Ilse Witch

Anchored well offshore and forty feet above the water, the company of the Jerle Shannara spent the night in the tree-sheltered bay. Taking no chances, Walker set a full watch—one man forward, one aft, and one in the pilot box—using Rovers so that the Elven Hunters could get a full night’s sleep and be fresh for the morning’s search. Even so, the Druid suspected that sleep was an elusive quantity that night. He slept little himself, and while pacing the corridors and decks he encountered, at one time or another, almost everyone else doing the same. Anticipation kept them all on edge and restless, and even the absence of wind and surf did nothing to ease their discomfort.

Dawn arrived in a flare of golden light that burst through the trees and across the horizon, brightening a clear blue sky and heralding a weather-perfect day. The members of the company were up and moving about almost instantly, grateful for any excuse to quit pretending that sleep might somehow come. Breakfast was consumed and weapons and provisions were gathered up. The search party gathered on deck in the early light, grim-faced and resolved, no one saying much, everyone waiting for the order to depart. Walker did not give it at once. He spent a long time conversing with Redden Alt Mer and Rue Meridian, then with Spanner Frew. They walked the length and breadth of the airship while they spoke, one or the other gesturing now and then at the ship or the surrounding forest. Bek watched them from where he sat cross-legged against the port railing, running through a list of what he carried, checking it off mentally against the list he had prepared last night. He bore virtually no weapons—a dagger and a sling—and he was less than comfortable with having only those for protection. But Walker had insisted they were all he would need or could carry, and no amount of protesting on his part had changed the Druid’s mind.

“This would be a good day for hunting,” Quentin, who was seated beside him, his gear at his feet, observed.

Bek nodded. Quentin carried a short sword at his belt, a bow and arrows over his shoulder, and the Sword of Leah strapped across his back in the Highland style. Bek supposed that if they encountered anything really dangerous, he could rely on his cousin to come to his aid.

“Do you suppose they have boar here?”

“What difference does it make?” Bek found the small talk irritating and unnecessary.

“I was just wondering.” Quentin seemed unperturbed. “It just feels a little like home to me.”

Ashamed of his disgruntled attitude, Bek forc1ed a smile. “They have lots of boar here, and you couldn’t track a one of them without me.”

“Do tell.” Quentin arched one eyebrow. “Will I see some proof of your prowess one day soon? Or will I have to go on taking your word for it for the rest of my life?”

He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. Quentin seemed loose and easy on the outside, but Bek knew he was as anxious as the rest of them where it couldn’t be seen. The banter was a time-honored way around it, a method of dealing with it that both instinctively relied on. They had used it before, on hunts where the game they tracked was dangerous, like boar or bear, and the risk of injury was severe. It moved them a step away from thinking about what might happen if something went wrong, and it helped to prevent the kind of gradual paralysis that could steal over someone like a sickness and surface when it was too late to find an antidote.

Bek glanced across the decking to where the Elven Hunters clustered around Ard Patrinell, talking in their low, soft voices as they exchanged comments and banter of their own. Ahren Elessedil stood a little apart from them, staring off into the trees, where night’s shadows still folded through the gaps in thick layers and the silence was deep and steady. Nothing of his newfound maturity was in evidence this morning. He looked like a little boy, frightened and lost, stiff with recognition of what might happen to him and fighting a losing battle against the growing certainty that it would. He carried a short sword and bow and arrows, but from the look on his face he might as well have been carrying Bek’s weapons.

Bek watched him a moment, thinking about how Ahren must feel, about the responsibility he bore as nominal leader of the expedition, then made a quick decision and climbed to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he told Quentin.

He crossed to Ahren and greeted him with a broad grin. “Another day, another adventure,” he offered brightly. “At least Ard Patrinell gave you a real sword and an ash bow.”

Ahren started at the sound of Bek’s voice, but managed to recover a little of his lost composure. “What do you mean?”

“Look what Walker gave me.” Bek gestured at his dagger and sling. “Any small birds or squirrels that come after me, I’m ready for them.”

Ahren smiled nervously. “I wish I could say the same. I can barely make my legs move. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Quentin would say you haven’t hunted enough wild boar. Look, I came over to ask a favor. I want you to keep this for me.”