Walker was digging frantically in the rocks, his back to the approaching monsters. Quentin faced them alone, standing close to the Druid, elevated on an abutment so that he could bring his sword to bear without hindrance. He shifted from right to left and back again on his chosen defensive ground, watching the mass of sea hunters come at him, readying himself.
Oh, but there were so many! Bek thought in horror.
The first eel reached Quentin and launched itself like a striking snake, snapping its body from the depression. The Highlander brought the Sword of Leah around in a short whipping motion, the magic flaring to life along the length of the heavy blade, and the eel was severed just behind its gaping maw and fell back again, thrashing in pain and confusion. Other eels fed upon it instantly, tearing it to shreds. A second eel struck at Quentin, but he brought his sword to bear again, swift and steady, and that one fell away, too. On the backswing, he dispatched a third that had come up behind him, flinging it away.
Walker straightened from his crouched position within the rocks long enough to summon the Druid fire. It lanced from his fingers in an explosion of blue flame, burning into the advancing eels and forcing them back down into the gullies. Then he was bending down again, searching anew.
Back came the eels in only moments, breaking past the already diminishing ring of fire, mouths gaping hungrily.
There’s too many! Bek thought again, hands gripping the railing of the airship helplessly as a fresh wave of attackers closed on Quentin and the Druid.
“Captain!” Ard Patrinell shouted at Redden Alt Mer in desperation.
The flame-haired Rover swung into the pilot box in response. “Safety lines!” he roared. “We’re going after them!”
Bek had barely managed to secure himself when the Jerle Shannara went into a steep, swift dive toward the island.
Quentin Leah struck down his nearest attacker and swung instantly about to face the next. He had driven back the first assault, but the second seemed even more frenzied and determined. The Highlander’s strokes were steady and smooth, and he wheeled skillfully to keep his back from being exposed for more than a few seconds at a time, just as Patrinell had taught him in their exercises. The Highlander was strong and quick, and he did not panic in the face of the overwhelming odds he faced. He had hunted the Highlands since he was old enough to run, and he had faced great odds and terrible dangers before. But he understood that here, in this place, time was running out. The giant eels were vulnerable to the magic of his weapon but undeterred by the deaths of their fellows. They would keep coming, he knew, until they had what they wanted. There were so many that eventually they would succeed. Already his arms were growing tired and his movements jerky. Use of the sword’s magic was draining him of his energy and breaking down his will. He could feel it happening and could do nothing to stop it. Wounds had been opened on both arms and one leg where the razor-sharp teeth of his attackers had slashed him, and his face was bathed in sweat and salt spray from the sea.
Walker gave a grunt and uncoiled from his search in the rocks, swinging up to stand beside him. “I have it!” he shouted, jamming something into his robes. “Run now! This way!”
They leapt out from the rocks and raced toward an open flat that lay less than a hundred feet away, scrambling through the shallow, slippery ponds. The eels thrashed after them, their huge bodies twisting and squirming along the deep channels. Overhead, the Jerle Shannara was dropping swiftly, sails full and radian draws taut, her sleek dark form plummeting out of the gray sky. The eels were closing on Quentin and Walker, who turned to stand one final time, the Druid with his fire exploding from his extended arm, the Highlander with his sword’s magic flashing.
Then the shadow of the airship fell over them and a trailing rope ladder swung past, their lifeline to safety. They reached for it instinctively, grasped it, and were whisked off the ground and into the air as eel jaws snapped only inches away.
Seconds later, they were clear of the island once more and climbing the ladder to safety.
Bek was among those who helped pull the Druid and the Highlander back aboard the airship as it lifted high above Flay Creech and its twisting mass of frustrated, maddened eels. When he had his cousin standing before him, torn and bloodied, but smiling, as well, Bek tried to say something to him about agreeing to take risks and scaring him half to death, then gave it up and threw his arms about the other in a warm, grateful hug.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me!” Quentin yelped. When Bek hurriedly backed off, his cousin’s smile broadened. “Happy to see me safe, Bek? Never a moment’s doubt, was there? You could tell. We had a clear path all the way.”
Walker was at his elbow, fumbling in his robes for what he had recovered, and the rest of the ship’s company crowded close. What he produced was a flat metal rectangle with symmetrical ridges that connected in a geometrical pattern to a small raised square that vibrated softly. A red light embedded in the square blinked on and off. Everyone stared at it in wonder. Bek had never seen anything like it before.
“What is it?” Panax asked finally.
“A key,” Walker answered. “But not a key of the sort we know. This key belongs to the technology of the Old World, from before the Great Wars, from the old civilization of Man. It is a form of machine and has a life of its own.”
He let them study it a moment longer, then slipped it back into his robes. “It has secrets to tell us if we can unlock them,” he said quietly, then clasped Quentin’s shoulder in thanks, and walked away.
The remainder of the company dispersed to their stations and work, the adventure of Flay Creech behind them. Joad Rish was already stripping off the Highlander’s tunic to clean his wounds. Quentin accepted congratulations from a few of the ship’s company who lingered, then sat heavily on a barrel top and winced as the Healer began to work on him in earnest. Bek stayed close, silent company, and alone saw the hint of raw fear that flashed in his cousin’s green eyes as he looked down at his torn body and realized momentarily how close he had come to dying.
But then he was looking up again, himself once more, smiling rakishly as he held up a single finger.
One down, Quentin was saying.
Bek smiled back. One down, he was thinking in response, but two still to go.
It took two more months of travel to reach the island of Shatterstone. Bek had thought they would arrive more quickly since it had taken them only ten days to gain Flay Creech. But Walker’s rough-drawn map showed the distance to be considerably greater, and it was.
Nevertheless, the days between passed swiftly, eaten up by routine tasks and small crises. Bek continued to learn about airships—how they were constructed, why they flew, and what was needed to maintain them. He was given a chance to try his hand at almost everything, from polishing the diapson crystals to threading the radian draws. He was allowed to go topside to see how the draws were attached to the light sheaths so as to draw down their power. He was given time at the ship’s rudders and controls and a chance at plotting courses. By the end of the two months, Redden Alt Mer thought him competent enough to leave him alone in the pilot box for several hours at a stretch, allowing him to become accustomed to the feel of the airship and the ways she responded to his touch.
For the most part, the weather continued to favor them. There were storms, but they did not cause the ship damage or ship’s company to fear. A few were severe enough that ship and passengers sought shelter in an island’s protective cove or windward bluffs. Once or twice they were badly lashed by heavy winds and rain while still aloft, but the Jerle Shannara was well made and able to endure.
Certainly it helped having the ship’s builder aboard. If something malfunctioned or failed, Spanner Frew found the problem and fixed it almost instantly. He was ferociously loyal to and protective of his vessel, a mother hen with teeth, and he was quick to reprimand or even assault anyone who mistreated her. Once Bek watched him cuff one of the Rover crew so hard he knocked the man down, all because the crewm
an had removed a diapson crystal improperly.
The only one who seemed able to stand up to him was Rue Meridian, who was intimidated by no one. Of all aboard ship, save Walker, she was the coolest and calmest presence. Bek remained in awe of Little Red, and when he had the chance to do so, he watched her with an ache he could not quite manage to hide. If she noticed, she kept it to herself. She was kind to him and always helpful. She would tease him now and then, and she made him laugh with her surreptitious winks and clever asides. She was the airship’s navigator, but Bek soon discovered that she was much more. It was apparent from the beginning that she knew as much as her brother about flying airships and was his most valued adviser. She was also extremely dangerous. She carried knives everywhere she went, and she knew how to use them. Once, he watched her compete against the other Rovers in a throwing contest, and she bested them easily. Neither her brother nor Furl Hawken would throw against her, which told Bek something. He thought she might not be as skilled at the use of weapons as Ard Patrinell, but he would not have wanted to put it to a test.
Much of his time was spent with Ahren Elessedil. Together, they would walk the ship from end to end, discussing everything that interested them. Well, not quite everything. A few things, he did not share with anyone. He still hid, even from the Elf, the presence of the phoenix stone. He still told no one of his meeting with the King of the Silver River. But it was growing harder and harder to keep these secrets from Ahren. With time’s passage, he was becoming as close to the young Elf as to Quentin, and sometimes he thought that Ahren would have been his best friend if Quentin hadn’t claimed the position first.
“Tell me what you want to do with your life, Bek,” the Elf said one evening as they stood at the railing before sleep. “If you could do anything at all, what would it be?”
Bek answered without thinking. “I would find out the truth about myself.”
There it was, right out in the open without his meaning for it to happen. He would have swallowed the words if there had been a way, but it was too late.
“What do you mean?” Ahren looked sharply at him.
Bek hesitated, seeking a way to recover. “I mean, I was brought to Coran and Liria when I was a baby, given to them when my parents died. I don’t know anything about my real parents. I don’t have any family history of my own.”
“You must have asked Quentin’s father and mother. Didn’t they tell you anything?”
“I asked them only a little. Growing up, I felt it didn’t matter. My life was with them and with Quentin. They were my family and that was my history. But now I want to know more. Maybe I’m just beginning to realize that it’s important to me, but now that I find it so, I want to know the truth.” He shrugged. “Silly to wonder about it, out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Ahren smiled. “Out in the middle of nowhere is exactly the right place to wonder who you are.”
Every day at high noon, usually while Bek was eating lunch with the Rovers or steering the airship from the pilot box or perhaps languishing in the narrow shade of the foremast with Panax, Ahren Elessedil stood out in the midday sun with Ard Patrinell and for the better part of two hours honed his skills with Elven weapons. Sometimes it was with swords and knives. Sometimes it was with bow and arrow, axes, or slings. At times the two simply sat and talked, and Bek would watch as hand gestures and sketches were exchanged. The former Captain of the Home Guard worked his young charge hard. It was the hottest time of the day and the training rendered was the most exhaustive. It was the only time Bek ever saw the two together, and finally he asked Ahren about it.
“He was your teacher once,” Bek pointed out. “He was your friend. Why don’t you spend any time with him aside from when you train?”
Ahren sighed. “It isn’t my idea. It’s his. He was dismissed from his position because my father’s life was his responsibility. The Elven Hunters he commands accept his leadership because the King, my brother, ordered it and because they value his experience and skill. But they do not accept his friendship with me. That ended with my father’s death. He may continue to train me, because my father ordered it. Anything more would be unacceptable.”
“But we are in the middle of the ocean.” Bek was perplexed. “What difference does any of that make here?”
Ahren shrugged. “Ard must know that his men will do what he orders of them without question or hesitation. He must have their respect. What if they believe he curries favor with me in an effort to get back what he has lost, perhaps with my help? What if they believe he serves more than one master? That is why he trains me at midday, in the heat. That is why he trains me harder than he does them. That is why he ignores me otherwise. He shows me no favoritism. He gives them no reason to doubt him. Do you see?”
Bek didn’t see, not entirely, but he told Ahren he did anyway.
“Besides,” Ahren added, “I’m the second son of a dead King, and second sons of dead Kings have to learn how to be tough and independent enough to survive on their own.”
Panax, gruff and irascible as always, told Ahren that if Elves spent less time worrying about stepping on each other’s toes and more time trusting their instincts, they would be better off. It used to be like that, he declared bluntly. Things had changed since this current crop of Elessedils had taken office. How he arrived at this conclusion, living in the backwoods beyond Depo Bent, was beyond Bek. But for all that he lived an isolated and solitary existence, the Dwarf seemed to have his finger firmly on the pulse of what was happening in the Four Lands.
“You take this ridiculous war between the Free-born and the Federation,” he muttered at one point, while they sat watching Patrinell and Ahren duel with staves. “What is the point? They’ve been fighting over the same piece of ground for fifty years and over control of the Borderlands for more than five hundred. Back and forth it goes; nothing ever changes, nothing ever gets resolved. Wouldn’t you think after all this time, someone would have found a way to get them all to sit down and work it out? How complicated can it be? On the surface, it’s an issue of sovereignty and territorial influence, but at heart it’s about trade and economics. Find a way to stop them from posturing about whose birthright it is to govern and get them to talk about trade alliances and dividing the wealth those alliances would generate, and the war will be over in two days.”
“But the Federation is determined to rule the Borderlands,” Bek pointed out. “They want the Borderlands to be part of their Southland empire. What about that?”
The Dwarf spat. “The Borderlands will never be part of any one land because it’s been part of all four lands for as long as anyone can remember. The average Southlander doesn’t give a rat’s behind if the people in the Borderlands are a part of the Federation. What the average Southlander cares about is whether those ash bows that are so good for hunting and those silk scarves the women love and those great cheeses and ales that come out of Varfleet and those healing plants grown on the Streleheim can find their way south to them! The only ones who care about annexing the Borderlands are the members of the Coalition Council. Send them to the Prekkendorran for a week, and then see how they feel about things!”
There were small adventures to be enjoyed during those eight-odd weeks of travel between islands, as well. One day, a huge pod of whales came into view below the airship, traveling west in pursuit of the setting sun. They breached and sounded with spouts of water and slaps of tails and fins, great sea vessels riding the waves with joy and abandon, complete within themselves. The Highlander and the Elf peered down at them, tracking their progress, reminded of the smallness of their own world, envious of the freedom these giants enjoyed. On another day, hundreds of dolphins appeared, leaping and diving in rhythmic cadence, small glimmers of brightness in the deep blue sea. There were migrating schools of billfish at times, some with sails, some brightly colored, all sleek and swift. There were giant squids with thirty-foot tentacles, as well, who swam like feathered arrows, and dangerous-looking predators with fin
s that cut the water like knives.
Now and again something aboard ship would break down, and what was required to complete repairs could not be found. Sometimes supplies ran low. In both instances, the Wing Riders were pressed into service. While the third rider remained with the airship, the other two would explore the surrounding islands to forage for what was needed. Twice, Bek was allowed to accompany them, both times when they went in search of fresh water, fruit, and vegetables to supplement the ship’s dietary staples. Once he rode with Hunter Predd aboard his Roc, Obsidian, and once with a rider named Gill aboard Tashin. Each time, the experience was exhilarating. There was a freedom to flying the Rocs that was absent even on an airship. The great birds were much quicker and smoother, their responses swifter, and the feeling of riding something alive and warm far different from riding something built of wood and metal.
The Wing Riders were a fiercely independent bunch and kept apart from everyone. When Bek screwed up his courage to ask the taciturn Hunter Predd about it, the Wing Rider explained patiently that life as a Wing Rider necessitated believing you were different. It had to do with the time you spent flying and the freedom you embraced when you gave up the safeties and securities others relied upon living on the ground. Wing Riders needed to view themselves as independent in order to function. They needed to be unfettered and unencumbered by connections of any kind, save to their Rocs and to their own people.
Bek wasn’t sure that much of it wasn’t just a superior attitude fostered by the freedom that flying the Rocs engendered in Wing Riders. But he liked Hunter Predd and Gill, and he didn’t see that there was anything to be gained by questioning their thinking. If he were a Wing Rider, he told himself, he would probably think the same way.