of Killeshan. It lay midway up the ascent and appeared to have
been formed when an entire section of the volcano had split
away and then dropped several thousand feet into the jungle.
The cliff face, once sheer, had eroded over the years, turned
pitted and craggy, and grown thick with scrub and vines. There
were only a few places where Blackledge could be scaled, and
Stresa knew them all. The Splinterscat chose a section of the
cliff where the rock wall had separated, and a fissure sliced down
to less than a thousand feet above the jungle floor. Within the
fissure lay a pass that ran back into a valley. It was there, across
the Rowen, Stresa announced, that the Elves would be found.
Resolutely he led them up.
The climb was hard and slow and seemingly endless. There
were no passes or trails. There were, in fact, very few places
that presented any kind of purchase at all, none of them offering
more than a brief respite. The lava rock was knife-edge sharp
beneath their hands and feet and would break away without
warning. The Rovers wore heavy gloves and cloaks to protect
their skin and to keep the spiders from biting and the scorpions
from stinging. The vog rolled down the rock face as if poured
from its edge, thick and stinking of sulfur and soot. Most of
what grew on the rock was thorny and tough and had to be cut
away. Every inch of the climb was a struggle that drained their
strength. Wren had felt rested when she began. Before it was
even midday, she was exhausted. Even Garth’s incredible stam-
ina was quickly depleted.
Stresa had no such problem. The Splinterscat was tireless,
lumbering up the cliff face at a slow, steady pace, powerful claws
finding adequate footing, digging into the rock, pulling the bulky
body ahead. Spiders and scorpions did not seem to affect Stresa;
one got close enough, he simply ate it. He led the way, choos-
ing the approaches that would be easiest for his human compan-
Ions, frequently stopping to wait until they could catch up. He
detoured briefly to bring back a branch laden with a sweet red
berry that they quickly and gratefully consumed. When it was
nightfall and they were still only halfway up the slope, he found
a ledge on which they could spend the night, clearing it first of
anything that might threaten them and then, to their utter aston
ishment, offering to keep watch while they slept. Garth, having
spent the previous two nights standing guard over the feverish
Wren, was too exhausted to argue. The girl slept the better
portion of the night, then relieved the Splinterscat several hours
before dawn, only to discover that Stresa preferred talk to sleep
in any event. He wanted to know about the Four Lands. He
wanted to hear of the creatures that lived within them. He told
Wren more about life on Morrowindl, a harrowing account of
the daily struggle to survive in a world where everything was
always hunting or being hunted, where there were no safe ha-
vens, and where life was usually short and bitter.
“Rrrwwll. Wasn’t like that in the beginning,” he growled
softly. “Not until the Elves made the demons and everything
turned bad. Phhhfft. Foolish Elves. They made their own prison.”
He sounded so bitter that she decided not to pursue the
matter. She was still uncertain as to whether or not the Splin-
terscat knew what he was talking about. The Elves had always
been healers and caretakers-never creators of monsters. She
found it hard to believe they could have turned a paradise into
a quagmire. She kept thinking there must be more to this story
than what Stresa knew and she must reserve judgment until she
had learned it all.
They resumed their climb at daybreak, pulling themselves
up the rocks, scrambling and clawing against the cliff face, and
peering up through the swirling mist. It rained several times, and
they were left drenched. The heat lessened as they worked their
way higher, but the dampness persisted. Wren was still weak
from her bout with the swamp fever, and it took all of her