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

“See anything?” Ahren asked him, coming alongside.

Kian shook his head. They stood together listening, then heard a second explosion, this one of a deeper sort. There were sounds of fighting, as well, distant but clear, the bright, sharp clang of blades and sudden cries of injured or dying men. More explosions followed, and then silence.

They waited a long time for something more, but the silence only deepened. The minutes ticked away, sluggish footfalls leading nowhere. Ahren grew steadily more impatient. He had the Elfstones tucked in his tunic and his broadsword belted at his waist. If he had to fight, he was ready. But there would be no fighting so long as he stayed here.

“I think we should go look for them,” he said finally.

Kian shook his head, his dark face expressionless. “Someone has to stay with the airship, Elven Prince. We can’t leave her unguarded.”

Ahren knew Kian was right, but it didn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it made him feel worse. His obligation to the company required him to stay aboard the Jerle Shannara even when it made him feel entirely useless. It wasn’t so much that he was anxious to fight, but more that he didn’t want to feel as if he wasn’t doing his part. It seemed to him that he had failed as a member of this company in every conceivable way. He had failed his friends in the ruins of Castledown when he had run away. He had failed Walker by not being able to recover the Elfstones in time to help him in his battle with Antrax. He had failed Ryer Ord Star by leaving her behind when he escaped Black Moclips and the Morgawr.

He was particularly bothered by the death of the seer. Big Red had smoothed out the rough parts, but there was no way to soften the impact. Ahren’s sense of guilt went unrelieved. He had been in such a rush to escape that he had let himself believe the lie she told him without questioning it. She had sacrificed herself for him, and to his way of thinking it should have been the other way around.

He sighed with sad resolution. It was too late to change what had happened to her, but not too late to make certain that it didn’t happen to someone else. Yet what chance did he have to affect anything stuck back here on the Jerle Shannara while everyone else went off to fight his battles for him?

There were more explosions, and then a huge grinding sound that rolled through the ruins like an avalanche. The ground shook so heavily that it rocked the airship and sent both Elves careening into the ship’s railing, which they quickly grabbed for support. Blocks of stone tumbled from the battlements and towers of the old castle, and new cracks appeared in the walls and flooring, opening like hungry mouths.

When the grinding ended, it was silent again. Ahren stared into the ruins, trying to make sense of things, but there was no way to do that from here.

He turned to Kian in exasperation. “I’m going to have a look. Something’s happened.”

Kian blocked his way, facing him. “No, Elven Prince. It isn’t safe for you—”

He gave a sharp grunt, and his eyes went wide in shock. As Ahren watched in confusion, Kian took two quick steps toward him and toppled over, eyes fixed and staring. Ahren caught him as he fell, lowering him to the ship’s decking. The haft of a throwing knife protruded from his back, the blade buried to the hilt.

Ahren released him, rushed to the railing and peered over. A Mwellret had hold of the rope ladder and was climbing its rungs. The dark, blunt face lifted into the light, the yellow eyes fixing on Ahren. It was Cree Bega.

“Little Elvess,” he purred. “Ssuch foolss.”

Unable to believe what was happening, Ahren backed away in horror. He glanced down quickly at Kian, but the Elven Hunter was dead. There was no one else aboard, save Quentin, and the Highlander was too sick to help.

Too late, he thought to cut the ladder away. By then, Cree Bega was climbing onto the deck across from him.

“Musstn’t be frightened of me, little Elvess,” he hissed. “Doess little Elvess thinkss I mean them harm?”

He stepped over to Kian and pulled out his knife. He held it up as if to examine it, letting the blood run down the smooth, bright blade onto his fingers. His dark tongue slipped out, licking the blood away.

Ahren was frantic. He backed all the way to the pilot box before he stopped, fighting to control his terror. He couldn’t use the Elfstones, his most powerful weapon, because they only worked to defend against creatures of magic. Nor could he run, because if he ran, Quentin was a dead man. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t run anyway, not if he wanted to retain even a shred of self-respect. It was better that he died here and now than flee again, than fail still another time to do what was needed.