Antrax (20 page)

It was said without rancor or condemnation. Nevertheless, it was a strong comment for them to make. And an odd one. What did it matter to the dead what the living did?

He shook his head. “It’s not his fault; his parents made that choice.”

Halflings have no place in the world.

“Not if we don’t make one for them.”

Would you make a place for him?

“Yes, if he needed one.”

Would you give up your own place in the world so that he might have his?

The conversation was getting oddly metaphysical, and Bek had no idea where it was going, but he stayed with it. “Yes.”

Would you give up your life for him?

Bek paused. What was he supposed to say to that? Would he give up his life for Truls Rohk? “Yes,” he said finally. “Because I think he would do the same for me.”

This time the pause was much longer. Again, the heads rotated and the rustling sounds returned, rife with words and phrases, with conversations the boy could not understand. He listened carefully, but while bits and pieces were audible, he could comprehend none of it. He wondered suddenly if he had misjudged things, if the shades meant him harm after all.

Then the voice spoke again.

Look at us.

He did so. A sudden chill in the air made him shiver, as if a
cold wind had found its way down off the mountains, a wind with the brittle snap of deep winter. He shrank from it—and from the abrupt flurry of movement about him. The faces had begun to change. Gone were the empty, expressionless features. Gone were the disembodied heads. Huge, dark forms appeared in their place, bristling with tufts of grizzled hair. Massive bodies rose out of the shadows. Like beasts that walked upright, these new creatures closed about, gimlet eyes fixing on him. Bek felt his heart stop and his blood turn to ice. The fear he had dispelled earlier returned in a rush, become outright terror. There was nothing he could do to save himself. There was nowhere to run and no chance to do so. He was trapped.

Do you know what we are?

He couldn’t speak. He could barely move. He shook his head slowly, the best he could manage.

We are whatever we wish to be. We are the living and the dead. We are flesh and blood and wind and water. We are shape-shifters. This is our land, and humans do not belong here. You trespass and must leave. Go back down off the mountain and do not return.

Bek nodded quickly in agreement. He would take any chance they offered to get away. He could hear their heavy, raw breathing and smell their animal bodies. He could feel the weight of their shadows falling over him, layer upon layer. He understood in that instant what it felt like to be hunted and cornered. He understood what it felt like to be prey.

The voice whispered to him in a low, threatening hiss, and he was aware of a change in tone.

When your sister comes for you, go with her. When she asks for the truth, tell it to her. When she seeks a way to understand, help her find it. Do not run away again. Trust in yourself.

His sister was coming? How close was she? He panicked, tried to rise, and found he could not. His strength failed him completely. He sat dazed and helpless on the ground, the shape-shifters all
around him, a wall of animal stink and fetid breath, dark shadows and glittering eyes. Where was Truls Rohk? Where was anyone who could help him? He hated his fear, his desperation, but he could not dispel it. All he wanted was to be out of there, to be someplace else, to have a chance to stay alive, even for just another day.

He gasped in shock as the cold struck him anew, and he squeezed his eyes shut against its bite. He could hear the rustle of the shape-shifters, the movement of their bodies, but he could not bring himself to look at them. It took all of his concentration just to breathe, to keep himself from screaming, to stay in control. He felt his resolve crumble around the edges. Then he felt something else. Inside, deep down where the core of him burned with raw emotion, he felt the magic come alive. It sparked and flared, coming to his defense, rising up within him. He could feel it building, layers of it bubbling up like lava out of a volcano’s mouth, ready to explode. He tightened his resolve anew, desperate to keep it in check. He could not afford to let it surface. He did not want to test himself against the shape-shifters. He knew it would be a mistake.

Then the cold that surrounded him faded all at once and the animal smell was gone. Fresh air, warmer and gentler now, filled his nostrils; the heavy, raw presence of the shape-shifters had disappeared.

When he opened his eyes again, he was alone.

T
ruls Rohk hung suspended within the concealing canopy of a massive old maple, pressed against its limbs perhaps twenty feet off the ground. He had waited there for over an hour, keeping watch through the foliage. From there, he had a clear view of the rocky flats that separated the two stretches of forest at the base of the mountains through which he and the boy had passed earlier. If the Ilse Witch was tracking them, if she had found their trail anew, she would come that way.

When the caull appeared, he was not surprised. He knew she was using something to track them besides her magic. Her magic alone, though formidable, was not sufficient to enable her to stay with them. The caull was some sort of mutated wolf or dog and was tracking them by their scent. It was an ugly, dangerous-looking beast, nothing like any creature he had encountered before, not even in the Wolfsktaag. It was a creature out of the old world of Faerie, he guessed, something she had studied in a book of dark magic or conjured from a nightmare. It was there to track and then to dispatch them. Or himself, at least. He was just an unnecessary distraction. The boy was who she was really after, and she would keep him alive for a time.

Truls Rohk watched the beast venture onto the flat, circle about for a bit, then disappear back into the trees. She would be there, watching and waiting, just as he was doing. He could not see her, but he could sense her presence. She was deciding what to do. He could go back to the boy now; he could slip away while she debated. But he was tired of running, and he could sense that the boy was tired, too. It might be better to see if he could slow her down a bit—or perhaps stop her altogether. If the caull came across the flats alone, he might have a chance to kill it. It would take her a while to make a new one, even if she decided to continue, which she might not.

Maybe he would even have a chance at her, as well, although he knew the boy did not want her harmed and would not be happy if she was. Still, he might not be given any choice.

He stayed where he was, debating the matter. The minutes ticked by. Neither the caull nor the witch appeared. He wondered if she could sense him as he could sense her. He did not think so. He had taken precautions to disguise himself, to appear as one with the trees, all bark and wood and sap, all leaves and buds. No part of his human self remained in his current guise. She could not detect his presence in that way.

Then abruptly she appeared, walking to the edge of the tree-line across the flats and stopping. The caull materialized beside her. She stared out into the night for a long time, just a vague shape in the star-brightened darkness, just a shadow in the woods. After a moment, she disappeared again, and the caull with her, then reappeared a bit later somewhat farther along the edge of the trees, still staring out into the flats. What was she doing? He watched her carefully, measuring her progress as she appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared once more, several times. She seemed to be looking for something, for a way across perhaps. But why was she going to such trouble? Once she had shown herself, why not simply cross and be done with it?

Time slipped away. Truls Rohk grew steadily more uneasy with what he was seeing. She was there, but she wasn’t doing anything. She hadn’t even bothered sending the caull ahead to investigate whatever disturbed her. She was losing time she did not have to give. Appearing and disappearing, coming and going, she was like a wraith that had wandered out of—

He caught himself, lifting off the branch on which he lay with a start, a chilling realization flooding through him. She was a wraith. A wraith made out of magic. He wasn’t seeing her at all. Even if she couldn’t sense his presence, she had guessed at it. She had smelled out the possibility of a trap and decided to turn it around on him. She had used images to deceive him into believing she was still there and had gotten around behind him. She was already past him on her way to the boy.

He knew it as surely as he knew he was already too late to stop her.

Fool! You fool!

He was down out of the tree in a heartbeat and racing back through the night the way he had come.

W
hen his sister walked out of the trees, Bek was still sitting on the ground where the shape-shifters had left him. He was not panicked by her appearance and did not try to escape. He had known she would come. The shape-shifters had told him so, and he had believed them. He had thought about running from her, fleeing deeper into the mountains, but had decided against it.
Do not run away from her again,
they had said. He did not know why, but he believed them to be right. Running would solve nothing. He must stand and face her.

He rose as she approached, staying calm, oddly at peace with himself. He wore the Sword of Shannara strapped across his back, but he did not reach for it. Weapons would not serve his cause; fighting would not aid him. His sister, the Ilse Witch, would react badly to either, and he needed her to want to keep him safe. Perhaps it was his encounter with the shape-shifters that left him feeling as if no harm could come to him in the mountains. Whatever harm she might do to him, she would wait to do elsewhere. That would give him time to find a way to make her see the truth.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” she offered mildly, moving fluidly within her tied-up robes, her face lost in shadow beneath her hood. Her eyes were on him, searching. “You knew I would come, didn’t you?”

“I knew. Where is Truls Rohk?”

“The shape-shifter?” She shrugged. “Still looking for me where I can’t be found. He’ll come too late to help you this time.”

“I don’t want his help. This is between you and me.”

She stopped a dozen paces away, and he could feel her tension.

“Are you ready to admit to me that you lied about who you are? Are you willing to tell me why you did so?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t lied about anything. I am Bek. I am your brother. What I told you before was true. Why can’t you believe me?”

She was silent a moment. “I think you believe it,” she said
finally, “but that doesn’t make it true. I know more of this than you do. I know how the Druid works. I know he seeks to use you against me, even if you don’t see it.”

“Let’s say that’s true. Why would he do so? What could he hope to gain?”

She folded her arms into her robes. “You will come with me back to the airship and wait for me there while I find him and ask him. You will come willingly. You will not try to escape. You will not try to harm me in any way. You will not use your magic. You will agree to all this now. You will give me your word. If you do so, you have a chance to save your life. Tell me now if you will do as I ask. But be warned—if you lie or dissemble, I will know.”

He thought about it, standing silent in the night, facing her through a wash of moonlight, and then nodded. “I’ll do what you ask.”

He felt her humming softly, her magic reaching out to him, surrounding and then infusing him, a small tingle of warmth, probing. He did not interfere, simply waited for her to finish.

She came forward and stood right in front of him. She reached up and lowered the hood so he could see her strong, pale, beautiful face. Grianne. His sister. There was no anger in her eyes, no harshness of any sort. There was only curiosity. She reached out and touched the side of his face, closing her eyes momentarily as she did so. Again, he felt the intrusion of the wishsong’s magic. Again, he did not interfere.

When she opened her eyes again, she nodded. “Very well. We can leave now.”

“Do you want my weapons?” he asked her quickly.

“Your weapons?” She seemed startled by the question. She glanced at the sword and long knife perfunctorily. “Weapons are of no use to me. Leave them behind.”

He tossed the long knife aside, but left the Sword of Shannara
in place. “I can’t give up the sword. It isn’t mine. It was given to me in trust, and I promised I would look after it. It belongs to Walker.”

She gave him a sharp look. “To the Druid?”

He was taking a chance telling her this, but he had thought it through carefully and the risk was necessary. “It is a talisman. Perhaps you know of it. It is called the Sword of Shannara.”

She came right up against him, her face only inches from his own, her startling blue eyes boring into his. “What are you saying? Give it to me!”

He did so, handing it over obediently. She snatched it from him, stepped back again, and examined it doubtfully. “This is the Sword of Shannara? Are you certain? Why would he give it to you?”