Morgawr by Terry Brooks

His gaze drifted along the length of the ship’s deck, searching for Rue Meridian. She was the future, or at least as much of it as he could imagine. He hadn’t seen much of her since their return from the Crake Rain Forest. There hadn’t been time for visiting while they readied the Jerle Shannara for flight, their sense of urgency at the approach of the Morgawr consuming all of their time and energy. But even after setting out, she had kept to herself. He knew she spent much of her time looking in on his sister, and at first he had worried about her intentions. But it seemed wrong of him to mistrust her when she felt about him as she did. It felt small-minded and petty. He thought that she was reconciled to her anger and disappointment at Grianne’s presence and no longer thought it necessary to act on them. He thought that because she loved him she would want to help his sister.

So he left her alone, thinking that when she was ready to come to him again, she would do so. He didn’t feel any less close to her because she chose to be alone. He didn’t think she cared any less for him for doing so. They had always shared a strong sense of each other’s feelings, even in the days when they were first becoming friends on the voyage out. There had never been a need for reassurances. Nothing had changed. Friendship required space and tolerance. Love required no less.

Still, he missed being with her. He knew he could seek her out in Big Red’s quarters and she would not be angry with him. But it might be better to let her find her own way with Grianne.

“Maybe I’ll go home, too,” he whispered to himself.

But he wasn’t as sure about it anymore.

It was late afternoon when the Wing Riders reappeared, illumined by the red glare of the fading sun. The Jerle Shannara was less than an hour from the coast, and there had been no sign of the Morgawr’s airships. With the return of the Wing Riders, Redden Alt Mer intended to turn his vessel south and begin working along the cliffs that warded the south end of the peninsula to where he could set out across the Blue Divide.

Hunter Predd brought Obsidian beneath the airship, released his safety harness, caught hold of the lowered rope ladder, and climbed to the aft railing. Alt Mer extended his hand, and the Wing Rider took hold of it and pulled himself aboard. His lean face was ridged with dirt and bathed in sweat. His eyes were hard, flat mirrors that reflected the sunset’s blood-red light. He looked around the airship without saying anything, his callused hands flexing within their leather gloves, his arms stretching over his windswept head.

“We’re maybe a day ahead of them,” he said finally, keeping his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “They’re north of us, strung out along the edge of the mountains and flying inland. They must think we’re still there, from the look of things.”

Alt Mer nodded. “Good news for us, I’d say.”

He held out a water skin, which the Wing Rider accepted wordlessly and drank from until he had emptied it. “Ran out of water two hours ago.” He handed it back.

“It will be dark in another hour. After that, we won’t be so easy to track, especially once we get out over the water.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. They tracked us easily enough from home and then inland here. The only time they had any real trouble was after you crashed. That doesn’t sound like an evasion tactic you want to employ regularly.”

Alt Mer grunted noncommittally as he looked out over the railing at the darkness behind them, finding phantoms in the movement of the clouds against the mountains. The Wing Rider was right. He had no reason to think they could evade the Morgawr forever. Their best chance lay in putting as much distance between themselves and their pursuers as they could manage. Speed would make the difference as to whether they would escape or be forced to turn and fight. Speed was what the Jerle Shannara offered in quantities that not even Black Moclips could match.