The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  Again, the reminder. But there was something about how she said it that troubled him—her tone of voice, her emphasis, something.

  “Of course I remember. You needn’t keep asking.” He faced her. “Now tell me. Do you or do you not know where the darkwand is?”

  Her smile was quick, grim, and not entirely reassuring. “The moench knows. And if it lies, it doesn’t matter. The darkwand is in Vendra Trax’s chambers. The moench thinks to guide us there tomorrow, when Vendra Trax is out, but I am not inclined to wait so long. What the moench does not know is that I have my own guides in this place, and they can lead me to Vendra’s chamber without him.”

  “Guides? What guides?”

  “The ones who came before us. The ones who live in the walls.”

  Drisker stared. What?

  “The Forbidding, Drisker Arc, is not like the Four Lands. Or any other place. It is unique, and within its confines life takes different forms than what you are accustomed to. So tonight, we sleep. But not so long as the others will. You and I have something else to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “We will leave this chamber and go to where the darkwand is concealed. We will find it, reclaim it, and come back again before morning. According to my dreams, this is the key. That the staff will come to you and me alone. We are the ones who can do this.”

  “But what of Vendra himself? Won’t he be in his chambers at this hour?”

  “Yes, but asleep. I can easily enchant a sleeping Chule.” She glared at him. “Never assume there is something I cannot do, Drisker Arc. That would be a mistake. I can do anything I want to!”

  He did not doubt she believed that. And it might even be true. “So these wraiths will guide us? Why?”

  “Because I am almost one of them—not yet become what they are, but well on the way. They are kin to me, and what I ask, they will grant.”

  “How? Will they provide us with a map? Show us a path?”

  She shook her head slowly. “They live within the walls of the Iron Crèche, Drisker Arc. Tonight, they will bring us into the walls with them.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Drisker slept, and his sleep was deep and dark. Lack of comfort was not a consideration—nor lack of privacy or quiet, warmth or any sense of reassurance. Exhaustion dominated him, dragging him under quickly and holding him down so that interruptions could not intrude for the time he had been given to rest. It was not until hands seized him and shook him awake with surprising roughness that he woke to find himself staring into the depthless eyes of the Straken Queen.

  “Time to go,” she whispered as she released her grip.

  He rose, coming awake quickly—anxious now, and more alert than it had seemed possible on waking from such an all-consuming sleep. He stood with her in the near darkness, the only light a faint glow from her fingertips as she guided him through those sleeping around them to stand before the blank surface of the rear wall. None of the others woke.

  “I drugged all but Weka Dart,” she whispered once more, confirming the Ulk Bog’s suspicion. “This task is for us alone. The dreams revealed as much.”

  He searched the room and, after long moments, found the glint of the Ulk Bog’s eyes in the darkness, staring up at him, watching. He nodded faintly, not even sure if the other could see him. Conflicted as he was, Weka Dart would help his mistress in her efforts right until the end of either one or the other.

  Grianne laid one glowing hand on the wall and closed her eyes, doing whatever she did to contact her spirits. Long minutes passed and nothing happened. Drisker grew restless and began to shift from one foot to the other. The Straken Queen reached out to him with her free hand and placed it on his arm, cautioning him to remain silent. Drisker nodded, but what was taking so long? He did not want to ask, even though he wanted to know. The uncertainty was working on him, but he stiffened his resolve and held back his words.

  Then he caught a glimpse of what looked to be a shiver in the stone of the wall, as if it were becoming liquid. A moment later a figure emerged—human in shape, but featureless: a wraith given human form but stripped of any definition or color. It bled through the wall and stood before them. A second followed and then a third. They did not speak. How could they, given they had no mouths? But while no audible communication took place, it seemed as if something was passing between Grianne Ohmsford and the wraiths—another form of communication suggested by her change of expression and gestures, to which the ghosts of the dead responded in kind.

  “Let them take your hands, Druid,” the Straken Queen ordered.

  One of them reached for his hands and Drisker gave them willingly, forcing himself to remain unresponsive even when the chill of the creature’s touch would have otherwise made him jump in shock. Icy, it was. Such cold!

  “We go into the walls,” she whispered again. “Do not resist. Do not fight against what you feel. Let yourself be led.”

  Drisker forced himself to relax, trying not to think of the stone as a material that could easily smash his body to bits, but to see it as the liquid it had appeared to be for the wraiths. His minder slid into the stone, which instantly softened for him, giving him easy access.

  Drisker went with the creature, and it was as if he were being pulled through a screen—or perhaps a sieve—separating his body into a million tiny fragments. He closed his eyes as he felt it happening, not wanting to see what it would do to him. Just let it happen. He did so, holding his courage and his trust together even as his body came apart.

  It took everything he had not to react to what he was experiencing—every bit of courage and faith in the word of the Straken Queen. It felt as if skin and ligaments, cartilage and sinew, blood and brain were disintegrating under the force of his entry into the wall. Then all of him was inside. He risked a quick peek through the slits of his eyelids and quickly sealed them again. The world beyond was a blank. Those who dwelled within the walls were gone. The Straken Queen was gone, as was everything he might have recognized. There was only the cold pressure of his guide’s hands holding his, and nothing else.

  Time slowed to a crawl, or perhaps it raced away so quickly he could not track it. Then again, perhaps it ceased completely. All he knew was the lack of anything familiar pressing in around him, investing him with chilling certainty that this was the end. Drisker felt a sudden urge to scream and quickly tamped it down. Screaming would do him no good. Only perseverance would save him now.

  He concentrated on responding to the steady pull of his guide’s hands, feeling their roughness and strength, all of his senses centered on the presence of those hands—on the lifeline they offered, on the promise they would see him clear and safe again.

  The feeling that his body was under attack lessened as he proceeded, and he began to adjust to the unpleasantness. In fact, after a time, the feeling began to seem natural, a part of who and what he was. He had endured, and by doing so managed to reduce the experience to something approaching normal.

  No words were spoken nor thoughts exchanged as they progressed. Save for the hands leading him steadily on, Drisker was alone. But he was thinking now, reasoning, rationalizing, positing what might happen when they reached their destination. His hopes for escape had climbed a notch, and now a way out no longer seemed quite so impossible.

  If they could reach the chambers of Vendra Trax…

  If they could gain possession of the elusive darkwand…

  The wall pressed in on him—not with stone and mortar but with doubts and fears.

  Then the tearing, stripping, and fragmenting of his body and mind began anew. He passed out of the confines of the wall and back into the fetid swamp air of the Iron Crèche, free again of his imprisonment and gulping air without impediment.

  He felt the hands of the wall dweller release his own, giving him his freedom, and he blinked in the near darkness and saw the gnarled form of th
e Straken Queen standing nearby, searching the room. Barred windows warded it, and only a single door provided entry. It was a bedchamber, but it was empty. Drisker cast a wary glance at the bed, which was nothing more than a huge stone slab with a pile of straw atop it—devoid of mattress, sheets, pillows, or blankets. It made him wonder. Were they even in the right place? And if they were, then why wasn’t Vendra there, too?

  Uneasiness stirred.

  “These are his chambers,” Grianne whispered exultantly, as if reading his mind. “According to the moench, the darkwand is hidden here!”

  “So where is Vendra?” Drisker whispered back.

  She just shrugged. “Elsewhere, apparently.”

  “He should be sleeping.”

  “Who knows what a Chule does at night? But it doesn’t matter. The room is empty, and we are here!” From the almost manic glitter in her eyes, he could tell she was too caught up in the fulfillment of a long-desired dream to trouble about the details.

  But those details troubled him.

  Darkness filled the room, and only the dim glow at Grianne’s fingertips provided any light. Drisker watched her a moment as she stood listening to the silence and decided they were indeed alone.

  Then he saw their three guides pass back into the walls. Grianne ignored their departure, moving deeper into the chamber, beckoning him to follow. Ahead, curtains parted to reveal another chamber, this one a room filled with armor and weapons and various forms of battle gear—and still no Vendra Trax. In one corner stood an armored warrior bearing a huge spear, an apparent decoration. The Druid and the queen navigated the maze to a far wall, and from there to a corner of the chamber in which a cabinet stood. Grianne opened the cabinet door and Drisker peered inside. Scrolls and maps and bound documents of all shapes and sizes filled the space.

  “Perhaps in this cabinet,” Grianne said quietly.

  She removed the scrolls, one after another, clearing out the cabinet to study the empty space, running her fingers over its wooden sides, bottom and top. When she was done, she pulled back, a puzzled look on her face. “Nothing.” She shook her head. “I must be missing something.” She looked at him. “Can you sense where it is?”

  Drisker wasn’t sure he could sense anything in this foreign world, but he studied the cabinet and then the scrolls. Something…He bent down, moving the scrolls about slowly. Here, within the scrolls. Something hidden…He sensed it rather than saw it—felt it the way you feel another’s presence when you have not witnessed their actual coming.

  He knelt amid the scrolls and began to work his way through them, running his fingers over their smooth surfaces, feeling up inside the rolls and down along the spines. One by one, he went through them. Then, just as he was beginning to think he had made a mistake, his fingers encountered a small indentation in the wooden boll around which a large scroll was bound with leather thongs. He fingered the indent carefully, noting the obvious give to its surface, and he immediately became wary.

  “What is it?” the Straken Queen asked eagerly, bending close.

  He shook his head. “Something more than a scroll. There is a trigger carved into its surface. I don’t know what it does.”

  “Press it.”

  “But if we’re wrong…”

  “Press it!” she hissed. “We don’t have the luxury of being cautious!”

  He did so, and the room exploded with light—a huge sunburst of fiery illumination that seemed to ignite rather than simply appear. Drisker and Grianne both shrank from its brilliance, and suddenly the armored warrior was moving, coming to life as if woken from sleep, swinging about to face the intruders, assuming a fighting stance as it began a slow advance.

  “A trap!” Grianne growled in her low, dangerous voice. “The moench lied!” Her expression was one of rage and frustration. “Leave this to me, Druid.”

  She let the armored figure get to within a few feet of her, then cast the spell she had been preparing. It encircled the creature and froze it in place. One step, another, and then it ceased all movement.

  She stepped away, glancing over at Drisker.

  “What was the point of that?” he asked. “That statue wasn’t much of a threat.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be.” She spit out the words as if she found the taste of them foul. “Activating it simply gave warning to Vendra Trax that we are here. Now he will come for us.”

  * * *

  —

  In the storage room where the others still slept, Weka Dart was awake. He did not trust sleep in a place like this. This whole fortress was a trap waiting to be sprung, He did not trust any part of it. In particular, he was suspicious of the moench. Before his mistress had drugged it, it had kept looking toward the door, watching and waiting. It seemed clear enough to the Ulk Bog, but what should he do about it? His instincts told him to run, but where? His mistress and the Druid were still gone, and how would he find them in this stone-and-iron maze?

  So he sat there in a darkened corner, seething inside. He hated the moench. He always had. Had never trusted it, never thought she should listen to it, never wanted it anywhere near her. But the Straken Queen was fixed on her course, so he had been forced to endure its presence. Coming here as they had was madness, and it was all due to the presence of the Druid. The Druid would take his mistress away and Weka Dart would be left behind. He would be abandoned.

  All they needed was the staff.

  Though first, of course, they had to find it…

  His thoughts shifted, one after another.

  He should flee.

  He should stay.

  He should warn the others.

  He should remain very still.

  Hiding was what he did best. He searched for a better place to conceal himself…

  Then it was too late to do anything. Outside the storage room, there was movement, furtive and muffled. He looked about quickly. Hide! Now! He saw the moench moving toward the door to open it. Stop him! Too late! He scrambled up, still little more than a shadow, and disappeared into a crate of cloaks and shoes deep in the chamber.

  No sooner had he tucked himself away than the storage room doors burst open and the Chule poured in. Lean, ragged creatures with elongated limbs and barked bodies, they were as tough as the cordwood they resembled. They carried knives and spears and blades of all sorts, and there were a lot of them. Too many. They swarmed over the clawrake and the slint and bore them to the floor of the chamber, slashing and stabbing wildly. The clawrake roared and threw them off. The slint became a thing of such monstrous appearance that his attackers shrank from him. The struggle surged back and forth amid the crates and barrels of stores, and for a time it was an equal match.

  But the Straken Queen’s companions were outnumbered, and in time both began to falter. The slint died first, its shape-shifting efforts slowing until at last it collapsed, a mass of blood and torn limbs. The clawrake lasted longer, its huge body dominating the smaller Chule and forcing them back. But there were too many of them, and eventually it weakened enough that they were able to pull it down and begin to dismember it while it struggled futilely to rise.

  When they were dead, a huge shadow darkened the entry and stood watching. The halls outside blazed now with a fiery illumination cast by dozens of torches, backlighting Vendra Trax as he looked around at the carnage. From his hiding place, Weka Dart could see the moench rushing up to him and throwing itself at his feet in supplication. Traitor. Lickspittle! The Ulk Bog hated it and wanted it dead, yet he could do nothing but watch and wait.

  “Where is she?” Vendra Trax demanded, nudging the moench with the toe of his boot.

  “Gone, master,” the moench whispered, cringing away. “She was supposed to stay here until morning, as we had agreed, but she drugged me and then vanished with the Druid. I do not know where she might be.”

  “Which says something ab
out your usefulness, doesn’t it?”

  “I brought them to you, master! I brought them here, just as I promised!”

  The vile creature sounded frantic, Weka Dart thought with satisfaction. Good, let the traitor squirm a bit. Let it beg.

  “You were told to stay awake and keep watch until I arrived,” the leader of the Chule said. “You were told to keep them here until I did. Was that so difficult? Was it asking too much?”

  “No, master, no. I…should have done better. I will do better next time. Just take me into the Crèche and let me serve you. You will see soon enough!”

  Vendra Trax bent down, his huge frame towering over the moench, draping it in shadow. Massive hands reached down to gather it up as if it were a toy. “I don’t think I want to see any more of you,” he hissed.

  And he tore the moench apart and flung the pieces to his Chule followers, who devoured them eagerly.

  He stood then, looking about, and Weka Dart was certain he would search the room and find him. But a moment later the Chule Lord jerked his head about, as if he had heard something. Sharp teeth appeared behind jaws that opened in a wide smile.

  “I believe I know where they are,” he called to the others. “Let’s collect them and finish this.”

  He was gone quickly, his Chule with him, and Weka Dart was left alone to wonder what would become of him.

  * * *

  —

  “He was expecting us. He knew we were coming. It was the moench. It had to have been. Styrik was the only one who knew of the details of our coming—the one who provided us with entry and told me where the darkwand could be found.”

  The Straken Queen’s fury was cool and collected, but there was a dark rage lurking beneath it. Drisker looked around hurriedly. “Then why isn’t Trax here with his Chule, waiting for us?”

  She considered. “Because he expected us to still be back in that storeroom with the others. That is where the trap is closing. As I said, the moench didn’t know of my plans to use the wall dwellers. We have to hurry! The darkwand must be here somewhere!”