She thought suddenly of her grandmother, wondering what Ellenroh would be feeling if =.he were there, imagining how she would react. She could see the other’s face, the fierce blue eyes in contrast to the ready smile, the imposing sense of calm that swept aside all doubt and fear. Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves. Her grandmother had always seemed so much in control of everything. But even that hadn’t been enough to save her. What then, Wren wondered darkly, could she rely upon? The magic, of course—but the magic was only as strong as the wielder, and Wren would have much preferred her grandmother’s indomitable strength just now to her own. She lacked Ellenroh’s self-assurance; she lacked her certainty. Even determined as she was to recover the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, to carry the Elven people safely back into the Westland, and to fulfill the terms of the trust that had been given her, she saw herself as flesh and blood and not as iron. She could fail. She could die. Terror lurked at the fringes of such thoughts, and it would not be banished.
Triss bumped up against her from behind, causing her to jump. He whispered a hasty apology and dropped back again. Wren listened to the pounding of her blood, a throbbing in her ears and chest, a measure of the brief space between her life and death.
She had always been so sure of herself...
Something skittered away on the ground ahead, a flash of dark movement against the green. Stresa’s spines lifted, but he did not slow. The forest opened through a sea of swamp grass into a stand of old-growth acacia that leaned heavily one into the other, the ground beneath eroded and mired. The company followed the Splinterscat left along a narrow rise. The movement came again, quick, sudden, more than one thing this time. Wren tried to follow it. Some sort of insect, she decided, long and narrow, many legged.
Stresa found a patch of ground slightly broader than his body and turned to face them.
“Phhhfft. Did you see?” he whispered roughly. They nodded. “Scavengers! Orps, they are called. Hsssst! They eat anything. Hah, everything! They live off the leavings of the Wisteron. You’ll see a lot more of them before we’re finished. Don’t be frightened when you do.”
“How much farther?” Wren whispered back, bending close.
The Splinterscat cocked its head. “Just ahead,” he growled. “Can’t you smell the dead things?”
“What’s back there?”
“Ssssttt! How would I know that, Wren of the Elves? I’m still alive!”
She ignored his glare. “We’ll take a look. If we can talk, we will. If not, we will withdraw and decide what to do.”
She looked at Garth and Triss in turn to be certain they understood, then straightened. Faun clung to her like a second skin. She was going to have to put the Tree Squeak down before she went much farther.
They burrowed ahead through the grasses and into the collapsing trees. Orps appeared from everywhere now, scattering at their approach. They looked like giant silverfish, quick and soundless as they disappeared into earth and wood. Wren tried to ignore them, but it was difficult. The surface water of the swamp bubbled and spit about them, the first sound they had heard in some time. Killeshan’s reach was lengthening. They passed out of the grasses and through the trees, the gloom settling down about them in layers. It went still again, the air empty and dead. Wren breathed slowly, deeply. Her hand tightened about the Elfstones.
Then they were through the stand of acacia and moving across a mud flat to a cluster of huge fir whose limbs wrapped about one another in close embrace. Strands of webbing hung everywhere, and as they neared the far side of the flats Wren caught sight of bones scattered along the fringe of the trees. Orps darted right and left, skimming the surface of the flats, disappearing into the foliage ahead.
Stresa had slowed their pace to a crawl.
They gained the edge of the flats, eased down through an opening in the trees on hands and knees, and froze.
Beyond the trees lay a deep ravine, an island of rock suspended within the swamp. The fir trees lifted from its bedding in a jumble of dark trunks that looked as if they had been lashed together with hundreds of webs. Dead things hung in the webs, and bones littered the ravine floor. Orps crawled over everything, a shimmering carpet of movement. The light was gray and diffuse above the ravine, filtered down to faint shadows by the vog and mist. The smell of death hung over everything, captured within the rocks and trees and haze. It was quiet within the Wisteron’s lair. Except for the scurrying Orps, nothing moved.
Wren felt Garth’s hand grip her shoulder. She glanced over and saw him point.
Gavilan Elessedil hung spread-eagle in a hammock of webbing across from them, his blue eyes lifeless and staring, his mouth open in a silent scream. He had been gutted, his torso split from chest to stomach. Within the empty cavity, his ribs gleamed dully. All of his body fluids had been drained. What remained was little more than a husk, a grotesque, frightening parody of a man.
Wren had seen much of death in her short life, but she was unprepared for this. Don’t look! she admonished herself frantically. Don’t remember him like this! But she did look and knew as she did that she would never forget.
Garth touched her a second time, pointing down into the ravine. She peered without seeing at first, then caught sight of the Ruhk Staff. It lay directly beneath what remained of Gavilan, resting on the carpet of old bones. Orps crawled over it mindlessly. The Loden was still fixed to its tip.
Wren nodded in response, already wondering how they could reach the talisman. Her gaze shifted abruptly, searching once more.
Where was the Wisteron?
Then she saw it, high in the branches of the trees at one end of the ravine, suspended in a net of its own webbing, motionless in the haze. It was curled into a huge ball, its legs tucked under it, and it had the curious appearance of a dirty cloud. It was covered with spiked hair, and it blended with the haze. It seemed to be sleeping.
Wren fought down the rush of fear that seeing it triggered. She glanced hurriedly at the others. They were all looking. The Wisteron shifted suddenly, a straightening out of its surprisingly lean body, a stretching of several limbs. There was a flash of claws and a hideous insectlike face with an odd, sucking maw. Then it curled up again and went still.
In Wren’s hand, the Elfstones had begun to burn.
She took a last despairing look at Gavilan, then motioned to the others and backed out of the trees. Wordlessly they retraced their steps across the flats until they had gained the cover of the acacia, where they knelt in a tight circle.
Wren searched their eyes. “How can we get to the Staff?” she asked quietly. The image of Gavilan was fixed in her mind, and she could barely think past it.
Garth’s hands lifted to sign. One of us will have to go down into the ravine.
“But the Wisteron will hear. Those bones will sound like eggshells when they’re stepped on.” She put Faun down next to her. The dark eyes stared upward intently into her own.
“Could we lower someone down?” Triss asked.
“Phhhfft! Not without making some sound or movement,” Stresa snapped. “The Wisteron isn’t—ssstttt—asleep. It only pretends. It will know!”
“We could wait until it does sleep, then,” Triss pursued. “Or wait until it hunts, until it leaves to check its nets.”
“I don’t know that we have enough time for that...” Wren began.
“Hssstt! It doesn’t matter if there is enough time or not!” Stresa interjected heatedly. “If it goes to hunt or to check its nets, it will catch our scent! It will know we are here!”