High druid of Shannara_ Jarka Ruus - Terry Brooks [44]
“Do you know who that was?” Tagwen gasped from his shelter, peeking frantic-eyed over the gunwales. “That was Terek Molt! He would have cut you to ribbons! Still might, Penderrin Ohmsford! Can this ship fly any faster?”
Pen didn’t bother with an answer. The Highlands were still some distance away, and a quick glance over his shoulder revealed the dark rams of the Galaphile nosing into view out of the cove, already in pursuit. Those Gnomes were sailors; they knew what they were doing. He had hoped that they were land creatures filling in, but he should have known better. Druids wouldn’t bother using anyone who wasn’t good at what was needed.
“If Terek Molt is behind this, then I was right about the Ard Rhys!” Tagwen shouted, and then disappeared back down into the pontoon hold.
Pen canted the mainsail to take advantage of the storm wind howling across the water. The cat was buffeted and shaken by its force, but propelled forward, as well, riding the back of sharp, hard gusts. Rain was falling steadily, picking up strength as clouds closed about. The storm would help to hide them, but Pen didn’t want to be caught out on the lake when it struck. A blow of that magnitude could knock a cat-28 right out of the skies.
He took her down to less than a hundred feet off the surface of the water, hugging the shore as he fought to regain land. They were well beyond the Duln and the mouth of the Rappahalladran, the Highlands already visible on their right, rugged and mist-shrouded under a ceiling of clouds hung so low that the horizon had disappeared.
“Penderrin!” Tagwen shouted in warning.
Pen turned and found the Galaphile looming out of the rain and mist, closing the distance between them far too quickly. How much time had passed since they fled from her? It didn’t seemed like any time at all. Pen glanced ahead, then angled the cat to starboard, heading directly off water and inland, seeking the cover of the Highlands. If he could gain the hills, he would look for a place to set down, somewhere leafy and shadowed where he couldn’t be seen from the air. But if one didn’t present itself immediately, he would have to keep flying. On balance, his situation seemed hopeless, his chances so poor he couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking to try running in the first place. What if Terek Molt had the use of magic to track them, just like his aunt? Druids had all sorts of magic they could call upon.
Pen, on the other hand, had none at all.
Straight into the mists he flew, recklessly disregarding what might be hidden there. Cliffs and rocky outcroppings dotted the coastline, dangerous obstacles for any craft and disastrous for one as small as his. He had flown the hills repeatedly over the years, but not in such poor weather and not under such desperate circumstances. He kept his eyes locked on the movement of the clouds and mist and listened to the sound of the wind as it shifted. White curtains enveloped him, closing everything away. In seconds, he was alone in an impenetrable haze of rain and mist.
The rain increased, and he was soon soaked through. There hadn’t been time to grab anything to protect himself against the weather, so he couldn’t do much to ease his discomfort. A glance over his shoulder revealed no sign of the Galaphile, so he performed a quick compass check and turned east again, changing direction. He was hoping the Druid airship would continue to follow the course he had just abandoned. He thought about taking the cat higher to reduce the odds of colliding with the cliffs, but he couldn’t chance it; the higher he rose, the thinner the mists and the greater the risk of discovery. His pursuers were too close.
He dropped his