Ilse Witch - Terry Brooks [46]
“Have you answers to give?” Hunter pressed, ignoring the compliment.
“None I care to share just yet.” He stood up, setting his plate and cup aside. “It’s time for me to go. I won’t be back before morning, so you might as well get some sleep. Do not come looking for me, no matter how tempted you might be. Do you understand?”
The Wing Rider nodded. “I don’t need to be told to stay out of those mountains. I’ve heard the stories of what lives there. I’ll be content to stay right where I am.” He wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. “Good luck to you.”
It grew colder on the walk up from the foothills and into the Dragon’s Teeth, the temperature dropping steadily as the Druid climbed. Within the massive rock walls, the night was silent and empty feeling. The moon disappeared behind the peaks, and there was only starlight to guide the way, though that was sufficient for the Druid. He proceeded along a narrow pebble-strewn trail that angled through clusters of massive boulders. The jumble of crushed and broken rock suggested that an upheaval in some long-forgotten time had changed the landscape dramatically. Once another peak might have occupied the place. Now there was only ruin.
It took him almost two hours to make the climb, and it was nearing midnight when he reached his destination. Cresting a rise, he found himself looking down on the Valley of Shale and the fabled Hadeshorn. The lake sat squarely in the valley’s center, its smooth waters dull and lifeless within the bowl of polished black rock that littered the walls and floor. Starlight reflected brightly off the stone, but was absorbed by the Hadeshorn and turned to shadow. Within the valley, nothing moved. Cupped by the high, lonesome peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth, it had the look and feel of a tomb.
Not far from wrong, Walker thought to himself, staring out across its lifeless expanse.
Faced toward the Valley of Shale, he seated himself with his back against a huge slab of rock and dozed. Time slipped away without seeming to do so, and before he knew it, the night was almost gone. He rose and walked, moving steadily but cautiously over the loose rock, picking his way down the valley’s slope to its floor. He was careful not to trip and fall, — the edges of the polished rock were razor sharp. Only the crunching of the rubble beneath his boots broke the silence of his descent. Starlight flooded the valley, and he made his way without difficulty to the edge of the lake by the hour before dawn, when the spirits of the dead might be summoned to reveal secrets hidden from the living.
There, a solitary figure silhouetted against the flat terrain, he stilled himself within to prepare for what would come next.
The waters of the Hadeshorn had taken on a different cast with his approach, shimmering now from just beneath the surface with light that did not reflect from the stars but emanated from some inner source. There was a sense of something stirring, coming awake and taking notice of his presence. He could feel it more than see it. He kept his focus on the lake, disdaining all else, knowing that any break in concentration once he began would doom his efforts and possibly cause him harm.
When he was at peace within and fully concentrated, he began the process of calling to the dead. He spoke softly, for it was not necessary that his voice carry, and gestured slowly, for precision counted more than speed. He spoke his name and of his history and need, motioning for the dead to respond, for the lake to give them up. As he did, the waters stirred visibly, swirling slowly in a clockwise motion, then churning more violently. Small cries rose from their depths, calling out in tiny, ethereal voices, whispers that turned to screams as thin as paper. The Hadeshorn hissed and boiled, releasing the cries in small fountains of spray, then in geysers that plumed hundreds of feet into the air. Light beneath the lake’s surface brightened and pulsed, and the valley shuddered.