It was nearing midday when they found the fissure shown in the Elfstone vision.
To say it was massive didn’t begin to describe it. It was as if the entire earth had split apart, forming a chasm that stretched for miles in both directions. The fissure was black and filled with mist, and it emitted a haunting wail that reached the passengers and crew of the airship even as high up as they were, working through them like a nightmare’s memory. The sides of the chasm were jagged, and there was no visible bottom. Where it began and ended was anyone’s guess.
“Fifty miles long,” the Speakman whispered.
“I believe it,” said Farshaun. “What’s making that sound?”
“The spirits of the dead.”
Farshaun looked at him. “How would you know that? Have you been to the bottom and seen them?”
The Speakman gave him a look. “I have seen them in my dreams.”
Redden and Railing were standing close enough to hear them, and exchanged a quick look. They peered over the side of the airship once more, tracking the split from one horizon to the other without finding an end.
“I hope we don’t have to go down into that,” Railing whispered to his brother, trying to be careful not to let any of the others hear.
“If we did, we’d probably come out on the other side of the world,” Redden whispered back.
Farshaun stepped close. “If you did, you would probably find the spirits of the dead waiting to receive you.” He snorted derisively. “Now, keep quiet.”
The old man turned to Khyber. “We’re close to the Fangs. Once there, we have to go on foot.”
“We can’t continue to fly?” The Ard Rhys was taken aback. “It’s much safer if we remain aloft.”
“Doesn’t matter. We still have to go on foot.” Farshaun walked away.
They flew on for two more hours, the morning drifting into afternoon. The weather changed once more, this time the skies turning hazy and overcast, the sun fading to a dull glow and a heavy mix of clouds and mist wrapping so tightly about the Walker Boh that Farshaun had to take her down to within a hundred feet of the ground just to see where they were. Additionally, he had to slow her to a crawl, afraid they would run into a cliff face or rock formation. At a dead-slow speed, they crept ahead until they encountered a wall of spiraling rock formations that speared skyward much higher than the hundred feet at which the airship flew and clustered so thickly they were impossible to sail between.
“The Fangs,” the Speakman whispered.
Khyber Elessedil was standing close enough to hear. “How far do they stretch?”
“Miles,” Farshaun answered after listening to the Speakman’s whispered response.
“Can we sail around them?” She checked her compass. “We’re flying west still. Can we turn north or south to get past?”
This time the Speakman addressed her directly, his insect body folding in on itself as he crouched down in the pilot box close to Farshaun. “You have to land the airship and walk. The marshland you look for is here.”
Redden and Railing, still standing close enough to listen in, turned as Mirai came up beside them. “Grim land down there,” she said. “It has the feel of a place that doesn’t like visitors.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Railing grumbled.
The Ard Rhys directed Farshaun to follow the Speakman’s orders and set the airship down at the edge of the Fangs. The twins and Mirai could feel the descent begin as the Rover crew leapt up to work the light sheaths and radian draws. The mist seemed to thicken further as they dropped, closing in about them, wet and cloying against their skin. Mirai made a rude sound and wiped at her face.
No one was feeling particularly good about landing here.
When the airship was anchored and the rope ladders thrown over the side of the vessel, Khyber assembled everyone but the Druid Guard and the Rover crewmen on the aft deck. There were muted exchanges of comments and responses from those gathered as the Ard Rhys waited for them to get settled. More than a few gave worried glances at the forest of rock spears and mist serpents that formed a gloomy, shadowy wall ahead.
“We go on afoot from here,” Khyber announced. “We’ll take everyone but Farshaun, Mirai, and the Rover crewmen, who will stay to keep the Walker Boh safe for our return. Garroneck will choose six of his Druid Guards to remain behind, as well—an added precaution. The rest of us will enter the Fangs to search for a marshland. Once we’ve found it, we will decide what to do next. Are there questions?”
“I’ll have to go, as well,” Farshaun spoke up at once. “The Speakman won’t go without me. Mirai and my Rovers are perfectly capable of caring for the airship without me.”
Redden, standing close to Mirai, expected the Rover girl to object to being left behind. Staying close to the twins was one of the reasons she had been allowed to come. But to his surprise, she didn’t say a word.
“Very well, Farshaun,” the Ard Rhys agreed. “You come, as well.”
She dismissed them to gather their equipment and weapons and meet on the ground in thirty minutes.
Redden glanced at the overcast sky, noted the position of the sun, and decided they had less than four hours of light remaining. He glanced again at Mirai, who was looking away, and then at Railing.
His brother shrugged. “I don’t like it, either. Should we say something to her?”
Redden shook his head.
Thirty minutes later, the search party set out. With the Speakman and Khyber Elessedil leading the way, they pushed ahead into the forest of stone columns and within minutes could no longer see the ship and its occupants. Right away Redden felt uncomfortable with the size of the search party. It was too large and too unwieldy, an opinion he shared with his brother but otherwise kept to himself. Presumably the Ard Rhys knew what she was doing, and if she thought they needed twenty-odd people it wasn’t his place to start criticizing. What Redden didn’t like was the way they were spread out, so far apart as they picked their way through the maze of rock formations that those on the opposite wings of the loose formation often could not see one another.
Reacting to his instincts, he moved Railing and himself into the center of the search.
The group slogged its collective way through the Fangs for more than two hours, wending slowly through clusters of rock spears and wispy trailers of mist. No one spoke in anything other than a whisper and then only infrequently. The Trolls, by duty and nature guardians and protectors, positioned themselves at the perimeters of the advance. With the Ard Rhys at the forefront, the other Druids split apart so that Seersha was on the right wing, Carrick on the left, and Pleysia trailing. Skint was in the forefront with Khyber, where he could put his tracking skills to use, and the warrior Dwarf Chieftain Crace Coram was only a few steps behind. Oriantha stayed close to Pleysia. Redden and Railing had been placed in the middle of the assemblage, surrounded by protectors. All eyes constantly scanned the haze; all ears were pricked for any sounds that warned of danger.
They were deep into the Fangs and beginning to feel numbed by the strain of watching and waiting for something to happen when the insects attacked them.
The swarm came out of nowhere. The buzzing of wings was the only warning anyone got, and then the creatures were on top of them, biting and stinging. The insects were the size of large birds and quick to avoid all attempts at swatting them away. The Druids threw up various forms of magic to drive them off, but with the company scattered it was impossible to protect everyone at once. Redden and Railing stood back-to-back defending themselves with the magic of the wishsong, turning leaves and twigs into flying shards of metal that twisted and cut at their attackers. They downed a few, but there were hundreds in the swarm, their numbers darkening what little sky was visible overhead. The air filled with their buzzing.