Morgawr by Terry Brooks

Quentin closed his eyes. They needed help. They needed a miracle. He didn’t think he could give it to them. He didn’t know who could.

Kian finished the bread and cheese, took a drink from his water skin, and stood. He was coated with dust and debris, and his clothes were torn and streaked with blood. He was a mirror image of Quentin. They were refugees in need of a bath and some real sleep, and they were unlikely to get either anytime soon.

“We’d better get them up and moving,” Kian said.

They went back up the trail to where the Rindge waited. Using gestures and the few Rindge words they had picked up, they got the tribe back on its feet and trudging ahead once more. The Rindge were a dispirited group, not so much because of their weariness as because nothing the men had tried had worked and time was running out. Still, they kept on without complaint, the very young and old, the women and children, all helping one another where help was needed, a people dispossessed from their home of centuries, driven out by forces over which they had no control. They were demonstrating a resolve that Quentin found surprising and heartening, and he took what strength he could from them.

Still, it was not much.

They had hiked for perhaps an hour when the Rindge rearguard appeared on the run. Their gestures were unmistakable. The Mwellrets and tracking beasts were catching up to them.

At the same moment, Panax and Obat appeared from the other direction. The Dwarf was excited as he hurried to reach Kian and the Highlander.

“I think we’ve found something that will help,” he said, eyes bright and eager as they shifted from one face to the other. He rubbed vigorously at his thick beard. “The pass divides up ahead. One fork leads to a thousand-foot drop—no way around it. The other leads to a narrow ledge with room for maybe two people to pass, but no more. This second trail winds around the mountain, then further up through a high pass that crosses to the other side. Here’s what’s important. You can get above the second trail by climbing up the mountainside further on and doubling back. There’s a spot, perfect for what we need, to trigger an avalanche that will sweep away the pass and anything on it. If we can get the Rindge through before they’re caught by the rets, we might be able to start a rockslide that will knock those rets and their beasts right off the trail—or at least trap them on the other side of where we are.”

“How far ahead is this place?” Kian asked at once.

“An hour, maybe two.”

The Elven Hunter shook his head. “We don’t have that kind of time.”

“We do if I stay behind,” Quentin said at once.

He spoke before he could think better of it. It was a rash and dangerous offer, but he knew even without thinking it through that it was right.

They stared at him. “Highlander, what are you saying?” Panax asked angrily. “You can’t—“

“Panax, listen to me. Let’s be honest about this. It’s the magic that’s attracting them. No, don’t say it, don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about—we both know it’s true. We all know it. They want the magic, just like Antrax and its creepers did. If I stay back, I can draw them off long enough for you to get past the place on the mountain where you want to start the slide. It will buy you the time you need.”

“It will get you killed, too!” the other snapped.

Quentin smiled. Now that there were so many of the tracking beasts, he had virtually no chance of withstanding a sustained assault. If he couldn’t outrun them—and he knew he couldn’t—they would be all over him, sword or no. He was proposing to give up his life for theirs, a bargain that didn’t bear thinking on too closely if he was to keep it.

“I’ll stay with you,” Kian offered, not bothering to question the Highlander’s logic, knowing better than to try.

“No, Kian. One of us is enough. Besides, I can do this better alone. I can move more quickly if I’m by myself. You and Panax get the Rindge through. That’s more important. I’ll catch up.”