Ilse Witch

Then the gloom began to brighten ahead, the haze to thin, and the sound and movement of the pillars to lessen. Still focused on the crushing weight of the ice and rock, Bek registered the change without letting it distract him. There was a sense of growing warmth, of color returning, and of smells that were of the land and not the sea. The airship surged ahead, propelled by an expectancy and hope Bek had not felt before. He lowered the Sword of Shannara in response, and his connection with the magic was broken. The warmth that infused him drew back, and the light that encircled the blade faded. Still on his knees, exhausted, he sagged to the decking. He breathed in deeply, gratefully, head lowered between his shoulders.

Walker took the Sword of Shannara from his hands and knelt beside him. “We’re through, Bek. We’re safe. Well done, young Ohmsford.”

The boy felt the Druid’s arm come about his shoulders, and then he fell away into blackness and didn’t feel anything.

*

When he regained consciousness, he was lying beneath the foremast with Joad Rish bent over him. He blinked and stared down at himself for a moment, as if needing reassurance that he was still all there, then looked up at the Healer.

“How do you feel?” the Elf asked, concern mirrored in his narrow features.

Bek wanted to laugh. How could he possibly answer that question after what he’d been through? “I’m all right. A little disoriented. How long was I unconscious?”

“No more than a few minutes. Walker said you were thrown into that crate and cracked your head. Do you want to try to stand up?”

With the Healer’s help, Bek climbed to his feet and looked around. The Jerle Shannara was under sail, moving down a broad, twisting channel through a bleak landscape of barren cliff walls and small, rocky islands. But the mist had begun to clear, and traces of blue sky shone in the bright light of an emerging sun. Trees dotted the ridgelines of the cliffs, and the glaciers and ice floes were gone.

A rush of memories crowded into Bek’s mind, hard and fast and dangerous, but he blinked them away. The Squirm and its pillars of ice were gone. The Sword of Shannara was gone, as well, put back into its casing by Walker, he supposed. He shivered momentarily, thinking of all he had experienced, of the feelings generated, of the whiplash of power. The sword’s magic was addictive, he realized. He didn’t need more than one experience with it to know. It was terrifying and overwhelming and incredibly empowering. Just to have survived it made him feel strangely exhilarated. As if he could survive anything. As if he were invulnerable.

Quentin came up and put a hand on his shoulder, asking how he was. Bek repeated Joad Rish’s story about hitting his head when the ship lurched, playing it down. Nothing much. Nothing to give a second thought to. It was such a ridiculous explanation that he felt embarrassed giving it, but he realized it seemed ridiculous only if you knew the truth. One by one, the members of the ship’s company came up to him, and he repeated the story to each. Only Ahren Elessedil voiced any skepticism.

“You’re not usually so clumsy, Bek,” he observed with a grin. “Where were your instincts when you needed them? An Elf wouldn’t have lost his footing so easily.”

“Be a touch more careful next time, young hero,” Little Red joked, ruffling his hair. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

Walker appeared momentarily, shadowed by the slight, silver-haired figure of Ryer Ord Star. Distant, he nodded to the boy without speaking, and passed on. The seer studied the boy carefully before following.

The morning had passed away into afternoon, and the landscape began to change. The sharp-edged cliffs retreated from the waterline and softened to gentle slopes. Green and lush in the sunlight, forests appeared. From where they flew, the ship’s company saw rolling hills stretching into the distance for miles. The river they followed split into dozens of smaller tributaries that spiderwebbed out through the trees to form lakes, rivers, and streams. There was no sign of the ocean; the peninsula was sufficiently large that its outer shores were too distant to spy. Clouds were gathered on the horizons to either side and behind, markers of where the shoreline probably lay. Bek thought that Redden Alt Mer had been right not to try to fly over the cliffs to come inland. Even had they been able to do so, they would probably never have found this channel in the maze of rivers that surrounded it. Only by coming through the Squirm could they have known where to go.

The channel narrowed, hemmed in by old-growth spruce and cedar, the scent of the trees fragrant and lush on the warming air. The smells of the sea, of kelp and seaweed and fish, had faded. For all that remained of the coastline and its forbidding passage through the Squirm, they might have passed into another world entirely. Hawks1 soared overhead in slow, sweeping glides. Crows cawed raucously, their calls echoing down the defile. The Jerle Shannara edged ahead carefully, so close to the shore at times that its spars brushed against the tree limbs.