by Terry Brooks
Pan sat with his back against the flat side of a large boulder, facing uphill toward the dark entrance to the pass so he could see if anyone appeared from that direction. At his feet, the fire had burned down to red embers and ash. Arik Siq was propped up across from him, slumped forward and leaning sideways against a stack of blankets Pan had retrieved.
The Drouj woke with a start, wincing at pain that Pan could only imagine, but in which he took quiet satisfaction. His prisoner tried to stretch and then paused as he discovered that his hands and upper arms were bound tightly with cord and his ankles chained to a heavy set of roots.
“Don’t bother trying to move,” Pan offered when the other looked over at him. “Just sit still.”
The Drouj lowered his eyes to his shackles and gave them a cursory appraisal. There was a deep bruise and some blood along the side of his head where he had been struck by the staff. He looked ragged and dirty, a fugitive not only from the people in the valley but from anything resembling soap and water. Yet his eyes were sharp and calculating, and there was no sign of defeat mirrored there.
“You should have let me go when you had the chance,” he said finally. He lifted his head, his blunt features wrinkling unpleasantly. “It was the only way you’d ever see your little friend alive again.”
Pan shook his head, giving the other a long, steady look that pinned him against the darkness. “You had better hope that’s not true. Getting her back is all that’s keeping you alive. Your life for hers—I think your father will be happy to make the trade.”
Arik Siq laughed. “My father won’t spare her for me. He will kill her outright the moment he knows the arrangement you made with him is a sham. You don’t know him. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”
Pan ignored him and went back to working on a repair he was making to one boot. The binding had broken near the sole, and he was stringing new leather through the sole. He let the silence build.
“Where are you taking me?” His prisoner sounded bored, irritated. “Back to my father, so that you can make this exchange that won’t happen? Back to the Drouj so that you can be killed, too?”
Pan didn’t respond.
“To the Elves, then? They will want to see me dead, as well.”
Pan shrugged.
“The old man died, didn’t he? The poison was too much for him. He should have left me alone. Coming after me like he did was foolish. One man, bearer of a black staff or not, is no match for so many.” He leaned forward. “I knew he was coming, you know. I left someone on watch in the pass, just in case. The old man walked right into the trap I set for him.”
He stopped talking, looking down at his hands. “It was all for nothing. He died for nothing.”
Pan kept his gaze lowered. “He kept you from escaping, didn’t he?”
Arik Siq raised his hands to his face and wiped away a streak of dirt mixed with blood. “To what end? Another of the Drouj went on without me to give my report. My father already knows everything about the valley. He probably marches on the pass at Aphalion right now. Stopping me accomplished nothing. You are as stupid as you look.”
Pan finished tying off the leather binding and held it up for the Drouj to examine. “There you are. As good as new.” He pulled the boot back on, testing his weight on the sole, walking around a few paces before reseating himself. He gave Arik Siq a smile. “Your father doesn’t know anything. No one made it out to tell him. Your companions all died at the head of the pass. I saw it all; I was watching.”
The Troll went silent, looking off into the dark. “Others will come looking for me. You don’t have that old man to protect you now. How will you save yourself when they catch up to you?”
Pan studied him a moment, and then he reached down for the staff and held it up for the other to examine. “With this,” he said.
He caught a glimpse of surprise in the other’s yellow eyes, a surprise that was reflected in his blunt features, as well. It was only there for an instant, but Pan didn’t miss it.
“Those others you think might be coming to rescue you,” he said, “had better hope they don’t catch up to me.”
Arik Siq’s features hardened. “You’re a boy! How old are you? Fifteen, maybe? How well do you think you can control the magic of that staff? You don’t even know how to use it, do you? That old man didn’t teach you anything. You know just enough to get yourself killed. Which is what will happen, soon enough.”
Pan nodded. “Not soon enough to save you, however. Your father will come for you or come for whatever he thinks is inside this valley or come because he can’t help himself. But we will be waiting for him. All of us who live in this valley—we will be waiting for him. We will trap him in the passes or on the open slopes or wherever we find him, and we will cut him and all those with him to pieces.”
He pointed at the Drouj with the tip of his staff. “And you’ll be right there to watch it all if anything happens to Prue.”
“Boy, I will skin you alive myself!” Arik Siq sneered. “You will beg for me to kill you before I am finished!”
Panterra Qu climbed to his feet, tossing aside the remains of his repair work. “Get up. We’re going for a long walk, so you better save your strength. You might be the one begging before we get to where we’re going.”
They set out for the valley floor, Panterra leading the Drouj by the length of chain, which he had removed from the other’s ankles and tightened in a rough slipknot about his neck. The boy walked just fast enough that his prisoner, encumbered by the chain and the ropes about his wrists and shoulders, had to struggle to keep up. Arik Siq trudged along with his head lowered and his eyes on the path, forced to keep close watch on where he put his feet so he wouldn’t trip. Dawn had not yet broken, and the land lay under a gloomy shroud of clouds and mist. Morning was only a thin silver line, jagged and washed out, behind the craggy summits of the mountain peaks east, and the air was thick with cold and damp. Panterra was used to it; his life as a Tracker had trained him to tolerate the cold. But his prisoner, for all that he had the armor of his bark-like skin to protect him, did not seem happy.
“Swing those arms while you walk,” Pan offered cheerfully. “It will help keep you warm.”
The other man did not reply, and the boy immediately regretted saying anything to him. Taunting him was not going to do anything to help the situation; there was more at stake here than taking pleasure from making the Drouj feel as miserable as possible. In the end, he might need Arik Siq’s help in making an exchange for Prue. He was already thinking ahead to how that might happen, but the details remained fuzzy and uncertain in his mind.
“If you set me free, I give you my word that the girl will be returned safely,” his prisoner said suddenly.
Pan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“How will you free her otherwise? You can’t simply walk out of the valley and ask my father to do it, can you? If you take me, he’ll just kill us both. You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s like. Remember that story I told you about the Karriak being my people? About how I was the son of their Maturen given in exchange for Taureq’s eldest? You know now that it was a lie, that I made it up to gain your trust. But this much isn’t a lie. The Karriak were all killed by my father, annihilated in retaliation for their refusal to accept him as their leader. Even their Maturen, who was his cousin.” He paused. “Just so you understand. He won’t bargain. He won’t even trouble himself to hear you out. He won’t waste the time. He’ll simply kill us both and be done with it.”
“He won’t kill you. It would be pointless.”
“Not to his way of thinking. He’ll kill me because I’ve failed him.”
They were silent for a time, walking ahead toward the dawn, watching the light in the east grow brighter and the shadows begin to fade. Ahead, the trees of the forest that filled the west end of the valley slowly took on definition through the gloom, strange sentries in the wash of the morning’s misty damp.
&nb
sp; “How much of the rest of that story was true?” Pan asked finally.
For a moment, the other man didn’t say anything. “All of it. Except that it wasn’t about my people—it was about theirs, the Karriak. They were the descendants of the ones called Panther and Cat, the boy and girl who came east with the Hawk to escape the aftermath of the Great Wars. I heard the story from the Karriak when I was visiting with them. They were proud of it, of their heritage. Little good that it did them.”
Panterra thought about it, saying nothing. “What do you care?” Arik Siq asked. “Who your people were matters hardly at all. Who they are now is what matters. Who you are.”
“Your history is sometimes a way of understanding your present,” Pan replied. “You are your history.”
The other snorted. “No wonder I was able to trick you so easily. You don’t understand anything. The past is nothing. The past is a world that’s dead and gone. All those tales about the one called Hawk and his Ghosts, all that nonsense about the valley and the chosen—it doesn’t mean anything.” He stopped suddenly, causing Pan to turn. “Your people will go the way of the Karriak. The Drouj will wipe you out. That is what the past has to teach you, boy. You aren’t strong enough to survive us. You don’t deserve to live.”
Panterra yanked on the chain in irritation. “You don’t get to make that decision. Not you or your father or any of the Drouj. Now shut your mouth and keep walking.”
Arik Siq lowered his head and went silent. For the remainder of the time left to them before reaching their destination, neither spoke again.
IT WAS WELL INTO THE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME PANTERRA Qu reached the outskirts of Glensk Wood, his reluctant prisoner in tow. The day was unusually bright and sunny, the skies clear even where they were brushed by the peaks of the surrounding mountains, swept clean of clouds and mist by a north-bearing wind infused with unusual warmth. The people of the village who saw him coming stopped whatever they were doing and stared in surprise. He understood it was as much because of his ragged and worn appearance as it was the Troll he was leading on a chain. Some of those who watched him pass waved and greeted him uncertainly, and he responded with whatever small gesture or word he could manage.
By now, he had gone almost two days without sleep, and the combination of physical and mental stress expended in capturing Arik Siq had left him exhausted. He was functioning on instincts and muscle memory, unable to see or think as clearly as he otherwise might, but unwilling to stop and rest until this business was finished. Whatever his own deficiencies, whatever his needs, they would have to wait until he had settled the matter of what to do with the Drouj.
He marched Arik Siq through the center of the village to the building that housed the council chambers and inside.
There was no one there.
He stood for a moment wondering what to do next. Then he shoved his prisoner onto a bench and called out for someone to come.
No response.
“Maybe they don’t want to see you, boy,” the Drouj taunted. “Maybe they have less use for you than you realize.”
Pan ignored him. He walked to the door and flagged down the first person he saw. As it happened, it was Collwyn, a friend from the old days and someone he knew he could depend upon.
“Collwyn!” he called. “Can you help me?”
The other boy, the same age as Pan, though considerably smaller, hurried up the steps to embrace him. “What’s happened to you, Pan? You look a wreck!”
Pan nodded, managed a small smile. “I need you to find Pogue Kray and the Seraphic and bring them to me. Can you do that? It’s important that they come right away.”
Collwyn nodded wordlessly and dashed off. To his credit, no questions were asked and no objections raised. Pan watched him go, glanced over his shoulder to where Arik Siq sat slumped on the bench, and stepped back inside, taking a position by a window where he could watch who was passing by without losing sight of his prisoner. The Drouj might look tired, but given the opportunity he would be gone in a second. Pan was not underestimating the other’s cunning.
His weariness washed over him suddenly in a massive wave that threatened to knock him off his feet. It had taken everything he had just to get this far, and he still hadn’t resolved what he was going to do now that he was here. He had brought back Arik Siq, but he needed to find a way to exchange Taureq’s son for Prue. What help did he think he could expect from Pogue Kray or Skeal Eile? Why would they want to help him at all? They had already pronounced him a nuisance and would have preferred it if he simply went somewhere else and stayed there. He knew this. Yet here he was, back in a place where he wasn’t wanted.
He exhaled slowly, watching the road. He supposed he was here because there was nowhere else for him to go. He couldn’t get any farther without sleep. This was his home; he should be allowed to rest here. He knew it was possible that he wasn’t seeing things clearly. But so much had happened so quickly. Without Prue to advise him, to act as his conscience and be his friend, he was adrift. Aislinne would help if she could. Yet he did not care to take the man who had killed Sider Ament into her presence. No, he would not do that.
But what would he do?
The enormity of his situation reared in front of him. He was the new bearer of the black staff, the successor to the Gray Man, and he was only seventeen years old. How could he possibly expect anyone to take him seriously? Why would anyone listen to him? They would brush him aside as a boy who had been in the right place at the right time and so had inherited the staff. But he had no stature that would justify it as right and proper. He lacked any credentials, any evidence that would suggest he could wield the magic. They would not accept him for who he had become, or believe he could do what he claimed.
How could he prove them wrong? How could he convince them they should listen?
Movement near the front of the building caught his attention. Collwyn was approaching with Pogue Kray following, the latter’s burly form striding ahead with clear determination and purpose. Pogue’s bearded face was dark with emotion and the big fists were clenched. Not an auspicious beginning to things, Pan thought.
He stepped away from the window as boots clomped up the steps to the veranda and slowed. “Leave,” Pan heard Pogue Kray order Collwyn.
Then Collwyn was gone, and the big man shouldered through the door and stopped dead, staring first at Panterra, then at Arik Siq, and then back again at Pan. “Boy, what’s happened to you?” he whispered.
There was genuine concern in the query, and it took Pan by surprise. He had expected to be attacked straight off; he hadn’t expected this softer response. For a moment, he was speechless.
“Who is this?” Pogue asked, nodding toward Arik Siq, who was now sitting up straight and watching carefully.
“Someone who would betray us all,” Pan answered, meeting his prisoner’s dark gaze. “Someone who pretended to be my friend so I would bring him into the valley.” He paused. “Even worse, only a day ago he killed Sider Ament.”
Pogue Kray’s face went white. “The Gray Man is dead?”
“Killed at the far end of the pass at Declan Reach. Poisoned by darts from a blowgun. He was caught unawares. The poison was too strong for him to fight off, even with his magic to aid him.”
“Sider Ament is dead?” a voice demanded. “You’re certain?”
Skeal Eile stood in the doorway, staring at him. The way he asked the question did not suggest it was voiced out of concern, but out of a need to make certain the deed was done and no mistake.
“I was there when it happened,” Panterra answered him, trying to keep his voice from shaking, suddenly dismayed by the presence of the other man. “I held him in my arms while he died.”
“Then we don’t have the magic of his staff to help us against the Trolls,” the Seraphic declared, directing his remarks now to Pogue Kray. “Do you see what that means? We have to make peace with these invaders. We have to use this prisoner as a tool for negotiation.”
Arik Siq was on his feet instantly. “I have been telling this to the boy, but he refuses to listen. I see you have more sense than he does. If you let me act as emissary, I will negotiate—”
Panterra didn’t stop to think. He simply charged Arik Siq and struck him so hard across the head with his staff that the Drouj went down and did not move again. Then he wheeled back to face Skeal Eile.
“You had better listen to me before you start deciding what needs doing. I’m the one who’s been out there, outside the valley where the real danger lies. I’m the one who knows about the Drouj—this one especially.” He thrust the staff out in front of him, hands clasping it tightly. The runes blazed with white fire. “Do you see? I’m the one who carries the black staff now, the one to whom Sider Ament entrusted it, the one who now wields its magic and must exercise the responsibility that goes with it. Not you! Not either of you!”
He saw a flicker of fear in the Seraphic’s lean face, and he was emboldened. “I tracked down this killer of men, this betrayer. I caught up to him and I captured him and I brought him here. But not so you could decide what needs doing! It is not your place to do that!”
His gaze shifted to find Pogue Kray’s features twisted with confusion. “But it is yours, Pogue. Will you hear me out?”
“No one has to listen to you, little pup!” Skeal Eile screamed at him. He had recovered himself enough to remember who it was that was chastising him, and he was immediately enraged. “You are a boy with no talent or ability beyond your Tracker skills! You know nothing of that staff, and we have no reason to think that you didn’t steal it from a dying—”
“Hold your tongue, Seraphic!” Pan advanced on him swiftly, stopping him midsentence. “Another word from you, another baseless accusation, and I will lay you out alongside the Drouj!” He leaned forward, close to the other. “I didn’t come all the way back for this! You are here because I asked for you to be here—not because you have any right to be here. Nor any right to slander me!”