Terry Brooks - Antrax

The wronk shifted again, drawing fresh shards of starlight to its metal skin, pinpricks of brightness that flashed and faded like fireflies. They heard its heavy body as it took a step forward and paused anew. Nothing of Ard Patrinell’s tortured face was visible to them, and so they could try to pretend the wronk was nothing more than a machine. But in his mind Quentin saw the Elf’s eyes anew, looking out from their prison—frantic, pleading, desperate for release. He would have banished the image if he had known how to do so, but it was so strong and pervasive that he could not manage it. It was a window not only into Patrinell’s terrible fate, but also into his own. Tamis would free her lover from his living death. Quentin would simply avoid sharing his fate.

Sweating freely, the heat forming a sheen of perspiration on his face and arms, he wondered absently how matters had come to that end. He had embarked on the journey with such hopes for something wonderful and fulfilling and life-transforming. He had wanted an adventure. What he’d gotten was a nightmare.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Tamis nodded, grim-faced. “Don’t let it take me alive,” she said suddenly. “Promise me.”

“Promise me, as well.” His heart was hammering within his chest.

“I loved him,” she whispered so quietly he barely heard her speak the words.

Quentin Leah took a deep breath and brought up his sword.

Bek Ohmsford followed Truls Rohk from the shoreline without resistance. He ran with the shape-shifter deep into the forest for a long time and did not complain. But finally his efforts at keeping up failed. His strength gave out, and he collapsed at the base of a broad-limbed maple, sitting with his head between his legs, sucking in huge gulps of air.

The shape-shifter, a cloaked shadow in the deep night, wheeled back soundlessly and knelt beside him. “You went longer than most would. You’re tough, for a boy.”

They stared at each other in the darkness. Bek tried to speak and couldn’t. Whatever Grianne had done to him, escaping Black Moclips hadn’t helped. His voice was still gone. He made a series of weak, futile gestures, but the other mistook his silence for exhaustion.

“You thought I was dead, didn’t you?” Truls Rohk laughed softly. “That’s a mistake that’s been made before.” He shifted within the cloak and settled into a crouch. “I was close to dying, though. The witch set a trap I wasn’t looking for—a caull. She guessed at my purpose in circling back to wait for her and got the caull behind me. I was too anxious to get back to you to be looking out for it properly. It caught me reaching down for your knife with my back turned. I didn’t even know it was there.”

He paused. “But you saved me. All without knowing. Think of that.”

Bek shook his head in confusion.

“After I left, you had a visit from the shape-shifters who inhabit that region.”

Bek nodded. He could still remember the smell and feel of them in the night, all size and bristling hair and raspy voices, like feral beasts.

“Whatever you said to them caught their interest. They decided to wait for me, as well. When a true shape-shifter hides, no one can find it. The caull, lying in wait for me, couldn’t. Couldn’t even tell they were there. When it attacked me, they snatched it right out of the air, bound it in cords so tough it could not break free, and carried it away. Before they left, they told me that my place in this world and my life belonged to you. What do you suppose they meant?”

Bek thought back, remembering how the shape-shifters had queried him about his relationship to Truls Rohk, probing his reasoning, testing his loyalty. Would you give up your life for him? Yes, because I think he would do the same for me. His answer, it seemed, had meant something after all.

Truls Rohk grunted. “Anyway, I fell asleep when they left me. Not what I had planned, but I couldn’t help myself. It was something in their voices. When I woke, I came looking for you. But the witch took care to disguise her passage in ways I couldn’t immediately unravel. It didn’t matter. I knew she would bring you back here. I tried the airship first thing, seeing it moored in the bay. Black Moclips, the witch’s own vessel. Your smell led me right to you, locked down in that hold. I got to you just in time, didn’t I?”

He waited a heartbeat, then reached out suddenly and snatched Bek by his tunic front. “What’s wrong with you, boy? Why don’t you say something?”

Bek wrenched himself free and pointed angrily at his neck. Then he clapped his hand over his mouth for emphasis.

“You’re injured?” the other demanded. “Something’s damaged your throat?”

Impatiently, Bek scratched the words in the dirt with a stick. The cowled head bent for a look. “You can’t speak?” Bek wrote some more. “The witch stole your voice? With magic?”

Truls Rohk rocked back on his haunches and stood up. He made a dismissive gesture. “She doesn’t have that kind of power over you. Never has. What do you think the Druid has been trying to tell you? You’re her equal, though untrained yet. You have the gift, too. I knew that from the moment we met in the Wolfsktaag, months ago.”

Bek shook his head vehemently, shouting soundlessly, bitterly in response.

“Think!” the other snapped irritably. “She’s kept you alive so far to find out what you know. Would she destroy your voice so that you could never speak again? Huh! No, she’s done what she does best. She’s played a game with your mind. She’s knocked you down and left you thinking what she wants you to think. It’s mind-altering, of a sort. You can speak, if you want. Go ahead. Try.”

Bek stared at him in disbelief, then shook his head.

“Try, boy.”

I’ve already tried! He mouthed the words angrily.

Truls Rohk pushed him hard. “Try again.”

Bek staggered backwards and righted himself. Stop it!

“Do what I say! Try again!” The shape-shifter shoved him a second time, harder than before. “Try, if you’ve got any backbone! Try, if you don’t want me to knock you down!” He shoved Bek so hard he almost sent him sprawling. “Tell me to stop! Go on, tell me!”

Flushed with rage, Bek charged the cloaked form, but Truls Rohk blocked his rush and pushed him away. “You’re afraid of her, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t try. You’re frightened! Admit it!”

He wheeled away. “I’ve no use for someone who can’t do more than follow at my heels like a dog. Get away from me! I’ll do this alone.”

Bek charged in front of him and blocked his way. Stop it! I’m coming with you!

“Then you tell me so to my face!” Truls Rohk’s voice dropped to a dangerous hiss. “Tell me right now, boy!” He shoved Bek again, harder than ever. “Tell me, or get out of my—”

Something gave way inside Bek, a visceral rending of self that had the feel of tearing flesh. It gave way before a mix of rage and humiliation and frustration that engulfed him like a swollen river slamming up against a dam built for calmer waters. His voice exploded out of him in a primal scream of such impact that it lifted Truls Rohk off his feet and sent him flying backwards. It bent the branches of trees, flattened tall grasses, shredded bark, and tore up clots of earth for a dozen yards. It began with the shriek of a hurricane’s winds as it sapped the forest silence, then layered it anew in a darker and more suffocating blanket.

Bek dropped to his knees in shock and disbelief, coughing out the final shards of noise, the sound of his voice dropping to a startled whisper.

Truls Rohk picked himself up and brushed himself off. “Shades!” he muttered. He reached out his hand to Bek and pulled him to his feet. “Was that really necessary?”