The Dark Legacy of Shannara Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Terry Brooks

  Deek Trink’s body lay abandoned on the ramparts. No one seemed willing to retrieve it.

  Bombax nodded to himself. “Much better.”

  • • •

  For about thirty minutes it seemed as if the Federation would postpone any further action until the next day. But then Drust Chazhul and his commanders and sycophants rallied the attack from behind the series of protective barriers where they had sought shelter. The soldiers who had broken ranks and scattered were reassembled behind spears and shields and unit leaders, presumably with promises of what would happen if they fled a second time, and the flits eased back into position just outside Paranor’s walls.

  Aphenglow watched in silent desperation. Arling was beside her. Both of them stood between Bombax and Cymrian. All of them were thinking the same thing. If the magic that had warded the Keep thus far did not repel this fresh assault, they were finished. Paranor would fall, and they would have no choice but to flee into the tunnels beneath and from there out into the countryside, fugitives from their own home. They might stand and fight, but even with their magic to aid them, they would be quickly overwhelmed and captured.

  But so much worse was what would be lost to the Federation and to Drust Chazhul. All of their histories and records that had been so painstakingly compiled down through the centuries, all of their talismans and artifacts, the chambers that had never housed any but those who were Druids, the cold room and the scrye, the depthless, bottomless well at the tower’s heart that housed the dangerous and sometimes malevolent spirit of the Keep, the earth’s furnace that gave her heat and presence, the landing platform and the airships. And most damaging of all, the belief that Paranor was impenetrable and the Druids invincible in their own fortress would be shattered. It was a stomach-wrenching prospect, one that none of those who were Druids could accept and none who stood with them could conceive.

  They had talked briefly about taking action to save what was threatened, about hiding those things that could be hidden, about adding wards and spells. But even Woostra had dismissed the idea. It was too late for that; the job was too overwhelming. The Druid Histories were already protected against intruders, and the talismans and artifacts were well concealed. Best to trust to what had kept them in one piece for this long. Best just to have a little faith.

  But more than a little might be required, Aphenglow thought, standing with the others, the tension ramped up to where it was almost unbearable, her skin crawling with it.

  She watched as the Federation lines steadied, men and airships both, and everything went unnaturally still.

  Then the battle horn sounded and the Federation army attacked. Lines of armored soldiers and bowmen rushed the Inner Wall and threw up scaling ladders and grappling hooks. Flits shot forward to clear the Outer Wall in an airborne assault on the Inner. Shouts and cries and the clash of weapons rang through the afternoon air, and the combined strength of hundreds threw itself against Paranor and the handful of defenders who waited.

  It was a disaster.

  Once more the shadowy presence warding the Druid’s Keep surfaced, just as Aphenglow had hoped it would, as ready to protect the Inner Wall as it had been the Outer. Its dark, amorphous presence coiled like a serpent—a venomous, hissing creature. In the blink of an eye, it swatted away the flits, sending them spinning out of control into the woods from which they had emerged, effortlessly shattering their attempt to penetrate the plane of the walls. Then it sank into the stonework of the Inner Wall and reemerged as a suffocating black cloud extending outward from the stonework’s vertical plane to knock away the scaling ladders and the men hanging on them and blow the rest of the soldiers back across the courtyard with a giant’s breath that sent men and equipment whirling and spinning like so many autumn leaves caught in a north wind.

  Everyone broke and ran after that, soldiers and unit commanders alike, fleeing the battleground for the comparative safety of the Outer Wall, where they huddled in shock and terror.

  From behind his shelter on the ramparts where he knelt beside Stoon, Drust Chazhul signaled for the attack to be broken off. He slumped back against the stone barrier, enraged. “We’re being made fools of!” he hissed.

  But his watchful companion had remembered something he had heard the unfortunate Deek Trink mention while he was still upright. “Maybe,” he mused quietly, giving Drust a careful look, “there’s another way.”

  25

  The bleak expanse of the Breakline stretched away in front of her as the Walker Boh emerged from the peaks of the Kensrowe and turned west toward the miles of unsettled wilderness that would eventually end at the shores of the Blue Divide. They were removed from anything resembling civilization, flying over country uninhabited save for the hardiest and most primal denizens of the Four Lands. A thousand feet up and well clear of what dwelled below, they had only the landscape to suggest the savage existence of those creatures. Farshaun might know a little of them from his travels, and the Speakman surely knew a good deal more, but the rest of the expedition had heard only stories.

  Still, just looking at the vast, rugged emptiness—the blasted earth that seemed to have been torn up and thrown back down again in clumps, the ragged, gaping fissures that ran for thousands of yards, the upheaval of rocks that had become razor-sharp and weather-pitted, the smooth flat surfaces of sinkholes said to be bottomless and burrows that tunneled beneath the ruined surface and were said to house giant insects—made Khyber Elessedil wonder if perhaps the Speakman’s prediction that none of them would return from this expedition was an accurate foretelling.

  But she had come this far and would not turn back no matter how forbidding the land appeared, no matter the nature of the dangers that waited there, no matter her personal reservations. The lure of the Elfstones was too strong, the chance to recover so great a treasure overriding any thoughts of abandoning her quest. The Druids were equal to the task. Their magic and their experience would protect them.

  No one other than Farshaun and herself knew of the Speakman’s prediction. She had forbidden the old man from saying anything about it to the others and had instructed him to tell the Speakman the same. The musings of a seer were not always to be trusted, and even if his prediction were to come true it might do so in a way that was different from what it seemed on the surface. What mattered were his skills and experience as a guide, not his abilities as a seer.

  So she told herself.

  They had departed at sunrise. Before doing so, she had taken herself away from the others and, using her magic, called up anew the vision skived from Aphenglow’s memory, so she could be certain of the landmarks she had been shown. In a deep trance, she saw again the familiar pinnacles of the Kensrowe and the blasted emptiness of the Breakline stretching ahead, then saw the triad of rock columns and beyond that the giant fissure gape open like a mouth that would swallow them all.

  By the time she had returned to the others, the Speakman had come down from his cave to join them. Communicating only through Farshaun, he had signaled his readiness to proceed. Khyber let Farshaun act as interpreter, let him ask the Speakman the necessary questions and convey whatever answers were given. What she wanted was to make certain he concentrated his efforts on searching for the landmarks in Aphenglow’s Elfstone vision.

  So now they were under way, and in truth, she felt as if they were already halfway to their goal. They had passed the rock formation she had come to think of as the three sentinels—the trio situated in an open stretch of flatland, towering over their surroundings like guards at watch.

  Khyber assigned Farshaun and the Speakman the task of spying out the huge fissure that was the next recognizable landmark in their search. Then she decided to follow up on the promise Pleysia had made to her days ago: to reveal the reason why she had chosen the girl Oriantha to accompany them. Either it had slipped Pleysia’s mind or she had chosen to ignore it, but in either case it was time the promise be kept.

  She found Pleysia and the young woman sitting alone
amidships next to a pile of stores, once again deep in conversation. It was exactly how she had found them several days earlier, so deeply engaged it was as if no one else existed. She paused for a moment before approaching them, trying to imagine the nature of the relationship. On failing to do so, she walked over, whereupon, as before, all conversation came to an immediate halt.

  “Pleysia,” she greeted the Druid, nodding wordlessly to Oriantha. “You promised you would explain to me the reason behind Oriantha’s selection for this expedition. Now is the time.”

  Pleysia sighed heavily and nodded. “I don’t suppose I can put it off any longer. I hope you won’t be angry with me, Mistress. Oriantha is a powerful and accomplished shape-shifter. She was born of a shape-shifting father and a magic-wielding mother who fell in love just long enough to conceive her before parting. None of it was meant to happen, but happen it did. And while the father disappeared and has not been seen or heard from since, the mother stayed close and saw to it that Oriantha was raised as she should be—even though she wasn’t able to do this herself. Over time, Oriantha’s shape-shifting ability began to manifest itself, and it became clear that she was gifted with both shape-shifting skills and select uses of magic.”

  She paused. “I had hoped to bring her to the order to apply for admission sometime in the next few years—even though I fully expected you and the others to refuse her. The order has never embraced the practice of allowing members of one family to serve the Druid Order at the same time.”

  Khyber nodded slowly. “Because the presence of one puts too much strain on the other and endangers them both. You are her mother, aren’t you, Pleysia?”

  Pleysia nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “How is it that I’ve never even known she existed?”

  “I’ve never discussed her with anyone. I kept that part of my life private. When I came to the order, I left her with my mother. She was five years old then. My mother raised her. I barely saw her during that time. I didn’t know when I came to Paranor that Oriantha would inherit both her father’s talent and my own. I suspected she had some ability, but did not realize how gifted she was. I should have been there to train her, but by then I had committed myself to the order and could do little. Mostly, she trained herself.”

  Khyber regarded her in silence for a moment. “You have broken the rules by bringing her on this expedition, Pleysia. Why did you do that? You knew it would be dangerous for her. Why did you choose to bring her to us now when you could have waited for a better time?”

  The Elven Druid shook her head. “Mistress, please. I don’t want to tell you that.”

  “If you don’t, I will send Oriantha home at once,” Khyber declared. She glanced over at the girl, who hadn’t said a single word, but simply sat there, listening. “Oriantha, have you nothing to say?”

  The girl’s strong features tightened with resolve. “I came because I wanted to be with my mother. It was necessary for me to come.”

  “Did you know it was a clear violation of our rules?”

  “My mother needed me.”

  “Is that what she told you? That she needed you? Did you come because you were asked or because you chose on your own to come?”

  “Mistress,” Pleysia broke in. “Let her be. She came because of something I said.” She hesitated. “Because I told her I am dying.”

  It stopped Khyber where she was. Oriantha, this strong young woman who seemed chiseled from stone, had begun crying. Pleysia wrapped her arms around her and whispered in her ear.

  “Dying?” the Ard Rhys said softly.

  “I found out months ago. A healer told me. I am diseased within and there is no cure, not even with healing magic. I thought to be dead and gone before you woke from the Druid Sleep. I believed I could bring Oriantha to the Keep and, because I was dying, the other Druids would keep her until you woke. Then you might agree to accept her into the order. But then the diary was found, and I ran out of time.”

  She looked stricken, as if speaking the words gave power to the thing killing her. That she might be lying never entered Khyber’s mind; the truth was mirrored in the faces of mother and daughter.

  Pleysia released Oriantha and faced the Ard Rhys. “I know this is a dangerous journey. I understood what that meant. I went to her and I told her I was dying and there was a good chance I would not be coming back from this expedition. I asked her to wait for me, but she insisted she was coming with me. She said it was probably our last chance to be together. She did not want to give that up. She is a more gifted magic user than I am, and she was quick to remind me of it. If she could not go, neither could I, she argued. So I agreed to bring her with me.”

  Khyber sighed. Pleysia should have told her Oriantha was her daughter, but she understood why the Elven woman had kept it secret, fearful that her request to include Oriantha would be denied and the girl sent home. Knowing she was dying, she would be desperate to keep her daughter with her. Khyber questioned the wisdom of including her when she would be placed at such risk, but maybe Oriantha was more capable and experienced than her age would suggest.

  She rose from where she was crouched beside them. “I am sorry this is happening to you, Pleysia. But I am worried for Oriantha.”

  “I will watch over her,” Pleysia said at once.

  “And I will watch over my mother,” Oriantha added quickly. She hesitated. “Mistress, I am much stronger and better trained than you know. I can take care of myself and will not be a burden on anyone.”

  Pleysia nodded quickly. “I have witnessed this. She speaks the truth.”

  The determination she heard in their voices was convincing. It was too late to send the girl back anyway. They were too far out in the wilderness, and it would be too disruptive at this point to try to separate them.

  “Oriantha can stay,” she said.

  Pleysia’s smile in response was both bitter and sweet. “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much.”

  Oriantha murmured her thanks as well, leaning over to give her mother a kiss on her cheek.

  Khyber nodded without saying anything further and walked away.

  The day wore on and the Walker Boh continued its flight west. The weather was a strange mix of contradictions. Twice, sandstorms blew up from out of nowhere, huge windswept monsters that engulfed the airship in grit and dust and forced all aboard to hunker down with their eyes shielded, trusting that the vessel would find her way through. Three times it rained, each time hard and fierce, drenching everyone in spite of weatherproof gear, passing in minutes and moving on. Periods of haze enveloped the travelers and left them virtually blind as they flew with only a compass to point them in the right direction. Frequently, the Speakman had them change directions because of what he saw of the landscape below, and each time Khyber nodded her agreement, trusting that he would know what none of the others could.

  It was nearing midday when they found the fissure shown in the Elfstone vision.

  To say it was massive didn’t begin to describe it. It was as if the entire earth had split apart, forming a chasm that stretched for miles in both directions. The fissure was black and filled with mist, and it emitted a haunting wail that reached the passengers and crew of the airship even as high up as they were, working through them like a nightmare’s memory. The sides of the chasm were jagged, and there was no visible bottom. Where it began and ended was anyone’s guess.

  “Fifty miles long,” the Speakman whispered.

  “I believe it,” said Farshaun. “What’s making that sound?”

  “The spirits of the dead.”

  Farshaun looked at him. “How would you know that? Have you been to the bottom and seen them?”

  The Speakman gave him a look. “I have seen them in my dreams.”

  Redden and Railing were standing close enough to hear them, and exchanged a quick look. They peered over the side of the airship once more, tracking the split from one horizon to the other without finding an end.

  “I hope we don’t h
ave to go down into that,” Railing whispered to his brother, trying to be careful not to let any of the others hear.

  “If we did, we’d probably come out on the other side of the world,” Redden whispered back.

  Farshaun stepped close. “If you did, you would probably find the spirits of the dead waiting to receive you.” He snorted derisively. “Now, keep quiet.”

  The old man turned to Khyber. “We’re close to the Fangs. Once there, we have to go on foot.”

  “We can’t continue to fly?” The Ard Rhys was taken aback. “It’s much safer if we remain aloft.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We still have to go on foot.” Farshaun walked away.

  They flew on for two more hours, the morning drifting into afternoon. The weather changed once more, this time the skies turning hazy and overcast, the sun fading to a dull glow and a heavy mix of clouds and mist wrapping so tightly about the Walker Boh that Farshaun had to take her down to within a hundred feet of the ground just to see where they were. Additionally, he had to slow her to a crawl, afraid they would run into a cliff face or rock formation. At a dead-slow speed, they crept ahead until they encountered a wall of spiraling rock formations that speared skyward much higher than the hundred feet at which the airship flew and clustered so thickly they were impossible to sail between.

  “The Fangs,” the Speakman whispered.

  Khyber Elessedil was standing close enough to hear. “How far do they stretch?”

  “Miles,” Farshaun answered after listening to the Speakman’s whispered response.

  “Can we sail around them?” She checked her compass. “We’re flying west still. Can we turn north or south to get past?”