The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  He skipped across the airfield in a series of bone-jarring bounces toward the nearest railgun, sending men leaping from his path, including the two who were assigned to man the gun. He had his straps off before the flit had finished its skid, leapt to his feet, and raced for the weapon. He got to it before the Federation soldiers could recover, swung it around on them, the crank already drawn back, and released the sling. Metal fragments sliced through the night with a hissing sound that ended in the death cries of the men in their path. Pied cranked back the handle once more, dropped in another load, swung the weapon toward a different group, and fired again.

  Atop the Dechtera, two of the Home Guard fought hand-to-hand against a dozen soldiers surrounding the shrouded weapon. They held their own for several minutes before disappearing under the weight of their attackers. At the periphery of his vision, Pied saw a Federation-manned rail sling blow apart a flit that was trying to land, flinging its rider against the side of an airship, broken and lifeless.

  Too many of them, too few of us.

  Pied reloaded the rail sling and swung it toward the Dechtera. Fixing on the remnants of the Federation defenders still aboard, he released the sling and cut them apart. He was bringing the railgun back around when the first dart caught him in the shoulder, knocking him back. A second buried itself in his thigh a moment later. He was too exposed, standing out in the open. Worse, he was too far from the target.

  Ignoring the pain of his wounds, he bolted for the Dechtera, leaping onto her rope ladder and hauling himself aboard so quickly that he bumped into the last of the defenders, a man who was crouched behind the railing, trying to hide. Pied killed him with one swipe of his long knife and broke for the weapon forward. Arrows and darts whistled past his ears, invisible killers. Elves had commandeered two of the railguns on the next ship over and were firing at clumps of Federation soldiers trying to reach the Dechtera and Pied. Another of the Home Guard, small and quick enough that it might be Troon, raced toward the airship with burning brands that streamed sparks and fire like comet tails and flung them onto the big ship’s decking where they burned, wild and fierce.

  Pied reached the mysterious weapon and yanked off the sailcloth. A ten-foot-long barrel connected to a broad rectangular box sat atop a swivel. Cranks jutted from the swivel, clearly meant for maneuvering the weapon into firing position. Strange rods bored holes into the sides and back of the box. Pied snatched up an iron bar from off the deck and began smashing the hinges of the box, the ping of arrows and darts ringing in his ears as they bounced all around him. Sersen appeared beside him, blood streaming from a head wound, picked up a second iron bar, and began hammering at the casing from the other side. Behind them, the Elves from the next ship over abandoned their positions and scrambled aboard the Dechtera, fighting their way through smoke and flames to the aft port and starboard rail slings, swinging the deadly weapons around to face the Federation soldiers rushing to stop them.

  Pied glanced at the airfield. If there were other Elves still standing, he couldn’t see them.

  Then the hinges on the casing gave way, snapping apart. Pied flung the casing aside, stared momentarily at the array of diapson crystals settled in their shielded slots, and began smashing them.

  “Shades!” he gasped as another arrow caught him high on his wounded shoulder.

  Sersen lurched backwards, a javelin protruding from his chest. The Southlander tried to catch himself, was hit again, and went down in a heap, sprawled across the ruined weapon. Pied dropped to one knee, seeking cover, and was surprised when the movement caused him intense pain in his side. He glanced down and saw another arrow protruding. When had that happened? Fire and smoke were all around him now, and he started to crawl across the decking, searching for a way out of the inferno, then stopped.

  A trio of tattered and bloody Federation soldiers emerged from the haze right in front of him, blades unsheathed. As they caught sight of him, they slowed, weapons lifting. Pied drew his own sword, bracing for their rush. He didn’t have the strength to stop them; he was weak from loss of blood, and pain was slowing his movements. He tried to think of how he could disable all three, but his mind was sluggish and unresponsive.

  He tightened his grip on his sword.

  Then a compact, black-clad form leapt from the roiling smoke behind the advancing soldiers, short sword cutting down first one, then another, quick blows that took both out of the fight before they even knew what had happened. The third turned, and the attacker went straight at him, as well, feinting and dodging, forcing him to swing wildly and thereby lower his guard.

  In seconds, all three lay dead.

  Troon moved quickly to Pied and slung his arm over her shoulder. “Time to be going, Captain.”

  She hauled him across the deck of the burning ship to the starboard side, practically dragging him. The flit that had crashed earlier lay jammed against the railing, its frame twisted and bent. “That won’t hold us both,” he said. “Leave me.”

  She ignored him, pulling the flit around so that it faced the port side of the airship, then jerking open the diapson crystal housing and yanking out the depleted crystal. Reaching into her pack, she retrieved her spare and fitted it in place. How she still managed to have that pack after what she had been through was incomprehensible to Pied. “What of the others?”

  She laid him across the frame, strapping him securely into place. “As far as I know, all gone.”

  Thick smoke and flames surrounded them, forming a wall that closed them away from everything that lay beyond, hiding them from view. Federation soldiers were shouting wildly from somewhere close, and they heard the sound of boots thudding across the ship’s decking by the ruined weapon. Troon ignored them, concentrating on the task at hand, her hands steady and sure. When she was satisfied that he was held fast, she lay down on top of him, wrapping her arms around his chest and her legs around the back part of the frame.

  “Ready, Captain?” she whispered.

  “Ready.”

  “This won’t be pleasant. Hold tight.”

  She opened the parse tube, pulled back on the rudders, and threw the throttle all the way forward. The flit shot ahead as if catapulted from a sling, burrowing a tunnel through the smoke and flames, and lifting off the deck to clear the jagged stanchions of the broken railing with just enough room to spare.

  An instant later, they were soaring across the Federation airfield, shouts rising from the throats of those below, missiles whipping past them in swarms. Pied heard Troon grunt, and her grip on him tightened. He felt a stinging in his leg, then another on his neck. He closed his eyes, waiting to die. The flit jerked and twisted as it flew, a victim of its damaged frame, unable to fully right itself. But Troon held the controls steady and kept them flying, moving out of the light to gain the darkness beyond.

  They flew on for what seemed like an impossibly long time, wrapped together on the flit, sweeping through the night on an erratic path, the flit repeatedly jerking as if stricken, its frame shuddering. Pied wanted to look back to see if there was any pursuit, but he lacked both strength and maneuverability. He settled instead for staying quiet and balanced, trying to help them stay aloft.

  “Are they back there?” he asked finally, the wind whipping the words from his mouth as he spoke them.

  She pressed close. “Somewhere, but they haven’t found us yet.”

  He fought to stay awake, but that was growing increasingly difficult. His strength was failing, and he thought that if she hadn’t lashed him to the frame, he would not have been able to hang on. He felt the dampness of his own blood all down his body, and the arrows and darts buried in his flesh burned and throbbed.

  After he hadn’t heard or felt anything from Troon for a long time, he said to her, “Are you all right?”

  There was no response. She lay heavily atop him, unmoving.

  “Troon?”

  “Still here.”

  “You’re hurt?”

  “A little. Like you. But we’ll
get through.”

  “I think I’m hurt pretty bad.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “You should have left me.”

  “Couldn’t do that, Captain.”

  “You should have saved yourself.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long time, then she put her lips close to his ear and said, “Saving you is the same as saving myself.” And then he thought he heard her say, so softly he couldn’t be sure, “I love you, Pied.”

  There was light ahead of them now, a fuzzy ball against the black, dim but growing brighter, and he found himself staring at it, watching it grow. He was a deadweight atop the flit, and Troon was a deadweight atop him. The flit was no longer flying straight, but beginning to slide downward, to dip and sway like a leaf tumbling from a tree.

  “Troon?”

  No answer. Pied stared at the light ahead. It didn’t seem to have a source, didn’t seem to be coming from anywhere. It occurred to him that there wasn’t any light at all, that the light was inside his head. It occurred to him that he was watching the approach of his own death.

  Fascinated, he kept his gaze fixed as it became a huge glowing ball and then swallowed him.

  NINETEEN

  Sen Dunsidan was awake long before his guards came to rouse him, dressed and waiting by the time they did. A light sleeper in the best of circumstances, he heard the sounds of the battle being fought on the airfield from inside his tented compound at the center rear of the Federation encampment almost a mile away. At first, he thought the entire camp was under attack, and his sole thought was to reach his private airship and flee. But as he dressed, frightened and angry and confused, standing in the dark to keep from becoming a ready target, he realized that the tumult was much farther away than the site of his compound and that any danger to him was still remote.

  Nevertheless, he was edgy and impatient by the time his aide called to him from outside the tent flap. “My lord?”

  “What is it?” he snapped, unable to keep his voice from betraying him. “What’s happening?”

  “The airfield is under attack!”

  He knew the truth at once then. He didn’t even have to leave his tent. The Free-born had watched him test-fly the Dechtera the day before, had taken note of how she performed, and had decided to act on the results. Having already witnessed the devastation wrought to the Elven airfleet, they would not have held anything back in their efforts to destroy her this time. He cursed himself for a fool, waiting one day too long, confident that he had them hemmed in and helpless, waiting for the end. He should have paid better attention to what had happened to the command he had sent to finish off those Elves. He had thought them helpless, too.

  Still, why was it that his army, the biggest and most powerful army in the Four Lands, couldn’t manage to keep the Free-born from breaking through the siege lines and reaching the airfield, which was miles away? Why was it that his soldiers couldn’t manage to protect a single airship?

  He pushed through the tent flap into the night and saw the huge blaze east, the flames rising up against the darkened horizon, an inferno. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, the last of his hopes fading, his worst fears confirmed. The Dechtera was destroyed. His weapon was gone. His plans for a strike against the Free-born on the morrow were ruined. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. He stood looking at the flickering glow of the fire in stunned silence, his aide hanging back, his guards keeping well away from him until they knew what his reaction was going to be.

  He turned to his aide. “Find Etan Orek. Bring him to the airfield.”

  His aide hurried away, and he signaled to his guards to bring up the carriage. Someone was going to pay for this.

  It took them only minutes to reach the airfield, which was filled with soldiers running in every direction, some of them carting off the bodies of the dead and wounded, some of them trying to put out the flames of the fires that burned all across the field. The biggest of the fires was fed by what remained of the charred hulk of the Dechtera, a smoking, blackened ruin, as he had known she would be. Several other airships were burning, as well, but it didn’t appear that they would be a total loss. Weapons lay scattered everywhere, and he could just barely identify twisted pieces of flits.

  Composing himself, putting in place his politician’s look, the one that masked his true feelings and left his features devoid of expression, he climbed from the carriage.

  One of his field commanders came over, saluted, and started to give his report, but Sen Dunsidan cut him short.

  “How many of them were there?”

  His commander blinked. “We think about a dozen.”

  “A dozen.” He was filled with sudden rage. A mere dozen had done this. “They used flits?”

  His commander nodded. “They flew in from the backside of the camp. A suicide mission. We got all of them but two, and we’ll have those two, as well, before dawn. Elves, from what we can tell.”

  “Elves?” Another remnant of those he had presumed helpless and in flight. He shook his head. “Any movement on the Free-born lines?”

  The other man shook his head. “Not as yet.”

  “There will be. Strengthen the siege lines and be ready for an attack. Without the Dechtera to keep them at bay, the Free-born will try to break out. I don’t want that to happen. Do you understand me, Commander?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “In case you don’t, pay close attention to this. I want the watch Captain who was on duty tonight relieved of his command. I want him sent to the very front of our lines. When the Free-born attack, I want to be certain that he is the first soldier they see.” He paused, his hard gaze fixed on the other. “Make sure everyone knows the reason.”

  His commander swallowed hard. “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Get out of my sight.”

  When he was alone, save for his guards, he walked down through the airfield to examine the damage firsthand. White-haired, magisterial, a commanding presence, he drew attention from all quarters. He let himself be seen, because it was necessary for the army to know he had matters under control. But he did not attempt to interact with the soldiers; he could never be reached by such as them. His guards formed a protective phalanx about him, keeping everyone at bay, and those who looked at him did not try to do more.

  He stopped to study the wreck of the Dechtera, catching sight of what remained of his precious weapon, a twisted hunk of blackened metal. It was all he could do to keep from screaming his rage aloud, but he was practiced at dispassion.

  He was contemplating what he would do to those responsible for what had happened here tonight when Etan Orek appeared at his elbow. “My lord?” he ventured.

  Sen Dunsidan glanced at him. “You see for yourself what has happened, Engineer Orek. You see how determined our enemies are.” He shook his head. “Their job is made easier by the fact that I am surrounded by incompetents. You and I, we must carry so much of the load ourselves.”

  The little man nodded eagerly, happy to be included as one of the chosen. “My lord, you can always depend on me.”

  Sen Dunsidan glanced at the Dechtera. “There is no salvaging the weapon now. We must start again. How long will it take?”

  Etan Orek grinned conspiratorially. “You told me to build other weapons, my lord. I have been doing so. Another is almost complete.” He leaned close. “I have actually tested it. The crystals align as they should to generate the fire rope. It needs only to have the casing made.”

  Sen Dunsidan felt a flush of satisfaction. He put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “You have done well, Engineer Orek. Once again, you have not disappointed me. If I had a dozen of you, this war would be over in a week.”

  The little man flushed with pride. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “How many days, then?”

  “Oh, end of the week, my lord. The weapon awaits my attention in Arishaig. It needs only a few final touches and a new airship to bear it aloft.”

&nbs
p; “Then we must spirit you back to Arishaig without further delay. I will have you returned at once. Pack up your things and make ready. I will follow in a day or two with the airship that will bear the weapon.” He gave the other a smile. “There will be a reward in this for you, Engineer. Your service to the Federation will not be forgotten.”

  Flanked by two of Sen Dunsidan’s personal guards who were charged with keeping close watch over the little man until he was safely away, Etan Orek scurried off. Nothing must happen to him. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing a second weapon. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for the Free-born, once it was finished? They believed the danger over and done with, having destroyed the Dechtera. They believed him to be in possession of only a single weapon, since only the one had been used against them. They would find out soon enough how badly mistaken they were.

  He took a final look around, decided there was nothing more he could do that night, and went back to his carriage. He might even be able to sleep again, he thought. At least until morning, when the Free-born attack came. He was still certain it would. Vaden Wick would take advantage of the opportunity. He would rally his forces in an attempt to break through the siege lines, to reclaim the heights lost by the Elves, and to return the Prekkendorran to a no-man’s-land.

  He might even succeed. But it wouldn’t matter. Not anymore. Not once Sen Dunsidan brought up the new weapon and burned them all to cinders.