by Terry Brooks
“Rat stink!” the Druid said softly. “He can’t have gotten far. But which way did he go?”
They were searching the darkness when they heard the scream—shrill, terrified, and close at hand.
“Chrys!” Paxon exclaimed at once. “That’s Chrysallin!”
At the same moment Starks pointed. “There he goes! Arcannen! Through those buildings!”
Paxon caught a glimpse of Arcannen as he fled down an alleyway a block over in the other direction from the scream.
Starks seized his arms. “Go after your sister. I’ll chase Arcannen. But watch yourself, Paxon. Remember your training!”
Then he was rushing away, racing to catch up to the sorcerer. Paxon shouted after him, warning him to be careful. He hesitated, almost persuaded that he should go with him.
But then he heard his sister scream again, and he turned the other way and began to run.
Chrysallin Leah tore away from Grehling’s hands and moved back against the wall of the building in horror, pressing her hands against her mouth to keep from screaming. All she could think about was Mischa’s head sitting on a bedside table, eyes vacant and staring. Even knowing she was alive, even remembering how Grehling had punched her, she couldn’t seem to forget. Yet here she was, come out of nowhere and not with any good intentions in mind. Not with any promise of offering her a chance to escape the gray-haired Elven woman. She could tell that much just from the expression on the other’s face, even if she ignored everything else she knew.
For just an instant everyone was frozen in place. Then Leofur swung the barrel of her weapon about, pointing it at Mischa. But the old woman held her ground defiantly.
“Still the same foolish girl you always were, I see,” she hissed.
Then she made a quick gesture, and almost immediately Leofur’s eyes went blank, her face slackened, and her expression turned empty. She lowered the flash rip absently. Chrysallin was cringing in terror, images flashing before her eyes of a return to her prison and a reappearance of the Elven woman, of terrible things being done to her, of endless pain and suffering.
Suddenly Grehling was standing in front of her, facing Mischa. “Get away from her,” he shouted angrily.
“I’ve been looking for you, boy,” the old woman hissed at him. “I’ve something special in mind for you.”
Something inside Chrysallin snapped. “Don’t touch him!” she screamed at the old woman.
The girl rushed past the boy, finding strength she didn’t know she had, and threw herself on the old woman, bearing her to the ground. Thrashing and screaming, they rolled about, locked together. Grehling stood transfixed, took a hesitant step toward them, then raced over to Leofur and shook her hard. “Wake up, Leofur! Wake up!”
And she did, her eyes snapping open in shock. She stared about, clearly confused.
“Help me!” the boy shouted at her, pointing to Chrysallin and Mischa, fighting on the ground.
Together, they rushed to pull the two apart, not stopping to think about what might happen afterward. The instant they separated the two, Mischa began screaming as if demented, trying to scramble to her feet, dark words pouring out of her twisted mouth. Leofur kicked her down again and stepped on her throat, pinning her in place. Grehling pulled Chrysallin to her feet, dragging her away from the other two.
“Leave her!” Grehling screamed at Leofur. “We have to get out of here!”
But Leofur had other plans. One fist cocked, she hit the old woman with such a powerful blow that Mischa went limp instantly.
In the next instant the door through which they had escaped from the tunnels burst open, and the black thing that had been tracking them surged through. All three cried out in shock, but it was Leofur who brought up the flash rip and fired into the creature once more, this time knocking it down the walkway into the shadows.
“Run!” she screamed.
They did so, although Chrysallin’s efforts at running were hopeless, and the best they could manage was a fast walk with Grehling supporting her once more. Behind them, Mischa was already stirring and the creature was struggling back into view.
There was no hope for them, Chrysallin realized. No hope at all. They couldn’t run fast enough, they had nowhere to hide, and the weapon Leofur carried—while helpful—would not keep the creature down. She fought to control the fear and despair that swept over her, listening as Grehling asked Leofur, “How many more times can you use that thing?”
“It carried six charges,” she replied. “Two are gone. Got any ideas?”
“Not the airfield. It’s too far!”
“City Watch? There’s a station somewhere close.”
“I know it. We’ll go there. Straight ahead!”
They picked up their pace, down the empty city streets and through the darkness, fear nipping at their heels.
Behind them, Mischa hobbled into view, her face bruised and bloodied, already in pursuit. But as she did so, she was casting anxious glances over her shoulder.
A terrifying struggle was taking place just behind her.
Paxon Leah was at its center. Having separated from Starks, he had raced in the direction of his sister’s scream and arrived just in time to see Chrys and two others—one of whom looked like Grehling—disappear around a corner. An old woman had just scrambled to her feet and was limping after them, but she glanced back and saw him rushing toward her. Slowing momentarily, she gestured at something behind her, called out a few quick words, then continued on.
In the next instant a huge black creature came out of the shadows and lunged toward him.
He reacted instantly, bringing up his sword, calling on its magic, shielding himself as the beast smashed into the shield it formed to protect him. The creature struck with such force that Paxon was knocked backward several steps. But the blow had no effect on the creature, which righted itself and came at him again, this time trying to sidestep the sword and get around whatever magic it was using. Paxon feinted and parried, stepped quickly one way and then another, outmaneuvering his attacker through footwork and anticipation, trying to reach it with his sword. But the creature was canny enough to avoid his efforts, dodging and weaving with each sweep of the blade, studying Paxon’s defenses as it did so, looking for a weakness.
After several tries, it found one. It dropped flat and with one long arm swept Paxon’s feet out from under him. He dropped backward, just managing to keep his protection intact as the creature swarmed on top of him, first blocking its efforts and then, with a surge of energy, throwing it backward and away.
Dropping the shield, he rolled to his knees and stood as the black thing launched a fresh assault. But this time, he centered the magic in the sword itself, turning the sharp edge into the creature as it tore at him. The blade had a razor’s edge, and abetted by the magic, it sliced off both clawed hands as the attacker closed in.
Paxon stepped away, stunned by what he had done. The creature looked at its severed wrists, but it made no sound. Its face was impossible to read. No blood came from the wounds. It stood there, seemingly bewildered. Then, slowly, impossibly, the wounds began to close, and the blunt, ragged ends to re-form. New hands appeared, growing out of the wounds left where the old hands had been cut off, and they were shaped exactly the same.
The creature waited until it was completely whole again, then slowly approached Paxon once more. For the first time, Paxon was uncertain. He wished Starks were with him. The Druid would know what to do about something like this—something that clearly involved the use of magic. But Starks was gone, and he was alone. He would have to figure this out himself because if he didn’t …
There wasn’t time to finish the thought because the creature was on him once more, this time trying to knock the sword from his hands. Quicker than thought the clawed hands got past his shield and tore at his wrists. He only barely managed to hang on, using the sword to hack at the creature’s head. The blade slipped sideways, partially blocked by a sudden arm swing against the flat side,
but the edge bit deep into the creature’s shoulder and lodged there.
Frantically, Paxon fought to free it. The creature was ripping at him, and only the thinnest of shields was keeping it from tearing him apart. He felt himself beginning to panic as they surged back and forth, and he knew if he gave in to it he was finished. He screamed at the creature as a way of focusing the magic, as a means of strengthening his determination. He put everything he had into the effort, fighting harder to yank the blade loose.
But the Sword of Leah was wedged tightly in place in the creature’s body, and no amount of effort would free it.
It was his training that saved him. Oost Mondara had taught him to always take the path of least resistance, to remember that when one thing failed to work it simply meant you should do the opposite. Don’t ever force a result; take a different approach. So instead of continuing the struggle to break free of his adversary, Paxon Leah channeled the blade’s magic not into escape, but into attack, forcing the blade in deeper. The creature jerked and heaved its body immediately in response, a clear indication that it was in trouble. It stopped trying to get at Paxon and turned its attention to the blade instead, trying to wrench it free.
Paxon pressed his attack, going right at the creature, forcing it back, riding it to the ground. The creature writhed and struggled, and the sword blade bit deeper into its body, sinking in almost to the hilt. How the creature could still be alive was troubling, but Paxon was determined to end it here.
Then the creature gave a mighty heave of its body, and the blade wrenched loose at last.
Paxon straightened and went after the creature in a rush. Down came the Sword of Leah in a series of quick, fluid strikes that relied as much on Paxon’s training as on the weapon’s magic. The creature absorbed blow after blow, struggling to rise, but unable to fight its way clear of the blade. Paxon did not let up, attacking with renewed purpose as pieces of the creature separated from its body. It was thrashing wildly now, still without making a sound or shedding a drop of blood, its distress evident from its desperate efforts to break free.
Finally, the Highlander managed to damage both the creature’s arms sufficiently that it could no longer defend itself, and with one mighty swing he took off its head. At once, it went limp, its head rolling slowly away on the rough surface of the street.
Wounded and bleeding, Paxon stood there waiting for it to re-form. But this time there was no recovery. The pieces of its body lay scattered and still in the lamplight and shadows, and the only sound in the aftermath was Paxon’s labored breathing.
Not all that far away, Chrysallin Leah had fallen to her knees and was struggling to rise. “I can’t go on!” she gasped.
Grehling pulled on her shoulders and arms, trying to get her back up. “You have to! She’s coming!”
Chrysallin was terrified. It was clear to the boy that her strength was gone, her body drained of whatever energy she had possessed earlier. Even her fear, as intense as it was, was not enough.
“Move back over there, into the shadows,” Leofur ordered the pair, gesturing toward an open alleyway where an arched covering of interlocking stone blocks offered a small amount of concealment. “Hurry! We’ll make a stand there. I’ll deal with Mischa myself.”
She still had her weapon, and it still carried four charges, so there was some reason to think they could slow or disable the witch when she appeared, especially if they caught her off guard. Grehling helped Chrysallin struggle back to her feet, and together they limped over to the covered alley and moved back into the shadows. Leofur was last in, and she stayed by the entrance and peered back down the street they had just come up, searching for their pursuer. The silver streaks in her blond hair glimmered in the faint light cast by the streetlamp across the way as she cradled the flash rip.
“Do you want to sit down?” Grehling whispered to Chrysallin.
She shook her head no. “I better stay on my feet.”
“I could go for help. Alone. I could find someone at a City Watch station, I think.”
Chrysallin grabbed his arm and held on. “Don’t leave me, Grehling. Please. Stay with me.”
She was begging, the urgency in her voice unmistakable. She couldn’t help herself. Being left alone again would be the end of her. She would rather die than fall into the witch’s hands a second time.
The boy understood. He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed gently. “I’ll stay,” he promised.
“She’s coming,” Leofur hissed at them from the alley entrance. She crouched lower and brought up the barrel of her weapon.
Then abruptly Leofur stiffened, muttering something unintelligible, lifting up slightly from behind her cover to peer out into the streets, then turning sharply in their direction.
“She’s gone!” she hissed at them in a mix of anger and disbelief. “She was right there and she just vanished into—”
She never finished. An explosion threw her backward into the darkness next to them, the flash rip flying out of her hands, stone and brick shattering as part of the archway wall collapsed. Leofur went down and was still, blood on her face and arms, her eyes closed.
Mischa appeared in the opening, bent and withered and terrible. Her crone’s face was twisted with a mix of hatred and satisfaction, and her mouth was working hungrily—chewing, chewing. Smoke rose from the tips of her fingers, and her eyes glowed blood red.
“There you are!” she exclaimed as if surprised and excited. “Hiding back in a corner like rats! Oh, but that is what you are, isn’t it? Little rats, caught in a trap! How sad! How unfortunate for you! And now you’ve lost your fierce protector and her weapon. Whatever will you do?”
Gone was any pretense of being Chrysallin’s friend. She was in full-blown witch mode, and Grehling knew what was in store for him. “Someone will see what you are doing!” he snapped at her, placing himself in front of Chrysallin while wishing he could be anywhere but.
“Goodness! They will? Should I run and hide then, like you? Will I be safe from these people?” She cackled. “Or should I just ignore them like they mean nothing to me? Which they do!”
She moved a few steps closer. “I have had enough of you, boy! I think maybe I will put an end to you before I take little Chrysallin back for more tender loving care. You almost wrecked everything, but my work is not easily undone.” Her gaze shifted. “Is it, Chrysallin? You remember, don’t you? Everything the gray-haired Elven woman did to you? Every torment and travesty committed on your young body? Every pain you suffered? You remember. And you know what you will do when you find her again, don’t you? Would you like to find her now? This very moment?”
She made a smooth series of loops and whispered softly, and the Elven woman appeared, standing off to one side, smiling. Chrysallin shrank from her, buried her face in her hands, and began to shake all over.
“Yes, you remember,” Mischa teased, clearly enjoying the girl’s response, excited by it. “Listen to her! Can you hear? She whispers something to you! Listen. Listen closely!”
A deep silence followed, unbroken save for the sound of Chrysallin Leah whimpering. Then the Elven woman, still standing there, watching everything, leaned forward and spoke.
Tell me what you know.
The words must have been intended to produce a particular response from the girl, but certainly they couldn’t have been intended to produce the one they got. Chrysallin went stiff with shock, and her hands dropped from her eyes to knot across her chest, and her face twisted with sudden rage. She no longer looked like a young girl. She no longer looked anything like herself. She looked like a demon. She screamed—quick, piercing, and furious. She screamed in a way that Grehling had never heard anyone scream before. The sound of it dropped him to his knees; he clapped his hands over his ears to protect them. She screamed with every fiber of her being, and the sound of it assumed both shape and substance.
At first it was everywhere, a force unleashed and gone wild. But then it redirected itself as Chrysallin turne
d to the Elven woman. The scream slammed into her and she shattered into fragments born on a sudden wind, tiny shards scattering everywhere.
By now, Mischa was backing away, her crooked form bent low, her face horror-stricken. She brought up her hands to defend herself, weaving spells, creating protections. But the scream took on new power as it reached her, lifting her off the street as if she were weightless and slamming her into the wall of the building behind her. It held her pinned there as it penetrated her flesh and bones and turned them liquid. She became a smear that splattered and flattened and then ran down the wall in red rivulets like too much paint.
And just like that she was gone.
Grehling wasn’t sure what would happen next—not to him or to Leofur, not when it appeared that Chrysallin might be completely out of control—so he crawled to where she stood screaming and grabbed her ankle. The scream increased, wavered slightly as she looked down and saw him, and abruptly ceased.
“Grehling!” she whispered, dropping to her knees, her face aghast, tears streaming from her eyes. “What happened?”
The boy gave her a look, pulled himself up beside her, and grasped her hands. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
TWENTY-TWO
ARCANNEN WOVE HIS WAY THROUGH WAYFORD’S CITY STREETS, at first aimlessly and then increasingly with a destination in mind. His initial reaction was to lead the Druid and the boy a merry chase before setting out for the airfield and the ship that would convey him to safety. To that end, he chose a circuitous path that took him down alleys, into courtyards, across parks and grassy dividers, and eventually through buildings so tightly packed together that it was impossible for anyone to know which doors he had entered or exited.
Yet the pursuit continued. It got close enough at one point that he saw the Druid’s black robes from a window as the latter entered the building in which he was hiding. All of his tricks and subterfuges were failing him, and it became increasingly clear that he was going to have to attempt something more drastic than simple flight.