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?"
"It's a long story. Do you want to hear it?"
"Tell me on the way." She handed the talisman back. "You bear the weight of it while we travel. Just don't let me find it in your hands again."
"You can keep it if you want."
There was a flicker of amusement on her pale face. "I don't need you to tell me that. I can take it from you whenever I choose. Make sure you remember."
She started away, not bothering to look back to see if he was following. He hesitated a moment, then started after her. "What about Truls Rohk?"
She cast a quick glance over one shoulder, and the hard determination that had stamped her features so clearly on their first encounter was back in place. "He'll find you gone when he returns, but I don't think he will do anything about it."
She didn't explain further. Bek knew that even if he asked her to do so, she wouldn't. With an apprehensive glance back at the deserted clearing, he followed her into the night.
Truls Rohk flew through the darkness, a silent shadow twisting past trees and leaping over gullies and ravines. He was driven by fear for the boy and anger at himself. He had been unforgivably careless, and Bek Ohmsford would pay the price for it if he didn't reach him in time.
All about him, the forest was a silent curtain behind which eyes watched and waited.
He ascended the mountain slope at a dead run, alert for the presence of the witch and her caull, sensing neither yet, but knowing they must be close. He tried to calculate how far ahead of him they might have gotten, but it was impossible to do. At best, he could only hazard a guess. He had lost track of time while watching from his perch, while being deceived by those magic-induced wraiths. He knew he had to assume the worst, that she had reached the boy already, that she had made him her prisoner, and that it would be up to the shape-shifter to set him free again.
When he reached the place within the trees where he had left the boy, the clearing was empty, the boy gone, and the scent of the witch everywhere. Silence layered the open space as he entered it, watchful still, cautious of traps she might have left. It was beginning to rain, the drops falling in a soft patter on the dry moonlit earth, staining it the color of the shadows.
The boy's long knife lay to one side, discarded. He walked over and knelt to pick it up. As he did so, the caull slid from the forest shadows behind him. Silky smooth and powerful, massive jaws gaping wide, it launched itself at his head.
THIRTEEN
A handful of the Rindge took Quentin Leah and his companions from the ruins of Castledown back to their village. Most stayed to finish setting traps for the mysterious wronks, but the one who had spoken with Panax, along with several of his fellows, broke off from the main group to act as escort. Although the Rindge made no mention of it, the bloodied, ragged, and worn condition of their visitors made it obvious they needed food, rest, and medical treatment. Quentin and company, while reluctant to break off their search for the others, realized they were in no condition to continue. If they were to be effective in finding their missing friends, they would first need to eat, dress their wounds properly, and sleep in a safe place. Moreover, the Rindge might prove helpful in telling them how and where to direct their efforts once they resumed looking.