Wards of Faerie

25

The bleak expanse of the Breakline stretched away in front of her as the Walker Boh emerged from the peaks of the Kensrowe and turned west toward the miles of unsettled wilderness that would eventually end at the shores of the Blue Divide. They were removed from anything resembling civilization, flying over country uninhabited save for the hardiest and most primal denizens of the Four Lands. A thousand feet up and well clear of what dwelled below, they had only the landscape to suggest the savage existence of those creatures. Farshaun might know a little of them from his travels, and the Speakman surely knew a good deal more, but the rest of the expedition had heard only stories.

Still, just looking at the vast, rugged emptiness—the blasted earth that seemed to have been torn up and thrown back down again in clumps, the ragged, gaping fissures that ran for thousands of yards, the upheaval of rocks that had become razor-sharp and weather-pitted, the smooth flat surfaces of sinkholes said to be bottomless and burrows that tunneled beneath the ruined surface and were said to house giant insects—made Khyber Elessedil wonder if perhaps the Speakman’s prediction that none of them would return from this expedition was an accurate foretelling.

But she had come this far and would not turn back no matter how forbidding the land appeared, no matter the nature of the dangers that waited there, no matter her personal reservations. The lure of the Elfstones was too strong, the chance to recover so great a treasure overriding any thoughts of abandoning her quest. The Druids were equal to the task. Their magic and their experience would protect them.

No one other than Farshaun and herself knew of the Speakman’s prediction. She had forbidden the old man from saying anything about it to the others and had instructed him to tell the Speakman the same. The musings of a seer were not always to be trusted, and even if his prediction were to come true it might do so in a way that was different from what it seemed on the surface. What mattered were his skills and experience as a guide, not his abilities as a seer.

So she told herself.

They had departed at sunrise. Before doing so, she had taken herself away from the others and, using her magic, called up anew the vision skived from Aphenglow’s memory, so she could be certain of the landmarks she had been shown. In a deep trance, she saw again the familiar pinnacles of the Kensrowe and the blasted emptiness of the Breakline stretching ahead, then saw the triad of rock columns and beyond that the giant fissure gape open like a mouth that would swallow them all.

By the time she had returned to the others, the Speakman had come down from his cave to join them. Communicating only through Farshaun, he had signaled his readiness to proceed. Khyber let Farshaun act as interpreter, let him ask the Speakman the necessary questions and convey whatever answers were given. What she wanted was to make certain he concentrated his efforts on searching for the landmarks in Aphenglow’s Elfstone vision.

So now they were under way, and in truth, she felt as if they were already halfway to their goal. They had passed the rock formation she had come to think of as the three sentinels—the trio situated in an open stretch of flatland, towering over their surroundings like guards at watch.

Khyber assigned Farshaun and the Speakman the task of spying out the huge fissure that was the next recognizable landmark in their search. Then she decided to follow up on the promise Pleysia had made to her days ago: to reveal the reason why she had chosen the girl Oriantha to accompany them. Either it had slipped Pleysia’s mind or she had chosen to ignore it, but in either case it was time the promise be kept.

She found Pleysia and the young woman sitting alone amidships next to a pile of stores, once again deep in conversation. It was exactly how she had found them several days earlier, so deeply engaged it was as if no one else existed. She paused for a moment before approaching them, trying to imagine the nature of the relationship. On failing to do so, she walked over, whereupon, as before, all conversation came to an immediate halt.

“Pleysia,” she greeted the Druid, nodding wordlessly to Oriantha. “You promised you would explain to me the reason behind Oriantha’s selection for this expedition. Now is the time.”

Pleysia sighed heavily and nodded. “I don’t suppose I can put it off any longer. I hope you won’t be angry with me, Mistress. Oriantha is a powerful and accomplished shape-shifter. She was born of a shape-shifting father and a magic-wielding mother who fell in love just long enough to conceive her before parting. None of it was meant to happen, but happen it did. And while the father disappeared and has not been seen or heard from since, the mother stayed close and saw to it that Oriantha was raised as she should be—even though she wasn’t able to do this herself. Over time, Oriantha’s shape-shifting ability began to manifest itself, and it became clear that she was gifted with both shape-shifting skills and select uses of magic.”

She paused. “I had hoped to bring her to the order to apply for admission sometime in the next few years—even though I fully expected you and the others to refuse her. The order has never embraced the practice of allowing members of one family to serve the Druid Order at the same time.”

Khyber nodded slowly. “Because the presence of one puts too much strain on the other and endangers them both. You are her mother, aren’t you, Pleysia?”

Pleysia nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

“How is it that I’ve never even known she existed?”

“I’ve never discussed her with anyone. I kept that part of my life private. When I came to the order, I left her with my mother. She was five years old then. My mother raised her. I barely saw her during that time. I didn’t know when I came to Paranor that Oriantha would inherit both her father’s talent and my own. I suspected she had some ability, but did not realize how gifted she was. I should have been there to train her, but by then I had committed myself to the order and could do little. Mostly, she trained herself.”

Khyber regarded her in silence for a moment. “You have broken the rules by bringing her on this expedition, Pleysia. Why did you do that? You knew it would be dangerous for her. Why did you choose to bring her to us now when you could have waited for a better time?”

The Elven Druid shook her head. “Mistress, please. I don’t want to tell you that.”

“If you don’t, I will send Oriantha home at once,” Khyber declared. She glanced over at the girl, who hadn’t said a single word, but simply sat there, listening. “Oriantha, have you nothing to say?”

The girl’s strong features tightened with resolve. “I came because I wanted to be with my mother. It was necessary for me to come.”

“Did you know it was a clear violation of our rules?”

“My mother needed me.”

“Is that what she told you? That she needed you? Did you come because you were asked or because you chose on your own to come?”

“Mistress,” Pleysia broke in. “Let her be. She came because of something I said.” She hesitated. “Because I told her I am dying.”

It stopped Khyber where she was. Oriantha, this strong young woman who seemed chiseled from stone, had begun crying. Pleysia wrapped her arms around her and whispered in her ear.

“Dying?” the Ard Rhys said softly.

“I found out months ago. A healer told me. I am diseased within and there is no cure, not even with healing magic. I thought to be dead and gone before you woke from the Druid Sleep. I believed I could bring Oriantha to the Keep and, because I was dying, the other Druids would keep her until you woke. Then you might agree to accept her into the order. But then the diary was found, and I ran out of time.”

She looked stricken, as if speaking the words gave power to the thing killing her. That she might be lying never entered Khyber’s mind; the truth was mirrored in the faces of mother and daughter.

Pleysia released Oriantha and faced the Ard Rhys. “I know this is a dangerous journey. I understood what that meant. I went to her and I told her I was dying and there was a good chance I would not be coming back from this expedition. I asked her to wait for me, but she insisted she was coming with me. She said it was probably our last chance to be together. She did not want to give that up. She is a more gifted magic user than I am, and she was quick to remind me of it. If she could not go, neither could I, she argued. So I agreed to bring her with me.”

Khyber sighed. Pleysia should have told her Oriantha was her daughter, but she understood why the Elven woman had kept it secret, fearful that her request to include Oriantha would be denied and the girl sent home. Knowing she was dying, she would be desperate to keep her daughter with her. Khyber questioned the wisdom of including her when she would be placed at such risk, but maybe Oriantha was more capable and experienced than her age would suggest.

She rose from where she was crouched beside them. “I am sorry this is happening to you, Pleysia. But I am worried for Oriantha.”

“I will watch over her,” Pleysia said at once.

“And I will watch over my mother,” Oriantha added quickly. She hesitated. “Mistress, I am much stronger and better trained than you know. I can take care of myself and will not be a burden on anyone.”

Pleysia nodded quickly. “I have witnessed this. She speaks the truth.”

The determination she heard in their voices was convincing. It was too late to send the girl back anyway. They were too far out in the wilderness, and it would be too disruptive at this point to try to separate them.

“Oriantha can stay,” she said.

Pleysia’s smile in response was both bitter and sweet. “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much.”

Oriantha murmured her thanks as well, leaning over to give her mother a kiss on her cheek.

Khyber nodded without saying anything further and walked away.

The day wore on and the Walker Boh continued its flight west. The weather was a strange mix of contradictions. Twice, sandstorms blew up from out of nowhere, huge windswept monsters that engulfed the airship in grit and dust and forced all aboard to hunker down with their eyes shielded, trusting that the vessel would find her way through. Three times it rained, each time hard and fierce, drenching everyone in spite of weatherproof gear, passing in minutes and moving on. Periods of haze enveloped the travelers and left them virtually blind as they flew with only a compass to point them in the right direction. Frequently, the Speakman had them change directions because of what he saw of the landscape below, and each time Khyber nodded her agreement, trusting that he would know what none of the others could.

It was nearing midday when they found the fissure shown in the Elfstone vision.

To say it was massive didn’t begin to describe it. It was as if the entire earth had split apart, forming a chasm that stretched for miles in both directions. The fissure was black and filled with mist, and it emitted a haunting wail that reached the passengers and crew of the airship even as high up as they were, working through them like a nightmare’s memory. The sides of the chasm were jagged, and there was no visible bottom. Where it began and ended was anyone’s guess.

“Fifty miles long,” the Speakman whispered.

“I believe it,” said Farshaun. “What’s making that sound?”

“The spirits of the dead.”

Farshaun looked at him. “How would you know that? Have you been to the bottom and seen them?”

The Speakman gave him a look. “I have seen them in my dreams.”

Redden and Railing were standing close enough to hear them, and exchanged a quick look. They peered over the side of the airship once more, tracking the split from one horizon to the other without finding an end.

“I hope we don’t have to go down into that,” Railing whispered to his brother, trying to be careful not to let any of the others hear.

“If we did, we’d probably come out on the other side of the world,” Redden whispered back.

Farshaun stepped close. “If you did, you would probably find the spirits of the dead waiting to receive you.” He snorted derisively. “Now, keep quiet.”

The old man turned to Khyber. “We’re close to the Fangs. Once there, we have to go on foot.”

“We can’t continue to fly?” The Ard Rhys was taken aback. “It’s much safer if we remain aloft.”

“Doesn’t matter. We still have to go on foot.” Farshaun walked away.

They flew on for two more hours, the morning drifting into afternoon. The weather changed once more, this time the skies turning hazy and overcast, the sun fading to a dull glow and a heavy mix of clouds and mist wrapping so tightly about the Walker Boh that Farshaun had to take her down to within a hundred feet of the ground just to see where they were. Additionally, he had to slow her to a crawl, afraid they would run into a cliff face or rock formation. At a dead-slow speed, they crept ahead until they encountered a wall of spiraling rock formations that speared skyward much higher than the hundred feet at which the airship flew and clustered so thickly they were impossible to sail between.

“The Fangs,” the Speakman whispered.

Khyber Elessedil was standing close enough to hear. “How far do they stretch?”

“Miles,” Farshaun answered after listening to the Speakman’s whispered response.

“Can we sail around them?” She checked her compass. “We’re flying west still. Can we turn north or south to get past?”

This time the Speakman addressed her directly, his insect body folding in on itself as he crouched down in the pilot box close to Farshaun. “You have to land the airship and walk. The marshland you look for is here.”

Redden and Railing, still standing close enough to listen in, turned as Mirai came up beside them. “Grim land down there,” she said. “It has the feel of a place that doesn’t like visitors.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Railing grumbled.

The Ard Rhys directed Farshaun to follow the Speakman’s orders and set the airship down at the edge of the Fangs. The twins and Mirai could feel the descent begin as the Rover crew leapt up to work the light sheaths and radian draws. The mist seemed to thicken further as they dropped, closing in about them, wet and cloying against their skin. Mirai made a rude sound and wiped at her face.

No one was feeling particularly good about landing here.

When the airship was anchored and the rope ladders thrown over the side of the vessel, Khyber assembled everyone but the Druid Guard and the Rover crewmen on the aft deck. There were muted exchanges of comments and responses from those gathered as the Ard Rhys waited for them to get settled. More than a few gave worried glances at the forest of rock spears and mist serpents that formed a gloomy, shadowy wall ahead.

“We go on afoot from here,” Khyber announced. “We’ll take everyone but Farshaun, Mirai, and the Rover crewmen, who will stay to keep the Walker Boh safe for our return. Garroneck will choose six of his Druid Guards to remain behind, as well—an added precaution. The rest of us will enter the Fangs to search for a marshland. Once we’ve found it, we will decide what to do next. Are there questions?”

“I’ll have to go, as well,” Farshaun spoke up at once. “The Speakman won’t go without me. Mirai and my Rovers are perfectly capable of caring for the airship without me.”

Redden, standing close to Mirai, expected the Rover girl to object to being left behind. Staying close to the twins was one of the reasons she had been allowed to come. But to his surprise, she didn’t say a word.

“Very well, Farshaun,” the Ard Rhys agreed. “You come, as well.”

She dismissed them to gather their equipment and weapons and meet on the ground in thirty minutes.

Redden glanced at the overcast sky, noted the position of the sun, and decided they had less than four hours of light remaining. He glanced again at Mirai, who was looking away, and then at Railing.

His brother shrugged. “I don’t like it, either. Should we say something to her?”

Redden shook his head.

Thirty minutes later, the search party set out. With the Speakman and Khyber Elessedil leading the way, they pushed ahead into the forest of stone columns and within minutes could no longer see the ship and its occupants. Right away Redden felt uncomfortable with the size of the search party. It was too large and too unwieldy, an opinion he shared with his brother but otherwise kept to himself. Presumably the Ard Rhys knew what she was doing, and if she thought they needed twenty-odd people it wasn’t his place to start criticizing. What Redden didn’t like was the way they were spread out, so far apart as they picked their way through the maze of rock formations that those on the opposite wings of the loose formation often could not see one another.

Reacting to his instincts, he moved Railing and himself into the center of the search.

The group slogged its collective way through the Fangs for more than two hours, wending slowly through clusters of rock spears and wispy trailers of mist. No one spoke in anything other than a whisper and then only infrequently. The Trolls, by duty and nature guardians and protectors, positioned themselves at the perimeters of the advance. With the Ard Rhys at the forefront, the other Druids split apart so that Seersha was on the right wing, Carrick on the left, and Pleysia trailing. Skint was in the forefront with Khyber, where he could put his tracking skills to use, and the warrior Dwarf Chieftain Crace Coram was only a few steps behind. Oriantha stayed close to Pleysia. Redden and Railing had been placed in the middle of the assemblage, surrounded by protectors. All eyes constantly scanned the haze; all ears were pricked for any sounds that warned of danger.

They were deep into the Fangs and beginning to feel numbed by the strain of watching and waiting for something to happen when the insects attacked them.

The swarm came out of nowhere. The buzzing of wings was the only warning anyone got, and then the creatures were on top of them, biting and stinging. The insects were the size of large birds and quick to avoid all attempts at swatting them away. The Druids threw up various forms of magic to drive them off, but with the company scattered it was impossible to protect everyone at once. Redden and Railing stood back-to-back defending themselves with the magic of the wishsong, turning leaves and twigs into flying shards of metal that twisted and cut at their attackers. They downed a few, but there were hundreds in the swarm, their numbers darkening what little sky was visible overhead. The air filled with their buzzing.

Then someone began screaming, and the confusion of the attack reached new levels. Over to the left of where they stood fighting off the insects, the twins heard earth and rocks grinding together. Redden caught a glimpse of one of the Trolls tumbling from sight into a hole that had opened in the ground. He saw Farshaun reach for him, grab hold of his arm, try to pull him back, and fail. The Troll tumbled away, thrashing. Then the hole closed over again with a terrible crunching sound, and the Troll was gone.

Other holes began to open all around them, jagged fissures running six to ten feet long. Redden yanked Railing away from one that yawned right next to them just as his brother lost his balance and began to teeter on the edge. The fissures were actually moving like the jaws of an animal, working their ragged mouths back and forth.

Skint surged through the middle of the struggling members of the company, leaping the hungry mouths, yelling as he went.

“Procks!” he screamed. “Get out of here!”

Members of the company were already falling back, moving out of the area of attack as swiftly as they could manage. Pleysia, the girl Oriantha, a couple of the Trolls, and Crace Coram led the way. Khyber Elessedil, still fighting off swarms of giant insects, backed away last. With the insects in pursuit, everyone began a ragged retreat, swatting at their winged attackers while trying to stay clear of the Procks.

Redden and Railing had heard about Procks from the Rovers. Found mostly in the mountains of the Eastland, they surfaced in communities hundreds strong. They were living rock, an impossibility given life through a magic long since lost and forgotten. They swallowed anything that came within reach, catching hold of the unwary and chewing their victims to pieces even as they struggled to free themselves.

The company kept fighting off the snapping mouths, struggling to reach safe ground while avoiding the lethal stings and bites of the insects. It took longer than it should have, and both twins were exhausted by the time they had gone far enough that they could consider themselves safe.

Farshaun plopped down beside them, winded and red-faced. His arms and face were swollen with stings and bites, and there was blood on his hands. “Did you see what happened to that Troll? His leg went down into a Prock’s mouth, and that was it. Skint and I tried to pull him free, but it was no use. Once they’ve got you, there’s no getting away.”

“I didn’t think there were any Procks in the Westland,” Railing said, wiping sweat from his face and finding blood, as well. “I thought they were only in the Ravenshorn.”

Farshaun gave him a look. “There’s everything out here in the Breakline. Everything you don’t want to find.”

The other members of the company had worked their way free of the Prock community by now, and the flying insects had broken off their attack and flown back to wherever they had come from. Close by where the twins were huddled with Farshaun, Khyber Elessedil was confronting the Speakman.

“Why didn’t you warn us?” she demanded of him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

The Speakman, matchstick arms and legs collapsed against his scarecrow body, looked at her as if he had never seen her before. His voice was surprisingly soft. “How could I warn you? I never saw those things before. Any of them. Last time I was here, they weren’t.”

Farshaun came up and crouched beside him. “Speakman. Did you say they were new? But that isn’t possible. Things don’t change out here. You know that.”

“I know. But they have.”

Redden and Railing inched closer to listen in.

“How many did we lose?” Farshaun asked the Ard Rhys.

She shook her head in disgust, her brow furrowing. “Only the one you couldn’t save. We were lucky it wasn’t more. But we can’t have this happen again. We need the Speakman to warn us. He lives out here! He has to sense these things or we’ll be decimated before we find anything!”

She kept her voice low, but the force of her words was unmistakable. Farshaun looked over at the Speakman, who nodded silently. “He’ll do the best he can,” the old man assured her.

“Let’s hope so,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “Because at dawn tomorrow we’re going to try this again.”