High druid of Shannara_ Jarka Ruus - Terry Brooks [127]
He was aware suddenly that the shades had vanished, gone back into the shroud of mist and gloom they had swum through moments earlier, sunk down into the waters of the Lazareen.
“Why didn’t the dead go after Terek Molt?” he asked Ahren suddenly. “Why didn’t they attack the Galaphile, too?”
The Druid glanced over. “Because Molt protects his vessel with Druid magic, something he can afford to do and we cannot.” He paused, hands knuckle-white about the pilot box railing, droplets of water beaded on his narrow Elven features. “Besides, Penderrin, he may have summoned the dead in the first place. He has that power.”
“Shades,” the boy whispered, and the word was like a prayer.
They sailed ahead in silence, an island once more in the mist and fog, a rabbit in flight from a fox. All eyes searched the gloom for the Galaphile, while Cinnaminson called out course headings and Gar Hatch made the airship respond. The wind picked up again, set loose as they reached the Lazareen’s center, and the haze began to dissipate. Below, the lake waters were choppy and dark, the sound of their waves clear in the fog’s silence.
Ahren Elessedil leaned over the pilot box railing. “Where do we sail?” he asked Gar Hatch.
“The Slags,” the big man answered dully. “There’s plenty of places to hide in there, places we will never be found. We just need to clear the lake.”
Pen touched the Druid’s arm and looked at him questioningly.
“Wetlands,” the Druid said. “Miles and miles of them, stretching all along the northeastern shoreline. Swamp and flood plain, cypress and cedar. A tangle of old growth and grasses blanketed with mist and filled with quicksand that can swallow whole ships. Dangerous, even if you know what you’re doing.” He nodded toward Hatch. “He’s made the right choice.”
She has, Pen corrected silently. For it was Cinnaminson who set their course, through whose mind’s eye they sought their way and in whose hands they placed their trust.
The mist continued to thin, the sky above opening to a canopy of stars, the lake below silver-tipped and shimmering. Their cover would be gone in a few minutes, and Pen saw no sign of the shore. The mist still hung in thick curtains in the distance, so he assumed the shore was there. But it was a long way off, and the wind was in their face, slowing their passage.
Rain began to fall, sweeping across the decking in a cold, black wash, and quickly they were soaked through. It poured for a time, thunder booming in the distance, and then just as suddenly it stopped again. At the same moment, the wind died to nothing.
“Twenty degrees starboard,” Cinnaminson told her father. “We’ll find better speed on that heading. Oh,” she gasped suddenly, “behind us, Papa!”
They all swung about in response and found the Galaphile emerging from the remnants of the fog bank, dark and menacing in the moonlight, sails furled and lashed, the warship flying on the power of her diapson crystals. She was moving fast, surging through the night, bearing down on them like a tidal wave.
Gar Hatch threw the thruster levers all the way forward and yelled to his Rover crewmen to drop the mainsail. Pen saw the reason for it at once; the mainsail was a drag on the ship in that windless air and would be of less help if the wind resumed from the east. The Skatelow was better off flying on stored power, as well, though she could not begin to match the speed of the Galaphile. Still, she was the smaller, lighter craft and, if she was lucky, might be able to outmaneuver her pursuer.
The chase was under way in earnest; the fog that had offered concealment only moments earlier all but vanished. Pen did not care for what he saw as he watched the Galaphile draw closer. As fast as she was coming, the Skatelow could not outrun her. The Lazareen stretched away in all directions, vast and unchanging, and there was no sign of the shoreline they so desperately needed to reach. Clever