Ilse Witch

by Terry Brooks

  On the Druid’s orders, they sailed back out of the bay and down the coast to the atoll where the Wing Riders waited. It was almost dark by then, and Redden Alt Mer had his crew secure the Jerle Shannara for the night. Bek was still pondering the Druid’s words, trying to figure out how the magic of the Sword of Shannara was supposed to find a way through those shifting icebergs, unable to see how the talisman could help. Walker had left him almost immediately to confer with the Rover Captain, and Ahren had come over to occupy his attention, so there was nothing further he could do to find out right away. Mostly, he had to trust that the Druid knew what he was talking about.

  When they were anchored and had eaten dinner, Walker called his council of eight together for a final conference. This time Hunter Predd was included to bring the number to nine. They gathered in Redden Alt Mer’s cabin—the Druid, the Rover Captain and his sister, Ard Patrinell and Ahren, Quentin and Bek, Ryer Ord Star, and the Wing Rider. The sky was overcast and the night so black that it was impossible to see either the ocean or the atoll to which they were anchored.

  “Tomorrow we will pass through the pillars of the Squirm,” Walker advised when they were all gathered and settled. “Captain Alt Mer will command from the pilot box. I will stand on the deck in front of the foremast and call out directions. Bek will help me. Everyone else will take their normal stations and stand ready. No one is to go forward until we are through—not one step beyond me.”

  He looked at Big Red. “Adjustments will have to be made swiftly and accurately, Captain. The ice will not forgive us our mistakes. Listen carefully to what I call out. Do exactly as I tell you. Trust my directions, even if they seem wrong. Do not try to second-guess me or anticipate my wishes. This one time, I must be in command.”

  He waited for the Rover to acknowledge him. Redden Alt Mer glanced at his sister, then nodded his agreement.

  “Hunter Predd,” Walker continued. “The Wing Riders must remain behind. The Shrikes are numerous and the winds and fog treacherous. Fly down the coast and try to find a better place than this atoll to await our return. If we can, we will come back for you or at least get word to you. But it may take time. We may be gone for as long as several months.” He paused. “Maybe longer.”

  The grizzled rider nodded. “I know what to do.”

  He was saying he understood that those who passed through the pillars of Ice Henge might not be coming back. He was saying that he would wait until waiting was pointless, then try to make his way back to the Four Lands. But Bek heard something more. Hunter Predd wasn’t the sort to give up easily. If those on the Jerle Shannara didn’t make it home, then in all probability, neither would he.

  If Walker had picked up on this, he gave no indication. “Ryer Ord Star has had another vision,” he advised, beckoning the young woman forward.

  She came reluctantly, head lowered into the silver shadow of her long hair, violet eyes directed at the floor, moving into the Druid’s shadow as if only there could she be safe, so close that she was pressing up against him. Walker put his hand on her shoulder and bent down. “Tell them,” he urged gently.

  She took a moment before she responded, her voice high and clear. “I see three moles who seek to burrow into the earth. They carry keys to a lock. One is caught in an endless maze. Ribbons of fire trap another. Metal dogs hunt a third. All are blind and cannot see. All have lost their way and cannot find it again. But one will discover a door that leads to the past. Inside, the future waits.”

  There was a long silence when she was finished. Then Redden Alt Mer cleared his throat. “Kind of vague, isn’t it?” he offered with a wry, apologetic smile at the seer. “What does it mean?”

  “We don’t know,” Walker answered for her. “It might mean that one of us will find the entry into Castledown and the treasure that lies within. That would be a meeting of past and future. Whatever other purpose it serves, it gives warning of three dangers—an endless maze, ribbons of fire, and metal dogs. In some form, these are what we will face when we gain land again.” He glanced at Ryer Ord Star. “Maybe by then, we will have new insights to ponder.”

  We can only hope, Bek thought to himself, and the discussion turned to other matters.

  Bek slept poorly that night, riddled by self-doubt and misgiving. He was awake when dawn broke lead-gray and misty, the sun a red-glowing forge at the edge of the world. He stood on deck and watched the light grow from pale to somber as the sky took on a wintry cast that layered clouds and mist and water like gauze. The air was chill and smelled of the damp, and the cliffs of Ice Henge were aswirl with snowflakes and wheeling gulls. The Shrikes were up, as well, hunting the coastline, their larger forms all wings and necks, their fierce cries echoing off the rock walls.

  Walker appeared and stopped long enough to place a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder before moving on. Anchor lines were cast off, sails were unfurled, and the Jerle Shannara rose from its berthing and flew north. The Wing Riders left at the same time, flying south. Bek watched them go from the aft railing, solitary forms riding the air currents in a slow, steady glide, the Rocs’ great wings spread to the faint winter light. In seconds they were gone, disappeared into the gloom, and Bek turned his attention to what lay ahead. Perhaps a mile offshore, they sailed up the coast making for the opening in the cliffs that led to the Squirm. Breakfast, a hearty mix of breads and cheeses washed down by cold ale, was consumed in shifts and mostly on deck. The day advanced in a slow passing of the hours and an even slower brightening of the sky. The air warmed just enough to change snowflakes to rain, and the wind picked up and began to gust in fierce giant’s breaths that knocked the airship about.

  Bek stood in the pilot box with Redden Alt Mer for a long time while Walker paced the decking like a ghost at haunt. The Rover Captain said almost nothing to the boy, his concentration focused on the handling of his vessel, his gaze directed ahead into the gloom. Once he caught Bek’s eye and smiled briefly. “We’ll be fine, Bek,” he said quietly, and then looked away again.

  Bek Rowe, born Bek Ohmsford, wasn’t at all sure that was so, but if hope and determination counted for anything, maybe they had a chance. He was wrestling with doubts about his ability to control any sort of magic, even his mastery of the wishsong suspect. It was all too new and unfamiliar for him to have much confidence. He had experienced the magic of his voice, but in such a small way and with so little sense of control that he barely felt he understood what it could do. As for the magic of the Sword of Shannara, he had no idea what he could do with that. He could repeat everything Walker had told him about how it worked. He could intellectualize its behavior and function. He would apply all the appropriate and correct words to how it would affect him. But he could not picture it. He could not imagine how it would feel. He had no frame of reference and no sense of proportion with which to measure its power.

  He did not try to deceive himself. The magic of the Sword of Shannara would be immense and overwhelming. It would engulf him like a tidal wave, and he would be fortunate to survive its crushing impact, let alone find a way to swim to its surface. All he could do was hope he would not be drowned straightaway when it swept over him. Walker had not said so, but it was there in the gaps between his words. Bek was to be tested in a way he had never imagined. Walker did not seem to think he would fail, but Walker would not be there inside him when the magic took hold.

  Bek climbed down out of the pilot box after a while and went to stand at the ship’s railing. Quentin came up to him, and they talked in low voices about the day and the weather, avoiding any mention of the Squirm. The Highlander was relaxed and cheerful, in typical fashion, and he made Bek feel at ease even without intending it. Wasn’t this everything they had hoped for? he asked his cousin with a broad smile. Wasn’t this the adventure they had come to find? What did Bek think lay on the other side of those ice pillars? Somehow they must make certain they stayed together. Whatever happened, they must remember their promise.

  It was nearing midmornin
g when they reached the gap in the cliffs and rode the edges of the air currents through its opening and into the silence and calm beyond. The roar of the ocean and the whistle of the wind died away, and the bay with its cliff walls and cloud ceiling enfolded them like an anxious mother would her offspring. The ship’s company crowded to the railings and looked out over the gray expanse of water and ice. Floes passed beneath like massive ships launched off the glaciers, riding the currents out to sea. Ice cracked and chuttered in the silence, filling hearts with sudden moments of apprehension and eyes with bright looks of concern. Bek stood in the cold and silence like a statue, wrapped in the former’s raw burn and layered in the latter’s rough emptiness.

  The Jerle Shannara passed through the outer bay and rode down the narrowing channel inland, the ceiling of mist lowering to scrape the airship’s raked masts, the gloom a whisper of shadows that tricked the eyes into seeing things that weren’t there. No one spoke as the airship slid past icebergs and along cliff walls, moving so slowly that it seemed almost at rest. Seabirds arced and soared about them, soundless and spectral. Bek watched them keep pace, following their progress, intrigued by their obvious interest.

  Then his throat tightened and his breath exhaled in a sharp cloud as he realized they were waiting to see if there would be bones to pick once the airship reached the Squirm.

  Moments later the haze cleared sufficiently that he could see the first of the ice pillars that barred their passage, towering spikes swaying hypnotically, seductively in the gloom.

  “Come with me,” Walker said softly, causing the boy to jump, to feel the tightening in his throat work swiftly to his chest and stomach.

  So it was time. He remembered his certainty months earlier when he had agreed to come on this voyage that it would change him forever. It had done that, but not to the extent it was about to do now. He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of fear and doubt. He understood that the course of his life was already determined, but he could not quite accept it, even now. Still, he must do the best he could.

  Obediently, silently, willing himself to place one foot in front of the other, Bek followed after the Druid.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bek waited in the shadow of the chain-wrapped casing that housed the Sword of Shannara while Walker moved everyone back from the forward deck to take up positions along the aft and side railings. Redden Alt Mer occupied the pilot box with Rue Meridian. Spanner Frew stood just below, ready to leap into action if his aid was required. Furl Hawken commanded the Rover crew from the rise of the aft deck, and the Elven Hunters under Ard Patrinell clustered on both sides, safety lines firmly attached. Panax, Quentin, and Ahren Elessedil were gathered on the starboard railing just to one side of the aft mast, whispering. About him, Bek thought uncomfortably, but that was nonsense. Their eyes were directed toward the Squirm, and their concentration was on its movements within the ice-melt bay. Only Walker knew what he was there to do. Only Walker understood how much depended on him.

  The Druid reappeared at his side. “Ready, Bek?”

  Not trusting himself to speak, the boy nodded. He was not ready, of course. He would never be ready for something as frightening as this. There was no way to become ready. All he could do was trust that the Druid was right about his connection to the magic and hope that he could find a way to make himself do what was needed.

  But looking at the monstrous barrier ahead, at the tons of ice and rock that rose above him, he could not imagine doing anything that would make a difference.

  He breathed slowly, calming himself, waiting for something to happen. The Jerle Shannara advanced toward the pillars on a slow, steady course, easing up to the barrier as if seeking an invitation to enter. Walker was speaking to Redden Alt Mer, but Bek could not make himself focus on the words. His heart was hammering in his chest, and all he could hear was the sound of his breathing and the cracking of the ice as new pieces broke away.

  “Now, Bek,” the Druid said softly.

  Walker’s hand swept the air about them, and the air shimmered and turned murky with a swirling of mist and gloom. Everything behind and to either side of the boy and the Druid lost focus and faded away. All that remained was a window before them that opened on the channel and the cliffs and the ice.

  As if in response, the pillars began to move.

  “Hold steady, Bek,” Walker urged softly, touching Bek’s shoulder to reassure him, dark face close, his eyes staring out at the ice as it came together.

  Like mobile teeth, the pillars tilted and clashed, grinding and crunching until shards of ice splintered and flew in all directions. The sea below boiled and crashed in waves against the base of the cliffs, spray rising in clouds to mingle with the mist. Bek flinched at the sound and the motion, hunched his shoulders in spite of himself. He could feel the ice closing about him, crushing him, reducing the airship to driftwood and the ship’s company to pulp. He could feel it happening as if it really were, tearing at him in ways that turned him so cold and dead he could not bear it. He stood on the deck of the Jerle Shannara, washed by spray and hammered by sound, and felt as if his soul had been torn open.

  Something burned before him, a beacon out of the gloom, rising like a flame into the gray haze. He stared at it in wonder, and he saw that he held in his hands the Sword of Shannara and that it was ablaze with light.

  “Shades!” he hissed in disbelief.

  He had no idea when Walker had given it to him, no idea how long he had been holding it. He stared at its light, transfixed, watching it surge up and down the blade in small crimson ribbons that twisted and wound about the metal. He watched as it descended into the pommel and wrapped about his hands.

  Then it was rushing through him in a wave of warmth and tingling sensation, spreading all through his limbs and body. It consumed him, swallowed him, wrapped him about, and made him its own. He was captured by it, and there was a slow leavening of thought, emotion, and feeling. Everything about him began to disappear, fading away into darkness which only the sword’s light illuminated. The airship, the ship’s company, the gloom and mist, the ice, the cliffs, everything was gone. Bek was alone, solitary and adrift within himself, buoyed on the back of the magic that infused him.

  Help me, he heard himself asking.

  The images began at once, no longer of the Squirm and its crushing pillars, no longer of the world in which he lived, but of the world he had left behind, of the past. A succession of memories began to recall themselves, taking him back in time, reminding him of what had once been and now was gone. He grew younger, smaller. The memories became a rush of sudden, frightening images, rife with fury and terror, with distant cries and the labored breathing of someone who held him close before tucking him into a black, cold place. The smell and taste of smoke and soot filled his throat and nostrils, and he could feel a panic within that refused to be stilled.

  Grianne! he heard himself call out.

  Blackness cloaked and hooded him once more, and a new series of images began. He saw himself as a child in the care of Coran and Liria. He saw himself at play with Quentin and his friends, with his younger brothers and sisters, at his home in Leah and beyond. The scenes were dark and accusatory, memories of his growing up that he had suppressed, memories of the times in which he had lied and cheated and deceived, in which his selfishness and disregard had caused hurt and pain. Some of these scenes were familiar; some he had forgotten. The weaknesses of his life were revealed in steady procession, laid bare for him to witness. They were not terrible things taken separately, but their number increased their weight, and after a time he was crying openly and desperate for them to end.

  A wind of dark haziness swept them all away and left him with a view of the Four Lands in which all that was bad and terrible about the human condition was displayed. He watched in horror as starvation, sickness, murder, and pillage decimated lives and homes and futures in a canvas so broad it seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. Men, women and children fell victim to the weakne
sses of spirit and morality that plagued mankind. All of the races were susceptible, and all participated in the savagery. There was no end to it, no lessening of it, no sense that it had ever been other than this. Bek watched it unfold in horror and profound sadness and felt it to be a part of himself. Even in his misery he could sense that this was the history of his people, that this was who he was.

  Yet when it was over, he felt cleansed. With recognition came acceptance. With acceptance came forgiveness. He felt cleansed, not just of what he had contributed to the morass, but of what others had contributed as well—as if he had taken it all on his shoulders, just for a little while, and had been given back a sense of peace. He rose up within the darkness, strengthened in ways he could not define, reborn into himself with a boy’s eyes, but a man’s understanding.

  The darkness drew back, and he stood again on the deck of the Jerle Shannara, arms lifted, sword outstretched. He was still masked back and sides by Walker’s magic, but the way forward was clear. The Squirm had opened anew, its pillars swaying seductively, beckoning him to proceed, to come within their reach. He could feel the cold that permeated them. He could feel their crushing weight. Even the air that surrounded them was infused with their power and their unpredictability. But there was something else here as well; he felt it at once. Something man-made, something not of nature but of machines and science.

  A hand reached out to him, not made of flesh and blood, but of spirit, of ether, of magic so vast and pervasive that it lay everywhere about. He shrank from it, warded himself against it by bringing the sword’s light to bear, and abruptly it was gone.

  Walker? he called out in confusion, but there was only silence.

  Ahead, the pillars of the Squirm rocked in the ice-melt sea, and the gulls flew round and round. Bek tested the air and the temperature. He joined himself to the ice of the spikes and the rock of the cliffs. He immersed himself in their feel, in their movements, in the vibrations of sound they emitted, in the shifting of their parts. He became one with his immediate world, extending into it from where he stood, so that he could read its intention and anticipate its behavior.