Ilse Witch (60 page)

When they were alone in a silent place, the bonds and gag and blindfold were removed. She sat up and found herself facing a big man wrapped in black robes, a man who was not entirely human, his face scaly and mottled like a snake’s, his fingers ending in claws, and his eyes lidless slits. She caught her breath and shrank from him, but he did not move away in response.

“You are safe now, little one,” he whispered. “Safe from those who would harm you, from the Dark Uncle and his kind.”

She did not know whom he was talking about. She looked around guardedly. They were crouched in a forest, the trees stark sentinels on all sides, their branches confining amid a sea of sunshine that dappled the woodland earth like gold dust. There was no one else around, and nothing of what she saw looked familiar.

“There is no reason to be afraid of me,” the other said. “Are you frightened by how I look?”

She nodded warily, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.

He handed her a water skin, and she drank gratefully. “Do not be afraid. I am of mixed breed, both Man and Mwellret, little one. I look scary, but I am your friend. I was the one who saved you from those others. From the Dark Uncle and his shape-shifters.”

That was twice he had mentioned the Dark Uncle. “Who is he?” she asked. “Is he the one who hurt us?”

“He is a Druid. Walker is his name. He is the one who attacked your home and killed your parents and your brother.”
The reptilian eyes fixed on her. “Think back. You will remember seeing his face.”

To her surprise, she did. She saw it clearly, a glimpse of it as it passed a window in the thin dawn light, dusky skin and black beard, eyes so piercing they stripped you bare, dark brow creased with frown lines. She saw him, knew him for her enemy, and felt a rage of such intensity she thought she might burn from the inside out.

Then she was crying, thinking of her parents and her brother, of her home and her lost world. The man across from her drew her gently into his arms and held her close.

“You cannot go back,” he told her. “They will be searching for you. They will never give up while they think you are alive.”

She nodded into his shoulder. “I hate them,” she said in a thin, sharp wail.

“Yes, I know,” he whispered. “You are right to hate them.” His rough, guttural voice tightened. “But listen to me, little one. I am the Morgawr. I am your father and mother now. I am your family. I will help you to find a way to gain revenge for what has been taken from you. I will teach you to ward yourself against everything that might hurt you. I will teach you to be strong.”

He whisked her away, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her deeper into the woods to where a giant bird waited. He called the bird a Shrike, and she flew on its back with him to another part of the Four Lands, one dark and solitary and empty of sound and life. He cared for her as he said he would, trained her in mind and body, and kept her safe. He told her more of the Druid Walker, of his scheming and his hunger for power, of his long-sought goal of dominance over all the Races in all the lands. He showed her images of the Druid and his black-cloaked servants, and he kept her anger fired and alive within her child’s breast.

“Never forget what he has stolen from you,” he would repeat. “Never forget what you are owed for his betrayal.”

After a time he began to teach her to use the wishsong as a weapon against which no one could stand—not once she had mastered it and brought it under her control, not once she had made it so much a part of her that its use seemed second nature. He taught her that even a slight change in pitch or tone could alter health to sickness and life to death. A Druid had such power, he told her. The Druid Walker in particular. She must learn to be a match for him. She must learn to use her magic to overcome his.

After a while she thought no longer of her parents and her brother, whom she knew to be dead and lost to her forever; they were no more than bones buried in the earth, a part of a past forever lost, of a childhood erased in a single day. She gave herself over to her new life and to her mentor, her teacher, and her friend. The Morgawr was all those while she grew through adolescence, all those and much more. He was the shaper of her thinking and the navigator of her life. He was the inspiration for her magic’s purpose and the keeper of her dreams of righting the wrongs she had suffered.

He called her his little Ilse Witch, and she took the name for her own. She buried her given name with her past, and she never used it again.

The Voyage of the
Jerle Shannara: Antrax

As the crew aboard the airship
Jerle Shannara
is attacked by evil forces, the Druid’s protégé Bek Rowe and his companions are pursued by the mysterious Ilse Witch. Meanwhile, Boh is alone, caught in a dark maze beneath the ruined city of Castledown, stalked by a hungry, unseen enemy.

For there is something alive in Castledown. Something not human. Something old beyond reckoning that covets the magic of Druids, elves, even the Ilse Witch. Something that hunts men for its own designs: Antrax. It is a spirit that commands ancient technologies and mechanical monsters, feeds off enchantment, and traps the souls of men.

Published by Del Rey Books.
Available in bookstores everywhere
.

Discover the secrets behind one of the
greatest fantasy epics of our time

THE WORLD OF SHANNARA

The beloved Shannara series by #1
New York Times
bestselling author Terry Brooks is universally acclaimed as a towering achievement, an unquestioned masterpiece in fantasy literature. Now, for the first time, all the wonders of Shannara have been gathered into one single, indispensable volume in which Terry Brooks shares candid views on his creation. Lavishly illustrated with full-color paintings and black-and-white drawings, this comprehensive guide ventures behind the scenes to explore the history, the people, the places, the major events, and of course the magic, of one of the world’s greatest fantasy epics.

Written by Terry Brooks and
Teresa Patterson
Art by David Cherry

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Look for Terry Brooks’
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good vs. evil!

RUNNING WITH THE DEMON

Sinnissippi Park, in Hopewell, Illinois, has long hidden a mysterious evil. But now the malevolent creatures that normally skulk in the shadows of the park grow bolder. The brewing conflict draws John Ross to Hopewell. A Knight of the Word, Ross is plagued by nightmares that tell him someone evil is coming to unleash an ancient horror upon the world. Caught between them is fourteen-year-old nest Freemark, who senses that something is terribly wrong but has not yet learned to wield her budding powers. These two souls will discover what survives when hope and innocence are shattered forever.

“FABULOUS … A breathtaking run of near-catastrophes and revelations. … His fans should embrace it as eagerly as they have
The Sword of Shannara.”

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(starred review)

A KNIGHT OF THE WORD

Fallen Knight John Ross makes a tempting prize for the Void, which could bend the Knight’s magic to its own evil ends. Once the demons on Ross’s trail track him to Seattle, neither he nor anyone close to him will be safe. Mis only hope is Nest Freemark, now a college student. Nest must restore Ross’s faith, or his life—and hers—will be forfeit …

“SUPERIOR TO ANYTHING BEING WRITTEN IN THE OENRE … Terry Brooks is one of a handful of fantasy writers whose work consistently meets the highest literary standards.”

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Rocky Mountain Hews

ANGEL FIRE EAST

Knight John Ross has learned of the birth of a gypsy morph, a magical, rare, and very dangerous creature. If he can discover its secret, the morph could be an invaluable weapon against the Void. But the Void, too, knows the value of the morph, and will not rest until the creature has been corrupted—or destroyed. Desperate, Ross returns to Hopewell, Illinois, home of Nest Freemark. Together they face an ancient evil beyond anything they have ever encountered, for a demon of ruthless intelligence and feral cunning awaits them in Hopewell …

Brooks has a “way of casting spells—transporting his readers into plausible realms where sorcery is alive. … Magical.”

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Read on for an excerpt from

The Measure of the Magic

by Terry Brooks

Published by Del Rey Books

ONE

H
UMMING TUNELESSLY, THE RAGPICKER WALKED
the barren, empty wasteland in the aftermath of a rainstorm. The skies were still dark with clouds and the earth was sodden and slick with surface water, but none of that mattered to him. Others might prefer the sun and blue skies and the feel of hard, dry earth beneath their feet, might revel in the brightness and the warmth. But life was created in the darkness and damp of the womb, and the ragpicker took considerable comfort in knowing that procreation was instinctual and needed nothing of the face of nature’s disposition that he liked the least.

He was an odd-looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical figure. He was tall and whipcord-thin, and he walked like a long-legged waterbird. Dressed in dark clothes that had seen much better days, he tended to blend in nicely with the mostly colorless landscape he traveled. He carried his rags and scraps of cloth in a frayed patchwork bag slung over one shoulder, the bag looking very much as if it would rip apart completely with each fresh step its bearer took. A pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble, scavenged from a dead man some years back, but still holding up quite nicely.