“Obat and his people are going over the mountains and into Parkasia’s interior,” the Dwarf continued. “Better weather over there. Safer country. If we don’t find another way out of here pretty quick, I think we’d better go with them.”
Suddenly Quentin remembered the airship. “I just saw the Jerle Shannara, Panax,” he said quickly, directing the other’s attention toward the front. “It was visible for a moment, right over there. I saw it while I was standing where you found me, and then I lost it in those clouds.”
They stared into the darkness together for a several moments without seeing anything. Then Panax cleared his throat. “Not that I doubt you on this, but are you sure it wasn’t Black Moclips?”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to Quentin. He was so eager for it to be the Jerle Shannara, he supposed, that he had never stopped to consider that it might be the enemy airship. He had forgotten about their nemesis.
He shook his head slowly. “No, I guess I’m not sure at all.”
The Dwarf nodded. “No harm done. But we have to be careful. The witch and her Mwellrets are still out there.”
“What about Bek and the others?”
Panax looked uncomfortable. “Still no sign. I don’t know if we can find them, Highlander. Obat’s people still won’t go into the ruins. They say it’s a place of death even with Antrax gone and the creepers and fire threads down. They say it’s cursed. Nothing has changed. I tried to get them to come with me this morning, but after they saw what had happened, they went right back up into the hills to wait.” He shook his head. “I guess I don’t blame them, but it doesn’t help us much.”
Quentin faced him. “I’m not leaving Bek, Panax. I’m all done with running away, with watching people die and not doing anything about it.”
The Dwarf nodded. “We’ll keep looking, Highlander. For as long as we can, we’ll keep searching. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“He’s alive,” Quentin insisted.
The Dwarf did not reply, his weathered, bluff face masking his thoughts. His gaze shifted skyward to the north, and Quentin turned to look, as well. A line of black specks had appeared on the horizon, coming down parallel to the storm front, strung out across the morning sky.
“Airships,” Panax announced softly, a new edge to his rough voice.
They watched the specks grow larger and begin to take shape. Quentin could not understand where so many airships had come from, seemingly out of nowhere, all at once. Whose were they? He glanced at Panax, but the Dwarf seemed as confused as he did.
“Look,” Panax said, pointing.
The airship Quentin had seen earlier had reappeared out of the darkness, moving swiftly across the sky east toward the mountains. There was no mistaking it this time,—it was Black Moclips. A cry for help died on the Highlander’s lips, and he froze in place as it passed overhead and receded into the distance. They could see now that it was attempting to cut off another ship, one further ahead. The distinctive rake of the three masts marked it instantly as the Jerle Shannara. The witch and her Mwellrets were in pursuit of the Rovers, and these new airships were chasing both.
“What’s going on?” Quentin asked, as much of himself as of Panax.
A moment later, the pursuing fleet split into two groups, one going after Black Moclips and the Jerle Shannara, the other breaking off toward the ruins of Castledown. This second group was the smaller of the two, but was commanded by the largest of the airships. In a line, the vessels swung over the ruins, where they prepared to set down.
“I don’t think we should stand out in the open like this,” Panax offered after a moment.
Quickly, they moved into the cover of the trees, then retreated back up into the hills until they found a vantage point from which they could look down on what was taking place. It didn’t take them long to decide that they had made the right decision. Rope ladders had been lowered from the airships, which hovered a dozen feet off the ground, and knots of Mwellrets were climbing down and spreading out. On board the airships, the crews kept their stations.