The Wishsong of Shannara (45 page)

In the bowl of the valley, the forest moved.

“You are alive!” she said softly and hardened herself against what that realization made her feel.

She stepped far out onto the ledge, to the very edge where the stem of the Croagh joined to it. Crude stairs had been cut into the rock, and she stared down their length to where they disappeared at a bend in the stone. Then she looked past again to the valley below.

“Maelmord, I am come to you,” she whispered.

Then she turned back to Whisper. She knelt beside him and rubbed his ears tenderly. Her smile was sad and gentle. “You must go no farther with me, Whisper. Even though your mistress sent you to keep me safe, you must go no farther. You must stay here and wait for her to come to you. Do you understand?”

The cat’s luminous eyes blinked and he rubbed against her. “Protect my way back again, if you would protect me at all,” she told him. “Perhaps it will not be as the Grimpond has foretold—that I shall die here. Perhaps I will come back again. Keep the way safe for me, Whisper. Keep your mistress and my friends safe. Do not let them follow. Wait, and when I have done what I must, I will come back to you if I am able. I promise you that I will.”

Then she sang to the cat, using the wishsong not to persuade or to deceive this time, but to explain. In images that would carry to the moor cat’s mind, she let him feel what she wished and made him understand what it was that she must do. When she was done, she leaned forward and hugged the big cat close for a moment, nestling her face in the coarse fur and feeling the warmth of the beast seep through her, taking from that warmth a measure of new strength.

She rose and stepped back. Slowly Whisper sank down on his haunches and forepaws until he was stretched out facing her. She nodded and smiled. He was taking up guard of her path down. He would do as she wished.

“Good-bye, Whisper,” she told him and stepped upon the Croagh.

The stench that had risen from the chasm behind her rose anew from the steamy depths of the valley below. She ignored it, gazing out momentarily over the cliffs to where the light of the sun brightened above the horizon. She thought of Allanon then and wondered if he could see her—if perhaps he might in some way be with her.

Then she took a deep breath to steady herself and started down.

XLI

A
s one, the six who had come from Culhaven broke from the shelter of the tower door and raced into the courtyard beyond. Screams of warning rose up about them, and the Gnomes converged from every quarter.

At the center of the maelstrom, Jair watched the battle unfold with curious detachment. Time fragmented, and his sense of being slipped from him. Hemmed close about by the friends who sought to protect him, he floated in their midst, voiceless and ephemeral, a ghost that none could see. Earth, sky, and the whole of the world beyond these walls were lost, along with all else that had ever been or would ever be. There was only now and the faces and the forms of those who fought and died in that yard.

Garet Jax led the charge, darting through the Gnomes that rushed to bar his passage, swift and fluid as he killed them. He was like a black-clad dancer, all grace, power, and seemingly effortless motion. Gnome Hunters, gnarled and worn from countless battles, threw themselves in front of him with frenzied determination, their weapons hacking and cutting with lethal force. They might as well have been trying to contain quicksilver. None could touch the Weapons Master, and those who came close enough to try found in him the black shadow of death come to claim their lives.

The others of the company fought beside him, no less driven in their purpose and only a shade less deadly. Foraker flanked him on one side, the Dwarfs black-bearded face ferocious as he swung the great double-edged axe and attackers scattered with howls of dismay. Edain Elessedil flanked him on the other, a slender sword flicking snakelike and a long knife parrying counterblows. Slanter stayed close behind them all, long knives in both hands, a hunted look in his black eyes. Helt brought up the rear, a giant shield, his wounded face bleeding again and frightening to look at, a great pike snatched from an attacker thrusting and cutting all who tried to slip past his guard.

A strange sense of exhilaration flooded through Jair. It was as if nothing could stop them.

Weapons flew past from every direction, and the screams of the wounded and dying filled the gray afternoon. They were in the center of the courtyard now, the castle wall rising up before them. Then a sudden blow struck the Valeman, staggering him with its force. Stunned, he looked down and found the tip of a dart protruding from his shoulder like a peg hook. Pain lanced from the wound through his body, and he went rigid with shock. Slanter saw him stumble and was next to him in an instant, arms wrapping about him to hold him up, pulling him after the others. Helt roared with fury and used the long pike to hammer back the Gnomes that sought to rush forward to seize them. Jair squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. He was hurt, he thought in disbelief as he staggered forward under Slanter’s guidance.

The drop-gate loomed ahead. There were Gnomes in its shadow now, rushing about wildly and calling out in warning. The doors to the blockhouse slammed shut and iron winches began to turn. Slowly, the drop-gate started down.

Garet Jax leaped forward, so quickly that the others could barely follow. He reached the gate in seconds, thrusting into the Gnomes who held there. But the winches continued to turn in the blockhouse, iron chains unwrapping. The drop-gate was still coming down.

“Garet!” Foraker screamed in warning, nearly buried in a rush of Gnome attackers who came at him.

But it was Helt who acted. He charged through the Gnome Hunters, pike lowered, sweeping them aside like leaves scattered, in a fall wind. Blows rained down upon him, but he shrugged them aside as if they were not felt and went on. Gnome archers trained their fire on the giant Borderman from the walls behind. Twice he was struck; the second time, he staggered to his knees. Still he went on.

Then he was before the blockhouse, his giant frame slamming into the closed doors. The doors buckled with a crunch and flew apart, and the Borderman was within. He hurtled into a knot of defenders, flinging them from the machinery like dolls, his massive hands closing about the winch levers to pull them tight again. The drop-gate slowed and stopped in a grinding of chains and gears, its teeth barely ten feet from the ground.

Garet Jax scattered the Gnomes who remained before the gate, and Slanter and Jair stumbled through into a shadowed court beyond. For the moment, at least, the court was empty. Jair collapsed to one knee, feeling the searing pain from his wound flare outward with the movement. Then Slanter was in front of him.

“Sorry boy, but I’ve got to do this.”

One gnarled hand fixed on his shoulder and the other on the dart. With a wrench, the Gnome pulled the dart free. Jair screamed and almost lost consciousness, but Slanter held him upright, jamming a wad of cloth down into his tunic front and binding it fast against the wound with his belt.

Beneath the drop-gate, Garet Jax, Foraker and Edain Elessedil stood in a line against the advancing Gnomes. A dozen paces beyond, still within the blockhouse, Helt pulled free the winch levers once more. Again, the drop-gate started down.

Jair blinked through the tears brought by the pain. Something was wrong. The Borderman was making no attempt to come after them. He was leaning heavily against the machinery, watching as the gate descended.

“Helt  . . . ?” Jair whispered weakly.

He realized then the Borderman’s intent. Helt meant to bring down the drop-gate and jam it from the other side. If he did so, it would leave him trapped there. It would mean his certain death.

“Helt, no!” he screamed and jerked to his feet.

But it was already done. The gate came down, slamming into the earth with the force of its release. The Gnome defenders howled with rage and turned on the man within the blockhouse. Bracing himself, Helt threw the whole of his great strength against the winch levers and wrenched them from their fastenings, wrecking the machine.

“Helt!” Jair screamed again, trying to pull free of Slanter.

The Borderman staggered to the blockhouse door, long pike held before him. Gnomes came at him from everywhere. He bent and swayed against their rush, but for an instant he withstood them. Then they swarmed over him and he was gone.

Jair stood frozen behind the gates as Garet Jax came back to him. Roughly, the Weapons Master turned him about and pushed him away. “Go!” he snapped. “Quickly, Jair Ohmsford, go now!”

The Valeman stumbled from the gate, still stunned. The Weapons Master kept pace at his side. “He was dying already,” Garet Jax said. Jair’s head jerked about, and the gray eyes fixed on him. “The winged thing in the storeroom poisoned him. It was in his eyes, Valeman.”

Jair nodded dumbly, remembering the look the Borderman had given him. “But we  . . . we might have  . . .”

“We might have done many things were we not where we are,” Garet Jax cut him short, his voice calm and icy. “The poison was lethal. He knew he was dying. He chose this way to finish it. Now, run!”

Giant Helt! Jair remembered the big man’s kindness to him during the long journey north. He remembered his gentle eyes. Helt, about whom he had known so very little  . . .

Head lowered to shield his tears, he ran on.

At the edge of the Croagh, midway down its length where it joined to the rock shelf on the cliffs below Graymark, Whisper listened as the sounds of the battle being fought above him grew more fierce. Stretched full-length upon the shadowed stone, he kept watch for the return of Brin or the coming of his mistress. His hearing was keener than that of any human, and he had caught the sounds long ago. But the sounds did not threaten him, and so he kept his vigil and did not move.

But then a new sound reached his ears, a sound not from the battle being fought within Graymark, but from something close at hand. Footfalls sounded on the stone steps of the Croagh—soft and furtive. The moor cat’s head lifted. Something was coming down. Claws scraped against the rock. Whisper’s head dropped down again, and he seemed to disappear into the stone.

The seconds slipped past, and then a shadow appeared. Whisper’s narrowed eyes caught the movement, and the big cat stayed frozen. One of the black things crept down the stairs of the Croagh—one like the things that he had fought within the caves of the mountain. Down the stone walkway it slipped, dead eyes staring as if sightless. It did not see Whisper. The moor cat waited.

When the monster was less than half a dozen steps from where he crouched, Whisper sprang. He hurtled into the black thing before it even knew he was there, a silent blur of motion. Arms flailing, the creature flew from the Croagh to drop like a stone into the valley below. Balanced at the edge of the stairway’s long spiral, Whisper watched the thing fall. When it struck, the entire forest about it convulsed in a frenzy of limbs and leafy trailers. It had the unpleasant look of a throat swallowing. Finally, it went still.

Whisper backed from the Croagh, ears flattened in a mixture of fear and hatred. The smell of the steamy jungle rose to assail the cat’s nostrils, and he coughed and spit in distaste. He padded back upon the rock shelf.

Then a new sound brought him about with a low snarl. Other dark forms stood upon the Croagh above him—two more of the black things and behind them a robed figure, tall and hooded. Whisper’s saucer blue eyes blinked and narrowed. It was too late to hide. They had already seen him.

Soundlessly he turned to meet them, dark muzzle drawing back.

Jair Ohmsford and his companions raced through shadows and half-light deep within the fortress of Graymark now. They ran down hallways thick with the stench of must and sewage, corridors of rusted iron doors and crumbling stone, chambers that echoed with their footfalls, and stairways worn and broken. The castle of Graymark was a dying place, sick with age and disuse and rotten with decay. Nothing that lived here gave tolerance to life; those within found comfort only in death.

And it seeks my death, Jair thought as he ran, his wound throbbing painfully. It seeks to swallow me and make me a part of it.

Ahead, the dark form of Garet Jax darted swiftly on, a wraith that beckoned. The gloom about them lay empty, silent and waiting. The Gnomes had been left behind; the Mord Wraiths had not appeared. The Valeman fought back against the fear that coursed through him. Where were the Wraiths? Why hadn’t they seen them yet? They were here within the keep, hidden somewhere within its walls, the things that could destroy minds and bodies. They were here and they must surely come.

But where were they?

He stumbled, fell against Slanter, and almost went down. But the Gnome held him up, one stout arm coming quickly about him. “Watch where you step!” Slanter cried.

Jair gritted his teeth as pain flooded outward from his shoulder. “It hurts, Slanter. Every step  . . .”

The Gnome’s blocky face turned from his own. “The pain tells you that you’re still alive, boy. Now run!”

Jair Ohmsford ran. They raced down a curving hall, and ahead there was the sound of other feet running and voices calling out. Gnomes had come another way and were searching for them.

“Weapons Master!” Slanter warned urgently, and Garet Jax skidded to a halt. The Gnome beckoned them into an alcove where a small door opened onto a narrow stairway that disappeared upward into blackness.

“We can slip above them this way,” Slanter panted, leaning wearily against the stone block walls. “But a moment for the boy, first.”

Quickly, he pulled the cork from his ale pouch and lifted the spout to the Valeman’s lips. Jair drank gratefully in a series of deep swallows. The bitter liquid burned through him; almost at once, it seemed to ease the pain. Leaning back against the wall with the Gnome, he watched as Garet Jax slipped ahead along the stairway, searching the darkness above. Behind them, Foraker and Edain Elessedil stood guard at the stairway entrance, crouched down within the shadows.

“Better now?” Slanter asked him shortly.

“Better.”

“Like that time in the Black Oaks, eh? After you’d taken that beating from Spilk?”

“Like then.” Jair smiled, remembering. “Cures everything, that Gnome ale.”

The Gnome laughed bitterly. “Everything? No, boy—not what the walkers will do to us when they catch us. Not that. Coming for us, you know—just like they did in the Oaks. Coming from the shadows, soundless black things. I can smell them!”

“It’s just the stench of the place, Slanter.”

The Gnome’s rough face lowered, as if he had not heard. “Helt—gone just like that. Wouldn’t have thought we would lose the big man so quick. Bordermen are a tough breed; trackers tougher still. Wouldn’t have thought it would happen so quick with him.”

Jair swallowed. “I know. But it will be different for the rest of us, Slanter. The Gnomes are behind us. We’ll get away, just as we have done before.”

Slanter shook his head slowly. “No, we’ll not get away this time, boy. Not this time.” He pushed clear of the wall, his voice a whisper. “We’ll all be dead before it’s done.”

Roughly, he pulled the Valeman up after him, made a quick motion back to Foraker and Edain Elessedil and started up the stairs. The Dwarf and the Elf followed at once. They caught up with Garet Jax several dozen steps ahead, and together the five climbed into the blackness. Step by step, they made their way forward, with a small glimmer of light from somewhere above as their only guide. Within Graymark’s walls, it was like a tomb meant to hold them fast. Jair let the thought linger momentarily, desperately aware of his own mortality. He could die as easily as Helt had died. It was not assured, as he had once believed, that he would live to see the end of this.

Then he brushed the thought away. If he did not live, there would be no one to help Brin. It would end for both of them, for there could be no hope for her without him. Therefore, he must live, must find a way to live.

The stairway ended at a small wooden door with a barred window. It was through this window that the daylight slipped down into the darkness where they crouched. Slanter pressed his rough yellow face tight against the bars and peered out into what waited beyond. From somewhere close, the cries of their pursuers rang out.