Ilse Witch

22

For six days and nights, Walker lay near death. A swift and deadly agent, the poison from the brambles had penetrated deep into his body. By the time he was brought back aboard the Jerle Shannara, he was already beginning to fail. The Elven Healer Joad Rish recognized his symptoms immediately and roused him long enough to swallow an antidote, then spent the next few anxious minutes applying baen-leaf compresses to his injuries to draw out the poison.

Although the Healer’s efforts slowed the poison and blunted its killing effects, they could not counteract it completely. At Redden Alt Mer’s insistence, Walker was carried below and placed in the Rover Captain’s cabin, and there Joad Rish wrapped the stricken Druid in blankets to keep him warm, gave him liquids to prevent dehydration, changed his dressings regularly, and sat back to wait. Walker’s own body was doing more than the Healer could to keep him alive. It waged a silent struggle that was apparent to him but that he could do little more to aid.

Bek Rowe was there for most of it. Since his summoning by Walker during the jungle attack, he felt tied to the Druid in a new and unexpected way. There was considerable wonder and confusion among the members of the ship’s company at the fact that he alone had heard Walker’s summons. No one had made much of it as yet, but Bek could tell what they were thinking. If the Druid could have summoned anyone, he would have summoned Redden Alt Mer, who piloted the airship and could respond more directly than Bek Rowe. But Big Red had heard nothing. Nor had Quentin or Panax or even Ryer Ord Star. Perhaps not even Truls Rohk had heard. Only Bek. How could that be? Why would Bek be able to receive a summons of that sort when no one else could? How had Walker known that Bek could hear and so chosen to call to him?

The questions plagued him, and there would be no answers unless the Druid recovered from his wounds. But it was not for that reason that Bek chose to keep watch over the Druid. It was because he was afraid that Walker, locked inside his body while unconscious and stricken, in need of help that he could communicate in no other way, would call to him again. Perhaps distance wasn’t a problem for the Druid when he was well, but what if it was while he was sick? If Bek were not close and listening, a cry for help might go unheard. Bek did not want that on his conscience. If there was a way to save the Druid’s life, he had to be there to provide it.

So he sat with Walker in Redden Alt Mer’s cabin and watched in silence while Joad Rish worked. He slept now and then, but only in short naps and never deeply. Ahren Elessedil brought him his meals, and Quentin and Panax came to visit. No effort was made to remove him from the cabin. If anything, the ship’s company seemed to feel he belonged at the Druid’s side.

To no one’s surprise, he did not keep his vigil over Walker alone. Sitting with him the whole of the time was the young seer, Ryer Ord Star. As she had since their departure from Arborlon, she stayed as close to the Druid as his shadow. She studied him intently during his struggle, her head bent in concentration. She watched while Joad Rish worked, asking occasionally what he was doing, nodding at his responses, giving silent approval and support to his efforts. Now and then she spoke to Bek, a word or two here and there, never more, always with her eyes directed toward the Druid. Bek studied her surreptitiously, trying to read her thoughts, to see inside her mind deep enough to discover if she had caught a glimpse of Walker’s fate. But the seer revealed nothing, her thin, youthful face a mask against whatever secrets she kept.

Once, when Joad Rish had left them alone and they sat together on a wooden bench at the Druid’s side in candlelit gloom, Bek asked her if she thought Walker would live.

“His will is very strong,” she replied softly. “But his need for me is greater.”

He had no idea what she was talking about and could not think of a way to ask. He was silent long enough that Joad Rish returned, and the matter was dropped. But he could not shake the feeling that the young woman was telling him that in some inextricable way Walker’s life was linked to hers.

As he discovered two nights later, he was right. Joad Rish had announced earlier in the day that he had done everything he could think to do for the Druid and that further healing was up to the Druid himself. He had not abandoned hope or given up on his treatment, but he was seeing no change in Walker and was clearly worried. Bek could tell that the Druid had reached a critical juncture in his battle. He was no longer sleeping quietly, but thrashing and twisting in his unconsciousness, delirious and sweating. His great strength of will seemed to have hit a wall, and the poison was pushing back against it relentlessly. Bek had an uneasy feeling that Walker was losing ground.

Ryer Ord Star must have decided the same. She rose suddenly as the midnight hour approached and announced to Joad Rish that he must step back from Walker and give her a chance to help him. The Healer hesitated, then decided for whatever reason to comply. Perhaps he knew of her reputation as an empath and hoped she could do something to relieve his patient’s distress. Perhaps he felt there was nothing more he could do, so why not let someone else try? He moved to the bench beside Bek, and together they watched the young seer approach.

She bent to the Druid soundlessly. Like the shadow she so often seemed, she hovered over him, her hands placed carefully on the sides of his face, her slender form draped across his own. She spoke softly and gently, the words lost to Bek and Joad Rish, murmurings that faded into the sounds of the airship as it sailed on the back of the night wind. She continued for a long time, linking herself to Walker, Bek decided, by the sound of her voice and her touch. She wanted him to feel her presence. She wanted him to know she was there.

Then she laid her cheek against his forehead, keeping her hands on his face, and went silent. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply and steadily. Walker began to convulse, arching off the bed in violent spasms, gasping and moaning. She held on to him as he thrashed, and her own body jerked in response to his. Sweat appeared on her thin face, and her pale brow furrowed in anguish. Joad Rish started to go to them, then sat back again. Neither he nor Bek looked at each other, their eyes riveted on the drama taking place.

The strange dance between Druid and seer went on for a long time, a give and take of sudden motion and harsh response. She’s taking the poison with its sickness and pain into herself, Bek realized at one point, watching her body knot and her face twist. She’s absorbing what’s killing him into herself. But won’t it then kill her? How much stronger can she be than the Druid, this tiny frail creature? He felt helpless and frustrated watching her work. But he could do nothing.

Then she collapsed to the floor so suddenly that both Bek and the Healer sprang to their feet to go to her. She was unconscious. They laid her on some spare bedding on the cabin floor and covered her with blankets. She was sleeping deeply, locked within herself, carrying Walker’s poison inside, carrying his sickness and pain; Walker was sleeping peacefully, the thrashing stopped, the delirium faded. Joad Rish examined them both, feeling for heartbeat and pulse, for temperature and breathing. He looked at Bek when he was finished and shook his head uncertainly. He couldn’t tell if she’d been successful or not. They were alive, but it was impossible for him to judge as yet if they would stay that way.

He returned to the bench, and the waiting began anew.

At dawn, the Jerle Shannara encountered the worst storm of the voyage. Redden Alt Mer had felt it coming all night as it was signaled by sudden drops of temperature and changes in the wind. When dawn broke iron gray and bloodred, he ordered the sails reefed and all but the main draws shortened. Lightning flashed in long, jagged streaks across the northwest skies, and thunderheads rolled out of the horizon in massive dark banks. Placing the dependable Furl Hawken at the helm, Big Red moved down to the main deck to direct his Rover crew. Everything not already secured was lashed down. Everyone who was not a part of the crew was sent belowdecks and told to stay there. Rue Meridian was dispatched to her brother’s cabin to make certain that Walker was tied to his bed and to warn Bek, Ryer Ord Star, and Joad Rish that rough weather lay ahead.

By the time this was done and Little Red was back, the wind was howling across the decking and through the masts and spars as if a living thing. Rain washed down out of the clouds, and darkness descended on the airship in a smothering wave. Redden Alt Mer took the helm back from Furl Hawken, but ordered him to stand by. Spanner Frew was already stationed aft where he could see everything forward of his position. Little Red moved to the bow. All of the crew had secured safety lines and were crouched in the shelter of the railings and masts in anticipation of what was to come.

What came was ferocious. The storm swallowed them in a single gulp of black fury that shut out every other sight and sound, drenched them in rain, and lashed at them with winds so fierce it seemed the ship must surely come apart. Searching for a place to ride out of the storm, Big Red took the Jerle Shannara down to a little over a hundred feet above the ocean surface. He would not take the ship all the way down, because the ocean was more dangerous than the wind. What he could see of the Blue Divide, as intermittent flashes of lightning illuminated it, convinced him he had made the right choice. The surface of the ocean was a boiling cauldron of swirling foam and wicked dark troughs with waves cresting thirty and forty feet. In the air, they were buffeted hard, but they would not sink.

Even so, the Rover Captain began to fear they might break apart. Spars and lines were crashing to the decking, flying off into the windswept void. The airship was sleek and smooth and could sideslip the worst of the wind’s gusts, but, it was taking a beating. It tossed and dipped wildly. It slewed left and right with sudden lurches that caused stomachs to drop and jaws to clench. Redden Alt Mer stood tall in the pilot box, trying to keep his ship level and directed, but even that soon became hopeless. He could not tell in what direction they traveled, what speed they held, or where within the storm they lay. All he could manage was to keep them turned into the wind and upright above the sea.

The struggle went on all morning. Several times Big Red gave up the wheel to Furl Hawken and sank down in the shelter of the pilot box for a few moments of rest. His hearing was lost temporarily to the howl of the wind, and the skin of his face and hands felt raw. His body ached, and there was a thrumming in his arms and legs from fighting to hold the wheel steady. But each time he rested, he worried that he was taking too long. A few minutes were all he would spare himself. Responsibility for the ship and crew belonged to him, and he would not yield that responsibility to anyone else. Furl Hawken was as able as they came, but the safety of the ship and her company belonged to the Captain. He might have shared his duty with Little Red, but he had no idea where she was. He hadn’t seen her in hours. He could no longer see the ship’s bow or stern or anyone on them.

Eventually the storm passed, leaving all aboard ship sodden and battered and grateful to be alive. It was the worst storm Redden Alt Mer could remember. He thought they were lucky to have had a vessel as well built as the Jerle Shannara to weather it, and one of the first things he did after a hurried best-guess correction of their heading was to relinquish the helm to Furl Hawken so he could tell Spanner Frew as much. A quick check of the ship’s company revealed that everyone was still with them, although a few members had sustained minor injuries. Little Red appeared out of the shelter of the forward rams to advise him they had lost several spars and a couple of radian draws, but sustained no major damage. The most immediate problem they faced was that a forward hatch had fallen in on the water casks and all of their fresh water was lost. Foraging for more would be necessary.

It was at that point that Alt Mer remembered the Wing Riders and their Rocs, who had ridden out the storm on their own. He searched the skies in vain. All three had disappeared.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Half a day’s light remained to them, and he intended to take advantage of it. They were still following Walker’s map, sailing on toward the last of the three islands. Even though the Druid was lost to them for now, continuing on made better sense than turning back or standing still. If the Druid died, a different decision might be necessary, but he would make it only then.

“Bring everyone topside and put them to work cleaning up,” he told his sister. “And check on the Druid.”

She left at once, but it was Bek Rowe who appeared with the news he sought. “He’s sleeping better now, and Joad Rish thinks he will recover.” Bek looked exhausted, but pleased. “I don’t need to be down there anymore. I can help with what’s needed up here.”

Alt Mer smiled and clapped the boy on the back. “You are a game lad, Bek. I’m lucky to have you for my good right hand. All right, then. You go where you want for now. Lend a hand where it’s needed.”

The boy went at once to join Rue Meridian, who was clearing away one of the broken spars. Big Red watched him for a moment, then moved back into the pilot box with Furl Hawken and watched Bek some more.

“That boy’s in love with her, Hawk,” he declared with a wistful sigh.

Furl Hawken nodded. “Aren’t they all. Much good that it will do him or any of them.”

Redden Alt Mer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Maybe Bek Rowe will surprise us.”

His friend grunted. “Maybe cows will fly.”

They turned their attention to determining the ship’s position, taking compass and sextant readings, and beginning a search for landmarks. For now, they could do little but wait. The stars would give them a better reading come nightfall. Tomorrow would see a return of good weather and clear sailing. Maybe the Wing Riders would reappear from wherever they had gone. Maybe Walker would be back on his feet.

Redden Alt Mer glanced over at his sister and Bek Rowe once more and smiled. Maybe cows would fly.

It was almost twenty-four hours later when the Wing Riders soared into view out of the eastern horizon, winging for the airship across clear skies and over placid waters. Hunter Predd rode the lead bird. He was steady and calm as he swung close enough to shout across at Redden Alt Mer.

“Well met, Captain! Are you all right?”

“We survived, Wing Rider! What kept you?”

Hunter Predd grimaced. Rover humor. “We saw the storm coming and found an island on which to wait it out! You don’t want to be caught aloft on a Roc in a storm like that! You’ve been blown well off course, you know!”

Alt Mer nodded. “We’re working our way back! What we need now is fresh water! Can you find us some?”

The Wing Rider waved. “We’ll take a look! Don’t wander off while we’re gone!”

With Gill and Po Kelles in tow, he swung Obsidian south and west and began tracking the path of the sun in search of an island. The Wing Riders had weathered the storm on an island some miles east, in a cove sheltered by hills and trees. They had lost all contact with the airship and its company, but there was no help for that. Flying their Rocs in winds that heavy would have killed them all. Experience had taught them to take whatever shelter they could find when a bad storm appeared. They had remained on the island through the night and set off again at dawn. Rocs were intelligent birds possessed of extraordinary eyesight, and their tracking instincts were almost infallible. Using a method they had employed countless times before, the Wing Riders had flown a spiral search pattern that eventually brought them back on course with the Jerle Shannara.

Hunter Predd sighed. Storms and other navigational challenges did not concern him all that much. Losing Walker was a different matter. He assumed that Walker was still alive from the simple fact that Redden Alt Mer hadn’t said otherwise. Perhaps the Druid had even improved. But having him incapacitated even temporarily pointed up dramatically the weak link in the chain that anchored this entire expedition—only Walker understood what it was that they were trying to accomplish. Granted, a handful of others knew about the keys and the islands and the nature of their destination. Granted, as well, the seer had her visions and whatever information they supplied. Perhaps there were even a few additional things known to one or two others that were crucial to the success of the voyage.

But Walker was the glue that held them all together and the only one who understood completely the larger picture. He had told Hunter Predd that he needed the Wing Rider’s experience and insight to help him succeed on this expedition. He had intimated that the Wing Rider was to keep a sharp eye out. But half the time Hunter felt as if he were groping in the dark. He was never entirely sure what he was watching out for, save in the very narrow context of momentary circumstance. It was bad enough to operate in this fashion with Walker safe and sound. But if the Druid was incapacitated, how were the rest of them supposed to function reliably knowing as little as they did? It would be guesswork at best.

He made up his mind that he could not allow this situation to continue. Foraging and scouting in unknown territory, miles from any mainland, were sufficiently dangerous. But doing so without a clear idea of their purpose was intolerable. Certainly others aboard ship must feel the same. What about Bek Rowe and Quentin Leah? They had been taken into the Druid’s confidence, as well. They had been given the same charge he had. He had barely spoken to either since they had set out, but surely they must be having the same misgivings he was.

Still, Hunter Predd was reluctant to force the issue. He was a trained Rider of the Wing Hove, and he understood the importance of obeying orders without questioning them. Leaders did not always impart everything they knew to those they led. Certainly he did not do so with Gill and Po. They were expected to accept the assignments they were given and to do as they were told.

He shook his head. If there was no order, you ran the risk of anarchy. But if there was too much, you ran the risk of revolt. It was a fine line to walk.

He was still pondering this dilemma, trying to reason it through, when he sighted the island.

There were storm clouds lingering ahead, and at first he thought the island was a part of them. But as he drew nearer, he saw that what he had mistaken for dark clouds were rugged cliffs of the sort they had encountered on Shatterstone, their craggy faces exposed and windswept. The island’s foliage grew thick and lush inland on the lee side. The Wing Rider squinted against the glare of waterfalls cascading out of the rocks in long silver streams and sunlight where it reflected off the brilliant green of the trees. There would be fresh water available here, he thought.

Then something strange caught his eye. Hundreds of dark spots dotted the cliffs, making it look as if deep pockmarks had formed in the crevices and ridges after long years of severe weathering.

“What is that?” Hunter Predd muttered to himself.

He swung Obsidian about, motioning for Gill to move off to his left and Po Kelles to flank him on the right. On a long, sweeping glide, they approached the island and its cliffs, peering through the brightness of the afternoon sun.

Hunter Predd blinked. Had one of the dark spots moved? He glanced over at Po. The young Wing Rider nodded in response. He had seen it, too. Hunter Predd motioned for him to fall back.

He was trying to signal Gill, whose concentration had been distracted by a passing pod of whales, when several of the dark spots lifted away from the cliffs entirely.

Beneath him, Obsidian tensed and then screamed in alarm. Wings were unfolding from the black dots, giving them size and shape. Hunter Predd went cold. The Roc had recognized the danger before he had. Shrikes! War Shrikes! The fiercest and most savage of the breed. This island, which the Rocs and Wing Riders had stumbled upon unwittingly, must be their nesting ground. The War Shrikes would not ignore a trespass on their home ground, regardless of the reason for it. Rocs were their natural enemies, and the Shrikes would attack.

Hunter Predd wheeled Obsidian around hurriedly, watching Po Kelles and Niciannon follow his lead. To his astonishment, Gill continued to advance. Either he hadn’t seen the Shrikes or hadn’t recognized what they were. It was useless to yell warnings from that distance, so he used the signal whistle. Startled, Gill glanced over his shoulder and saw his companions pointing. Then he caught sight of the Shrikes. Frantically, he reined in Tashin. But the Roc panicked, and instead of wheeling back, he went into a steep dive, spiraling toward the ocean, pulling up and leveling out only at the last possible moment.

Then he was streaking after Obsidian and Niciannon, but he was still far behind and the Shrikes were closing. War Shrikes were swift and powerful short-range fliers. A Roc’s best hope was to gain height and distance. Hunter Predd realized that Tashin had failed to do either and would not escape.

He brought Obsidian back around swiftly and flew at the Shrikes in challenge, trying to distract them. Po Kelles and Niciannon were beside him almost instantly. Both Rocs screamed in fury at the approaching Shrikes, their hatred of their enemies as great as that of their enemies for them. Secured to their riding harnesses by safety lines and gripping their mounts with knees and boots, both Wing Riders brought out their long bows and the arrows that were dipped in an extract from fire nettles and nightshade. Close enough now to find their targets, they began to fire on the Shrikes.

Some of their missiles struck home. Some of the Shrikes even broke off the attack and wheeled back toward the island. But the bulk, more than twenty, descended on Gill and Tashin like a black cloud and caught them just off the surface of the water. Gill was torn from his Roc’s back on the first pass. Sharp talons and hooked beaks scattered parts of him everywhere in a red spray. Tashin lasted only seconds longer. Shuddering from the blows he received, he righted himself momentarily, then disappeared under a swarm of black bodies. Forced down into the ocean, he was quickly ripped to shreds.

Hunter Predd stared down at the carnage in helpless rage and frustration. It had happened so fast. One minute there, the next gone. Alive, and then a memory, a senseless loss of life that shouldn’t have happened. But what could have been done to avoid it? What could he have done?

He wheeled Obsidian about. Po Kelles and Niciannon followed. Swiftly they gained height and then distance, and in a matter of moments, they were safely away. Their pursuers did not give chase; they were otherwise occupied, wheeling above the broad patch of rolling ocean streaked with feathers and blood. The Wing Riders flew on and did not look back.