Bloodfire Quest (6 page)

They arranged themselves in a circle so that the ravaged spruce trees provided a wall around them. The trees were almost completely stripped of needles, and their twisted limbs cast crosshatched shadows over the little party like a cage. Redden was so uncomfortable and on edge that he offered to sit the first watch, hoping that by the time it ended he might be tired enough to sleep.

They ate their meal cold, aware that their supplies were meager and would not last more than another day or so. They might be able to replenish their food, but water would become a problem quickly. How could they know what was safe to drink in this world? Sitting together and talking quietly, aware of the darkness deepening as night closed in about them, they tried not to talk about it.

We don’t belong here,
Redden kept repeating.

He was dirty and hot, and his skin itched. He found a pool of stagnant water while it was still light and took a quick look at his reflection. Same red hair, blue eyes, and sunburned face that he remembered, but all three looked leached of color and the rest of him resembled a scarecrow set free of its pole. He brushed at himself for a moment and then gave up. Nothing he did would make any difference.

When the others went to sleep, Redden kept the first watch in the company of one of the Trolls, sitting back to back with him at the edge of the circle of sleepers. Time dragged like an anchor, and to ease its weight he summoned his best memories of Railing and himself flying Sprints through the tangle of the Shredder and out over the flat blue surface of Rainbow Lake. It was as good a way as any to distract himself, replaying the twists and turns of the courses they had flown, remembering the rough spots and the wild dips and leaps, and even letting himself recall what he had felt like on seeing Railing crash on their last flight before leaving for Bakrabru and the start of this journey.

Eyes sifting through the layered shadows in the darkness, ears sorting out sounds that he recognized from those that were new, he kept himself alert and wide awake. But when his watch was finished and he rolled himself into his blanket and closed his eyes, he was asleep in moments.

And then awake again faster still.

Something was wrong.

He forced himself to remain perfectly still while he scanned the darkness, trying to determine what had woken him. It took him only a moment.

Carrick and another of the Trolls had taken the second watch. Redden saw the body of the latter sprawled on the ground close to where he had been sitting when the boy fell asleep. It was clear from the twisted position of his limbs and the way his head was thrown back that he was dead and had died hard.

There was no sign of Carrick.

Redden sat up slowly, looking around in all directions, finding nothing but the still forms of the other sleepers and the dead Troll.

Then he looked up.

Carrick was hanging head-down about twenty feet above him, firmly grasped in the jaws of something that resembled a giant insect. His eyes were open and rolling wildly, but he hung limp and unmoving as he was hauled upward through the skeletal branches. His eyes found Redden’s and his mouth worked in silent anguish.

Then a second of the insect creatures appeared from out of the trees to seize the body of the Troll and begin to lift it away.

In the shadows, just visible as bits of movement in the gloom, more of the creatures were advancing.

Redden threw off his blanket, scrambled to his feet, and summoned the wishsong. He reacted instinctively—not out of bravery or daring, but out of fear. The magic surfaced in an explosion of brightness that lit up the whole sleeping area, brought all of the sleepers awake instantly, and caused the insects to hesitate. Fighting to keep it under control, Redden concentrated the magic in the cradle of his hands and turned it on the creature that had hold of Carrick. The wishsong flared upward in a burst of power that exploded into the monster with such force that it was cut in half. Down came the beast and Carrick both, the severed pieces of the former thrashing as if still alive, the latter a limp rag doll unable to do anything to help himself.

Redden threw himself aside as the head of the insect slammed into the ground only feet from where he was standing, mandibles snapping wildly.

By now Khyber Elessedil and Pleysia were striking out at the other insect creatures, using their Druid magic to drive their attackers away from the camp. The Trolls were clustered next to them, weapons extended in a circle of sharp steel. But the insects kept attacking, trying to find a way past the fire and sharp blades. One or two would hang back while the others tried to distract the defenders and then rush in suddenly, hoping to catch someone unprepared.

But Redden had regained control of the wishsong and quickly joined the battle, sending a wall of sound from his magic into the largest cluster of the giant insects, throwing them back, slamming them into trees and rocks. Overmatched, the advantage of surprise lost, the insects wheeled about and skittered back into the darkness and were gone.

Redden was suddenly drained. He slumped to one knee and was surprised to find Pleysia next to him, holding him. “Are you all right, boy?” she asked, leaning close. He nodded. “Good. I don’t think we can afford to lose you. That was quick thinking.”

A few feet away, the Ard Rhys had gone to Carrick, carefully turned him over, and laid him on the ground with his head cradled in her lap. The Druid’s eyes had stopped rolling and his gaze had steadied, but he was bleeding from his nose and ears, and his face was as white as chalk. Khyber was working murmuring quietly, her hands making small gestures as she fought to hold back the death that was already claiming him.

“They came right over the top of my wards,” she muttered to herself.

“They knew they were there!” Pleysia snapped. “The wards drew them!”

“Steady, Carrick,” Khyber soothed. She leaned close so that he could see her. “Don’t give up.”

His eyes shifted to find her. “So quick … no chance … to do …”

He shuddered and went still, dead in her arms.

Pleysia released her hold on Redden and stood next to him. “We’re all going that way before this is done,” she whispered. “All of us.”

Then she turned her back on them and walked off.

They waited until it was light again before they interred the bodies of Carrick and the Troll. The ground was so hard they couldn’t have penetrated it even if they had possessed digging tools, which they didn’t. Nor did the Ard Rhys think it wise to try burning the bodies, since that would almost certainly attract the attention of the very things they were trying to avoid.

So they lay the dead in shallow depressions and covered them over with heavy rocks hauled and set in place by the surviving Trolls, hoping that this would be enough to discourage scavengers. When the cairns were complete and the Ard Rhys had used magic to help seal them, the others gathered around and she said a few words about the commitment and sacrifice both had given to the Druid order. She took a moment at the end to thank Redden for his alert response to an attack that might very well have meant the end of all of them if he hadn’t realized what was happening. Redden felt sheepish and embarrassed; he still didn’t know why he had come awake like that. Presumably, it was the wishsong’s magic that had alerted him—something it had never done before. But then he had never been in a situation like this one, either. In any case, the recognition bestowed a new responsibility on him; now everyone expected him to be able to give warning if danger threatened. They didn’t say as much, but he could see it in the way they looked at him. He wouldn’t have minded so much if he could have been certain the wishsong would respond in the same way again when the need arose. But he didn’t know if the magic was something he could depend upon to ward even himself, let alone his companions.

He was new to this. He was riddled with doubt. The wishsong had always been something of a toy. His mother had discouraged the boys from using it at all, and both brothers had experimented sparingly. They knew they could use it to enhance the power of their Sprints and to provide protection against the mishaps they were forever encountering in their wildness. But Redden wasn’t at all sure he could use it to defend himself successfully against the things that lived within the Forbidding.

Leaving the bodies of both their companions and the giant insects behind, they set out walking again, moving once more in a southern direction, still tracking the Dracha that had carried off Crace Coram and Oriantha. There were only six of them left—less than half their original number. Carrick, Garroneck, and five other trolls were dead. Crace Coram and Oriantha were missing. That left the Ard Rhys, Pleysia, three of the Trolls from the Druid Guard, and Redden himself. With so few remaining, he thought they should turn back. They should return to the place where they had found their way in and wait for someone to come for them or the passage back through the Four Lands to reappear. But Khyber Elessedil seemed convinced that continuing on was the best choice. With Pleysia equally committed to that course of action—still adamant that she would not leave her daughter behind—there was no chance that either the Trolls or he could change the course of things.

But his thoughts were as dark and empty of hope as the land through which they passed, shifting between agonizing over Railing’s fate and despairing of his own. He was just a boy, and he had come a long way to die for nothing. He was scared and he was lonely. Nothing had gone the way he had imagined it. He was trapped in another world, with no real expectation that he would ever get out again. His original purpose in coming—the search for the missing Elfstones—seemed distant and unimportant. Given their present circumstances, it even felt pointless. Staying alive was all that mattered now, and he was having difficulty imagining that.

He said nothing of his fears to the others; there was no need to do so, because they would almost certainly be struggling with the same feelings. He told himself not to be distracted, but to remember that while there was life there was hope. He was not helpless; he was not without intelligence and common sense. The magic of the wishsong was a formidable weapon. He just needed to stay alert and keep moving. Sooner or later, something would happen that would help them all get free again.

He told himself all of this, and believed almost none of it.

Time stretched out in singularly bleak fashion as they made their way through country that never changed in any appreciable way. Already Redden was beginning to wonder what they were going to do for water when their own ran out. They had encountered only stagnant swamp water, none of it drinkable. Eventually the food would run out, too. He was wondering how long Khyber Elessedil would let them go on without finding anything before she turned them back. He could not imagine it would be for much longer.

In fact, he told himself when they were hours into their march and the first suggestion of real twilight crept over the land, she would announce it that night.

And then they saw the dragon.

It was flying out of the south, coming toward them in that unmistakable looping, undulating fashion, great wings spread wide, legs tucked up close to its body.

“Mistress!” Pleysia hissed, bringing them all to a halt.

They crouched down at once, doing the best they could to blend into the terrain as the dragon approached at an oblique angle that would carry it just west of them. Redden knew it at once for the dragon that had carried off Oriantha and Crace Coram—unless this was an exact double—thanks to the strange striping along the trailing edges of its wings.

When it flew past them, heading north and west, they could see clearly that it carried no passengers.

Pleysia climbed to her feet slowly in the wake of its passing, her face twisted and grim. “It’s left them somewhere,” she declared at once.

“If it’s the same beast,” the Ard Rhys answered.

Pleysia wheeled on her. “No two Drachas share the same markings! You know that as well as I. All the histories say so. Drachas are unique. You, boy!” She turned the bright glare of her eyes on Redden. “Was it the same beast or not? You saw it clearly when it flew off. Were the markings on its wings a match?”

Redden nodded reluctantly. “They were.”

“There! Even the boy agrees. It is the same beast. Oriantha and the Dwarf have escaped it. We must go on!”

The Ard Rhys gave her a brief smile. “No one ever said we wouldn’t, Pleysia. Please take the lead.”

The other woman did so, striding out with grim determination. Within seconds she was twenty yards ahead of the rest of them.

Redden moved up alongside the Ard Rhys and whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I should lie.”

“Don’t apologize for telling the truth. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. I know it’s the same dragon.”

“But you think they’re dead, don’t you? Crace Coram and Oriantha. What’s going to happen when she finds out?”

“I’m not so sure either of them is dead, Redden. But knowing is necessary before she will agree to give up the search.” She gave him a long look. “I know you want to go back. I know you worry for your brother. I worry for him and for the others, too. But until we know there is nothing more we can do for our missing friends, we can’t quit looking. We owe them that.”

They marched on through the twilight until Khyber Elessedil brought them to a halt on a broad, open rise that gave them a clear view of everything approaching from all directions.

“We’ll spend the night here. Three on watch, three asleep in four-hour shifts. We won’t be caught by surprise again. Pleysia, I can see by your face that you want to continue on. But it is too dangerous to go farther this day. We don’t know enough about what’s hunting out there. We’ll wait until morning.”

“Waiting is a mistake,” Pleysia snapped. “Morning may come too late for us to be of any use to my daughter or the Dwarf.”

“We won’t be of much use if we are dead or crippled, either.”

Pleysia stared out at the sweep of the land south. “I could go on alone. You could catch up to me in the morning.”

The Ard Rhys shook her head. “We agreed to stay together. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

They sat down on the rise and ate their meager dinner, their eyes scanning the horizon, watchful of shadows, uneasy with the growing dark. In the lengthy silences, they tightened their resolve and prepared themselves for how they would confront the hours ahead. No one had put the events of the previous night entirely in the past, and no one expected to sleep well.

When the meal was finished and the darkness was complete—the sky so overcast with haze you could barely see in front of your nose—Pleysia and two of the Trolls rolled into their blankets while the Ard Rhys, Redden, and the other Troll took the first watch.

In the distance, something cried out—a long and mournful wail—and the echo seemed to linger through the hours that followed. Time drifted. Redden’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and he found he could see better than he had imagined as he sat with his knees pulled up to his chest and his blanket wrapped about him to ward off the chill. Once, a small creature approached, getting close enough to him that he could just make out its features. It looked like a lizard—maybe a foot long, covered with spikes. Its body was supple and lean, its eyes gleaming as it studied him. It was there and then gone again, vanished as if it were a ghost. He stared at the space it had occupied for a long time afterward, waiting for it to reappear. He had a faint memory of having seen it—or one just like it—the night before. He had caught a glimpse of it just after the attack by the giant insects, and then it had skittered away, a flash of movement in the darkness. He remembered it now and was certain his memory was not playing games with him.

When his watch ended and he lay down to sleep, he knew the effort was a waste of time. He was too awake, too nervous. He could not possibly sleep this night.

But then he did, and when he woke it was morning and something was prodding his leg. He glanced down and found the lizard nudging him with its horn-encrusted head. It would move close, poke at him once or twice, and then withdraw, waiting a moment before repeating the action. When it saw it had succeeded in getting his attention, it backed off just a little farther than he could reach and crouched down, watching him.

That was when he saw the second creature. This one was bigger and had the look of a Spider Gnome, although it was clearly something else. It was sitting cross-legged about a dozen yards away, its elongated arms folded in like wings, its body hunched forward with its head cocked. Patches of coarse black hair sprouted from leathery skin, and its face was crisscrossed with wrinkles. It wore plain clothing decorated with colored thread; clusters of feathers and knots of what appeared to be bones were sewn to the fabric. Even sitting, it seemed disproportionate, as if its arms and legs were too long for its body and its head too small.

Redden raised himself up on his elbow and looked around. The others were all asleep—even those who were supposed to be on watch.

Except for Pleysia. She wasn’t even there.

The Spider Gnome look-alike made a short hissing sound and the lizard prodding Redden bolted away—a blur of motion until it reappeared at the watcher’s side. The creature reached down with bony fingers to pet the lizard, then looked up at the boy and smiled, revealing a mouthful of sharp white teeth.

Redden sat all the way up, eyes locked on the creature and its pet lizard. The creature didn’t appear threatening, and a quick look around revealed that it was alone. Redden didn’t miss the curved, serrated blades it carried—two shoved in a leather belt at its waist and a third, much longer knife slung over one shoulder on a strap—but it showed no interest in using either.

“Mistress,” Redden called softly to the Ard Rhys.

She came awake at once, pulling off her blanket and sitting up, her eyes looking where he was pointing. She took a moment to count heads, obviously noting the absence of Pleysia, and then she moved over to sit next to him.

The creature said something to them, but it was in a language the boy didn’t recognize. She shook her head at it, and the creature’s smile broadened.

“You are not Jarka Ruus?” it asked her in broken Elfish. “You are not of the free peoples, the
ca’rel orren pu’u
?”

Jarka Ruus. The name given to those imprisoned by the Forbidding.
She shook her head. “No.”

“Then you don’t belong here. Why are you come?”

“We came by mistake. Through the wall of the Forbidding. What are you?”

The creature shrugged. “An Ulk Bog. What do you think I am?” The sharp eyes brightened. “Do you know of us?”

Khyber Elessedil nodded slowly. “I knew of another Ulk Bog. One from a long time ago. His name was Weka Dart.”