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

by Brooks, Terry

  Once the air was filled with her smoky brew, she spoke the words of power and made the necessary gestures to enhance them—to invest them with her own emotions and dark imaginings—giving life and breath to inanimate substance. It was a rigorous, grueling effort, but anger and pain gave her strength.

  Slowly, the thing she was making took form.

  Initially, it was little more than an amorphous cloud, but as the magic grew stronger and more cohesive it took on human shape. Enough so that it developed arms and legs to go with its elongated body. It hung there in midair, a twisting embryo, a replicant of a nightmarish vision coming to life in the gloom and smoke and shadows. No sounds accompanied its birthing save those of the witch’s muttered incantations and labored breathing, and the faint hiss of venom expelled by the creature’s expansion.

  When everything else was done and the making all but complete, she infused her creation with weight and strength, and it sank from midair to stand upon the floor, taking final form and becoming what she had intended all along. It stood before her, misshapen in the way she had intended—a long, lean torso; short, powerful legs; multi-jointed arms meant to sweep up and gather in; skin like serrated leather; hands and feet ending in huge claws—and it acknowledged her with a voiceless inclination of its blunt face. It had a tiny slit for a mouth, a huge snout for smelling scent, and narrow yellow eyes that could see equally well in darkness or light.

  She let it stand before her as the air cleared of the magic’s detritus and the room was restored to its earlier condition, studying its features, admiring her handiwork. It stood quietly, showing no signs of impatience, looking about incuriously, breathing slowly and evenly. The long, lean body was muscular in a way that promised quickness and strength in equal measure. There was intelligence in its gaze, too, and the suggestion of a capacity for extreme violence. She would need both if it was to serve her properly.

  A hunter, she thought, pure and simple.

  She walked to the window, parted the curtains she had drawn earlier, and peered out. The night was still young. Plenty of time to find wayward children. Not many people would be abroad at this hour, and most would likely be sleeping. She thought the boy and the girl might have found shelter by now. Exhausted and frightened, they would be hoping to spend the night undisturbed. The girl might have escaped, but she would not be able to travel far in her present condition. The magic would have eroded her strength and left her barely able to walk. She would not be far from where Mischa stood now; it was almost certain that the boy had not yet been able to get her out of the city.

  No, they would still be here. Somewhere. Here, where her creature could track them down and reveal them.

  She walked back to stand before it, gathering up a handful of scent and shredded magic as she went, a clutch of essence from both the boy and the girl. She cupped it in both hands and held it out to the beast. It bent forward to inhale the scent, its snout wrinkling to reveal the teeth hidden within its mouth.

  “Hunt them!” she hissed.

  Aboard their Druid airship, Paxon Leah and Starks approached the city of Wayford, its lights a glimmering carpet in the otherwise deep midnight darkness. They had gotten a late start, and their arrival was well after the time they had intended. But delaying another day was unacceptable to the boy, and Starks—his usual nonchalant attitude evident once again—had simply shrugged and agreed they should set out immediately.

  It was the Ard Rhys who had delayed them, calling them to her quarters just as they were about to depart—a summons delivered by Sebec with such urgency that it was clear any refusal would be a mistake. Paxon was hopeful the delay would be only momentary, but it soon became clear that it was not to be. She brought them inside and sat them down, standing tall and strong before them in spite of her age and normally gentle demeanor.

  “Someone has taken the Stiehl,” she announced. “The theft was discovered yesterday, but the knife could have been taken anytime since your last inventory. What this means is that the most dangerous weapon we possess is now in the hands of someone who probably has plans for using it.”

  Paxon had never heard of the Stiehl, but it was easy to conclude from the darkness of her voice as she announced its theft that it was an important artifact.

  “We have no idea who took it?” Starks asked.

  “Not yet, but I have taken steps to find out. We have someone in our midst who is both a thief and a traitor to the order. This most recent theft makes four in the past year. The Stiehl is the most dangerous—the other three, including the scrye orb, considerably less so. You were summoned so that I could warn you to be careful. It is not altogether impossible that any of these weapons, but especially the Stiehl, might be used against you. This theft has Arcannen’s mark on it, and you are embarking on a journey to find him. Don’t be careless when you confront him.”

  Starks nodded and rose. “We are not the careless sorts,” he said. “Is there more?”

  “Only this. If you should find the knife, be certain that you bring it back.”

  When they left her chambers, Starks explained to Paxon about the history of the blade—how it was recovered by Walker Boh on his quest to the land of the Stone King and then brought to Paranor when the Keep, closed since the death of Allanon, was reopened. It was an ancient weapon forged of rare metals and infused with dark magic so that it could cut through anything, no matter how strong. It had been kept safe for most of the past thousand years, locked away in the Keep. To have it taken and returned to the larger world where it could be used for any number of terrible purposes was unsettling.

  “I want to talk to Sebec,” Starks announced. “He will be the one making inquiries. I want to know what he has found. I want to hear from him directly.”

  Together, they tracked down and confronted the young Druid, who gave them what information he had and asked Starks if he knew anything about anyone entering the artifact chambers. The conversation lasted longer than Paxon believed was necessary, but he kept his thoughts to himself and paid attention to what was being said. As it was, they learned nothing useful, and their plans for leaving were delayed by more than half a day.

  But now they were approaching their destination, and Paxon’s thoughts of the missing blade and the efforts mounted by the Ard Rhys to find it were forgotten in his focus on the search for Chrysallin. A fresh tension began to build, fueled by a mix of fear and expectation. She had been taken from her home almost a week ago. By now, anything could have happened to her. He was terrified that she might already be damaged in some unchangeable way. Arcannen didn’t seem above exacting revenge simply because his earlier efforts had been thwarted. And while Paxon believed he had more in mind than simple vengeance, he couldn’t quite make himself rule out the possibility. Whatever the case, there was ample reason for him to hurry his efforts and to find his sister with all possible haste.

  Starks had said nothing much of what he thought they should do, which was frustrating. He was the leader of this expedition, and Paxon would have liked to have known hours ago how they were going to go about it. But Starks had concentrated his efforts on flying, and Paxon had been reluctant to bring up the matter himself. He knew Starks had a penchant for not speaking of future events until they were close to being upon them.

  But now, climbing down from the pilot box and standing together on the darkened airfield by the manager’s office, he turned to Paxon and it seemed he would say something about their plans. Instead, he said, “Where is the field manager?”

  Paxon glanced around and pointed. “There’s someone over there.”

  The airfield manager was shambling toward them, coming from somewhere out among the moored aircraft. When he reached them, he tipped a battered cap and said, “Well met. Do you require service?”

  Starks nodded back. “Our ship needs to be watched over. Can you do that for us?”

  “For tonight?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow, too.” He glanced at Paxon. “It’s late for a visit,” he said,
lowering his voice. “Sleep might be a better choice.”

  Paxon shook his head doubtfully. He didn’t like the idea of waiting. “Is Arcannen about?” he asked the manager. “Is he in Wayford?”

  “Flew in this afternoon,” the man answered.

  “Traveling alone?”

  “If you don’t count his crew and his guards.”

  “No one else?”

  The man shrugged. “My son would know; he sees things better than I do. But he’s not here. Matter of fact, he left right after Arcannen flew in and didn’t come back.” He scratched his beard. “Been wondering about that. He’s late for the night shift. Usually I can depend on that boy.”

  “That would be Grehling?”

  “That’s him. Able and smart, though he’s got an independent streak a mile wide.” He shook his head. “You never know.”

  Instantly, Paxon had a dark premonition. He faced Starks squarely. “I don’t want to wait on this. I want my sister back.”

  Starks studied him a moment, and then he nodded. “All right. Let’s go get her.”

  TWENTY

  THE CITY WAS SILENT, THE STREETS EMPTY.

  It was well after midnight when Starks and Paxon began their walk toward Dark House. The former led the way, wrapped in his familiar black robes, hooded now and shadowy against the worn cobblestones, and Paxon kept close behind. The Highlander felt the weight of the Sword of Leah pressing against his back with every step he took, a reminder of what most probably lay ahead. He did not think for a minute that any rescue of Chrysallin would come without a struggle. This time would not be like the last. Arcannen would be fully prepared, aware of the power of the Sword and looking to catch him off guard one way or another.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the movement of shadows from within alleyways and along walls. Bits and pieces of darkness, layering and separating, changing shapes by the instant. They might be human or animal, tree limbs or bushes, or they might be nothing at all. He kept his focus on the roadway ahead, not trusting his vision, using his other senses to warn him of possible danger. The deeper into the city they went, the less easy it became to see what waited. A skein of fog was settling in, forming in a mix of cold air and city warmth, clogging the streets and alleyways as it slowly expanded, snaking this way and that in search of fresh space, flooding yards and open spaces, banking up against stone walls. It thickened steadily, tightening until they were enveloped.

  Starks slowed, studying the whiteness that obscured the way forward, clearly unhappy. He glanced over at Paxon, nodded to one side, and led him off the street and onto the walkway.

  There, he stopped and lifted his face to the sky.

  “Something is out there,” he whispered.

  They were only blocks from Dark House now, so Paxon assumed the Druid believed that whatever he was sensing had something to do with Arcannen. He waited patiently as Starks stood silent and unmoving, eyes closed.

  Then, abruptly, the Druid started forward again, and Paxon went with him. The Highlander found himself wondering about Grehling. Was it possible the boy had done something foolish and run afoul of Arcannen? He had been willing to risk himself earlier by telling Paxon how to break into Dark House. He had some experience dealing with both the sorcerer and his lair, so he might have been willing to take a further risk.

  But he couldn’t know of Chrysallin’s kidnapping, could he?

  Although, hadn’t he known of it before? Just by being present on the airfield when she was brought in? Was it too much to think he might have seen something this time, too?

  In any case, he was worried for the boy, and he promised himself he would make sure Grehling wasn’t in any danger before he left Wayford.

  Thoughts of Chrysallin’s fate haunted him. He couldn’t stop imagining all the things Arcannen might have done to her. Might even now be doing to her. He tried to tell himself that the sorcerer was after him, not her, but even that didn’t quite dispel the horrific images his mind seemed determined to conjure up. Guilt plagued him. Chrysallin should never have been involved in all this in the first place. She had nothing to do with any of it, a pawn the sorcerer had played to checkmate Paxon, bait to bring him to the hook. He hated that he was the cause of the situation she was in. He berated himself for leaving her unprotected. He should have turned down the offer to go to Paranor to train. He should have stayed with her and been ready when Arcannen resurfaced, and then he could have put an end to him.

  But he knew that was foolish. What chance would he have had? He’d never killed anyone. He’d never before used magic. He had barely managed to wield the power of his sword the first time he’d gone to bring Chrysallin back. Only with the training he had received at Paranor in the use of arms and magic would he be able to survive a second encounter with the sorcerer.

  And even then, he would be at extreme risk.

  A cat darted across the roadway, a blur in the haze, a phantom. Paxon started in spite of himself, though Starks seemed unaffected. The fog was everywhere now, swirling gently in the night air, shifting to open and shut windows all around them, revealing momentarily parts of buildings and streets before closing about once more.

  The minutes slipped away. Paxon lost track of where they were. In the fog, it was impossible to find anything to tell him. But Starks kept moving ahead, seemingly aware of where they were and where they were going, steadfast in his passage. Streetlamps burned out of the haze now and again, never bright enough to reveal much, but indicators at least that they were still keeping to the roadway and had not wandered off into the endless dark untethered from reality.

  “There,” Starks said finally, pointing ahead.

  Paxon stopped next to him. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything different. Then the fog shifted slightly, just enough that he could make out the front entrance to Dark House and a scattering of lights burning in the windows.

  The Druid turned to him. “We’ll try going straight in. I will go first. You will watch my back. There will likely be someone on the door. I will deal with whoever that is. Keep your sword at the ready, but don’t use it unless we are attacked. We might get lucky enough to reach Arcannen before he is warned.”

  He paused, waiting. Paxon nodded. “We have to find her,” he said. “Whatever else happens, we have to save her.”

  Starks gave him a crooked grin. “We will.”

  They crossed the street, went up the short set of steps that led to the front door, and stopped. Starks moved Paxon out of the line of sight offered by the peephole, but stood fully revealed himself. He pulled back his hood, adjusted his robes, and knocked.

  The window on the peephole opened. “Name?”

  “I’d rather not give it,” Starks replied with a rueful grin. “I’m just a man looking for a glass of ale and some personal comfort. Can you provide some of each, perhaps?”

  The slide closed and the locks released. The door opened. Starks remained where he was, smiling at whoever was standing on the other side, not rushing in or showing any urgency.

  “Lovely evening,” he said.

  Then he stepped through the door. There was a muffled reply, a gasp, and finally a more distant grunt of surprise. Paxon peered around the door frame to find Starks holding a burly doorman pinned flat against the wall, his mouth working like a fish out of water, but with no sound emerging. Farther down the hall, a second man lay slumped against one wall, unmoving. “Close the door,” the Druid said.

  Paxon did so. Starks moved close to the doorman, and their eyes locked. “Listen carefully,” the Druid said to his captive. “I will ask some questions. You will answer them. If you disappoint me, I will break your neck.” He paused, studying the man. “Is any of this not clear? Nod if you’ve understood it all.”

  The man, now turning an interesting shade of purple, nodded vigorously.

  “First question. Is Arcannen in Dark House?”

  The man nodded.

  “Is he on this floor?” A negative shake. “Upstairs, in h
is office?”

  Affirmative nod.

  “Are there guards with him?”

  Another negative shake.

  “Has he gone to bed?”

  The man hesitated, managed to shrug. Then, an uncertain nod.

  Starks reached out with his free hand, pinched the man’s neck hard near the shoulder, and the man collapsed in a heap.

  “There will be more guards. We need to avoid being seen. There are back stairs down the hall and off to the left. Come.”

  They moved down the corridor without encountering anyone else. Once again, Paxon was struck by the lack of guards and protections. Just as he had the first time, he sensed the possibility of a trap. But Starks seemed unconcerned, and so they reached the side passage and the stairway without incident.

  Again, Starks paused, his voice a whisper. “Arcannen’s personal quarters are on the third floor. We will look for him there. If we find him, we will subdue him, then look for your sister.”

  “I know where she was last time,” Paxon offered.

  Starks nodded. “She won’t be there this time. The sorcerer knows you are coming. He will have moved her. But we might find someone who knows where he is keeping her.”

  The Highlander nodded.

  Together, they began to climb the stairs.

  Arcannen sat at his desk, studying charts on supplies of potions and elixirs, on ingredients used in the construct of magic and conjuring forms he favored. It was busywork, admittedly, but he was not sleepy and he had done all he could about Chrysallin Leah for the moment. After Mischa had left, he had summoned a dozen of his guards and sent some to search the streets and some to watch the airfield. Chrysallin would show up at one place or the other. They would find her.

  If Mischa didn’t find her first, of course, using her usual golems and familiars to track her down. He didn’t favor such things himself, preferring more reliable magic, but the witch had learned her skills differently than he so he had to accept her as she was. Besides, if her efforts yielded results he might even be inclined to forgive her for letting the girl escape in the first place. He might begin viewing her once again as indispensable to his plans.