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

“The caulls?”


“The caulls. Mutations of humans captured and altered by magic.” He shifted his gaze back to Bek. “Your sister’s work, I would have said, if she wasn’t here with us. So it must be the Morgawr. Wonder where he found his victims.”

Bek sat up quickly. “Not Quentin or the others? Not the Rovers?”

Truls Rohk took his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Don’t think about it. Think about staying one step ahead of them. That’s worry enough for now.”

He walked over to the supplies pack he carried and pulled out some of the bread. Breaking off a piece, he handed it to Bek. “If you were like me, you wouldn’t need this.” He laughed softly. “Of course, if you were like me, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Bek took the bread and ate it. “Thanks for staying with us,” he said, nodding toward the still-sleeping Grianne.

The shape-shifter grunted noncommittally. “Packs of caulls and Mwellrets are everywhere in these woods, dozens of them. They’re not chasing only us, either. I heard the sounds of someone else fighting them off when I went back to scout—a larger group, somewhere off to our right, heading into the mountains. I didn’t have time to see who it was. It probably doesn’t bear thinking on, except that maybe it will draw some of the rets away.”

He gestured impatiently, a faceless darkness within his hood. “Enough. Let’s be off.”

He scooped up Grianne, and they started out once more. They went swiftly and silently through the trees, then Truls moved them into a shallow stream, which they followed for several miles. It was as if they were repeating the events of less than a week ago. They were taking a different path, but traversing the same woods. Again, they were fleeing a hunter possessed of magic and a creature created to track them. Again, they were fleeing the ruins of Castledown, heading inland. Again, they were running away from something and toward nothing.

Ironic and darkly comic, but pathetic, as well, Bek thought.

As the morning slipped away, in spite of his companion’s warning not to do so, he found himself speculating on the fate of his missing friends. He could not bear to think of them made over into caulls, not after what they had already endured. An image of Quentin become a snarling animal flashed through his mind. Wouldn’t he know if that had happened? Wouldn’t he feel it? But he wasn’t Ryer Ord Star, so he couldn’t be sure. At this point, he couldn’t even be certain his cousin was still alive. The wishsong was a powerful magic, but it didn’t make him prescient. There was nothing he could know of what happened to anyone but Walker.

He reflected anew on last night’s visit from Walker’s shade. He had said nothing of it to Truls. He was not sure why, only that there didn’t seem to be any reason for it. If Walker had wanted Truls to hear what he had to say, wouldn’t he have appeared to both of them? It was difficult enough dealing with Truls without having to argue over Walker’s enigmatic pronouncements. The Druid had been quick enough to let Bek know that his destiny was not tied to that of the shape-shifter. Though they traveled together and for the moment, at least, shared a common cause, that did not mean things wouldn’t change. They had changed so often on this journey that Bek knew he could ill afford to take anything for granted. There was nothing in Walker’s message that was meant for Truls, nothing that would help or inform him, nothing that would change what they were doing now.

Bek didn’t like dissembling, and although he could argue that he wasn’t doing that here, it was close enough to feel like it.

His thoughts shifted to his present situation. He wondered if there was any chance at all that one of the Wing Riders would catch sight of them from the skies. He knew how unlikely that was, given the size and depth of this forest. They were like ants down here, all but invisible from above. Only a ground creature like a caull could track them, and that was exactly what they didn’t need.

He pushed away the idea of rescue. He was dreaming, he knew. He was grasping at anything that offered even a semblance of hope. He could not afford such desperation. Determination and perseverance were all that he was allowed.