The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  Finally, she found a door that opened into the next courtyard. But there were demonwolves everywhere, prowling the grounds and lying in the shade, dozens of them, huge gray beasts with thick ruffs about their necks and jaws strong enough to snap a spear handle. She glanced at them just long enough to measure the danger before shutting the door. If she had the use of her magic, she wouldn’t have worried. Without it, she was no match for them.

  But she had to get across the courtyard if she was to escape. There wasn’t any other way.

  She opened the door and looked out again, searching for an overhead walkway that would connect the two walls. There wasn’t one, or at least one that she could see. Nor was there any indication of any other way across.

  She closed the door again and stood there, trying to think what she could do.

  In the next instant, the cry of alarm she had been dreading rose from behind her, the thunder of a drum followed by the deep moan of a horn. She didn’t mistake it for anything other than what it was, and without another thought, she went out the door and started across the courtyard for the far wall. Instantly, the demonwolves glanced over at her, but she didn’t look back at them, keeping her eyes directed straight ahead, trying to act as if she belonged, moving for the closest escape.

  Just a few minutes were all she needed.

  Behind her, the warning continued to sound, and now Goblins were appearing all along the battlements atop the walls on either side, turning this way and that, searching. She kept moving, trying not to let her panic take control of her, trying to stay calm.

  She reached the door and grasped the handle to open it. The door was locked.

  Without pausing, she turned toward the next door down, walking quickly to reach it. But by then the demonwolves were moving, their suspicions aroused. Heads lowered, ruffs standing up like bunched quills, muzzles drawing back to reveal the rows of teeth concealed behind, they advanced on her. The first low growls and snarls came from their throats. Alerted by the sounds, a pair of Goblins on the wall behind her stopped to look down into the courtyard.

  A huge wolf positioned itself directly in front of the door she was trying to reach and turned to face her. She stopped at once, a mistake. The wolf snarled defiantly, sensing that she was either afraid or intimidated. She turned back the other way, but more wolves were closing in, blocking her passage, and trapping her. On the walls, other Goblins were gathering, staring down at her.

  She was finished, she knew, unless she used her magic.

  She reached quickly for the conjure collar to release its clasp, but couldn’t find the catch. Frantically, she searched its length for a buckle, for any telltale bit of metal. Nothing. The wolves drew closer, openly menacing now, teeth showing as they stalked her. The closest was no more than ten yards away. She had no choice. Even with the conjure collar in place, she would have to use her magic to defend herself.

  “Haahhh!” she growled at the wolves, making a quick warding gesture that caused them to fall back.

  She advanced on them as if she meant to punish them and, uncertain as to what she might do, they gave way to her. They were creatures of the Straken Lord, after all, and it had trained them to do its bidding. At some point, punishment had been a part of that training. As fierce as they were, they couldn’t completely ignore the responses that had been conditioned in them.

  Her audacity froze them in place, but only for a moment. It was enough. By then she was back at the first door she had tried, her one chance at escape. She was discovered, and if she couldn’t get through the door, her captors would be on her in moments. She quit looking at the walls and the wolves. She ignored the shouts and growls that rose behind her. She quit thinking about anything but the door. Bracing herself, she summoned the magic of the wishsong to break free of her prison.

  But the minute the first strains of the magic rose within her, the conjure collar reacted with blinding pain that seized her throat in a paralyzing grip and froze her vocal cords. The pain was instantaneous, and it rushed through her with relentless purpose, knocking her backwards with its force, sapping her strength and numbing her mind. Caught in the terrible grip of the collar’s magic, she stiffened and screamed soundlessly, unable to help herself in any way.

  She went down in a heap in the dusty courtyard, tumbling into blackness, lost to everything but the pain and an unmistakable sense of failure that trailed after her through the gathering dark like a death shroud.

  TWELVE

  Pen Ohmsford and his companions sailed the Skatelow through the northeast skies over the foothills fronting the Charnal Mountains in search of the village of Taupo Rough and Kermadec. Finding the former would provide them with a temporary haven; the latter, with the guide they needed to reach Stridegate. As Maturen of the Taupo Rough Rock Trolls, it was within Kermadec’s power to give them the aid they required in their search for the Ard Rhys. The Trolls might be reluctant to help outlanders in most situations, but where it concerned Grianne Ohmsford, Kermadec would see that an exception was made.

  It took them the remainder of the night, but they were sailing at quarter speed, slow enough that they could track movement on the ground and watch the horizon for shadows that didn’t belong. Caution was needed, for there were things hunting them besides the Druids, and they were all too aware of how desperate their circumstances had become. They were lucky to have escaped the creature that had killed Gar Hatch and his Rovers and taken Cinnaminson as prisoner, and they were reasonably sure it was not done tracking them. But even if they avoided that particular monster, there was nothing to say that others hadn’t been sent to hunt them, as well. At flight from a world in which all the safety nets they had once relied on had been taken down, they could not afford to make a mistake.

  The boy came back on deck after Cinnaminson was asleep and, with Khyber’s help, took down the bodies of Gar Hatch and his Rover cousins, wrapped them in sheeting, and stowed them belowdecks for burial at a later time. Then he relieved Tagwen at the helm. While he checked the Skatelow’s course and speed, he repeated to the Dwarf and the Elven girl what Cinnaminson had told him. For a while afterwards, no one said much of anything. Tagwen offered to take the wheel back so that Pen could get some sleep, but the boy insisted on staying at the helm through the night, just in case his flying experience might be needed for evasive action. Having gotten Cinnaminson back in one piece, he was not about to chance losing her again to carelessness of his own making.

  So Khyber and Tagwen slept instead, and Pen was still at the helm when dawn broke in a slow brightening of the skies through gaps in a wall of massive peaks that rose before them. The stars and moon had gone, and the darkness was receding west, the new day a promise of the possibility, at least, of something better and safer. Pen’s eyes were gritty and blurred by then, and his need for sleep was acute. When Tagwen appeared with a simple breakfast of bread and cheese he had scavenged from the supply room below, the boy was so grateful he could barely speak. He ate ravenously and, after looking in on Cinnaminson to be sure she was all right, went off to bed.

  He awoke near midday when Khyber shook his shoulder and told him to come on deck. “I think we’ve found Taupo Rough,” she announced with a grin. “Come see.”

  He rose and went topside, finding Cinnaminson there, as well, come awake a few hours earlier to join the Elven girl and the Dwarf in the pilot box. Looking out over the ship’s bow to the landscape below, he saw a cluster of dark stone buildings and walls stacked in close proximity to one another on a low bluff and backed up against a cliff face that was riddled with caves connected by ladders and walkways. His initial impression was of a warren that probably ran as deep into the mountain as it extended out from it. Trolls of all sizes and shapes were moving about, but there seemed to be little interest in the Skatelow’s approach. No defensive maneuvers were being undertaken, and from what Pen could make out, there were few guards of any sort.

  The boy knew almost nothing about Trolls. He had seen a few in his life, some
of them had come to Patch Run to employ his parents. But his travels had not taken him into the deep Northland, where the tribes made their homes, and Trolls by and large did not venture south of their traditional homelands. He thought that he had heard his mother speak in the Troll tongue once or twice, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Can we communicate with them?” he asked impulsively.

  “I can speak a little of their language,” Tagwen ventured. He shrugged. “It won’t matter, once we find Kermadec.”

  If this is Taupo Rough and if Kermadec is here, Pen thought without saying so.

  As he brought the ship slowly around toward the village, he called to memory what little he knew about the inhabitants. Trolls were nomadic by tradition, and frequently resettled themselves when their safety was compromised or their dissatisfaction with local conditions grew sufficiently strong. But because they were tribal, as well, they established territorial boundaries within the regions they traveled, and one tribe would never think of invading another’s domain. Of such trespasses had the worst of the Troll Wars been born, wars that had died out years ago in the wake of the establishment of the First Druid Council. Galaphile and his Druids had made it their first priority to stabilize relations within the Races. They had accomplished that by setting themselves up as arbitrators and peacekeepers, developing a reputation for being fair-minded and nonjudgmental. The Trolls, who were the most fierce and warlike of the Races in those days, had accepted the Druids as mediators with surprising enthusiasm, anxious perhaps to find a way to put an end to the tribal bloodshed that had plagued them for so long. Trolls were creatures of habit, Pen’s father had told him once. They embraced order and obedience within the tribal structure as good and necessary, and self-discipline was the highest quality to which a Troll could aspire.

  There was more than one species of Troll living in the Northland, but by far the most numerous of the tribes were Rock Trolls. Physically larger and historically more warlike than the other tribes, they were found principally in the Charnals and the Kensrowe, preferring mountainous terrain with caves and tunnels rather than open encampments as safeholds. The Forest and River Trolls were smaller in size and numbers, and they were not nomadic in the way of Rock Trolls. The differences went on from there, but Pen couldn’t remember them all. What he mostly remembered was that Rock Trolls reputedly made the finest weapons and armor in the Four Lands, and they knew how to use both when provoked.

  “Someone’s noticed us now,” Khyber announced, nodding toward a handful of Troll warriors walking out to meet them.

  Pen let the airship settle to the earth in an open space at one end of the plateau, well away from the village and its fortifications. Whatever happened, he did not want to give an impression of hostility. He shut down the thrusters, closed off the parse tubes, walked to the railing, tossed out the rope ladder, and climbed down to set the anchors. The others followed, with Tagwen in the lead, looking bluff and officious.

  The Trolls came up to them, huge and forbidding giants, their barklike skin looking like armor beneath their clothing, their strange, flat-featured faces devoid of expression, but their eyes sharp and watchful.

  One of them spoke to Tagwen in deep, guttural tones, a query of some sort, Pen thought. The Dwarf stared at the speaker blankly, then glanced hurriedly at Pen. The boy shook his head. “You’re the one who says he speaks the language. Say something back to him.”

  Tagwen gave it a valiant try, but it came out sounding a little as if his last meal hadn’t quite agreed with him. The Trolls looked at one another in confusion.

  “Just use whatever Troll-speak you possess and ask him if Kermadec is here,” snapped Khyber, impatient with the whole business. “Ask if this is Taupo Rough.”

  The Dwarf did so, or at least appeared to do so. Pen caught the words Kermadec and Taupo Rough amid all the garble, and the reception committee seemed to do the same. One of them nodded, beckoned for them to follow, and turned back toward the village. The other three fell into place about them like a stockade.

  “I hope we haven’t made another mistake,” Khyber muttered to Pen as she glanced about uneasily.

  Pen took Cinnaminson’s hand and held it firmly in his own. The Rover girl did not pull away, but moved closer to him. “It doesn’t look it, but this village is heavily defended,” she whispered to him. “We can’t see most of it. Most of it is hidden inside the mountains. I can feel the heat of furnaces and forges. I can feel movement in the earth radiating out from the rock.”

  The boy exhaled sharply. “Are these Trolls enemies?” he asked. “Are we in danger?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t tell. But they are prepared to do battle with something, and whatever it is, they mean to see it destroyed if it tries to attack them.”

  Pen nodded. “If we have to flee, I will stay right beside you.”

  She said nothing in reply, but squeezed his hand tightly.

  They moved through the heavy stone walls that formed the outer fortifications into the village itself. Trolls turned to look at them, Trolls of all sizes and shapes, but their gazes were brief and didn’t linger. A few young Trolls, barely five feet tall yet—though big when compared to Tagwen, who was not much more than that himself—fell into step beside them, casting interested glances at the outlanders. No one tried to speak to them, and no one did anything threatening. Pen studied the buildings as he walked, comparing them with those of Southland villages. The biggest difference was in the construction, which was almost entirely of rock and suggested that every building provided its own defense. Each unit had heavy ironbound wooden doors and shutters, and weapons ports had been cut into the walls for use by the defenders. It had taken a lot of work to build the homes, and it seemed in direct contradiction to the nomadic tradition of the people who occupied them.

  “We didn’t do anything to protect the airship,” Khyber whispered to him suddenly, a frown crossing her dark features.

  Pen nodded. “I know. But what could we have done?”

  “Sent Tagwen on ahead alone until we knew what to expect,” she replied. “We aren’t being very smart about this.”

  Pen didn’t respond. “I don’t sense any hostility,” Cinnaminson said quietly. “We aren’t threatened.”

  Khyber rolled her eyes as if to suggest that a blind Rover girl might not be the best judge but didn’t pursue the matter.

  They had just rounded the corner of a massive building that looked to be a storehouse rather than a home when a huge Rock Troll appeared in front of them, arms outstretched and voice booming out in familiar Dwarfish.

  “Bristle Beard, you’ve found your way!” the Troll shouted, reaching down to pick up Tagwen and hold him out at arm’s length as if he were no more than a toy. “It’s good to see you safe and sound, little man!”

  Tagwen was incensed. “Put me down at once, Kermadec. What are you thinking? A little decorum would be appreciated!”

  The big Troll set him down at once, drawing back. “Oh, well then, sorry to have distressed you. I was only expressing my great joy at finding you in good health. It hasn’t been a good time at Paranor, Tagwen.”

  “This does not come as news to me!” the Dwarf snapped. He cleared his throat officiously. “Here, let me introduce the others.”

  He did so, giving a quick explanation of who his companions were without yet getting into why they had all come together. Kermadec nodded to each at the mention of their names, his flat features somehow reflecting the pleasure he took in meeting them. There was an exuberance and expansiveness to the big man that transcended what Pen had heard of the Troll character, and he found himself liking their host right away.

  “Penderrin,” Kermadec said, taking the boy’s hand in his own. It was like shaking hands with a rough piece of wood. “Your aunt and I are great friends, friends from as far back as the coming together of the Druid order, and I regret what has happened deeply. Your presence indicates that you intend to join me in doing something about it. You are most welc
ome.”

  He turned to Tagwen. “Now you must tell me all about what has happened since our parting at Paranor, and I will do the same. Come with me to my home, and we will have something to eat and drink while we talk. Is that an airship you flew in on, Bristle Beard? I thought you hated airships!”

  Dismissing the Trolls who had guided them in from the Skatelow, Kermadec led them on through the village until they were almost to the cliff face against which it was backed. At that distance, Pen could see clearly the sophisticated network of walkways and ladders connecting the village to the caves and tunnels that riddled the cliff. He could also hear, for the first time, the sounds of hammers striking anvils and smell the fires of the furnaces that serviced them.

  What was odd was that he couldn’t see any smoke or ash.

  He asked Kermadec about that, and the Troll pointed skyward. “The residue of the furnace fires goes into a vent system that carries it out the other side of the near peaks. It helps keep the air we breathe out here in the village clean. It also helps disguise what we do. You can’t be sure where we keep the furnaces until you get this close. The furnaces are our lifeblood. Without the furnaces, we can’t make the weapons and metal tools we trade to the other Races for the goods we need. Without the furnaces, we would revert to what we once were—raiders and worse. If anything happens to them, we are left without a way to make a living.”

  “What do you do with the furnaces when you move to another site?” the boy pressed. “You don’t take them with you, do you?”

  Kermadec laughed. “That would be a neat trick, young Penderrin. The furnaces are built right into the rock of the mountain. No, we shut them down, cool them off, and conceal them. We close off the entrances that lead to them, as well. And we set traps to discourage the uninvited. As long as I can remember, no one has ever bothered our furnaces.”

  “And there are those who would, I can promise you,” Tagwen declared grimly.

  Kermadec clapped him on the shoulder so hard he almost knocked him off his feet. “If they could, Bristle Beard. If they could.”