by Terry Brooks
Leaving the closet, they continued down the hall until they found a set of stairs. They climbed to the next floor and stopped when they heard signs of activity behind the doors of the rooms down the hall. When it was quiet again, they continued up to the top floor. It was an attic space, and there were only three doors: two to either side and one at the end. The last was padlocked and chained.
Paxon moved over to it quickly, put his ear against the door, and listened. No sound came from within.
He exchanged a quick glance with Jayet and shook his head. But it was the only door locked, so there was reason to think it was the right one, and he had to take a look. Which meant he had to smash the lock and break it down. But first he decided to peek inside the other two, just to be sure. He moved over to each as quietly as he could, cracking the doors and peering inside. Bedrooms, both of them, sparsely furnished, walls bare, windows shuttered.
The one on the right was empty.
Chrysallin was in the one on the left.
So was Arcannen.
FOUR
PAXON FROZE, AND FOR AN INSTANT HE WAS UNDECIDED ABOUT what he should do. It had never occurred to him that Arcannen might be with his sister when he found her. She was tied to the bed, spread-eagled and lashed in place, her mouth gagged. Her gaze found his, eyes wide and staring and frightened. She was dressed in the clothes she had been wearing when taken and did not appear to have been harmed.
But appearances could be deceptive, he reminded himself.
Jayet was still outside the room, so he moved to block the entry to hide her from Arcannen. He was trying to think of something to say to warn her when the sorcerer saved him the trouble.
“Don’t look so surprised, Paxon. We’ve been waiting for you since nightfall. She said you would come, and I believed her. Too bad for you, isn’t it?”
Paxon closed the door behind him. Smokeless lamps on the nightstand and on the wall bracketing a large mirror across from the bed lent sufficient light for him to see clearly. Arcannen was sitting on the bed next to his sister, his black robes wrapped about him. His small, pinched features were crinkled with amusement, his black eyes bright and eager.
“You should have taken my advice and stayed home, boy. This probably won’t end well for you.”
Paxon held his gaze. “Maybe you are the one it won’t end well for.”
“That seems unlikely. Have you discovered who I am? Did the boy at the airfield catch you? He was supposed to give you directions.”
Paxon ignored the questions. “What do you want with my sister, anyway? Isn’t this going to an awful lot of trouble for one girl?”
Arcannen smiled. “Depends on how you value things. I value young women. I insist they keep their word when they make bets with me. This one made a bet and couldn’t pay when she lost. Bringing her here isn’t all that much trouble. Putting her to work is easy enough. Maybe she will like it well enough that she will want to stay on.”
He shrugged. “You, on the other hand, are a bit of a problem. I have no work for you. I would have preferred it if you had stayed in the Highlands, but since you have failed to do even that much I have to deal with you more harshly than I wanted to. I hoped the beating would be enough to keep you from coming here. But your sister was right. You are beyond stubborn.”
Paxon noticed the deep bruise across the far side of his sister’s face for the first time. She had been struck and struck hard. He felt his anger resurfacing, crowding out his fear. He had to get Chrys out of here, no matter what it cost him.
Arcannen seemed completely at ease. He didn’t appear to have any weapons, and none of his men seemed to be about. His confidence was troubling. It suggested that whatever magic he had was more than enough to disable or kill Paxon.
“Did you bring any money?” Arcannen asked suddenly.
Paxon shook his head. “I don’t have any money.”
“So you decided you would steal her back? That’s not very honorable of you. Didn’t your parents teach you better?”
“I don’t think you should be talking to me about honor. Why don’t you just let me have my sister back?”
Arcannen shook his head. “We are covering familiar ground. I think I’ve made my position clear on the matter. There’s no reason to talk about it any further.”
He got to his feet, still smiling. Then he stopped suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. “I have a thought. Perhaps you would be willing to trade me something for your sister, something you don’t value as much as you value her. For instance, that sword.”
Paxon automatically glanced over his shoulder at the handle of the black blade. The Sword of Leah. “Why would you want that?”
Arcannen shrugged. “I collect old weapons, especially blades. That one seems very old and might have some real value. I could be wrong, but if I’m right I will make back what I would lose by letting you have your sister. You, on the other hand …”
He let the rest of what he was going to say hang. But it didn’t need saying. Which was more valuable to Paxon—his sister or the sword?
But he hesitated anyway. Something about this felt wrong. Instinctively, he sensed that Arcannen recognized the weapon and knew something about it he didn’t. He was awfully quick to give up on Chrys after refusing even to consider releasing her before.
“The offer is only good for the next ten seconds,” Arcannen threw in, looking suddenly bored. “I am already beginning to lose interest. After all, I can do so many more interesting things with your sister than I can with an old sword.”
Paxon was certain something wasn’t right now. Arcannen was pressing too hard. “All right, but only if you release my sister first.”
The sorcerer gave him a sharp look. “Why would I agree to that?”
“If I give you the sword, you will have both the sword and my sister—here, in your own building. I’d be a fool.”
Arcannen studied him further, then shrugged. Pulling out a knife, he severed Chrysallin’s bonds and removed the gag. She scooted off the bed and stood uncertainly, as if perhaps she hadn’t gotten her balance back. Then she moved over to stand beside her brother, ignoring Arcannen.
“Are you all right?” Paxon asked. “Are you hurt?”
His sister shook her head. She was almost as tall as he was, though still gangly and awkward in the way of very young fillies, but there was such determination in her eyes that it gave him pause.
“Now give me the sword,” Arcannen ordered, still standing next to the bed.
Paxon leaned over and kissed his sister’s cheek. “Get behind me,” he whispered, keeping his face hidden with hers. “Jayet is outside the door.”
She moved behind him obediently. “Open the door, Chrys,” he told her, facing Arcannen again. “See what’s out there.”
She did as he asked, then rushed out into Jayet’s arms.
“The sword?” Arcannen pressed. “You won’t get out of here alive otherwise.”
“Go downstairs,” Paxon called over his shoulder to the girls. “Get out of here. I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”
“You try my patience!” Arcannen snapped, starting toward him.
But Paxon quickly reached over his shoulder and unsheathed the sword. “Don’t you want to examine it first and make certain of what you are getting?” he asked, holding the blade in front of him. The black metal glittered in the dim light. “Come, have a look.”
The sorcerer smiled. “You never intended to give it up, did you? You intended to keep it all along.”
“Remember what you said about me a moment ago, about not being very honorable? It seems that, where you are concerned, it’s true.” He backed toward the doorway, eyes fixed on the sorcerer.
“Put it down!” Arcannen ordered, his face flushed, throwing back his robes. “Do it while you still have the chance, boy!”
“Stop calling me ‘boy,’ and I will consider your suggestion.”
“You have no idea what I will do to you if you refuse! Don’
t be a fool. I’ll finish you and go after your sister, and you will both be dead!”
Paxon was within the open doorway now and almost clear of the room, still watching the other closely. Arcannen was going to do something; he just didn’t know what the other’s magic allowed. He backed up another step. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this; he only knew he wasn’t giving up the sword willingly because he knew now how badly Arcannen wanted it.
He risked a quick look out of the corner of his eye. The hallway was deserted. Chrys and Jayet were gone, and there wasn’t any sign of Arcannen’s men. Time to make a run for it.
But Arcannen was already moving. He seemed to gather himself all at once, everything folding into his body—almost as if he were collapsing. His arms thrust outward violently and wicked black light exploded from his fingertips, shooting across the open space that separated him from Paxon.
Paxon, acting without thinking, brought the blade of his sword up sharply to deflect the attack.
Then something strange happened. A surge of heat burst inside him and the black blade of the Sword of Leah flared to life, its length gone bright and reflective, its metal infused with greenish snakes that wove their way through its length. It happened all at once—so quickly that Paxon had only a split second for it to register before the sorcerer’s magic struck, throwing him backward through the doorway and across the hall to slam into the wall beyond.
But the magic expended by Arcannen did not touch his body or harm him in any way. Instead, it dovetailed into the blade of his sword and was absorbed as if by a sponge, sinking into the metal and disappearing.
In seconds it was gone.
Paxon heard Arcannen scream in fury as he saw what had happened. He pushed himself back to his feet quickly, the sword still held out protectively in front of him, the black metal alive with the green snakes, its surface a bright and shining mirror.
Arcannen struck at him again, advancing on him. But Paxon was ready this time, braced as he had not been before, and when the magic struck him it did not throw him back but instead exploded into shards that deflected in every direction as the attack collapsed.
Then Paxon was running down the hallway, amazed to find that he was all right, even more amazed to find that the Sword of Leah was magic-infused after all and that the attack by Arcannen had apparently brought that magic to life. He reached the stairway and started down, not looking back to see if he was being followed, but knowing he was.
The next attack caught him midway down, and because he was too slow in blocking it, he was thrown the rest of the way to the floor below. He struggled up and kept going, vaulting down the stairs three and four at a time, flinging himself over the landings. Behind him, he could hear multiple explosions as stairs and railings burst apart only inches away, splinters of wood slashing at his hands and face.
His thoughts raced, his fear propelling him on.
Can’t stop!
Run faster!
He broke for the front entry when he reached the ground level, charging right at the guard who stood ready to stop him. A section of the wall exploded, just missing his head as more splinters and a few larger pieces of wood flew past. He kept going. The guard blocking the way stood his ground for about two more seconds and then flung himself clear, letting the Highlander pass without challenge. Paxon brought up his sword, intending to shatter the lock and break clear of Dark House, but just thinking of what he wanted seemed enough. The blade turned to fire, bright and terrible, exploding onto the door and incinerating it in seconds.
Paxon reached the smoldering ruins and kept going, racing from Dark House into the street beyond. He risked a quick look behind him. Nothing. The entry was empty, no sign of Arcannen anywhere.
And then there he was—higher up on a second-story balcony, hands weaving, strange sounds breaking from his lips. The stone of the roadway began to buckle and heave beneath Paxon’s feet. He was caught by surprise and stumbled, sprawling to the cracking earth.
As he did so, he dropped the sword and watched it skitter away.
Now Arcannen came after him with everything he could muster—bolts of fire to scorch his skin, flaming daggers to pierce his body, and thunderous explosions to render him unconscious. Somehow, through a combination of desperation and luck, the Highlander managed to avoid all of it, throwing himself aside, rolling away, and finally retrieving his lost sword.
He was up at once, running once more, dodging left and right, reacting instinctively, trying to escape. He kept hoping he would see Jayet or Chrys, but neither appeared. If they hadn’t fled to the airfield, he would have to come back and find them, and he had no idea at all how he would accomplish that.
In his hand, the Sword of Leah blazed with magic that wove through the metal and into his body, filling him with confidence and strength. Addictive, euphoric, it swept through him in wave after wave.
“Leah, Leah!” he shouted to the empty, darkened streets, giving out the battle cry of his ancestors.
He carried their sword; he was entitled to their battle cry. He almost laughed, he felt so gleeful.
Behind him, a pack of wolves appeared, yellow eyes gleaming. Their snarls warned him of their coming, and the sound of their claws digging into the roadway sent chills up his spine. He was beginning to wonder if there was anything Arcannen couldn’t do. This sort of magic hadn’t revealed itself in the Southland since the time of Edinja Orle, and she had been dead for more than a century. No magic of this magnitude was even suspected to exist anywhere within Federation rule. Magic much smaller and less dangerous would have been swept up and locked away in a heartbeat. How Arcannen had avoided that was troubling.
But there was no time to think about it now. The wolves were advancing on him. Big, shaggy beasts, they were more than twice the size of normal wolves, slavering and growling, long tongues lolling from mouths filled with razor-sharp fangs, and hunger in their eyes. Paxon ran from them. Sword or no sword, he didn’t care to stand and fight so many. If even one broke through his defenses, it would rip him apart.
He searched for a way to escape them, for any refuge at all that would put him beyond their reach. But it was well past midnight, with dawn still hours away, and no one was on the streets and no lights shone in the windows of the houses. He thought momentarily to climb a tree, a few of which were in evidence, but doing that would put him at the mercy of the sorcerer if he were tracking him, and Paxon felt pretty certain he was.
Finally, he turned, his back against a stone building wall, and used the magic of the sword once more. Sheets of fire cut him off from the wolves, which slowed and backed away, snapping and tearing at the flames with their huge fangs, searching for a way to break through his defenses. Using magic was new to Paxon, and he was uncertain of its limits. He could feel his grip on it slipping away, suggesting it was neither unlimited nor certain. If he didn’t break free of the wolves quickly, he would have to start running again.
But this time, they would be right on his heels.
How, he kept wondering, could a sorcerer conjure something of substance out of thin air? That shouldn’t be possible.
So maybe it wasn’t.
He dropped his broad defense against the pack and turned the sword on the closest wolf. Fire sheeted into the beast, and it vaporized instantly. Nothing but an image, he realized. He went after the others, disintegrating them one by one, until they were all gone.
Then he began to run again.
Behind him, the streets were quiet. No pursuit showed itself; Arcannen remained a threat that did not materialize.
He ran for what seemed like hours before he reached the airfield. To his relief, both Jayet and Chrys were already there, waiting by the Sprint. Grehling, as good as his word, had the vessel powered up and ready for liftoff.
“I owe you for your help,” Paxon told the boy.
Grehling shrugged. “You already paid me. Remember? And if anyone asks—Arcannen, especially—I never saw you.”
Paxon an
d the girls climbed aboard and buckled on their safety harnesses. In seconds they were airborne and flying north toward the Highlands and home.
FIVE
ONCE THEY WERE BACK IN THE HIGHLANDS AGAIN, PAXON Leah did his best to put the entire incident behind him. From his point of view, the less said about it, the better. He was no hero, and he didn’t want anyone in Leah or anywhere else trying to make him one.
Mostly, he didn’t want any word getting out about the Sword of Leah and its magic. Even though neither Jayet nor his sister had been present to witness the events surrounding his use of the blade, he had warned them not to talk to anyone about anything that had happened. He could assume that neither girl knew anything that might give away the sword’s secret, but there was no point in taking chances. As an added precaution, he started carrying the weapon with him, keeping it close at all times. Hanging it back over the fireplace was out of the question.
The girls, of course, were already proclaiming him a hero and were quick to insist that even if they couldn’t talk about it to anyone but each other, their opinion of him was not about to change. He could live with this, even though he insisted he hadn’t done that much; he never said a word to them about what he had discovered the sword could do or what he had witnessed in his battle with Arcannen. He simply told them that it was a difficult struggle and they were all lucky to escape.
Neither girl argued with what he was telling them—both grateful just to be home again and away from Arcannen and Dark House—but he knew Chrysallin suspected he wasn’t telling them everything. She was particularly suspicious about the sword, even after he tried to explain it away by telling her that the sword served as protection against any further attacks. The way she looked at him as he offered this explanation let him know she thought there was something more to it.