The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  The truth burst upon him as brilliantly as the spell that had activated the warrior. “Grianne!” Drisker shouted, bringing her about quickly. “There’s no point searching. The darkwand isn’t here. Don’t you see? Trax used the staff as bait to trap you! We have to leave right now. We will be caught and killed if we waste any more time. If the waking of the armored automaton was a signal, Trax will be here in moments!”

  “No!” she screamed in undisguised rage. “I need the darkwand! We both need it, Druid, or we will be trapped in this monstrous world forever!”

  He shook his head. “No, we won’t. You aren’t listening to me! The darkwand isn’t here. And it hasn’t been in years!”

  She stared at him in shock and disbelief. “What did you say?”

  And with that, the hallways beyond the Chule Lord’s chambers erupted with the pounding of booted feet and cries of battle lust, and there was no time left to talk about anything.

  Grianne acted at once. Using guttural words and intricate gestures to summon magic, she cast a locking spell on the door, freezing it in place. Then she seized Drisker’s arm and pulled him close, her fingers iron clamps, her face twisted in fury.

  “The darkwand isn’t here?” she repeated, her face inches from his. “You’re certain of this? How can you possibly know? No, wait, you do know, don’t you? My visions of the future, they told the truth. This is why you are here. Do you know where it is? Tell me, Druid!”

  Drisker glanced toward the door, where fists pounded and shouts of rage rose. “I don’t know where it is, but I know how to find it.”

  She released him and gave him a long look. “You had better be sure. Your life depends on it. Do you understand me?” He nodded, because he was sure. All the little nagging doubts and inconsistencies that had been troubling him suddenly made perfect sense. “Very well. We will leave this place on your promise you can find the darkwand. You are right enough about our choosing to stay. It would be foolish. They knew we were coming. Those we left in the storeroom are likely dead by now.”

  Drisker experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Not Weka Dart. Weka Dart had to be alive.

  Grianne beckoned hurriedly. “We go back the same way we came; we have no choice. The Chule will be blocking the hallways outside. Quickly, now! The wall dwellers are returning. Hold tight to the hands of the one who guides you and remember your courage.”

  Then their wraith companions were back, collecting them as they would children, linking to them hand in hand, and bleeding into the walls once more.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Shea Ohmsford stood to one side of the workers, watching as they carried the sacks of chemicals and casks of water to the staging area on the aft deck of the Behemoth, one load after another. It was not an easy job. Each sack weighed more than a hundred pounds and each cask more than five hundred. A single man could manage the former if possessed of sufficient strength—as most were—but three or four were required to muscle each of the latter up from where they were lashed to the masts and risers at various places. Meanwhile, Tindall stood aft by Annabelle, yelling out instructions and warnings in an ever-increasing frenzy.

  Watch that step, man! Keep your grip secure; if you drop it the staves will give way and the water be lost! What do you think you are doing, idiot? Those materials are precious! Irreplaceable! Worth more than your fingers, dolt!

  And so on and so forth—a constant assault on the senses and patience of men for whom such admonitions were neither welcomed nor needed. Tindall quickly became the target of any number of dark looks and more than a few muttered oaths. Shea would not have stood for it, had he been one of them, and eventually he wandered over to where Tindall was holding forth and stood next to him in silence, hoping his proximity alone might help quell the old man. When that failed, he waited for a moment when most of the beleaguered Rovers were out of hearing and leaned in.

  “They are doing the best they can, you know.”

  Tindall wheeled on him. “You mind your own business, young whippersnapper! This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Have they dropped a single sack or broken a single cask?”

  “No, but only because I am here to make sure they know not to.”

  The boy shrugged. “Perhaps shouting at grown men who do heavy lifting and know well enough by now of your concerns does nothing but make their work more difficult.”

  It was the fourth day since their arrival in Skaarsland, and work on Annabelle had been proceeding apace. The weather had been quite good on the first day—less overcast, cold, and snowy than it had been, the wind steady and persistent but offering the promise of an opportunity to launch the Behemoth, bearing the fully charged Annabelle aloft, where she could work her chemical magic. Tindall alone knew how to create the mixture of materials that was needed to achieve their purpose, and Shea was well aware that the old man would have preferred to manage the entire process alone. But he lacked the necessary strength, so was forced to stand aside and let the more able Rovers do what he could not. And he compensated for his obvious frustration by excoriating them endlessly while they worked.

  A poor decision to the boy’s way of thinking, but Tindall was clearly not in the mood for reason.

  “You fail to understand what is at stake!” the old man practically shouted at him. “One false step, one careless moment, one single misstep, and we could lose the chemicals we hauled all this way, with no simple way to replace them. Then what?”

  “Maybe a word of encouragement would serve as well as your constant shouting and threats; that’s all I’m saying. Just give them a little praise for the work they’re doing, because they’re doing it for you.”

  Tindall glared at him and gave an audible hurrumph in response, and Shea abandoned the attempt. Best to let matters sort themselves out. When the oldster was this cranky, he was not fit to be around. During their weeks of travel, the boy had gotten to know Tindall well enough to determine how best to react to whatever sour mood he happened to be in. He could read him as well as anyone—and perhaps better, thanks to his life on the streets—enabling him to decide how hard to press and how quickly to back off. Tindall was irritable by nature, but mostly he was concerned for his creation. After a lifetime of inventing, he had been constantly thwarted by the Federation in his efforts to put his inventions to good use, so he had no intention of letting anything like that happen now.

  Coming to Skaarsland to employ Annabelle was a clear risk—and one that Rocan was still not happy about. Tindall, while not doubting Annabelle, was nevertheless every bit as concerned that matters be handled in the right way, and that every precaution be taken to assure that nothing went awry. The Rovers—crew and family alike—found the old man amusing and insufferable by turns. But whatever mood they were in, they were not the type to tolerate being berated for very long. So Shea was worried that things might get out of hand. What a fifteen-year-old boy was supposed to do to prevent this from happening was not something he cared to speculate on. All he could manage were small steps in that direction, carefully chosen and cautiously taken.

  But on this occasion, to his surprise, he found he had achieved a small victory. Tindall had stopped his excoriations and begun shouting out encouragements, just as Shea had recommended. The men shook their heads at the old man’s attitude, but started smiling, too. When he glanced over at Shea, still standing off to one side, Tindall gave a small shrug of his bony shoulders as if to say, See? Are you satisfied now?

  Shea had the grace to nod and smile.

  Seconds later, Seelah was at his elbow. Seelah, according to Rocan, did not much like the cold. But here she was, nuzzling up against him, purring loudly and wrapping herself about him before sliding away and then coming back again, just as he thought her gone for good.

  “Stop teasing me!” he said, vaguely irritated but at the same time rather pleased. “Why are you topside anyway when
you hate the cold so much?”

  She gave no response (she never did, save to Rocan, who could understand her odd mewling), choosing instead to study the boy with those impossibly beautiful golden eyes. Then she wrapped herself about him again and squeezed gently—a gesture he did not entirely understand—before sliding away and disappearing for good.

  He waited a long time for her to return, but when she failed to do so he walked forward and stood at the bow.

  After a time, his thoughts drifted to Drisker Arc, and he found himself wondering—not for the first time—how the Druid was doing in his efforts to help stabilize the upheaval in the Four Lands. This led, in turn, to thoughts of Tarsha Kaynin and memories of their brief time together at the Rover village of Aperex. She confused him, but he liked her. She was smart and capable, and he wished she were still here. He wondered how she was now, off with her brother and the grandfather, trying to do something about that witch and finding a way to halt a Skaar attack on the Federation.

  He wondered when he would see her again.

  He wondered suddenly if he ever would.

  So much about all their fates was in doubt that it was impossible to know how things would turn out. It was all he could do to see a way forward, let alone imagine the results of getting there. He was by nature a positive person, but there were limits. And feeling his life spinning out of control—his direction confused and ever-changing, his goals as distant as his home and his friends—was not helping. Not that Rocan was not a friend once more, but it wasn’t the same since he had lost the other’s trust. Everyone else was something of a stranger. He would like to think this would change, but for that to happen he would need more time than he was likely to get.

  Just this morning, he had heard Tindall talking with Rocan and Darcon Leah about testing Annabelle that afternoon. Everyone felt that any sort of further delay would be a mistake, now that they were moored in Skaarsland and highly vulnerable to any sort of attack. Best that they get on with their experiment before they were discovered. Yet Dar insisted they could not leave until Ajin d’Amphere had returned from the city. He seemed convinced she would do so, but she had been gone for four days now, and even the Blade was beginning to look worried. Shea had noticed his furtive conversations with the Elven prince.

  Something, he sensed, had gone wrong.

  * * *

  —

  Within the home city of the Skaar, deep inside whatever complex the pretender conducted her experiments, Ajin d’Amphere was growing discouraged. It was the third day that she had been imprisoned with her mother, and there was no sign of any rescue coming. Not that there was any reason to expect one, but she had hoped that perhaps Dar Leah would come for her the way she would have come for him. Yes, she had told him she wanted to go alone and that he must give her time and space to do what she needed, but she had somehow thought he might put all that aside and come for her anyway. It was what she would have done for him, she kept telling herself, so why wouldn’t he do the same for her? She knew with certainty now how much he loved her.

  Ah, how that conviction burned in her! It had taken so long for him to admit it, to convince him they should be together. Odd, how it had been so evident to her right from the beginning—right from their first meeting. Right from the moment she had seen him spring over the side of his airship and come to the rescue of the foolish Druids her soldiers were attempting to kill. He had fought his way to the woman even when the man was lost, snatched her up, and carried her to safety in spite of the odds.

  He had been so determined, such a force of nature.

  He had been magnificent.

  And she had known in an instant that he was absolutely right for her. She could not let him go now.

  Yet after all they had been through, had he given up on her?

  She was sitting with her mother in the cell, staring out into the blackness of the room, eyes sufficiently adjusted to the darkness that she could make out the furtive movements of the wolf-kind prowling about near the far walls. Humans made into hybrid wolf creatures, made slaves, stripped of their will and their freedom and their identities: This was what the pretender would make of Ajin and Orestiana. This was the fate she would force upon them. You will live to serve me. You will become two more of my pets, my creatures, and you will live out your lives in my company, watching as I rule Skaarsland. Maybe I will see to it that your father joins you and I will rule alone, a better queen than he has ever been a king. Would you not find that amusing, your little family bonding together as my creatures, my pets, my servants? Would you not appreciate the irony of it?

  Ajin would have ripped her heart out if she could have reached her, but the pretender was careful not to come too close to the cage that imprisoned them. She was careful, too, to keep a pair of the wolf-kind close at hand. She knew what her stepdaughter would like to do to her, but she came to Ajin anyway. The taunting and teasing pleased her; she wanted her prisoners to know their fate. And she wanted to enjoy herself while she waited for them to break down and beg for mercy.

  Which, Ajin knew, would never happen.

  Even so, her threats to slip the poison into their food and drink had persuaded them to stop eating and drinking entirely. They had gone without any form of sustenance now for two full days—and counting. Three times each day, food and drink were brought to them by the wolf-kind, and they left both untouched. Ajin and her mother had made a pact. They would die before they let the pretender make them her slaves.

  But time and lack of nourishment were wearing them down. And when they were sufficiently drained of strength, the pretender would simply walk into their cage, have the wolf-kind hold them down, and pour the poison into their mouths. She had told them as much. She would have her victory, one way or the other.

  Oh, to have a blade in her hand! One only, and a chance to fling it through the bars to end her stepmother’s evil life! One momentary opportunity; it was all she dreamed about now, all she yearned for. But she knew it would never happen.

  Sometimes, she cried. She did so silently and when Orestiana was sleeping, so she could not see. These were not tears of pity or fear or despair, for she had not shed those since she was a little girl. These were tears of frustration at her inability to do anything but wait for the inevitable.

  She was crying now as her mother slept beside her. They slept more now as their bodies weakened. Her mother cried, as well. She had seen the tracks of her tears, the stains on the bedding. Ajin was hallucinating, too. She had caught glimpses of Dar in the darkness several times, furtively crossing to free her—his familiar crooked smile, his lean features, his black blade drawn and ready. Precious moments that did nothing more than generate false hopes. He was never there. And she felt more and more certain by now that he never would be.

  She gave in to her tears for a bit longer, then steadied herself. Nothing was ever accomplished by weeping. What she needed to do—as she had needed to do all along—was to find a way to lure the pretender close enough to kill her.

  More time passed. She could not tell how much because there was nothing by which to measure its passage. But at some point the door to the chamber opened, and the pretender appeared out of the gloom. She smiled as if greeting an old friend while glancing at first one and then the other of her prisoners in silent contemplation.

  “You are not eating,” she observed. “Nor drinking. How foolish of you. All you are doing is prolonging your fate.”

  Ajin glared at her, saying nothing. Her mother stirred behind her, coming awake slowly and blinking into the dim light given off by the pair of flameless torches that offered what small illumination there was. “Ajin?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Hush, Mama,” Ajin said quickly. “We have company.”

  Her mother saw the pretender and shook her head. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Agathien d’Amphere snorted. “Very brave. Very droll. Aren’
t you two a pair? But you change nothing by your refusal to accept your fate. You should stop being so stubborn and relent. Once it is done, you will remember nothing of this life. You will be free to begin your new life as my pets. You will even come to like it.”

  “We will never cooperate with you,” Ajin said, “not even if we feel our lives slipping away. Should you try to force us, we will kill ourselves. We have already discussed it, and we know how it can be accomplished. You will not be able to stop us.”

  She was lying, of course, but it might give the pretender pause. And anything that caused her discomfort was a victory. Perhaps Agathien might even enter the cage and put herself within reach. It was not impossible.

  But the pretender only shrugged. “I grow tired of this game. I think it is time to end it. I will give you another day—perhaps two—then I will see this business finished. Think on that, why don’t you?”

  And then she was gone.

  * * *

  —

  Aboard the Behemoth, Dar Leah and Brecon Elessedil were deep in conversation. They had moved away from Annabelle—and away from the strident admonitions of Tindall—to the bow of the vessel, where they could be alone. They had been standing together all morning while the work was being carried out, discussing what precautions ought to be taken to protect the vessel and its precious cargo while the latter was put to use. They were aware they could remain hidden in this cove for only so long. They were even more aware that the weather was worsening.

  It had begun to change the day before—a deepening of the cold, a sharper bite to the wind, and a thickening of the cloud cover, sealing away the island and those on it. The window of opportunity for using Annabelle effectively was closing. They had heard Tindall and Rocan discussing it, both concerned that if they delayed much longer, all chance of employing the machine would be gone.