Minutes later she was winging her way southward atop
Grayl, peering down at the damp canopy of the forests below
The Talismans of Shannara 211
and the windswept carpet of the grasslands east. Mist rose off
the land in steamy waves, and the air shimmered like bright
cloth. Grayl sped quickly down the forest line past the Pykon
until they were within sight of the Federation army. Rift guided
the Roc close against the backdrop of trees and mountains,
keeping between the Southlanders and the glare of the midaf-
temoon sun.
Wren peered down at the sprawling camp. The report had
been right. The army was mobilizing, packing up goods, form-
ing up columns of men, and preparing to move out. Some sol-
diers were already under way, the lead-most divisions, and
they were heading north. Whatever else the Elf attack might
have done, it had not discouraged the army’s original purpose.
The march to Arborlon was under way once more.
Grayl swept past, and as Rift was about to swing the giant
Roc back again. Wren caught his arm and gestured for them to
continue on. She was not sure what she was looking for, only
that she wanted to be certain she wasn’t missing anything.
Were there riders coming up from the Southland cities, reports
being exchanged, reinforcements being sent? Tiger Ty’s warn-
ing whispered in her ear.
They flew on, following the muddy ribbon of the Mermidon
where it flowed south out of the Pykon along the plains before
turning east above the Shroudslip toward Kern. The grasslands
stretched away south and east, empty and green and sweltering
in the summer heat. The wind blew across her face, whipping
at her eyes until they teared. Erring Rift hunched forward,
hands resting on Grayl’s neck, as steady as stone, guiding by
touch.
Ahead, the Mermidon swung sharply east, narrowed, and
then widened again as it disappeared into the grasslands. The
river was sluggish and swollen by the rains, clogged with de-
bris from the mountains and woodlands, churning its way
steadily on through its worn channel.
On the river’s far bank a glint of sunlight reflected off metal
as something moved. Wren blinked, then touched Rift’s shoul-
der. The Wing Rider nodded. He had seen it, too. He slowed
Grayl’s flight and guided the Roc closer to the concealment of
the trees by the northern edge of the Irrybis.
Another glint of light flashed sharply, and Wren peered
212 The Talismans of Shannara
ahead carefully. There was something big down there. No, sev-
eral somethings, she corrected. All of them moving, lumbering
along like giant ants …
And then she got a good look at them, hunched down at the
riverbank as they prepared to cross at a narrows, coming out of
the Tirfing on their way north.
Creepers.
Eight of them.
She took a quick breath, seeing clearly now the armored
bodies studded with spikes and cutting edges, the insect legs
and mandibles, the mix of flesh and iron formed of the
Shadowen magic.
She knew about Creepers.
Rift swung Grayl sharply back into the trees, away from the
view of the things on the riverbank, away from the revealing
sunlight. Wren glanced back over her shoulder to make certain
she had not made a mistake. Creepers, come out of the South-
land, sent to give aid to the Federation army that marched on
Arborion—it was the Shadowen answer to her disruption of
the Federation army’s march. She remembered the history
Garth had taught her as a child, a history that the people of the
Pour Lands had whispered rather than told for more than fifty
years, tales of how the Dwarves had resisted the Federation ad-
vance into the Eastland until the Creepers had been sent to de-
stroy them.
Creepers. Sent now, it seemed, to destroy the Elves.
A pit opened in the center of her stomach, chill and dark.
Erring Rift was looking at her, waiting for her to tell him what
to do. She pointed back the way they had come. Rift nodded
and urged Grayl ahead. Wren stole a final look back and
watched the Creepers disappear into the heat.
Gone for the moment, she thought darkly.