Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [174]
He waited for the Rover to acknowledge him. Redden Alt Mer glanced at his sister, then nodded his agreement.
“Hunter Predd,” Walker continued. “The Wing Riders must remain behind. The Shrikes are numerous and the winds and fog treacherous. Fly down the coast and try to find a better place than this atoll to await our return. If we can, we will come back for you or at least get word to you. But it may take time. We may be gone for as long as several months.” He paused. “Maybe longer.”
The grizzled rider nodded. “I know what to do.”
He was saying he understood that those who passed through the pillars of Ice Henge might not be coming back. He was saying that he would wait until waiting was pointless, then try to make his way back to the Four Lands. But Bek heard something more. Hunter Predd wasn’t the sort to give up easily. If those on the Jerle Shannara didn’t make it home, then in all probability, neither would he.
If Walker had picked up on this, he gave no indication. “Ryer Ord Star has had another vision,” he advised, beckoning the young woman forward.
She came reluctantly, head lowered into the silver shadow of her long hair, violet eyes directed at the floor, moving into the Druid’s shadow as if only there could she be safe, so close that she was pressing up against him. Walker put his hand on her shoulder and bent down. “Tell them,” he urged gently.
She took a moment before she responded, her voice high and clear. “I see three moles who seek to burrow into the earth. They carry keys to a lock. One is caught in an endless maze. Ribbons of fire trap another. Metal dogs hunt a third. All are blind and cannot see. All have lost their way and cannot find it again. But one will discover a door that leads to the past. Inside, the future waits.”
There was a long silence when she was finished. Then Redden Alt Mer cleared his throat. “Kind of vague, isn’t it?” he offered with a wry, apologetic smile at the seer. “What does it mean?”
“We don’t know,” Walker answered for her. “It might mean that one of us will find the entry into Castledown and the treasure that lies within. That would be a meeting of past and future. Whatever other purpose it serves, it gives warning of three dangers—an endless maze, ribbons of fire, and metal dogs. In some form, these are what we will face when we gain land again.” He glanced at Ryer Ord Star. “Maybe by then, we will have new insights to ponder.”
We can only hope, Bek thought to himself, and the discussion turned to other matters.
Bek slept poorly that night, riddled by self-doubt and misgiving. He was awake when dawn broke lead-gray and misty, the sun a red-glowing forge at the edge of the world. He stood on deck and watched the light grow from pale to somber as the sky took on a wintry cast that layered clouds and mist and water like gauze. The air was chill and smelled of the damp, and the cliffs of Ice Henge were aswirl with snowflakes and wheeling gulls. The Shrikes were up, as well, hunting the coastline, their larger forms all wings and necks, their fierce cries echoing off the rock walls.
Walker appeared and stopped long enough to place a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder before moving on. Anchor lines were cast off, sails were unfurled, and the Jerle Shannara rose from its berthing and flew north. The Wing Riders left at the same time, flying south. Bek watched them go from the aft railing, solitary forms riding the air currents in a slow, steady glide, the Rocs’ great wings spread to the faint winter light. In seconds they were gone, disappeared into the gloom, and Bek turned his attention to what lay ahead. Perhaps a mile offshore, they sailed up the coast making for the opening in the cliffs that led to the Squirm. Breakfast, a hearty mix of breads and cheeses washed down by cold ale, was consumed in shifts and mostly on deck. The