Although she could not help thinking that perhaps things had already gone beyond that, and that the loss of Paranor and the failing of the Ellcrys were symptomatic of much larger and more complex problems.
As the mist-shrouded stone pillars drew closer, she turned her full attention back to sailing Wend-A-Way, pulling back on the thrusters until the airship slowed to a crawl. From the pilot box, she could see gaps in the hazy cover through which the floor of the wilderness was visible. All they needed, she thought, was just a glimpse of the Walker Boh. Then they could find a way to reach her.
At the bow, Cymrian motioned for her to slow. Breathless, filled with expectation that their search might be ending, she did so.
But for a long time, nothing happened. They eased their way across the vast expanse of brume, blinking away the rain as they searched for something recognizable, and found nothing. The hours drifted past, and the landscape took on a senses-deadening sameness that suggested anything that had dared to come into it was long since swallowed and forever lost and they were wasting their time looking. They spelled each other regularly, moving between the pilot box and the bow, hoping fresh eyes and fresh hands would aid them in their search.
But the landscape remained endless and empty.
Then Cymrian, forward again at the bow, held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. She did so, swinging the airship about in a slow circle, a virtual hover as she waited for something more. Her companion seemed to be sniffing or perhaps even tasting the air, casting about this way and that.
After a moment, he hurried back to her. “I can smell tar and burning timbers somewhere close. Circle the area slowly. I’ll try to pick out where the smell is coming from.”
He hurried back to the bow, and she began the process of widening the search in a slow spiral to cover a larger area. She watched Cymrian as he braced himself against the forward railing, leaning over to seek the source of the burning scent. She was thinking already about what it meant if he was right—especially about the burning timbers. But she told herself it might not be the Walker Boh. It might be something else entirely. This was strange country to them. Burning wood could have any number of sources.
She continued to sail Wend-A-Way across the roof of the mist, the rain still falling in a steady wash to mix with the ever-present haze.
Then Cymrian abruptly held up his hand once more, a hard push this time.
He had found something.
He turned and signaled that she should keep watching him, and then motioned for her to take Wend-A-Way down. She signaled back that she understood, dropping the airship just a little. Using his hands to dictate direction and speed, he guided her toward the floor of the marshy jungle. It was harrowing to respond without being able to see what was down there, especially when the stone spires began to appear to either side of her, rising up like monolithic creatures from a frothy sea.
Their descent was slow and treacherous. Twice Cymrian stopped it entirely and had her take the airship back up again, apparently having seen something that had been hidden from higher up, and then reposition before starting down once more. She worked hard to keep their maneuvering steady and her hands responsive to his signals. As they dropped lower, the mist began to close in around them, and soon they were swallowed up in it.
Once, Wend-A-Way scraped against one of the pillars, and the sound of wood cracking caused her to catch her breath as she made a quick adjustment to ease the airship away.
But finally they were down far enough that Cymrian signaled her to stop entirely and came loping back to the pilot box. “We need to anchor and go on foot from here,” he said.
They secured the ship fore and aft using ropes and grappling hooks they swung over the side and maneuvered until they were caught in the limbs of a pair of skeletal trees, then dropped the rope ladder and went over the side. They descended cautiously, a distance of about twenty feet, eyes scanning the gray haze. Both wore dark-mottled forest clothing to blend in with their surroundings, loose-fitting to allow for easy movement. Aphenglow carried no weapon other than a hunting knife, but Cymrian carried a small arsenal of blades and throwing stars.
At the foot of the ladder, they paused. “Over there,” Cymrian whispered, pointing into the haze.
Aphen nodded, listening and assessing. It was hard to see anything in the swirl of brume and shadows, but she could detect the pungent odor of charred wood and ash. She wished suddenly they had brought a few other Elves along with them. She did not feel comfortable leaving the airship unprotected.
Cymrian led the way, moving into the gloom with Aphenglow close on his heels. The stone pillars loomed all about like frozen giants, sections of them visible through the shifting mist, huge and rugged sentries. The floor of the jungle was damp and soft, and their boots sank into it as they crept forward. Aphen listened carefully for sounds that would warn her of the presence of enemies; she scanned the gloom for movement. Nothing. But even so she wasn’t convinced.
Ahead, minutes later, they caught a strong whiff of burning, and moments after that a glimpse of embers.
Cymrian pointed to one side. A body lay sprawled on the earth, torn apart and partially eaten. They moved over for a quick look. It was a Troll, one of the Druid Guards.
They eased their way ahead once more, this time quickly finding other bodies—all of them either Trolls or Rovers, and all of them savaged and partially eaten. She searched for the Druids, dreading what she would find, but there was no sign of them.
A fresh stench, raw and overpowering, brought them to a halt. The Walker Boh, a huge gash in her port bow, her planking ripped apart and sections of the railing torn away, lay broken and ruined. Radian draws had been severed, parse tubes smashed, and the mainmast broken off midway up. All of the light sheaths were ripped apart and pulled down. A quick examination revealed that the airship had suffered a wound that had impacted her controls. The initial damage had crippled her, but most of the rest of what they were seeing was from the crash.
There were more bodies aboard the vessel, a handful of Rovers and Trolls crammed together around the pilot box. The attackers had swarmed aboard, and these few had made a final stand here. They were armed with weapons of all sorts, but whatever they had faced had been too much for them.
“They’re all dead,” Cymrian murmured after checking each. He seemed anxious to move away.
Aphen took a final look around at their surroundings from her vantage point atop the wreck. “All Rovers,” she said. “Where are the members of the order? Where are the Ohmsfords and Mirai Leah?”
There was still no sign of black robes, nor any hints of them. Had the others escaped? If so, where had they gone? But there was nothing to find here that would answer those questions and no reason to stay any longer. She signaled Cymrian, and together they climbed down and started back toward Wend-A-Way.
They had gotten no more than a dozen yards before the creatures appeared. With gnarled bodies and wizened faces, they were vaguely similar to Spider Gnomes. They came out of the shadows like ghosts, creeping toward the Elves on all fours, eyes bright with anticipation. Mouths yawned wide to reveal rows of teeth. Aphenglow could guess at what had drawn them. Not sated by those they had already dispatched, they had returned for something more to eat.
She stood with Cymrian and watched the creatures close in on every side. Their ship was too far away to make a run for it, even assuming they could get past the ring of bodies that was tightening steadily around them.