Morgawr

13

Imprisoned in the bowels of the Morgawr’s flagship, Ahren Elessedil rode out the storm that had brought down the Jerle Shannara. He was not chained to the wall as Bek had been when held prisoner on Black Moclips a day earlier, but left free to wander about the locked room. The storm had caught up to them as they flew north into the interior of the peninsula, snatching at the airship like a giant’s hand, tossing it about, and finally tiring of the game, casting it away. With the room’s solitary window battened down and the door secured, he could see nothing beyond the walls of his prison, but Ahren could feel the storm’s wrath. He could feel how it attacked and played with the airship, how it threatened to reduce her to a shattered heap of wooden splinters and iron fragments. If it did, his troubles would be over.

In his darker moments, he thought that perhaps this would be best.

An unwilling accomplice in the warlock’s search for the Ilse Witch, he had been brought aboard by the Morgawr and his Mwellrets after leaving Castledown’s ruins and taken directly to his present confinement. A guard had been posted outside, but had disappeared shortly after the storm had begun and not returned. Just before that, they had brought him some food and water, a small measure of both and only enough to keep him from losing strength entirely. No effort was made to communicate with him. From the way the Morgawr had left things, it was clear that he would be brought out only when it was felt he could be useful in some way.

Or when it was finally time to dispose of him. He held no illusions about that. Sooner or later, promises notwithstanding, that time would come.

Ryer Ord Star had disappeared with the warlock, and the Elven Prince still had no clear idea why she had turned against him. He had not stopped pondering the matter, not even during the storm, while he sat braced in a corner of the storeroom, pressed up against a wall between two heavy trusses to keep from being knocked around. She had been the willing tool of the Ilse Witch, and it did not require a great leap of faith to accept that she would take that same path with the Morgawr if she thought it meant the difference between living and dying. Walker was gone, and Walker had provided her with both strength and direction. Without him, she seemed frailer, smaller, more vulnerable—a wisp of life that a strong wind could blow away.

Even so, Ahren had thought she was his friend, that she had come to terms with what she had done and closed that door behind her. To have her betray him now, to reveal his identity and suggest a use for him to his enemy, was too much to bear. Like it or not, he was left with the unpleasant possibility that she had been lying to him all along.

Yet she had clearly mouthed the words trust me to him after they had been made prisoners. Why would she do that if she was not trying to let him know she was still his friend?

What sort of deception was she working?

He thought some more about the Elfstones, as well. He simply could not understand what had happened to them. They had most certainly been in his possession in Castledown. He remembered quite clearly tucking them away in his tunic. He did not think he had lost them since, did not see how that was possible, so someone must have taken them after he had been rendered unconscious. But who? Ryer Ord Star was the logical suspect, but Cree Bega had searched her. Besides, how could she have taken them after the Mwellrets took them prisoner? That left Cree Bega or another of the Mwellrets as suspects, but it would take an act of either supreme courage or foolishness to try to conceal the stones from the Morgawr. Ahren did not think that the Mwellrets would chance it.

He was still wrestling with his confusion when the storm abated and the ship settled back into a smooth and easy glide through the clearing skies. He could tell the sun had reappeared from the sudden brightening that shone through the chinks in his window shutters, and he could smell the sharp, clean air that always followed a heavy storm. He was standing with his face pushed up against the rough battens, trying to see something besides the brightness, when the lock on his door released with a snap. He turned. A Mwellret entered, mute and expressionless, carrying a tray of food and water. The Mwellret glanced about to make certain that nothing was amiss, then placed the tray on the floor by the entry, backed out, closed the door, and locked it anew.

Ahren ate and drank, hungrier and thirstier than he had imagined, and listened to renewed activity on the decks above, the sudden movement of booted feet amid a flurry of shouts and gruff exclamations. The airship tacked several times, swinging about, maneuvering in a series of fits and starts. The ones who sailed her were inexperienced or stiff-handed. Other than to note that they were Southlanders—Federation conscripts and sailors like the ones who fought on the Prekkendorran—he had paid no attention to the sailors on being brought aboard earlier. Mostly he had spent his time studying the layout of the decks and corridors he was moved along, thinking that at some point he might have a chance to escape and would need to know his way.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. That hope seemed impossibly naive just now.

A sudden jolt threw him backwards and knocked the tray aside, spilling its contents. A slow grinding of wooden timbers and a screech of metal suggested that they were rubbing up against something big. He sprawled on the floor, as the ship lurched to a stop. He heard more activity overhead. For a moment he thought they were engaged in combat, but then the sounds died away. Yet the movement of the ship had changed, the earlier smooth, easy glide gone, replaced by a stiffer sway, as if the ship was resting against something solid.

Then the door to his prison opened again, and Cree Bega stepped through, followed by two more Mwellrets. The latter crossed to where he sat, hauled him roughly to his feet, and propelled him toward the open door.

“Comess with uss, little Elvess,” Cree Bega ordered.

They took him back up on deck. The sunlight was so bright that at first he was blinded by it. He stood in the grip of the Mwellrets, squinting through the glare at a cluster of figures gathered forward. Most were Mwellrets, but there were Federation sailors, as well. The sailors were slack-jawed, their faces empty of expression. They stood as if in a daze, staring at nothing. Ahren realized that they were still airborne, riding several hundred feet above a canopy of brilliant green forest with the peaks of a mountain range visible off their bow, a rippling stone spine that disappeared into a hazy distance.

Then he saw that they were lashed to a second airship, one he recognized immediately. It was Black Moclips.

“Besst now to pay closse attention,” Cree Bega whispered in his ear.

Ahren saw Ryer Ord Star then. She was standing beside the Morgawr, almost at the bow, her small figure lost in his shadow. The Morgawr warded her protectively, and she seemed to welcome the attention, glancing up at him regularly, leaning into him as if his presence somehow gave her strength. There was anticipation on her face, though the pale features still bore that ghostly pallor, that look of otherworldliness that suggested she was someplace else altogether. Ahren stared at her, waiting for her to notice him. She never even glanced his way.

Aboard Black Moclips, Federation sailors crowded the rail, making secure the fastenings that bound the two ships together. Their uneasy glances were unmistakable. Now and then, those glances would stray to their counterparts aboard the Morgawr’s ship, then move quickly away. They saw what Ahren saw in the faces of those who crewed the Mwellret ship—emptiness and disinterest.

A pair of men had descended from Black Moclips’ pilothouse and come forward. The Commander, recognizable by the insignia on his tunic, was a tall, well-built man with short-cropped dark hair. The other, his Mate perhaps, was tall as well, but thin as a rail, and had the seamed, browned face of a man who had spent his life as a sailor. The crew of the Black Moclips looked to them at once for guidance, closing about them in a show of support as they came to the railing. The Morgawr came forward and stood talking to them for a moment, the words too soft for Ahren to make out. Then the broad-shouldered Commander climbed onto the railing and stepped across to the Morgawr’s ship.

“Comess closser, little Elvess,” Cree Bega ordered. “Sseess what happenss.”

The Mwellrets holding Ahren hauled him forward to where he could hear clearly. He glanced again at Ryer Ord Star, who had dropped back and was standing apart from everyone in the bow, her eyes closed and her face lifted, as if gone into a trance. She was dreaming, he realized. She was having a vision, but no one had noticed.

“She took you prisoner, commandeered your ship, and escaped—all of this with no one to help her but a Wing Rider?” the Morgawr was saying. His rough voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to his words.

“She is a formidable woman,” the Federation officer replied, tight-lipped and angry.

“No more so than your mistress, Commander Aden Kett, and you were quick enough to abandon her. I would have thought twice about doing so in your shoes.”

Kett stiffened. He was staring into the black hole of the other’s cowl, clearly intimidated by the dark, invisible presence within, by the other’s size and mystery. He was confronted by a creature he now knew to have some sort of relationship to the Ilse Witch, which made him very dangerous.

“I thought more than twice about it, I assure you,” he said.

“Yet you let her escape, and you did not give chase?”

“The storm was upon us. I was concerned more for the safety of my ship and crew than for a Rover girl.”

Rue Meridian, Ahren thought at once. Somehow, after the Ilse Witch had gone ashore, Rue had boarded and gotten control of Black Moclips. But where was she now? Where were the rest of the Rovers, for that matter? Everyone had disappeared, it seemed, gone into the ether like Walker.

“So you have your ship back, but the Rover girl is gone?” The Morgawr seemed to shrug the matter aside. “But where is our little Ilse Witch, Commander?”

Aden Kett seemed baffled. “I’ve told you already. She went ashore. She never returned.”

“This boy who escaped, the one she seemed so interested in when she brought him back to the ship—what do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know anything about that boy. I don’t know what happened to either of them. What I do know is that I’ve had enough of being questioned. My ship and crew are under the command of the Federation. We answer to no one else, especially now.”

A brave declaration, Ahren thought. A foolish declaration, given what he suspected about the Morgawr. If the Ilse Witch was dangerous, this creature, her mentor, was doubly so. He had come a long way to find her. He had gained control over an entire Federation fleet to manage the task. Mwellrets who were clearly in his thrall surrounded him. Aden Kett was being reckless.

“Would you go home again, Commander?” the Morgawr asked him quietly. “Home to fight on the Prekkendorran?”

This time Aden Kett hesitated before speaking, perhaps already sensing that he had crossed a forbidden line. The Mwellrets, Ahren noticed, had gone very still. Ahren could see anticipation on their flat, reptilian faces.

“I would go home to do whatever the Federation asks of me,” Kett answered. “I am a soldier.”

“A soldier obeys his commanding officer in the field, and you are in the field, Commander,” the Morgawr said softly. “If I ask you to help me find the Ilse Witch, it is your duty to do so.”

There was a long silence, and then Aden Kett said, “You are not my commanding officer. You have no authority over me. Or over my ship and crew. I have no idea who you are or how you got here using Federation ships and men. But you have no written orders, and so I am not obligated to follow your dictates. I have come aboard to speak with you as a courtesy. That courtesy has been exercised, and I am absolved of further responsibility to you. Good luck to you, sir.”

He turned away, intent on reboarding Black Moclips. Instantly, the Morgawr stepped forward, his huge clawed hand lunging out of his black robes to seize the luckless Federation officer by the back of his neck. Powerful fingers closed about Aden Kett’s throat, cutting off his futile cry. The Morgawr’s other hand appeared more slowly, emerging in a ball of green light as his victim thrashed helplessly. Then, as Ahren Elessedil watched in horror, the Morgawr extended the glowing hand to the back of his prisoner’s head and eased it through skin and hair and bone, twisting and turning inside like a spoon. Kett threw back his head and screamed in spite of the grip on his throat, then shuddered once and went still.

The Morgawr withdrew his hand slowly, carefully. The back of Aden Kett’s skull sealed as he did so, closing as if there had been no intrusion at all. The Morgawr’s hand was no longer glowing. It was wet and dripping with brain matter and fluids.

It was finished in seconds. Aboard Black Moclips, the stunned Federation crew rushed to the railing, but the Mwellrets blocked their way with pikes and axes. Pushing back the horrified Southlanders, the rets swarmed aboard, closing about and rendering them all prisoners. The sole exception was the rail-thin Mate, who hesitated only long enough to see the terrible, blasted look on his Commander’s empty face, devoid of life and emotion, stripped of humanity, before going straight to the closest opening on the rail and throwing himself over the side.

The Morgawr squeezed what was left of Aden Kett’s brain in his hand, pieces dripping onto the deck, dampness sliding down his scaly arm.

“Bring the others now,” he said softly. “One by one, so I can savor them.”

Unable to help himself, tears filling his eyes, Ahren Elessedil retched and threw up.

“Thiss iss what could happen to little Elvess who dissobey,” Cree Bega hissed into Ahren’s ear. “Thinkss how it feelss!”

Then he had the boy dragged belowdecks once more and into his prison.

At the bow, in the shadow of the curved rams, alone and forgotten while the subjugation of Aden Kett took place, Ryer Ord Star stood with her eyes closed and her mind at rest.

Walker.

There was no response. Borne aloft by the wind, the smell of the forest filled her nostrils. She could picture the trees, branches spread wide, leaves touching like fingers, a shelter and a home.

Walker.

–I am here–

At the sound of his voice, her tension diminished and the peace that always came when he was near began to replace it. Even in death, he was with her, her protector and her guide. As he had promised when he sent her from him out of Castledown, he had come to her again. Not in life, but in her dreams and visions, a strong and certain presence that would lend her the strength she so desperately needed.

How much longer must I stay here?

In her mind, the Druid’s voice assumed shape and form and became the Druid as he had been in life, looking at her with kindness and understanding.

–It is not yet time to leave–

I am frightened!

–Do not be afraid. I am with you and will keep you from harm–

She kept her eyes closed and her face lifted, feeling the warmth of the sun and the cool of the wind on her skin, but seeing only him. To anyone who looked upon her, to Ahren in particular, who was watching, she seemed a small, fragile creature given over to a fate that only she would recognize when it came for her. She was prepared for that fate, accepting of it, and her features radiated a reassurance that she was ready to embrace it.

Her words, when she spoke them in the silence of her mind, were rife with her need.

I am so lonely. Let me be free.

–Your task is not yet finished. Grianne has not yet awakened. You must give her time to do so. She must remain free. She must escape the Morgawr long enough to remember–

How will she do that? How will she find her way back from where she has gone to hide from the truth?

She knew of Grianne Ohmsford and the Sword of Shannara. She knew what had befallen the Ilse Witch in the catacombs of Castledown. Walker had told her at the time of his first coming, when she was made a prisoner of the Mwellrets with Ahren. He had told her what had transpired and what he needed of her. She was so grateful to see him again, even in another form, in another place, that she would have agreed to anything he asked of her.

The soft, familiar voice whispered to her.

–She will come back when she finds a way to forgive herself. She will come back when she is reborn–

The seer did not know what this meant. How could anyone forgive themselves for the things the Ilse Witch had done? How could anyone who had lived her life ever be made whole again?

Walker spoke again.

–You must deceive the Morgawr. You must delay his search. You must lead him astray. No other possesses the skills or magic to find her. He, alone, threatens. If he captures her, everything will be lost–

She felt herself turn cold at the words. What did they mean? Everything? The entire world and all those who lived in it? Could that be possible? Could the Morgawr possess power enough to accomplish such a thing? Why was Grianne Ohmsford’s survival so important to whether or not that happened? What could she do to change things, even should she find a way out of her madness and despair?

–Will you try–

I will try. But I must help Ahren.

For a moment it was as if he was touching her in the flesh. She watched his hand reach out to grip her shoulder. She felt his fingers close about, warm and solid and alive. She gave a small gasp of surprise and wonder.

Oh, Walker!

–Let the Elven Prince be. Do as you have been told. Do not speak to him. Do not look at him. Do not go near him. Carry through with your deception or everything I have worked for will be ruined–

She nodded and sighed, still lost in the feel of his hands, of his flesh. She knew what was expected of her. She knew she must act alone and in the best way she could. She wondered anew at his choice of words. Carry through with your deception or everything I have worked for will be ruined. What did that mean? What had he worked for that could be at risk? Why did it matter so to him that she be successful in deceiving the Morgawr? What was so important that she make it possible for Grianne Ohmsford to escape?

Then she saw it. It came to her in a flash of recognition, a truth so obvious that she did not understand how she could have missed it before. Of course, she thought. How could it be anything else? The enormity of her revelation left her so off balance that for a moment she lost her concentration completely and opened her eyes without thinking. The fierce glare of the midday sun was sharp and blinding, and she squeezed her eyes closed again instantly.

Too much light. Too much truth.

His voice cut through her confusion and her agitation like a gentle breeze.

–Do as I ask of you. One last time–

I will. I promise. I will find a way.

Then he was gone, and she was alone in the darkness of her mind, his words still lingering in small echoes, his presence still warm against her heart.

When she came back to herself again, out of her trance and unlocked from her vision—opening her eyes again, careful to shade them against the light—she could hear the screams of the Federation sailors from Black Moclips as the Morgawr fed on their souls.