The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

They pulled up the fore and aft anchors and set out. Breakfast was forgotten. All that mattered was getting the ship under cover. Everyone but Cinnaminson was on deck now. Pen thought to go look for her, but decided it would be wrong to leave in the midst of the crisis. He might be needed; Hatch might require help piloting the craft. He stayed close, watching as the Rover Captain took the Skatelow through a series of connecting lakes spiked with grasses and studded with dead tree trunks, easing her carefully along, all the while with one eye on the brume-thickened sky. The Rover crewmen moved forward, taking readings with weighted lines, hand-signaling warnings when shallows or submerged logs appeared in front of them. No one said a word.

The channel appeared without warning, a black hole through an interwoven network of limbs and gnarled trunks. It had the look of a giant’s hungry maw as they sailed into it, and the temperature dropped immediately once they were inside. Pen shivered. Overhead, he caught small glimpses of sky, but mostly the dark canopy of limbs was all that was visible. The channel was wide enough to allow passage, though the Skatelow wouldn’t have been able to get through if her mast had been up. As it was, the Rover crewmen had to use poles to push her away from the tangle of tree roots that grew on either side and keep her centered in the deeper water. It was too dark for Pen to see exactly what they were doing, but he was certain they could not have done it without Hatch. He seemed to know what was needed at every turn, and kept them moving ahead smoothly.

Still Cinnaminson didn’t appear. Pen glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, but there was no sign of her. He began to worry anew.

Ahead, the tunnel opened back into the light.

Gar Hatch called him into the pilot box. “Take the helm, young Penderrin. I need to be at the bow for this.”

Pen did as he was told. Hatch went forward to stand with his men, the three of them using poles to ease the Skatelow along the channel, pointing her toward the opening. Now and again, he would signal the boy to swing the rudder to starboard or port.

They were almost through when there was a scraping sound and a violent lurch. Pen was thrown backwards into the railing, and for an instant he thought that whatever had happened, he had done something wrong. But as he stood up and hurried forward, he realized he hadn’t done anything he hadn’t been told to do.

Gar Hatch was peering over the side of the airship into the murky waters, shaking his head. “That one’s new,” he muttered to no one in particular, then pointed out the massive log that the airship had run up on. He glanced up at the canopy of trees. “Too tight a fit to try to fly her. We’ll have to float her off and pull her through by hand.”

Hatch went back up into the pilot box, advising Pen that he would take the controls. There was no admonition in his voice, so Pen didn’t argue. Together with Tagwen, Ahren Elessedil, and the two crewmen, Pen climbed down onto the tangled knot of tree roots and moved forward of the airship’s bow. Using ropes lashed about iron cleats, they began to pull the Skatelow ahead, easing her over the fallen trunk. Eventually the airship gained just enough lift from Gar Hatch’s skilled handling to break free of the log and begin crawling along the swamp’s green surface once more.

It was backbreaking work. Bugs of all sorts swarmed about their faces, clouding their vision, and the root tangle on which they were forced to stand was slick with moss and damp with mist and offered uncertain footing. All of them went down at one point or another, skidding and sliding into the swamp water, fighting to keep from going under. But, slowly, they maneuvered the Skatelow down the last few yards of the channel, easing her toward the open bay, where the light brightened and the brume thinned.

“Move back!” Gar Hatch shouted abruptly. “Release the ropes!”

Pen, Tagwen, and Ahren Elessedil did as they were ordered and watched the airship sail by, the hull momentarily blocking from view the Rover crewmen who were working across the way. When Pen glanced over again in the wake of the ship’s passing, the crewmen were gone.

It took the boy a second to realize what was happening.

“Ahren!” he shouted in warning. “We’ve been tricked!”

He was too late. The Skatelow began to pick up speed, moving into the center of the bay. Then Khyber Elessedil came flying over the side and landed in the murky waters with a huge splash. The faces of the crewmen appeared, and they waved tauntingly at the men on shore. Tagwen was shouting at Ahren Elessedil to do something, but the Druid only stood there, shaking his head, grim-faced and angry. There was nothing he could do, Pen realized, without using magic that would alert the Galaphile.

Slowly, the Skatelow began to lift away, to rise into the mist, to disappear. In seconds, she was gone.

At the center of the lake, Khyber Elessedil pounded at the water in frustration.





TWENTY-FIVE


No one said anything for a few moments, Pen, Tagwen, and Ahren Elessedil standing together at the edge of the bay like statues, staring with a mix of disbelief and frustration at the point where the Skatelow had disappeared into the mist.

“I knew we couldn’t trust that man,” Tagwen muttered finally.

At the center of the bay, Khyber Elessedil had given up pounding the water and was swimming toward them. Her strokes cleaved the greenish waters smoothly and easily.