Терри Брукс - The Elf Queen of Shannara

“Who are you?” she asked.

The creature appraised her silently for a moment, blue eyes unblinking. When he spoke, its voice was a low growl. “Stresa.”

“Stresa,” she repeated. “Is that your name?”

The creature nodded.

“My name is Wren. This is my friend Garth.”

“Hssttt. You are an Elf,” Stresa repeated, and the cat face furrowed. “But you are not from Morrowindl.”

“No,” she responded. She put her hands on her hips, puzzled. “How did you know that?”

The blue eyes squinted slightly. “You don’t recognize me. You don’t know what I am. Hrrrrowwl. If you lived on Morrowindl, you would.”

Wren nodded. “What are you, then?”

“A Splinterscat,” the creature answered. He growled deep in its throat. “That is what we are called, the few of us who remain. Part of this and part of that, but mostly something else altogether. Puurrft.”

“And how is it that you know about Elves? Are there still Elves living here?”

The Splinterscat regarded her coolly, patient within his snare. “If you help me get free,” he replied, his rough voice a low purr, “I will answer your questions.”

Wren hesitated, undecided.

“Fffppht! You had better hurry,” he advised. “Before the Wisteron comes.”

Wisteron? Wren glanced again at Garth, signing to indicate what Stresa had said. Garth made a brief response.

Wren turned back. “How do we know you won’t hurt us?” she asked the Splinterscat.

“Harrrwl. If you are not from Morrowindl and you have come this far, then you are more dangerous than I,” he answered, coming as close as he probably could to laughing. “Hurry, now. Use your long knives to cut the webbing. The edge of the blade only; keep the flat turned away.” The strange creature paused, and for the first time she saw a hint of desperation in its eyes. “There isn’t much time. If you help me—hrroww—perhaps I can help you in return.”

Wren signed to Garth, and they moved over to where the Splinterscat was bound, careful to avoid triggering any of the snares still in place. Working quickly, they sliced through the strands entangling the creature and then backed away. Stresa stepped over the fallen webbing gingerly and eased past them to where the ground was firm. He spread his quills and shook himself violently. Both Wren and Garth flinched at the sudden movement, but no quills flew at them. The Splinterscat was merely shaking loose the last of the webbing clinging to his body. He began preening himself, then stopped when he remembered they were watching.

“Thank you,” he said in his low, rough voice. “If you had not freed me, I would have died. Grrwwll. The Wisteron would have eaten me.”

“The Wisteron?” Wren asked.

The Splinterscat laid back its quills, ignoring the question. “You should already be dead yourself,” he declared. The cat face furrowed once more. “Pffftt!” he spit. “You are either very lucky or you have the protection of magic. Which is it?”

Wren took a moment to respond. “You promised to answer my questions, Stresa. Tell me of the Elves.”

The Splinterscat bunched itself up and sat down. He was bigger than he had looked in the snare, more the size of a dog than the cat or porcupine he looked. “The Elves,” he said, the growl creeping back into his voice, “live inland, high on the slopes of Killeshan in the city of Arborlon—hrrowggh—where the demons have them trapped.”

“Demons?” Wren asked, immediately thinking of those that had been shut away within the Forbidding by the Ellcrys. They had already broken free once in the time of Wil Ohmsford. Had they done so again? “What do these demons look like?” she pressed.

“Sssssttt! Like lots of different things. What difference does it make? The point is, the Elves made them and now they can’t get rid of them. Pfft! Too bad for the Elves. The magic of the Keel fails now. It won’t be long before everything goes.”

The Splinterscat waited while Wren wrestled with this latest news. There was still too much she didn’t understand. “The Elves made the demons?” she repeated in confusion.

“Years ago. When they didn’t know any better.”

“But... made them from what?”

Stresa’s tongue licked out, a dark violet against its brown face. “Why did you come here—grrwll? Why are you looking for the Elves?”

Wren felt Garth’s cautionary hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw him gesture off into the jungle.

“Hssttt, yes, I hear it, too,” Stresa announced, rising hurriedly. “The Wisteron. It begins to hunt, to check its snares for food. We have to get away from here quickly. Once it discovers I’ve escaped, it will come looking for me.” The Splinterscat shook out its quills. “Hhgggh. Since you don’t appear to know your way, you had better follow me.”

He started off abruptly. Wren hurried to catch up, Garth trailing. “Wait a moment! What sort of creature is this Wisteron?” she asked.

“Better for you if you never find out,” Stresa replied enigmatically, and all of his quills stood on end. “This swamp is called the In Ju. The Wisteron makes its home here. The In Ju stretches all the way to Blackledge—and that is a long way off. Phffaghh.”

He shambled away, moving far more quickly than Wren would have expected. “I still don’t understand how you know so much about the Elves,” she said, hastening after. “Or how it is that you can talk, for that matter. Does everything on Morrowindl talk?”

Stresa glanced back, a cat look, sharp and knowing. “Rraarggh—did I forget to tell you? The reason I can talk is that the Elves made me, too. Hsssstt.” The Splinterscat turned away. “Enough questions for now. Better if we keep still for a while.”

He moved rapidly into the trees, as silent as smoke, leaving Wren with Garth to follow, pondering her confusion and disbelief.

They fled swiftly, silently through the In Ju. The Splinterscat led, his brownish quilled body shambling through brush and into grasses, under brambles and over logs as if they were all one, a single obstacle that required the same amount of effort to surmount. Wren and Garth followed, forced to skirt the heavier undergrowth, to pick their way more cautiously, to test the ground before they walked upon it. They managed to keep pace only because Stresa had sufficient presence of mind to look back for them now and again and wait until they caught up.

None of them spoke as they hastened on, but they all listened carefully for sounds of the Wisteron’s pursuit.

The jungle grew darker and webs began to appear everywhere. Many were trailers from snares long since sprung or worn away, yet an equal number were triggers to nets stretched through the treetops, across brush, even over pits in the earth. The webbing was clear and invisible except where leaves or dirt had become attached and gave color and definition, and even then it was hard to detect. Wren soon gave up searching for anything else, concentrating solely on the dangerous nets. A spider would spin webs such as these, she thought to herself, and pictured the Wisteron so in her mind.

They had been fleeing for only a handful of minutes when she finally heard it moving. The sound reached her clearly—brush and scrub thrashing, the limbs of trees snapping, bark scraping, and water splashing and churning. The Wisteron was big and it was making no effort to hide its coming. It sounded as if a juggernaut were rolling over everything, implacable, inescapable. The In Ju was a monstrous green cathedral in which the silence had been snatched away. Wren was suddenly very afraid.

They passed through a broad clearing in which a lake had formed, forcing them to change direction. After a moment’s hesitation, they skirted right along a low ridge on which a thick patch of brambles grew. Stresa tunneled ahead, oblivious. Wren and Garth followed bravely, ignoring the scrapes and cuts they received, the sounds of the Wisteron’s coming growing louder behind them.