The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  She looked down at the chains she wore and saw herself as her captors did—an animal on a leash, a creature for display, a pet to amuse them, a curious specimen. In her own eyes, she had been reduced to the lowest level of existence possible, but in the eyes of her captors she was being treated exactly as she deserved. Men were less than animals in the world of the Jarka Ruus. Demons and demonkind were at the top of the food chain; Men were little more than an oddity. It was funny, but she had never thought about it before. She had never thought much about the Forbidding at all. It was a fact of life, but one so far removed from her day-to-day existence that it barely merited consideration.

  Until now. Until it was all that mattered.

  Hobstull stopped before one of the doors, inserted a key into the lock, and opened it. Leading her inside by the chain at her waist, he turned her about, unfastened the chain, and backed out the door. He looked at her again for a moment in that now-familiar way, then closed the door and locked it behind him.

  Grianne Ohmsford, Ard Rhys of the Druid order, stared helplessly into the darkness that closed about her.

  ELEVEN

  Rigid with indecision, paralyzed by a sense of helplessness and loss, she stood without moving for a long time. The darkness and solitude of her prison only seemed to emphasize how desperate her circumstances had become. All that was familiar and dependable had been stripped away—her friends and family, her home and possessions, her entire world. The pain and humiliation she had been forced to suffer at the hands of the Straken Lord had shattered her confidence. Everything she had relied upon to sustain her, even her sense of how things worked, had vanished so completely that it seemed impossible in the wake of its passing to imagine ever getting it back again.

  Finally, she sank to her knees on the stone floor of the cell and cried. She hadn’t cried in a long time, and she wouldn’t have cried now if she could have prevented it. Someone might hear and by hearing come to understand just how devastated she was. She had spent years learning how to keep any sense of weakness carefully hidden—first as the Ilse Witch and later as Ard Rhys. Since she had been a tiny child, she had fought to protect herself by hiding her feelings. But that method of self-protection, along with all the others she had been able to rely upon, had vanished.

  When she was cried out, she rubbed her face against her shoulder to dry her eyes then stared blankly into the darkness. The slit in the heavy cell door admitted a small amount of light, and after a time her eyes adjusted to it sufficiently that she was able to see a little of her surroundings. Her cell was approximately ten feet square with a single bed covered with straw, a slop bucket, and a drain in the center of the room. There was nothing to eat and no water to drink. There were no covers for her bed. There was no place other than the bed to sit.

  She tested the shackles that bound her wrists to the leather belt about her waist, then pulled on the belt as well. Both were tough and unyielding. She rolled her head to get a sense of the thickness of the conjure collar, but without being able to see it or put her hands on it, there was little she could determine. The clasps to both were behind her, where she could neither see nor reach them. Nothing in the cell would reflect their images. She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. There was no help anywhere.

  She got to her feet again and walked to the door, peering through the slit into the corridor beyond. She could see parts of cell doors set into the far wall. Torchlight flickered and cast a mix of shadows and light, but there was no discernible pattern. She could hear faint sounds of movement and talking, but could not make out the sources of either. Smells permeated the air, and none of them was pleasant.

  What am I going to do?

  She turned away from the door and stared back into the darkness of her cell. No one who mattered knew where she was. The boy who was coming to rescue her—a boy!—had no idea where to look for her. Not that she thought it mattered. A boy wasn’t going to make a difference anyway. No one was. Perhaps Weka Dart might have been able to help once upon a time; it was difficult to tell. But he certainly wouldn’t be able to help now. The Ulk Bog had warned her against going back, almost as if he had known what would happen. The idea stopped her in midthought, a dark and suspicious voice in her subconscious. But she dismissed it quickly. It wasn’t as if he had sent her to her doom. She had chosen her own way, and he had chosen his. She had done this to herself. Now any help from him was improbable at best. He was safely away and would stay so.

  Questions nagged at her. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she already dead? The Straken Lord had brought her into the Forbidding, and it knew who she was. When she had been the Ilse Witch, she had disposed of her enemies swiftly and without hesitation, once they were in her power. A live enemy was always dangerous. So why was the demon keeping her imprisoned? Was there something about the transfer of its ally into the Four Lands in exchange for her that required it to keep her alive? She had not considered the possibility. Maybe the magic that had facilitated the transfer failed if either of them died in the other world. But did they both die in that situation? If so, then the Straken Lord had a vested interest in protecting her until its ally was ready to return.

  She thought awhile about how that return might happen, but it was impossible to figure out without knowing what her counterpart had crossed over to accomplish.

  Her thoughts drifted to other things, to the turmoil in the Four Lands, to the betrayal by her own Druids, and to concerns for her family. It was possible that those enemies who had dispatched her here would try to eliminate Bek, as well. Once he found out she was missing, her brother would come looking for her. Her enemies might try to stop him. It wouldn’t be the first time that an enemy had come after members of the Ohmsford family with that idea in mind. The fact that she was Ard Rhys made the current generation of Ohmsfords targets in a way they hadn’t been since the time of Shea Ohmsford and the Warlock Lord.

  The longer she spent thinking about the ramifications of what had happened to her, the more determined she became. Her sense of indecision and confusion disappeared. Her fear turned to anger. She began to pull herself together, to regain the shattered pieces of her confidence. She no longer accepted her imprisonment as a condition about which she could do nothing. No one had ever imprisoned her and kept her so. She had not gotten so far in the world by giving in to her weaker emotions. She had not survived by giving up in seemingly impossible situations.

  She tested the strength of the chains and belt again, this time trying to move the belt around her waist so that the buckle was more to the front. She was able to do this by sucking in her breath and jerking her hands all the way to the right. This brought the buckle around to her left side far enough that she could see how it was made. What she saw gave her hope. If she could find something to hook it on, she might be able to pull the leather tongue free of the metal clasp and then loosen it from the catch, as well.

  A search of her cell walls, stone block by stone block, turned up nothing. What protuberances she discovered were too smooth or flat to be useful. She turned her attention to the door. The handle was a smooth metal grip fastened to the door at both ends. No help there. But on making a careful check of the hinges, she found a metal nail head on the lower hasp that had worked free from the wall just far enough to offer a possible hook.

  She spent the next hour working the leather of the belt tongue, where it passed through the buckle, around the nail head and pulling it loose, inch by inch. All the while, she listened for the sounds of her jailers, for the soft scrape of boots on stone, for the tiniest creak of a door opening. She heard nothing.

  At the end of the hour, she had freed tongue from buckle and was working on the catch. This was harder because the leather had to be pulled back much farther and with greater force. She struggled with it until she had exhausted herself, then tried again. Somewhere along the way her strength gave out and she fell asleep.

  She woke to the sound of her cell door being opened. Hobstull appeared, blank-faced
and empty-eyed, his topknot bobbing gently with his unhurried movements. He carried a tray on which rested a cup of water and some unidentifiable food. He set it by the door, glanced over at her perfunctorily, and went out again without speaking, closing and locking the door behind him.

  When he was gone, she got to her feet and went over to the food. Because her hands were still chained to her waist, she could not use them to feed herself. She was forced to kneel and eat and drink like an animal. Her rage burned with a white-hot fury, but she made herself consume everything. She would need her strength for what lay ahead, and what lay ahead was freedom.

  She began work again on the buckle as soon as she was done. She was stronger now, both physically and emotionally, and she stuck with the endeavor long after common sense told her it wasn’t working. She did so because she couldn’t think of anything better to do or any other plan to try. There were times, she knew from experience, when it was best just to continue on rather than to shift directions, even when it didn’t seem as if you were getting anywhere. Your chances of success weren’t always something you could measure accurately. Perseverance in the face of failure counted for something.

  In the end, she was rewarded. Long hours later, the tongue at last pulled free of the troublesome catch, and the belt fell away from her waist. She held it in her hands, staring at it for a moment in shock, relief and fierce satisfaction surging through her. Her wrists were still bound by its chains, so she could not rid herself of it entirely, but she had a more complete range of motion than before and could lift her hands to her throat and the hated conjure collar.

  But even as she started to search for the clasp that would open it, she hesitated. It was possible that any effort at trying to take off the collar would trigger a response of the sort that had laid her out earlier. It was also possible that the Straken Lord would be alerted to the fact that she had tampered with it. She could not afford for either to happen until she was safely away from the fortress. But if she left the collar in place, she could not use her magic to protect herself or to aid in making her escape. She would be imposing a severe handicap on herself before she even found a way out of her cell.

  It was asking a lot. Maybe it was asking too much.

  Reluctantly, she lowered her hands. She would leave the collar in place for the time being and take her chances.

  She went back to working on the clasps and chains that bound her wrists to the belt. The iron from which they were made would not be easily bent, and she lacked the tools to do the job in any case. She would have to get out of the cell before she could do anything more.

  Then, suddenly, she heard the rough scrape of boots outside her door.

  Immediately, she stepped to one side, fastening her hands about the heavy belt and drawing it close against her chest. A key turned, and the lock released with a soft snicking sound. Then the door opened, letting in a sudden flood of torchlight. A Goblin stepped through, already bending down to retrieve the food tray that Hobstull had left for her. Summoning every last ounce of strength she possessed, she hit it in the face with the belt, and it dropped without a sound. She thought she might have killed it, but she couldn’t stop to worry about that. She dragged the Goblin to one side, where it wouldn’t be seen from the doorway. Seizing the keys it carried, she peered through the door and found the corridor deserted.

  Gripping the belt firmly, cradling it to her chest once more to mask the rattle of the chains that bound her to it, she went down the hallway in a controlled rush, taking just a moment to close the door behind her. She didn’t know how soon her captors would find out she was free, but she didn’t think she should count on it taking very long. By the time they did, she had to be outside the walls of the keep if she was to have any chance at all.

  She reached the stairs and started up. She could hear the soft rustlings of other prisoners below, muted by the heavy wooden doors and thick stone walls. If they saw her, they might cry out. She moved quickly up the stairs, glancing behind as well as ahead, her heart hammering. She reached the landing at the top of the stairs and stopped. She couldn’t hear anything. She pressed her ear against the door. Still nothing.

  There was no help for it. She had to go out.

  She turned the handle slowly. To her surprise, it gave way, and the latch clicked open. She peered cautiously through the open door to see what lay beyond. She could hardly believe her good fortune. The chamber was empty.

  She slipped through the door and into the darkened space under the stairway. She was back in the room in which the Straken Lord had confronted her. She glanced around furtively, stepping out far enough to peer up into the darkness of the stairwell into which the demon had ascended. She couldn’t see anything.

  Across the room, the door leading out into the courtyard stood closed.

  For the first time, she was at a loss as to what to do. If she went out the courtyard door, she would be completely exposed to the denizens of the fortress. Kraal Reach was crawling with demons and Goblins, and the chances of her getting through all the surrounding walls and gates to the outside were slim at best. She needed to find another way.

  A disguise would help, she thought suddenly.

  She glanced around the room, but there was nothing in sight. No cloaks or armor or anything to conceal who she was. There were no other doors besides the one she had come through and the one leading out. Her choices were clear. She could either take the stairs the Straken Lord had climbed or retrace her steps into the cells.

  She felt a rising panic and quickly forced it down. She could not make herself go back. She would go up.

  She began to climb the stairs.

  She was halfway to the top when the door leading in from the courtyard opened and Hobstull appeared. She froze on the stairs, pressed against the wall, hoping the shadows were sufficiently deep to hide her. Hobstull closed the door and walked to the stairs leading down to the cells. Without glancing up, the Catcher went through the doorway and disappeared.

  In minutes he would discover that she was gone.

  Abandoning caution, she raced up the stairs to a dark corridor. She glanced all about for signs of the Straken Lord, but saw nothing. Slipping down the corridor as fast as she could manage while still keeping silent, she reached a rack on which hung a series of black cloaks. She snatched one off and flung it about her, then hurried on. She turned several corners as the corridor wound its way back into the tower, listening all the while for sounds of an alarm. But no alarm was given.

  Finally, she arrived at a door that opened onto a walkway overlooking the fortress. She could see all of the keep’s walls now, five concentric rings that enclosed increasingly larger courtyards and broader buildings the farther out she looked. The Pashanon was a hazy gray emptiness that spread away below the bluff, but the fortress itself teemed with life. She saw how completely trapped she was, how far she must go to reach safety, and she despaired. Without her magic to aid her and her hands free of the constricting chains, she could not hope to get away. Even a disguise would not be enough with so many demons and checkpoints to pass through. She had to find a way to even the odds.

  She glanced around furiously and found what she was looking for. Iron spikes protruded from slots in the battlements, a defense against intruders seeking to climb in. She walked to a cluster set far enough back that they weren’t immediately visible to those passing below. Hooking the metal ring that bound the chain to the clasp on her right wrist about the closest spike, she began to twist it against its fastening. The clasp cut into her wrist until she was bleeding, but she continued to apply pressure, gritting her teeth against the pain.

  At last, the ring snapped apart, and the chain and clasp fell away.

  It took her even less time to free the left wrist, but cost her about the same amount of blood. Hugging her damaged wrists to her chest, letting the blood seep into her clothing, she searched for a way down. Finding nothing, she began to follow the walkway around the tower. There was still no alarm, somethi
ng she found odd. Perhaps Hobstull hadn’t gone to her cell after all. Perhaps the Catcher had gone into the cells for something else. She couldn’t know.

  She found a watchtower with a trapdoor and ladder leading down to the next floor. She climbed down quickly, found another trapdoor and another ladder, and climbed down that one, as well. From the courtyard below, she heard the chatter of the Goblins and, from somewhere beyond, the growls and snarls of the demonwolves. Too many enemies lay between her and safety. She hadn’t a hope of getting past them all.

  Her mind raced. Could there be a way underground, tunnels used by the defenders of the keep to move from wall to wall without exposing themselves, just as there was in Tyrsis, in her own world?

  She went down the rest of the way, to the floor of the tower. There was nowhere else to go from there except outside or back into the main structure. Wrapping the cloak tightly about her body, she went out the door and into the courtyard. A scattering of Goblins was at work, but none of them even bothered to glance over at her. She walked swiftly across the open ground to the nearest door, opened it, and ducked inside.

  Now she was in a building backed up against the next wall leading out, a storeroom for weapons and armor, and she passed through it to a door on the other side and down the corridor beyond. The corridor twisted and turned through the building as she followed it, and soon she was hopelessly lost. She kept searching for a stairway leading underground, but found none. Her plan of escape was rapidly coming apart.