Down the rocky outcropping he bounded, as nimble as light,
dropping the last dozen feet without slowing. He landed in a
crash of broken bones, stretched for the Ruhk Staff, and
snatched it up. Faun was already scrambling for the safety of his
broad back. Garth whirled to start up again, and the Wisteron’s
shadow closed over him as the creature spun down its webbing
to smash him flat.
Wren came to her feet, her hand opened and her arm thrust
forth, and she summoned the Elfstone power. As quick as
thought it responded, streaking forth in a blinding rope of fire.
It caught the Wisteron still descending, hammered into it like a
massive fist, and sent it spinning away. Wren felt all of her
strength leave her as the blow struck. In her urgency to save
Garth, she held nothing back. The exhilaration swept through
her in an instant and was gone. She gasped in shock, started to
collapse, and Triss caught her about the waist. Stresa yelled at
them to run.
Garth heaved up out of the ravine, his face sweat-streaked
and grim, the Ruhk Staff in one hand, Faun in the other. The
Tree Squeak flew to Wren, shivering. On hands and knees they
crawled frantically back through the trees, rose, and began to
run across the mud flats.
Wren shot a frantic glance over one shoulder.
Where was the Wisteron?
It appeared an instant later. It did not come through the trees
as she had expected, but over them. It cleared the topmost limbs,
surged into view in a cloud of gray, and dropped on them like
a stone. Triss flung himself at Wren and knocked her from its
path or she would have been crushed. Stresa turned into a ball
of needles and was knocked flying. The Wisteron hissed, one
clawed foot bristling with the Splinterscat’s spines, and landed
in a crouch. Garth dropped the Staff and turned to face it,
broadsword drawn. Using both hands, the big Rover slashed at
the Wisteron’s face, missing as the beast drew back. It spit at
Garth, a steaming spray that burned through the air like fire.
“Poison!” Stresa screamed from what sounded like the bottom
of a well, and Garth went down, flat against the mud.
The moment he dropped, the Wisteron charged.
Wren scrambled up again, arms extending. The Elfstones
flared, and the magic responded. Fire exploded into the Wis-
teron from behind, sending it tumbling away in a cloud of smoke
and steam. Howling in triumph, she went after it, a red haze
across her vision, the power of the magic surging through her
once again. She could not think; she could only react. Gathering
the magic within herself, she attacked. The fire struck the Wis-
teron over and over, pounding it, burning it. The monster hissed
and screeched, twisted away, and fought to stand upright. Out
of the corner of her eye, Wren saw Garth stagger back to his
feet. One hand snatched up the fallen Ruhk Staff, the other the
broadsword. The big man was caked with mud. Wren saw him,
then forgot him, the magic a veil that enveloped and swept
away. The magic was an elixir that filled her with wonder and
excitement and white heat. She was invincible; she was supreme!
But then abruptly her strength deserted her once again,
drained in an instant’s time, and the fire died in her hand. She
closed her fingers protectively and dropped to one knee. Garth
and Triss were both there at once, dragging her away, hauling
her as if she were a child, racing back across the flats. Faun
came out of nowhere to scramble up her leg and burrow in her
shoulder. Stresa was still screaming in warning, the words un-
intelligible, the voice rising from somewhere back in the old
growth.
Then the Wisteron shot out of the haze, burned and smok-
ing, its sinewy body stretched out like a wolf’s in flight. It
slammed into them and everyone went sprawling. Wren lurched
to her hands and knees in the monster’s shadow, half dazed, still
weak, mud in her eyes and mouth. In desperation, her protec-
tors fought to save her. Garth stood astride her, broadsword