The Dark Legacy of Shannara Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Terry Brooks

  Until, finally, Garet Jax employed a twist and pull that yanked his adversary’s knife arm down and in, turning his own momentum against him. The man stumbled away, his own blade buried in his chest. He was still trying to figure out how it had happened when the Weapons Master finished him.

  Everything went silent then, a hush settling over the campsite and its occupants, living and dead. Garet Jax rolled to his feet, snuffed out the last of the flames that burned his clothing, and did a quick search of the shadows. Nothing moved, and no one else appeared.

  He turned back to Lyriana, remembering the crossbow. But she was still sitting on the log, the bolt lying at her feet. She watched him a moment, read the unasked question in his expression, and shrugged. “I was ready. He waited too long, so he missed me.”

  Garet Jax moved over to the dead men, pulled off their masks, and began to search them. All three had a triangle with a star at each corner tattooed on their right wrists. They were Het—mercenaries out of Varfleet, killers for hire and very good at their trade. He looked back at Lyriana. How a Het could have missed his target from no more than twenty feet, even at night and in shadow, was difficult to imagine.

  But he left the matter alone.

  “Come here,” she said.

  He complied, and she lifted away the remnants of his burned tunic, turned him about so she could examine his wounds, and then seated him on the log. Pulling a pouch from beneath her cloak, she began placing leaves against his burns. As soon as the leaves touched his skin, they began to dissolve, becoming a kind of paste that cooled and soothed. He sat quietly while she worked, surprised anew.

  “I have never seen such medicine before,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

  “You can find many things you never thought you would if your need is desperate enough,” she answered.

  When she was finished, she ran her hands over his shoulders, her touch making him shiver. It had been a very long time since he had been touched so. In seconds the last remnants of pain from his burns disappeared.

  “Now are you coming with me, Garet Jax?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Now I am,” he said.

  But he suspected she already knew as much.

  * * *

  They set out at sunrise, walking back into Tombara where he purchased a pair of horses and supplies for the trip ahead. She had said it would take them at least a week, so he spent his coins accordingly, allowing enough for a few days extra in case things did not go exactly as planned. He asked her what had happened to her supplies and weapons while traveling to find him, and she told him she had used up the first and had not bothered to bring the second. When he suggested she needed both for the journey back, she surprised him by saying weapons were of no use to her.

  Even so, he provided her with a long knife and sheath and a backpack. Since she had nothing to put into the backpack, he stuffed the blanket he had given her inside, along with a few coins, and suggested she rethink her needs.

  Then leaving her to make her own decision on the matter, he went down through the village and made a few discreet inquiries regarding the Het. Had anyone seen them? No. Had anyone talked to them? No. Apparently, they had tracked Lyriana all the way to where she had met with him and then decided he was the one she had come to find—and this was reason enough to put an end to both of them.

  Still, it bothered him. They had clearly followed Lyriana, but if she suspected this—which apparently she had—then why hadn’t she done more to hide her trail? She seemed capable enough about so many other things. Was she simply inexperienced at concealing her tracks?

  As they rode out of the village and traveled north along the base of the Wolfsktaag Mountains, he thought more than once to ask her. But each time he was on the verge of bringing the matter up, he backed away from doing so. It was hard to say why. Perhaps it felt too intrusive, too accusatory, when he did not want to appear to be either. Perhaps it bordered too closely on assuming a confrontational posture with someone he did not feel deserved it.

  Or perhaps it had something to do with the inexplicable need he felt to share her company, a compelling pull on him he could not begin to explain.

  Whatever the case, he let the matter drop and concentrated on the task of guiding them north along the base of the Wolfsktaag to where they could cross the Rabb River and travel on into the forests of the Upper Anar. By nightfall of the first day, they were well on their way toward the Ravenshorn and the darker forests that layered those jagged peaks all the way to the Tiderace.

  When it was nearing nightfall, he brought them to shelter provided by trees and a series of rock outcroppings. Once the horses were cared for and their camp set, he cooked them dinner. Afterward, they sat together in front of the fire and watched it turn slowly to embers.

  “Will your people join me in my fight against Kronswiff and his Het? How many of you live in Tajarin?”

  She gave him a look. “More than enough. But they are not war-like. They do not understand fighting. They are helpless in the face of aggression of the sort that Kronswiff represents. So, no, they will not help you.”

  He shook his head. It seemed hard to believe that any people could be so passive. Yet there were examples of this sort of domination throughout history, of a few intimidating many. He was being judgmental and he had no right to be so, especially when the leader of the enemy was a warlock. “Men do what they can, I guess.”

  “Men and women,” she corrected, as if the distinction was important. “Perhaps you will inspire us.”

  “Have you family?”

  “None. All of them have been gone a long time, save for my brother. He was one of those who stood up to the warlock.”

  He remembered something she had said earlier. “The warlock drains them, you said. He bleeds them out. Literally?”

  Wrapped in her heavy cloak, she had the look of a shade. Everything but her face was covered, and the shadows cast by the folds of her hood had reduced her features to vague outlines. He watched her consider his question and took note of the sudden stillness that had settled over her.

  “He bleeds them of their souls,” she said at last. “He feeds on them as a dracul does. It is the source of his power.”

  “He nourishes his own life with theirs?”

  Her eyes glittered. “He reduces them to husks. Then life fades and they are gone. I have watched it happen. I have witnessed the results of his invasion. He would have taken my life, as well, if he had found me. But I escaped his notice for a long time. And finally, at the urging of others, I fled the city and came looking for you.”

  She paused. “But I am not a good and noble person, so do not try to make more of me than what I really am—a coward, fleeing what I fear to face. I am the representative of my people, but I do this as much for myself as for them. I do not pretend to any sort of elevated status, or to a courage I do not possess, or to anything but desperation.”

  “I think you underrate yourself,” he said. “Coming to find me on your own, daring to risk capture and worse—that was brave.”

  “You risk more than I do.”

  “But I am better equipped to risk more. I have skills and experience.”

  And I have less to lose, he almost added. But he chose not to say that, because it would have required an explanation he did not want to give. He did not want to tell her his life held so little value that he barely cared if he lived or died. If he told her that, he would have to tell her, too, that the men he had killed and the risks he had taken were all he had to persuade him that his life had any meaning at all. When you began walking the path he had walked since he was twelve years of age, you found out quickly enough that it did not offer convenient escape routes. When you were so good that fears and doubts were almost nonexistent and challenges that heightened both were your sole pleasure in life, you kept walking because turning aside was a failure you could not tolerate.

  She moved over to sit beside him—an act that surprised and pleased him—and he suddenly fe
lt a need for her that was almost overpowering. He wanted to love her; he wanted her to love him back. What would it hurt, out here in the middle of nowhere? What harm could come of it, the two of them sharing a few fleeting moments of even the most temporal form of love.

  But when he reached out to take her hand in his, she drew back at once. “Don’t touch me,” she whispered. He watched her shrink visibly. “Please, just sit with me. Just be with me. I cannot give you more than that.”

  So he settled for what she was willing to offer, and they sat together until the embers died and the night closed down.

  But all the time he was thinking of what it would be like to share more.

  * * *

  They set out again at daybreak, the first light a slivery blush against the eastern horizon, creeping skyward above the mountains and trees of the Ravenshorn and the Anar. He had slept soundly after they had gone to bed, their brief closeness ended, and the feelings he had experienced the previous night now seemed a lifetime away. He could not recapture them, though he sought to do so as they rode. He was troubled by this, but even more troubled that he had wanted her so badly. It was not his way to desire the company of others. He lived alone, he traveled alone; he existed as a solitary man. It could never be any other way, and he knew this as surely as he knew that his skills set him apart in a dozen different ways from normal men and women. Yet her failure to respond to him had left him strangely despondent.

  Why did he feel this way? Why was Lyriana different from every other woman he had ever encountered? Because it was undeniable that she made him feel something others didn’t; he could admit it if not embrace it. He was attracted to her—had been attracted to her from the first—in a way that was both visceral and emotional. It was a deep and painful longing, one that transcended anything he had ever felt.

  Lyriana. What was it about her that compelled him so strongly? But try as he might, he could not identify it.

  They rode through the day, traveling north and east to the shores of the Tiderace, where the Ravenshorn ended in huge cliffs that rose thousands of feet over the waters of the ocean. There was no passage offered along the shoreline and no trails into the mountains that would allow for horses. So after spending the night where they stopped to make their camp, they released their horses the following day to find their way home again and set out on foot. This was new country to him, a place to which he had never traveled and about which he knew nothing. They walked all that day and the next, climbing and descending along narrow footpaths, wending their way among massive rock walls and towering peaks, as tiny as ants against the landscape. The air turned cold the higher they went, and on the third night it was so frigid they rolled into their blankets and huddled together for warmth inside a shallow cave. But there was little warmth to be found, and they rose early. That day was the worst, so bitter that ice formed on the surface of the rocks and the wind cut with the sharpness of a knife’s blade.

  But Lyriana never once asked to rest. He made her stop when he thought it necessary, but he never heard her complain and never saw her falter. She was amazingly strong and resilient, and she knew exactly where to go, leading him on with a determination and certainty that he did not once think to challenge.

  They spoke little as they proceeded, in part because of the wind’s howl and in part because she seemed to prefer it that way. His attraction to her did not diminish, but he sensed that she had moved away from him and might not come back again. He did not think it was anything he had said or done, but was instead based on something else altogether.

  Even in the absence of conversation, he watched her. He watched her all the time, compulsively and unrepentantly. She walked ahead of him, and he studied the movement of her body, her gait steady and fluid. He tried to look away, but found himself drawn back time and time again. Watching her was so pleasurable that he quickly found justification for doing so. She was in his care. She was vulnerable in ways he was not. She was right in front of him; where else was he supposed to look?

  At least it passed the time. It made his travel more pleasant.

  But it made his heart ache, as well. It made him think of things he had not thought about in years.

  On the eighth day, having crossed through the Ravenshorn and begun their descent on the far side, they came in sight of Tajarin.

  It was late in the afternoon, the skies heavily clouded and the smell of rain in the air. They were close enough to sea level by now that the chill was mostly gone, and a more temperate breeze warmed them sufficiently that Garet Jax had shed his travel cloak and strapped it over one shoulder. Lyriana still wore hers, however, seemingly indifferent to the rise and fall of the temperature. Ahead, through gaps in the peaks of the Ravenshorn, small swatches of dark water were visible where the Tiderace could be glimpsed. They were navigating a twisting path through deep clefts and narrow defiles when the way forward abruptly widened, and there was the city.

  Garet Jax stopped where he was and stared. To say that Tajarin was bleak was a monumental understatement. It was a ragged jumble of walls and battlements and towers that looked to have been charred by a massive fire that—in some long-ago time—had swept the city. Everything visible was blackened; no hint of color showed. Low-slung clouds scraped the tallest buildings and cast a pall over the whole of the city, leaving it layered in shadows. There were no people visible on the walls. Within, no one could be seen moving about.

  There were no lights anywhere, not even atop the watchtowers. The city looked dead.

  Who comes to a place like this?

  He could not imagine. It was certainly not a trade route; their journey in had confirmed that. There was nothing attractive or interesting about it, nothing that would bring people to visit for any but the most pressing of reasons.

  Lyriana caught his attention. “My people—those who are not already prisoners of Kronswiff—are in hiding. But make no mistake. The Het are abroad and keep watch upon this road—and on the Tiderace, as well.”

  He pondered how they might escape notice when entering the city. Nightfall would help, if the moon and stars stayed hidden behind the clouds and no torchlight revealed their approach. He studied the bending of the narrow road that led up to the city gates, and then visually backtracked its route to see if another choice might present itself.

  He found what he was looking for quickly enough. But while scaling the walls would prove easy enough for him, he wasn’t so sure about Lyriana. And he would need her help once he was inside to find his way.

  They descended farther, still sufficiently concealed against the dark backdrop of the mountains to escape being caught out. But once the way forward flattened and smoothed into a gentle slope leading up to the gates and the mountain walls fell away, he moved her back into the rocks.

  “Sit here,” he told her, after taking a quick look around to be certain they were well enough concealed.

  She sat obediently, finding amid the boulders a resting place against a broad stone surface. Leaving her there momentarily, he stepped back outside their shelter to scan the scarred walls of the city, making sure there was no fresh activity, then rejoined her.

  “We’ll wait here for darkness,” he said. “Then we’ll go into the city and find Kronswiff and his Het.”

  “What will you do when you find them?”

  His gray eyes found hers. “Whatever I think best.”

  “But you will set my people free?”

  He nodded, saying nothing. He took some bread from his backpack, tore off a hunk, and handed it to her. Then he took some for himself.

  “There are a great many for you to overcome,” she said.

  He shrugged. “There always are.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “Maybe you can. Do you know where Kronswiff can be found once we’re inside the walls?” He waited for her nod. “Then that will be help enough.”

  They were silent for a long time after that, finishing their spare meal and washing it down with water fr
om their skins. The darkness began to deepen as night settled in, and the wind died into a strange hushed silence.

  “Why do your people stay in Tajarin?” he asked. “What keeps them here?”

  She shrugged. “It is their home. For most, it is all they know. They seek quiet and seclusion; they desire privacy. They find it here.”

  “But doesn’t it bother them to be so isolated? Surely no travelers come this way, or any traders. How do you manage to live? Have you livestock of any sort? Or crops? How do you find food?”

  “We have gardens that in better weather yield crops. We have some livestock, a sufficient number that we don’t starve. Sometimes we leave long enough to bring back supplies from other places. But no one comes to Tajarin. Not even ships, as in the old days. There are not enough of us to bother with. And the waters of the Tiderace are treacherous. The risk is not worth it. Only Kronswiff and his Het have come here in my lifetime. No one else.”

  He hesitated. “Have you thought about leaving? About going somewhere else? Before now, I mean? Before you came looking for me?”

  She looked down at her feet. “Not before now.”

  The way she said it suggested that maybe she was considering the possibility. Perhaps because of him. But he said nothing of this, leaving the matter where it was. Another time, he would ask her, when this business with her people was over and done.

  He kept them waiting another hour, remaining in the concealment of the rocks, biding their time. Her reticence was a clear indicator of her wishes, and they talked little. He let her be until the light was gone from the skies and the blackness complete, and then he brought her to her feet and took her back out onto the road.

  The way forward was dark with shadows and gloom. His eyesight was good in the darkness—perhaps because he had spent so much time there—and after leaving the road he found their path to the walls of the city without difficulty. Standing motionless, he listened for long moments, but heard nothing. Producing a slender rope, he then fastened it to a collapsible grappling hook and heaved it over the wall. It caught on the first try, and after testing it with his weight he went up the wall like a spider. Once safely on top and having determined he was alone, he motioned for her to fasten the rope about her slender waist. Then he hauled her up, hand-over-hand, to join him.