Bloodfire Quest (The Dark Legacy of Shannara, #2)(115)

“Always, with Lada. I call, he is here. Very smart. Do whatever I ask of him.” She glared at Oriantha. “Why? Do you think me stupid, Halfling? I say so, it be so!”

“All right. Calm down. I was just asking. It would help us to know how closely they watch Redden.”

Tesla snorted. “Close so that if you can see him, they can see you. That close. This is a foolish chance. All yours to take. But not me.”

Oriantha believed she could live with that. She had never expected Tesla Dart to do more than provide information and guidance. But if she used her Chzyks, she would be able to offer firsthand information regarding the location of the cage and guard arrangements. That would be enough.

So bold, she thought. I am so bold, and I have no reason to be so. Mother would hate it.

But her mother was gone, and with her most of what Oriantha had thought would become her new life.

“Halfling!” the Ulk Bog snapped, grabbing her arm and pulling her to the ground, then falling on top of her to keep her pinned.

“What are you—” she began.

“Don’t move!” the other hissed, and motioned skyward. “Look!”

A dragon was rising out of Kraal Reach—a huge burnt-red monster that was at least as big as, if not bigger than, the one Oriantha had ridden with Crace Coram in what now seemed another lifetime. The beast shrieked and swung north after the departing army, winging hard to catch up.

Astride the dragon’s long neck rode a solitary black-cloaked figure.

The shape-shifter girl knew at a glance that it was Tael Riverine.





30





Aphenglow stared at the empty clearing in shock and then started to rush forward. “Cymrian! Where is she?”

He caught her arm. “Wait. There will be signs to tell us. Let me have a look.”

He released her and moved slowly toward the place where they had left Arlingfant, stepping carefully, crouching often to study the ground, searching for indications of what had happened. He reached the flattened grasses and bloodied earth where she had lain and paused. Then he began to move slowly about the spot, one cautious step at a time. Aphen waited impatiently, desperate to find her sister, frantic for her safety. Arling could not have gone off by herself. She wasn’t strong enough for that. So someone—or something—had taken her.

She had a momentary vision of those mutants, and a shiver went up her back like a blade’s razor edge. “Have you found anything?”

He held up his hand in a gesture that asked her to hold on and continued his search. He was moving away from where Arling had been lying, heading across the clearing, apparently having found something. He was moving steadily now, still reading the signs but not pausing as often as before to consider what he was seeing.

Finally, he straightened and beckoned her over. She rushed to his side. “She was found and carried away by two people, a man and perhaps a woman. Both wore boots that are old and worn. Their tracks show they are not young, but not physically impaired, either. They were strong enough to pick up Arling and carry her off. They came in from this way”—he pointed ahead of them—“and left pretty much the same way.”

“Why would they do this? Why would they take her?”

“Hard to answer that without knowing who they are. Come on. We can track them.”

They set out, Cymrian reading the signs as they went. Because the ground was thick with grasses and brush, footprints were indistinct and passage was hard to determine. Aphen could make out nothing at all, and if not for the Elven Hunter she would have been lost. But Cymrian seemed able to find what he was looking for, and so they made their way forward.

Nevertheless, Cymrian was badly weakened from his battle with the mutants and the assassin, and his strength was limited. He could not go quickly even if he wanted to, and Aphen had to fight down her impatience to go charging ahead. She could not stand the thought that something bad might have happened to Arling—that it might be happening even now. Speed was imperative.

But there was no help for it. They could only go as fast as Cymrian’s constitution and his interpretation of the trail would allow.

It began to rain, a squall appearing out of nowhere, the gloom and mist of Drey Wood deepening. Water sheeted down and quickly layered everything, the whole of the forest taking on a shimmery, reflective look. The dampness increased and pools of water began to cover the ground. Soon, Aphen knew, any traces of footprints or similar signs would disappear into the murk and damp and they would lose the trail completely.

Finally, they broke through the screen of tree trunks and found a narrow trail that wound through the murk. The path was barely wide enough for two people walking shoulder-to-shoulder, and yet when they bent to study the rutted earth, they found the imprint of wagon wheels.

Aphen was flushed and angry. “What would anyone be doing with a wagon this far into the woods?” Cymrian shook his head. “Hunters, foragers, tramps, Rovers, travelers—take your choice. And a cart made these tracks, not a wagon. A mule pulled it. The signs are clear enough. But …”

He didn’t finish, kneeling now, bending even closer to study the wheel marks and hoofprints. Aphen realized the problem. The trail did not end where they stood. It ran both east and west. The hoofprints and wheel marks did the same. Because of the rain and prior usage, it was difficult to tell in which direction the wagon had gone this time.