Ilse Witch

It was nearing midmorning when they reached the gap in the cliffs and rode the edges of the air currents through its opening and into the silence and calm beyond. The roar of the ocean and the whistle of the wind died away, and the bay with its cliff walls and cloud ceiling enfolded them like an anxious mother would her offspring. The ship’s company crowded to the railings and looked out over the gray expanse of water and ice. Floes passed beneath like massive ships launched off the glaciers, riding the currents out to sea. Ice cracked and chuttered in the silence, filling hearts with sudden moments of apprehension and eyes with bright looks of concern. Bek stood in the cold and silence like a statue, wrapped in the former’s raw burn and layered in the latter’s rough emptiness.

The Jerle Shannara passed through the outer bay and rode down the narrowing channel inland, the ceiling of mist lowering to scrape the airship’s raked masts, the gloom a whisper of shadows that tricked the eyes into seeing things that weren’t there. No one spoke as the airship slid past icebergs and along cliff walls, moving so slowly that it seemed almost at rest. Seabirds arced and soared about them, soundless and spectral. Bek watched them keep pace, following their progress, intrigued by their obvious interest.

Then his throat tightened and his breath exhaled in a sharp cloud as he realized they were waiting to see if there would be bones to pick once the airship reached the Squirm.

Moments later the haze cleared sufficiently that he could see the first of the ice pillars that barred their passage, towering spikes swaying hypnotically, seductively in the gloom.

“Come with me,” Walker said softly, causing the boy to jump, to feel the tightening in his throat work swiftly to his chest and stomach.

So it was time. He remembered his certainty months earlier when he had agreed to come on this voyage that it would change him forever. It had done that, but not to the extent it was about to do now. He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of fear and doubt. He understood that the course of his life was already determined, but he could not quite accept it, even now. Still, he must do the best he could.

Obediently, silently, willing himself to place one foot in front of the other, Bek followed after the Druid.

TWENTY-EIGHT





Bek waited in the shadow of the chain-wrapped casing that housed the Sword of Shannara while Walker moved everyone back from the forward deck to take up positions along the aft and side railings. Redden Alt Mer occupied the pilot box with Rue Meridian. Spanner Frew stood just below, ready to leap into action if his aid was required. Furl Hawken commanded the Rover crew from the rise of the aft deck, and the Elven Hunters under Ard Patrinell clustered on both sides, safety lines firmly attached. Panax, Quentin, and Ahren Elessedil were gathered on the starboard railing just to one side of the aft mast, whispering. About him, Bek thought uncomfortably, but that was nonsense. Their eyes were directed toward the Squirm, and their concentration was on its movements within the ice-melt bay. Only Walker knew what he was there to do. Only Walker understood how much depended on him.

The Druid reappeared at his side. “Ready, Bek?”

Not trusting himself to speak, the boy nodded. He was not ready, of course. He would never be ready for something as frightening as this. There was no way to become ready. All he could do was trust that the Druid was right about his connection to the magic and hope that he could find a way to make himself do what was needed.

But looking at the monstrous barrier ahead, at the tons of ice and rock that rose above him, he could not imagine doing anything that would make a difference.

He breathed slowly, calming himself, waiting for something to happen. The Jerle Shannara advanced toward the pillars on a slow, steady course, easing up to the barrier as if seeking an invitation to enter. Walker was speaking to Redden Alt Mer, but Bek could not make himself focus on the words. His heart was hammering in his chest, and all he could hear was the sound of his breathing and the cracking of the ice as new pieces broke away.

“Now, Bek,” the Druid said softly.

Walker’s hand swept the air about them, and the air shimmered and turned murky with a swirling of mist and gloom. Everything behind and to either side of the boy and the Druid lost focus and faded away. All that remained was a window before them that opened on the channel and the cliffs and the ice.

As if in response, the pillars began to move.

“Hold steady, Bek,” Walker urged softly, touching Bek’s shoulder to reassure him, dark face close, his eyes staring out at the ice as it came together.

Like mobile teeth, the pillars tilted and clashed, grinding and crunching until shards of ice splintered and flew in all directions. The sea below boiled and crashed in waves against the base of the cliffs, spray rising in clouds to mingle with the mist. Bek flinched at the sound and the motion, hunched his shoulder1s in spite of himself. He could feel the ice closing about him, crushing him, reducing the airship to driftwood and the ship’s company to pulp. He could feel it happening as if it really were, tearing at him in ways that turned him so cold and dead he could not bear it. He stood on the deck of the Jerle Shannara, washed by spray and hammered by sound, and felt as if his soul had been torn open.

Something burned before him, a beacon out of the gloom, rising like a flame into the gray haze. He stared at it in wonder, and he saw that he held in his hands the Sword of Shannara and that it was ablaze with light.