The Dark Legacy of Shannara Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Terry Brooks

  There were guards on each side to keep his tormentors at bay, but they showed little interest in doing so. The Straken Lord had come by to look at him only once since the day ended. He had not spoken a word. He had watched his minions torment the boy, then moved on.

  Now, with darkness fully descended and the world around him gone fiery with torchlight, the smoke from the burning brands acrid and thick in the air, and the sounds of the camp an undiminished cacophony, Redden Ohmsford, already beyond despair, was just waiting to die. He no longer had any hope of escape or rescue or intervention on even the most basic level. His death was assured, and he had reached the point where he would welcome it.

  Somehow he kept from crying out, even though the urge was so strong it threatened to break free in spite of his efforts to hold it in. But it was the one aspect of his life he could still control, and he was afraid if he gave in to it, he would be lost entirely. So he went deep into his mind and dredged up tiny scraps of memories that he had all but forgotten and tried to re-create them fully. If he worked at it hard enough, it took him away from his immediate surroundings and placed him in a softer world of better days.

  It didn’t save him entirely, but it allowed him to stay reasonably sane. It gave him respite from his misery. It allowed him small moments of time in which to regroup.

  But it wasn’t enough and he knew it.

  The smells and sounds of the camp invaded his cage. The stink of the Straken Lord’s creatures and their animals—especially the monstrous wolves with their rangy muscular bodies, bristling hides, and glowing eyes that prowled the perimeters of his cage—as well as the stench of the raw, bloodied foods that fed the army permeated the air. Chains rattled and traces creaked; wagon wheels rumbled through the camp—great iron-rimmed wooden disks that could crush anything unfortunate enough to fall in front of them. Breath steamed in the cooling air. Raucous laughter, screams, and shouts rose and fell with the power of an ocean crashing over rocky shores.

  Redden’s thoughts were of Railing and home, but they were disjointed and confused, and one memory bled into another. He could feel them re-forming—an amalgam of separate and distinctively different shards forming a larger, more cohesive creature that was false in most respects. But even realizing what was happening, he refused to let go. If he could not manage to separate out the bits and pieces that were real, he would settle for the imagined whole that wasn’t. Building on it in the darkness of his mind, with the horror all around him closing in, he could feel himself disappearing a little at a time, becoming steadily more removed from the reality of his life. In his musings, in his re-created memories, he found relief and sanctuary of a sort that demanded only that he let go of the real and embrace the imagined.

  He found it to be a small trade-off.

  Yet he was strangely detached from the process. He could feel his mind going, could sense the erosion of his sanity, but was too weary and too beaten down to stop it from happening.

  Just let this end, he begged into the dark.

  Just let it be over.

  Oriantha left the shelter of the rocks running in a low crouch, not wanting to be caught silhouetted against the horizon even though the sky provided little more than a dim skein of starlight from scattered breaks in a heavy blanket of clouds and mist. She moved swiftly, keeping on a direct course as she went. She was not yet close enough to the Straken Lord’s camp to be worried that she might stumble on any of its members, but Tesla Dart had warned of prowling Furies and she sniffed the air as she went, trusting her shape-shifter instincts to warn her of the vicious little beasts.

  Because if they found her, she was finished.

  But she did not believe this would happen. Her confidence was high and her determination strong. She would find Redden Ohmsford and she would bring him out of his prison to safety before the night was over. For she had her own Furies buried deep inside, and they were every bit as dangerous as the real thing.

  She was still some distance from the perimeter of the camp when something small and dark flashed by her boot. A second later Lada was in front of her, standing on his hind legs, chirping softly. He watched her for a moment, then dropped down on all fours and scurried away. Quickly he was back again, peering up at her.

  She understood. He wanted her to follow.

  She smiled. In spite of all her predictions of doom and gloom, Tesla Dart had sent Lada to lead Oriantha into the camp and to the cage of Redden Ohmsford.

  She changed then, discarding her human form, turning into a phantasm composed of shadows and smoke. She was transparent and amorphous as she moved down through the darkness toward the camp, a shapeless gathering of detritus from fire and dust. Lada scurried on ahead of her, zipping first one way, then another, always careful to make certain no one was looking and to choose a path cloaked in shadow.

  It was a long journey to their destination, and more than once Oriantha thought she had been discovered by one of the enemy. A head that was lifted and swiveled, searching. A voice that paused in mid-sentence and went still as eyes shifted warily. A near collision that was avoided only by her quickness. A shriek or a snarl that signaled a suspicion all was not right.

  On each occasion, she was in danger of discovery. Her shape-shifting abilities had their limitations. So long as she remained untouched by a living creature, she could remain hidden from view. But if she were bumped or grabbed or just brushed against even for an instant, her disguise would fail and she would be revealed. If that happened, she would have no chance. She was stronger and quicker than most, but she was surrounded by enemies who would overwhelm her by sheer numbers long before she could get clear of them.

  She pressed ahead nevertheless, wafting through the Jarka Ruus as if she were just a part of the campfire smoke. She followed Lada, but tried to choose paths that were less crowded and more easily navigated. She had gone into a mind-set where she was exactly the thing she was pretending to be, all the way down to lacking real substance or cohesion. It was extremely taxing, requiring intense concentration. She had carried off this particular effort before, but not when the risk of discovery was so great or when the time required for maintaining the disguise was so protracted.

  The minutes dragged. Lada kept going, darting here and there, a quick bit of movement beneath boots and clawed feet and iron-rimmed wheels. Oriantha expected the Chzyk to be crushed at any moment, but he always managed to avoid the worst. At one point, he darted so far ahead that Oriantha lost sight of him completely, and was then cut off by a clutch of Goblins that crossed her path while hauling weapons and supplies. She was forced to wait until she could get clear of the crowd before trying to continue, advancing blindly through the masses, trying to maintain the same direction, searching for something that would tell her where to go.

  But then Lada reappeared, coming back for her in a series of short rushes that took him through scores of creatures, stopping long enough to let her see him before turning back again and darting off.

  The hunt continued for almost an hour. The Straken Lord’s camp was huge and his army massive. Stopping and starting again was frequently necessary. Detours and changes of direction were mandated by a continual shifting of the positions of the creatures all about them. But they pressed on, Oriantha managing her disguise and keeping her eye on Lada until time lost meaning and her thoughts were of nothing but continuing her advance.

  When it finally reached a point where it seemed her ordeal would never end, Oriantha stumbled into a cluster of tents that included one so large she was certain she had found Tael Riverine’s quarters. Seconds later she rounded a tent wall—and there was the cage, with the crumpled form of Redden Ohmsford inside it.

  She stopped where she was, pressed close against the canvas as she watched Lada rush toward the cage then veer off sharply as one of the prowling wolves wandered too close. Oriantha could see the danger of trying to do more. Even if the Chzyk managed to leap into the cage to allow the boy to see him, he would be completely visible to anyone
looking in. A quick snatch of a hand or snap of jaws and it would be over. Oriantha held her breath as the Chzyk tried to approach the cage a second time. This time one of the wolves turned its head toward the little creature and sniffed the air, growling deep in its broad chest.

  Lada had endured enough. He darted back to where Oriantha hovered in her smoke-and-dust form and looked about for her. Then, having done what he had been sent to do and having no way to reach the cage that held the boy, he scurried back the way he had come and was gone.

  Oriantha held her position by the tent wall, studying the movements of the wolves and the Goblin guards. The guards remained stationary when they weren’t chasing away the curious and the troublesome, but the wolves roamed aimlessly through the entire area surrounding the cage and what she was assuming to be the Straken Lord’s tent. She could find no pattern to their movements, and it was impossible to know from one moment to the next what they were going to do. If she attempted to reach the cage, she would have to react to their wanderings and sudden changes of direction spontaneously.

  It was an incredibly dangerous situation. One mistake and the game would be up. One small bump against one of those wolves and she would be revealed.

  But she had known the risks before she set out and had come too far to turn back now. And looking at the slumped figure of Redden Ohmsford, she thought she was probably too late in any case. She hadn’t seen him move since she had found him. She hadn’t seen any sign of life at all.

  Still, they had him caged, and that meant they were keeping him a prisoner. So he must be alive.

  She knew she was thinking too hard about what she needed to do and should just get on with it. Tightening her disguise and dropping farther into her shape-shifter mind-set, she eased away from the canvas wall of the tent and moved toward the cage.

  Right away one of the wolves stopped where it was and began to sniff the air. Nervously, Oriantha slowed but did not cease her forward movement. She kept easing ahead through the smoky light, all darkness and wafting gray haze, indistinguishable from the air. The wolf sniffed about a few more times before losing interest and resuming its wanderings. None of the other wolves seemed to have detected anything. But they growled and snarled at one another and anything else that came too close, enough so that even the Goblin guards shifted uneasily at their positions in front of the cage.

  But just as it seemed she might reach the cage safely, she sensed that something was out of place. She slowed further, her instincts sparking inside her shape-shifter form in tiny bursts, too strong for her to ignore. There was magic at work—a strong magic—and close at hand. She reached out for it, seeking its source. Not the wolves or the Goblin guards, she decided. Nor was it attached to anything moving; it was stationary, but very close. Her attention returned to the cage, and she moved right up to one corner, staying between the guards on either side as she peered in, able to see Redden Ohmsford clearly and note the tiny movements of his body as he breathed.

  He was still alive.

  Her gaze shifted to the door of the cage, situated right behind the Goblin on her right. It was fastened in place by a simple hook lock and chain. Much too easy to break apart if someone strong enough attempted a rescue.

  Then she scanned the cage again. The magic she had sensed was recognizable now. It encased Redden Ohmsford’s prison from floor to ceiling and wrapped the iron bars front-to-back. She couldn’t be completely certain what it might do if disturbed, but she could take a reasonable guess. Try to force your way past it, and a reaction of some sort would follow.

  She backed away. Her choices were simple. She could ignore the magic, force her way inside the cage anyway, and take her chances. She could give up her disguise long enough to pull the boy out of his imprisonment, then attempt to reapply it so that it covered both of them and steal him away before the guards and the wolves overwhelmed her.

  Or she could back off and wait for another, better chance, hoping that at some point in time she would find one. She could leave Redden Ohmsford to his fate and hope he would survive it.

  She held herself perfectly still while she considered. Her strength was already depleted by the long struggle to get this far. She believed she could get out again, even carrying Redden, but not if she had to break him free and fight her way out.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she backed away from the cage, realizing she must do the one thing she had told herself she would not do.

  But how could she leave him?

  Inside the cage, Redden was deep inside his mind, neither asleep nor awake, but in a state that took something from each. He was remembering a time when he was very little and had become separated from Railing while playing in the yard. He had gone off to look for him. Had he found him? Or had he become lost himself and subsequently found by his brother?

  Still searching for the elusive fragments of his memory, he was awakened by a violent commotion just outside his cage. He snapped back into the present, the memory gone in a heartbeat. He lifted himself on one elbow and peered out to see a tremendous fight between two of the wolves and one of the Goblin guards. The guard was down and his body was already ripped open in several places; his blood was everywhere. No one was trying to do anything about it, but then who would be bold enough to get between the dying Goblin and the wolves?

  He closed his eyes and lay down again. What did any of it matter?

  Then he heard a voice speaking to him in a whisper so soft he almost missed it.

  Redden. Don’t give up. I am close.

  He took a quick, startled breath.

  The voice belonged to Oriantha.

  9

  Edinja Orle had Arlingfant carried from the cellars to the upper levels of her home and deposited in her former room. The girl was nearly hysterical, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably, barely able to keep from falling apart completely. Shocked by what she had witnessed in the building’s cellars, horrified that men could be altered in the ways Edinja had mastered long ago, she was clearly terrified that the same thing might happen to her. That was the point, of course. Edinja wanted the girl frightened enough that she would prove compliant when it was necessary.

  She locked the door to the bedroom as she left and beckoned to the serving woman who was standing just outside on watch.

  “Give her fresh water in two or three hours. Make sure it comes from there.” She pointed to the ceramic pitcher on the table across the way. “Otherwise, keep her locked in.”

  She walked the hall to the main staircase and started down. She had given as much time to this matter as she could spare. As Prime Minister, she had duties and obligations to fulfill. A general meeting of the Coalition Council was scheduled for midday, and she would be expected to give an address. What she would say was problematic, but she was beginning to get an idea of what might best serve to further her current undertaking. In any case, it would be hours before she could return here.

  As she descended the staircase, she was thinking ahead—well beyond this day or even this week. Ahead to when she had Aphenglow Elessedil in her power and the Elfstones in her grasp. Ahead to when she had located and dispatched whoever had stolen the Ellcrys seed and claimed the seed for herself. Ahead to when she could begin to see all her planning and scheming and manipulating result in the goal she had set herself many years ago.

  Domination over not only the Federation but the remainder of the Four Lands, as well.

  It was an end toward which she had been working long before she became Prime Minister of the Federation, or even before she knew for certain how she would achieve what she was trying to accomplish. Like most members of the Orle family—or at least those who practiced magic—a certain mysticism governed her decisions and actions. It was in the nature of magic users to rely on the unseen and the unknown. It was a sort of trust in the belief that if you wanted magic to perform in a certain way badly enough and you were willing to put aside what was said to be impossible, you could always find a way.

  She supposed, in
that respect, she was not so different from Drust—save for the all-important fact that she had the means and the skills to achieve what she wanted and he didn’t.

  On the next level of her descent, she turned down the hallway and went to her personal quarters. Her bedroom was lavishly decorated with fine furniture, carpets, silk throws, tapestries, and paintings. Racks of clothing filled a series of deep alcoves that lined one wall, and a bureau made of teak and black maple displayed bottles of exotic liquids. Cinla was sprawled on her sleeping pad at the foot of her bed, but she lifted her head as Edinja entered.

  “Beautiful Cinla,” she cooed as she reached down to stroke the cat’s silky neck and ears. She spent some time giving her special attention, speaking soft nothings to the big moor cat, listening to the sounds of pleasure she made at her touch.

  When she was finished caressing Cinla, she moved over to her clothing racks to choose a garment for her appearance before the Coalition Council. She was vain and prideful and not in the least reluctant to admit it. She knew how to sway men and women to her cause and how to keep troublemakers at bay. And how she looked was a part of the process.

  She dressed slowly, thinking about all she had accomplished over the past ten years and reveling in the sense of satisfaction it gave her.

  It started with her experiments at changing humans into creatures that could better serve her purposes. Such efforts had been a part of the Orle canon of magic through the centuries, but she had managed to advance the study to heights previously unattained. Not only did she discover a combination of chemicals and magic that would create obedient servants, but she also found a way to turn them into thinking creatures capable of making decisions within the framework of a set of commands she provided in advance.