For five days the army of the Elves and the Legion Free Corps fought their way back across the Westland to Arborlon. Across the broad valley of the Sarandanon, through woodlands dense and tangled, and down forest roads and rutted trails they fell back slowly, steadily eastward, pursued at every turn by the Demon hordes. They marched in daylight and at night, without rest, often without food, for the creatures that tracked them neither slept nor ate. Unburdened by human needs, free of human limitations, the Demons came after them, purposeful, unrelenting, driven by their own peculiar form of madness. Like dogs at hunt, they harried the withdrawing army, nipping and slashing at its flanks, rushing it now and then in full assault, striving to turn it from its course, to cripple it, to destroy it. The attack was incessant, and the Elves and their allies, already weary from their stand at Baen Draw, grew quickly exhausted. With exhaustion came despair and then fear.
Ander Elessedil fell victim to that fear. It began for the Elven Prince with his own sense of failure. The dead, the defeats of the few days past, and all that the Elves had hoped to accomplish and had not done haunted him. Yet even this was not the worst. For as his battered army struggled eastward and his countrymen continued to die all about him, Ander began to realize that none of them might survive the long march back-that all of them might die. Out of this stark realization was born the fear that became his own private devil-faceless, insidious, lurking just within the shadow of his determination. Leader of the Elves, it asked slyly, what will you do to save them? Are you so helpless, then? So many have been lost-yet what if all those who remain be lost? It teased and tormented him, threatening to turn weary resolve into total despair. Even Allanon’s presence did not help, for the black-robed Druid stayed distant and aloof as he rode at Ander’s side, veiled in his own world of dark secrets. So Ander fought his fear alone within the silence of his mind, the whole of his strength directed toward its defeat, as slowly, grimly he led his failing soldiers back toward Arborlon.
In the end, it was Stee Jans who saved them all. It was in this darkest time of seeming failure and desperation that the giant Borderman displayed the tenacity, endurance, and courage that had created the legend of the Iron Man. Assembling a rear guard of Elves and Free Corps, he began a defense of the main column of his army as it bore its dead and wounded eastward under cover of night. In a series of lunges and feints, the Legion Commander struck out at his pursuers, drawing them after him, first one way, then another, utilizing the same tactics that he had so successfully employed at Baen Draw. Time and again the Demons came at him, sweeping first through the valley of the Sarandanon, then into the forestland beyond. Time and again they sought to trap the fleet, gray-cloaked Legion riders and the swift Elven horse, always to close an instant too late, finding only an empty grassland, a blind draw, a hollow dark with shadow, or a scrub-choked trail that turned back upon itself. With a deftness that baffled and maddened the Demons, Stee Jans and the riders following him played a deadly cat-and-mouse game that seemed to place them everywhere at once, yet always away from where the main body of the army moved back toward the safety of Arborlon.
Demon anger and frustration mounted; as night became day and day night again, the pursuit grew frenzied. These Demons were different from the lean, black creatures that had swarmed out of the hill country north of Baen Draw to sere the Sarandanon. These were Demons that had gone east above the Kensrowe, more dangerous than their lesser brethren, with powers that no ordinary human could withstand. Some were monstrous in size, corded with muscle and scaled with armor-creatures of mindless destruction. Others were small and fluid and killed with just a touch. Some were slow and ponderous, some quicksilver as they slipped through the forest shadows like wraiths. Some were multilimbed; others had no limbs at all. Some breathed fire as the Dragons of old, and some were eaters of human flesh. Where they passed, the land of the Elves was left blackened and scarred, ravaged so that nothing might live upon it. Yet, the Elves themselves remained just beyond their reach.
The chase wore on. Elven Hunters and Free Corps soldier fought side by side in a desperate attempt to slow the Demon advance, watching their numbers dwindle steadily as their pursuers swept after them. Without Stee Jans to lead them, they would have been annihilated. Even with him, hundreds fell wounded and dead along the way, lost in the terrible struggle to prevent the long retreat from turning into a complete rout. Through it all, the Legion Commander’s tactics remained the same. The strength of the Demons made it imperative that the Elven army not be forced to stand again this side of Arborlon. So the rear guard continued to strike quickly and slip away, always to swing back for yet another strike and then another-and each time a few more riders were lost.
At last, on the afternoon of the fifth day, the tattered and exhausted army came again to the shores of the Rill Song. With a ragged shout, it crossed back into Arborlon. Then it discovered the price that had been paid. A third of the Elves who had marched west to the Sarandanon were dead. Hundreds more lay injured. Of the six hundred soldiers of the Legion Free Corps who had followed after them, less than one in every three remained alive.
And still the Demons advanced.
Dusk fell over the city of Arborlon. The day had gone cool at its end, a bank of heavy stormclouds moving eastward out of the flats to screen away moon and stars and fill the night air with the smell of rain. Lamps began to light within the homes of the city as families and friends gathered together for their evening meal. On the streets and in the treeways, units of the Home Guard began their nightly patrol, slipping through pooled shadows in uneasy silence. Atop the Carolan, on the Elfitch, and along the eastern bank of the Rill Song, the soldiers of the Elven army stood ready, staring past rows of iron stanchions filled with burning pitch to the blackness of the forest beyond. Within the trees, nothing moved.
In the chambers of the Elven High Council, Ander Elessedil came face to face for the first time since his return from the Sarandanon with the King’s Ministers, the army commanders, and the few outlanders who had arrived to aid the Elves in their fight against the Demons. He passed through the heavy wooden doors at the end of the council room, carrying the silver Ellcrys staff in his right hand. Dust, sweat, and blood covered the Elven Prince; while he had permitted himself a few brief hours of sleep, he had not yet taken time to wash, preferring to come as quickly as possible before the Council. Beside him walked Allanon, tall and black and forbidding, his shadow rising up against the walls of the chamber as he entered, and Stee Jans, his weapons still strapped about him, his hazel eyes cold with death.
From their high-backed chairs about the council table, the seats of the gallery, and the risers at the edge of the Dais of the Kings, those gathered carne at once to their feet. A rush of whispers and mutterings filled the hall, and questions began to rise up in shouts as each man sought to be heard. At the head of the table, Emer Chios brought his open, hand down upon the wooden surface with a crash and the room went silent again.
“Be seated,” the First Minister directed.
Grumbling, the men assembled did as they were told. Ander waited a moment, then came forward a step. He knew the rules of the High Council. When the King lay disabled, the First Minister presided. Emer Chios was a powerful and respected man, the more so in this situation. Ander had come before the Council with a very specific purpose in mind, and he would need the support of Chios if he were to achieve that purpose. He was tired and he was anxious, but it was necessary that he take time to go about matters in the proper way.
“My Lord First Minister,” he addressed the Minister. “I would speak to the Council.”
Emer Chios nodded. “Do so then; my Lord Prince.”
Slowly, haltingly, for he was not the speaker that his father was or his brother had been, Ander told of all that had befallen the Elven army since its departure to the Sarandanon. He described the injury to the King and the death of Arion. He told them of the battles and defeats at the Breakline, of the withdrawal and gallant stand at Baen Draw, and finally of the retreat back through the Sarandanon and the Westland forests to Arborlon. He told them of the courage of the Legion Free Corps, the leadership of Stee Jans when Pindanon had fallen. Graphically, he described the nature of the enemy they had faced-its size, its shape, its frenzy, and its power. The Demons, he warned them, now approached Arborlon, there to exterminate the last of the Elven people, to lay waste to the city, and to take back again the land they had lost centuries ago. What lay ahead was a battle in which one or the other, Elf or Demon, must surely be destroyed.
As he spoke, he studied the faces of his listeners, seeking in their eyes and expressions something of how they judged his actions since the loss of both their King and his heir-apparent. He accepted now that his father might die, and that he might then be King; he knew that the High Council and the Elven people must come to accept it as well. Acceptance had been difficult for Ander because, before the battle at Halys Cut, the possibility of such a thing happening had always seemed so remote and because he had not wanted to believe that he would lose both his father and his brother. But his father now lay within his bed at the manor house, unchanged since his fall. All the while that the Elves had fought at Baen Draw and on the long march home again, Ander Elessedil had waited for his father to wake, refusing to believe that he would not. But the King had not regained consciousness, and now it seemed that perhaps he would not do so ever. The Elven Prince understood that, accepted it, and thus looked past it to what must then be.
“Elven Lords,” he finished, his voice worn and empty. “I am my father’s son and I know what is expected of a Prince of the Elves. The Elven army has come out of the Sarandanon and now must stand here. I intend to stand with it. I intend to lead it. I would not have it so if there were any way that this moment could be undone, if all that had happened within these past few weeks might be wiped from the record of our lives. But that cannot be. Were my father here, you would rally to him to a man-I know that. I stand then in my father’s place and ask that you rally to me, for I am the last of his blood. These men who stand with me have given me their support. I seek yours as well. Pledge me that support, Elven Lords.”
Wordlessly, he waited. He need not have asked for their support, he knew, but merely assumed it. His was the power of the Elessedil rule, and there were few who would dare to challenge that. He could have asked Allanon to speak for him; the Druid’s voice alone might have silenced any opposition. Yet Ander wanted no one to intercede for him in this, nor did he wish to take anything for granted. The support of the High Council, and of the outlanders who had come to give them aid, should be won over by what they might see in him-not by fear or any claim of right that did not ground itself squarely on whatever strength of character he had shown in his command of the Elven army since the moment that his father had fallen.
Emer Chios came to his feet. His dark eyes swept briefly over the faces of those assembled. Then he turned to Ander.
“My Lord Prince,” his deep voice rumbled. “All who gather in this Council know that I follow no man blindly, even though he be of royal blood and the child of Kings. I have said often and publicly that I trust the judgment of my people better than the judgment of any one man, though he be King of all the known world.”
He looked about him slowly. “Yet I am Eventine Elessedil’s faithful Minister and his great admirer. He is a King, Elven Lords, as a King was meant to be. I wish that he were here to lead us in this most dangerous time. But he is not. His son offers himself in his place. I know Ander Elessedil-I think I know him as well as any. I have listened to him; I have judged him by his words and by his acts and by what he has shown himself to be. I say now that in the absence of the King there is no man to whom I would more willingly entrust the safety of my homeland and my life than he.”
He paused, then carefully placed his right hand over his heart the Elven pledge of loyalty. There was a moment’s silence. Then others rose with him from the table, a few at first, then all, hands placed across their hearts as they faced the Prince. The commanders of the Elven army stepped forward as well-Ehlron Tay, dour-faced and gruff, who, after the death of Pindanon, ranked highest in command; Kobold, the tall, immaculately dressed Captain of the Black Watch; and Kerrin, commanding the Home Guard. In moments all of the Elves who had assembled within the High Council stood facing their Prince, hands lifted in salute.
At Ander Elessedil’s side, a dark figure leaned close.
“Now they follow you, Elven Prince,” Allanon spoke softly.
Ander nodded. He could almost regret that it was so.
They talked then of the defense of Arborlon.
Preparations for that defense had begun almost immediately following the departure of the Even army to the Sarandanon two weeks earlier. Emer Chios, as ruler of the home city in the King’s absence, had convened the High Council, together with the commanders of the Elven army who had not accompanied the King, for the purpose of deciding what steps should be taken to protect Arborlon in the event the Demons broke out of the Sarandanon. A series of carefully drawn defensive measures had been settled upon. The First Minister reviewed them now with Ander.
There were but two approaches to the city-from the east, along the trails that ran through the Valley of Rhenn and the forests beyond, and from the west, out of the Sarandanon. North and south of Arborlon stood mountains that offered no passage, tall peaks that shut away the lowland woods and ringed the Carolan in a wall of rock. Allanon had warned that the break in the Forbidding would come in the Hoare Flats. That meant the Demons must come east through the Sarandanon, and unless they turned north or south to bypass the mountains sheltering Arborlon-a march that would consume at least several days additional time-the attack on the Elven home city would come from the west.
Yet it was here that the Elven defenses were strongest. Two natural barriers would immediately confront the Demons. First was the Rill Song, somewhat narrow where it arced eastward below the Carolan, but deep and difficult to navigate in the best weather. Second was the bluff itself, a sheer cliff that rose more than four hundred feet to its summit, it’s stone face split by a web of deep crevices and choked with scrub and heavy brush. A single bridge spanned the Rill Song below the Carolan at a point where the channel narrowed. There were no shallows for miles in either direction. The Elfitch provided the primary access route to the Carolan, although a series of smaller stairways wound upward through wooded sections of the cliff further south.
The defense of Arborlon depended then upon the river and the bluff. It had been decided that the bridge spanning the Rill Song would be destroyed immediately upon the return of the Elven army. This had been done as planned, Chios pointed out, and the last link between Arborlon and the Sarandanon had been severed. On the east bank, the Elves had anchored hundreds of pitch-burning stanchions to give light in the event a night crossing should be attempted, and they had constructed a stone and earthen redoubt almost at the edge of the Rill Song that ran for several hundred yards along the riverbank at the base of the bluff and arced backward into the cliff face at either side of the Elfitch. The east bank extended back from the river about two hundred feet to the cliffs, and most of this ground was wooded and grown thick with scrub. Here the Elves had set dozens of traps and pitfalls to ensnare any Demons who sought to flank the redoubt.
But it was the Elfitch that provided the major defense to Arborlon. All of the smaller stairways leading to the great tableland of the Carolan had been destroyed. All that remained was the Elfitch-seven stone-block ramps and ironbound gates that ran upward from the base of the bluff to the heights. Battlements ringed each gate to close off passage to the gates and ramps above it. Each ramp and gate was set back slightly from the ones below and, as the Elfitch rose toward the heights, it spiraled upward in a series of evenly measured turns that permitted each successive gate and ramp to offer some measure of protection through the use of longbows and darts to the gates and ramps beneath. In times of peace, the gates to the seven ramps stood open, the battlements were left undefended but for a token watch, and the ancient stone grew thick with flowering vines. But now, with the retreat of the Elven army from the Sarandanon, the ramparts bristled with Elven pikes and lances and the gates stood locked and barred.
No defenses had been constructed atop the Carolan. The plateau ran back to the deep forest in a broad, rolling plain spotted with woods, isolated cottages, and the solitary closure of the Gardens of Life. East, within the fringe of the forest trees, stood Arborlon. If the Demons were successful in reaching the Carolan, the choices left to the defending Elves were few. If enough of them remained, they might stand upon the plain in an attempt to sweep the invaders over the cliff edge. Failing that, they would be forced to fall back to the Valley of Rhenn, there to fight one final battle or face being driven from the Westland altogether.
Chios paused in his report. “Of course if they bypass the mountains and come in from the east...” he began.
Allanon cut him short. “They will not. Time becomes important to them now. They will come from the west.”
Ander glanced questioningly at Stee Jans, but the Free Corps Commander merely shrugged. Ander turned back to Emer Chios. “What other news, First Minister?”
“Mixed news, I’m afraid, regarding our request to the other lands for aid. Callahorn has sent us another two hundred and fifty horse-Old Guard, the Legion’s regular army. There is a vague promise of some additional aid to come, though no indication as to how soon we might expect it. Our messenger reports that the members of the Council of the Cities have not yet been able to resolve their differences over what the extent of Callahorn’s involvement in this ‘Elven War’ should be, and the King has chosen not to intervene. It appears that sending the Old Guard command was basically another compromise solution. The matter is still under debate, but we have heard nothing more.”
As Stee Jans had warned, Ander thought darkly.
“The Federation has sent a message as well, my Lord Prince.” Chios’ smile was bitter. “A message that is brief and to the point, I might add. It is the policy of the Federation that it not become involved in the affairs of other lands and other races. If a threat to others touches upon the sovereignty of its own states, the Federation will act. As matters stand now, that does not appear to be the case. Therefore, until the situation changes, no aid will be forthcoming.” He shrugged. “Not altogether unexpected.”
“And the Kershalt?” Ander asked quickly “What of the Trolls?”
Chios shook his head. “Nothing. I took the liberty of dispatching another messenger.”
Ander nodded his approval. “And the Dwarves?”
“We’re here,” a rough voice answered. “Some of us, at least.”
A bearded, thickset Dwarf made his way forward through the men gathered about the Council table. Quick blue eyes blinked through a face that was weathered and browned by the sun, and a pair of gnarled hands fastened on the table’s edge.
“Druid.” The Dwarf nodded briefly to Allanon, then turned to Ander. “My name is Browork, Elder and citizen of Culhaven. I’ve brought one hundred Sappers to the service of the Elessedils. You can thank the Druid for that. He found us some weeks ago at work on a bridge crossing the Silver River and warned us of the danger. Allanon is known to the Dwarves, so there were no questions asked. We sent word to Culhaven and came on ahead-ten days’ march and a hard march at that. But we’re here.”
He extended his hand and Ander shook it warmly.
“What of the others, Browork?” Allanon asked.
The Dwarf nodded rather impatiently. “On their way by now, I presume. You should have an army of several thousand by week’s end.” He gave Allanon a disapproving frown. “In the meantime you’ve got us, Druid, and mighty lucky you are to have us. No one but the Sappers could have rigged that ramp.”
“The Elfitch,” Chios explained quickly to a puzzled Ander. “Browork and his Sappers have been working with us on our defenses. In the process of studying the Elfitch, he saw that it was possible to rig the fifth ramp to collapse.”
“Child’s play.” Browork dismissed the accomplishment with a wave of his hand. “We undercut the stone block, removed the secondary supports, then split the primary with iron wedges fixed to chains. The chains we concealed in the brush beneath the ramp, ran them to the heights, and lined them to a system of pulleys. If the Demons reach the fifth ramp, just draw in the chains, slip the wedges, and the whole ramp from the fifth gate down falls away. Simple.”
“Simple if you have the engineering skill of a Dwarf Sapper, I think.” Ander smiled. “Well done, Browork. We have need of you.”
“There are others here that you need as well.” Allanon put his hand on Ander’s shoulder and pointed to the far end of the Council table.
The Elven Prince turned. A lone Elf dressed all in leather stepped forward and placed his hand across his heart in the pledge of loyalty.
“Dayn, my Lord Prince,” the Elf said quietly. “I am a Wing Rider.”
“A Wing Rider?” Ander stared at the Elf in surprise. He had heard stories from his father of the people who called themselves the Sky Elves-stories almost forgotten by most, for no Wing Rider had come to Arborlon in the last hundred years. “How many of you are there?” he asked finally.
“Five,” Dayn replied. “There would be more but for the fear of a Demon attack on the Wing Hove, our own home city. My father has sent those of us who are here. We are all of one family. My father is called Herrol.” He paused and glanced at Allanon. “There was a time when the Druid and he were friends:”
“We are still friends, Wing Rider,” Allanon said quietly.
Dayn acknowledged the Druid’s commitment with a nod, then returned his gaze to Ander.
“My father’s sense of kinship with the Land Elves is stronger than that of most of his countrymen, my Lord Prince, for most have long since broken all ties with the old ways and the old rule. And my father knows that Allanon stands with the Elessedils-and that has meaning. Thus he sends us. He would be here himself but for the absence his Roc Genewen, who trains with my brother’s son so that he may one day be a Wing Rider as was his father. Still, those of us who are here may be of some use. We can fly the whole of the Westland skies, if need be. We can seek out the Demons who threaten and tell you of their movements. We can spy out strengths and weaknesses. That much, at least, we can offer.”
“That much we accept with gratitude, Dayn.” Ander returned the Wing, Rider’s salute. “Be welcome.”
Dayn bowed and stepped back. Ander glanced at Chios. “Are there any others come to stand with us, First Minister?”
Chios shook his head slowly “No, my Lord Prince. These are all.”
Ander nodded. “Then these will be enough.”
He motioned for all who were gathered to seat themselves with him at the council table, and a general discussion ensued on such matters as soldier placement, weapons distribution, battle tactics, and the taking of additional defensive measures. Reports were heard from Ehlron Tay on the Elven Hunters of the regular army, from Kerrin on the Home Guard, and from Kobold of the Black Watch. Browork gave his assessment of the overall structural efficiency of the Elven defenses, and Stee Jans was consulted on strategies that might be implemented to offset the superior strength of the Demon hordes. Even Dayn spoke briefly on the fighting capabilities of the Rocs and their uses in aerial combat.
Time slipped past rapidly, and the night drifted away Ander grew light-headed with fatigue, and his thoughts began to wander. It was in the middle of one of these wanderings that a tremendous crash jerked him upright as the doors of the High Council flew open and a disheveled Gael appeared, flanked by the chamber guards. Breathless, the little Elf rushed forward and dropped to his knee before Ander.
“My Lord!” he gasped, his face flushed with excitement. “My Lord, the King is awake!”
Ander stared. “Awake?”
Then he was on his feet and sprinting from the chamber.
While he slept, it felt to Eventine Elessedil as if he were floating through a blackness layered with gossamer threads that wrapped his body in a seamless blanket. One by one, he felt the threads enfold him, mold about him, join with him. Time and space were nothing; there was only the blackness and the weave of the threads. It was a warm, pleasant sensation at first, much like the feel to an infant of a mother’s close embrace, filled with comfort and love. But then the embrace seemed to tighten, and he began to suffocate. Desperately he struggled to break free and found that he could not. He began to sink downward through the blackness, spinning slowly, his blanket a shroud and, he no longer a creature of life, but one of death. Terrified, he thrashed within his silken prison, tearing and ripping at its fabric until, with a sudden rending, it flew apart and was gone.
His eyes opened. Light blinded him momentarily, harsh and flickering. He blinked in its glare, disoriented and confused, fighting to gain some sense of where he was and, what he was doing. Then the outlines of a room began to gather form, and he recognized the smell of oil lamps and the feel of cotton sheets and woolen blankets wrapped close about his body. All that had happened in the moments before he slept came back again in a rush, images that ran mad and disjointed across his mind: the Breakline; Halys Cut and the Demons attacking from out of the deep mist; lines of Elven archers, lancers, and pikemen spread out below him; cries of pain and death; dark forms hurtling toward him through a wall of blue fire; Allanon, Ander, the glint of weapons, then a sudden blow.
He twitched violently beneath the covers, and sweat bathed his body. The room sharpened abruptly before his eyes-it was his sleeping room in the manor house in Arborlon-and there was a figure moving toward him.
“My Lord?” Gael’s frightened voice sounded in his ear and the youthful face bent down close to his own. “My Lord, are you awake?”
“What has happened?” he muttered, his own voice thick and barely recognizable.
“You were wounded, my Lord-at Halys Cut. A blow struck here.” The Elf pointed to the King’s left temple. “You have been unconscious ever since. My Lord, we were so worried...”
“How long... have I slept?” he interrupted. His hand reached to touch his head and the pain laced downward through his neck.
“Seven days, my Lord.”
“Seven days!”
Gael started to back away. “I will bring your son, my Lord.”
His mind whirled. “My son?”
“Prince Ander, my Lord.” His aide dashed toward the sleeping room door. “He meets now with the High Council. Lie back-I will bring him at once.”
Eventine watched him wrench open the door, heard him talk briefly with someone beyond, then watched the door close again, leaving him in silence. He tried to raise himself, but the effort was too much and he fell back weakly. Ander? Had Gael said that Ander was meeting with the High Council? Where was Arion? Doubt clouded his thoughts, and the questions came in a flurry. What was he doing here in Arborlon? What had befallen the army of the Elves? What had become of their defense of the Sarandanon?
Again he tried to raise himself and again fell back. A wave of nausea swept through him. He felt suddenly old, as if the number of his years was a sickness that had wasted him. His jaw tightened. Oh, that he might have back again five minutes of his youth to give him strength enough to rise from this bed! Anger and determination fired him, and he inched himself upward against his pillows until he lay propped against them, breathing raggedly.
Across the room, Manx raised his grizzled head. The King opened his mouth to call out to the old wolfhound. But suddenly the dog’s eyes met his, and the words died in his throat. There was hate in those eyes-hate so cold that it cut through Eventine like a winter frost. He blinked in disbelief, fighting the sense of repulsion that welled up within him. Manx? What was he thinking!
He forced himself to look away, to stare elsewhere in the sleeping room, at walls and their hangings, at furniture, and at the drapes drawn tight across the windows. Desperately, he tried to compose himself and could not. I am alone, he thought suddenly, unreasonably, and was filled with fear. Alone! He glanced back again at Manx. The wolfhound’s eyes fixed him, veiled now, hiding what had been so evident before. Or had he imagined it? He watched as the old dog rose, turned about, and lay down again. Why does he not come to me, the King asked himself? Why does he, not come?
He dropped back against the pillows. What am I saying? The words whispered in his mind, and he saw the madness that threatened to slip across him. Seeing hatred in the eyes of an animal that had been faithful to him for years? Seeing in Manx an enemy that might do him harm? What was wrong with him?
Voices sounded in the outer corridor. Then the sleeping room door opened and closed again, and Ander crossed the room to reach down and hold him close. The King hugged his son to him, then broke the clasp, searching Ander’s shadowed face as the Prince seated himself on the edge of the bed.
“Tell me what has happened,” Eventine ordered softly. Then he saw something flicker in his son’s eyes, and he felt a sudden chill pass through him. He forced the question from his lips. “Where is Arion?”
Ander opened his mouth to speak, then stared at the old man wordlessly Eventine’s face froze.
“Is he dead?”
Ander’s voice was a whisper. “At Worl Run.”
He seemed to search for something more to say, then gave up, shaking his head slowly. Eventine’s eyes filled with tears and his hands shook as he grasped his son’s arms.
“Arion is, dead?” He spoke the words as if they were a lie.
Ander nodded, then looked away. “Kael Pindanon, too.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The King’s hands fell away.
“And the Sarandanon?”
“Lost.”
They stared at each other wordlessly, father and son, as if some frightening secret had been shared that should never have been told. Then Ander reached down and clasped his father to him. For long moments, they held each other in silence. When at last the King spoke, his voice was flat and distant.
“Tell me about Arion. Everything. Leave nothing out.”
Ander told him. Quietly, he related how his brother had died, how they had brought him but of the Breakline to the Sarandanon, and how they had buried him at Baen Draw. Then he spoke of all that had befallen the army, of the Elves from that first day of battle at Halys Cut through the long march back to Arborlon. Eventine listened and said nothing. When Ander had finished, he stared blankly at the flicker of the oil lamps for a moment. Then his eyes shifted to his son.
“I want you to return to the High Council, Ander. Do what must be done.” He paused, his voice breaking. “ Go on. I will be all right.”
Ander looked at him uncertainly. “I can ask Gael to come in.”
The King shook his head. “No. Not now. I just want to...” He stopped, choking back what he was about to say, one hand gripping his son’s arm tightly. “I am... very proud of you, Ander. I know how difficult...”
Ander nodded, his throat tightening. He placed his father’s hands within his own. “Gael will be outside in the hall when you need him.”
He rose and started toward the door. His hand was on the latch when Eventine called out after him, his voice strangely anxious.
“Take Manx out with you.”
Ander stopped, looked at the old wolfhound, whistled him to his side, and led him out. The door closed softly behind him.
Alone again, this time truly alone, the King of the Elves lay back upon the cushion of his pillows and let the enormity of all that had happened wash over him. In a little more than seven days, the finest army in the Four Lands had been driven like a herd of cattle before wolves from its own country-driven from the Breakline, from the Sarandanon, and all the way back to its home city, there to stand or fall. Somewhere deep within him there was a terrible sense of failure. He had let this happen. He was responsible.
“Arion,” he whispered. suddenly, remembering.
Then the tears welled up in his eyes and he began to cry.
“Eretria!” Wil exclaimed softly, surprise and wariness in his voice. Disregarding the pain from his injury, he pushed himself up on one elbow for a closer look. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving you, it would appear.” She laughed, her dark eyes mischievous.
Sudden movement caught his eye, and he stared past her into the shadows. Two Rover women busied themselves at a sideboard near the rear of the wagon, rinsing cloths red with his blood in a basin of water. Instinctively, he reached up to his head and found that a bandage had been placed across the wound. He touched it gingerly and winced.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Eretria brushed his hand aside. “It is the only part of you that is clean.”
The Valeman glanced about quickly. “What have you done with Amberle?”
“Your sister?” she mocked. “She is safe enough.”
“You will excuse me if I am a bit skeptical about that.” He started to rise from the bed.
“Stay, Healer.” She forced him down again. Her voice lowered so that the women behind her could not hear. “Do you fear I might seek revenge because of your ill-conceived decision to leave me behind at the Tirfing? Do you think so little of me?” She laughed and tossed her head. “Perhaps now though, if you were given the chance, you would reconsider that decision. Is that possible?”
“Not in the least. Now what about Amberle?”
“Had I intended harm to you, Wil Ohmsford-or to her-I would have left the both of you to the cutthroats who chased you through Grimpen Ward.. The Elven girl is well. I will have her brought after we have talked.”
She turned to the women at the sideboard. “Go. Leave us.”
The women stopped what they were doing and disappeared through a flap at the other end of the wagon. When they had gone, Eretria turned back to the Valeman, her head cocked to one side.
“Well, what shall I do with you now, Wil Ohmsford?”
He took a deep breath. “How did you find me, Eretria?”
She grinned. “Easily enough. Word of your great healing power spread the length and breadth of Grimpen Ward within ten minutes of the time it took you to cure that fat woman innkeeper. Did you think that such a noisy performance would go unnoticed? ‘How do you think it was that you were found by those cutthroats?”
“You knew of that, too, then?”
“Healer, you are a fool.” She said it kindly, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek. “Rovers are the first to know anything that happens in the places where they travel. If it were not so, they would not long survive-a lesson you apparently have yet to learn. Once word spread of your wondrous act of healing, it was obvious to anyone, with half a brain that there would be some who would soon decide that one with your talent must surely be a man of wealth. Greed and drink mix well, Healer. You are lucky to be alive.”
“I suppose so,” he acknowledged, chagrined. “I should have been a bit more careful.”
“A bit. Fortunately for you, I realized who you were and prevailed upon Cephelo to let me find you, once the cry went up from the inn. Otherwise, you might be food for the dogs.”
“A pleasant thought.” Wil grimaced. He glanced at her quickly. “Cephelo knows that I am here?”
“He knows.” She smiled and the mischievousness returned to her eyes. “Does that frighten you?”
“Let’s just say that it concerns me,” Wil admitted. “Why should he do anything for me after what happened back in the Tirfing?”
Eretria leaned close and put her slim, dark arms about his neck. “Because his daughter is persuasive, Healer, persuasive enough that at times she may influence even so difficult a man as Cephelo.” She shrugged. “Besides, he has had time to rethink what happened at the Tirfing. I have convinced him, I think, that it was none of your doing that in fact you saved the lives of the Family.”
Wil shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t trust him.”
“Nor should you,” she agreed. “But for tonight, at least, he should cause you no concern. He will wait until morning to have you answer to him. By then, at any rate, your pursuers will have worn themselves out chasing shadows and have gone back again to the taverns for fresh ale and a more tangible source of gain.”
She rose then, slipped away in a flash of blue silk, and returned a moment later with a damp cloth and a fresh basin of water which she placed on the floor next to the bed.
[[pg 351 picture]]
“We must clean you up, Healer. You reek of sweat and dirt, and your clothes are ruined.” She paused. “Take them off and I’ll wash you.”
Wil shook his head. “I will wash myself. Can you lend me some clothes?”
She nodded, but made no move to go. The Valeman flushed.
“I would like to do this by myself, if you don’t mind.”
The dazzling smile broke across her face. “Oh, but I do mind.”
He shook his head. “You really are incorrigible.”
“You are for me, Wil Ohmsford. I told you that before.”
The smile faded, replaced by a look so sensuous and compelling as to cause Wil to forget momentarily what it was that he was about. When she started to lean toward him, he forced himself to sit up quickly on the bed. Dizziness washed over him, but he kept himself upright.
“Will you bring me the clothes?”
For an instant her eyes went dark with anger. Then she rose, crossed to a cupboard, removed some clothing, and brought it to him.
“You may have these.” She tossed them in his lap.
She started past him, then dipped suddenly and kissed him quickly on the mouth. “Wash and dress yourself then.” She sniffed, slipping away.
She opened a door at the end of the wagon and disappeared into the night, closing the door behind her securely and latching it from without. Wil grinned in spite of himself. Whatever her intentions, she was not about to let him run off. Quickly he stripped away his old clothing, washed, and put on the clothes Eretria had supplied. They fit well, though they were the clothes of a Rover and he felt more than a little strange wearing them.
He had just finished dressing when the door opened again and Eretria appeared with Amberle. The Elven girl was dressed in Rover pants and tunic with a sash and headband to hold back her waist-length hair. Her face was freshly scrubbed and a bit startled. She glanced at Wil’s head and there was immediate concern in her green eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked quickly.
“I have seen to his needs.” Eretria brushed her question aside smoothly She pointed to the bed opposite Wil’s. “You can sleep there. Be certain that you do not try to leave the wagon tonight.”
She gave Wil a knowing smile, then turned away and moved to the door. She was halfway through when she glanced back suddenly.
“Good-night, brother Wil. Good-night, sister Amberle. Sleep well.”
With a grin, she slipped through the door. The latch fastened behind her with a click.
The Valeman and the Elven girl slept that night within the Rover wagon. It was dawn when they awoke, the new light seeping through cracks in the shuttered windows to light the dusky gloom. Wil lay silent for a time, gathering his thoughts, waiting for the sleep to clear from his eyes. After a moment, he reached within his tunic for the small leather pouch containing the Elfstones, checked to be certain that they were still there, then replaced the pouch. It did not hurt to be careful, he thought. He was halfway out of the bed when Amberle ordered him back in again, scrambling up from the other bed to reach him. Carefully she examined the injury to his head and readjusted the bandage. When she had finished, Wil pushed himself up beside her and surprised her with a quick kiss on one cheek. She flushed slightly and smile, her child’s face beaming.
A short time later the door latch released and Eretria stepped through, carrying a tray of bread, honey, milk, and fruit. Brown limbs slipped from beneath a diaphanous white gown that swirled about the Rover girl like smoke. The dazzling smile flashed at the Valeman.
“Well rested, Wil Ohmsford?” She deposited the tray on his lap and winked. “Cephelo will speak with you now.”
She left without saying a word to, Amberle. Wil glanced at the Elven girl when Eretria had gone and shrugged helplessly. Amberle’s smile was forced.
Minutes later, Cephelo appeared. He entered without knocking, his tall, lean frame stooping slightly as it passed through the entry. Dressed in black and wrapped in the cloak of forest green, he appeared just as he had when they had first observed him on the banks of the Mermidon. The wide-brimmed hat was cocked jauntily on his head, and he removed it with a flourish as he entered, a broad grin splitting his swarthy face.
“Ah, the Elflings, the Healer and his sister. We meet again.” He bowed. “Still looking for your horse?”
Wil smiled. “Not this time.”
The Rover looked down the length of his hooked nose at them. “No? Have you lost your way then? Arborlon, as I remember, lies north.”
“We have been to Arborlon and left again,” the Valeman replied, setting aside the tray.
“Come to Grimpen Ward.”
“Both of us, it seems.”
“Indeed.” The tall man seated himself opposite the two. “In my case, business takes me many places that I might not otherwise care to go. But what of yourself, Healer? What brings you to Grimpen Ward? Surely not the prospect of applying your art to the denizens of so shabby a village as this one.”
Wil hesitated a moment before responding. He was going to have to be very careful what he told Cephelo. He knew the man well enough by now to appreciate the fact that if the Rover were to discover anything that he might turn to his own advantage, he would be quick to do so.
“We have business of our own,” he replied carelessly.
The Rover pursed his lips. “You do not seem to be doing very well in its pursuit, Healer. Your throat would be cut by now if not, for me.”
Wil waned to laugh aloud. The old fox! He was not about to admit that Eretria had anything to do with saving them.
“We seem to be in your debt once again,” he offered.
Cephelo shrugged. “I was hasty in my judgment of you at the Tirfing; I let my concern for my people override my common sense. I blamed you for what happened when I should have thanked you for aiding. That has bothered me. Saving you now eases my sense of guilt.”
“I am gratified to learn that you feel this way.” Wil did not believe one word of it. “This has been a difficult time for my sister and me.”
“Difficult?” Cephelo’s dark face mirrored sudden concern. “Perhaps there is something more that I can do to aid you-something to be of service. If you would tell me what it is, exactly, that brings you to this most dangerous part of the country...?”
Here it comes, Wil thought. Out of the corner of his eye; he watched Amberle frown in warning.
“I wish that it were within your power to help.” Wil did his best to sound sincere. “But I am afraid that it is not. What I need most is the guidance of someone familiar with the history of this valley, its marks, and its legends.”
Cephelo clapped his hands lightly. “Well, then, perhaps I can be of assistance after all. I have traveled the Wilderun many times.” He lifted a long finger to the side of his head. “I know something of its secrets.”
Perhaps, Wil thought. Perhaps not. He wants to know what we are doing here.
The Valeman shrugged. “I do not feel that we should impose further on your hospitality by involving you in our affairs. My sister and I can manage.”
The Rover’s face was expressionless. “Why not tell me what it is that brings you here-let me judge if the imposition is so great.”
Amberle’s hand closed tightly on Wil’s arm, but he ignored it, keeping his eyes locked on Cephelo’s. He knew that he was going to have to tell the Rover something.
“There is a sickness within the house of the Elessedils, rulers of the Elves.” He lowered his voice. “The King’s granddaughter is very ill. The medicine she needs is an extract from a root that can only be found here, within the Wilderun. I alone know that-I and my sister. We have come here in search of that root, for if we can find it and carry if to the Elven ruler, the reward will be great.”
He felt Amberle’s grip loosen abruptly. He did not dare to look at her face. Cephelo was silent for a moment before replying.
Do you know where within the Wilderun this root can be found?”
The Valeman nodded. “There are books, ancient books of healing from the old world, that speak of the root and the name of its location. But it is a name long since forgotten, long, since erased from the maps that serve the races now. I doubt that the name would mean anything to you.”
The Rover leaned forward. “Tell it to me anyway”
“Safehold,” Wil declared, watching the other’s dark face. “The name is Safehold.”
Cephelo thought a moment, then shook his head. “You were right the name means nothing. Still...” He paused deliberately, rocking back slightly as if deep, in thought: “There is one who might know the name, one familiar with the old names of this valley I could lead you to him, I suppose. Ah, but Healer, the Wilderun is very dangerous country-you know that yourself since you most certainly crossed through some small part of its forests to reach Grimpen Ward. The risk to my people and myself if we were to aid you in such a perilous search would be great.” He shrugged apologetically. “Besides, we have other commitments, other places to which we must travel, other business to which we must attend. Time is a precious thing to such as we. Surely you can appreciate that.”
“What is it that you are saying?” The Valeman demanded quietly.
“That without me, you will fail in your quest. That you need me; that I in turn wish to offer my help. But such help as you seek cannot be given without, ah... adequate recompense.”
Wil nodded slowly. “What recompense, Cephelo?”
The Rover’s eyes glittered. “The Stones you carry. The ones that hold the power.”
The Valeman shook his head. “They would be useless to you.”
“Would they? Is their secret so dark?” Cephelo’s eyes narrowed. “Do not suppose me a fool. You are no simple Healer. That much was obvious almost from the moment we first met. Still, it matters not to me who you are-only what you have. You have the power of the Stones and I wish it.”
“Their magic is Elven.” Wil forced himself to remain calm, hoping desperately that he had not lost control of the situation, “Only one of Elven blood can wield their power.”
“You lie badly, Healer,” the big man’s voice was ugly
“He speaks the truth,” Amberle interjected quickly, her face frightened. “If not for the Stones, he would not have even attempted this search. You have no right to ask him to give them up to you.”
“I have the right to ask whatever I choose,” Cephelo snapped, brushing her words aside with a wave of his hand. “In any case, I believe neither of you.”
“Believe what you wish.” Wil’s voice was steady. “I will not give you the Stones.”
The two men stared wordlessly at each other for a moment, the Rover’s face hard and threatening Yet there was fear there as well-fear generated by Cephelo’s vivid memory of the power locked within the Elfstones, power that Wil Ohmsford had mastered. With great effort he forced himself to smile.
“What will you give me then, Healer? Am I expected to do this service for nothing? Am I expected to risk lives and property without any form of recompense at all? There must be something of value that you can give me-something that has worth equal to that of the Stones you so stubbornly refuse to yield. What then? What will you give me?”
Wil tried desperately to come up with something, but there was absolutely nothing else he carried that was worth more than a few pennies. Yet just when he had decided that the situation was hopeless, Cephelo snapped his fingers sharply.
“I will make a bargain with you, Healer. You say that the Elven King will reward you if you bring to him the medicine that will cure his granddaughter. Very well. I will do what I can to help you learn something of this place you call Safehold. I will take you to one who might know the name. I will do that and nothing more. In exchange for this, you must give me half of whatever reward you receive from the Elven King. Half. Is it agreed?”
Wil thought it over a moment. A curious bargain, he decided. Rovers seldom, if ever, gave anything away without first getting something in return. What was Cephelo about?
“Are you saying that you will help me learn the location of Safehold...”
“If I can.”
“... but you will not come with me to find it?”
Cephelo shrugged. “I have no wish to risk my life unnecessarily. Finding the medicine and conveying it to the Elven King’s granddaughter is your problem. My part of the bargain is merely to help you on your way.” He paused. “Do not, however, presume that once gone you are therefore free of me. Any attempt to cheat me of what you owe would end very badly for you.”
The Valeman frowned. “How will you know whether or not I am successful if you do not come with me?”
Cephelo laughed. “Healer, I am a Rover-I will know! I will know all that happens to you, believe me.”
His smile was so wolfish that for an instant Wil was certain that there was another meaning to his words. Something was wrong; he could sense it. Yet they needed help from somewhere in finding their way through the Wilderun-help that would permit him to forgo any use of the Elfstones. If Cephelo were to give them that help, it might mean the difference between success and failure in finding the Bloodfire before the Demons found them.
“Is it agreed?” Cephelo asked again.
Wil shook his head. He would test the Rover. “One half is too much. I will give you a third.”
“A third!” Cephelo’s face darkened momentarily, then relaxed. “Very well. I am a reasonable man. A third.”
That had been entirely too easy, Wil thought. He glanced at Amberle, seeing in her eyes the same mistrust that flickered in his own. But the Elven girl said nothing. She was leaving the decision to him.
“Come, come, Elfling,” Cephelo pressed. “Do not be all day about it.”
The Valeman nodded. “All right. It is agreed.”
“Good.” The Rover stood. “We will leave at once since our business here is ended. But you are to remain within the wagon for a time. It would not do to have you seen again in Grimpen Ward. Once we are into the deep forest, you may come out.”
He smiled broadly, dipped the wide-brimmed hat in parting and passed back through the entry. The door closed softly behind him and locked. Wil and Amberle sat staring at each other.
“I don’t trust him,” Amberle whispered.
Wil nodded. “Not at all.”
Moments later, the wagon lurched forward and began to roll and their journey into the Wilderun was under way once more.
The old man hummed softly to himself as he sat in the cane-backed rocker and stared out into the darkening forest. Far to the west beyond the wall of trees that locked tightly about the clearing in which he sat, beyond the valley of the Wilderun and the mountains that ringed it, the sun slipped beneath the earth’s horizon and the day’s light faded into dusk. It was the old man’s favorite time of day, the midday heat cooling into evening shadow, the sunset coloring the far skyline crimson ‘and purple, then deepening into blue night. From atop the ridge line, where the woodland trees broke apart enough to permit glimpses of sky, moon, and stars through a screen of limbs and trunks, the air smelled clean for a time, freed of the damp and mustiness that clung to it through the swelter of the day, and the leaves of the forest whispered in a soft, slow nighttime wind. It was as if, for those few moments, the Wilderun were like any other country, and a man might look upon it, as an old and intimate friend.
The old man looked often upon the valley that way, more now than at any other time of the day or night perhaps, but always with that same sense of deep and abiding loyalty few others could ever feel as he, but few others knew the valley as he had come to know it. Oh, it was treacherous-hard and filled with dangers to snare and destroy a man. There were creatures within the Wilderun the like of which could be found in no other place this side of a midnight campfire legend, told with hushed whispers and frightened looks. There was death here, death that came with the passing of every hour, harsh, cruel, and certain. It was a, land of hunter and hunted, each living creature a bit of both, and the old man had seen the best and worst of each in the sixty years that he had made the valley his home. He drummed his fingers on the rocker’s arms and thought back dreamily It was sixty years since he had first come to the Wilderun-a long time, yet barely gone. This had been his home for all those years, and it was a home that a man could respect-not simply another place with houses and people all crowded close, safe, secure, and senselessly dull, but a place of solitude and depth, of challenge and heart, a place to which only a few would ever come because only those few would ever belong. A few like himself, he thought, and now only he remained of those who had once come into the valley. All the rest were gone, claimed by the wilderness, buried somewhere deep within her earth. Of course there were those fools that huddled like frightened dogs within the ragged shacks of Grimpen Ward, cheating and robbing each other and any other fool that might venture into their midst. But the valley was not theirs and never would be, for they had no understanding of what the valley was about nor any wish to learn. They might as well be locked within the closet of some castle for all it meant to any claim that they were its lords and ladies.
Crazy, they called him-those fools in Grimpen Ward. Crazy to live in this wilderness, an old man alone. He grinned crookedly at the thought. Madness peculiar to its owner, perhaps; but he would choose his own over theirs.
“Drifter,” he called gruffly, and the monstrous black dog that stretched at his feet came awake and rose, a giant animal that had the look of both wolf and bear, its massive body bristling with hair, its muzzle yawning wide.
“Hey, you.” The old man grunted, and the dog came over, dropping its great head onto its master’s lap, waiting for its ears to be scratched.
The old man obliged. Somewhere in the growing dark, a scream sounded, quick and piercing, to linger in the sudden stillness as a fading echo, then die. Drifter looked up quickly. The old man nodded. Swamp cat. A big one. Something had crossed its path and paid the price.
His gaze wandered idly, picking out familiar shapes and forms in the half-light. Behind him sat the but in which he lived, a small but solid structure, built of logs and shingles caulked with mortar. A shed and well sat just back of the hut, and a fenced closure that held his mule, and a workbench and lumber. He liked to whittle and carve, liked it well enough that much of his day was spent shaping and honing the wood he took from the great trees about the clearing into odds and ends that it pleased him to look upon. Worthless, he supposed, to everyone but himself, but then he didn’t care much about anyone else, so that was all right. He saw little enough of people and little enough was more than enough, and he didn’t look to give them reasons to seek him out. Drifter was all the company he needed. And those worthless cats that wandered about looking for new places to sleep and table scraps, as if they were no better than common scavengers. And the mule, a dumb but dependable creature.
He stretched and rose. The sun was down and the night sky was laced with stars and moonlight. It was time to fix something to eat for himself and the dog. He looked momentarily toward the tripod and kettle which sat atop a small cooking file several yards in front of him. Yesterday’s soup, and precious little of that-enough, maybe, for one more meal.
He moved toward the fire, shaking his head. He was a smallish man, old and bent, his stick-thin frame clothed in a ragged shirt and half-pants. White hair ringed his bald head in a thin fringe of snow that ran down the length of a roundish jaw to a beard spotted with soot and bits of sawdust. Brown, wrinkled skin covered his tough old body like leather, and his eyes were barely visible through lids that pouched and drooped. He walked with a sort of hunching motion, as if he had just come awake and, finding his muscles cramped with sleep, was attempting to work out the stiffness.
He halted, beside the kettle and stared down into it, trying to decide what he might do to improve the appeal of its contents. It was at that moment that he heard the approach of the horses and wagon, distant still, lost in the dark somewhere up the trail from his hut, winding uncertainly toward him. He turned and stared into the night, waiting. At his side, Drifter growled in an unfriendly manner, and the old man gave him a warning cuff. The minutes slipped away, and the sounds drew closer. Finally a line of shadows emerged from the dusk, winding down over the crest of the rise fronting the clearing-a single wagon with horses in trace and half a dozen riders in tow. The old man’s mood soured the moment he saw the wagon. He knew it well enough, knew it to be Rover, knew it to belong to that rogue Cephelo. He spat to one side with distaste and thought seriously about loosing Drifter on the bunch of them.
The riders and wagon halted just inside the fringes of the clearing. Cephelo’s dark form dismounted and came forward. When he reached the old man, the Rover’s wide-brimmed hat swept down in greeting.
“Well met, Hebel. Good evening to you.”
The old man snorted. “Cephelo. What do you want?”
Cephelo looked shocked. “Hebel, Hebel, this is no greeting for two who have done as much for one another as we. This is no greeting for men who have shared the hardships and misfortunes of humankind. Hello, now.”
The Rover took the old man’s hand and shook it firmly. Hebel neither resisted nor aided the effort.
“Ah, you look well.” Cephelo smiled disarmingly. “The high country is good for the aches and pains of age, I imagine.”
“Aches and pains of age, is it?” Hebel spat and wrinkled his nose. “What are you selling, Cephelo-some cure-all for the infirm?”
Cephelo glanced back at those who had come with him and shrugged apologetically. “You are most unkind, Hebel, most unkind.”
The old man followed his gaze. “What have you done with the rest of your pack? Have they taken up with some other thief?”
This time the Rover’s face darkened slightly. “I have sent them on ahead. They follow the main roadway east to await my coming in the Tirfing. I am here with these few on a matter of some importance. Might we talk a bit?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Hebel pointed out. “Talk all you want.”
“And share your fire?”
Hebel shrugged. “I don’t have the food to feed you all-wouldn’t if I did. Maybe you brought something with you, huh?”
Cephelo gave an exaggerated sigh. “We did. Tonight you shall share our dinner.”
He called back to the others. The riders dismounted and began caring for the horses. An old woman had been driving the wagon in the company of a young couple. She climbed down now, removed provisions and cookware from the rear of the wagon, and shuffled wordlessly to the cooking fire. The two who sat with her hesitated momentarily, then came forward at Cephelo’s invitation. They were joined by a slim, dark-haired girl who had been one of the riders.
Hebel turned away wordlessly and reseated himself in the rocker. There was something peculiar about the two who had come down off the wagon seat, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was. They looked like Rovers and yet at the same time they didn’t. He watched them approach with Cephelo and the dark-haired girl. All four seated themselves on the grass about the old man-the dark-haired girl slipping suggestively close to the young man and giving him a bold wink.
“My daughter, Eretria.” Cephelo shot the girl an irritated look as’ he introduced her. “These two are Elves.”
“I’m not blind,” Hebel snapped, recognizing now why they appeared to be something more than Rovers. “What are they doing with you?”
“We have undertaken a quest,” the Rover announced.
Hebel leaned forward. “A quest? With you?” He glanced at the young man, his aged face wrinkling. “You seem like a bright sort. What made you decide to take up with him?”
“He requires a guide through this miserable country,” Cephelo answered for him-rather too quickly, Hebel thought. “Why is it, Hebel, that you insist on making this forsaken wilderness your home? One day I’ll pass by and find your bones, old man, and all because you were too stubborn to take your worthless hide to safer regions.”
“Much you’d care,” Hebel grunted. “For a man such as myself, this land is as safe as any other. I know it, know what walks and breathes and hunts it, know how to keep my distance and when to show my teeth. I’ll outlive you, Rover-mark my words on that.” He pushed back in the rocker, watching Drifter’s dark shadow settle in behind him. “What do you want with me?”
Cephelo shrugged. “A bit of talk, just as I’ve said.”
Hebel laughed hoarsely. “A bit of talk? Come now, Cephelo-what do you want? Don’t waste my time-there isn’t that much of it left.”
“For myself, nothing. For these young Elflings, something of the knowledge stored in that balding old pate. It has taken me a great deal of effort to reach you up here, but there are causes that merit special...”
Hebel had heard enough. “What are you cooking over there?” He allowed himself to be distracted by the smell of the food simmering in the cooking kettle. “What’s in there?”
“How should I know?” Cephelo snapped, irritated by the old man’s seeming inattention.
“Beef, I think. Beef and vegetables.” Hebel rubbed his weathered hands. “I think we should eat before we talk. Got some of that Rover ale with you, Cephelo?”
So they ate plates of stew, day-old bread, dried fruit, and nuts, with glasses of ale to wash it all down. Not much was said while they ate, though a considerable number of glances were exchanged, and those glances told Hebel a good deal more about the situation than whatever words his visitors might have spoken. The Elves, he decided, were there because they had run out of choices in the matter. They cared nothing more for Cephelo and his band than he did. Cephelo, of course, was there because there was something in all of this for him, but what that might be would undoubtedly be kept carefully concealed. It was the dark-haired girl, the Rover’s daughter, who puzzled him most. The way she looked at that Elf lad told him something of what she was about, yet there was more to her than that, more than she was willing to let on. The old man grew, increasingly curious as to what it might be.
At last the food was gone and the ale was drunk. Hebel produced a long pipe, struck flint and tinder to its contents, and puffed a broad wreath of smoke into the night air. Cephelo tried again.
“This young Elf and his sister need your help. They have already come a long way, but they won’t be able to go any further if you don’t give them that help. I told them, of course, that you would.”
The old man snorted. He knew this game. “Don’t like Elves. They think they’re too good for this country, for people like me.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t like Rovers either, as you well know. Like them even less than Elves.”
Eretria smirked. “There seems to be a lot you don’t like.”
“Shut your mouth!” Cephelo snapped, his face darkening. Eretria went still and Hebel saw the anger in her eyes.
He chuckled softly. “I don’t blame you, girl.” He looked at Cephelo. “What will you give me if I help the Elflings, Rover? An even trade now, if you want what I know.”
Cephelo glowered. “Do not try my patience too severely, Hebel.”
“Ha! Will you cut my throat? See, what words you find then! Now speak again-what will you give me?”
“Clothes, bedding, leather, silk-I don’t care.” The Rover brushed aside the question stiffly.
“I got all that.” Hebel spat.
Cephelo controlled himself only with a monumental effort. “Well, what is it that you want, then? Speak up, old man!”
From behind the rocker, Drifter growled in warning. Hebel reached back and gave the dog a cuff.
“Knives,” he announced. “Half a dozen good blades. An axe head and wedges. Two dozen arrows, ashwood and feathered. And a cutting stone.”
The big man nodded, looking less than pleased. “Done, thief. Now give me something back for all that.”
Hebel shrugged. “What is it you want to know?”
Cephelo pointed at the young man. “The Elfling is a Healer. He looks for a root that produces a rare medicine. His books of healing say that it can be found here, within the Wilderun, in a place called Safehold.”
There was a long moment of silence as the Rover and the old man stared at each other and the others waited.
“Well?” Cephelo demanded finally.
“Well what?” the old man snapped.
“Safehold! Where is it?”
Hebel grinned crookedly. “Right where it’s always been, I imagine.” He saw the surprise in the other’s face. “I know the name, Rover. An old name, forgotten by everyone but me, I’d guess. Tombs of some sort-catacombs beneath a mountain.”
“That’s it!” The young man came to his feet, hip face flushed. Then he saw that everyone was staring at him and he sat down again quickly. “At least that is the way that the books described it,” he added lamely.
“Did they now?” Hebel rocked back, puffing. “Did they speak as well of the Hollows?”
The young man shook his head and glanced at the Elf girl, who shook her head as well. It was Cephelo who leaned forward sharply, his eyes narrowing.
“You mean that Safehold lies within the Hollows, old man?”
There was an edge to Cephelo’s voice that did not escape Hebel. Cephelo was frightened.
Hebel chuckled. “Within the Hollows. Do you still seek Safehold, Rover?”
The young man hunched forward. “Where can the Hollows be found?”
“South, a day’s walk,” the old man answered It was time to put an end to this foolishness. “Deep and dark they are, Elfling-a pit in which anything that drops falls from sight and is lost forever. Death, Elfling. Nothing that goes into the Hollows comes out again. Those who live there choose to keep it so.”
The young man shook his head. “I do not understand.”
Eretria muttered something under her breath, her eyes darting quickly to the face of the young Elf. She knew, Hebel saw. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“The Witch Sisters, Elfling. Morag and Mallenroh. The Hollows belong to them and to the things they make to serve them-things of Witch power.”
“But where within the Hollows lies Safehold?” the other persisted. “You spoke of a mountain...?”
“Spire’s Reach-a solitary peak that rises up out of the Hollows like an arm stretched forth from death’s grave. There lies Safehold.” The old man paused, shrugging. “Or so it was once. I have not been to the Hollows myself in many, many years.” He shook his head. “No one goes there anymore.”
The young man nodded slowly. “Tell me something of these Witch Sisters.”
Hebel’s eyes narrowed. “Morag and Mallenroh-the last of their kind. Once, Elfling, there were many such as they-now there are but two. Some say they were the handmaidens of the Warlock Lord. Some say they were here long before even he. Power to match that of the Druids, some say.” He spread his hands. “The truth is hidden with them-seek it if you wish. The loss of another Elf, more or less, means nothing to me.”
He laughed sharply, choking a bit until he lifted his cup and drank down a swallow or two of ale. His thin frame bent forward as he sought the young man’s eyes.
“Sisters, they are, Morag and Mallenroh. Blood sisters. But there is a great hate between them, a hate from some wrong suffered long ago-real or imagined I could not say, nor anyone else I’d guess. But they war within the Hollows, Elfling-Morag holds the east, Mallenroh the west, each trying to destroy the other, each trying to seize for herself her sister’s land and power. And at the center of the Hollows, just between the two, stands Spire’s Reach-and there, Safehold.”
“Have you seen Safehold?”
“I? Not I. The Hollows belong to the Sisters; the valley is room enough for me.” Hebel rocked back, remembering. “Once, so many years ago that I no longer care to count, I hunted along the rim of the Hollows. Foolish it was, but I was still of a mind to know the whole of the land that I had chosen for my home, and the stories were but stories. For days I hunted within the shadow of the Hollows, seeing nothing. Then one night as I slept, alone but for the dimming embers of my campfire, she came to me-Mallenroh, tall and like some creature from a dream, gray hair long and woven with nightshade, her face the face of Mistress Death. She came to me, told me she felt the need to speak to one of human blood, one such as I. All the rest of the night she talked and told me of herself and her sister Morag and of the war they fought to own the Hollows.”
He was lost in the memory now, his voice distant and soft. “In the morning she was gone, almost as if she had never been. I never saw her again, of course, not from that moment to this. I might have thought it all imagined, not real at all, except that she took some part of me with her-some bit of life I’d suppose you’d say.”
He shook his head slowly. “Most of what she told me scattered like the fragments of some dream. But I remember her words of Safehold, Elfling. Catacombs beneath the arm of Spire’s Reach, she said. A place from another age where some strange magic had once been done. So old it was that even the Sisters did not know its meaning. She told me that, did Mallenroh. I remember... that much, at least.”
He was silent then, thinking back on what had been. Even after all these years, the memory of her was as clear as the faces of those who sat about him. Mallenroh! Strange, he thought, that he should remember her so well.
The young man was speaking quietly, his hand touching the edge of the rocker.
“You remember enough, Hebel.”
The old man looked at the Elf in surprise, not understanding. Then he saw in the other’s eyes what he intended. He meant to go there, Hebel realized. He meant to go into the Hollows. Impulsively he leaned down.
“Do not go,” he whispered, his head shaking slowly. “Do not go.”
The young man smiled faintly. “I must, if Cephelo is to have his reward.”
The Rover said nothing, his dark face inscrutable. Eretria glanced sharply at him, then turned back to the young man.
“Healer, do not do this,” she begged. “Listen to what the old man has said. The Hollows are no place for you. Seek your medicine elsewhere.”
The Elf shook his head. “There is nowhere else. Let it alone, Eretria. “
For an instant, the Rover girl’s entire body seemed to go taut, her dark face flushing with emotions that struggled to break free. Yet she held them carefully in check, rising to her feet and staring down at him coldly.
“You are a fool,” she announced, and stalked away into the dark.
Hebel watched the young man, saw his eyes follow after Eretria as she went from them. The Elven girl did not look, her strange green eyes introspective and all but lost in the shadow of her long hair as it fell forward about her child’s face.
“Is this root so important?” the old man asked wonderingly, not just to the young man, but to the girl as well. “Can it not be found another place?”
“Let them be.” Cephelo spoke up suddenly, his dark eyes slipping from face to face. “The decision is theirs to make and they have made it.”
Hebel frowned. “So quick to send them to their deaths, Rover? What then of this reward of which the Elfling speaks?”
Cephelo laughed. “Rewards are given and taken away by the whims of fortune, old man. Where one is lost, another is gained. The Elfling must do what he chooses, he and his sister. We have no right to pass judgment.”
“We have to go.” The Elven girl spoke softly, for the first time since they had been seated, looking deep into the old man’s eyes.
“Well, then.” Cephelo rose. “Enough said of the matter. The evening is not yet done and there is good Rover ale to be drunk. Share it with me, friends. We shall talk of the times that have been, rather than guess at what might yet be. Hebel, you shall hear what those fools that people Grimpen Ward have done of late-madness the like of which only men such as you and I can truly appreciate.”
He called sharply to the old woman, who scurried to his side with a flask of ale. Several more of the Rovers drifted over to join them, and Cephelo poured freely from the flask into the cups of all. Laughing and joking, he began a series of wild-eyed stories of places he had probably never been and people he had certainly never met. Bold and easy was the Rover, his talk filling the night with the laughter of his people and the clink of their glasses raised in salute. Hebel listened with distrust. Cephelo had been too quick to disparage his warning, to the Elflings and to disclaim interest in the supposed reward that would come, it seemed, only if the young Elf found the medicine he sought and returned again. Too quick by far, he thought for the Rover knew as well as he that no one had ever returned from the Hollows.
He rocked slowly in his cane-backed chair, one hand dropping idly to find Drifter’s shaggy head. What more warning could he give this Elf, he wondered? What could he say that he had not already said to discourage his foolishness? Perhaps nothing; the lad seemed determined that he must go.
He wondered then if the Elfling would meet Mallenroh as he had done so many years ago; thinking that he might, he envied him.
It was a short time later when Wil Ohmsford rose from the company of revelers and walked to the well that sat just back of the old man’s hut. Amberle already slept, wrapped in blankets close to the fire, exhausted, it seemed, from the day’s journey and the events leading up to it. He also was experiencing an unusual drowsiness, though he had drunk little of the Rover ale. The cold water might help, he thought, and a good nights sleep after. He had just taken a long drink from a metal cup hooked to the well-bucket’s chain when Eretria stepped from the shadows to stand before him.
“I do not understand you, Healer,” she said bluntly.
He replaced the cup within the bucket and seated himself an the stone wall of the well. This was Eretria’s first appearance since she had called him a fool in front of the others.
“I went to a considerable amount of trouble to save your life back in Grimpen Ward,” she continued. “It was not easy persuading Cephelo that he should allow me to help you-not easy at all. Now it seems that my efforts were wasted. I might as well have let those cutthroats have you, you and this Elven girl you pretend is your sister. Despite the warnings you have been given, you insist on going into the Hollows. I want to know why. Has Cephelo anything to do with this? I don’t know what bargain you struck with him, but nothing he promised-even if he were of a mind to deliver, which I doubt he is-would be worth the risk that you take.”
“Cephelo has nothing to do with it,” Wil replied quietly.
“If he has threatened you in any way, I would stand with you against him,” the girl declared firmly. “I would help you.”
“I know that. But Cephelo has no part in the decision.”
“Then why? Why must you do this?”
The Valeman looked down. “The medicine that is needed for...”
“Don’t lie to me!” Eretria dropped next to him on the well wall, her dark dace angry. “Cephelo may believe that nonsense about roots and medicines, but he reads only the truth of your words, Healer, and not the truth of your eyes. You may disguise the first, but never the second. This girl is not your sister; she is your charge, a responsibility that you, clearly hold dear. It is not roots and medicines you seek; but something more. What is it then that lies within the Hollows?”
Wil looked up slowly to meet her gaze and hold it. For a long moment he stared at her without replying. She reached out impulsively, her hands grasping his.
“I would never betray you. Never.”
He smiled faintly “Perhaps that is the one thing about you of which I am certain, Eretria. I will tell you this. There is a danger that threatens this land-that threatens all the Lands. The thing that will protect against it can be found only in Safehold. Amberle and I have been sent to find it.”
The Rover girl’s eyes were filled with fire. “Then let me go with you. Take me with you now as you should have taken me before.”
Wil sighed. “How can I do that? You have just finished telling me that I am a fool for insisting on going into the Hollows. Now you would have me treat you as a fool as well. No. Your place is with your people-at least for now. Better than you continue east, far from the Westland and what may come.”
“Healer, I am to be sold by that devil who masquerades as my father the moment we reach the larger Southland cities!” Her voice was hard, brittle. “Am I to see myself as better off with that fate than any that you might encounter? Take me with you!”
“Eretria...”
“Hear me out! I know something of this country, for the Rovers have traveled it since the time of my birth. I may know something that could help you. If not, at least I will be no hindrance to you. I can take care of myself-better than your Elven girl. I ask nothing of you, Healer, that you would not ask of me were our positions reversed. You must let me come!”
“Eretria, even if I were to agree to this, Cephelo would never let you go.”
“Cephelo would not know until it was too late to do anything about it.” Her voice was quick and excited. “Take me with you, Healer. Say yes to me.”
He almost did. She was so wonderfully beautiful that it would have been hard to refuse her anything under normal circumstances. But now, seated next to him, her eyes bright with anticipation, there was a desperation in her words that moved him. She was frightened of Cephelo and what he would do with her. She would not beg, the Valeman knew, but she would come as close to that as possible if it would persuade him to help her get free.
But the Hollows were death, the old man had said. No one went into the Hollows. It would be difficult enough looking after Amberle; and despite what Eretria had said about taking care of herself, Wil knew that, if she were permitted to come with them, he would worry for her just as he worried for the Elven girl.
He shook his head slowly. “I can’t, Eretria. I can’t.”
There was a long moment of silence as she stared at him, disbelief and anger shading her eyes, the excitement and expectation fading. Slowly she rose.
“Though I have saved your life, you will not save mine. Very well.” She stepped back from him, tears streaking her face. “Twice you have spurned me, Wil Ohmsford. You will not get the chance to do so again.”
She wheeled and started away, only to stop again a dozen paces on.
“There will come a time, Healer, I promise you, when you will wish that you had not been so quick to refuse me aid.”
Then she was gone, lost in the night shadows as the Valeman stared after her. He remained where he was for a time, wishing desperately that things might be different than they were, wishing that there were some sensible way that he might give to her the help she needed.
Then at last he rose, the drowsiness growing, and stumbled off to sleep.
Dawn broke gray and sullen over the Wilderun, draping the forestland in shadows that read like bloodstains across the dark earth. Clouds masked the morning sky, hanging still and deep over the valley, and an expectant hush filled the air, warning of the approach of a summer storm. Atop the ridge line, Cephelo and his small band began their descent out of the hills, following the trail that would take them back down to the main roadway and a continuation of their journey toward the Hollows. The Rovers went from Hebel’s camp as they had come, like shadows strayed, the horsemen leading the single wagon that bore Wil and Amberle, hands raised in brief farewell to the old man who stood wordlessly before the little but and watched them depart. Slowly they passed into the gloom of the forest, massive trees wrapping close about them until all but the faintest streamers of light were shut away and there was nothing but the roadway, narrow and rutted and dark, burrowing down into the depths of the valley.
By midmorning they had reached the main road again and turned east. Mist began to gather on the valley floor, sifting through the trees as the day grew hot and the cool of the night turned to steam. Wil and Amberle rode in silence with the old woman, thinking of what lay ahead. There had been no further conversations with Hebel, for they had slept soundly that night and with their awakening, Cephelo had made certain that the old man had kept his distance from them. Now they found themselves wondering what more he might have told them had he been given the chance. As they pondered this, Cephelo rode back to speak with them, yet the smile and the conversation seemed forced and lacking any real purpose. He appeared several times more during the course of the morning and each time it was the same. It was almost as if he were looking for something, yet neither Valeman nor Elven girl had the slightest idea what it was that he might be seeking. Eretria stayed away from them entirely, and while Amberle was mystified as to the Rover girl’s sudden change in behavior, Wil understood it all too well.
It was nearing midday when Cephelo signaled a halt at a narrow crossroads somewhere deep within the forest. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the wind blew in sudden gusts that shook the trees and scattered leaves and dust. Cephelo rode back to the wagon and stopped beside Wil.
“This is where we part company, Healer,” he announced. He pointed to the crossroads. “Your way lies south, down the smaller road. The path is clear-simply stay on it. You should reach the rim of the Hollows before nightfall.”
Wil started to speak, and the Rover quickly held up his hand. “Before you say anything, let me advise you not to ask that I go with you. That was not our bargain, and I have other obligations that I intend to satisfy.”
“I was about to ask you if we might have some provisions to take with us,” Wil informed him coolly.
The Rover shrugged. “Enough for a day or two, no more.”
He nodded to the old woman, who stepped back through the door of the wagon. Wil watched the Rover shift uneasily in his saddle. Something was bothering Cephelo.
“How will I find you to pay you your share of the reward?” he asked suddenly
“Reward? Oh, yes.” Cephelo seemed to have forgotten it momentarily. “Well, as I said before, I will know when you have been paid. I will seek you out, Healer.”
The Valeman nodded, rose, and stepped down from the wagon, then turned back to help Amberle. He glanced at her briefly as he lifted her down. She did not feel any easier about the Rover’s behavior than he did. He turned back to Cephelo.
“Could you give us a horse? One would...”
Cephelo cut him short. “There are no horses to be spared. Now I think you should be going. There is a storm coming.”
The old woman reappeared and handed Wil a small sack. The Valeman slung it over one shoulder and thanked her. Then he glanced up at the Rover once more.
“A safe journey, Cephelo.”
The big man nodded. “And a quick one to you, Healer. Farewell.”
Wil took Amberle’s arm and led her through the gathering of horsemen to the crossroads. Eretria sat astride her bay, black hair blowing wildly as the wind swirled past her. When the Valeman reached her side, he stopped momentarily and extended his hand.
“Good-bye, Eretria.”
She nodded, her dark face expressionless, cold, and beautiful. Then without a word, she rode back to join Cephelo. The Valeman stared after her a moment, but she did not look at him again. He turned to the pathway leading south. Dirt blew into his eyes, and he shielded them with his hand, squinting into the gloom. With Amberle beside him, he started ahead.
Hebel spent the morning at his workbench behind the little hut, hunched over a carving of a swamp cat. As he worked, his mind drifted back to the events of the previous night, to the Elflings and their strange quest, and the warning he had given them which they had ignored. He could not understand it. Why had they refused to heed him? Certainly he had made it clear enough that it was death to go into the Hollows. And certainly he had made it clear as well that the domain of the Witch Sisters could not be violated. What was it then that could prompt this brother and sister to go there for nothing more than some obscure root medicine?
Then it occurred to him that perhaps there was something more. He thought about that for a moment and the more he thought about it the more plausible it seemed. After all; they would not be so foolish as to entrust a rogue like Cephelo with the truth; no, not that young man-he was too quick for that. Safehold lay within the depths of Spire’s Reach; what sort of root would grow deep within a mountain where no sunlight could ever reach to nourish its growth? But magic had once been done within Safehold, the Witch Sister had whispered to him-magic from another age, lost and forgotten. Did the Elflings hope to discover it again?
Overhead, the sky darkened further as the storm rolled out of the far country, the howl of the wind in the trees rising to a higher pitch. The old man paused in his work and looked up momentarily. This would be a big one, he thought idly. Another bad sign for those Elflings who would be caught in the open, for the storm would overtake them before they reached the Hollows. He shook his head. He would go after them if he thought it would do any good, but their minds were obviously made up. Still, it-was too bad. Whatever they hoped to find within Safehold, be it root medicine or magic, they would have been better off to have forgotten it entirely. They would never live to use it.
At his feet, Drifter lifted his shaggy head and sniffed the wind. Then abruptly the dog growled, low, deep, and angry. Hebel stared down at him curiously and glanced about. Shadows fell across the clearing from the forest trees, but nothing moved.
Drifter growled again and the hackles on the back of his neck rose. Hebel looked around guardedly. There was something out there, something hidden back to the gloom. He stood up, reaching for the broad axe. Cautiously, he started toward the trees, Drifter crouched beside him, still growling.
But then he stopped. He did not understand why he stopped except that suddenly he felt something cold slip into his body, chilling him so badly that he could barely stand. At his feet, Drifter lay on his belly and cried as if he had been struck; his great body cringing. The old man caught a glimpse se of something moving-a shadow, massive and cloaked, there one moment and then gone. A fear passed through him, so terrible that he could not find the will to thrust it from him. It gripped him cruelly and held him fast as he stared helplessly at the dark forest and wished with everything that was left him that he might turn and flee. The axe fell from his hands and tumbled to the earth, useless.
Then the feeling slipped from him, gone as quickly as it had come. All about him the wind howled, and a spattering of rain struck his leathery face. Drawing a deep breath, he reached down for the axe and, with Drifter close against him, backed slowly away until he felt his legs brush up against the workbench. He paused then, one hand gripping the neck of the big dog to keep himself from shaking. With frightening certainty he knew that in sixty years of struggling to survive the dangers of the valley, never before had he come so close to dying.
Wil and Amberle had walked for less than an hour when the storm overtook them. A sprinkling of heavy drops that slipped teasingly through the dense canopy of trees turned quickly to a downpour. Sheets of rain swept across the pathway, driven by a west wind, and thunder boomed and reverberated through the sodden forest. Ahead, the gloom of the narrow trail darkened further with the rainfall, and water-laden tree limbs began to droop about them in damp trailers. They were soaked in minutes, bereft of the travel cloaks which they had failed to recover from the Rovers along with the rest of their clothing. The light garments they had been fitted with in their stead clung to their bodies. There was nothing to be done that would ease their discomfort, however, so they simply put their heads down and walked on.
For several hours the rain continued to fall at a steady pace, save for occasional brief lulls that gave false promise of an end to the storm. Through it all, the Valeman and the Elven girl trudged on, water dripping from their bodies and their clothing, mud caking on their boots, their eyes fixed on the rutted path ahead. When at last the rain did slow and the storm moved eastward, mist began to seep out of the forest to mix with the deep gloom. Trees and brush shone dark and shiny through the haze, and water dripped noisily in the sudden stillness. Overhead, the sky stayed clouded and dark; to the east thunder rumble distant and lingering. The mist began to deepen, and the pace of the travelers slowed.
It was then that the pathway began to slope downward, a slit dropping off that at first was barely perceptible, but gradually dually increased. Valeman and Elven girl slipped and skidded in the muddied earth as they followed it down, peering hopefully into the gloom ahead, yet finding nothing more than the dark tunnel of the road and the closure of the trees. The stillness had grown even more pronounced. Even the faint sounds of insects singing at the passing of the storm had faded into silence.
Then suddenly, so suddenly that it was as if someone had removed a veil from before their eyes, the trees of the woods split apart, the slope dropped away, and the great, dark bowl of the Hollows lay spread before them. Valeman and Elven girl stopped where they were in the center of the muddied trail and stared down into the awesome expanse. They knew at once that they had found the Hollows; this massive pit of black forest could be nothing else. It was as if they had come upon some monstrous dead lake, still and, lifeless, its dark surface grown thick with vegetation so that what lay beneath its waters could only be guessed at. From its shadowed center rose Spire’s Reach, a solitary column of rock thrusting up into the gloom, barren and pitted. The Hollows were bleak like an open grave that whispered of death.
The Valeman and the Elven girl stood silently upon the rim, fighting a sense of revulsion that grew with each passing moment that they gazed down into the soundless gloom. Nothing that either had ever encountered had looked so desolate.
“We have to go down there,” Wil ventured finally, hating the idea.
She nodded. “I know.”
He cast about hopefully for a way to proceed. Ahead, the trail appeared to stop altogether. Yet when the Valeman walked forward a bit, he saw that it did not end after all, but split to either side to wind downward into the shadows below. He hesitated a moment, studying the two paths, trying to decide which would provide the easier descent, then chose the one that ran left. He held out his arm to Amberle and she gripped it firmly. Leading the way, he started down, feeling his boots slide as the damp earth and rock gave way in clumps. Amberle stayed close, leaning heavily on him for support. Cautiously they moved ahead.
Then abruptly Wil lost his footing and went down. Amberle fell with him, tripping forward across his legs, tumbling headlong from the muddied path to disappear with a sharp cry into the wooded darkness. Frantically, Wil scrambled after her, pushing his way through heavy brush that ripped his clothing and cut his face. He might not have found the Elven girl at all but for the bright silk of her Rover clothing, a splash of red against the dark. She lay lodged against a clump of scrub, the breath knocked from her body, her face smeared with mud. Her eyes flickered uncertainly as he touched her.
“Wil?”
He eased her into a sitting position, cradling her in his arms. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She smiled. “You’re pretty clumsy, you know that?”
He nodded, grinning with relief. “Let’s get you up.”
He put his arm about her waist and lifted her clear of the scrub, her small frame feather-light as he set her back on her feet. Instantly she cried out and dropped back to the earth, reaching for her ankle.
“It’s twisted!”
Wil felt along the ankle, checking the bones. “Nothing broken, just a bad sprain.” He sat down beside her. “We can take a few moments to rest, then go on. I can help you down the slope; I can even carry you if it becomes necessary.”
She shook her head. “Wil, I am so sorry. I should have been more careful.”
“You? I was the one who fell.” He grinned, trying to appear cheerful. “Well, maybe one of the old man’s Witch Sisters will come along to help us out.”
“That is not funny.” Amberle frowned. She looked about uneasily. “Maybe we should wait until morning to climb down any further. My ankle might feel better by then. Besides, even if we made it down before dark, we would have to spend the night there, and I don’t, much care to do that.”
Wil nodded. “Nor I. Nor do I think we should try to find our way about at night. Daylight will be soon enough.”
“Maybe we should go back up to the rim.” She looked at him hopefully.
The Valeman smiled. “Do you really believe the old man’s story? Do you think there are Witches living down there?”
She stared at him darkly. “Don’t you?”
He hesitated and then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yes, I guess so. There is very little I don’t believe anymore.” He sat forward slowly, arms coming up about his knees. “If there are Witches; I hope they are frightened of Elfstones, because that is just about all the protection we have left. Of course, if I have to use the Stones in order to make them afraid, we may be in a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t think so,” she responded quietly.
“You still think I can use them, don’t you-even after what happened on the Pykon?”
“Yes. But you shouldn’t.”
He looked at her. “You said something like that once before, remember? After the Tirfing, when we camped above the Mermidon. You were worried for me. You said that I should not use the Stones again, even if it meant saving you.”
“I remember.”
“Then later, when we fled the Pykon, I told you that I could no longer use the Stones, that their power was lost to me, that my Elven blood was not strong enough. You told me that I should not be so quick to judge myself that you had confidence in me.”
“I remember that, too.”
“Well, look at what we have been saying. I think I should use the Stones, but don’t think I can. You think I can, but don’t think I should. Funny, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “And we still don’t know which of us is right, do we? Here we are, almost to Safehold, and I still haven’t found out...”
He stopped suddenly, realizing what it was that he was saying.
“Well, it’s not important,” he finished, looking away.
“Better that we never find out. Better that they be given back to my grandfather.”
They were silent for a moment. Almost without thinking, Wil reached into the Rover tunic and lifted out the pouch that held the Elfstones. He fingered it idly and was about to return it again when he noticed something odd about its feel. Frowning, he opened the drawstrings and dumped the contents into his open palm. He found himself staring at three ordinary pebbles.
“Wil!” Amberle exclaimed in horror.
The Valeman stared at the pebbles in stunned silence, his mind racing.
“Cephelo,” he whispered finally. “Cephelo. Somehow he switched these for the Stones. Last night, probably while we slept. It had to be then; they were in the pouch that morning in Grimpen Ward-I checked.” He rose slowly, still talking. “But this morning, I forgot. I was so tired last night-and you fell asleep almost at once. He must have drugged the ale to be certain I would not awake. No wonder he was so anxious to be rid of us. No wonder he made light of Hebel’s warning about the Hollows. He would be happy if we never came back. The reward meant nothing to him. It was the Elfstones that he wanted all along.”
He started up the trail, his face livid. Then abruptly he remembered Amberle. Turning quickly back, he lifted the Elven girl in his arms, held her close against him, and scrambled back to the rim of the Hollows. For a moment he looked about, then walked to a clump of high bushes several yards back. Stepping beneath the shelter of their boughs, he set the Elven girl down.
“I have to go back for the Elfstones,” he declared quietly. “If I leave you here, will you be all right?”
“Wil, you don’t need the Stones.”
He shook his head. “If we have to test that theory, I would prefer that it be done with the Stones in my possession. You heard what the old man said about the Hollows. The Stones are all that I have to protect you.”
Amberle’s face was white. “Cephelo will kill you.”
“Maybe. Maybe he has gotten so far up the trail by this time that I won’t even get close to him. But Amberle, I have to try. If I don’t find him by dawn, I’ll turn back, I promise. With or without the Elfstones, I will be with you to go into the Hollows.”
She started to say something more, but then stopped. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her hands lifted to touch his face.
“I care for you;” she whispered. “I really do.”
He looked at her in astonishment. “Amberle!”
“Go on,” she urged him, her voice breaking. “Cephelo will have stopped for the night and you may catch him if you hurry But be careful, Wil Ohmsford—do not give your life foolishly. Come back for me.”
She reached up to kiss him. “Go. Quickly.”
He stared at her wordlessly for one instant more, then sprang to his feet. Without looking back, he ran from her and in seconds had disappeared into the forest gloom.
At dawn of the same day that found Wil and Amberle faced with the disappearance of the Elfstones, the Demons attacked Arborlon. With a frightening shriek that shattered the morning stillness and reverberated through the lowland forests, they burst from the cover of the trees, a massive wave of humped and twisted bodies that stretched the length of the Carolan. In a frenzy that cast aside reason and thought, the creatures of the dark swept out of the gloom that was still thick within the shadowed woods and threw themselves into the waters of the Rill Song. Like a huge stain spreading over the water, they filled the river, large and small, swift and slow, leaping, crawling, shambling bodies surging and heaving through the swift current. Some swam the river’s waters, thrusting and kicking to gain the far bank. Those light and fleet flew above, hopped upon, or skimmed over the river’s surface. Others, so huge that they might walk upon the river’s bottom, lunged awkwardly ahead, snouts and muzzles stretched high, bobbing and dipping. Many rode crude boats and rafts, poling mindlessly into the river and grasping tightly at whomever or whatever came within reach, thus to be pulled to safety or carried to the bottom with that which had failed to give them aid. Madness gripped the Demon horde, born of frustration with and hatred for the enemy that waited a scant few hundred yards away. This time, certainly, they would see that enemy destroyed.
But the Elves did not panic. Though the number, size, and ferocity of the Demons who came at them might have broken the spirit of a less determined defender, the Elves stood their ground. This was to be their final battle. It was their home city that they defended, the heart of the land that had been theirs for as long as the races had existed. All else had been lost now, from the Rill Song west. But the Elves were determined that they would not lose Arborlon. Better that they fight and die here, the last man, woman and child of them, than that they be driven entirely from their homeland, outcasts in foreign lands, hunted like animals by their pursuers.
Atop the battlements of the Elfitch, Ander Elessedil watched the Demon tide sweep forward. Allanon stood beside him. Neither man spoke. After a moment, Ander’s eyes lifted. High overhead a small dot appeared out of the clear blue of the dawn skies, growing in size as it circled downward until it took shape. It was Dayn and his Roc, Dancer. Downward they flew, gliding along the cliffs of the Carolan to settle finally on the open rampway above Ander and the Druid. Dismounting, Dayn came hurriedly to where the Elven Prince waited.
“How many?” Ander asked at once.
Dayn shook his head. “Even the woods and the mist can’t hide them all. The ones we see before us are only a handful.”
Ander nodded. So many, he thought darkly. But Allanon had said it would be so. He refrained from looking at the Druid. “Do they seek to flank us, Dayn?”
The Wing Rider shook his head. “They come directly against the Carolan-all of them.” He glanced down momentarily at the attacking Demons as they struggled and thrashed in the waters of the Rill Song, then turned and started back toward the battlements. “I’ll rest Dancer a few minutes more, then fly back for another look. Good luck, my Lord Prince.”
Ander barely heard him. “We must hold here,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Already the struggle was underway. At the river’s edge, row upon row of Elven longbows hummed, and black shafts flew into the mass of heaving bodies that filled the waters of the Rill Song. Arrows bounced like harmless twigs from those armored with scales and leather hides, yet some found their mark, and the screams of their victims rose above the cries of attack. Dark forms twisted and sank into the boiling waters, lost in the wave of bodies that came after. Fire-tipped arrows thudded into the boats, rafts, and logs, but most were quickly extinguished and the craft churned ahead. Again and again the archers shot into the advancing horde as it streamed out of the forest and into the river, but the Demons came on, blackening the whole of the west bank and the river as they struggled to gain the Elven defensive wall.
Then a cry sounded from atop the Carolan, and cheers rang out. In the predawn gloom, Elves turned hurriedly to look, disbelief and joy reflecting in their faces as a tall, gray-haired rider came into view. Down the length of the Elfitch the cry passed on from mouth to mouth. All along the front line of the Rill Song, behind the barricades and walls, it rose into the morning until it became a deafening roar.
“Eventine! Eventine rides to join us!”
In an instant’s time the Elves were transformed, filled with new hope, new faith, new life. For here was the King who had rued them almost sixty years-for many the whole of their lives. Here was the King who had stood against and finally triumphed over the Warlock Lord. Here was the King who had seen them through every crisis the homeland had faced. Wounded at Haly’s Cut, seemingly lost, he was returned again. With his return surely no evil, however monstrous, could prevail against them.
Eventine!
Yet something was wrong; Ander knew it the instant his father dismounted and turned to face him. This was not the Eventine of old, as his people believed. He saw in the King’s eyes a distance separating the Elven ruler from all that was happening about him. It was as if he had withdrawn into himself, not out of fear or uncertainty, for he could master those, but out of deep, abiding sadness that seemed to have broken his spirit. He looked strong enough; the mask of his face reflecting determination and iron will, and he acknowledged those about him with the old, familiar words of encouragement. Yet the eyes betrayed the loss he felt, the despondency that had stripped him of his heart. His son read it there and saw that Allanon read it, too. It was only the shell of the King riding forth that morning to be with his people. Perhaps it was the deaths of Arion and Pindanon that had done this; it might have been the injury he had suffered at Haly’s Cut, the defeat of his army there, or the terrible devastation of his homeland; but more probably it was all of these and something more-the thought of failing, the knowledge that if the Elves lost this battle they would allow an evil into the Four Lands that no one could stop and which would fall upon all the races and devour them. The responsibility for this must lie with the Elves, yet with no man more than with Eventine, for, he was their King.
Ander embraced his father warmly, masking the sadness that he felt. Then he stepped back and held forth the Ellcrys staff.
“This belongs to you, my Lord.”
Eventine seemed to hesitate momentarily, then, slowly shook his head. “No, Ander. It belongs to you now. You must carry it for me.”
Ander stared at his father wordlessly. He saw in the old man’s eyes what he had missed before. His father knew. He knew that he was not well, knew that something within him was changed. The pretense he made to others was not to be made to his son.
Ander withdrew the staff. “Then stand with me on the wall, my Lord,” he asked, softly.
His father nodded, ad together they climbed the battlements.
Even as they did so, the foremost of the Demon horde gained the east bank of the Rill Song. Out of the river they surged, heaving up with savage cries to throw themselves against the lances and pikes that bristled from behind the Elven bulwarks. In moments there were Demons emerging from the river’s dark waters along the entire length of the defensive line, horned and clawed, a jumble of length and jaws ripping and tearing at the, defenders that barred their path. At its center, Stee Jans and the last of his Free Corps anchored the defense, the giant red-haired Borderman standing at the forefront of his men, broadsword raised. On the flanks, Ehlron Tay and Kerrin of the Home Guard called out to their soldiers: Hold, Elven Hunters, stand!
But finally they could stand no longer. Outflanked and outnumbered, they saw their line begin to crumble. Huge Demons thrust through the defenders and breached the low walls to open holes to those who followed. The waters of the Rill Song were dark with Demon lifeblood and twisted bodies; but, for every one that fell, still another three came on, a savage rush that no lesser force could hope to stop. Atop the gates of the second level of the Elfitch, Ander gave the order to fall back. Quickly the Elves and their allies. abandoned the crumbling river wall and slipped into the forest behind, following carefully memorized paths to the safety of the ramp. Almost before the Demons realized what was happening, the defenders were within its walls and the gates were shut behind them.
Instantly the Demons were in pursuit. Pouring through the forest at the base of the heights, they ran afoul of the hundreds of snares and pitfalls the Elves had laid for them. For a few moments, the entire rush stalled. But as their numbers increased upon the riverbank, they overran those caught within the traps and came onto the ramp of the Elfitch, Massing quickly, they attacked. Up the walls of the first gate they charged, swarming atop one another until they were pouring over the defenses of the lower level. The Elves were driven back; almost before the gates to the second level could be closed, the first had fallen. Without slowing, the Demons came on, scrambling up the ramp to the second gate. They swarmed along the walls and even up the rugged face of the cliff, clinging to the rock like insects. Bodies clawed, leaped, and bounded up the slope of the ramp and the bluff face, shrieking with hunger. The Elves were appalled. The river had not stopped the Demons. The defenses at the bank had been overrun in minutes. Now the first level of the Elfitch had been lost and even the cliff wall did not seem to slow them. It was beginning to look as if all their defenses would prove useless.
Demon bodies thudded against the gates of the second ramp, clawing upward. Spears and pikes thrust down, impaling the attackers. The gates sagged on their hinges with the weight of the rush. Yet this time the defenders held, iron and sinew bracing the gates and repelling the attack. Cries of pain and death filled the air, and the Demon force built into a mass of writhing forms, surging mindlessly against the walls of the ramp. Out of their midst came a handful of Furies, lithe gray forms bounding atop the stone walls, cat-women’s faces twisted with hate. Elven defenders fell back from them, shredded by their claws, crying out in fear. Then Allanon’s blue fire burst amid the Furies, scattering them wildly. The Elves counterattacked, throwing the cat-things from the walls until the last had disappeared into the dark mass below.
The Druid and the Elessedils moved upward to the third gate. From there they watched as the Demon attack gathered force. Still the Elven defenders held; archers from the higher levels lending support to the lancers and pikemen below. Demons lending to the cliff face all about the ramp of the Elfitch, working their way upward toward the heights in a slow, arduous climb. From atop the bluff, the Dwarf Sappers used longbows and boulders to knock the black forms loose. One after another the Demons fell, screaming and twisting to the rocks below.
Then suddenly a monstrous Demon rose out of the attackers that, came at the gates of the second ramp, a scaled creature that stood upon its hind legs like a human but had the body and head of a lizard. Hissing in fury, it threw its bulk against the gate, snapping the crossbars and loosening the hinges. In desperation the Elves sought to thrust it back, but the monstrous thing merely shrugged aside the blows, Elven weapons snapping apart on its armored body. A second time it threw itself against the gates and this time they split apart, shattering backward into the Elves. The defenders fell back at once, fleeing up the Elfitch to the third level where the next set of gates stood open to receive them. The lizard thing and its brethren followed after, pouring onto the rampway.
For an instant it did not appear that the Elves would succeed in closing the gates to the third ramp before the Demons breached it. Then Stee Jans appeared at the entrance to the ramp, a huge spear gripped in his hands. Flanked by the veteran soldiers of the Free Corps and by Kerrin and a handful of Home Guard; he stepped in front of the advancing Demons. Dropping forward in a crouch, the lizard Demon reached for him. But the Borderman was too quick. Sidestep the monster’s lunge, he thrust the great spear upward through the back of the gaping jaws and choking, the lizard reared back on its hind legs, the shaft driven through its head. Clawed hands ripped at the Legion Commander, but the men of the Free Corps and the Elves rallied about him; warding off the blows. In seconds, they were back within the safety of the battlements, the gates closing behind them. For an instant the lizard Demon stood within the center of the ramphead, trying to pull free the killing shaft. Then its life was gone; and it fell backward into the midst of its brethren, sweeping them from the ramp as it tumbled over the Wall and dropped to the forest below.
Snarling, the Demons renewed their attack. But their momentum had been lost. Strung out along the length of the Elfitch, they could not seem to muster a sustained rush. The biggest among them had been slain; lacking another to take his place, they milled uncertainly within the walls of the ramp below. Heartened by the courage of the Free Corps and their own Home Guard, the Elven defenders beat them back. Arrows and spears cut into their midst, and hundreds of black forms collapsed upon the ramp. Still the Demons scrambled forward, but confused now and vulnerable.
Ander recognized his opportunity. He gave the signal to counterattack. At Kerrin’s order, the gates to the third ramp were thrown wide and the Elves rushed forth. Into the mass of Demons they charged, driving them back down the Elfitch, back through the shattered gates of the second ramp. Sweeping clear the ramp, the defenders battled downward to the edge of the lower gates before the Demons finally rallied. Back they came, reinforced by the thousands that still poured out of the Rill Song to the base of the cliff. The Elves held a moment only, then retreated to the gates of the second level, bracing them anew with timbers and iron, and there they stood.
So it went for the remainder of the day and into the evening. Back and forth along the rampway the battle raged, from the base of the bluff to the gates of the third level, Elves and Demons hacking and tearing at one another in a struggle where no quarter was asked and none given. Twice the Demons retook the second set of gates and pushed up against the third. Twice they were driven back, once all the way to the base of the bluff. Thousands died, though the dead numbered highest among Demons, for they fought without regard for life, spending themselves willingly on the defenders’ carefully drawn formations. Yet Elves were lost as well, injure and dead, and their numbers began to dwindle steadily while the numbers of the Demons never seemed to grow less.
Then abruptly, without warning, the Demons gave up the attack. Back down the length of the Elfitch they went, not in flight nor in haste, but slowly, reluctantly, snarling and rasping as they faded back into the forests. Black forms huddled down in the shadowed gloom of night, crouched motionless and silent as if waiting for something to happen. Behind the gates and walls of the Elfitch and from the rim of the Carolan, the exhausted defenders peered down into the dark. They did not question what had happened; but were merely grateful for it. For one more day, at least, the city of Arborlon was safe.
That same night, scarcely two hours after the Demons had withdrawn into the wooded blackness below the Carolan, a messenger came to Eventine and Ander as they met with the Elven Ministers in the High Council. In an excited voice, he announced that an army of Rock Trolls had arrived from the Kershalt. Hurriedly, the King and his son emerged from the council building, the others trailing after, to find the entire courtyard filled, with row upon row of massive, barklike forms, armored with leather and iron. Broadswords and spears glimmered in the smoky light of torches ringing the assemblage, and a sea of deep-set eyes fixed on the Elves’ astonished faces.
Their Commander stepped forward, a huge Troll with a great, two-edged axe strapped across his back. With a quick glance at the other Elves, he placed himself before the King.
“I am Amantar, Maturen of this army,” he informed them, speaking in the rough Troll dialect. “We are fifteen hundred strong, King Eventine. We come to stand with the Elves.”
Eventine was speechless. They had all but given up on the Trolls, believing that the Northlanders had chosen not to become involved in this conflict. Now, to find them suddenly here, just when it appeared that no more help would be coming...
Amantar saw the old King’s surprise. “King Eventine, you must know that much thought was given to your request for aid,” he growled softly. “Always before, Trolls and Elves have fought against one another; we have been enemies. That cannot be forgotten all at once. Yet for everyone, there is a time to begin anew. That time has come for Elf and Troll. We know of the Demons. There have been encounters with a scattering of them already. There have been injuries; there have been deaths. The Rock Trolls understand the danger that the Demons pose. The Demons are as great an evil as the Warlock Lord and the creatures of the Skull mark. Such evil threatens all. Therefore it is seen that Elf and Troll must put aside their differences and stand together, against this common enemy. We have come, my countrymen and I, to stand with you.”
It was an eloquent statement. Amantar finished and, in a carefully measured gesture, dropped to one knee, signifying in the manner of the Rock Trolls his pledge of service. Behind him, his men followed him down, silent as they knelt before Eventine.
Ander saw the tears that appeared suddenly in the old man’s eyes. For that one moment, Eventine came all the way back from the place to which he had withdrawn, and there was hope and fierce pride in his face. Slowly he placed his right hand on his heart, returning the Trolls’ pledge in the Elven way. Amantar rose, and the two clasped hands.
Ander found himself wanting to cheer.
Allanon walked the narrow paths of the Gardens of Life beneath a clouded night sky through which moon and stars slipped like hunted things. Solitary, noiseless, his tall form passed through the cooling, fragrant blackness of the flowered tiers and sculpted hedges, head bent to the walk before him, arms gathered within the folds of the long, dark robe. His hard face was lost within the shadow of the cowl, lean features etched with lines of worry and bitter resolve. For this night he went to a meeting with death.
He walked to the foot of the rise ringed by the soldiers of the Black Watch. Impatient, he lifted his hand and slipped through them with the swiftness of a passing thought, and they did not see. Slowly he climbed to the top of the rise, not wishing to look at that which he had come to see, eyes lowered and fixed upon the grassy slope he trod.
When at last he was atop the rise, his head lifted. Before him stood the Ellcrys, the once slender and graceful limbs withered and bent like the drying bones of some dead thing. Gone was the fragrance and the color, so that no more than a shadow remained of what had once been so incredibly, beautiful. Blood-red leaves lay scattered upon the ground like wads of crumpled parchment. The tree stood bare, nailed against the night sky in a tangle of sticks and peeling bark.
Allanon went cold. Even he had not been prepared for this, not for what he saw, nor for what he felt in seeing. Sorrow welled up within him at the inevitability of what was happening. He was powerless to prevent this, for even the Druids lacked the gift of life eternal. All things must one day pass from the earth, and it was her time.
His hand lifted to touch her withered limbs, then dropped again. He did not want to feel her pain. Yet he knew that he must have the measure of her, and he brought his hand up again, slowly, gently clasping. Just an instant he lingered, allowing a sense of comfort and hope to flow from his mind into her own, then withdrew. Another day or two, perhaps three. No more. Then she would be gone.
His tall form straightened, hands falling limply to his sides as his dark eyes fixed upon the dying tree. So little time.
As he turned away he wondered if that little time would be time enough to bring Amberle back again.
Wil Ohmsford raced back through the forest of the Wilderun, following the dark rut of the pathway as it tunneled ahead through mist and gloom. Trailing limbs and vines heavy with dampness brushed and slapped at him as he ran, and water splattered from puddles dotting the rain-soaked trail, leaving him streaked with mud. But the Valeman felt none of it, his mind crowded with emotions that spun and twisted to leave him dazed with despair at the loss of the Elfstones-anger against Cephelo, fear for Amberle, and wonderment at the words she had spoken to him.
I care for you, she had said and meant it. I care for you. So strange, to hear her say such a thing to him. Once he would never have believed it possible. She had resented and mistrusted him; she had made that clear enough. And he had not really liked this Elven girl. But the long journey they had begun in the village of Havenstead had taught them much about each other, and the dangers and hardships they had faced and overcome had brought them close. Their lives in that brief span of time had become inextricably bound together. It was not really so unexpected then that out of that binding should come some form of affection. The words throbbed in his head, repeating themselves. I care for you. She did, he knew, and wondered suddenly how much he in turn now cared for her.
He lost his footing and went down, tumbling forward into the muck and the damp. Angrily he scrambled up, brushed the mud and water away as best he could, and ran on, The afternoon was waning far too rapidly; he would be fortunate just to regain the main roadway before nightfall set in. When that happened, he would have to find his way in total blackness, alone in an unfamiliar land, weaponless save for a hunting knife. Stupid! That was the kindest description he could render for what he had done, letting Cephelo fool him into thinking that he could have the Rover’s aid for nothing more than a vague promise. Clever Wil Ohmsford, he chided himself, anger burning through him. And Allanon had thought that you were the one to whom he might safely entrust Amberle!
Already his muscles were beginning to cramp with the strain of running. Despair washed through him for a moment as he thought of all that Amberle and he had endured to reach this point, only to face losing everything for want of a bit more caution. Seven Elven Hunters had given their lives so that he and Amberle might reach the Wilderun. Countless more would have already died defending the Westland against the Demons, for surely the Forbidding had given way by now. All for nothing, then? All to no end but this? Shame and then determination rushed through him, carrying away the despair. He would never give up-never! He would retrieve the stolen Elfstones. He would return to Amberle. He would see her safely to Spire’s Reach, to the Bloodfire, and back once more to Arborlon. He would do all this because he knew that he must, because to do anything less would be to fail-not just Allanon and the Elves, but himself as well. He was not about to do that.
Even as the thought passed from his mind, a shadow appeared on the trail ahead, materializing out of the gloom like some wraith, tall and silent as it awaited his approach. The Valeman drew up short, frightened so badly that he very nearly bolted from the pathway into the forest. Breathing raggedly, he stared at the shadow, realizing suddenly that what he was looking at was a horse and rider. The horse shifted on the trail and stamped. Wil walked forward cautiously, wariness turning to disbelief and finally to astonishment.
It was Eretria.
“Surprised?” Her voice was cool and measured.
“Very,” he admitted.
“I have come to save you one last time, Wil Ohmsford. This time, I think, you will hear better what I have to say.”
Wil came up to her and stopped. “Cephelo has the Stones.”
“I know that. He drugged your wine, then took them from you last night while you slept.”
“And you did nothing to warn me?”
“Warn you?” She shook her head slowly. “I would have warned you, Healer. I would have helped you. But you would not help me-remember? All that I asked of you was that you take me with you when you left. Had you done that; I would have told you of Cephelo’s plans for the Elfstones and would have seen to it that you kept them safe. But you spurned me, Healer. You left me. You thought yourself able to manage well enough without me. Very well, I decided, I will see how well the Healer does without me.”
She bent down to examine him, her eyes appraising. “It does not pear that you are doing too well.”
Wil nodded slowly, his mind racing. This was no time to say something foolish. “Amberle is hurt. She fell and twisted her leg and cannot walk alone. I had to leave her at the rim of the Hollows.”
“You seem very good at leaving women in distress,” Eretria snapped.
He held his temper. “I guess it must appear that way. But sometimes we cannot always do what we want when it comes to helping others.”
“So you have said. I guess that you must believe it. Have you left the Elven girl, then?”
“Only until I get the Stones back again.”
“Which you won’t without me.”
“Which I will, with or without you.”
The Rover girl stared down at him for a moment, and her face softened.
“I guess you believe that, too, don’t you?”
Wil put his hand on the horse’s flank. “Are you here to help me, Eretria?”
She regarded him wordlessly for a moment, then nodded. “If you, in turn, will help me. This time you must, you know.” When he did not respond, she continued speaking. “A trade, Wil Ohmsford. I will help you get back the Stones if you will agree to take me with you when you have them back again.”
“How will you get the Stones back?” he asked carefully.
She smiled for the first time, that familiar, dazzlingly beautiful smile that took his breath away “How will I do it? Healer, I am the child of Rovers and the daughter of a thief-bought and paid for. He stole them from you; I will steal them from him. I know the trade better than he. All we need do is find him.”
“Won’t he be wondering about you by now?”
She shook her head. “When we parted company with you, I told him that I wished to ride ahead to join the caravan. He agreed that I could, for the paths of the Wilderun are well known to the Rovers, and I would be clear of the valley by nightfall. As you know, Healer, he wants to be certain that he keeps me safe. Damaged goods bring a poor price. In any case, I rode but a mile beyond Whistle Ridge, then took a second trail that cuts south and joins this one several hundred yards further back. I thought to catch up to you by nightfall, either at the Hollows or coming back this way, should you discover sooner the loss of the Stones. So you see, Cephelo will not realize what I have done until he reaches the main caravan. The wagon slows him, so he will not do that until sometime tomorrow. Tonight, he will camp on the road leading out of the valley.”
“Then we have tonight to get back the Stones,” Wil finished.
“Time enough,” she replied. “But not if we continue to stand here and talk about it. Besides, you don’t want to leave the Elven girl alone at the Hollows for very long, do you?”
The mention of Amberle jarred him. “No. Let’s be off.”
“One moment.” She backed, the horse away from him. “First your word. Once I have helped you, then you will help me. You will take me with you when we have the Stones back. You will let me stay with you after that until I am a safe distance from Cephelo-and I will decide when that is the case. Promise me, Healer.”
There was very little else that he could do short of taking her horse from her, and he was not at all sure that he do that.
“Very well. I promise.”
She nodded. “Good. To see that you keep that promise, I will keep the Stones once I have taken them back again until we are both safely out of this valley. Climb up behind me.”
Wil mounted the horse without comment. There was no way that he was about to let her keep the Elfstones, once she had retrieved them from Cephelo, but it was pointless to argue about it here. He settled himself behind the girl, and she turned to look at him.
“You do not deserve what I am doing for you you know that. But I like you; I like your chances in life-especially with me to aid you. Put your hands about my waist.”
Wil hesitated, then did as he was told. Eretria leaned back into him.
“Much better,” she purred seductively. “I prefer you this way to the way you are when the Elven girl is about. Now hold tight.”
With a sudden yell, she put her boots into the flanks of the horse. The startled beast reared up with a scream and shot back along the pathway. Down the wilderness trail they rode, bent low across the horse’s neck, limbs whipping against them as they flew through the dark. Eretria seemed to have the eyes of a cat, guiding their mount with a sure and practiced hand past fallen logs and deadwood, over gullies and ruts formed by the sudden rain, down one muddied slope and up the next. Wil hung on desperately, wondering if the girl had lost her mind. At this pace, they were certain to take a fall.
Amazingly, they did not. Scant seconds later, Eretria wheeled their horse from the trail through a narrow gap in the trees that was all but completely grown over. With a surge, the animal sprang into the brush, then broke free along a second trail-one that Wil had missed completely in his trek south to the Hollows-and galloped ahead into the misty gloom. On they rode, Rover girl and Valeman, barely slowing for the obstacles that barred their path forward, racing ahead into the growing dark. What little light there was had begun to fade as dusk approached. The sun, lost somewhere beyond the canopy of the forest, sank downward toward the rim of the mountains. Shadows deepened and the air cooled and still Eretria did not slow.
When at last they did stop, they were back once more on the main roadway. Eretria reined the horse in sharply, patted the animal’s sweating flanks and glanced back at Wil with an impish grin.
“That was just to let you know that I can hold my own with anyone. I need no looking after from you.”
The Valeman felt his stomach begin to settle. “You have made your point, Eretria. Why are we stopping here?”
“Just to check,” she replied, and dismounted. Her eyes scanned the trail for a few moments, and then she frowned. “That’s odd. There are no wagon tracks.”
Wil followed her down. “Are you sure?” He studied the roadway, finding no sign of wheel marks. “Maybe the rain washed them out.”
“The wagon was heavy enough that the rain should not have washed away all traces of its passing.” She shook her head slowly. “Besides, the rain would have been nearly ended by the time it reached this point. I don’t understand it, Healer.”
The light was growing steadily dimmer. Wil glanced about apprehensively. “Would Cephelo have stopped to wait out the storm?”
“Maybe.” She looked doubtful. “We had better backtrack a bit. Climb on.”
They remounted and began riding west, glancing from time to time at the muddied earth for some sign of the Rover wagon. There was nothing. Eretria urged their mount into a slow trot. Ahead, mist curled out of the forest on either side, thin, wispy trailers that slipped like feelers through the gloom. Night sounds came from deep within the trees as the creatures of the valley awoke and began to hunt.
Then a new sound rose from somewhere ahead, faint at first, lingering like an echo in the midst of the sharper, quicker sounds, then stronger and more insistent. It grew into a howl, high-pitched and eerie, as if such pain had been inflicted upon some tortured soul that the limits of endurance had been passed and all that was left before death was that final, terrible cry of anguish.
Wil gripped Eretria’s shoulder in alarm. “What is that?”
She glanced back. “Whistle Ridge-just ahead.” She grinned nervously. “The wind makes that sound sometimes.”
It grew worse, a harsher, more biting cry, and the land began to rise through the forest in a rocky slope that took them above the mist, the trees parting to reveal small patches of blue night sky. The horse had begun to respond to the sounds, huffing nervously, dancing and shifting as Eretria sought to calm it. They moved more slowly now, edging ahead through the dusk until they were atop the ridge line. Beyond, the roadway straightened once more and disappeared into the gloom.
Wil saw something then, a shadow moving toward them, materializing out of the howl of the wind and the night. Eretria saw it as well and reined in sharply. The shadow came closer. It was a horse, a big sorrel, riderless, its reins trailing in the earth. It came slowly up to them and rubbed noses with their own mount. Both Valeman and Rover girl recognized it at once. It was Cephelo’s.
Eretria dismounted, handing the reins of her own horse to Wil. Wordlessly, she examined the sorrel, walking quickly about it, patting its flanks and neck to keep it calm. There were no marks on the animal, but it was sweating heavily. When she glanced again at Wil, Eretria’s dark face was uncertain.
“Something has happened. His horse would not stray.”
The Valeman nodded. He was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.
Eretria climbed atop Cephelo’s horse and took up the reins. “We will go on a bit further,” she decided, but there was doubt in her voice.
Side by side, they rode along the ridge line, the wind whistling its eerie cry through the high rock and the trees of the forest. Overhead, the stars winked into view, pale white light shining down into the dark of the Wilderun.
Then something else appeared through the gloom, another shadow, this one black and squarish and motionless upon the trail. Valeman and Rover girl slowed, easing their horses ahead cautiously, uneasiness reflecting in their eyes. Gradually the shadow began to take shape. It was Cephelo’s wagon, the garish colors caught in the starlight. They rode closer, and uneasiness then turned to horror. The team of horses that had pulled the wagon was dead, twisted and broken, still locked in their leather and silverstudded traces. Several more of the animals lay close by and, with them, their riders, scattered on the trail like straw men, torn and. crumpled, bright clothing stained with blood that seeped through the fabric to mix with the muddied earth.
Quickly Wil looked about, peering into the shadows of the forest, searching for some sign of the thing that had done this. Nothing moved. He glanced at Eretria. She sat rigid on her mount, the color draining from her face as she stared fixedly at the bodies on the trail. Her hands dropped slowly to her lap, and the reins slipped free. Wil dismounted, scooped up the fallen reins, and tried to hand them back to the frightened girl. When Eretria did not move to take them, he gripped her hands, placed the reins of both horses between her fingers, and forced them closed. She glanced down at him wordlessly.
“Wait here,” he ordered.
He walked toward the wagon, studying the twisted forms about him as he went. All lay dead, even the old woman who had driven the wagon, bodies broken like deadwood. The Valeman felt his skin crawl. He knew what had done this. One by one, he checked them until at last he found Cephelo. The big man was dead as well, his tall form stretched full length upon the ground, forest-green cloak shredded, angular features frozen with a look of horror: So ruined was his body that it was nearly impossible to recognize.
Wil bent down. Slowly he felt through the dead Rover’s clothing, searching for the Elfstones. He found nothing. Fear knotted his stomach. He had to find the Stones. Then he noticed Cephelo’s hands. The right hand clutched at the earth in a gesture that spoke of unbearable agony. The left was flung wide and closed into a fist. The Valeman took a deep breath and reached for the left. One by one he pried open the rigid fingers. Blue light winked from between them, and relief flooded through him. Embedded in the flesh of the palm lay the Elfstones. Cephelo had sought to use them as he had seen Wil do in the Tirfing, but the Stones had not responded to the Rover and he had died still clutching them.
The Valeman pulled them free of the dead man’s grip, wiped them on his tunic, and dropped them back into their leather pouch. Then he rose, listening to the shriek of the wind whistling through the ridge. Dizziness washed over him as the smell of death filled his nostrils. Only one thing could have done this. He remembered the Elven dead at the camp at Drey Wood and in the fortress of the Pykon. Only one thing. The Reaper. But how had it found them again? How had it trailed them all the way from the Pykon to the Wilderun?
He steadied himself and hastened back to Eretria. She still sat astride Cephelo’s horse, dark eyes bright with fear.
“Did you find him?” she asked in a whisper. “Cephelo?”
Wil nodded. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.” He paused. “I took back the Stones.”
She did not seem to hear him. “What kind of thing could do this, Healer? Some animal, maybe? Or the Witch Sisters; or...?”
“No.” He shook his head quickly. “No, Eretria,, I know what did this. The thing that did this tracked Amberle and me all the way south from Arborlon. I thought that we had lost it on the other side of the Rock Spur, but somehow it has found us again.”
Her voice shook. “Is it a Devil?”
“A special kind of Devil.” He glanced back at the dead upon the trail. “They call it a Reaper.” He thought a moment. “It must have believed we were traveling with Cephelo. Perhaps the rain confused it. It followed after him and caught him here...”
“Poor Cephelo,” she murmured. “He played one game too many.” She paused and glanced back at him sharply. “Healer, this thing knows now that you did not come east with Cephelo. Where will it go next?”
Valeman and Rover girl stared wordlessly at each other. Both knew the answer.
At the rim of the Hollows, Amberle crouched within the shelter of the bushes where Wil had hidden her and listened to the sounds of the night. Darkness lay over the Wilderun like a shroud, deep and impenetrable, and the Elven girl sat locked within it, unable to see beyond the covering brush, hearing the creatures that prowled the gloom. Knowing that it would be dawn before Wil could return to her, she tried for a time to sleep. But sleep would not come; her ankle pained her and her mind crowded with thoughts of the Valeman and his quest, of her grandfather, of the dangers all about her. At last she gave it up. With her knees pulled up against her body, she hunched forward, determined that she would become as nearly as she could a part of the forest about her, still, motionless, and unseen.
For a time she succeeded. None of the forest creatures ventured near her, staying back within the deep woods, back from the rim of the Hollows. The Hollows themselves lay wrapped in a silence so profound that the Elven girl could hear it as clearly as she heard the sounds of the night. Once or twice something flew past her shelter, the quick flap of wings breaking the stillness briefly, then fading once more. Time slipped away, and she began to nod sleepily. Then the chill swept through her suddenly, as if the warmth had been sapped from the air about her. She came awake and rubbed her arms briskly. The chill left and the heat of the summer night slipped back across her. Uncertain now, she glanced about her shelter. Everything was as it had been before; in the darkness nothing moved, nothing sounded. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes again. The chill came back. She waited this time before moving, keeping her eyes tightly shut, trying to trace the source of the chill. She discovered that it came from somewhere within herself. She did not understand. Cold, bitter cold, within her, pushing through her, numbing like the touch of... death.
Her eyes snapped wide. Instantly she understood. She was being warned-how she did not know-that something was going to kill her. Had she been anyone but who she was; she might have ignored the feeling as being nothing more than the workings of her imagination. But she was highly sentient; such feelings had come over her before and she knew better than to dismiss them. The warning was real. It was only the source that confused her.
She hunched forward in momentary indecision. Something was coming for her, something monstrous, something that would destroy her. She could not hide from it; she could not stand against it. She could only run.
Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she slipped from beneath the bushes, crouched down beyond them, and stared into the forest gloom. The thing that stalked her was close; she could sense its presence clearly now as it moved soundlessly through the night. She thought suddenly of Wil, and she wished desperately that he were there to help her. But Wil was not there. She must save herself and she must do so quickly.
There was only one place for her to go, one place that her stalker might not follow-the Hollows. She hobbled to their edge and stared down into the depthless black. Fear gripped her. The Hollows were as frightening to her as the thing behind. She steadied herself, green eyes sweeping mg across the black to the tower of Spire‘s Reach. It was here that she must go. It was there that Wil would look for her.
She found a pathway leading down and started along it, easing carefully into the shadows. In moments, she was enveloped by the blackness; the light of the stars and moon were lost above the trees. Her child’s face tightened with determination, and she felt her way forward. She kept as still in her movements as she was able, and there was only the slight scraping of her boots on earth and rock to betray her passage. Below, there was only silence.
At last she was on the floor of the Hollows. She paused then, sitting back against a tree trunk, rubbing gingerly the injured ankle. It was badly swollen by now, aggravated by her decision to walk upon it. Sweat bathed her face as she stared upward into the gloom and listened. She heard nothing. No matter, she told herself. Whatever it was that sought her, it was up there still, searching. She had to get deeper into the Hollows. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the blackness; she could discern vaguely the shapes of trees and clumps of brush about her. It was time to go on.
She pushed herself up and hobbled ahead into the dark, trying to keep her weight off her injured ankle. Moving from one tree to the next, she rested a moment at each, listening anxiously to the deep silence. The pain was growing worse, a steady throb that seemed to intensify with each step forward. The muscles of her good leg had stiffened and cramped with the constant hobbling; already she was beginning to tire.
Finally she had to stop. Breathing heavily, she lowered herself to the ground beside a thicket and leaned back against the cooling earth. Carefully, she composed herself and tried to trace anew the source of the warning. For a moment nothing happened. Then the chill swept back across her, penetrating, biting. She caught her breath. The thing that sought her was within the Hollows.
She hauled herself back to her feet and went on, limping blindly through the gloom. At one point it occurred to her that she might be traveling in a circle, but she pushed the thought quickly from her mind. She fell constantly Several times she went down so hard that she nearly blacked out. Each time she came to her knees gasping for breath, rose, and forced herself to go forward. The minutes slipped by until she lost all track of time. About her, the silence and the dark deepened.
At last she could go no further. She fell to her knees, the sound of her breathing harsh in her ears. Crying with frustration, she began to crawl. Rock and deadwood scraped at her hands and knees as she worked her way through the brush, her ankle throbbing with pain. She would not give up, she swore silently. The thing would not have her. She turned her thoughts to Wil. She saw in her mind the look that had crossed his face when she told him that she cared for him. She should not have said it, she knew. But she had wanted to tell him so badly at that moment; she had needed to tell him. It surprised her how much she had needed to tell him. And the wonder in his eyes...
She collapsed on her face race, weeping. Wil! She whispered his name like a talisman to ward off the evil that stalked her through the blackness. Then she lifted herself and crawled on. Her mind wandered, and she seemed to sense the presence of other creatures about her, moving with her through the night, quick and all but soundless. Little people, she thought. But the thing, where was the thing? How close to her was it?
She crawled and crawled until her strength was gone entirely then she lay down upon the forest earth. She was finished, she knew. She had nothing left to draw upon. Her eyes closed and she waited to die. A moment later, she slept.
She was still sleeping when the crooked wooden fingers of a dozen gnarled hands lifted her up and bore her away.
The Valeman and the Rover girl rode down the rock-strewn trail and off Whistle Ridge; the wind whistling past their ears. Into the blackness of the lower forest they flew, Rover silks whipping about their bodies as they bent low across their horses’ necks and peered blindly into the gloom. The trees quickly closed about them and the night sky disappeared. With reckless disregard for their lives, they rode on, trusting to the surefootedness of their mounts and to luck.
There was no discussion of this; they had no time for discussion. The instant that Wil realized that the Reaper would backtrack until it found the trail Amberle and he had taken south to the Hollows after parting company with the Rovers, his mind went blank to every thought but one-Amberle would be at the end of that trail, alone, injured, and unprotected. If he did not reach her before the Reaper did, she would die, and it would be his fault because it had been his decision to leave her. An image of the torn and broken bodies of the Rovers on the trail flashed in his mind. At that moment he forgot everything but his need to get to Amberle. Scrambling back atop his horse, he wheeled the animal about and galloped away
Eretria gave chase immediately She might have done otherwise. With Cephelo dead, she had no further need for the Valeman’s protection. She no longer belonged to anyone; she was her own person at last. She might have turned her horse about and ridden safely from the valley and the terrible thing that had killed Cephelo and the others. But Eretria did not even stop to consider this. She thought only of Wil, riding off without her, leaving her behind once more: Pride, stubbornness, and the strange attraction she felt for the Valeman flared within her. She could not permit him to do this to her again. Without hesitating, she went after him.
So began their race to save Amberle. Wil Ohmsford, riding as if he were a man possessed, quickly lost all track of where he was. Gloom and mist slipped about him as he came down off the ridge line into the deep forest, and he could barely make out the dark shapes of the trees at either side as he whipped past them. Yet he did not slow; he could not. He heard the sound of another horse following and realized that Eretria had come after him. He muttered a quick oath; did he not have enough to worry about already? But there was no time to concern himself with the Rover girl. He dismissed her from his thoughts and concentrated his efforts on finding the cutoff leading south.
Even so, he rode right past it. If Eretria had not called out to him, he might have kept riding east all the way to the mountains. Wheeling about in surprise, he charged back again. But now Eretria had taken the lead, spurring her mount forward into the darkness. More familiar than he with the trail, she galloped ahead, calling for him to follow. Surprised all over again, he gave chase.
It was a harrowing ride. The darkness was so thorough that even the sharp eyes of the Rover girl could barely pick out the pathway as it twisted through the forest night. Several times the horses almost went down, barely springing clear of gullies and fallen logs that lay across the narrow trail. But these were Rover horses, trained by the finest riders in the Four Lands, and they responded with a quickness and agility that brought a fierce cry from the lips of the Rover girl and left the Valeman breathless.
Then suddenly they were back upon the roadway that Amberle and Wil had followed south to the Hollows, with branches and vines slapping against them and muddied water lashing up from the deep puddles that had collected upon the trail. Without slowing, they turned south. The minutes slipped by.
At last they broke from the forest onto the rim of the Hollows, its black circle spread out before them like some bottomless pit in the earth. Reining in their horses sharply, they sprang to the ground, staring about at the forest gloom. Silence hung across the Hollows, deep and pervasive. Wil hesitated only a second, then began searching for the bushes in which he had hidden Amberle. He found them almost at once and pushed his way to their center. There was no one there. For an instant, he panicked. He groped about for some sign of what might have happened to the Elven girl, but there was nothing to be found. His panic increased. Where was she? He rose, backing from the bushes. Perhaps these were the wrong ones, he thought suddenly, and began to look about for others. He stopped almost at once. There were no others like them close enough to be seen. No, it was here that he had hidden her.
Eretria hurried up to him. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, his lean face sweating. “I can’t find her.”
He regained control of himself with an effort. Reason, it through, he told himself. Either she fled or the Reaper took her. If she fled, where would she go? He looked at once to the Hollows. There, he decided-to Spire’s Reach or as close to it as she could get. What if she had been taken, what then? But she had not been taken, he realized, because there was no sign of a struggle. She would have fought back; she would have left him some sign. If she had fled, on the other hand, she would have been careful to leave nothing behind to show her pursuer that she had been there at all.
He took a deep breath. She must have fled. But then a new thought struck him. He was assuming in all of this that Amberle had fled from the Reaper. What if it had not been the Reaper, but something that had come out of the Hollows? His jaw locked in frustration. There was no way to tell. In this blackness, he could not hope to find a trail. Either he would have to wait until morning, when it might be too late to help Amberle, or...
Or he would have to use the Elfstones.
He was reaching for the pouch when Eretria’s hand gripped his arm sharply, causing him to jump in surprise.
“Healer!” she whispered. “Someone is coming!”
He felt his stomach knot sharply. For an instant he simply stood there, his gaze following the girl’s as it turned north up the trail they had just traveled. On its shadowed rut, something moved. Fear welled up within the Valeman. His hand fumbled within his tunic and lifted free the Elfstones. At his side, Eretria snatched from her boot a wicked-looking dagger. Together they faced the approaching shadow.
“Just hold on now!” A familiar voice called out to them.
Wil looked at Eretria and she at him. Slowly they lowered Elfstones and dagger. The voice belonged to Hebel. Eretria muttered something under her breath and moved to retrieve the horses, which had strayed back into the forest.
Down the trail trudged Hebel, the shaggy form of Drifter close at his heels. He wore leather woodsman’s garb and carried a sack strapped across his back, a longbow and arrows over one shoulder, and a hunting knife at his waist. He moved with a peculiar hunching motion, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. As he came up to them, they could see that he was spattered from head to foot with mud.
“You nearly ran me down, you know!” he snapped. “Look at me! If I’d been foolish enough to stand any further out on the trail than I did when I hailed you back there, I’d be covered with hoof prints as well as mud! What do you think you are doing, riding about the forest like that? It’s black as six feet under out there and you ride about like it was broad daylight. Why didn’t you stop when I called out to you, for cat’s sake?”
“Well... because we didn’t hear you,” Wil answered in bewilderment.
“That’s because you weren’t listening like you should have been!” Hebel was not about to forgive them. He lurched right up to the Valeman. “Took one all day, to get here-all day. Without a horse, I might point out. What took you so confounded long then? The way you were riding a minute ago, you could have been here and gone again half a dozen times!”
He caught sight of Eretria as she reappeared with the horses. “What are you doing here? Where is the Elfling girl? That thing didn’t get her, did it?”
Wil started. “You know about the Reaper?”
“Reaper? If that’s what it’s called, yes, I know about it. It came to my camp earlier today-just after you’d left. Looking for you, it appears now, though at the time I wasn’t sure. Never really saw the thing just caught a glimpse. I think if I’d seen it close up, I’d be dead now.”
“I think so, too,” the Valeman agreed. “Cephelo and the others are. It caught up with them on Whistle Ridge.”
Hebel nodded soberly. “Cephelo was bound to come to that end sooner or later.” He glanced at Eretria. “Sorry, girl, but that’s the truth of it.” Then he turned back to Wil. “Now where’s the little Elfling?”
“I don’t know,” Wil answered him. “I had to go back...” He hesitated. “I had to go back for something I left behind with Cephelo. Amberle had injured her ankle, so I hid her in some bushes. I went back a different way than I had come or I would probably be dead as well. I found Eretria, or she found me, I guess; and after we saw what had happened to Cephelo, we came back here as fast as we could. But now Amberle is gone, and I can’t be sure what has happened to her. I can’t even be sure whether the Reaper has been here yet or is still tracking us.”
“It’s come and gone,” Hebel told him. “Drifter and I have been tracking it while it’s been tracking you. Lost the trail at the fork because the Reaper went east to Whistle Ridge while Drifter and I came south after you. But then the trail started up again further south. Thing must have cut through the wilderness. If it could do that, it’s dangerous, Elfling.”
“Ask Cephelo how dangerous it is,” Eretria muttered, glancing about at the forest shadows. “Healer, can we get out of here now?”
“Not until we find out what happened to Amberle,” Wil insisted.
Hebel tapped his arm. “Show me where you left the girl.”
Wil walked to the clump of bushes, with Eretria, the old man, and the dog trailing after, and pointed to the opening leading in. Hebel bent down, peered inside, and whistled Drifter to him. He spoke quietly to the dog and the animal came forward, sniffed about, then moved over to the rim of the Hollows as the others watched.
“He has the scent, Drifter has.” Hebel grunted with satisfaction. Drifter stopped and growled softly. “She is down in the Hollows, Elfling. The Reaper is down there, too. Probably still tracking her. I’d have guessed as much.”
“Then we have to find her right away.” Wil started forward.
Hebel caught his arm. “No need to rush, Elfling. That’s the Hollows we’re talking about, remember? Nothing down there but the Witch Sisters and the things that serve them. Anything else sets one foot in the Hollows gets snatched right up-I know that from what Mallenroh told me sixty years ago.” He shook his head. “By now, the girl and the thing tracking her are keeping company with one of the Sisters-that or they’re dead.”
Wil went white. “Would the Witches kill them, Hebel?”
The old man seemed to think it over. “Oh, not the girl, I’d guess-not right away. The thing they would. And don’t think they couldn’t, Elfling.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Wil replied slowly. He gazed down into the blackness of the Hollows. “I do know this much-I am going down there and I am going to find Amberle. Right now.”
He started to say something to Eretria, but the Rover girl rut him short. “Don’t waste your breath, Healer. I’m going with you.”
The way she said it left little room for argument. He glanced at Hebel.
“I’m coming, too, Elfling,” the old man announced.
“But you said yourself that no one should go into the Hollows,” Wil pointed out. “I don’t understand why you’re even here.”
Hebel shrugged. “Because it doesn’t matter where I am anymore, Elfling, and hasn’t for a long time. I’m an old man; I’ve done in this life the things I’ve wanted to do, been where I wanted to go, seen what I’ve wanted to see. Nothing left for me now-nothing except for maybe this one thing. I want to see what’s down there in those Hollows.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Thought about it for sixty years, off and on. Always told myself that one day I’d find out like thinking about a deep pool; you always wonder what’s at the bottom.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “Well, a sane man wouldn’t waste his time with a thing like that, and I was a sane man when I was younger, though I guess some thought different. Now I’m tired of being sane, tired of just thinking about going down there instead of doing it. You made me decide. When you first told me what you intended, I thought to persuade you otherwise-just as I’d persuaded myself. I was certain that you would lose interest quick enough when you heard what I had to say. I was wrong. I saw that whatever it was that you were looking for was important enough that being afraid didn’t matter to you. So why should it matter so much to me, I thought? Then after that Reaper thing passed me by and left me knowing how close I’d come to dying, I realized it didn’t. All that really mattered was finding out about those Hollows. So I came after you. I decided that we should go looking together.”
Wil understood. “Let’s hope that we both find what we are looking for.”
“Well, maybe I can be of some help to you.” The old man shrugged. “This is Mallenroh’s end of the Hollows. She might remember me, Elfling.” For an instant his thoughts wandered, then he glanced at Wil. “Drifter can track for as long as it’s needed.” He whistled. “Take us down, dog. Go, boy.”
Drifter disappeared over the rim of the Hollows. Eretria stripped saddles and bridles from the horses and slapped them sharply to send them galloping back through the forest. Then she joined Wil and the old man. In a line, they started down into the Hollows.
“Won’t have to rely on Drifter very long,” Hebel declared firmly. “Mallenroh-she’ll find us quick enough.”
If that were so, Wil found himself thinking, then he hoped that she would find Amberle as well.
Amberle came awake in the darkness of the Hollows forest. It was the slight swaying, jostling motion of being carried that awoke her, and for an instant she panicked. Gnarled fingers held her fast, locked tightly about her arms and legs, her body, even her neck and head-fingers so rough they felt as if they were made of wood. Her first reaction was to want to break free, but she resisted it with a desperate effort and forced herself to remain still. Whatever had her did not yet know she was awake. If she were to have any advantage at all, it lay in this. For the moment, at least, she must continue to feign sleep and learn what she could.
She had no idea how long she had slept. It might have been minutes or hours or even longer. She thought, though, that it was still the same night. Logic told her it must be. She thought, too, that whatever it was that had her, it was not the thing that had pursued her into the Hollows. Had that thing found her, it would simply have killed her. This, therefore, must be something else. The old man, Hebel, had told Wil and her that the Hollows were the private domain of the Witch Sisters. Perhaps it was one of them that had her.
She felt somewhat better, having reasoned that much through, and she relaxed a bit, trying to make out something of the terrain through which she was moving. It was difficult to do this; the trees shut away even the smallest trace of stars and moon, leaving everything shrouded in deepest night. Were it not for the familiar woodland smells she might not have known there was a forest about. The silence was intense. The few sounds were distant and brief, cries that came from the wilderness beyond the Hollows.
Yet there was another sound, she corrected herself, a sort of skittering noise like the chafing of limbs in a breeze-except that there was no breeze, and the sound came from beneath her; not from above. Whatever it was that earned her was making the noise.
The minutes slipped by. She thought briefly of Wil, trying to imagine what he might do in her place. That made her smile in spite of herself. Who could tell what wild stunt Wil might try in such a situation? Then she wondered if she would ever see him again.
Her muscles were beginning to cramp, and she decided to see if she could do something to ease the discomfort without giving herself away. Experimentally she stretched her legs; pretending to stir in her sleep, testing the fingers that held her. They moved with her, but did not release. So much for that.
The sound of running water reached her, growing stronger with each passing second. She could smell it now, fresh and scented with wildflowers-a stream that twisted and churned in the quiet of the forest. Then it was beneath her, and the rustle of the sticks and the night sounds faded in its rush. Footsteps echoed hollowly on wooden planks, and she knew she had been carried over a bridge. The gurgle of the stream faded slightly. Chains clanked and rumbled as if being gathered in, and there was a dull thud. Something had closed behind, a door-a very heavy door. An iron bar and locks snapped into place. She heard them clearly. Night air washed about her as before, but it carried with it the unmistakable smell of stone and mortar. Fear welled up within her once more. She was inside a walled area, a courtyard perhaps, being taken, she now believed, to some sort of confinement, and if she did not break free at once, she would not break free at all. Yet the fingers that constrained her showed not the slightest hint of loosening, and there were many of them. It would take a tremendous effort to wrench free, and she did not believe that she had that kind of strength left in her. Besides, she thought dismally, even if she were to break free, where would she go?
Ahead, another door opened, creaking slightly. Still no light came to her; there was nothing but blackness all about.
“Pretty, thing,” a voice said suddenly, and the Elven girl started with surprise.
She was carried ahead. Behind her, the door closed and the smells of the forest disappeared. She was inside-but inside of what? Twisting and turning, her captors carried her along passageways that smelled damp and musty; yet there was another odor, a kind of incense, a perfume. The Elven girl breathed it deeply and it left her head in a momentary spin.
Then at last there was a light, suddenly, unexpectedly, glimmering just ahead from within a tall archway. Amberle blinked at the unfamiliar brightness, her eyes still accustomed to the dark. She was carried through the archway and down a winding stair. The light blinked above her, fell behind momentarily, then followed after, weaving and bobbing against the dark.
Her forward motion stopped. She felt herself being lowered onto a thick, woven matting, and the wooden fingers slipped free. She raised herself up on her elbows and squinted toward the light. It hung there before her for just an instant, then retreated slowly behind a wall of iron bars. A door swung shut and the light was gone.
But just before it disappeared, the Elven girl caught a glimpse of her captors, their slender forms outlined clearly in the white glow. They appeared to be made out of sticks.
On the floor of the Hollows, Wil called a halt. It was so black that he could barely see his hand in front of his face; he could not see Hebel or Eretria at all, nor they him. If they attempted to proceed under these conditions, they would soon become separated and hopelessly lost. He waited a few moments for his vision to sharpen. It did, but only slightly. The Hollows remained a dim, barely perceptible mass of shadows.
It was Hebel who came up with a plan to resolve their difficulty. Whistling Drifter to him, he produced a length of rope from the sack he carried, and bound one end to the dog; the rest he fastened about his waist and to the waists of the Valeman and the Rover girl. Thus tied, they could follow after one another without risk of separation. The old man tested the line, then spoke softly to Drifter. The big dog started ahead.
It seemed to Wil as if they walked the Hollows for hours, stumbling through an endless maze of trees and brush, nearly blind in the impenetrable blackness, trusting to the instincts of the dog that led them. They did not talk to one another at all, moving through the forest as silently as they, could, all too conscious of the fact that somewhere within that same forest the Reaper prowled. Wil had never felt quite so helpless as he did then. It was bad enough that he could see almost nothing; it was worse knowing that the Reaper was down there with him. He thought constantly of Amberle. If he were frightened; what must it be like for her? His fear made him ashamed. He had no right to be afraid, not when she was the one who was alone and unprotected, and he was the one who had left her that way.
Yet the fear stayed with him. To ward it off, he clutched the pouch with the Elfstones in one hand, grasping it firmly, as if having it there might somehow protect him against whatever hid within the forest night. Yet deep within, the feeling persisted that the Elfstones would not protect him, that their power was lost to him and he could not get it back again. It made no difference what Amberle had told him or what he had, told himself. The feeling lacked reason or purpose; it was simply there-haunting, malignant, terrifying. The power of the Elfstones was no longer his.
He was still trying to shake the feeling when the rope before him went suddenly slack. He almost stumbled over Hebel, who had come to a complete stop. Eretria bumped up against him, and the three stood bunched together, peering ahead into the gloom.
“Drifter’s found something,” the old man whispered to Wil.
Dropping to his knees, he worked his way forward to where Drifter was sniffing the ground, Wil and Eretria following close behind. He patted the dog soothingly and felt along the earth for a time, then rose.
“Mallenroh.” He spoke her name softly. “She’s got the Elfling girl.”
“Are you sure?” Wil whispered back.
The old man nodded. “Has to be. That Reaper thing’s somewhere else now. Drifter doesn’t smell it anymore.”
Wil did not understand how Hebel could be certain of all this, especially when it was so impossibly black, but there was no point in arguing the matter.
“What do we do now?” he asked anxiously.
“Keep going.” Hebel grunted. “Drifter-go, boy”
The dog started ahead once more, the tree humans trailing after. The minutes slipped away, and gradually the forest began to lighten. At first Wil thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but finally he realized that night was fading and a new day had begun. Trees and brush began to take shape about him, the dimness sharpening slowly as the sun slipped its faint glow through the forest roof. Ahead, the shaggy black form of Drifter became visible for the first time since they had descended from the Hollows rim, head lowered to the trail as he sniffed his way along the damp earth.
Then abruptly the big head lifted and the dog stopped. The humans stopped with him, startled looks on their faces. Before them stood the strangest creature that any of them had ever seen. It was a man made of sticks-two arms, two legs and a body all of sticks, gnarled roots curling out from the ends of the arms and legs to form fingers and toes. It had no head. It faced them-or at least they thought it faced them since the roots that formed its fingers and toes appeared to point in their direction. Its slender body swayed slightly as if it were a sapling caught in a sudden wind. Then it turned and walked back into the forest.
Hebel glanced quickly at the other two. “I told you. That’s Mallenroh’s work.”
Beckoning hurriedly to them, he started after the creature. Wil and Eretria looked doubtfully at each other, then followed. Wordlessly, the little procession trudged ahead into the gloom, weaving and twisting through the maze of the forest. After a time, other stick men like the first began to appear about them, headless, gnarled things, noiseless but for the slight skittering sound they made as they walked. Almost before the humans knew it, there were dozens of the creatures ringing them, trailing like ghosts through the shadows.
“I told you,” Hebel kept whispering back to the Valeman and the Rover girl, his leathered face intense.
Then abruptly the forest thinned. Before them stood a solitary tower, its dark turret rising up into the trees that grew about it. It sat atop a small knoll, a nearly windowless keep, its stone aged, worn, and grown thick with vines and moss. The knoll had become an island, encircled by a stream that flowed from somewhere back in the forest, wending its way down in a series of drops and turns before meandering off into the trees to their left. A low wall ringed the tower, built close to the bank of the stream; where it faced them, a drawbridge stood open and empty, chains hanging limply from small watch houses at either side, a heavy wooden bridgehead spanning the waters beneath. All about the rise and the tower grew massive oaks, ancient trees whose boughs interwove and shut away the morning sky, leaving the isle, like the rest of the Hollows, draped in deepest shadow.
The stick man they had followed stopped. It turned about slightly, as if its headless form would ascertain whether or not they were there. Then it began walking toward the drawbridge. Hebel limped after it without hesitating, Drifter at his side. Wil and Eretria hung back a moment, less certain than the old man that they ought to go further. The tower was a forbidding structure; they new that they should not set foot within its walls, knew that they had already gone much farther than they should.
But the Valeman sensed somehow that it was here he would find Amberle. He looked back at Eretria, and they started forward.
Down to the edge of the stream the little band went, following the silent stick man, its brethren all about them. Except for the sounds of their movements and the flow of the stream, the forest lay wrapped in silence. The stick man stepped onto the bridgehead and walked across, fading from sight in the shadow of the gate. The men, the girl, and the dog passed over the bridge behind it, Wil and Eretria casting apprehensive glances at the massive black tower beyond.
Then they were beneath the gate. The stick man reappeared before them, standing now just beyond the shadowed arch. In a line, they moved forward, watching as it started once more toward the tower. They had barely walked clear of the gateway when they heard the sudden sound of chains creaking and groaning. Behind them, the drawbridge lifted and sealed against the wall.
Now there was no turning back. In a knot, they walked to the tower. The stick man was waiting, standing within a high alcove that sheltered a pair of broad, ironbound wooden doors. One door stood open. The stick man stepped through and was gone. Wil stared upward at the massive stone face of the tower, then reached into his tunic and brought forth the pouch that contained the Elfstones. With the others, he stepped through the doorway into blackness.
For an instant no one moved, standing just within the entry, peering blindly into the gloom. Then the door swung shut behind them, locks snapping into place. Light flare from within a glass-enclosed lamp that hung suspended from above, its glow white and soft, neither from burning oil nor pitch, but something that gave off no flame as it burned. All about stood the stick men, their gnarled shadows cast upon stone walls, swaying gently in the light.
From the gloom behind them, a woman appeared, cloaked all in black and trailing long streamers of crimson nightshade.
“Mallenroh,” Hebel whispered, and Wil Ohmsford felt the air about him turn to ice.