The Dark Legacy of Shannara Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Terry Brooks

  “Trouble is,” she said, panting for breath as they slogged through the mud and rain, “the more I use the magic, the more of them I attract.”

  “How many are there?”

  Seersha gave her a look that said it all.

  Mirai was moving on her own now, stumbling a bit but able to support herself. Together they pushed on, making their way through a tangle of woods and heavy grasses and then clusters of boulders and empty flats. The lizards had been replaced by something that resembled Gnomes with lots of teeth. These new creatures were smaller, but attacked in packs. There seemed to be more of them gathering with every step.

  “We have to climb that cliff just ahead,” Seersha said suddenly, pointing. “The others are up there.”

  Somehow they made it to the base of the cliff and found the trail. Together they started up, clawing their way from handhold to foothold, the pursuers snapping at their heels and trying to pull them down again. The rain made their grip on the rock uncertain, and the gloom hid their attackers until they were almost on top of them. Mirai kicked out behind her as she climbed, trying to keep the creatures at bay, but they seemed able to scale even the sheerest of surfaces and came at her from both sides, grasping her arms in an effort to dislodge her.

  Then brilliant light flooded the darkness from above, illuminating the climbers and their attackers. A surge of white fire swept across the face of the cliff, peeling the creatures off like bits of lichen and sending them tumbling away. Seersha and Mirai scrambled the rest of the way up and tumbled over the edge to safety.

  Mirai lay on her back, gasping for breath. Dark figures clustered around, and one leaned close, a familiar smile on a familiar face.

  “Took you long enough,” Railing Ohmsford said.

  They sat huddled together at the back of the precipice, the little company that had been defending this ground for the better part of two days and Mirai Leah. The overhang gave them some shelter from the storm, and the wind kept their attackers from trying to mount a sustained assault. One had been attempted at the storm’s onset, Railing informed Mirai, but it had been hampered by the damp and the wind and been thrown back easily. Since then, the Spider Gnome look-alikes had been mostly quiet.

  “But they’ll come again once the storm stops and things begin to dry out. Especially when night comes.” Railing was huddled close to her, his broken leg stretched out, and his cloak bundled about both of them. “Unless the ship finds us,” he added.

  “It will,” she said quickly, wanting to reassure him that there was hope, even though she was not at all sure there was. With both sets of coins on the ground, the mist obscuring their position, and the Walker Boh already damaged from one attempt at landing, there wasn’t much reason to think an attempt would even be made without something to guide the Rovers besides guesswork.

  Seersha had already told her what had happened to the company since they had come into the Fangs. She had heard about the division of the company, the loss of contact between the two commands, and the ongoing attacks by the creatures she had just barely escaped. She understood how desperate their situation was and how much more desperate things might be for those who had disappeared into the defile.

  “What have you decided to do about the Ard Rhys’s party once the airship finds us?” she asked Seersha, who was huddled within her black cloak, nose and mouth tucked down inside its heavy folds.

  The Dwarf’s eyes shifted to find her. “Wait here with Skint until they come back. Or until they contact us. We’ll have to ask you to come back for us once you’ve gotten Railing and the others safely out.”

  “But you have no idea where they are, do you?”

  Seersha shook her head. “Skint looked, but he couldn’t find a trace of them. Couldn’t find the crevice they went into. Couldn’t find the waterfall that isn’t a waterfall.”

  “Redden will find a way back,” Railing said, his voice muted by a burst of wind. “He has the wishsong to help him. He’ll use it to find a way if things get too ugly.”

  No one said anything to that. Mirai knew what they were thinking. What if there wasn’t a way back from wherever Redden and the others had gone? What if the company was trapped? It seemed clear enough that magic had lured them in, but maybe even magic wasn’t enough to get them out.

  “Here, eat some of this,” she offered, pulling out packets of white paper in which bits of something hard had been carefully wrapped.

  Seersha opened hers and ate it. “Honey candy. Where did you get honey candy, Mirai Leah?”

  “I made it.” She grinned at the Druid, who was passing pieces down the line to the others in the company. “I carry it with me for occasions just like this one.”

  “What a liar!” Railing exclaimed.

  Seersha laughed. “Guess you were thinking further ahead than the rest of us.”

  “I think further ahead than some.” She glanced over at Railing, who crunched his piece of candy noisily.

  They waited out the storm, which lasted most of the rest of the day, and then Skint disappeared up into the rocks, searching for a better defensive position. The precipice on which they were settled was adequate, but it was too broad for six—now seven—defenders to continue to hold against the hordes of attackers they had been fighting off. Sooner or later, they would be overwhelmed. Mirai hadn’t said anything to Seersha of their chances of being found, but she guessed the Druid had already surmised the problem and decided to act on what she perceived to be the unfavorable odds.

  With the approach of sunset, Mirai helped Railing to his feet and walked him to the cliff edge, where they stood looking out over the rumpled blanket of trees and rocks amid the jagged stone towers of the Fangs. Everything was sodden and wrapped in trailers of mist and looked to be better suited for the dead than the living.

  “How bad is your leg?” she asked. “Does it hurt much?”

  Railing shook his head, staring off distractedly. “I should have gone with him. We should have stayed together.”

  She nodded. “We should have stayed home. All three of us.”

  “He left while I was unconscious. I wouldn’t have let him go otherwise. I don’t know why he did it.”

  “He did what he thought he had to do.” She put her arm around him. “He did what he thought was the right thing. He’s like that. You’re both like that.”

  Railing looked unconvinced. “If anything happens to him—”

  “Nothing will happen,” she interrupted quickly. “Redden is tough and smart. He’ll find a way. And if he doesn’t, we’ll find a way for him. You and me. We won’t abandon him.”

  He looked over at her. His face was suddenly stricken. “I’m sorry we ever asked you to come with us. I wish you weren’t here, Mirai.”

  She gave him a look. “Maybe we should stop talking about this. It’s all said and done, anyway. I’m here. You and Redden are here. We can’t do anything about it. Regretting it now doesn’t do much to make things better.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “We just have to help each other get through this.”

  He nodded. “Just get home again, right? Just get back.”

  She left her arm draped around his shoulder and looked out over the wilderness, trying not to think about what that meant. “Just get back,” she repeated quietly.

  Skint returned just before sunset, weary and discouraged. There wasn’t anywhere else they could make a stand that was any better than where they were. They would have to stay put for another night. Seersha nodded grimly and gathered the others together, explaining how they would position themselves when night fell. She asked Railing to take one side of the precipice while she took the other, dividing their use of magic equally. Mirai and Farshaun would stand with Railing. Skint and the last of the Trolls would stand with her. They would put their backs to the wall of the overhang, their defensive line reduced to less than a dozen yards. There was no longer any point in trying to defend the precipice. Their attackers could not be kept off the heights—the past two
nights had shown them that much.

  She did not mention the Speakman. There was no need to. Everyone already knew how useless he would be. He had lapsed into a state approaching catatonia, barely able to converse with Farshaun and seemingly unaware of any of the others. It had been a mistake to bring him, Mirai knew. He wasn’t up to this. He crouched in the lea of the overhang, hunkered down with his face averted, muttering and hugging himself.

  “He’s never going to be the same after this,” Railing muttered to her at one point.

  She stood close to Railing as the darkness deepened and the twilight hush began to fill with night sounds. Seersha had provided her with a pair of short swords, weapons with which she was familiar and skilled. Oddly, although Railing was the better equipped of them to defend against what was coming, she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was the one who needed protecting. The loss of his brother had unnerved him; she could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. Their separation, so unfamiliar to both, was wearing on him. Railing was strong, but the thought of anything happening to Redden was breaking him down.

  There was little time to consider it further. Their attackers swarmed over the precipice shortly after the darkness had drained away the last of the light. Seersha had ringed the defenders inside a thin line of liquid she had conjured with magic and now lit with Druid Fire, giving them a protective barrier. When the Gnome creatures tried to come through it, they caught fire instantly, turning into balls of flame that skittered this way and that, howling in anguish as they died. But the fire lasted only as long as the magic, and when it finally went out their attackers were on them.

  Mirai fought side by side with Railing, each protecting the other and both trying to protect Farshaun. But the old Rover was soon too weak to continue and dropped to the ground senseless. Railing’s use of the wishsong threw back most of their assailants, and Mirai’s quick hands and sure use of her blades cut down the rest. Whatever manner of beings these creatures were, they seemed to possess no threshold point where they would break and run. No matter what the defenders did to drive them off, they refused to quit. It was disheartening and eventually terrifying, and after a while Mirai began to sense that there was no way this battle could be won.

  Then Skint went down, felled by a blow from a club, and suddenly they were four. A moment later the last of the Trolls went down, and then they were three. A handful of their attackers got behind them and seized the Speakman. He shrieked and howled as they dragged him out into the open and then gave a strangled gasp and went silent as they cut his throat.

  Railing, Mirai, and Seersha were backed up against one another, surrounded on all sides. It was over for them, Mirai knew. Their strength was depleted and their numbers reduced to where they were too few to hold off their attackers. One by one, they would be cut down. Even their formidable magic was not going to be enough. Already it was showing signs of failing both the Druid and the boy, leaving them ashen-faced and gasping for breath.

  “Get behind me,” Railing told Mirai as the creatures massed for another rush.

  He was covered in ash and grime, and his face was hard in the darkness. He looked a dozen years older, and she was stricken at the thought of losing him.

  “I’m right here,” she said, tears flooding her eyes.

  Right to the end.

  But suddenly light flooded the darkness overhead, spearing down to the precipice and illuminating the hordes of attackers. A familiar whine broke through the sounds of battle, and a flit shot out of the darkness and plunged into the fray. Rail slings released their deadly missiles, sweeping aside scores of attackers, and a fire launcher’s deadly beam incinerated dozens more. Instantly the tide of battle shifted. Even for creatures as determined and blood-crazed as these, this was too much. They broke and ran, disappearing over the edge of the precipice and into the night.

  Mirai wanted to shout aloud what she was feeling, but she settled for hugging Railing instead. Somehow, against all odds, the Rovers had found them!

  Still holding on to Railing, who was swallowing hard and murmuring, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” over and over, she watched the flit swing around and settle onto the bluff. The pilot, wrapped in leathers and a protective mask, stepped out of the cockpit and looked around cautiously before coming over.

  Mirai felt a twinge of surprise. She knew at once who it was.

  Austrum reached her, pulled off the mask, took her out of Railing’s arms, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked her.

  She shook her head no, too shocked to speak.

  “Courting you is very hard work,” he said, looking her in the eyes and holding her gaze. “But worth it.”

  Then he kissed her again.

  11

  In that same hour, far to the east in Arishaig, the assassin Stoon approached the sprawling compound that housed the offices and residences of the Federation Coalition Council. It was raining—a torrential downpour, thunderclouds massed overhead and the skies filled with flashes of lightning and long peals of rolling thunder. Cloaked and hooded, a wraith abroad on a gloomy night, the assassin passed through a door used by servants and laborers—a door that was locked, but to which he possessed a key.

  Keeping to the shadows, he made his way along the courtyard walls and then through a little-used rear door to the building that housed the Prime Minister’s residence. He slipped inside a darkened entryway, pausing to make certain he was alone. But there were no guards at this level or any servants about at this time of night. He shed his cloak and moved swiftly down the hall to the secret passage, triggering the release to the hidden door and passing through to an even deeper darkness.

  It was musty and cobwebbed within, and he could hear rats scurrying in the walls. He found the candle he required to light his way, lit it, and started up the stairs to the next floor, moving on cat’s feet, his senses straining to catch any unusual or unexpected noises. But there were only the rats and the sound of his breathing.

  Just like old times.

  He thought momentarily of Drust Chazhul, dead now for over a week, lying in the ground to which he had been hastily consigned by a handful of the soldiers who had followed him to Paranor—a handful lucky enough to survive the doom that had overtaken their fellows and with no love for the late Prime Minister and no reason not to want him dead and buried. They would keep their mouths shut; they did not wish to be connected to the deed and had been made to understand that silence was what would keep them alive. It was an easy bargain to make. Drust Chazhul was nothing to them. He was just another in a long line of politicians who had found countless ways to make their personal lives difficult and their lot as soldiers more trying.

  Stoon thought of Drust without sadness or regret. He had killed Drust because the Prime Minister had become an obstacle to his own ambitions. In his trade, you looked out for yourself first and foremost. He might serve a master or mistress from time to time, but it was never for long and never with any thought of permanent attachment. That he had stayed with Drust for as long as he had was something of an oddity. He doubted it would ever happen again.

  Even with her.

  He reached the next floor and turned down the hidden passageway leading to the Prime Minister’s chambers. How many times had he made this journey? How often over the years had he followed this very route through the bowels of the compound to meet in secret and plan great things? It would have been impossible to say, and in any case unnecessary to speculate. The past had no meaning in these matters. It was always about the future and what great promises the future might hold.

  Farther down the corridor, several twists and turns later, he reached another set of stairs and climbed to the third floor. As he did so, he flashed back to the killing and recalled Drust’s face as the knife slid home and his life thread was severed. An image of it hung suspended in the air before him, fully remembered from the moment the killing had occurred. Shock and dismay, confusion, and a clear sense that
something was terribly wrong—all had shown in the man’s dying features. Stoon savored the memory. It gave him an undeniable satisfaction. There were many others like it, but none that provided such a clear sense of fulfillment. Drust Chazhul had been a monster, bereft of any sense of moral obligation or purpose in life. He had only wanted to achieve power and then hang on to it. Such men were plentiful and always replaceable. Such men needed purging, and when the chance came to remove one, it was an opportunity to be exploited.

  Or so Stoon believed, and at the end of the day what else mattered but his own beliefs?

  At the head of the stairs he found a landing and a locked door. He looked to see that the signal candle was lit and then knocked softly, waiting for her voice before he used the second key. He entered the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. The light was better here, thanks to a series of lit candles arrayed about the room and the pale reflection of the torchlight that illuminated the courtyards, its rain-washed glow streaming through the windows.

  “You have news for me?” she asked softly, her voice low and seductive. She was sitting in her bed, wrapped in a silken robe, propped up by pillows and holding a tablet on which she had been writing.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he answered. “I do.”

  He extinguished the candle he was carrying and moved over to the chair he favored on these visits, wondering how the rest of the night would go.

  “Have you missed me?”

  He shrugged. “Always.”

  “Life with me is so much better than it was with Drust, isn’t it? So much more interesting?”

  “I’d be a fool to say otherwise.”

  “And you are not a fool, are you, Stoon? Not where I am concerned. Are you?”

  He watched Edinja Orle set down the tablet and rise from her bed. She walked over to where he sat, bent down, and kissed him on the lips. Her dusky skin smelled of sandalwood, and her long silver hair spilled over his face. “I didn’t hear your answer.”