Jerle Shannara - Antrax Part 3

She screamed in pain as the wind slammed her against the hull of the airs.h.i.+p, and she almost released her grip on the rope as she spun away from the rough wood. Then she realized what that meant, how far she had come, and opened her eyes and looked up. The gap in the broken railing was just above her. She redoubled her efforts, hauling herself up the final few yards of rope to the edge of the decking, gaining a firm grip on a still-solid bal.u.s.trade, and pulling herself over the side to safety.

She lay on the rain- and ice-slicked deck for a moment, gazing skyward at the vast canopy of white mist and clouds, exhausted, but triumphant, too. Her mind raced. No time to rest. No time to spare. She rolled onto her side and peered across the bodies and debris, through the tattered shreds of sail and broken spars to the aft hatchway. She could not manage to get to her feet, so she crawled the entire way, fighting to stay conscious. The hatchway was thrown back, and she slid through the opening, lost her grip, and tumbled down the stairs. At the bottom she lay in a tangled heap, so numb she could not tell if anything was broken, still hearing the roar of the wind and the surf in her ears.

Get up!

She dragged herself to her feet, using the wall of the pa.s.sageway to keep from falling again, pain shooting down her injured leg, blood soaking her clothing in fresh patches. How much had she lost? The pa.s.sageway was shadowed and empty, but she thought she could hear voices calling. She tried calling back, but her voice was hollow and faint, lost in the roar of the wind. She stumbled along the corridor, using the wall for support, trying to trace the voices. She thought she heard her name a couple of times, but couldn't be sure. There was blood in her throat by then, hot and thick, and she swallowed it to keep her breathing pa.s.sages clear. She was light-headed, and everything was spinning.

With a sudden lurch of the airs.h.i.+p, she fell hard, still short of the storerooms, careening off one wall of the corridor into the other, slamming into it with such force that it knocked the breath from her lungs and she simply collapsed. She lay gasping for air, just barely able to keep from losing consciousness, the world about her spinning faster and faster. She tried to straighten herself and found she couldn't. She had no strength left, nothing more to give. It was the end of her. It was the end of them all.

She closed her eyes against the pain and fatigue, searching in her mind for the faces of those trapped only yards away. She found those faces, and Hawk's, as well, as familiar to her as her own. She heard their voices speaking her name, clear and welcoming, in other places, in better times. She found herself smiling.

The Jerle Shannara lurched once more, caught in a violent gust of wind, and she thought to herself, I'm not ready to die.

Somehow she got back to her feet. She never really knew how she managed it, how long it took, what mechanics she employed, what willpower she called upon. But, broken and crying, covered everywhere with blood, she got up and dragged herself the last few yards down the pa.s.sageway to the first storeroom door. She tugged and tugged on the latch, hearing the voices shouting at her from inside, but the latch would not give. Screaming in rage and frustration, she hammered at the door, then realized it wasn't the latch that was holding it shut, it was the crossbar.

Gasping for breath, she threw back the crossbar with the last of her strength, pulled free the latch, yanked open the heavy door, and tumbled through into blackness.

When she came awake again, the first thing she saw was her brother.

"Are we still alive?" she asked, her voice weak, her throat parched with thirst. "It doesn't feel like it."

He gave her a rueful grin. "Not to you, I expect. But, yes, we're still alive, if only just by the barest of margins. It would be easier on all of us if the next time you come to the rescue, you do so with a little more alacrity."

She tried to laugh and failed. "I'll try to remember that."

Redden Alt Mer rose to bring a water skin close, poured out a measure into a cup, and lifted her head just enough to let her drink. He gave her small sips, letting her take her time. His big hand on the back of her head and neck felt gentle and rea.s.suring.

When she had finished, he laid her back again and resumed his seat at her bedside. "It was closer than what I would have liked. They had us in two rooms, all but you and Hawk. With the crossbars thrown over the doorways, we couldn't free ourselves. We tried everything to knock the bar free, to work it clear through the jamb slit, even to break down the door. We could hear the storm and knew it was bad; we could feel the s.h.i.+p drifting. At first Mwellrets were watching us; then they were gone. We couldn't tell what was happening."

She closed her eyes, remembering. Hawk, using his dagger to pick the lock to their door, a forward storeroom that lacked a crossbar. Their battle with the Mwellret in the pa.s.sageway. The charge up the stairs and onto the deck where other rets were waiting along with two members of the Federation crew. The airs.h.i.+p in shambles, out of control, wheeling wildly in the grip of the canyon winds as it sailed toward the pillars of ice. The struggle with their captors. Furl Hawken giving up his own life to save hers. Her own brush with a deadly fall she only just managed to avoid. The long climb back.

"After you freed us, we rushed out on deck and saw what had happened to the s.h.i.+p and how close we were to the Squirm." He shook his mane of red hair, lips tightening. "By then, we were right on top of it. The pilothouse was smashed, the steering fouled, the light sheaths in shreds, the rigging flying everywhere, spars broken, and even a couple of the pa.r.s.e tubes jammed shut. But you should have seen Spanner and the others. They were all over that decking in seconds, clearing away the tubes, refastening the radian draws, bringing enough of the rigging and sail remnants into play to give us at least a small measure of control. You know what it was like up there, everything tossing and wild, the wind strong enough to knock you right off the deck if you didn't watch yourself, or maybe even if you did."

She nodded, her eyes opening again to meet his. "I know."

"A couple of the men went right up the masts, even in that storm, as if it didn't matter or they didn't care how dangerous it was. Kelson Riat barely missed getting his head taken off by a loose spar, and Jahnon Pakabbon was slashed all the way down his left arm by a spike. But no one gave up on the s.h.i.+p. We got her functioning again in minutes. I'd cleared the controls, but the lines were smashed, so we had to do it all by hand. We used the power stored in the pa.r.s.e tubes to right her, turn her from the ice pillars, and start her back the way she had come. The wind fought us the whole way, blowing down off the ice fields and up the gorge, trying to overpower us. But she's a good s.h.i.+p, Little Red. The Jerle Shannara is the best. She fought her way right into the teeth of the wind and held her own until we found some calm s.p.a.ce to make headway in."

He rocked back in his seat, laughing like a boy. "Even Spanner Frew was spitting and howling in defiance of that wind, standing at the wheel to keep the rudder steady, even without the controls to work. Old Black Beard fought for her like the rest of us. To him she's a child he's nurtured and reared as his own, and he's not going to lose her, is he?"

She smiled with him, his glee infectious, her relief giving her an edge on the ache of her body. She glanced down at herself, tucked in one of the berths belowdecks, in the Healer's quarters, she thought. Light shone through the room's only window, bright and cheerful. She tried moving her arms and legs, but her body didn't seem to want to respond.

"Am I all in one piece?" she asked, suddenly concerned.

"Except for a few bad slashes and deep bruises." He arched one eyebrow at her. "You must have had one terrible battle up there, Little Red. You and Hawk."

She kept trying to make her hands and feet move, saying nothing in reply. Finally, she felt a tingle at the ends of each, working its way through the pain that ran up and down her body in sharp spasms. She let herself relax and looked at her brother. "Hawk died for me. You've probably guessed as much. I wouldn't have made it without him. None of us would. I can't believe he's gone."

Her brother nodded. "Nor me. He's been with us forever. I didn't think we'd ever lose him." He sighed. "Care to tell me what happened? It might help us both a bit if you did."

She took her time, pausing once to let him bring her a fresh drink of water, taking him through the events leading up to her finally freeing him from the aft storeroom, leaving nothing out, forcing herself to remember it all, especially everything about Furl Hawken. It took considerable effort just to tell it, and when she had finished, she was exhausted.

Redden Alt Mer didn't say anything at first, simply nodded, then rose and walked to the cabin window to look outside. She cried a little when his back was turned, not tears, not audible sobs, but tiny hiccups and little heaves that he wouldn't notice or that, at least, she could pretend he didn't.

When he turned back to her, she was composed again. "He was everything a Rover is supposed to be," her brother offered quietly. "It doesn't help much just now, but down the road, when it matters, I think we'll find some part of him is inside us, keeping us strong, telling us how to be as good a man as he was."

She fell asleep then, almost before she knew it, and her sleep was deep and dreamless. When she woke, the room was dark save for a single candle by her bed, the sunlight that had shone through the cabin window earlier gone. She felt stronger this time, though the aches and pains that had beset her before were more p.r.o.nounced. She managed to lever herself up on one elbow and drink from the cup of water sitting on the table next to her. The Jerle Shannara sailed in calm and steady winds, the motion of its pa.s.sage barely perceptible. It was quiet aboard s.h.i.+p, the sounds of men's voices and movements absent. It must be night, and most must be sleeping. Where were they? How far had they come since she had slept? She had no way of knowing as long as she lay in bed.

She forced her legs from under the covers and tried to stand, but her efforts failed, and she knocked the cup of water flying as she grasped the table for support before falling back again. The clatter echoed loudly, and moments later Big Red appeared, bare-chested and, clearly, roused from sleep.

"Some of us are trying to get our rest, Sister Rue," he muttered, helping her back beneath the covers. "What do you think you are doing anyway? You're a day or two away from walking around and maybe not then."

She nodded. "I'm weaker than I thought."

"You lost a lot of blood, if I'm any judge of wounds. You won't replace it all right away. Nor will you be healing up overnight. So let's try to be reasonable about what you can and can't do for the immediate future."

"I need a bath. I smell pretty bad."

He grinned, seating himself on a three-legged stool. "I can help you with that. But no one was going to attempt it while you were unconscious, let me tell you. Not even Spanner Frew. They know how you feel about being touched."

She tightened her lips. "They don't know anything about me. They just think they do." The words were sharp, bitter. She forced the sudden anger away. "Go back to bed. I'm sorry I woke you."

He shrugged, his red hair glistening in the candlelight, loose and unruly as it hung about his strong face. "Well, I'm up now, so maybe I'll stay up and talk with you awhile. The bath can wait until morning, can't it? I don't much want to haul a tub and water in here in the dark."

She grinned faintly. "It can wait." She regretted her anger; it was misdirected and inappropriate. Her brother was only trying to help. "I feel better tonight."

"You look better. Everyone was worried."

"How long have I been in this bed?"

"Two days."

She was surprised. "That long? It doesn't feel like it." She exhaled sharply. "Where are we now? How close to where we left the others? We've gone back for them, haven't we? We have to warn them about the Ilse Witch."

He smiled. "You are better. Ready to get up and fight another battle, aren't you?" He shook his head, then turned suddenly sober. "Listen carefully, Little Red. Things aren't so simple. We're not headed inland to the Druid's sh.o.r.e party. We're headed for the coast and the Wing Riders. We're doing just what we were told to do."

He must have seen the anger flare in her eyes. "Don't say something you'll live to regret. I didn't make this choice because it was the one I favored. I made it because it was the only one that made sense. Don't you think I want to square accounts with the witch? Don't you think I want to lock up those Mwellrets the same way they locked us up? I don't like leaving any of them running around loose any more than you do. I don't for a minute like abandoning Walker and the others. But the Jerle Shannara is in tatters. We can replace the light sheaths and radian draws, repair the pa.r.s.e tubes, and readjust the diapson crystals to suit our needs. We can manage to sail at maybe three-quarters power and efficiency. But we've lost spars and damaged two of the masts. We're all beaten up. We can't fight a battle, especially against Black Mo-dips. We can't even outrun her, if she should catch sight of us. Going inland now would be foolhardy. We wouldn't be of much use to anyone if we got ourselves knocked out of the sky or captured a second time, would we?"

The glare had not faded from her eyes. "So we just abandon them?" she snapped back.

"We were already abandoning them when the Druid ordered us out of that bay. Walker knew the risks when he sent us away. If we'd gotten clear of the channel before Black Moclips found us, she still would have sailed on up the river to the bay. Walker understood that. He wasn't thinking it couldn't happen."

She shook her head stubbornly. "We're their lifeline! They can't survive without us! What if anything goes wrong?"

"Don't be so quick to discount what they can or can't do without us. Something's already gone wrong, only it went wrong with us. And we survived, didn't we? Give them a little credit."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, eyes fierce and intense. Rue backed down first. "They're not Rovers," she pointed out quietly.

Her brother smiled in spite of himself. "Granted. But they have their good points anyway and a fair chance of holding their own until we can get to them. Which I fully intend to do, Little Red, if you'll just have some faith in me." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We're on our way to the coast to make repairs and heal wounds. If we're to outsmart and outsail the Ilse Witch and her Mwellrets and perhaps do battle with Black Moclips, we have to be at our best. Maybe it won't come to that, if we're lucky, but we can't rely on luck to see us through this mess. We should be able to map our way in and out again, just as the Druid wanted. We should be able to make contact with the Wing Riders, as well. And while the s.h.i.+p's being overhauled and you're healing, I'll be flying back in with Hunter Predd to have a look at what's become of our friends and to help them if I can."

Rue Meridian smiled. "That's more like the Big Red I know. No sitting around and waiting. But we'll see about who's coming back and who's staying behind to heal."

He shook his head at her. "I sometimes think you don't have the sense of a gnat. Indestructible, are you? Half-dead one minute and whole the next? Off to the rescue of those unfortunates who need you so badly? Shades! It's a wonder you've lived this long. Well, we'll talk about it."

He rose. "Enough of words for now, though. I'm off to bed and a few more hours of rest before daylight and work. Maybe you should try getting a few hours' sleep yourself. Put the past behind you and the future ahead where they belong and spend your time in the present with the rest of us." He waved dismissively as he turned away. "Sleep well, Little Red."

He went out without looking back, closing the door softly behind him. She stared after him for a long time, thinking that for all his faults, there wasn't anyone better than her brother. Whatever lay ahead, she would rather face it with him at her side than anyone else. Redden Alt Mer had the luck, they said. They were right, but he had something more than that. He had the heart. He would always find a way because he couldn't conceive of it being any other way. It was the Rover in him. It defined who he was.

She spent another few moments thinking about those trapped inland, about Walker and the rest, still worried how they would fare without the Rovers to turn to. Big Red could say what he wanted, but she didn't like the idea of abandoning them even for the time it would take to reach the coast and find the Wing Riders.

They were a tough and experienced group except for Bek and the seer and one or two others who were more talented than experienced, but even the Elven Hunters were too much at risk when afoot and cut off from the airs.h.i.+p. Especially with the Ilse Witch and her Mwellrets hunting them.

She thought of Hawk then, one final time. Someone will pay for what happened to you, she promised him silently. One day soon, that account will be settled.

She was crying again, almost before she realized it.

"Good-bye, Hawk," she whispered into the darkness.

Then she was asleep.

SIX.

When Panax gripped his shoulder in warning, Quentin Leah dropped into a crouch and froze in place, eyes searching the gloom ahead. He felt the Dwarf's harsh breathing in his ear.

"Over there." The words were a soft hiss in the silence. "By the edge of that building, in the rubble."

Quentin's hand tightened on the Sword of Leah, then just as quickly loosened. No, don't summon the magic! You'll only draw their attention if you do! His heart began to race. Around him, everything went still, not a sound, not a movement, as if the city and its deadly inhabitants were waiting with him. Dirt, sweat, and blood streaked his face and clothing, and his body ached with fatigue. He was cut and bruised almost everywhere, and the slashes on his left side cut all the way through to his ribs. Off to one side, crouched in a screen of brush that had grown up through broken slabs of stone, Kian and Wye watched with him, waiting for his signal. He was their leader now. He was their last, best hope. Without him, they would all be dead. Dead, like so many of the others.

Quentin scanned the place in which Panax had spotted movement, but saw nothing. It didn't matter; he stayed where he was and kept searching. If the Dwarf said something was there, then it was. They hadn't gotten that far by doubting each other, and getting that far was nothing short of a miracle.

Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to go, not from the moment they had entered that square with its smooth metal floor and irregular sections of wall. An odd formation to begin with, unlike anything the Highlander had ever seen, it whispered of trouble. But Quentin had taken up his position on the left wing of the search party, along with Panax and the Elven Hunters Kian, Wye, and Rusten, and watched as an unaccompanied Walker made his way cautiously ahead. Across the way, barely visible, Ard Patrinell crouched with Ahren Elessedil, the Healer Joad Rish, and three more Elven Hunters. He could just make out their figures, little more than shadows clinging to the protective walls of the outlying buildings. Between them, and well behind the Druid, Bek and the seer Ryer Ord Star waited with three more Elven Hunters. Like a tableau, they were etched in the fading light, motionless statues sealed in place by time and fate.

Quentin had listened carefully for the sound of trouble, for any indication that this place that seemed so like a trap in fact was. He had his sword out already, gripped in one hand and laid flat against the metal square on which he crouched, the ridged pommel not nearly rea.s.suring enough against his sweating palm. Get out of here! He kept shouting the words in the silence of his mind, as if by thinking it he could somehow make it happen. Get out of here now!

Then the first fire threads speared toward the Druid, and Quentin was on his feet instantly, catapulting from his crouch and charging ahead. Rusten went with him, the two of them rus.h.i.+ng to Walker's aid, reckless and willful and foolhardy, ignoring the shouts from Panax to come back. They should have both died. But Quentin tripped and went down, sprawling across the metal floor, and the fall saved his life. Rusten, ahead of him and still charging toward the Druid, was caught in a crossfire of deadly threads and cut apart while still on his feet, screaming as he died.

Moving forward, his dark-cloaked form somehow sliding past the fire threads, Walker was yelling at them to stay back, to get clear of the ruins. Heeding the Druid's command, Quentin crawled back the way he had come, the fire chasing after him, pa.s.sing so close that it seared his clothing. He caught a glimpse of the others, Bek in the center group, the Elves on the right wing, all dispersing and taking cover, s.h.i.+elding themselves from whatever might happen next. Ryer Ord Star bolted from Bek's side, her slender form streaking away into the ruins after Walker, ephemeral and shadowy as she pa.s.sed ghostlike through walls that were now s.h.i.+fting in all directions, charging ahead heedlessly into the heart of the maze. He saw her stumble and go down, struck by one of the deadly threads, and then he lost sight of everything but what was happening right in front of him.

"Creepers!" Panax screamed.

Quentin rolled to his feet to find the first of them almost on top of him, seemingly come out of nowhere. He caught a glimpse of others behind it and to either side. They were of different sizes and shapes and metal compositions, a strange amalgam of what looked to be castoff pieces and oddly formed parts jointed and hinged to make something that seemed not quite real. Blades and powerful cutters glittered at the ends of metal extensions. Protruding metal eyes swiveled. They advanced in a crouch, as if they were armored insects grown large and given life and sent out to hunt.

He destroyed the first so quickly that it was sc.r.a.p metal before he was aware of what he had done. All those long hours of training with the Elven Hunters saved him from the hesitation that would have otherwise cost him his life. He reacted without thinking, striking with the Sword of Leah at the creeper closest, the magic flaring to life instantly, responding to his need. The dark metal blade flashed with fire of its own, blue flames riding up and down the edges of the weapon as he left his antagonist a metal ruin. Without slowing, he leapt over it to confront the next, fighting to reach his companions, who were backed against a nearby wall, struggling with their ordinary weapons to keep a tandem of creepers at bay. He smashed the second creeper, then was struck from the side by something he didn't see and knocked flying. Red threads sought him out, searing their way slowly over the metal carpet, leaving deep grooves that smoked and steamed. He rolled away from them once again, came to his feet, and with a howl of determination launched himself back into the fray.

He fought for what seemed like a long time, but was probably no more than a handful of minutes. Time stopped, and the world around him and all it had offered and might offer again in his young life disappeared. Creepers came at him from everywhere, creepers of all shapes and sizes and looks. He seemed to be a magnet for them, drawing them like flies to the dead. They converged from everywhere. They turned away from Panax and the Elven Hunters to get at him. He was slashed and battered by their attempts to pin him down-not necessarily to kill him, but as if their goal was to capture him. It occurred to him then for the first time that it was the magic they were after.

By then, the magic was all through him. It surfaced with his first sword stroke, the blue fire racing up and down the blade's surface. But soon it was inside him, as well. It fused him with his weapon and made them one, leaving the metal to enter flesh and bone, rus.h.i.+ng through his bloodstream and back out again, all heat and energy. It burned in a captivating, seductive way, filling him with power and a terrible thirst for its feel. Within only a short time, he craved the feeling as he had craved nothing else in his life. It made him believe he could do anything. He had no fear, no hesitation. He was indestructible. He was immortal.

Smoke drifted across the battleground, obscuring everything. He heard the cries of his companions, but he could not see them. Walker had disappeared entirely, as if the earth had swallowed him. Disembodied voices cried out in the darkness. Everyone was cut off, surrounded by fire threads and creepers, caught in a trap from which none of them seemed able to escape. He didn't care. The magic buoyed and sustained him. He wrapped himself in its cloak and, unstoppable, fought with even greater fury.

Finally Panax shouted to him that they had to get clear of the square. It took several tries before he heard the Dwarf, and even then he was reluctant to break off the battle. Slowly, they began to retreat the way they had come. Creepers sought to bar their escape, turning them aside at every opportunity, giving pursuit like hungry wolves, skittering along on their metal struts and spindly legs, strange and awkward machines. The chase veered from one building to another, down one pa.s.sageway to the next, until Quentin had no idea where he was. His arms were tiring, leaden from swinging the sword, and the magic did not come so easily. The Elves and Panax were grim-faced and battle-worn. Time and numbers were eating away at their resistance.

Then, without warning, the creepers pulled back, the fire threads disappeared, and the Highlander and his three companions were left in an empty swirl of smoke and silence. Weapons held before them like talismans, the hunted men backed through the haze, putting distance between themselves and their vanished pursuers, watching everywhere at once, waiting for the attack to resume. But the ruined city seemed to have become a vast burial ground, a ma.s.sive tomb empty of life save for themselves.

So it had gone ever since, with Quentin and the other three edging their way ahead, not entirely certain to where they had gotten themselves or were going. Once or twice, there had been sudden, hurried movements in the shadows, things skittering away too swiftly to be clearly seen. The night had begun to fade and dawn to approach, and sunlight was creeping through the haze that cloaked the city. They searched for signs of their friends, for familiar landmarks, for anything that would tell them where they were. But it all looked the same, and the look never changed.

Now, crouched in yet another part of the ruined city, Quentin found himself almost wis.h.i.+ng he had something to fight again, something of substance to combat. The sustained tension of watching and waiting for invisible creepers and vanished fire threads was wearing him down. Traces of the magic still roiled within him, but a mix of fear and doubt had replaced his craving for it. He did not like what the magic had made him do, as if he were as much a fighting machine as those creepers. He did not like how thoroughly it had dominated him, so much so that even thinking became difficult. There was only response and reaction, need and fulfillment. He had lost himself in the magic, had become someone else.

Without looking at Panax, he whispered, "I can't trust my senses anymore. I'm exhausted."

He felt, rather than saw, the Dwarf nod. "We have to get some rest. But not here. Let's go."

Quentin did not move. He was thinking about Bek, somewhere out there in the haze and rubble, lost at best, dead at worst. He could scarcely bear to think of how badly he had failed his cousin, leaving him behind without meaning or wanting to, abandoning him as surely as Walker seemed to have abandoned them all. He blinked away his weariness and shook his head. He should never have left Bek, not even after Walker had separated them. He should never have believed Bek would be all right without him.

"Let's go, Highlander," Panax growled again.

They rose and started ahead, easing away from the place where the Dwarf had seen movement, skirting the building and the rubble both, choosing a wide avenue that pa.s.sed between a series of what looked like low warehouses with portions of their walls and roofs fallen in and collapsed. Quentin's thoughts were dismal. Who was going to protect Bek if he didn't? With Walker gone, who else was there? Certainly not Ryer Ord Star and maybe not even the Elven Hunters. Not against things like the fire threads and the creepers. Bek was his responsibility; they were each other's responsibilities. What good was a promise to look after someone if you didn't even know where he was?

He peered into the gloom as he walked, seeing other places, remembering better times. He had come a long way from the Highlands to have it all end like this. It had seemed so right to him, that he should do this, he and Bek. To live an adventure they would remember for the rest of their lives-that was why they must come, he had argued that night with Walker. That argument seemed hollow and foolish now.

"Wait," Panax hissed suddenly, bringing him to an abrupt stop.

He glanced at the Dwarf, who was listening intently once more. To one side, Kian and Wye stared out into the gloom. Quentin thought that maybe he was too tired to listen, that even if there was something to hear, he would be unable to tell.

Then he heard it, too. But it wasn't coming from ahead of them. It was coming from behind.

He turned quickly and watched in surprise as a slender figure appeared out of the haze and rubble.

"Where are you going?" Tamis asked in genuine confusion as she approached. She pulled off the leather band that tied back her short-cropped brown hair and shook her head wearily. "Is this all of you there are?"

They welcomed the Tracker with weary smiles of relief, lowering their weapons and gathering around her. Kian and Wye reached out to touch her fingers briefly, the standard Elven Hunter greeting. She nodded to Panax, and then her gray eyes settled on Quentin.

"I've just come from Bek. He's waiting a couple of miles back."

"Bek?" Quentin repeated, a wave of relief surging through him. "Is he all right?"

There was blood on her clothing and scratches on her smooth, tired face. Her clothes were soiled and torn. She didn't look all that different from him, he realized. "He's fine. Better off than you or me, I'd say. I left him in a clearing at the edge of the ruins to watch over the seer while I came looking for you. We're all that's left of our group."

"We lost Rusten," Kian advised quietly.

She nodded. "What about the others? What about Ard Patrinell?"

The Elven Hunter shook his head. "Couldn't tell. Too much smoke and confusion. Everyone disappeared after the fighting started." He nodded at Quentin. "The Highlander saved us. If we hadn't had him and that sword, we would have been finished."