High Druid's Blade : The Defenders of Shannara (9780345540713)

by Brooks, Terry

  “What do you mean?” Paxon said.

  “I’m from the deep Southland. From Sterne. Not too many raised that far inside the Federation find their way to Paranor.”

  “But you did?”

  “I wasn’t satisfied with what the Federation had to offer. I didn’t accept that I wasn’t supposed to use magic if I could manage to do so. That sort of rule feels artificial. So I went north and asked the Druids if they would take me. Some of them wouldn’t have, I suspect. But the Ard Rhys did. She never questioned me, never asked for a reason, and never suggested I wasn’t to be trusted because of where I came from. She worked with me personally for a time, and then gave me over to Isaturin. That was daunting. He was very precise, very demanding. A tough teacher. But I came through, and now I am a full-fledged member of the order.”

  He gave Paxon a look. “You know, you should give some thought to joining the order, too. It might be possible, once you’ve proved your value as a paladin.”

  “I didn’t come to Paranor to join the order,” Paxon said quickly. “I don’t think it’s for me.”

  Starks rose and stretched. “Give it time. You might not know what’s for you this soon. And don’t underrate yourself. You can do and be anything you want.”

  He went off for a nap, leaving Paxon to clean up the lunch, which the Highlander set about doing. At least he was performing a useful task.

  They set down for the night halfway across the Tirfing in a copse of conifers that offered some protection from winds that had picked up late in the day and suggested a change in the weather. As the pair ate dinner with the Trolls, they could feel a sudden rise in the temperature.

  “We’re going to get some rain,” Starks declared, the firelight reflecting from his different-colored eyes. “A lot of rain.”

  They went belowdecks to sleep that night, heeding the Druid’s warning, and by midnight the rain was hammering against the sloop’s hull and the vessel was rocking and straining against her anchor ropes, buffeted by the heavy winds. The motion was familiar to Paxon, who had been aboard airships all his life, so he slept undisturbed until one of the anchor ropes broke and the clipper began slamming against the trunks of the trees in which she had been moored.

  So throwing off his blanket, he went topside with the Trolls and down the rope ladder to fasten fresh ropes in place to resecure the ship. By the time that was done, he was drenched, and because it was near morning he chose not to try to go back to sleep. Instead, he sat up until dawn, listening to the howl of the wind and thinking about other times. He wished that Starks would be more open with him about what to expect, but he accepted that this might not happen. Starks was closemouthed and reticent, and Paxon believed the man pretty much preferred his own company. That he had taken as much time with the Highlander as he had at their initial meeting seemed surprising in retrospect.

  He found himself thinking of his family and home. He had been back only once since coming to Paranor, in spite of his promises to his sister and mother—a fact he found troubling. He could argue that he had been too busy with his training, which was admittedly demanding, but the truth was that he had chosen to stay away. Going back before he had accomplished something worth talking about didn’t feel right. And to date, that hadn’t happened. Perhaps after this journey was over and he had helped retrieve the magic they sought, he would make another visit.

  Perhaps.

  When dawn arrived, the storm departed, moving eastward. The winds died and the temperatures dropped enough that the humidity faded. Starks, Paxon, and the Trolls ate their breakfast, released the mooring lines, and set out anew. They flew through the better part of the day, crossing the Tirfing to the Rock Spur Mountains, and finally descended into the Wilderun and the frontier town of Grimpen Ward.

  They landed some distance away from their destination, choosing a spot within the forest where the ship wouldn’t be likely to be found. Starks shed his black robes in favor of woodsman’s garb similar to what Paxon was wearing, and then the two set out on foot. Twilight was approaching, and the shadows cast by the trees were lengthening, absorbing the fading splashes of sunlight. The woods felt empty and watchful, its eyes those of creatures that made their homes there. They found a footpath that took them a short distance to a road. From there, they could just make out the outlying cabins and sheds of Grimpen Ward’s residents—ramshackle affairs with no sign of life. The road they followed was empty until they neared the main part of the town, where the first of the taverns spilled its patrons out one door and on to the next while new patrons pushed their way inside and women from the pleasure houses called out to them from the doorways and windows of their workplaces.

  A few dogs roamed the streets and alleyways as they made their way through the town, and carts and horses passed them by in a rumble of wheels and a clopping of hooves. Beggars came at them from everywhere, and pitchmen from the more exotic shows called out their promises, wild and tempting. Come see, come experience! Paxon glanced everywhere at once while Starks looked at nothing but the road ahead.

  When they reached the crossroads marking the town center, Starks brought them to a halt, then moved out of the road to an opening between two buildings and stood with his back to the wall. “Keep your eyes open,” he said to Paxon.

  Then he closed his own, and for long minutes was very still. When he opened them again, there was a hint of confusion on his face. “I’m picking up on more than one form of magic. That shouldn’t be.”

  “You can tell where it’s coming from?” Paxon wanted to know.

  “In general. I can sense the residue. The two are close to each other. Maybe they are even the same, reflecting different uses. In any case, we are not near them. They are all the way on the other end of the town.” He glanced about, looking up at the sky. “We should go before it gets any darker.”

  They set out anew, maneuvering their way through the growing crowds, keeping to themselves, trying to avoid unwanted encounters. It was difficult to make headway, the streets filling quickly with the approach of nightfall and the air pungent with the promise of nighttime pleasures. Several times they were accosted, but Starks gently moved those who stopped them away with a touch of his fingers to his lips and a small twisting gesture.

  Eventually they reached the far end of the town, the buildings just beginning to give way once more to the forest, lights in windows and streetlamps brightening with the coming of darkness. Starks slowed as they reached a tavern whose sign announced it as the Mudland Rose.

  “This is where we want to be,” he said to Paxon. “The magic is close by, but we will have to sniff it out. I will ask the questions, and you will watch my back. If anything looks awry—anything at all—tap me on the shoulder. Don’t hesitate. If there is another magic hunter inside, we don’t want to be caught off guard.”

  Paxon nodded. With Starks leading the way, they pushed through the double doors and entered the tavern.

  Inside, it was a madhouse. Men and women were crowded up against one another shoulder-to-shoulder, with barely space to move about. The room was cavernous and so dark and smoky that Paxon could not see into the murky corners and higher spaces at all. Patrons stood three-deep at the serving bar, and all the tables were filled. The laughter and shouting were deafening.

  Starks took a quick look around, then began maneuvering his way toward the end of the counter where the serving girls were gathering tankards of ale on trays to carry to the tables. Paxon followed, trying to stay close. It required considerable effort, but they eventually reached their destination. Starks immediately bent to the closest server and whispered in her ear. She went white, nodded slowly, and did not turn to look at him. Instead, she mouthed something Paxon couldn’t hear, picked up her tray, and swiftly went about her business. Starks moved deeper into the room, Paxon following in his wake, using him as a buffer against the crowds. Although he was repeatedly jostled, he kept his feet and stayed close, scanning the crowds, taking in everything, thinking he might see some
thing that mattered.

  And then he did. At the very back of the room, a tall figure, cloaked and hooded, rose from a table and went out through the back door. Two others sitting with him, thicker of build and heavily muscled, moved in front of the door and stood blocking it.

  “Starks!” Paxon hissed, tapping him hurriedly on the shoulder.

  The Druid glanced back at him, followed his gaze, and nodded. “How many others?”

  “Only one that I saw. He went out through the door just ahead of those two. I can’t be certain, but it looked like …”

  He let the rest hang, so uncertain his eyes had not deceived him he didn’t want to finish the thought. Starks was already moving anyway, making for the door and the men guarding it, no longer evidencing even a trace of the careless disinterest that had marked his earlier behavior aboard ship. Paxon started to reach for his sword, but the patrons of the tavern were packed together so tightly that he couldn’t find space to maneuver.

  Starks wasn’t waiting anyway. He came up to the men without slowing, felled one with a fist that shimmered with blue fire as it connected, and stunned the second with a bolt of that same fire flung from his hand in a brilliant flash. Both men went down, and Starks was past them and out the door to the yard behind the tavern, Paxon at his heels.

  In the next instant a shock wave of black light exploded into them, throwing them back against the rear wall of the tavern. Starks was leading, so he took the brunt of the strike and lay motionless on the ground. But Paxon was only momentarily stunned, and he came back to his feet swiftly, drawing the Sword of Leah as he did. Another flash of fire exploded toward him, but this time Paxon caught it on the edge of his black blade and shattered it into harmless fragments. In the dying light, he saw that the attack had come from a stable set out behind the tavern at the end of the lot—a smallish structure with a handful of stalls and a maintenance shed. He also caught a glimpse of two figures crouched within the shed’s entrance.

  Then everything went dark again, and Paxon was forced to wait until his vision adjusted. Crouched in the night’s gloom, aware of Starks unmoving behind him and the figures ahead waiting, he held his ground, ready for a fresh attack.

  When he could see again, the entrance to the stable was empty, and the figures were gone. He advanced warily, thinking it might be a trap. But when he reached the building, he could tell it was deserted. There weren’t even any horses in the stalls.

  He was about to go back to see to Starks when he noticed the dark bundle in a corner at the rear of the structure. Casting a quick look around, he went over for a closer look and found a boy of perhaps eighteen, his hands and feet bound and his body badly mutilated. It looked as if he had been cut and burned repeatedly. His eyes were wide and staring, and his mouth was stretched as if trying to scream. He must have died in the midst of whatever torture he was enduring. Paxon found and lit a lamp and bent close to the boy. Blood stained the ground surrounding the body, and he could make out the markings of strange boot prints.

  “Federation issue,” Starks said, bending close. He was back on his feet, but one side of his face and body were heavily singed. “But these were people who knew magic, not common soldiers. That boy was subjected to a lot of pain, both internal and external. They wanted something from him, and I would be surprised if they didn’t get it.”

  “The magic we were hunting?”

  “That, for certain. But I think they wanted something else—something that wasn’t so tangible. Perhaps an explanation for how he found the magic. Or how he learned to use it. Or where he heard of it.” He looked at Paxon. “How many of them did you see?”

  “Two. The one who left the tavern ahead of us and a second who must have already been out here waiting. What’s going on? Did both forms of the magic you sensed earlier belong to these two men? Or did one belong to whatever talisman the boy was hiding?”

  “I’m not certain. At least one form of magic was what killed this boy, so we know that much. To know anything more, we would have to find the men who did this. If they were men.”

  Paxon stared at him. If they were men? What else would they be? Were they dealing with some other form of creature?

  “Let’s go after them,” he said abruptly. “Maybe we can still catch them.”

  Starks gave him a look. “Maybe they would like that.” Then he shrugged. “Let’s do it anyway.”

  They set out at once. Starks seemed to know where he was going, his head lifted, his eyes peering through the darkness as if he could see beyond it. They went at a fast trot, heading farther outside the town in the opposite direction from which they had come, following a narrow pathway into the trees. The shouts and laughter of Grimpen Ward slowly faded away, and the night’s stillness grew deep and pervasive. The only sounds now were of their own breathing and footfalls as they ran. Paxon had his sword out, ready for use, fully expecting that he would need it. Starks didn’t object. Once or twice, as they were running, Paxon caught sight of familiar boot prints in the soft earth ahead, and he knew they were on the right track.

  Ahead, the woods opened onto a broad treeless stretch of pasture, and an airship sat bathed in moonlight on its far side. Two figures were running toward it and had nearly reached it.

  “Leah! Leah!” roared Paxon, caught up in the moment, and with a sudden burst of speed he raced right past Starks in an effort to catch the fleeing men.

  He should have used better judgment. Ordinary men would have offered no threat to him from this distance. But magic users were another story. They turned, and the entire pasture lit up with explosions of green fire. It had the look and feel of an attack by flash rips and fire launchers, and Paxon was suddenly dodging this way and that to avoid being struck. He heard Starks calling out to him from behind, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to respond.

  One of the men abandoned the attack and scrambled aboard their two-man, powering up the diapson crystals and preparing to lift off. Paxon ran harder, close enough now that he thought he could launch his own attack.

  But in the next instant he was struck a powerful blow that lifted him off his feet and threw him backward, his clothing on fire and his ears ringing. He collapsed, still clinging to his sword, fighting to stay conscious. An instant later Starks was bending over him, smothering the fire with a sort of dry mist that spilled from his fingers. Paxon gasped for breath and tried to sit up, hearing the sound of the airship ascending into the night sky.

  “Stay where you are,” Starks ordered, pushing him down again. “It’s too late now. They’ve gone. What were you thinking, anyway?”

  “I just thought … they might panic … and then I could catch them,” he gasped. “Stupid, I know.”

  The Druid felt carefully along his arms and legs and torso. “No harm done, apparently. But don’t ever do that again or it will be your last outing with the Druids. Am I understood?”

  Paxon nodded. “Can I get up now?”

  Starks pulled him to his feet. “At least we know a few things we didn’t know before.”

  “We do?”

  The Druid grinned. “Well, for one, we know you can’t readily disengage your brain from your impulses. You’ll have to work on that. I’ll tell you the rest on our flight back to Paranor. Come along. And put that sword away, please.”

  Feeling both exhilarated and sheepish, Paxon Leah did as he was told.

  TEN

  ON THEIR RETURN FROM GRIMPEN WARD, STARKS AND PAXON went immediately to the Ard Rhys to give their report. It was not a comfortable situation. Nothing they had set out to do had been accomplished. They had failed to find and claim the source of the magic the scrye waters had detected. The user—a boy not yet fully grown—was dead, likely at the hands of the men who had stolen the magic and escaped the Druids. A thorough investigation of the matter failed to turn up any explanation of what the magic was or how the boy had found it in the first place. No one had seen him use it; no one knew anything about how he had found it. No one even knew much about
the boy himself. He was an orphan who had come looking for work several years ago and been hired to care for the horses of the inn guests. He lived in the maintenance shed and had no friends.

  But, as he had indicated to Paxon, Starks had a couple of pieces of information he felt the Ard Rhys would find useful. First, it was clear that at least one of the men they had fought was a powerful magic wielder with skills the equal of his own. Second, the Druid had noted that the vessel their attackers had been flying had Federation markings, and it was likely the men aboard were in some way connected to the Southland.

  “But this is the most important piece of information, Mistress,” he finished. “The men who stole the magic were expecting us. Clearly, they were magic hunters, and they would have taken precautions in any case. But they had set up a watch inside the tavern, and they knew us for who we were even though I wasn’t wearing the Druid robes that would identify us. They had it in their minds to kill us, and they very nearly did. But how did they know to look for us? How did they know we were coming?”

  Aphenglow regarded him steadily. “You don’t think it was simply luck, I gather?”

  “I don’t. I wish I did. But I think someone knew we were coming and told them so.”

  “A spy.”

  “Within the order. Yes. It is the best explanation, though not the easiest to accept.”

  “No, hardly that.” She looked out her window for a long time, saying nothing. “Why would anyone go to so much trouble to claim a magic that seemed to have so little value? It was a minor magic when it revealed itself to the scrye. Is it possible it was much stronger than we believed? Or that it somehow evolved?”

  “That would be unusual,” Starks offered quietly.

  The Ard Rhys glanced at Paxon, who was doing his best not to be noticed. “What do you have to add to all this?” she asked suddenly. “You were there. What did you see that Starks didn’t?”