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  They stared at each other in silence for a moment, eyes fierce and intense. Rue backed down first. “They’re not Rovers,” she pointed out quietly.

  Her brother smiled in spite of himself. “Granted. But they have their good points anyway and a fair chance of holding their own until we can get to them. Which I fully intend to do, Little Red, if you’ll just have some faith in me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re on our way to the coast to make repairs and heal wounds. If we’re to outsmart and outsail the Ilse Witch and her Mwellrets and perhaps do battle with Black Moclips, we have to be at our best. Maybe it won’t come to that, if we’re lucky, but we can’t rely on luck to see us through this mess. We should be able to map our way in and out again, just as the Druid wanted. We should be able to make contact with the Wing Riders, as well. And while the ship’s being overhauled and you’re healing, I’ll be flying back in with Hunter Predd to have a look at what’s become of our friends and to help them if I can.”

  Rue Meridian smiled. “That’s more like the Big Red I know. No sitting around and waiting. But we’ll see about who’s coming back and who’s staying behind to heal.”

  He shook his head at her. “I sometimes think you don’t have the sense of a gnat. Indestructible, are you? Half-dead one minute and whole the next? Off to the rescue of those unfortunates who need you so badly? Shades! It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long. Well, we’ll talk about it.”

  He rose. “Enough of words for now, though. I’m off to bed and a few more hours of rest before daylight and work. Maybe you should try getting a few hours’ sleep yourself. Put the past behind you and the future ahead where they belong and spend your time in the present with the rest of us.” He waved dismissively as he turned away. “Sleep well, Little Red.”

  He went out without looking back, closing the door softly behind him. She stared after him for a long time, thinking that for all his faults, there wasn’t anyone better than her brother. Whatever lay ahead, she would rather face it with him at her side than anyone else. Redden Alt Mer had the luck, they said. They were right, but he had something more than that. He had the heart. He would always find a way because he couldn’t conceive of it being any other way. It was the Rover in him. It defined who he was.

  She spent another few moments thinking about those trapped inland, about Walker and the rest, still worried how they would fare without the Rovers to turn to. Big Red could say what he wanted, but she didn’t like the idea of abandoning them even for the time it would take to reach the coast and find the Wing Riders. They were a tough and experienced group except for Bek and the seer and one or two others who were more talented than experienced, but even the Elven Hunters were too much at risk when afoot and cut off from the airship. Especially with the Ilse Witch and her Mwellrets hunting them.

  She thought of Hawk then, one final time. Someone will pay for what happened to you, she promised him silently. One day soon, that account will be settled.

  She was crying again, almost before she realized it.

  “Good-bye, Hawk,” she whispered into the darkness.

  Then she was asleep.

  SIX

  When Panax gripped his shoulder in warning, Quentin Leah dropped into a crouch and froze in place, eyes searching the gloom ahead. He felt the Dwarf’s harsh breathing in his ear.

  “Over there.” The words were a soft hiss in the silence. “By the edge of that building, in the rubble.”

  Quentin’s hand tightened on the Sword of Leah, then just as quickly loosened. No, don’t summon the magic! You’ll only draw their attention if you do! His heart began to race. Around him, everything went still, not a sound, not a movement, as if the city and its deadly inhabitants were waiting with him. Dirt, sweat, and blood streaked his face and clothing, and his body ached with fatigue. He was cut and bruised almost everywhere, and the slashes on his left side cut all the way through to his ribs. Off to one side, crouched in a screen of brush that had grown up through broken slabs of stone, Kian and Wye watched with him, waiting for his signal. He was their leader now. He was their last, best hope. Without him, they would all be dead. Dead, like so many of the others.

  Quentin scanned the place in which Panax had spotted movement, but saw nothing. It didn’t matter; he stayed where he was and kept searching. If the Dwarf said something was there, then it was. They hadn’t gotten that far by doubting each other, and getting that far was nothing short of a miracle.

  Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to go, not from the moment they had entered that square with its smooth metal floor and irregular sections of wall. An odd formation to begin with, unlike anything the Highlander had ever seen, it whispered of trouble. But Quentin had taken up his position on the left wing of the search party, along with Panax and the Elven Hunters Kian, Wye, and Rusten, and watched as an unaccompanied Walker made his way cautiously ahead. Across the way, barely visible, Ard Patrinell crouched with Ahren Elessedil, the Healer Joad Rish, and three more Elven Hunters. He could just make out their figures, little more than shadows clinging to the protective walls of the outlying buildings. Between them, and well behind the Druid, Bek and the seer Ryer Ord Star waited with three more Elven Hunters. Like a tableau, they were etched in the fading light, motionless statues sealed in place by time and fate.

  Quentin had listened carefully for the sound of trouble, for any indication that this place that seemed so like a trap in fact was. He had his sword out already, gripped in one hand and laid flat against the metal square on which he crouched, the ridged pommel not nearly reassuring enough against his sweating palm. Get out of here! He kept shouting the words in the silence of his mind, as if by thinking it he could somehow make it happen. Get out of here now!

  Then the first fire threads speared toward the Druid, and Quentin was on his feet instantly, catapulting from his crouch and charging ahead. Rusten went with him, the two of them rushing to Walker’s aid, reckless and willful and foolhardy, ignoring the shouts from Panax to come back. They should have both died. But Quentin tripped and went down, sprawling across the metal floor, and the fall saved his life. Rusten, ahead of him and still charging toward the Druid, was caught in a crossfire of deadly threads and cut apart while still on his feet, screaming as he died.

  Moving forward, his dark-cloaked form somehow sliding past the fire threads, Walker was yelling at them to stay back, to get clear of the ruins. Heeding the Druid’s command, Quentin crawled back the way he had come, the fire chasing after him, passing so close that it seared his clothing. He caught a glimpse of the others, Bek in the center group, the Elves on the right wing, all dispersing and taking cover, shielding themselves from whatever might happen next. Ryer Ord Star bolted from Bek’s side, her slender form streaking away into the ruins after Walker, ephemeral and shadowy as she passed ghostlike through walls that were now shifting in all directions, charging ahead heedlessly into the heart of the maze. He saw her stumble and go down, struck by one of the deadly threads, and then he lost sight of everything but what was happening right in front of him.

  “Creepers!” Panax screamed.

  Quentin rolled to his feet to find the first of them almost on top of him, seemingly come out of nowhere. He caught a glimpse of others behind it and to either side. They were of different sizes and shapes and metal compositions, a strange amalgam of what looked to be castoff pieces and oddly formed parts jointed and hinged to make something that seemed not quite real. Blades and powerful cutters glittered at the ends of metal extensions. Protruding metal eyes swiveled. They advanced in a crouch, as if they were armored insects grown large and given life and sent out to hunt.

  He destroyed the first so quickly that it was scrap metal before he was aware of what he had done. All those long hours of training with the Elven Hunters saved him from the hesitation that would have otherwise cost him his life. He reacted without thinking, striking with the Sword of Leah at the creeper closest, the magic flaring to life instantly, responding to his need. The
dark metal blade flashed with fire of its own, blue flames riding up and down the edges of the weapon as he left his antagonist a metal ruin. Without slowing, he leapt over it to confront the next, fighting to reach his companions, who were backed against a nearby wall, struggling with their ordinary weapons to keep a tandem of creepers at bay. He smashed the second creeper, then was struck from the side by something he didn’t see and knocked flying. Red threads sought him out, searing their way slowly over the metal carpet, leaving deep grooves that smoked and steamed. He rolled away from them once again, came to his feet, and with a howl of determination launched himself back into the fray.

  He fought for what seemed like a long time, but was probably no more than a handful of minutes. Time stopped, and the world around him and all it had offered and might offer again in his young life disappeared. Creepers came at him from everywhere, creepers of all shapes and sizes and looks. He seemed to be a magnet for them, drawing them like flies to the dead. They converged from everywhere. They turned away from Panax and the Elven Hunters to get at him. He was slashed and battered by their attempts to pin him down—not necessarily to kill him, but as if their goal was to capture him. It occurred to him then for the first time that it was the magic they were after.

  By then, the magic was all through him. It surfaced with his first sword stroke, the blue fire racing up and down the blade’s surface. But soon it was inside him, as well. It fused him with his weapon and made them one, leaving the metal to enter flesh and bone, rushing through his bloodstream and back out again, all heat and energy. It burned in a captivating, seductive way, filling him with power and a terrible thirst for its feel. Within only a short time, he craved the feeling as he had craved nothing else in his life. It made him believe he could do anything. He had no fear, no hesitation. He was indestructible. He was immortal.

  Smoke drifted across the battleground, obscuring everything. He heard the cries of his companions, but he could not see them. Walker had disappeared entirely, as if the earth had swallowed him. Disembodied voices cried out in the darkness. Everyone was cut off, surrounded by fire threads and creepers, caught in a trap from which none of them seemed able to escape. He didn’t care. The magic buoyed and sustained him. He wrapped himself in its cloak and, unstoppable, fought with even greater fury.

  Finally Panax shouted to him that they had to get clear of the square. It took several tries before he heard the Dwarf, and even then he was reluctant to break off the battle. Slowly, they began to retreat the way they had come. Creepers sought to bar their escape, turning them aside at every opportunity, giving pursuit like hungry wolves, skittering along on their metal struts and spindly legs, strange and awkward machines. The chase veered from one building to another, down one passageway to the next, until Quentin had no idea where he was. His arms were tiring, leaden from swinging the sword, and the magic did not come so easily. The Elves and Panax were grim-faced and battle-worn. Time and numbers were eating away at their resistance.

  Then, without warning, the creepers pulled back, the fire threads disappeared, and the Highlander and his three companions were left in an empty swirl of smoke and silence. Weapons held before them like talismans, the hunted men backed through the haze, putting distance between themselves and their vanished pursuers, watching everywhere at once, waiting for the attack to resume. But the ruined city seemed to have become a vast burial ground, a massive tomb empty of life save for themselves.

  So it had gone ever since, with Quentin and the other three edging their way ahead, not entirely certain to where they had gotten themselves or were going. Once or twice, there had been sudden, hurried movements in the shadows, things skittering away too swiftly to be clearly seen. The night had begun to fade and dawn to approach, and sunlight was creeping through the haze that cloaked the city. They searched for signs of their friends, for familiar landmarks, for anything that would tell them where they were. But it all looked the same, and the look never changed.

  Now, crouched in yet another part of the ruined city, Quentin found himself almost wishing he had something to fight again, something of substance to combat. The sustained tension of watching and waiting for invisible creepers and vanished fire threads was wearing him down. Traces of the magic still roiled within him, but a mix of fear and doubt had replaced his craving for it. He did not like what the magic had made him do, as if he were as much a fighting machine as those creepers. He did not like how thoroughly it had dominated him, so much so that even thinking became difficult. There was only response and reaction, need and fulfillment. He had lost himself in the magic, had become someone else.

  Without looking at Panax, he whispered, “I can’t trust my senses anymore. I’m exhausted.”

  He felt, rather than saw, the Dwarf nod. “We have to get some rest. But not here. Let’s go.”

  Quentin did not move. He was thinking about Bek, somewhere out there in the haze and rubble, lost at best, dead at worst. He could scarcely bear to think of how badly he had failed his cousin, leaving him behind without meaning or wanting to, abandoning him as surely as Walker seemed to have abandoned them all. He blinked away his weariness and shook his head. He should never have left Bek, not even after Walker had separated them. He should never have believed Bek would be all right without him.

  “Let’s go, Highlander,” Panax growled again.

  They rose and started ahead, easing away from the place where the Dwarf had seen movement, skirting the building and the rubble both, choosing a wide avenue that passed between a series of what looked like low warehouses with portions of their walls and roofs fallen in and collapsed. Quentin’s thoughts were dismal. Who was going to protect Bek if he didn’t? With Walker gone, who else was there? Certainly not Ryer Ord Star and maybe not even the Elven Hunters. Not against things like the fire threads and the creepers. Bek was his responsibility; they were each other’s responsibilities. What good was a promise to look after someone if you didn’t even know where he was?

  He peered into the gloom as he walked, seeing other places, remembering better times. He had come a long way from the Highlands to have it all end like this. It had seemed so right to him, that he should do this, he and Bek. To live an adventure they would remember for the rest of their lives—that was why they must come, he had argued that night with Walker. That argument seemed hollow and foolish now.

  “Wait,” Panax hissed suddenly, bringing him to an abrupt stop.

  He glanced at the Dwarf, who was listening intently once more. To one side, Kian and Wye stared out into the gloom. Quentin thought that maybe he was too tired to listen, that even if there was something to hear, he would be unable to tell.

  Then he heard it, too. But it wasn’t coming from ahead of them. It was coming from behind.

  He turned quickly and watched in surprise as a slender figure appeared out of the haze and rubble.

  “Where are you going?” Tamis asked in genuine confusion as she approached. She pulled off the leather band that tied back her short-cropped brown hair and shook her head wearily. “Is this all of you there are?”

  They welcomed the Tracker with weary smiles of relief, lowering their weapons and gathering around her. Kian and Wye reached out to touch her fingers briefly, the standard Elven Hunter greeting. She nodded to Panax, and then her gray eyes settled on Quentin.

  “I’ve just come from Bek. He’s waiting a couple of miles back.”

  “Bek?” Quentin repeated, a wave of relief surging through him. “Is he all right?”

  There was blood on her clothing and scratches on her smooth, tired face. Her clothes were soiled and torn. She didn’t look all that different from him, he realized. “He’s fine. Better off than you or me, I’d say. I left him in a clearing at the edge of the ruins to watch over the seer while I came looking for you. We’re all that’s left of our group.”

  “We lost Rusten,” Kian advised quietly.

  She nodded. “What about the others? What about Ard Patrinell?”

  The Elven
Hunter shook his head. “Couldn’t tell. Too much smoke and confusion. Everyone disappeared after the fighting started.” He nodded at Quentin. “The Highlander saved us. If we hadn’t had him and that sword, we would have been finished.”

  Tamis gave Quentin an ironic look. “It must run in the family. Look, you’re going in the wrong direction. You’re going inland instead of back toward the bay.”

  “We’ve just been running,” Quentin admitted. He blinked at the Tracker in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘It must run in the family’? What are you saying?”

  “That young Bek saved us, as well. If it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have gotten clear. He smashed those creepers as if they were made of paper. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Quentin stared at her. “Bek? Bek did that?”

  She studied him carefully. “Didn’t he tell you? Or did he just discover it for himself, I wonder? He didn’t seem all that sure about what he was doing, I’ll grant you. But to have that kind of power and not know anything about it … Well, maybe so. Anyway, this is what happened.”

  She related the details of their escape, of how they had fled back through the ruins, the three Elven Hunters, Ryer Ord Star, and Bek, until the creepers had hemmed them in. The other two Elves had died quickly, but she and the seer were saved when Bek used his voice to call up magic.

  “It was eerie,” she admitted. Her eyes held Quentin’s. “He was singing, a strange sound, but it tore the creepers apart, like a wind or a weapon cutting through them. One minute they were there, killing us, and the next they were scrap.” She nodded solemnly. “Bek saved us. And you don’t know a thing about what I’m saying, do you?”

  Quentin was thinking, Bek has magic? How could that be? He shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  He found himself wondering suddenly about Bek’s background. Bek was the child of a cousin, but which cousin? Or was he related at all? Coran Leah had always been closemouthed about Bek’s background, but that was the way he was with private information, and Quentin had never pressed the subject. But if Bek really did have the use of magic …