Bek Rowe froze as the huge apparition swung away from the fleeing wolves to face them. Quentin took an involuntary step back, his earlier euphoria over the rediscovered magic of the Sword of Leah forgotten. Neither dared even to breathe as the thing before them rippled like windblown cedar limbs, a kind of shimmering movement that suggested an image cast on a raindrenched window or a ghost imagined in a sudden change of light.
Then the tattered cloak that wrapped Truls Rohk’s broad, rangy form billowed once and settled about his shoulders, the edges trailing stray threads and ragged strips of cloth. Hands and feet moved like clubs within the circle of darkness he cast, but no face could be seen within the shadows of his cowl. If not for his vaguely human form, Truls Rohk could as easily have been a beast of the sort that prowled those mountains.
“Panax,” he hissed. “Why are you here?”
He spoke the Dwarf’s name with recognition, but without warmth or pleasure. His voice bore the sharp whine of metal scraping metal, and ended with the sound of steam released under pressure. Bek had forgotten the Dwarf. Battle-ax lowered to his side, Panax stood straight and unbowed in the presence of the dark creature that confronted them. But there was a tenseness in his rough features and wariness in his eyes.
“Walker has sent you a message,” he said to the apparition.
Truls Rohk made no move to come forward. “Walker,” he repeated.
“These are Highlanders,” Panax continued. “The tall one is Quentin Leah. The younger is his cousin, Bek Rowe. They were entrusted to carry the message to you.”
“Speak it,” Truls Rohk said to the cousins.
Bek looked at Quentin, who nodded. Bek cleared his throat.
“We’ve been asked to tell you that Walker is preparing to undertake a journey by airship across the Blue Divide. He goes in search of a safehold in an unknown land. The safehold contains a treasure of great value. He says to tell you that others search for it, as well, one of them a warlock called the Morgawr and one a sorceress called the Ilse Witch.”
“Hsssshh! Dark souls!” Truls Rohk spat sharply, the sound so venomous it stopped Bek right in the middle of his speech. “What else, boy?”
Bek swallowed thickly. “He says to tell you that his enemies have already killed the Elf King, Allardon Elessedil, and a castaway who carried back a map of the safehold. He says to tell you he needs you to come with him to help in the search and to protect against those who would prevent it.”
There was a long silence, then a cough that might have been a laugh or something less pleasant. “Lies. Even with only one arm, Walker can protect himself. What does he really need?”
Bek stared at the other in confusion and fear, then glanced at both Quentin and Panax, found no help, and shook his head. is! don’t know. That was all he told us. That was the whole message, just as he gave it to us. He wants you to—“
“He wants more than he says!” The raspy voice grated and hissed. “You, Highlander.” He gestured vaguely within his cloak toward Quentin. “What magic do you wield?”
Quentin did not hesitate. “An old magic, just this night recovered. This sword belongs to my family. It was given its magic, I’m told, in the time of Allanon.”
“You wield it poorly.” The words were cutting and dismissive. “You, boy.” Truls Rohk spoke once more to Bek. “Have you magic as well?”
Bek shook his head. “No, none.”
He was aware that Truls Rohk was studying him carefully, and in the stillness that followed, it seemed as if something reached out and touched him, brushing against his forehead with feathery lightness. It was there and gone so quickly that he might only have imagined it.
Truls Rohk moved a step to his right, and the movement revealed a flash of arm and leg of huge proportions, all muscle and thick hair, bare to the mountain night. Bek had a strong sense that the other was stooped within his cloak, affecting a kind of guarded crouch, a readiness that never left him. As big as Truls Rohk already seemed, Bek believed he would be much bigger still if he was to stand upright. Nothing got that big that wasn’t a Rock Troll, but Truls Rohk lacked a Rock Troll’s thick hide and cumbersome, deliberate movements. He was too quick and fluid for that, and his skin was human.