Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [179]
Sword raised to the light, magic entwined with the air and the ice and the rock, Bek shouted his instructions. Relying on instinct rather than sight, on sensation rather than thought, he responded to impulses that flashed and were gone in seconds, trusting to their ebb and flow as he guided the airship ahead. He could not explain to himself then or later what he was doing. He was reacting, and the impetus for what he did came from something both within and without that lacked definition or source, that was like the air he breathed and the cold and damp that infused it—pervasive and all-consuming. Again and again, huge shadows fell over him as the pillars of the Squirm swept by, barely missing them, rising and falling in the misty light, advancing randomly, soldiers at march through the gloom. Over and over, the monoliths collided, splintered, exploded, and turned to jagged shards. Lost within himself, wrapped within his magic, Bek felt it all and saw none of it.
Then the gloom began to brighten ahead, the haze to thin, and the sound and movement of the pillars to lessen. Still focused on the crushing weight of the ice and rock, Bek registered the change without letting it distract him. There was a sense of growing warmth, of color returning, and of smells that were of the land and not the sea. The airship surged ahead, propelled by an expectancy and hope Bek had not felt before. He lowered the Sword of Shannara in response, and his connection with the magic was broken. The warmth that infused him drew back, and the light that encircled the blade faded. Still on his knees, exhausted, he sagged to the decking. He breathed in deeply, gratefully, head lowered between his shoulders.
Walker took the Sword of Shannara from his hands and knelt beside him. “We’re through, Bek. We’re safe. Well done, young Ohmsford.”
The boy felt the Druid’s arm come about his shoulders, and then he fell away into blackness and didn’t feel anything.
When he regained consciousness, he was lying beneath the foremast with Joad Rish bent over him. He blinked and stared down at himself for a moment, as if needing reassurance that he was still all there, then looked up at the Healer.
“How do you feel?” the Elf asked, concern mirrored in his narrow features.
Bek wanted to laugh. How could he possibly answer that question after what he’d been through? “I’m all right. A little disoriented. How long was I unconscious?”
“No more than a few minutes. Walker said you were thrown into that crate and cracked your head. Do you want to try to stand up?”
With the Healer’s help, Bek climbed to his feet and looked around. The Jerk Shannara was under sail, moving down a broad, twisting channel through a bleak landscape of barren cliff walls and small, rocky islands. But the mist had begun to clear, and traces of blue sky shone in the bright light of an emerging sun. Trees dotted the ridgelines of the cliffs, and the glaciers and ice floes were gone.
A rush of memories crowded into Bek’s mind, hard and fast and dangerous, but he blinked them away. The Squirm and its pillars of ice were gone. The Sword of Shannara was gone as well, put back into its casing by Walker, he supposed. He shivered momentarily, thinking of all he had experienced, of the feelings generated, of the whiplash of power. The sword’s magic was addictive, he realized. He didn’t need more than one experience with it to know. It was terrifying and overwhelming and incredibly empowering. Just to have survived it made him feel strangely exhilarated. As if he could survive anything. As if he were invulnerable.
Quentin came up and put a hand on his shoulder, asking how he was. Bek repeated Joad Rish’s story about hitting his head when the ship lurched, playing it down. Nothing much. Nothing to give a second thought to. It was such a ridiculous explanation that he relt embarrassed giving it, but he realized it seemed ridiculous only if you knew the truth. One by one, the members of the ship’s company came up to him, and he repeated the story to each. Only Ahren