The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  He was impatient for that. He wanted it to be over and done with. He wanted his victory in hand.

  Beware, Sen Dunsidan, he cautioned himself as the adrenaline sent a fresh surge of heady, euphoric anticipation rushing through him. Don’t overstep. Don’t overreact. Don’t rush to your own doom.

  He had been a politician too long to indulge in rash behavior. Mistakes of that sort were for less experienced men and women, for the likes of those whose life spans he had cut short on more occasions than he cared to remember. Being a survivor meant being wary of premature celebration and incautious optimism. Being a survivor meant never taking anything for granted, never accepting anything at face value.

  “Are your thoughts deep ones, Prime Minister?”

  He whirled at the sound of Iridia Eleri’s voice, surprised to find her standing right next to him. It frightened him that she could get so close without him hearing her approach. It angered him that she had been doing so repeatedly since he had agreed to accept her offer to act as his private adviser, as if their arrangement invited such intrusion. Worst of all, it reminded him of the way the Ilse Witch used to materialize in his bedchamber, a memory he would just as soon forget.

  “My thoughts are my own, Iridia,” he replied. “They are neither deep nor shallow, only practical. Have you something to offer, or are you just looking for new ways to stop my heart?”

  If she was offended by his irritation, she kept it to herself. “I have something to offer, if you seek a way to end this war much more quickly than it will be ended otherwise.”

  He stared at her, transfixed by more than the possibility her words suggested. She was so pale in the moonlight that she seemed almost transparent, the cast of her skin as white as death, the darkness of her eyes in such sharp contrast they seemed opaque. She was dressed in a black robe, her slender body completely shrouded and her head hooded. Her face, peering from the hood’s shadows, and her hands, clutching loosely at the robe’s edges, gave disconcerting evidence that he was in the presence of a ghost.

  It was not the first time he had experienced that feeling. There had been a look to Iridia of late that was so chillingly otherworldly, he had trouble at times believing she wasn’t something less than human.

  He pursed his lips at her. “I will end it quickly enough on my own, once the Dechtera is airborne again. My weapon will burn what remains of the Free-born fleet to cinders. I already hunt the remnants of the Elven army and will find them within the week, as well. Aren’t you better off worrying about Shadea and her Druids than matters of war? Isn’t that the task which you were assigned?”

  It was a stinging rebuke, delivered as much out of distaste for her unwanted intervention as dismay over her lack of sophistication in battle tactics. But she seemed unmoved by his words, her expression empty of feeling.

  “My task is to save you from yourself, Prime Minister. The Free-born have lost their ships on the Prekkendorran, but they can obtain others. Their army might be scattered and in momentary disarray, but it will regroup. You will not win this war through a single victory. You should know as much without my having to tell you.”

  Her words were so dismissive that he flushed in spite of himself. She was talking to him as if he were a child.

  “This war has lasted fifty years,” she continued, seemingly oblivious to his reaction. “It will not be ended on the Prekkendorran. It will not be won on any Southland battlefield. It will be won in the Westland. It will be won when you break the spirit of the Elves, because it is the Elves who are the backbone of the Free-born struggle. Break their spirit, and those who fight with them will be quick to seek peace.”

  He frowned. “I would have thought that the loss of their fleet and their King had accomplished that. Obviously, you don’t agree. Have you something else in mind, a more persuasive way to bring them into line?”

  “Much more persuasive.”

  He felt his patience ebb as he waited in vain for her to continue. “Am I expected to guess at what it is, or will you save me the trouble and simply tell me?”

  She looked away from him, out over the shipyard to where the Dechtera sat dark and menacing in the moonlight, to where the shipyard workers continued to repair her. She was looking in that direction, but he had the feeling that she was looking at something else altogether, something hidden from him. He was struck again by the distant feel of her, the sense that she was not entirely where she appeared to be.

  “You are not averse to killing, are you, Prime Minister?” she asked suddenly.

  It was the way she asked the question that made him think she intended to trap him with his own words. He had developed a sixth sense about the use of such tactics over his years, and it had saved him from disaster more than once.

  “Are you afraid to answer me?” she pressed.

  “You know I am not afraid of killing.”

  “I know you believe that the ends justify the means. I know you believe that accomplishing your goals entitles you to take whatever steps are required. I know that you are the architect of the deaths of your predecessor and those who would have succeeded him. I know that you have participated in blood games of all sorts.”

  “Then speak your mind and quit playing games with me. My patience with you grows thin.”

  Her bloodless face lifted out of the hood’s concealing shadows so that her dark eyes locked on his. “Listen closely, then. You waste needless time killing soldiers on the Prekkendorran. Killing soldiers means nothing to those who send them forth. If you want to break the spirit of the Elves, if you want to put an end to their resistance, you have to kill those whom the soldiers protect. You have to kill their women and children. You have to kill their old people and their infirm. You have to take the war from the battlefield into their homes.”

  Her voice was a hiss. “You have the weapon to do so, Prime Minister. Fly the Dechtera to Arborlon and use it. Burn their precious city and its people to ashes. Make them afraid to think of doing anything other than begging for your mercy.”

  She said it dispassionately, but her words transfixed him. He went hot and cold in turn, cowed at first by the prospect of such savagery, then excited by it. He was already perceived to be a monster, so there was little reason to pretend he wasn’t. He did not care in the slightest about preserving the lives of those who opposed him, and the Elves had been a thorn in his side for twenty years. Why not cull their numbers sufficiently that they would not threaten again in his lifetime?

  “But you are an Elf yourself,” he said. “Why are you so willing to kill your own people?”

  She made a sound that might have been meant as laughter. “I am not an Elf! I am a Druid! Just as you are a Prime Minister and not a Southlander. It is the power we wield that commands our loyalty, Sen Dunsidan, not some accident of birth.”

  She was right, of course. His nationality and Race meant nothing to him beyond the opportunities they provided for advancement.

  “As a Druid, then,” he snapped, “you must know that Shadea will not approve of this. She will be here to confer with me in two days. She is already distressed that I attacked the Free-born without first advising her. Once she discovers my new intention, she will put a stop to it. In appearances, at least, the Druids must seem impartial. She might back the Federation in its bid to reclaim the Borderlands, but she will never countenance genocide.”

  “Tell her nothing, then. Let her respond when it is over, after she has already openly declared her support of the Federation. Will anyone listen to her, no matter how loudly she protests?”

  “In which case she will come looking for me, and not to offer congratulations.”

  The pale face looked away. “I will deal with her when she does.”

  He thought to question such boldness, for in the time he had known Iridia he had never once believed that she was a match for Shadea a’Ru. But perhaps things had changed. She sounded very sure of herself, and the steely resolve she brought to their alliance had given him reason to suspect sh
e had grown more powerful.

  “What is your decision, Prime Minister?” she pressed.

  He was certain of one thing only. If he chose to pursue Iridia’s course of action, questions of ethics were pointless. If he failed, questions of ethics would be the least of his problems. And if he succeeded, such questions would be whispered in private, because he would then have become the most powerful figure in the Four Lands. Not even the Druids would dare to challenge his authority.

  It should have been an easy decision. Where power and influence were at stake, he had never hesitated in making his choice. Yet he hesitated here. Something felt wrong about this, perhaps a consequence he had not considered or a possibility he had overlooked. But whatever it was, it was definitely there, nagging at him. He could feel it deep inside where such things could not be ignored.

  “Prime Minister?”

  He gave the doubt another few seconds, and then he dismissed it. There was never gain without risk, and risk always raised doubts. He knew his own mind well enough to embrace what he must do. Without Grianne Ohmsford to worry about, he could afford to take chances he might not otherwise take. The loss of a few thousand lives was not worrying enough to deter him. There was more at stake than lives.

  “We will fly to Arborlon,” he said.

  Dawn broke in a flare of brightness as the sun crested the rim of the hills and began to lift into the sky. The Elves were settled in, most hidden from view behind hummocks and rocks and in the shadows of the defiles, ranks formed and weapons at the ready. Already, they could hear the sound of the Federation army marching to the attack, the pounding of boots and the thumping of spears and swords against shields steady and rhythmic and unnerving. Flashes of light reflected off the flat surfaces of blades as the Federation soldiers wound through the cut and began the long, twisting trek across the flats to where their quarry waited.

  Pied, standing with his Home Guard, scanned his ranks for movement and found none. The Elves had disappeared as only the Elves could. They would not be spied out by the Federation until it was too late. He wished he had the services of cavalry to ride at the Federation flanks, but foot soldiers would have to do. He wished he had the use of catapults and fire launchers, but slings and arrows would have to do. He would be outnumbered, perhaps by as much as five to one. He lacked practical experience commanding on a battlefield; he was Captain of the Home Guard, not a Commander of the Elven army. He was the highest-ranking officer present, and he had never been in a battle of such size.

  There’s a first time for everything, the old saying went. He just wished there wasn’t so much at stake.

  He looked down the ranks of those closest and found Drumundoon standing almost next to him, tall and gangly and looking oddly out of place in his battle gear. Drum wasn’t meant to fight on the line; he was meant to serve behind it. Yet there was determination in his young face, and when he caught Pied looking at him, he winked.

  Reason enough to believe in him, Pied thought. Reason enough to believe in them all.

  He tightened his grip on his sword and settled deeper into the shadows.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Grianne Ohmsford lay with her face pressed against the stone floor of her cell, her eyes closed. She was trying to escape, even though there was nowhere to run. Torchlight from the hallway beyond intruded on the darkness in which she wished to hide. Low voices and the soft shuffling of boots nudged her out of her hiding places. Water dripped and the earth rumbled deep within its core, reminders of where she was. Like hungry predators from the black holes into which she had tried to banish them, memories emerged and made her skin crawl.

  But it was the mewling cries of the Furies, triggers to a mix of horror and madness from which there was no escape, that chased her down and found her out no matter how far inside herself she retreated. She cringed from them, drawing up into a ball, becoming as small and still as possible, willing herself to disappear. But nothing helped. She had used her magic to become one of them, and she could not change back again. She mewled with them. She hissed and snarled with them. She spit with poisonous intent. She flexed her claws and drew back her muzzle. She rose to greet them, responding to their summoning, a response she loathed but could not prevent.

  She squeezed her eyes so tightly shut they hurt. She would have cried had there been tears to do so. Her world was a room six feet by ten feet, but it might as well have been the size of a coffin.

  They had returned her to her cell from the arena in the same way they had brought her, in a cage and in chains, Goblins and demonwolves surrounding her, Hobstull directing them. Back through the crowds and the blasted countryside. Back through the gloom and mist. Time had stopped, and her sense of herself and her place had disappeared. She was a captured beast. She was a lifetime removed from her role as Ard Rhys, and the Druids and Paranor were a dim memory. All the way back, she fought to regain her identity, but the rolling and the jouncing seemed only to exacerbate her confusion. It was easier to disappear into the role she had adopted than to try to follow the threads that might lead her out. It was simpler to embrace the primal creature she had awakened than to cast it aside.

  They stripped and bathed her on her return, and she did not try to stop them. She stood naked and exposed and uncaring, gone so deep inside herself that she felt nothing of what they did to her. Cat sounds issued from her lips and her fingers flexed, but she did not see the way her captors drew back. She did not see them at all. She did not know they were there.

  I am lost, she thought at one point. I am destroyed, and I have done it to myself.

  Time passed, but little seemed to change. Guards came and went, the light dimmed and brightened as torches sputtered and were replaced, food was delivered and taken away uneaten, and the demons that haunted her kept edging closer. She wanted to break their spell, to banish them along with the hissing and mewling of her Fury memories, but she could not gather together the will to do so.

  One time only did she sleep. She did not know for how long, only that she did, and that when her dreams took the shape of her memories, she woke screaming.

  The Straken Lord did not reappear. Hobstull stayed away. She did not know what they intended, but the longer she was left alone, the more certain she became that they had lost interest in her entirely. There was no use for such as her, for a woman who was willing to take the form of a monster, to assume the persona of a raver. There was no place, even in the world of demons, for something that lacked any moral center or recognizable purpose. She saw herself as they did, a damaged and conflicted creature, a chameleon that could not distinguish between reality and fantasy, able to be either or both, but unable to tell the difference.

  She felt herself sliding over the edge of sanity. It was happening gradually, just a few inches at a time, but there was no mistaking it. Each day, she felt her Ard Rhys self fall just a little farther away and her Fury self close about her just a little bit tighter. It grew easier to embrace the latter and reject the former. It grew more attractive to see herself as inhuman. If she was no better than one of the Furies, her life became less complicated. The madness seemed to ease and the conflict to diminish. As a Fury, she did not have to worry about where she was or how she had gotten there. She did not need to concern herself with the increasingly fuzzy distinctions between different worlds and lives. As a Fury, the world flattened and smoothed, and there was only killing and food and the lure of life with her cat kind.

  She began seeing herself as an imprisoned animal. She began making cat sounds all the time, finding comfort in the soft mewling. She flexed her fingers and arched her back. She bit her cheek and tasted her own blood.

  But she did not rise or eat. She did not move from where she lay. She refused to come out of the dark refuge of her delusions. She stayed safe and protected in her mind.

  Then, as if from a dream, she heard someone calling to her. At first she thought she must have imagined it. No one would call to her, not here or anywhere else. No one would want to h
ave anything to do with someone as terrible as she was.

  But she heard the voice again, hushed and insistent. She heard it speak her name. Surprised, she stirred from her self-induced lethargy to listen for it, and heard it again.

  “Grianne of the trees! Can you hear me? Why do you make those cat noises? Do you dream? Wake up!”

  Her mind sharpened and her concentration coalesced, until the words became distinct and the voice recognizable. She knew the one who called to her, remembered him from another time and place. She felt the pull of that familiarity, as if she were coming back from a long journey to someone she had left behind.

  “Wake up, Straken! Stop squirming! What is wrong with you? Don’t you hear me?”

  Her breathing quickened, and a bit of the sluggishness fell away. She knew that voice. She knew it well. Something about it gave her fresh energy and a sense of renewed possibility. She tried to speak, choked on words that wouldn’t come, and made unintelligible sounds instead.

  “What are you doing, little cat thing? Have I wasted my time coming here? Are you not able to speak? Look at me!”

  She did so, opening her eyes for the first time in days, breaking the crust of tears that had dried and sealed her lids, squinting against the unfamiliar brightness, reaching up to rub away the sleep and confusion. She stirred slowly, raised herself on one elbow, and looked toward the light that spilled from the hallway into her cell.