Hovering before the pillars of ice, clustered at the railings in silent groups, the ship’s company stood waiting. The cold air shimmered and seabirds glided in silence. Through the deep mist, the ice continued to rumble and crack, the reverberations distant and ominous.
Then abruptly the pillars began to shift, tilting in a series of thrusts and twists that mimicked the closing of jaws and the grinding of teeth. As the awestruck company watched, the icy towers came together in a series of grating collisions, smashing into each other with booming explosions, closing off the channel’s entry and clogging all passage through. Shards of ice catapulted through the air and into the bay’s waters, and new cracks opened along the huge towers as they collided then retreated, shifting leviathans hammering at each other in mindless fury. Waves surged and the bay boiled with the force of the furious movement.
Minutes later, the pillars retreated once more, backing away from each other, taking new positions, bobbing gently in the dying swells.
“That,” the Druid whispered in Bek’s ear, “is called the Squirm. That is what the Sword of Shannara must overcome.”
On the Druid’s orders, they sailed back out of the bay and down the coast to the atoll where the Wing Riders waited. It was almost dark by then, and Redden Alt Mer had his crew secure the Jerle Shannara for the night. Bek was still pondering the Druid’s words, trying to figure out how the magic of the Sword of Shannara was supposed to find a way through those shifting icebergs, unable to see how the talisman could help. Walker had left him almost immediately to confer with the Rover Captain, and Ahren had come over to occupy his attention, so there was nothing further he could do to find out right away. Mostly, he had to trust that the Druid knew what he was talking about.
When they were anchored and had eaten dinner, Walker called his council of eight together for a final conference. This time Hunter Predd was included to bring the number to nine. They gathered in Redden Alt Mer’s cabin—the Druid, the Rover Captain and his sister, Ard Patrinell and Ahren, Quentin and Bek, Ryer Ord Star, and the Wing Rider. The sky was overcast and the night so black that it was impossible to see either the ocean or the atoll to which they were anchored.
“Tomorrow we will pass through the pillars of the Squirm,” Walker advised when they were all gathered and settled. “Captain Alt Mer will command from the pilot box. I will stand on the deck in front of the foremast and call out directions. Bek will help me. Everyone else will take their normal stations and stand ready. No one is to go forward until we are through—not one step beyond me.”
He looked at Big Red. “Adjustments will have to be made swiftly and accurately, Captain. The ice will not forgive us our mistakes. Listen carefully to what I call out. Do exactly as I tell you. Trust my directions, even if they seem wrong. Do not try to second-guess me or anticipate my wishes. This one time, I must be in command.”
He waited for the Rover to acknowledge him. Redden Alt Mer glanced at his sister, then nodded his agreement.
“Hunter Predd,” Walker continued. “The Wing Riders must remain behind. The Shrikes are numerous and the winds and fog treacherous. Fly down the coast and try to find a better place than this atoll to await our return. If we can, we will come back for you or at least get word to you. But it may take time. We may be gone for as long as several months.” He paused. “Maybe longer.”
The grizzled rider nodded. “I know what to do.”
He was saying he understood that those who passed through the pillars of Ice Henge might not be coming back. He was saying that he would wait until waiting was pointless, then try to make his way back to the Four Lands. But Bek heard something more. Hunter Predd wasn’t the sort to give up easily. If those on the Jerle Shannara didn’t make it home, then in all probability, neither would he.
If Walker had picked up on this, he gave no indication. “Ryer Ord Star has had another vision,” he advised, beckoning the young woman forward.
She came reluctantly, head lowered into the silver shadow of her long hair, violet eyes directed at the floor, moving into the Druid’s shadow as if only there could she be safe, so close that she was pressing up against him. Walker put his hand on her shoulder and bent down. “Tell them,” he urged gently.
She took a moment before she responded, her voice high and clear. “I see three moles who seek to burrow into the earth. They carry keys to a lock. One is caught in an endless maze. Ribbons of fire trap another. Metal dogs hunt a third. All are blind and cannot see. All have lost their way and cannot find it again. But one will discover a door that leads to the past. Inside, the future waits.”
There was a long silence when she was finished. Then Redden Alt Mer cleared his throat. “Kind of vague, isn’t it?” he offered with a wry, apologetic smile at the seer. “What does it mean?”
“We don’t know,” Walker answered for her. “It might mean that one of us will find the entry into Castledown and the treasure that lies within. That would be a meeting of past and future. Whatever other purpose it serves, it gives warning of three dangers—an endless maze, ribbons of fire, and metal dogs. In some form, these are what we will face when we gain land again.” He glanced at Ryer Ord Star. “Maybe by then, we will have new insights to ponder.”
We can only hope, Bek thought to himself, and the discussion turned to other matters.
Bek slept poorly that night, riddled by self-doubt and misgiving. He was awake when dawn broke lead-gray and misty, the sun a red-glowing forge at the edge of the world. He stood on deck and watched the light grow from pale to somber as the sky took on a wintry cast that layered clouds and mist and water like gauze. The air was chill and smelled of the damp, and the cliffs of Ice Henge were aswirl with snowflakes and wheeling gulls. The Shrikes were up, as well, hunting the coastline, their larger forms all wings and necks, their fierce cries echoing off the rock walls.
Walker appeared and stopped long enough to place a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder before moving on. Anchor lines were cast off, sails were unfurled, and the Jerle Shannara rose from its berthing and flew north. The Wing Riders left at the same time, flying south. Bek watched them go from the aft railing, solitary forms riding the air currents in a slow, steady glide, the Rocs’ great wings spread to the faint winter light. In seconds they were gone, disappeared into the gloom, and Bek turned his attention to what lay ahead. Perhaps a mile offshore, they sailed up the coast making for the opening in the cliffs that led to the Squirm. Breakfast, a hearty mix of breads and cheeses washed down by cold ale, was consumed in shifts and mostly on deck. The day advanced in a slow passing of the hours and an even slower brightening of the sky. The air warmed just enough to change snowflakes to rain, and the wind picked up and began to gust in fierce giant’s breaths that knocked the airship about.
Bek stood in the pilot box with Redden Alt Mer for a long time while Walker paced the decking like a ghost at haunt. The Rover Captain said almost nothing to the boy, his concentration focused on the handling of his vessel, his gaze directed ahead into the gloom. Once he caught Bek’s eye and smiled briefly. “We’ll be fine, Bek,” he said quietly, and then looked away again.
Bek Rowe, born Bek Ohmsford, wasn’t at all sure that was so, but if hope and determination counted for anything, maybe they had a chance. He was wrestling with doubts about his ability to control any sort of magic, even his mastery of the wishsong suspect. It was all too new and unfamiliar for him to have much confidence. He had experienced the magic of his voice, but in such a small way and with so little sense of control that he barely felt he understood what it could do. As for the magic of the Sword of Shannara, he had no idea what he could do with that. He could repeat everything Walker had told him about how it worked. He could intellectualize its behavior and function. He would apply all the appropriate and correct words to how it would affect him. But he could not picture it. He could not imagine how it would feel. He had no frame of reference and no sense of proportion with which to measure its power.