He thought suddenly of Ryer Ord Star, and from his prone position he scanned as much of the area as he could in an effort to find her. He spotted her finally, seated in an open space, alone and ignored. He stared at her for a long time, waiting to be noticed, but she never looked his way. She kept her gaze lowered, her face shadowed by her long silver hair. She might have had her eyes closed; he couldn’t tell. She was unfettered, and no Mwellrets stood over her as they did over him. They seemed unconcerned that she might try to escape.
Something about her situation bothered him. She didn’t seem to be a prisoner at all.
He glanced around further, searching for any other members of the company who might have encountered the same misfortune. But no one else was in evidence, only the two of them. He shifted surreptitiously in an effort to see what else he might have missed from where he lay, but he saw only Mwellrets in the area.
Then he glanced skyward and saw the airships.
His throat tightened. There were six of them—no, wait, there were eight—hanging in the air, not far off the ground at the edge of the ruins, silhouetted against the morning sky. They were close enough that he could see crew members standing about, Mwellrets climbing down rope ladders, and hoists lowering animals that twisted and writhed and grunted loudly. He caught only glimpses of them against the bright sunrise as they slipped over the sides of the airships and disappeared down into the ruins, and he couldn’t make out what they were.
Mwellrets and airships. He couldn’t understand it. Where had they come from, all at once like this? Had the Ilse Witch brought them, keeping them back from Black Moclips, hiding them until they were needed? He tried to reason it through and failed.
He glanced again at Ryer Ord Star. The seer still hadn’t looked up, hadn’t changed position, hadn’t done anything to evidence that she was even conscious. He wondered suddenly if perhaps she was in a trance, trying to connect to Walker. But the Druid had to be dead by now. He had been dying back there in the extraction chamber, his blood everywhere. Walker had sacrificed himself to destroy Antrax. Even Ryer must realize that she could no longer reach him.
So what was she doing?
Why wasn’t she tied up like he was?
He waited for the answers to come, for her to respond to his mental summons, for something to happen that would reveal her condition—without success.
All of a sudden, he remembered the Elfstones. He was astonished that he had forgotten about them, that he had somehow failed to remember the one weapon he still had at his disposal. Maybe. He had tucked them into his tunic on fleeing the ruins, in a pocket near his waist. Were they still there? He didn’t think he could reach them with his hands tied, but he could at least determine if he had them. The Mwellrets would have searched him for weapons, not for the Stones. They wouldn’t even know what they were.
He glanced about quickly, but no one was looking at him. He rolled onto his other side, moving slowly, trying not to attract attention. He squirmed down against the hard earth, searching for the feel of the Elfstones against his body. He could not find them. His hopes sank. He shifted positions, trying to see if they were somewhere else, but he could not feel them anywhere.
He was still searching when he heard a mix of heavy footfalls, rough voices, and deep growls. The Mwellret who had pushed him down came over at once and hauled him to his feet with a jerk, standing him upright and propping him against a section of wall.
“Sseess now what becomess of you, little Elvess,” he muttered before turning away.
Ahren glanced over at Ryer Ord Star. She was on her feet, as well, still alone and still not looking at him. She stood with her arms wrapped about her slender body, looking frail and tiny. Something was going on with her that he didn’t understand, and she wasn’t doing anything to let him know what it was.
A clutch of Mwellrets strode into the clearing. Two of the burliest held the ends of chains that were fastened to a collar strapped about the neck of one of the most terrifying creatures Ahren had ever seen. The creature tugged and twisted against the collar like a huge dog, grunts and growls emanating from deep within its throat as it did so. Its body was hunched over and heavily muscled. Four human limbs that ended in clawed fingers and massive shoulders were covered in thick black hair. Its torso was so long and sinuous that it allowed the creature to almost double back on itself as it twisted about angrily, trying to bite at the chains. Its head was wolfish, its jaws huge, and its teeth long and dark. It had the look of something bred not just to hunt, but to destroy.
When it saw Ahren, it lunged for him, and the Elf pressed back against the building wall in fear.
A tall, black-cloaked figure stepped forward, blocking the creature’s path. The beast cringed and backed away.
The cloaked figure turned and looked at him. Ahren could just make out the other’s face. It might have been human once, but now it was covered with gray scales like the rets, flat and expressionless, its green eyes compressed into narrow slits that regarded him with such coldness that he forgot all about the wolf creature.
“Cree Bega,” the cloaked figure called, still watching Ahren.
The Mwellret who had been standing guard over him came at once. Big as he was, he looked small next to the newcomer. Even so, he did not do anything to acknowledge the other’s authority, neither bowing nor nodding. He simply stood there, his gaze level and fixed.
“Cree Bega,” the other repeated, and this time there was a hint of menace in his voice. “Why is this Elf still alive?”
“He iss an Elesssedil. He hass the power to ssummon the magic of the Elfsstoness.”
“You have seen this for yourself?”
Cree Bega shook his head. “But the sseer tellss me thiss iss sso.”
Ahren felt as if the ground had dropped away beneath him. He glanced quickly at Ryer, but she was still staring blankly.
“She is the witch’s tool,” the cloaked figure declared softly, looking over at the seer.
“Her eyess and earss aboard little Elvess sship.” Cree Bega glanced at Ahren. “Not anymore. Belongss to uss now. Sservess uss.”
Ahren refused to believe what he was hearing. Ryer Ord Star would never go back to serving their enemies, not after what she had gone through, not after breaking free of the Ilse Witch. She had said she was finished with that. She had sworn it.
Stunned, he watched as his captors turned away from him and walked to where the seer stood. Bent close, the cloaked one began speaking to her. The words were too faint for Ahren to hear, but Ryer Ord Star nodded and then replied. The conversation lasted just minutes, but it was clear that some sort of agreement had been reached.
He moved his elbows down close to his sides, pressing them against his ribs, shifting first one way and then the other, straining at the cords that bound his wrists as he tried to determine if the Elf stones were indeed gone. It seemed they were; he could find no trace of their presence.
Close by, the chained beast growled and snapped at him again, trying to break free, all size and teeth and claws as it fought against its restraints. Ahren quit moving and stood as still as he could manage, staring into the creature’s eyes. He was surprised to find that they were almost human.
The cloaked figure walked back across the clearing and stood looking down at him. “I am the Morgawr,” he said, his voice soft and strangely warm, as if he sought to reassure Ahren of his friendship. “Do you know of me?”
Ahren nodded.
“What is your name?”
“Ahren Elessedil,” he answered, deciding there was no reason to hide it.