Terry Brooks - Ilse Witch

But his course of action was determined, and his mind was focused on where he must go.

When he reached the encampment in the foothills where he had left Hunter Predd, the Wing Rider was waiting. He had struck camp, repacked their gear, and was grooming Obsidian’s ebony feathers so that they gleamed. The Roc saw the Druid first and dipped his fierce head in warning. Hunter Predd turned, put down the curry brush, and watched the Druid approach. He handed Walker a thick slice of bread with jam spread over it and a cup of cold water and went back to grooming his mount.

Walker moved to a patch of grass, seated himself, and began to devour the bread hungrily. Images roiled in his mind as the Hadeshorn had with the coming of the spirits of the dead. Allanon’s shade loomed over him, blacking out the starlight, eyes bright within shadows, voice deep and commanding, an echo of the rumbling earth. Walker could see him still, could feel his dark presence, could hear him speak. When Allanon’s shade departed finally at first light, it was as if the world was coming to an end, the air swirling with shadows, shimmering with spirit bodies, and filling with the keening of the dead. The waters of the Hadeshorn geysered anew, as if some leviathan were breaching, and the dead were drawn back again from the world of the living to their own domain. Walker had felt as if his soul was being torn from him, as if a part of him had gone with them. In a way, he supposed, it had.

He paused in his eating and stared into space. If he thought too long and hard on what was required of him, if he dwelled on the demands the shade of Allanon had made, he would begin to question himself in ways that were harmful. What would keep him sane and whole was remembering what was at stake—the lives of people who depended on him, the safety of the Four Lands, and his dream of seeing a Druid Council become a reality in his lifetime. This last drove him more strongly than the others, for if it came to pass, it would vindicate his still-troubling decision to become the very thing he had abhorred for so long. If he must be a Druid, let him be one on his own terms and of a sort that would not require him to live with shame.

When he had finished eating the bread and jam and drinking the water from the cup, he rose again. Hunter Predd glanced over his shoulder at the movement and ceased his grooming.

“Where do we go now, Walker?” he asked.

The Druid took a moment to study a flight of egrets as they passed overhead toward the Rainbow Lake. “South,” he answered finally, eyes distant and fixed, “to find someone whose magic is the equal of my own.”

Bek Rowe crept through the tall grasses at the edge of a clearing just below a heavily wooded line of hills, listening to the sound of the boar as it rooted in the tangle of thicket across the way. He paused as the wind shifted, mindful of staying downwind of his quarry, listening to its movements, judging its progress. Somewhere to his left, Quentin Leah waited in the deep woods. Time was running out for them; the sun was descending toward the western horizon, and only another hour of good light remained. They had been hunting the boar all day, trailing it through the rough up-country scrub and deep woods, waiting for a chance to bring it down. Their chances of doing so were negligible under the best of conditions; boar hunting afoot with bow and arrow was risky and difficult. But as with most things that interested them, it was the challenge that mattered.

The soft scent of new leaves and fresh grasses mixed with the pungent smell of earth and wood, and Bek took a deep breath to steady himself. He could not see the boar, and the boar, having exceptionally poor eyesight, certainly could not see him. But the boar’s sense of smell was the sharper, and once he got a whiff of Bek, he might do anything. Boars were short-tempered and fierce, and what they didn’t understand they were as likely to attack as to flee.

The wind shifted again, and Bek dropped into a hurried crouch. The boar had begun moving his way, grunts and coughs marking his progress. A boy still, though approaching manhood rapidly, Bek was small and wiry, but made up for his size with agility and speed and surprising strength. Quentin, who was five years his senior and already considered grown, was always telling people that they shouldn’t be fooled, that Bek was a lot tougher than he looked. If there was a fight, the Highlander would insist, he wanted Bek Rowe at his back. It was an overstatement, of course, but it always made Bek feel good. Especially since it was his cousin saying it, and nobody would even think of challenging Quentin Leah.

Putting an arrow to his bow in readiness, Bek crept forward once again. He was close enough to the boar to smell it, not a pleasant experience, but it meant he would likely have a shot at it soon. He drifted right, following the boar’s sounds, wondering if Quentin was still up on the forested slope or had come down to approach from the boar’s rear. Shadows stretched from the trees at Bek’s back, lengthening into the clearing like elongated fingers as the day waned. A bristly dark form moved in the grasses ahead—the boar coming into view—and Bek froze where he was. Slowly, he brought up his bow, nocked his arrow, and drew back the string.

But in the next instant a huge shadow passed overhead, sliding across the clearing like liquid night. The boar, startled by its appearance, bolted away in a tearing of earth and a cacophony of squeals. Bek straightened and sighted, but all he caught was a quick glimpse of the boar’s ridged back as it disappeared into the thicket and then into the woods beyond. In seconds, the clearing was empty and quiet again.

“Shades!” Bek muttered, lowering his bow and brushing back his close-cropped dark hair. He stood up and looked across the empty clearing toward the woods. “Quentin?”

The tall Highlander emerged from the trees. “Did you see it?”

“I got a glimpse of its backside after that shadow spooked it. Did you see what that was?”

Quentin was already wandering down into the clearing and through the heavy grasses. “Some kind of bird, wasn’t it?”

“No birds around here are that big.” Bek watched him come, glancing away long enough to scan the empty skies. He shouldered his bow and shoved his arrow back into its quiver. “Birds that big live on the coast.”

“Maybe it’s lost.” Quentin shrugged nonchalantly. He slipped in a patch of mud and muttered a few choice words as he righted himself. “Maybe we should go back to hunting grouse.”

Bek laughed. “Maybe we should go back to hunting earthworms and stick to fishing.”

Quentin reached him with a flourish of bow and arrows, arms widespread as he dropped both in disgust. “All day, and what do we have to show for it? An empty meadow. You’d think we could have gotten off at least one shot between us. That boar was making enough noise to wake the dead. It wasn’t as if we couldn’t find it, for cat’s sake!”

Then he grinned cheerfully. “At least we’ve got that grouse from yesterday to ease our hunger and a cold aleskin to soothe our wounded pride. Best part of hunting, Bek lad. Eating and drinking at the end of the day!”

Bek smiled in response, and after Quentin retrieved his castoff weapons, they swung into step beside each other and headed back toward their camp. Quentin was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore his red hair long and tied back in the manner of Highlanders. Bek, his lowland cousin, had never adopted the Highland style, though he had lived with Quentin and his family for most of his life. That his origins were cloudy had fostered a strong streak of independence in him. He might not know who he was, but he knew who he wasn’t.

His father had been a distant cousin of Coran Leah, Quentin’s father, but had lived in the Silver River country. Bek remembered little more than a shadowy figure with a dark, strong face. He died when Bek was still tiny, barely two years of age. He contracted a fatal disease and, knowing he was dying, brought Bek to his cousin Coran to raise. There was no one else to turn to. Bek’s mother was gone, and there were no siblings, no aunts and uncles, no one closer than Coran. Coran Leah told Bek later, when he was older, that Bek’s father had done a great favor for him once, and he had never thought twice about taking Bek in to repay the favor.