The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  But suddenly the Behemoth began to sink.

  What’s happening? Rocan thought in shock.

  Whatever it was, no one aboard the Behemoth seemed to be able to do anything about it. Crew members raced to adjust sails and shift to find fresh wind, but still they continued to fall back toward the clouds and finally into them. Slowly, the sunlight faded and the darkness closed about once more. Storm clouds previously heavy with snow and rain were now shedding sleet. Rocan did not stop working, recognizing his efforts were in jeopardy. Bursts of lightning cut through the darkness all about them, and he heard the booming of the thunder draw closer until both were right on top of them. He crouched down protectively as the storm worsened, realizing the wind was becoming too strong for him to remain upright.

  I’ve got to get down from here!

  It was his last thought before everything peaked in a single moment of unexpected fury. An instant later a bolt of lightning struck the mainmast and the crow’s nest exploded. The structure didn’t just blow into pieces; it incinerated, taking Rocan with it. Only the contents of the casks survived the conflagration, tumbling away to the decks below.

  The lightning then continued to travel down the length of the mast to the Behemoth’s deck and ignited Annabelle. Metal shards flew out in all directions, and half the airship’s crew was killed instantly—Sartren, standing in the pilot box, among them. As the decking began to burn, all of the casks held back in reserve fell victim to the intense heat and blew apart, sending the burning airship into a slow spin. One by one, the casks flew off into the storm, shattering as they did so, becoming flaming brands that pierced the storm clouds and filled them with chemicals—very much in the way that Tindall had envisioned they would, but on a much grander and more intense scale.

  By now, all aboard the Behemoth were dead, and the massive transport was falling earthward in burning, broken pieces. But suddenly an ear-shattering scream—seemingly come out of nowhere—rose above the conflagration, violent and piercing. And in its wake, a chain reaction took place, erupting into and shattering the storm. Everywhere, the remnants of the chemicals infusing the air exploded anew—forming massive starbursts that infiltrated clouds and air and wind. The effect was monumental and dramatic; the skies for miles seemed to shudder under the force behind the scream’s power.

  And then the skies across Skaarsland, though still layered with ragged strips of storm clouds, began to clear for the first time in decades.

  * * *

  —

  Far below, Shea Ohmsford stood by helplessly, watching as huge flashes of lightning split the clouds and drew down thunder—watching as a single massive strike ignited the mainmast and incinerated the crow’s nest and its solitary occupant, then traveled the length of the mast to destroy the Behemoth and all aboard. Debris was raining down all about him—all across the inlet to where its waters disappeared into the gloom, back toward the ocean that had carried them in. He crawled from under the tree and stood looking up at the destruction, heedless of any danger the falling pieces of the Behemoth posed.

  Beside him, Seelah was on her feet, head thrown back, long hair streaming out behind her in the wind, beautiful face upturned.

  Shea Ohmsford followed her gaze skyward, stunned.

  What had just happened?

  They were gone. All of them. The airship Behemoth, Annabelle, the chemical mix she had been created to dispense, and all the men and women who had ridden with them into the storm. Even the old man; even Tindall. All gone. He couldn’t believe it. Everything they had done had been for nothing. Tindall’s machine hadn’t worked. The chemicals hadn’t mixed the right way or spread far enough. His friends were dead and Annabelle was destroyed. Nothing they had sacrificed would make the slightest difference. The weather hadn’t been changed, the invasion by the Skaar would continue, the Four Lands would be overrun, and his homeland would be broken under the weight of a relentless assault…

  He stared skyward in a desperate effort to find something—anything—that would suggest he was wrong. Not all of them, he begged whatever gods and fates there were in this life. Not every last one.

  It was too much to bear. The scream broke from him as if it had been trapped within him all his life—as if the sheer agony of what he had just witnessed had finally released it. The sound was more a howl than anything: a wrenching cry torn from his very heart. The force of it exceeded anything he had ever thought himself capable of. It exploded out of him with such force that the recoil sent him staggering backward, a puppet jerked by manipulative strings, and the sound seemed to shatter the world. Seelah caught him before he struck the ground and hugged him tightly—holding him protectively, keeping him safe. Her arms were reassuring, but the look in her amber eyes was one of wonder.

  Overhead, something incredible was happening. The clouds—infused with the mixture from Annabelle and the Behemoth—were igniting, a wave of chemical explosions breaking apart the storm so thoroughly that it was already little more than a splattering of droplets and a few distant rolls of fading thunder. The pervasive gloom was giving way to an unfamiliar light as the sun appeared and shone down.

  Shea Ohmsford gasped. He had not caught a glimpse of the sun since he had arrived in Skaarsland, yet now it was revealed—and its appearance was the best proof possible that Tindall’s belief in Annabelle’s capabilities had not been misplaced. The old man had performed a miracle. With Rocan and his Rover clan to help him, he had managed to change the weather, and bring back the warmth that had been absent for years—which the boy was just now beginning to feel against his skin.

  But, no. It had been more than that. He had done something, too. His voice—his unbidden, violent scream—had given fresh power to what was happening. He knew it instinctively—knew it as surely as he realized he had released a magic he had not known he possessed. It was an impossibility, yet he had no other explanation. The magic of an Ohmsford heir? Was he, in truth, a member of that family in more than just name? Did he, like Tarsha, possess the fabled wishsong? He could not quite believe it, but he could not make himself ignore what his instincts told him was true.

  All at once, he remembered Rocan’s embrace as the Rover ordered Seelah to keep watch over him. He remembered Tindall shoving a wad of papers into his coat for safekeeping, entrusting him to do what was needed if anything happened.

  Asking him to keep them safe.

  Shea sank to his knees and began to cry, the weight of everything that had happened too much for him. Seelah cuddled him against her, nuzzling him gently. The boy buried his face in her shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. He was not sure how much time passed as they remained locked together, and eventually he fell asleep.

  But just before he fully slept, while he was still conscious of being cradled in her arms, he was aware of Seelah bending close and nuzzling his hair before kissing him once on his cheek as she lowered him to the ground and her warmth went away.

  He did not hear the flit as it landed behind him. He did not hear Dar, Brecon, and Ajin d’Amphere approach.

  When they lifted him to his feet and embraced him, he looked around for Seelah, remembering. But she was nowhere to be found.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tarsha Kaynin was sitting on the porch of Drisker’s cottage, basking in the warmth of the sunshine, allowing the day to pass at its own pace. She had been reading for most of the morning, perusing documents her mentor had written early in his service as head of the Fifth Druid Order. From what she could determine, he had only been serving as Ard Rhys for a few months when he penned these documents, so disillusionment and frustration had not yet set in. During these early days he had written regularly, recording discoveries from experiments and research while still making entries on current Druid activities in the fabled Druid Histories.

  She was doing this primarily to help pass the time but also in the faint hope she might find something to help Drisker i
n the event the darkwand failed to free him. She was trying not to worry needlessly, but was beginning to grow steadily more concerned as time passed and her mentor failed to show. It was a leap of faith to think he would actually be able to escape his imprisonment and return. There were so many obstacles preventing it, and countless reasons he might fail. Yet no matter the odds Drisker Arc faced, she would be patient. She would not question or doubt, and she would not give up on him.

  She was much recovered from her terrible battle with Clizia, her health recovered and her self-confidence returned. This did not mean she was reassured of her ability to overcome any further attacks, only that she knew she could stand up to the witch. When Clizia came again—which she was certain to do, if Tarsha did not go to her first—they would at least be meeting as equals.

  It was noon on a sunshine-filled day at the cusp of winter’s end and spring’s beginning. The snow of weeks past was only a memory, the bitter cold gone, and the long dark days become steadily brighter. There was an undeniable freshness to the air, a blend of scents from flowers and new grasses carried on the breeze. Overhead, the leaves of the deciduous old growth shivered and rippled, and their movement caused a small whisper in the stillness of the day—the sound soothing and reassuring. Birds flew from branch to branch, gathering discarded bits and pieces of the forest for nest building, courting potential mates, and seeking tender worms and bugs.

  Tarsha paid no attention. She was aware of all of it, but otherwise occupied, deeply immersed in her reading. As a result, she did not hear or even sense Flinc approach. He stopped at her elbow.

  “You seem very much at your ease on this beautiful day, gentle Tarsha,” he said quietly.

  “You mean unaware, don’t you, since I failed to notice your coming? But it was you who assured me I was safe. No one and nothing could get to me without you warning me, correct?”

  “It is true I have arranged to have you warded so you will know if you are threatened. But readiness is a habit that will always serve you well when danger remains so close at hand.”

  She raised her head and looked at him. Wrinkled, worn, nearly hairless save for a topknot tuft of gray and a bit of fluff about the ears and chin, he seemed a child’s caricature of a Faerie creature. Yet his looks were deceptive and his manner a ruse.

  “Is there cause for me to be wary?”

  “You know there is.”

  “Does she come, then?”

  “No, not yet. That time has not arrived. When it does, it will not find us unprepared. I have set a watch, and nothing will allow her to evade it.”

  Clizia Porse. No word of her had surfaced since their battle in the Federation camp, and yet sooner or later the witch would discover she was alive and come searching, if only for revenge.

  But especially if she learned that Tarsha was still trying to help Drisker return from the prison in which she had trapped him.

  “When Clizia comes,” she began, pausing to look directly into the forest imp’s aged eyes, “will you please reconsider placing yourself in harm’s way? I understand your reasons for doing so, and I am flattered you would think me so valuable, but I am afraid for you. I do not want to lose you again. You and Fade must let me stand up to her alone.”

  Flinc nodded patiently. “I do not intend to interfere if she is alone. But if she brings others to help, then Fade and I will step in to balance the scales.”

  He was referring to the thing that Clizia had likely freed from the Forbidding to take Drisker’s place in the Four Lands. “Remember.” Flinc was bending close. “She has tried several times to kill you and twice almost succeeded. Beware risking it a third time, Tarsha-of-the-magic-that-sings. Beware a risk taken one time too many.”

  Twice she had almost died. Once at Cleeg Hold and once in the Federation camp battle. She thought momentarily of Parlindru’s rule of three. It had been a while since she had called it to mind.

  Three times shall you love, but while all three will be true only one will endure.

  Three times shall you die but each death will see you rise anew and live to go on.

  Three times shall you have a chance to make a difference in the lives of others and three times will you do so. But one time only will you change the world, as well.

  So, apparently, she had another life to give. A third encounter in which she could die, yet rise again. But how could she be sure? How was she supposed to decide which instances fulfilled the requirements of having lived and then been reborn? It felt as if she had died a dozen times in the past few months, so which were the three that mattered? And how many had she loved, in some way or other? More than three, she believed. Her parents, her brother, Drisker, even Flinc, for starters. Her family was all gone. Would the one that endured be Drisker Arc? Or someone else entirely?

  What really mystified her was how she would have any chance at all to make a difference in the world. What did that mean? Had she found even a single way to do this thus far? Had she made a difference of any sort in the lives of others? She supposed so. But how would she know which of those would somehow change the world?

  It was confusing and frustrating, trying to sort out its meaning. But that was the nature of prophecies of the future. You could never know when they would come to pass until they did. She could do nothing about what Parlindru had predicted no matter what she decided. Her fate was written, if the seer was accurate in her foretelling, and knowing that the rule of three would apply did nothing to clarify what she must look for or what she must do to prepare herself.

  She gave Flinc a reassuring smile. “I promise you I will do whatever I can to stay safe. But we both know I cannot avoid Clizia Porse forever. She does not forgive those she believes have betrayed or challenged her, and I have done both. I must be prepared to face her at least once more, Flinc.”

  “Avoidance is perhaps preferable to confrontation where the witch is concerned. I should know. I have faced her down and seen the power she wields—and the hatred that drives her. You are strong, pretty Tarsha, but the witch is deeply evil and lacks a moral center. She is a dark force of nature.”

  They left it there, for there was nothing more to be said and nothing more Tarsha cared to hear. She knew what Clizia Porse was. More, she believed, than did the forest imp. More than she wished.

  She went back to reading. When she looked up again, he was gone.

  Overhead, the sun shone bright in the sky, and the warmth blanketed her comfortingly. After a few minutes, she dozed.

  * * *

  —

  She woke again when Flinc shook her shoulder gently and whispered in her ear, “Wake up, Tarsha. Leave your dreams behind.”

  She blinked, and her eyes opened to find him bending close. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.

  The forest imp managed a wan smile. “She comes.”

  Tarsha took a moment to process what he was talking about, then managed an uncertain nod. “Now?” she asked. “Are you sure of this?”

  “She is less than an hour away. She was seen approaching Emberen by a fling-wing flying to the south. The description fits; there is no mistaking her for anyone else.” He paused. “Especially considering what accompanies her. For she does not come alone.”

  Tarsha sat up, rubbing the last of the sleep from her eyes. So it was here: the time she had been anticipating. Somehow, she knew instinctively this would be the final time she would face Clizia Porse. She was not afraid, but she was unsure of herself. She had been drained by their last battle, and she had not tested herself to see if she was fully healed. Now she would be tested in a way that would allow for no mistakes and no failure. Because there was only one possible end to the confrontation. Once it was over, either the witch would be dead, or she would. There was no other viable option.

  She took several deep breaths and stared out into the trees, gathering her courage and resolve about her like armor. C
lizia. She remembered finding Tavo dead on that cliff ledge fronting Cleeg Hold, and all her grief came back to her in a rush. After all she had done to help him come to terms with the madness that had consumed him for so long, after everything she had gone through to get him back again, after everything it had taken to reassure her brother, the last of her family, that she had always loved him…

  The witch had snatched it all away.

  Clizia Porse. How I hate you!

  “What sort of creature does she bring with her?” she asked Flinc, coming to her feet.

  “A Jachyra. A demon-kind. Very dangerous. One of them killed the Druid Allanon.”

  She now recalled this, but it didn’t matter. She brushed it aside. “It will not kill me.”

  “No, it most certainly will not.” Flinc’s features were calm, but his words were hard. “Fade and I will see to that.”

  “I asked you not to…”

  “Not to interfere when you faced the witch,” he interrupted her quickly. “But the Jachyra is a different matter entirely. A balancing of the scales is needed, and those who have sworn to protect you will see to it that this happens.”

  She saw her own determination mirrored in the forest imp’s eyes and realized nothing she could say would change his mind. She nodded her agreement. “Thank you, Flinc.”

  “All will be well, Tarsha. You will see.”

  His pronouncement made, he turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving her alone to await what was coming.

  Her thoughts again drifted to the past—to all the terrible losses she had suffered, to all the frightening close calls she had survived, and to those who had stood with her through the worst of everything. She felt a deep sense of gratitude sweep through her, born of the realization that so much of what we can endure depends on the support of others. She was grateful all over again to have Flinc and Fade standing with her. A forest imp and a moor cat—not what she had expected, but invaluable nonetheless. She only wished Drisker could have been here, too, inflicting on Clizia Porse a little of the suffering she had inflicted on him. Maybe he would still arrive in time. It could come to pass, given the nature of all that had happened to her.