Wards of Faerie

9

There was no doubt about it. Those sprints were one wicked pair of machines.

They sat side by side in the metal-clad storage shed, resting on wheeled trailers that allowed them to be pulled out into the open where they could be readied for use. Painted black from mast to keel, light sheaths black as well to better absorb the power of the sun, they had long, narrow hulls stripped of everything that might slow them down. The parse tubes were embedded in the hull behind hatches that facilitated easy replacement of the diapson crystals. The controls were set to either side of a shallow depression that served as a cockpit, all within easy reach of the pilot. The pilot lay on his back with his head slightly elevated, facing forward down the length of his body toward the bow. A thin padding lined the cockpit floor and walls, providing a modicum of comfort and a small amount of protection. A leather harness strapped the pilot in place, and a windshield constructed of metal, wood, and mesh allowed him to peer ahead over the rim of the hull’s curved surface without an undue amount of risk of being blinded by flying debris.

Inside the cockpit, the thrusters and steering levers were manipulated by a combination of hands and feet, the cords that ran from the levers to the sheaths, rudder, and fins drawn so tightly that even the smallest amount of pressure would produce a response in the vessel’s handling. The twins had built the Sprints this way on purpose. These slender black monsters weren’t designed as transports; they were built to race.

What the Sprints were, when you came right down to it, were modified flits, their superstructures pared down to the bare minimum of weight and material. They were a work in progress, of course, but it appeared that they were now as close as possible to what their builders intended.

Today’s test would determine whether or not this was so.

“They certainly look ready,” Redden Ohmsford offered, contemplating the sleek craft with satisfaction. “I don’t know what else we could do to make them go any faster.”

His brother nodded. “Are we going to take them into the Shredder?”

Railing Ohmsford smiled as he said it, knowing full well that this was exactly what they were going to do, having already decided as much while they were testing the Sprints over the broad expanse of the Rainbow Lake. But testing a craft over open water wasn’t as challenging as taking it through an obstacle course of dead trees and jagged rocks. Their mother had made them promise not to race the Sprints anywhere but over the lake, but like most boys verging on manhood and testing the limits of parental authority, they didn’t always listen.

Besides, they had rationalized, talking it over to convince themselves that it was all right to breach this agreement, they had flown everything from flits to skimmers to sleeks, so surely they could handle this. They might not have flown warships yet, the great ships-of-the-line that required entire crews to sail them, but they would get around to it eventually.

Their unwritten rule regarding airships was that if they could build it, they could fly it. Anywhere they wished.

“Well, it’s a good day to try it out,” Redden replied, grinning back at his mirror image—small, lean, and fit, with mischievous blue eyes, wild red hair, and only a hint in his ears, brows, and cheekbones of the Elven blood they had inherited from their mother. It was a wonder, he thought for the umpteenth time, that anyone could tell them apart.

It was scary fun, really. Frequently, they pretended to be each other, just because they could get away with it. Sometimes twins weren’t really all that much alike, in either looks or behavior. Sometimes they looked a lot alike, but you could still always tell them apart. But not Redden and Railing Ohmsford. Right down to their Elven features, they looked exactly the same. A human father and an Elven mother had produced Halfling twins in a family that had never had twins before. What were the odds that an anomaly would produce exact duplicates? Even their mother had trouble, and she saw them practically every day and knew everything there was to know about them.

Well, practically everything. No boy ever told his mother everything.

In any event, only one person—Mirai Leah—could tell the difference. The brothers thought they knew why, but it wasn’t something they ever discussed.

Railing looked over at Redden. “What are we waiting for?”

They hauled the trailers out of the storage shed using ropes attached to the trailer hitches. Each chose the one he would fly, Redden going first as Redden usually did, and then they climbed aboard to ready their vessels. It took them longer than usual because they made certain to check everything twice, knowing that the element of danger in today’s exercise was much greater than anything they had encountered before. They put up the raked-back masts, attached the cut-down light sheaths to the radian draws, and ran the draws to the parse tubes. The diapson crystals were already in place, but they kept the parse tubes hooded so that the crystals wouldn’t start to power up too quickly.

They had built the Sprints themselves, working together, skilled enough in the construction of small vessels that they could almost do so blindfolded. There were adjustments and changes required for a vessel intended to be this fast and maneuverable, one designed solely for racing. It took a bit of trial and error to get it right, and they had reconfigured and reconstructed both Sprints any number of times while they were testing them out over the open waters of Rainbow Lake. But they lived in Patch Run, as had their parents, their grandparents, and their great-grandparents before them, so they had ready access to the perfect testing ground and a raft of seasoned shipbuilders located all around them who were ready and able to teach them whatever it was they needed to know to improve their skills.

Beyond what help was available close at hand, they also had access to the considerable experience and skills of their Rover kin, the Alt Mers, who lived in the Westland in the country surrounding Bakrabru on the shores of the Myrian. Their great-grandmother had been Rue Meridian, who had married Bek Ohmsford, and Redden was named for her brother, Redden Alt Mer. Railing was given the name of a favorite uncle. Both Rue Meridian and Redden Alt Mer were famous for having flown with the Druid Walker Boh aboard the Jerle Shannara in search of Parkasia, and Rue had later fought with the Druid Ard Rhys Grianne Ohmsford against the Federation and the rebel Druids under Shadea a’Ru. Both brother and sister had been skilled fliers in their time; those skills had been passed down through both families and were now firmly a part of Redden and Railing’s own talents.

But they had another advantage, as well. Both brothers had inherited the magic of the wishsong, a part of the genetic makeup of the Ohmsford family since the days of Wil Ohmsford that had manifested itself in various members of their family over the years. Wish for it, sing for it, make it come alive—that was what the wishsong could do for you. You could change and reshape anything. You could create something new out of something old. You could affect the way animate objects reacted. You could influence life and death.

It was an awesome, terrifying gift—or curse, if you believed some of the Ohmsford family history. Both their great-grandfather and their grandfather had possessed the magic, and it had saved them and many others during the course of their lives but also maimed and killed. It was a dangerous and not altogether predictable power. It had skipped their father, for which their mother was eternally grateful, but had surfaced anew in the twins, for which she was not.

They didn’t use it much or even talk about it. Especially not in front of their mother, who mistrusted the magic and those who used it, particularly the Druids. She knew it was a part of her sons’ makeup—it was impossible to disguise its presence completely—but had no idea of the extent to which they had employed it. They were very careful not to let her discover the truth because their mother, like so many others, had ways of knowing things she wasn’t told.

If they were very good at hiding which of them was which, they were masters at hiding their involvement with the wishsong.

Thinking of it now, Railing stopped what he was doing and looked over at his brother. “Are we going to use the wishsong this morning?” he asked quietly. “Or do we wait for another time?”

Redden paused midway through securing a line. They had experimented only a little with using the magic to enhance the power emitted by the diapson crystals, which in turn would make the Sprints go faster. “I don’t know. What do you think we should do?”

Railing grinned. “You know what I think. One pass without using it, one pass using it. Wasn’t that what you wanted me to say?”

His brother shrugged, his lean face expressionless. “Maybe.”

They went back to work, finishing up with their preparations, making both Sprints ready to fly. When they were done, they leaned over the sides of the vessels and released the stays securing them to the trailers. A last check on the controls, making sure they were loose and ready to respond, and they were ready.

“This should be fun,” Redden offered drily.

“If we survive,” Railing replied.

They lay flat in the cockpits facing forward toward Rainbow Lake, secured their safety belts, and gave each other a final glance.

“A quick swing out onto the lake and back first?” Railing asked.

“Out and back and right into the Shredder.”

With a final nod to each other, they unhooded the parse tubes and let the light sheaths billow out. The radian draws began to glow immediately, and they felt the hum of the diapson crystals as they came alive with the sun’s raw power. The brothers engaged the control, and the Sprints lurched sharply, lifted off their cradles, and wheeled toward the lake.

“Let’s fly!” Redden shouted.

Railing flipped the thruster levers all the way forward, and his Sprint leapt away with the quickness and power of a moor cat lunging, smooth hull cleaving the air like a knife, mast vibrating with the force of the acceleration, and light sheath whipping sideways, the boom barely missing the top of his head. Out across the surrounding woods flew the Sprint, whipping so close to the treetops that Railing could hear branches scraping the underside of the hull. Reacting quickly, he eased the craft upward, away from the danger, following the sleek black hull of his brother’s Sprint. Wind whipped across his eyes, causing them to tear, and he wiped his face quickly against his shoulder.

Together the Ohmsford brothers skimmed across the canopy of the woods bordering Rainbow Lake, gained the shoreline, and burst into the clear, leveling out about twenty yards above the water’s surface. They flew north out into the open water, the lake spreading away before them in a brilliant blue that mirrored sunlight and sky. The waters were still this day, free of waves, untroubled by wind. The sun was high overhead, the sky empty of clouds. Everything was bright and sharp and clear, and as they raced out into the emptiness they could smell the lake and feel its coldness.

Only minutes had passed before Railing caught Redden gesturing in a circular motion, indicating he was getting ready to swing back around toward the Shredder. Railing signaled back that he was ready, too, and tightened his hands on the controls. Even in the few short days he had not flown while working on the Sprints, he had forgotten how free and wonderful it felt to fly them. There just wasn’t anything else like it, nothing even close. Flying the bigger skimmers and transports and scout craft was fun, but they were slow and cumbersome and predictable compared with the Sprints. Speed made all the difference. When he was flying like this—fast and unencumbered and barely under control—it felt as if he could escape everything, rise right on up into the stars and leave it all behind. Sometimes he wanted to do that. He would feel his life pressing down on him, the constraints and obligations, the demands and expectations, and all he could think about was breaking free and flying away.

It was a selfish way of thinking, but he knew Redden felt the same. They had talked about what they would do when they were old enough to leave home to explore the larger world and discover what was out there waiting for them. They could have left by now if they’d wanted; certainly they had skills and ambition enough to make their way. But they weren’t adults yet, and their mother had already made it clear she didn’t want them going until they were. Their father was a dozen years gone, dead in an airship crash—an accident that had left their mother shattered and bitter and determined to protect her children. As if that were possible, Railing thought. As if you could ever protect your children from what life might bring their way. Or even from themselves and their impulses.

But the illusion of it was all their mother had to cling to, so they had promised her long ago they would stay until they were grown. It was only now they were beginning to regret that promise. Life in Patch Run was safe and predictable, and the brothers were ready for something else. They had always been wild, a condition Railing attributed to their genetic makeup. If there was a risk to be taken, a dare to be accepted, or a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed, they were willing to defy the odds. He couldn’t explain it. But he knew how they were, and he knew it was unlikely they would ever change.

Like now, as their Sprints whipped across the surface of Rainbow Lake and closed on the wicked maze of rocks and dead trees that formed the Shredder. They had made this run several times before with much slower craft, with hybrids and modifieds and junk they had cobbled together and tested in ways that the poor things weren’t meant to be tested, just to see what they would do. When it came to airships, they never troubled themselves with measuring risk. It was the experience that mattered, and that wasn’t likely to change as long as their mother didn’t find out what they were doing.

So far she hadn’t.

Well, mostly.

They couldn’t keep everything from her. She had caught them a few times. But the things she’d found out were so insignificant she wasn’t overly troubled. Like the time they stole Arch Ehlwar’s skip and rode it across the lake and up the Runne to Varfleet to watch the Sprint races two summers ago. Or the time they flew down into the Mist Marsh and stayed the night. But she hadn’t found out how they had acquired the diapson crystals that powered their various vessels, including the ones they were flying now. She hadn’t found out how they had manipulated the black market for these and other materials they needed to construct their experimental craft.

The memories flashed through Railing’s mind as the shoreline neared and the jagged edges of the Shredder came into sharper focus. He flattened himself further against the padding, gently testing the controls, making sure everything was responding. Redden had moved into position ahead of him, leading the way. In the Shredder, there wasn’t room to fly side by side, only in line. Even then, it was extremely tight. Going as fast as they were, it was suicide.

Which made it all the more irresistible.

“Hang on!” Redden yelled sharply.

Then they were whipping through the twists and turns of the Shredder, skimming past jagged cliffs and over the tips of rugged boulders, sliding between tree trunks and through dead branches, all the while pushing the thrusters harder, making the Sprints go faster. They were flying mostly on instinct, relying on quickness of response. They knew the course they were following, had memorized it thoroughly over the past few months. But the margin for error was so tiny that all it would take was one mistake and they would be a part of the landscape.

They didn’t think that way, though. They were young, and they believed nothing could really hurt them. They were convinced their flying skills would protect them. They believed a crash was out of the question.

Except that Railing recognized that some tiny part of him wanted to know what a crash would feel like and how much punishment his Sprint could take. Stupid to think that way, but there it was.

They raced through the obstacle course, hearing the scrape of branches against their hulls, the thrumming of the radian draws, and the rush of the wind in their ears. Everything was quick and fast, everything a blur, there and gone again in an instant. It was insanity, Railing thought suddenly. And it was such fun!

His brother increased his speed as they neared the return to the shoreline, then changed course abruptly and shot between a series of trunks at no more than six feet off the ground, mast raked all the way back. Railing hadn’t been expecting it and couldn’t make the adjustment fast enough. He was forced to settle for keeping to the old way, a less risky, more reliable side turn around a massive old cedar’s broad canopy before racing into the open once more.

Then they were back out over the waters of Rainbow Lake, flying side by side again, paired up in perfect formation. Railing saw his brother grinning at him, aware that he had done something Railing hadn’t. A challenge. Railing gave him a thumbs-up, an acknowledgment. But he would lead next when they went into the Shredder, and it would be his chance to respond. He was already thinking of how he would do that, what sort of trick he might try that would leave Redden eating his parse tube exhaust.

Only this time they would be using the wishsong to enhance the experience, and neither of them knew what that would mean. Flying faster, they hoped. But maybe something more, as well. The magic was unpredictable, and the user could never be entirely certain how it would respond. There were stories about this, some of them very dark indeed. The brothers had heard more than a few. Not from their mother, of course, who wouldn’t even speak of the magic, but from the Alt Mers and others who had known Bek and Penderrin and especially Grianne. The magic, they said, could do anything. It could even kill.

But the brothers weren’t planning on using it that extremely, so Railing pushed aside his concerns and focused on his intent for the next pass into the Shredder. He glanced over at Redden, made a quick sign that he was ready, saw his brother motion in response, and brought his Sprint around in a wide sweep so that he was again facing toward the shoreline.

Then howling like a wild man he jammed the thruster levers all the way forward.

The Sprint bucked and lurched in response, the entire vessel shaking with the sudden influx of power fed down into the parse tubes. The racer catapulted forward like a great cat, whipping across the flat, broad surface of the lake, tearing toward the opening of the obstacle course. Railing risked a quick glance over one shoulder. Redden was right behind him, tracking in his wake.

Ahead, the Shredder’s rocks and trees came into sharp focus, the opening easily discernible. Exhilarated, Railing flattened himself further in the cockpit of his craft, flexed his hands on the thruster levers, and summoned the wishsong’s magic. It began as a humming changed to words, a small flux within his throat that ran down into his body, warming his lungs and belly, then was carried through his bloodstream and into his limbs. He felt a sharp tingling, and then the rush of the magic as it exploded to life, hard and certain. He fought to keep it under control, reining it in when it tried to break free, channeling it into his hands and from there into the controls and down into the diapson crystals, feeding and enhancing their power.

Abruptly, the crystals responded, and the little Sprint shot ahead as if a pebble from a sling. The force of the acceleration was so powerful that Railing was almost thrown from the cockpit. Only the restraining straps kept him from being tossed out. The wind whipped into his eyes with renewed force, bringing fresh tears to his eyes, nearly blinding him. Spray from the surface of the lake waters, which this sudden surge had disturbed, whipped across his face, cold and sharp.

Too much power!

He tried to hold it back, to slow the Sprint’s forward momentum, but he had lost control. He was tearing into the maze of rocks and trees so fast that he could barely make out where he was going. But somehow he managed to keep the vessel righted and on course, though barely able to track the terrain ahead. He felt a rush of adrenaline sweep through him as he maneuvered the craft through its twists and turns, this way and that, bank and slide, raise and lower—look out!—everything suddenly becoming a part of what he could feel more than what he could see.

He screamed with joy, unable to contain his excitement.

Then, just for a second, he lost his focus, momentarily distracted by a shadow’s movement to one side, and his attention wavered just enough that he lost control. The Sprint yawed wildly, sideslipped through a maze of rocks, skidded into a nest of branches, and flipped upside down in midair. Railing hauled back on the thruster levers and dropped the power to almost nothing, fighting to stay airborne. In the split second that was left to him, he wrapped himself in a cocoon of the wishsong’s magic and waited for the inevitable.

It was just enough.

The Sprint went down in a tearing of radian draws and a shrieking of ripped hull boards, its mast snapping clean off. He felt the steering come loose completely and the light sheaths collapse. The Sprint slid wildly across the ground, bouncing off trunks and boulders, spinning and rolling. Railing lost all track of where he was, tossed first one way and then the other against the safety harness, fighting to maintain the wishsong’s flow. He kept his head down and his limbs tucked into the cockpit, teeth clenched against his expectation of pain and maybe death.

But when the Sprint finally came to rest, he was still alive. He could scarcely believe it. He lay motionless inside the cockpit, tipped sideways and turned backward, clouds of dust and debris billowing all around him, the sudden silence unexpected and deafening.

He was still trying to decide if he was hurt when Redden appeared next to him, frantically working at the buckles and straps of the safety harness, trying to help him get free. “You idiot!” he was screaming. “What were you thinking? Are you all right? Shades, that was a monster crash!”

Railing nodded. “Oh … I don’t know. It wasn’t so much.”

Then he passed out.

When he regained consciousness, he was out of the cockpit and lying on the ground nearby. Redden was kneeling beside him, holding him up so that he could drink from the aleskin.

“Am I alive?”

“Alive?” Redden snorted. “You aren’t even hurt! How did you manage that? I thought you were …” He trailed off, looking exasperated. “You better not try something like that again!”

Railing drank from the skin, long deep swallows. He could feel the burn of the ale going down, restoring his heart rate and giving him fresh life. He moved his arms and legs experimentally. No damage. “Help me up.”

Redden lifted him to a sitting position and then to his feet. He was achy and battered, but no bones were broken and there were no external signs of any injuries. Railing took a deep breath, exhaled, twisted his shoulders, and stretched.

“I think I’m all right.” He said it incredulously, not sure why it was so. “It was the wishsong, Red. That’s what saved me. I was feeding the magic into the crystals, but when I lost control of the Sprint, I used it to protect myself. Sort of wrapped it around me like a cushion. It worked!”

“All of which means that you can overlook the fact that you wrecked your Sprint and gave me heart failure, I suppose,” his brother snapped.

Railing glanced at the remains of his flying ship and shook his head. They would have to rebuild it entirely. Or maybe he would. Redden might make him do it alone since he was responsible for wrecking it.

“No, it was my fault,” he said. “I caused it, so I have to fix it.”

Redden put his arm around Railing’s shoulders. “Not likely. Not while I’m your brother. You couldn’t do it without me anyway. Come on, let’s take out the crystals and fly my Sprint back to the shed.”

They removed the diapson crystals from the parse tubes of the wrecked Sprint and stuffed them in the back of the second Sprint’s cockpit. They could not afford to leave the crystals. Anyone finding the remains of the Sprint would steal them at once and sell them on the black market. Everything else could be replaced from their stores. With a final glance back at the wreckage, the brothers climbed aboard the remaining Sprint, sitting up in the cockpit now, Railing in back, his brother in front. Redden engaged the thruster levers, and the Sprint lifted out of the Shredder, turned east, and headed for home.

“We’ll have to try that again,” Redden said over his shoulder. “Using the wishsong, I mean. But next time I get to be in the lead.”

Railing nodded vaguely, recalling momentarily the terror he had experienced during the crash and then just as quickly dismissing it. Still, he wondered that neither one of them could seem to learn to leave well enough alone.

They flew back along the shoreline until they neared Patch Run, and then angled inland to where the storage shed was situated deep in the woods. It took them only a little while to settle the Sprint back in place on its trailer and then to release the radian draws, take down the mast, remove the diapson crystals to be stored in the hidden compartment under the floor beneath their workbench, and cover the cockpit with a piece of fitted canvas. Then they wheeled the trailer into the shed, secured the wheels with wood chocks, and closed and locked the broad entry doors. They did it all quickly and efficiently and without saying much of anything.

When they were finished, they looked at each other and broke out laughing.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Redden repeated.

Railing threw up his hands and howled. “I can’t believe I might actually do it again!”

They set out for their home, trading jokes and wry comments, the Sprint crash already a thing of the past. The momentary shock had faded, and neither was thinking about what might have happened but only about what had. Railing was alive and well, no harm suffered, no damage done. And hadn’t it been fun!

The house was some distance off, down closer to the shoreline and well away from the shed and its experiments. They lived on twenty acres, but the house and docks occupied only a fraction of that space, and while their mother knew about the airships—though not how they were experimenting with them—she had not as yet come down for a look at the shed or showed more than the normal amount of motherly concern for what they might be doing. To her credit, she seemed to understand she couldn’t do anything to change how they were, and while she might not like it the better choice was to accept it for what it was.

They made their way along the lake until the docks used by past generations of Ohmsfords for paid expeditions came into view. Then they caught their first glimpse of the armed transport. It was anchored at the far side of the storage buildings, occupying one of the larger slips, its light sheaths down, radian draws detached. Big and weathered, its paint job was a mottled black and brown and green, colors designed to make it blend into the landscape when viewed from above. Its hull was broad and pregnant with the space allotted for its contents, and its decks and railings were fitted with empty cradles clearly meant for heavy weaponry. The main and forward masts were raked slightly, denoting a ship that had been built for both speed and power.

All of which indicated she was a ship expecting to be attacked and prepared for when it happened.

The brothers exchanged a quick glance. They knew the ship. The Quickening. Only one family flew it and only one member of that family would have brought her here.

Mirai Leah.