Terry Brooks - Witch Wraith

All this came to the Druid in seconds, and that was all the time she was given. The creature hiding within Jera’s skin had emerged, and she did not have the strength to fend it off. It was enormously strong, and Seersha knew it would be free in seconds and that would be the end.

She cried out for help, then flung her arms about the creature’s neck in a vise-like grip that crushed its windpipe and cut off its air. The beast thrashed and writhed once more, and this time its claws ripped into the Druid, tearing at her exposed back. She summoned her magic anew and tried to create a protective covering for her body. But mostly she used it to infuse her arms with renewed strength so that she could apply crushing force as she tightened her hold about the creature’s neck.

They rolled and twisted about the floor of the bedroom, bumping into the bodies of the dead and covering themselves with blood. Atop the bed, Phaedon Elessedil was screaming, backed up against the headboard, trying to curl himself into an invisible ball.

When the door finally burst open and Elven Home Guards poured through and managed to pry Seersha free, they found that the creature she was locked onto was already dead.

Blankets were brought in which to wrap her, and voices called out to her as they picked her up.

“Hold on. We’re getting you help.”

“There! Her legs! Keep them steady.”

“She’s been stabbed in the back, too. Look at the wound!”

“Seersha, can you hear me?”

She was drifting now, far out on the ocean, borne by the waves in a rocking motion that left her warm and sleep.

“Seersha! Don’t go to sleep!”

On the bed, Phaedon was weeping. For himself, she imagined.

“Seersha! Listen to me!”

Listening.

Drifting.

Don’t go.

Very late that same night, having spent four nights and three days coming down out of the Charnals and crossing the Streleheim west, the Quickening at last reached the forests of the Elven Westland on a clouded, rain-drenched night. It was never anyone’s intention that they make the journey so quickly, but the witch wraith they carried aboard insisted. With little hesitation and in a voice that permitted no argument, she demanded they sail on with no stops. Sleeping and eating would be allowed, but there would be no anchoring the vessel until they had reached their destination.

She was a chilling presence—ragged gray robes and haggard, ruined features, a ghostly creature whether crouching near the forward mast, which had become her favorite haunt, or sliding through the gloom and mist to some position farther astern. Men moved away at her approach, and no one other than Railing bothered to speak to her. Even he had given up after their last conversation, having learned all he cared to about her intentions. There was an inhuman aura to her that matched the story behind her time in thrall to the Tanequil. To those around her, it felt as if she had evolved into something no longer even slightly human but more akin to the demonkind they were taking her to face.

Railing thought he understood what Mother Tanequil had decided to do for them. Or to him, when you came right down to it, for he was the one who had brought Grianne Ohmsford back. When he had come to the Tanequil’s island, crossing the bridge to the song of the aeriads, he had found Grianne a spirit of the air and had hoped she might be set free to aid them. But what had happened instead was that the part of her still in mortal form, the flesh and blood and bone parts that were kept imprisoned in Mother Tanequil’s tangled roots down within the earth, was what had been released. Because it wasn’t Grianne Ohmsford, the Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order, that would defeat Tael Riverine. It was Grianne Ohmsford, the Ilse Witch—a monster that could stand up to another monster and find a way to prevail.

What he had not reckoned on and was still uncertain about was what sort of price they were all going to pay for having brought this to pass. There was not even a hint of an intention on her part to do anything that would help him regain his brother or free the Four Lands from the Jarka Ruus. There was no empathy for the fate of the Races. There was only a driving need to confront an enemy that had haunted her for more than a century in her memories and dreams, and to eradicate any trace of him.

Railing couldn’t know if she possessed the abilities and skills to bring this about, even though she seemed certain enough. But he did not doubt that she intended to try, or that they were along for the ride and completely superfluous to her ultimate goals. Whatever happened if she prevailed and the Straken Lord was defeated would in no way benefit them.

Which meant that, when all was said and done, he was going to have to find a way to return her to where he had found her.

As they sailed across the Streleheim and down along the eastern edge of the Westland forests toward the Valley of Rhenn, he wondered anew at her immediate plans. She had quit letting them dictate their course once they were out of the Charnals. Responding to something she alone understood, she had given them explicit directions on where they were to go. When Austrum had questioned her—the one such question anyone had dared to ask—she had responded by lifting him off his feet with one withered arm and carrying him to the railing. She had held him over the side as if she intended to drop him, and it was only when Railing shouted at her to stop—telling her that Austrum was their navigator and the captain of their vessel—that she relented, bringing him back on board and tossing him aside as if he were not worth the effort.

So they did her bidding and marked time and tried to keep from losing hope. The atmosphere aboard the ship was tense and despairing. Even Challa Nand, usually so bluff and open, kept to himself and spoke only in short, abrupt sentences when forced to speak at all. No one knew where the ship was going, but they were all reasonably certain it had to do with finding Tael Riverine.

Although from the force and insistence of her commands, Railing had the unshakable feeling that Grianne already knew where he was.

Now dawn was less than an hour away, and he was beginning to believe they were flying to Arborlon. What he didn’t know was why they would be going there. If she intended to confront Tael Riverine, wouldn’t she be flying them into the Forbidding, assuming she could determine a way to pass through its protective wall? That was what he would do.

But then he saw the other possibility, and it turned him to ice. What if the Straken Lord and his creatures had already broken free and set upon Arborlon and its Elves? Wasn’t that what had happened before in the time of Wil Ohmsford? Wasn’t that the logical course of action where the one sure way to destroy the Forbidding was to destroy the Ellcrys? Aphenglow and Arlingfant had set out in search of the Bloodfire to quicken the Ellcrys seed, but what if they had failed? What if the demons were inside the Four Lands for good?

All of which made him wonder about Redden’s fate. If the Straken Lord had come into the Four Lands, what had he done with Redden? Perhaps his brother had been brought along, although he couldn’t think of a reason for this. But leaving him behind made no sense, either.

“You seem more distraught than usual,” Mirai observed, coming up beside him. “Which is saying something.”

“I have good reason,” he answered.

Quickly, he explained his fear about what might have happened and why they were heading where he believed they clearly were.

Mirai nodded. “All possible. But we can’t do anything about it either way. Not with her watching everything we do.” She gestured toward the Ilse Witch, a ragged shape in the predawn gloom. “We have to wait and see.”