on. The haze was deepening, but the moon and first stars were out, and there would be light enough for a hunter to see by. She stiffened her resolve and rode on.