THE VOYAGE OF THE JERLE SHANNARA : Morgawr (BOOK THREE)

“Walker,” she begged softly, “please help me.”


She had called to him all night, but this time he responded. He appeared out of nowhere, suspended in air before her, his dark countenance pale and haunted, but so comforting to her that she would have welcomed it even if it was nothing more than a mirage. Wrapped in his Druid robes, he was a shade come from death’s gate, a presence less of this world than the one beyond, yet in his eyes she found what she was seeking.

“Let me go,” she whispered, the words thick and clotted in her throat. “Set me free.”

He reached for her with his one good arm, his strong hand brushing against her ravaged cheeks, and his voice was filled with healing.

–Come with me–

She shook her head helplessly. “I cannot. The ropes hold me.”

–Only because you cling to them. Release your grip–

She did so, not knowing how exactly, only knowing that because he said so, she could. She slipped from her bonds as if they were loose cords and stepped out into the air as if she weighed nothing. Her pain and her fear fell away like old clothes she had tossed aside. Her heartache subsided. She stood next to him, and when he reached out a second time, she took his hand in her own.

He smiled then and drew her close.

–Come away–

She did so, at rest and at peace, redeemed and forgiven, made whole by her sacrifice, and she did not look back.





Twenty-six

When he went to look for the Ahren Elessedil shortly after dawn, Bek Ohmsford found him sitting at the stern of the Jerle Shannara. They had been airborne for more than three hours by then, flying south through heavy clouds and gray skies, intent on reaching the coast before nightfall.

The Elven Prince glanced up at him with tired eyes. He had been asleep for almost twelve hours, but looked haggard even so. “Hello, Bek,” he said.

“Hello, yourself.” He plopped down next to Ahren, resting his back against the ship’s railing. “It’s good to have you back. I thought we might have lost you.”

“I thought so, too. More than once.”

“You were lucky Hunter Predd found you when he did. I heard the story. I don’t know how you did it. I don’t think I could have. Flying all that way without food or rest.”

Ahren Elessedil’s smile was faint and sad. “You can do anything if you’re scared enough.”

They were silent then, sitting shoulder to shoulder, staring down the length of the airship as she nosed ahead through ragged wisps of cloud and mist. The air had a damp feel to it and smelled of the sea. Redden Alt Mer and his Rovers had cut short the repairs to the Jerle Shannara last night, installed the recovered diapson crystals early this morning, and lifted off at first light. The Rover Captain knew that the Morgawr had some control over the Shrikes that inhabited the coastal regions of Parkasia, and he was afraid that the birds that had attacked Ahren would alert the warlock and lead him to them. He could have used another day of work on his vessel, but the risk of staying on the ground any longer was too great. No one was upset with his decision. Memories of the Crake Rain Forest were fresh in everyone’s minds.

In the pilot box, Spanner Frew stood at the helm, his big frame blocking the movements of his hands as he worked the controls. Now and then he shouted orders to one of the Rovers walking the deck, his rough voice booming through the creaking of the rigging, his bearded face turning to reveal its fierce set. There weren’t all that many of them left to shout at, Bek thought. He numbered them in his head. Ten, counting himself. Twelve, if you added in the Wing Riders. Out of more than thirty who had started out all those months ago, that was all. Just twelve.

Make that thirteen, he corrected himself, adding in Grianne. Lucky thirteen.

“How is your sister?” Ahren asked him, as if reading his mind.

“Still the same. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t see me, doesn’t respond to anything, won’t eat or drink. Just sits there and stares at nothing.” He looked over at the Elf. “Except for two nights ago. The night you were rescued, she saved Quentin.”

He told Ahren the details as he had done for everyone else, aware that by doing so he was giving hope to himself as much as to them that Grianne might recover, and that when she did, she might not be the Ilse Witch anymore. It remained a faint hope, but he needed to believe that the losses suffered and the pain endured might count for something in the end. Ahren listened attentively, his young face expressionless, but his eyes distant and reflective.

When Bek was finished, he said quietly, “At least you were able to save someone other than yourself. I couldn’t even do that.”

Bek had heard the story of his escape from Black Moclips from Hunter Predd. He knew what the Elf was talking about.