them up and nothing happened, although it was clear enough that you were trying to use their power to stop the Demon. Then, when they did at last come alive, there was a change in you — a change that showed in your face… almost like pain.»
The Valeman was nodding slowly. He remembered now, and the memory was not pleasant. After it had happened, he had blocked it from his mind — blocked it without thinking, almost as a reflex action. Even now, he did not know why. It was not until this moment, when she recalled it to him, that he remembered what he had felt.
There was concern mirrored in the Elven girl’s eyes as he stared into them now. «If you do not wish…» she began quickly.
«No.» His voice was quiet, firm. He shook his head slowly. «No. I do not know if I understand it myself, tough — but it would help to talk about it, I think.»
He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully «There was a block somewhere within me. I do not know what it was or what caused it, but it was there and it would not let me use the Stones. I could not seem to pass around it or go through it.» He shook his head again. «Then the Demon was almost on top of me, and you and Eretria were both there, and all of us were going to die, and I somehow smashed the block — smashed it apart and reached down into to Stones…»
He paused. «There was no pain, but a sense of something unpleasant happening within me, something… I don’t know how to describe it. A sense of having done something wrong — yet there was nothing wrong in what I did.»
«The wrong may have been to yourself,” she murmured after a moment’s consideration. «Perhaps the Elven magic is harmful to you in some way.»
«Perhaps,” he agreed. «Yet my grandfather never spoke of this. Can it be that the magic did not affect him, yet does affect me? Why would it be different with me?»
She shook her head doubtfully. «Elven magic causes different reactions in different people. It has always been so. It is a magic born of the spirit, and the spirit is never a constant.»
«But my grandfather and I are so much alike — even more so than my father and I were.» Wil pondered. «Kindred spirits, you might say — and not so diverse as to cause this… this difference in our use of the Stones. Surely he would have felt this as well — and he would have told me.»
Amberle’s hand reached for his arm; holding it firmly.
«I do not think you should use the Elfstones again.»
He smiled. «Even to protect you?»
He said it lightly, but she did not return the smile. There was nothing humorous in this to her.
«I would not be the cause of any injury to you, Healer,” she announced quietly. «It was not my choice that brought you on this journey, and I feel badly that you are here at all. But since you are here, I will speak my mind. Elven magic is nothing to be toyed with; it can prove to be more dangerous than the evil it was created to protect against. Our histories have left us with that warning, if little else. The magic may act against not only the body, but the spirit as well. Wounds of the body may be treated. But what of wounds to the spirit? How will you treat them, Healer?»
She bent close. «No one is worth such injury — no one. Especially me.»
Wil stared at her silently for a moment, startled to see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. He reached out his hand to cover hers.
«We shall be careful for each other,” he promised. He tried a quick smile. «Maybe we won’t have need of the Stones again.»
The look she gave him in response suggested that she did not believe a word of it.
It was midnight when the howl of the Demon–wolves rose out of the stillness of to grasslands, shrill, hungry, and filled with hatred. Wil and Amberle came awake at once, the contentment of their sleep twisted with fear. For an instant they did not move, their bodies pushed upright from beneath the blankets, their eyes wide and staring as they sought each other out in the dark. The cry died, echoed in the silence that followed, then rose again, piercing and high. This time neither Valeman nor Elven girl hesitated. Without a word, both were on their feet, pulling on their boots; slipping their riding cloaks about their shoulders. In seconds they had saddled Artaq, mounted, and were riding north once more.
They moved ahead at a steady trot, keeping to the open plains where the way was clear and lit by moon and stars, following the line of the forestland. Cool night air rushed over them as they rode, damp with moisture gathering into morning dew, filled with the smells of the dark. Behind them, the howling continued, far back still, somewhere above the line of the Mermidon. The Demon–wolves were searching. The trail they followed was a day old; they did not realize yet how close they actually were to their prey.
Artaq ran smoothly, his great body working effortlessly as he raced across the grasslands, little more than another shadow slipping through the summer night. He had gotten most of the rest he needed for this run and he would not be winded quickly. Wil rated him carefully, keeping the pace steady, not letting the black overextend himself. It was early still; the chase had just begun. Their pursuers would discover soon enough the truth of matters. The Valeman was angry with himself; he had not believed they could be found again so quickly. The Elfstones must have revealed their presence in the Tirfing The Demon–wolves had come for the Valeman and the Elven girl immediately, tracked them north, and now flushed them from the Westland forests. Once they found the campsite their quarry had abandoned, the wolves would come after them with a vengeance. The Demons would run them until they were caught.
They rode on for better than an hour without sighting the valley, the howling trailing after them as they fled. It was answered now by cries that rose out of the grasslands below the Dragon’s Teeth and the plains to the north. Wil felt his heart sink. The wolves had them ringed. Only the Westland had been left open to them. He wondered suddenly if that way, too, might be closed. He remembered how it had been at the Silver River. The Valley of Rhenn might be a trap as well. Perhaps they were purposely being driven into the valley and it was there that the Demons planned to finish them. Yet what other choice was left them but to take that chance?
Moments later the howls behind them rose in a frenzy. The Demon–wolves had found their camp.
Wil put Artaq into a full gallop. The Demons would come quickly now, certain that their prey was close ahead, knowing that they could be caught. Cries north and east of them sounded in answer to those behind, shrill and ragged as the hunters began to run. Artaq was sweating, his head extended forward, his ears laid back. The grasslands thinned into barren scrub; they had crossed into the Streleheim. The Valley of Rhenn could not be far. Wil stretched himself low over Artaq’s straining neck and urged the gallant horse onward.
It was during the third hour of the chase, when the grasslands of Callahorn had been left far behind and the earth beneath Artaq’s pounding hooves had gone hard and cracked, when the howls of the Demon–wolves had drawn so near that it seemed the huge gray forms must spring into view at any moment, when wind and dust had blinded them and sweat from fear had streaked their bodies beneath their tangled clothes, that Valeman and Elven girl at last caught sight of the broken ridges that formed the mouth of the Valley of Rhenn. They rose out of the flatlands below the Elven forests, rock and scrub black against the night sky. The riders turned toward the pass without slowing. Artaq’s flanks were heaving, his nostrils flaring, sweat and lather coated his sleek black body He stretched out further, racing through the darkness, the two hunched forms on his back holding on desperately.
In seconds, the pass was before them, craggy ridges looming up on either side. Down into the narrow slot of the valley thundered the black. Wil peered frantically through tear–filled eyes as the wind ripped across his face, searching for the Demons that he had feared would be waiting to trap them. Astonishingly, he found none. They, were alone in the valley. He felt a quick sense of exhilaration. They were going to escape! Their pursuers were too far back to catch them before they were safely into the Westland forests, into the country of the Elves. By then there would be help…
The incomplete thought hung suspended in his mind, repeating itself over and over in cadence with the sound of Artaq’s pounding hooves as the black raced along the floor of the valley. Wil went cold. What was he thinking? There would be no help for them. No one even knew they were coming — no one but Allanon, and the Druid was gone. Help? What help did he expect? Already the Demons had gone into the very heart of the city of Arborlon to destroy the Chosen. What did he think would stop them from trailing. one incredibly foolish Valeman and an unarmed Elven girl into forestland miles from anything? All he had succeeded in doing in gaining the Valley of Rhenn was to take Artaq out of the open grasslands, where he could run, into the confinement of the woods, where he could not. There was nothing there that would prevent the wolves from coming after them — creatures that were
