Bloodfire Quest (15 page)

Still many miles to the east, Aphenglow and Cymrian flew the airship
Wend-A-Way
in search of the missing expedition. Using the vision revealed weeks earlier by the Blue Elfstones, they had tracked their way across the Westland from Arborlon to the wilderness of the Breakline. Without any real idea of where the Ard Rhys and her party had flown, the pair were forced to rely entirely on Aphen’s memory. At least the landmarks shown by the vision had materialized as she remembered them, and they were now approaching a huge stretch of stone pillars that she recalled having glimpsed as the vision had moved her swiftly onward toward the shimmering waterfall. Her memory of this mist-shrouded marshland gave her no real idea of what she was to do once she reached this point, but it was enough to reassure her that, three days into their journey, they were still on course.

“I think we have to land
Wend-A-Way
somewhere in there,” she said to Cymrian, pointing ahead into the mix of pillars and mist. “If they were following the vision they will have done the same thing, and that’s where we will find them.”

He stood next to her in the pilot box, looking doubtful. The air was heavy and damp, and strands of his white-blond hair were plastered against his face. “Unless,” he answered carefully, “they have already moved on somewhere else.”

She shook her head. “No, the waterfall was in here. They had to pass through it on their way to finding the Elfstones, so they had to land and leave the ship. The
Walker Boh
is too large to have passed through the opening the vision showed me.”

“Big place,” he said, taking in the sweep of the marsh below. “Can’t see much of anything down there. This isn’t going to be easy. It will be dangerous to try to land the ship with all those stone spears waiting to tear her hull apart.”

He was right, of course, but she didn’t see that they had a choice. If the
Walker Boh
—a much larger vessel than
Wend-A-Way
—had done it, so could they.

She eased back on the thrusters and slowed the airship to a crawl. “Maybe it will clear as we get closer,” she said hopefully.

He glanced over, smiling. “Maybe. In case it doesn’t, I’m going forward where I can get a better look at what’s down there. Keep it slow. Watch for my hand signals.”

He left her, moving to the bow. She watched him go, thinking how hard this would have been without him. Once, in the beginning, she had tried to discourage his insistence on acting as her protector. Once, she would have welcomed his decision to leave her. Now she had no idea how she would have managed without him. He was always there for her, ready to help when needed. He didn’t need to be asked; he anticipated what was required and provided it. He never asked or even expected anything in return, not even a word of thanks. She couldn’t imagine why he was putting himself out this way when there was no reason for him even to be here, but she was grateful nevertheless.

Her thoughts drifted to Arlingfant, still back in Arborlon struggling with the terrible charge the Ellcrys had given her. She knew she must help her sister find a way to refuse it, but so far her efforts had failed. Nothing she had found in the Druid Histories offered a solution. Nothing she had found in the Elven archives or Chosen records had helped. She had come up with no answers on her own. Even talking about it with Cymrian—something she would never have done before now—had provided no useful answers. She was stymied at every turn and beginning to feel desperate.

But she had put all that aside for now, consigned to a compartment in the back of her mind where she could find it again after her present efforts were successful and the Druid expedition found. Perhaps the Ard Rhys would have something useful to suggest. Perhaps in discussion with the Elven High Council and the King, a solution might be found.

Although she could not help thinking that perhaps things had already gone beyond that, and that the loss of Paranor and the failing of the Ellcrys were symptomatic of much larger and more complex problems.

As the mist-shrouded stone pillars drew closer, she turned her full attention back to sailing
Wend-A-Way,
pulling back on the thrusters until the airship slowed to a crawl. From the pilot box, she could see gaps in the hazy cover through which the floor of the wilderness was visible. All they needed, she thought, was just a glimpse of the
Walker Boh
. Then they could find a way to reach her.

At the bow, Cymrian motioned for her to slow. Breathless, filled with expectation that their search might be ending, she did so.

But for a long time, nothing happened. They eased their way across the vast expanse of brume, blinking away the rain as they searched for something recognizable, and found nothing. The hours drifted past, and the landscape took on a senses-deadening sameness that suggested anything that had dared to come into it was long since swallowed and forever lost and they were wasting their time looking. They spelled each other regularly, moving between the pilot box and the bow, hoping fresh eyes and fresh hands would aid them in their search.

But the landscape remained endless and empty.

Then Cymrian, forward again at the bow, held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. She did so, swinging the airship about in a slow circle, a virtual hover as she waited for something more. Her companion seemed to be sniffing or perhaps even tasting the air, casting about this way and that.

After a moment, he hurried back to her. “I can smell tar and burning timbers somewhere close. Circle the area slowly. I’ll try to pick out where the smell is coming from.”

He hurried back to the bow, and she began the process of widening the search in a slow spiral to cover a larger area. She watched Cymrian as he braced himself against the forward railing, leaning over to seek the source of the burning scent. She was thinking already about what it meant if he was right—especially about the burning timbers. But she told herself it might not be the
Walker Boh
. It might be something else entirely. This was strange country to them. Burning wood could have any number of sources.

She continued to sail
Wend-A-Way
across the roof of the mist, the rain still falling in a steady wash to mix with the ever-present haze.

Then Cymrian abruptly held up his hand once more, a hard push this time.

He had found something.

He turned and signaled that she should keep watching him, and then motioned for her to take
Wend-A-Way
down. She signaled back that she understood, dropping the airship just a little. Using his hands to dictate direction and speed, he guided her toward the floor of the marshy jungle. It was harrowing to respond without being able to see what was down there, especially when the stone spires began to appear to either side of her, rising up like monolithic creatures from a frothy sea.

Their descent was slow and treacherous. Twice Cymrian stopped it entirely and had her take the airship back up again, apparently having seen something that had been hidden from higher up, and then reposition before starting down once more. She worked hard to keep their maneuvering steady and her hands responsive to his signals. As they dropped lower, the mist began to close in around them, and soon they were swallowed up in it.

Once,
Wend-A-Way
scraped against one of the pillars, and the sound of wood cracking caused her to catch her breath as she made a quick adjustment to ease the airship away.

But finally they were down far enough that Cymrian signaled her to stop entirely and came loping back to the pilot box. “We need to anchor and go on foot from here,” he said.

They secured the ship fore and aft using ropes and grappling hooks they swung over the side and maneuvered until they were caught in the limbs of a pair of skeletal trees, then dropped the rope ladder and went over the side. They descended cautiously, a distance of about twenty feet, eyes scanning the gray haze. Both wore dark-mottled forest clothing to blend in with their surroundings, loose-fitting to allow for easy movement. Aphenglow carried no weapon other than a hunting knife, but Cymrian carried a small arsenal of blades and throwing stars.

At the foot of the ladder, they paused. “Over there,” Cymrian whispered, pointing into the haze.

Aphen nodded, listening and assessing. It was hard to see anything in the swirl of brume and shadows, but she could detect the pungent odor of charred wood and ash. She wished suddenly they had brought a few other Elves along with them. She did not feel comfortable leaving the airship unprotected.

Cymrian led the way, moving into the gloom with Aphenglow close on his heels. The stone pillars loomed all about like frozen giants, sections of them visible through the shifting mist, huge and rugged sentries. The floor of the jungle was damp and soft, and their boots sank into it as they crept forward. Aphen listened carefully for sounds that would warn her of the presence of enemies; she scanned the gloom for movement. Nothing. But even so she wasn’t convinced.

Ahead, minutes later, they caught a strong whiff of burning, and moments after that a glimpse of embers.

Cymrian pointed to one side. A body lay sprawled on the earth, torn apart and partially eaten. They moved over for a quick look. It was a Troll, one of the Druid Guards.

They eased their way ahead once more, this time quickly finding other bodies—all of them either Trolls or Rovers, and all of them savaged and partially eaten. She searched for the Druids, dreading what she would find, but there was no sign of them.

A fresh stench, raw and overpowering, brought them to a halt. The
Walker Boh,
a huge gash in her port bow, her planking ripped apart and sections of the railing torn away, lay broken and ruined. Radian draws had been severed, parse tubes smashed, and the mainmast broken off midway up. All of the light sheaths were ripped apart and pulled down. A quick examination revealed that the airship had suffered a wound that had impacted her controls. The initial damage had crippled her, but most of the rest of what they were seeing was from the crash.

There were more bodies aboard the vessel, a handful of Rovers and Trolls crammed together around the pilot box. The attackers had swarmed aboard, and these few had made a final stand here. They were armed with weapons of all sorts, but whatever they had faced had been too much for them.

“They’re all dead,” Cymrian murmured after checking each. He seemed anxious to move away.

Aphen took a final look around at their surroundings from her vantage point atop the wreck. “All Rovers,” she said. “Where are the members of the order? Where are the Ohmsfords and Mirai Leah?”

There was still no sign of black robes, nor any hints of them. Had the others escaped? If so, where had they gone? But there was nothing to find here that would answer those questions and no reason to stay any longer. She signaled Cymrian, and together they climbed down and started back toward
Wend-A-Way
.

They had gotten no more than a dozen yards before the creatures appeared. With gnarled bodies and wizened faces, they were vaguely similar to Spider Gnomes. They came out of the shadows like ghosts, creeping toward the Elves on all fours, eyes bright with anticipation. Mouths yawned wide to reveal rows of teeth. Aphenglow could guess at what had drawn them. Not sated by those they had already dispatched, they had returned for something more to eat.

She stood with Cymrian and watched the creatures close in on every side. Their ship was too far away to make a run for it, even assuming they could get past the ring of bodies that was tightening steadily around them.

“What do you want to do?” Cymrian had blades in both hands, but even in the face of such terrible danger, he sounded calm and unhurried.

“Stand behind me,” she said suddenly. The creatures were very close now, easing forward soundlessly, eyes watchful. “Quickly!”

He did as she ordered, still holding the blades ready. “What are you doing?”

“Stand closer,” she said. “Put your arms around me. Do it.”

She felt his arms tighten about her body while leaving her arms free. His blades glinted right next to her face. She took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, don’t let go of me and don’t panic. Trust me.”

She felt his head press to her own, nodding. “Always.”

Then she summoned her magic and lit them both on fire.

She heard Cymrian inhale sharply as they were enveloped in a column of flames that soared forty feet into the air, crackling and burning with such ferocity that the encircling creatures immediately fell back, cringing and ducking away, their interest in pursuing the attack vanished. It was an illusion, of course. But to all outward appearances, Aphenglow and Cymrian appeared to be burning up.