The Elf Queen of Shannara

So don’t give up, Wren kept telling herself, the words a litany of hope to keep her confidence from failing completely. Don’t give up.

The third night dragged away, minutes into hours. They changed the watch frequently because by now neither could sleep for more than a short time without waking. More often than not they kept watch together—uneasy, anxious, worried. They fed deadwood into the flames and watched the fire dance against the night. They stared out over the black void above the Blue Divide. They sifted through the night sounds and their scattered thoughts.

Nothing happened. No one came.

It was nearing morning when Wren dozed off in spite of herself, some time during the final hour of her watch. She was still sitting up, her legs crossed, her arms about her knees, and her head dipped forward. It seemed only moments had passed when she jerked awake again. She glanced about warily. Garth was asleep a few feet away, wrapped in his great cloak. The fire continued to burn fiercely. The land was cloaked in a frost-tipped blanket of shadows and half-light, the sunrise no more than a faint silver lightening at the rim of the mountains east. A scattering of stars still brightened the sky west, although the moon had long since disappeared. Wren yawned and stood up. Clouds were moving in from out on the ocean, low-hanging, dark . . .

She started. She was seeing something else, she realized, something blacker and swifter, moving out of the darkness for the bluffs, streaking directly for her. She blinked to make certain, then stepped back hurriedly and reached down for Garth. The big Rover was on his feet at once. Together they faced out across the Divide, watching the black thing take shape. It was a Roc, they realized after a few seconds more, winging its way toward the fire like a moth drawn by the flames. It swept across the bluff and wheeled back again, its outline barely visible in the faint light. It flew over them twice, turning each time, crossing and recrossing as if studying what lay below. Wren and Garth watched wordlessly, unable to do anything else.

Finally, the Roc plummeted toward them, its massive body whistling overhead, so close it might have snatched them up with its great claws if it had wished. Wren and Garth flattened themselves against the rocks protectively and stared as the bird settled comfortably down at the edge of the cliffs, a giant, black-bodied creature with a head as scarlet as fire and wings greater than those on the bird that Wren had barely escaped days earlier.

Wren and Garth climbed back to their feet and brushed themselves off.

There was a man seated astride the Roc, held in place by straps from a leather harness. They watched as the man released the straps and slid smoothly to the ground. He stood next to the bird and studied them momentarily, then started forward. He was small and bent, wearing a tunic, pants, boots, and gloves made of leather. He walked with an oddly rolling gait, as if not altogether comfortable with the task. His features were Elven, narrow and sharp, and his face was deeply lined. He wore no beard, and his brown hair was short cropped and peppered with gray. Fierce black eyes blinked at them with alarming rapidity.

He came to a stop when he was a dozen feet away.

“Did you light that fire?” be demanded. His voice was high-pitched and rough about the edges.

“Yes,” Wren answered him.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I was told to.”

“Were you now? By whom, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind at all. I was told to light it by the Addershag.”

The eyes blinked twice as fast. “By the what?”

“An old woman, a seer I spoke with in Grimpen Ward. She is called the Addershag.”

The little man grunted. “Grimpen Ward. Ugh! No one in his right mind goes there.” His mouth tightened. “Well, why did this Addershag tell you to light the fire, eh?”

Wren sighed impatiently. She had waited three days for someone to come and she was anxious to discover if this gnarled little fellow was the person she had been expecting or not. “Let me ask you something first,” she replied. “Do you have a name?”

The frown deepened. “I might. Why don’t you tell me yours first?”

Wren put her hands on her hips challengingly. “My name is Wren Ohmsford. This is my friend Garth. We’re Rovers.”

“Hah, is that so now? Rovers, are you?” The little man chuckled as if enjoying some private joke. “Got a bit of Elf in you, too, it looks.”

“Got a bit in you as well,” she replied. “What’s your name?”

“Tiger Ty,” the other said. “At least, that’s what everyone calls me. All right now, Miss Wren. We’ve introduced ourselves and said hello. What are you doing out here, Addershag and what-all notwithstanding? Why’d you light that fire?”

Wren smiled. “Maybe to bring you and your bird, if you’re the one who can take us to the Elves.”