Morgawr by Terry Brooks

The following morning, when it grew light and he could see clearly, he set out to discover where she had gone. Leaving the remainder of his fleet at anchor, he flew Black Moclips in a slow, careful sweep over the island, searching for her hiding place.

His mood was no longer as dark and foul as it had been after the seer had died, when he had felt both betrayed and outwitted. The seer had tricked him into following blind leads and useless visions. The Jerle Shannara and her crew had escaped him completely, flying out of Parkasia through the mountains even as he was flying in. With the Ilse Witch safely aboard, they had gotten behind him and turned for home.

He had known what that meant. The Druid’s vessel was the faster ship, much faster than anything the Morgawr commanded, including Black Moclips. He had lost the advantages of surprise and numbers both, and if he did not find a way to turn things around, he risked losing them completely.

But the Four Lands were a long way off, and fate had intervened on his behalf. Something had happened to slow the Jerle Shannara, allowing him to catch up. Even though she had gotten far ahead of him, he had still been able to track her. She had brought aboard her own doom in the form of the Ilse Witch, and once that was done, her fate was sealed. Just as the little witch had tracked the Druid from the Four Lands through her use of the seer as her spy, so had he tracked her through her use of her magic. The scent of it, layered on the air, was pungent and clear, a trail he could not mistake. For a time, when the witch had escaped into the mountains with her brother, he had lost all track of her. He assumed she had simply ceased using the magic, though that was unlike her.

Then, only days before the Elven Prince had fled and he’d had the seer killed, there had been a resurgence of the use of magic deep in Parkasia’s mountains. At the time, intent on following the seer’s false visions, he had ignored it. But now he had the Ilse Witch’s scent again, so strong there was no need for anything more. Small bursts of it permeated the air through which he flew, sudden fits and starts he could not explain, but could read well enough. Wherever she went, while she remained aboard the Jerle Shannara, he would be able to find her.

Her scent was present now, hanging in a cloud over the island, blown everywhere on the breeze. But did it lead away? Had they gotten off the island just ahead of him? That was what he must discover.

He cruised Mephitic from end to end, tracking the magic, following its trail. He determined quickly enough that it did not extend beyond the island’s broad, low sweep. He felt a wildness building in him, an anticipation bordering on frenzy. They were here still, he had them trapped. He could already taste the witch’s life bleeding out of her and into him. He could already imagine the sweetness of its taste.

So he swept the island carefully, flying low enough to read its details, seeking to uncover their hiding place, thinking that no matter how well they hid themselves, they could not hide the scent of his little witch’s magic. They might even abandon their ship, though he could not believe they would be so foolish, but they were his for the taking so long as they kept the witch beside them. If the boy was her brother, as the Morgawr was now certain he must be, there was no question but that they would.

Even so, he could not find them. He searched from the air until his eyes ached and his temper frayed. He put Cree Bega and his Mwellrets at every railing and had them search, as well. They found nothing. They searched until midmorning, and then he brought the rest of the fleet inland and had them fan out and blanket the island from the air. When that failed, he had the Mwellrets disembark and under Cree Bega’s command search on foot. He had them comb the forests and even the open grasslands, seeking anything that would indicate the presence of his quarry.