The Heritage of Shannara (233 page)

W
ren was as surprised to see Morgan Leah as he was to see her. Tall and lean and quick-eyed, he was exactly as she remembered him— and at the same time he was different. He seemed older somehow, more worn. And there was something in the look he gave her. She blinked up at him. What was he doing here? She tried to straighten up, but her strength failed her and she would have fallen back again if the Highlander hadn't reached down to catch her. He knelt at her side, withdrew a hunting knife from his belt, and severed her bonds and gag.

“Morgan,” she breathed, relieved beyond measure, and reached up to embrace him. “I'm sure glad to see you.”

He managed a quick, tight smile, and a bit of the mischievousness returned to his haggard face. “You look a wreck, Wren. What happened?”

She smiled back wearily, aware of how she must appear, her face all bruised and swollen. “I made a serious error in judgment, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I'm all right now.”

He picked her up anyway and carried her from the ruins of the wagon into the dawn light, setting her gingerly back on her feet. She rubbed her wrists and ankles to restore the circulation, then knelt to wet her hands with dew from the still-damp grasses and dabbed tentatively at her injured face.

She looked up at him. “I thought there was no hope for me at all. How did you find me?”

He shook his head. “Blind luck. I wasn't even looking for you. I was looking for Par. I thought the Shadowen were transporting him in the wagon. I had no idea at all it was you.”

There had been disappointment in his eyes when he had recognized her. She understood now why. He had been certain it was Par he had rescued.

“I'm sorry I'm not Par,” she told him. “But thanks anyway.”

He shrugged, and grimaced with the movement, and she saw the mix of red and green blood on his clothing. “What are you doing here, Wren?”

She rose to face him. “It's a long story. How much time do we have?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Not much. Southwatch is only a few miles away. The Shadowen will have heard the fighting. We have to get away as soon as we can.”

“Then I'll keep it short.” She felt stronger now, flushed with urgency and renewed determination. She was free again, and she intended to make the most of it. “The Elves have returned to the Four Lands, Morgan. I found them on an island in the Blue Divide where they've been living for almost a hundred years, and I brought them back. It was Allanon's charge to me, and I finally accepted it. Their queen, Ellenroh Elessedil was my grandmother. She died on the way, and now I am queen.” She saw the astonishment in his eyes and gripped his arm to silence him. “Just listen. The Elves are besieged by a Federation army ten times their size. They fight a delaying action just south of the Valley of Rhenn. I have to get back to them at once. Do you want to come with me?”

The Highlander stared. “Wren Elessedil,” he said softly, trying the name out. Then he shook his head, and his voice tightened. “No, I can't, Wren. I have to find Par. He may be a prisoner of the Shadowen at South-watch. There are others out looking for him as well. I promised to wait for them.”

His voice had an edge to it that did not allow for argument, but he added reluctantly, “But if you really need me …”

She stopped him with a squeeze of her hand. “I can make it back on my own. But there is something I have to tell you first, and you have to promise me that you will tell the others when you see them again.” Her grip tightened. “Where are they, anyway? What's become of them? What's happened with Allanon's charges? Did the others fulfill them as well?” She was speaking too rapidly, and she forced herself to slow down, to stay calm, not to look off to the east and the brightening sky. “Here, sit down. Let me have a look at your wound.”

She took his arm and led him to a moss-covered log where she seated
him, stripped off his shirt, tore it in strips, and cleaned and bound the sword slash as best she could.

“Par and Coll found the Sword of Shannara, but then they disappeared,” he told her as she worked. “It's too long a story for now. I've been tracking Par; he may be tracking Coll. I don't know who has the Sword. As for Walker, I was with him when he went north to recover a magic that would restore Paranor and the Druids. He was successful, and we came back together, but I haven't seen him since.” He shook his head. “Paranor's back. The Sword's found. The charges are all fulfilled, but I don't know what difference it makes.”

She finished tying up his wound and moved back around in front of him. “Neither do I. But in some way it does. We just have to find out how.” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, and her hazel eyes fixed him. “Now, listen. This is what you are to tell the others.” She took a deep breath. “The Shadowen are Elves. They are Elves who rediscovered the old magic and thought to use it recklessly. They stayed behind when the rest of the Elven nation fled the Four Lands and the Federation. The magic subverted them as it does everything; it made them into the Shad-owen. They are another form of the Skull Bearers of old, dark wraiths for which the magic is a craving they cannot resist. I don't know how they can be destroyed, but it must be done. Allanon was right—they are an evil that threatens us all. The answers we need lie in the purpose of fulfilling the charges that we were given. One of us will discover the truth. We must. Tell them what I've told to you, Morgan. Promise me.”

Morgan rose. “I'll tell them.”

A heron's cry pierced the morning stillness, and Wren jerked about. “Wait here,” she said.

She hobbled over to the fallen Shadowen and began rifling through their clothing. One of them, she knew, had the Elfstones, stolen from her by Tib Arne. Her anger at him burned anew. She searched the closest two and found nothing. She stirred the ashes of the one Morgan had burned through and found nothing there either. Then she went back to the driver and his companion, to their severed bodies, and ignoring what had been done to them, she worked her way carefully through their robes.

In the cloak pocket of one she found the pouch and the Stones. Exhaling sharply, she stuffed the pouch into her tunic and limped back toward Morgan.

Halfway there, she saw the Shadowen horse that hadn't run grazing at the edge of the trees. She stopped, considered momentarily, then put her fingers to her mouth and gave a strange, low-pitched whistle. The horse looked up, ears pricking toward the sound. She whistled again, varying the pitch slightly. The horse stared at her, then pawed the earth. She walked over to the animal slowly, talking softly and holding out her hand. The horse sniffed at her, and she reached out to stroke his neck and flank. For a few moments they tested each other, and then suddenly she was on his back, still talking soothingly, the reins in her hands.

The horse whinnied and pranced at her touch. She guided him back to where Morgan waited and climbed down.

“I'll need him if I expect to make any time,” she said, one hand still firmly gripping the reins. “What we find belongs to us, the Rovers used to say. Guess I haven't forgotten everything they taught me.” She smiled and reached out to touch his arm. “I don't know when we'll meet up again, Morgan.”

He nodded. “You better get going.”

“I owe you, Highlander. I won't forget.” She vaulted back into the saddle. “We've come a long way from the Hadeshorn, haven't we?”

“From the Hadeshorn, from everything. Farther than I would have dreamed. Watch out for yourself, Wren.”

“And you. Good luck to us both.”

She met his eyes a moment longer, drawing on the strength she found there, taking heart in the fact that she was not as alone as she had believed, that help sometimes came from unexpected sources.

Then she dug her boots into the horse's flanks and galloped away.

She rode west after the retreating night until daylight overtook her, then stopped to rest the horse and let him drink from a pool of water. She rubbed at her wrists and ankles some more, washing clean the deep cuts and dark bruises, and swore to herself that when she caught up with Tib Arne she would make him pay dearly. She had not eaten or drunk in almost twelve hours, but there was no time to search for food or drinking water now. Once the Shadowen discovered she had escaped, they would be after her. They would be after Morgan Leah as well, she thought, and hoped he knew a good hiding place.

She remounted and rode on, following the grasslands out of the hill country to the plains below Tyrsis that led into the Tirfing. The day was turning hot and humid, the sky a cloudless blue and the sun a white-fire furnace. The trees thinned into scattered groves and then into stands of two and three and finally disappeared altogether. Midday arrived, and she crossed the Mermidon at a narrows, the river's waters low and sluggish here, dwindling away into the flats. Her body and face ached from the beating and the trussing, but she ignored her discomfort, thinking instead of the havoc that her disappearance must have caused. By now they would be searching for her everywhere. Perhaps they had found Erring Rift and Grayl and thought her dead as well. Perhaps they had given up on her, choosing to concentrate on the Federation army and the Creepers. Some would surely recommend that she be forgotten. Some would find her disappearance a blessing …

She brushed the prospect aside. She had nothing to prove to anyone. The fact remained that she needed to get back. Barsimmon Oridio would be nearing the Rhenn with the main body of the Elven army. With luck, Tiger Ty would be returning with the Federation. If she could reach them before any fighting began …

She stopped herself.

What?

What would she do?

She blocked the question away. It didn't matter what she did. It would be enough that she was there, that the Elves knew they had their queen back, that the Federation must deal with her anew.

She turned north to follow the Mermidon and found water for the horse on the plains, but none for herself. The sun beat down overhead, and the air sucked the moisture from her body. She was tired, and the horse was tiring as well. She could not keep on much longer. She would have to stop and wait out the heat. The thought made her grind her teeth. She didn't have time for that! She didn't have time for anything but going on!

She rested finally, knowing she must, finding a grove of ash close to the riverbank where it was cool enough to escape the worst of the heat. She found some berries that were more bitter than sweet and a gum root that gave her something to chew on. She stripped the horse of his saddle and tethered him. Resting back within the trees, she watched the river flow past, and though she did not mean to do so she fell asleep.

It was late in the afternoon when she woke again, startled out of a restless doze by the soft whicker of her horse. She came to her feet instantly, seeing its shaggy head pointed south, and she looked off across the plains and river to find horsemen coming toward her from several miles off— black-cloaked, hooded horsemen, whose identity was no secret.

She saddled her mount and was off. She rode several miles along the riverbank at a quick trot, glancing back to see if her pursuers were following. They were, of course, and she had the feeling that more might be waiting ahead at Tyrsis. The light faded west, turning silver, then rose, then gray, and when the haze of early twilight set in, she turned away from the river and headed west onto the plains. She would have a better chance of losing her pursuit there, she reasoned. She was a Rover, after all. Once it was dark, no one would be able to track her. All she needed was a little time and luck.

She found neither. Shortly after, her horse began to falter. She urged him on with whispered promises and encouraging pats about the neck and ears, but he was played out. Behind, her pursuers had fanned out across the horizon, distant still, but coming on. The haze was deepening, but the moon and first stars were out, and there would be light enough for a hunter to see by. She stiffened her resolve and rode on.

When her horse stumbled and went down, she rolled free, rose, went back to him, got him to his feet again, unstrapped his saddle and bridle, and set him free. She began walking, limping because her injuries were still painful and inhibiting, angry and tired and determined not to be taken again. She walked without looking back for a long time, until the night had settled in completely, and the whole of the plains were bathed in white light. The plains were silent and empty, and she knew her pursuers were not close enough yet to worry about or she would have heard them, and so
she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and simply going on.

When she finally did look back, no one was there.

She stared in disbelief. There wasn't one rider, not a single horse, no one afoot, nothing. She took a deep breath to calm herself and looked again—not just east, but all about this time, thinking in sudden fear that she had been flanked. But there was no one out there. She was alone.

She smiled in bewilderment.

And then she saw the dark shadow high overhead winging its way toward her, slow and lazy and as inevitable as winter cold. Her heart lurched in dismay as she watched it take shape. Not for a second did she think it was one of the Wing Riders come in search of her. Not for an instant did she mistake it for a friend. It was Gloon she was seeing. She knew him instantly. She recognized the blocky muscled body, the jut of the war shrike's fierce crested head, the sharp hook of the broad wings. She swallowed against her fear. No wonder the Seekers had fallen back. There was no need to hurry with Gloon to hunt her down.

Tib Arne would be riding him, of course. In her mind she saw the boy's chameleon face, first friend, then foe; human, then Shadowen. She could hear his grating laughter, feel the heat of his breath on her face as he struck her, taste the blood in her mouth from the blows …

She looked about for a place to hide and quickly discarded the idea. She was already seen, and wherever she hid she would be found. She could either run or fight—and she was tired of running.

She reached down into her tunic and took out the Elfstones. She balanced them in her hand, as if the weight of their magic could be determined and so the outcome of her battle decided early. She glanced west to the horizon, but there was nothing to see, the forests still lost below the horizon. No one would be searching for her anyway—not this far out and not at night. She gritted her teeth, thinking of Garth again, wondering what he would do. She watched Gloon wing his way closer, taking his time, riding the wind currents smoothly, easily, confident in his power and skill, in what he could do. The war shrike would try to take her on his first pass, she thought—quick and decisive, before she could bring the magic of the Elfstones to bear. And it would not be easy using the Elfstones against a moving target.