The High Druid's Blade

by Terry Brooks

  A confrontation was a last resort. The Druid might easily be his equal in a battle of magic, especially one as clearly experienced as this one seemed to be. Risking everything by going one against one was not his preferred method of engagement, in any case. Subterfuge and deception were highly preferable. Flight and avoidance were survival tools he understood and embraced when dealing with those whose skills he did not want to underestimate.

  Besides, there were ramifications to killing a Druid that he did not particularly wish to test. There were consequences for acts of that sort that had a tendency to seriously disrupt your life.

  Still, he was running out of options. If he made a break from his flight pattern now, the Druid would know for certain he was trying to reach the airfield and might well find a way to get there before him. What he needed was a scheme for trapping the Druid somewhere long enough to allow for a clear escape path and time to use it.

  So as he ran, his mind was racing, too, thinking of a way to put a stop to his pursuit. But everything he considered was uncertain at best and foolhardy at worst. He had to anticipate that the Druid not only had the same skills and experience also that he did but that he could anticipate him, as well. So whatever solution he came up with, it had to be clever enough that the Druid would fail to recognize it until it was too late.

  It also had to be something he could set up and trigger quickly, because the chase was tightening.

  He rushed out of the back of his latest building bolt-hole, turned up the street, and saw the grain warehouse. Sudden inspiration infused him, and he knew how he might stop the Druid once and for all. He kept running, thinking his plan through, then slowed just enough as he reached the entry to the building to be sure the Druid—exiting the building behind—caught sight of him.

  Then he broke the lock and hurried inside.

  A quick look around revealed grain-filled wooden bins sitting on platforms under loading chutes. Ramps ran the length of the room on both sides, and vented windows opened out from high on the walls to let in light and air. He checked to be certain there were release doors on the bins near the floor, then began weaving invisible threads that he attached to the latches.

  Gathering up the loose ends of the threads, he moved to the very back of the room and concealed himself in the shadows of the last bin on the left. When the Druid entered the room, he would pull the threads, releasing several tons of grain onto the warehouse floor. The Druid would be buried in seconds, dead or damaged badly enough that he could not immediately follow.

  If things worked the way he anticipated, it would end up looking like an accident, a fluke release of the contents perhaps caused by the Druid. He would be gone from the scene and in no way implicated.

  He waited patiently, eyes on the door.

  But nothing happened.

  When he started to think something had gone wrong, he heard a small noise behind him and turned to find the Druid looking at him.

  “You should know better than to expect an old trick like that to work,” the other observed.

  The sorcerer rose, dropping the ends to the invisible threads to the floor. No point in holding on to those. He gave the Druid a nod. “I suppose you want me to come with you?”

  “Indeed. We need to clear up what’s become of Chrysallin. A visit to the Ard Rhys might help sort it out. You might even learn something about boundaries and appropriate behavior.”

  Arcannen shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.”

  As he walked past the Druid, his hand strayed almost of its own volition to the pocket inside his robes where the Stiehl was hidden—surreptitious movement hidden from the other’s watchful eyes. He would have to be quick. He closed his fingers about the weapon and waited until they had reached the back door to the warehouse. Then, without any haste or sudden movements, he slowed his approach. The Stiehl was out and ready for use when he turned back, its flat black blade a swift, wicked shadow. He struck at the Druid, and even though a protective wall of magic was already in place, the Stiehl went right through it and into the other’s exposed body.

  The Druid grunted sharply and took a quick step back. But Arcannen followed him, striking again and again until the Druid was down on the floor, his blood everywhere. Not until he was no longer moving and his eyes were open and staring did Arcannen cease his efforts.

  The sorcerer gave him a final look, then turned and hurried out the warehouse door.

  By the time Paxon Leah reached his sister and her companions they were out of the covered alleyway and gathered on the still-dark street, huddled against a nearby building wall. The girl with the silver-streaked hair was bloodied and unconscious and Chrysallin was practically catatonic. Only Grehling was in any shape to talk to him, and the boy tried to explain what had happened while Paxon held his sister in his arms and waited for her to regain some recognizable level of awareness.

  “She’s been acting oddly ever since I took her out of Mischa’s quarters,” Grehling finished. “She keeps saying she’s been tortured, that she’s in pain and all torn up and broken. But look at her. There’s hardly a mark on her. And she keeps talking about a gray-haired Elven woman being responsible.”

  “This is Arcannen’s doing?” Paxon pressed him.

  “Mischa works for him, so whatever she did to your sister, it was at the sorcerer’s bidding. I’ve seen them both going in and out of the building where Chrysallin was being held. That’s what led me to her.” He paused. “What’s the reason for all this?”

  Paxon didn’t know. He had assumed Arcannen took Chrys in order to force him to give up the Sword of Leah. But if he had tortured her to the point where she believed she had received injuries she hadn’t, the reason must be more complex. Whatever had been done to his sister, it clearly involved subverting her mind.

  “Chrys,” he whispered, bending close, “can you hear me? It’s Paxon. I’m here. You’re safe now.”

  Her eyes were open and staring off into the distance. If she heard him, she wasn’t giving any indication of it. Her face had a stricken look, and her hands were balled into fists.

  He looked up again. “What happened just now?” he asked the boy. “I saw the old woman coming after you. Was that the witch?”

  Grehling had moved over next to Leofur and was cleaning off the blood on her face and arms with a piece of cloth torn from his shirt. “Chrysallin couldn’t go any farther; she was ready to collapse. So we hid in that alley. Leofur had this weapon—a kind of portable flash rip. She’d already used it twice on this creature that was tracking us. A beast of some kind. Did you see it anywhere while you were looking for us?”

  “I saw it, and you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Go on. Tell me the rest.”

  “Leofur was going to use this weapon on the witch. But somehow the witch tricked her and everything exploded in her face and she went down. Then Mischa came after Chrysallin and me. She taunted Chrys about the torture and the gray-haired Elven woman. And then the Elven woman was there—she just appeared. She said something—I couldn’t hear what—and Chrysallin seemed to lose all control of herself. She started screaming. It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever heard. It was terrible! The Elven woman just blew apart. Then Mischa was pinned against the wall and crushed. There was nothing left!”

  Paxon looked down at his sister. How could she have caused any of this to happen? What was going on? He hugged Chrys tightly, as much to reassure himself as to try to get through to her, but there was no response. She just knelt there, leaning up against him, looking at nothing.

  The young woman Grehling called Leofur was stirring now, coming awake, moaning softly and holding her head as she sat up. She glanced around, saw Paxon with Chrysallin, nodded to him, and said, “You’re Paxon.”

  “You’re Leofur,” he responded. “Are you all right?”

  She looked down at herself, running her hands over her arms and body and nodded. “What happened to Mischa?”

  “We don’t know exactly,” Grehling answered. “Are
you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Chrysallin did something to her. She screamed at her, and Mischa exploded against the building wall in the alleyway. There’s nothing left.”

  Leofur gave him a doubtful look. “Help me stand up.”

  The boy did as she asked, and when she was on her feet she started back toward the alley, staggering a bit as she went.

  “Are you trying to make sure?” Grehling called after her, getting up to follow.

  “I need to get my flash rip back,” she threw over her shoulder. “Want to help me find it?”

  He went after her at once, and she stopped to let him catch up. When they were out of sight, Paxon bent close to his sister and began whispering.

  “Listen to me, Chrys. I don’t know what’s going on here. You have to wake up and tell me. You don’t need to worry about Mischa. She’s dead. You’re with me now. You’re safe. No harm can come to you. I won’t let it. I’ll take you to Paranor and keep you there where no one can get to you. We have Healers who are very good at helping people who have been treated the way you have. They can make you better. Can you understand me?”

  No response.

  He hugged her tighter, stroking her hair. “I love you, Chrys. I’m so sorry this has happened. I would do anything to take it back. I hate myself for not doing a better job of looking after you. But don’t leave me. Come back from wherever you are. Everything will be all right if you do.”

  Grehling and Leofur reemerged from the alley ruins and came toward him. Leofur was carrying a strange weapon, one he had never seen before. She had called it a flash rip, but as far as he knew no one had ever seen a flash rip this small. It made him wonder what other sorts of weapons you could find in the Federation that maybe even the Druids didn’t know about.

  “How is she?” Leofur asked, kneeling next to him. She seemed better now, her voice strong, her gaze steady as she looked at him.

  He shook his head. “I can’t get a response. She won’t speak to me.”

  The young woman gave him a reassuring smile. “Give her time. She’s been through a lot, but she’s a very determined girl. She’s stronger than you think.”

  “Can you do something for me?” he asked her abruptly. “Can you accompany Grehling to the airfield and find out if Arcannen has flown out of the city? Or at least if his private airship is still there? I need to know where he is. And ask if anyone has seen a Druid about. I came here with a Druid to find Chrys. His name is Starks, and he was chasing Arcannen when I saw him last. Would you see if anyone knows anything about what’s happened to him? If you find him, tell him where I am.”

  “I can do it by myself,” Grehling announced at once. “Leofur is hurt. She can stay with you.”

  “I don’t doubt for a minute you can do it on your own,” Paxon said quickly. “There doesn’t seem to be much you can’t do. But it wouldn’t hurt to have someone with a portable flash rip to watch your back.”

  “He’s right,” Leofur agreed. “I’m coming with you.”

  “If you catch sight of Arcannen, don’t go near him,” Paxon added. “Don’t try to stop him, don’t even let him see you. Just come right back here and tell me.”

  They nodded in response and started off together, and quickly they were out of sight. Paxon picked up Chrysallin and carried her over to a doorway where they were partially hidden from anyone coming down the street. Not that it was likely anyone would; it was still an hour or two until sunrise. But it didn’t hurt to be careful. Not when he didn’t know where Arcannen had gone.

  He found himself regretting that he had let Starks go off on his own. Paxon was supposed to be the Druid’s protector. That was what he had been trained to do, and in this case he had abandoned his duty to go after his sister. He didn’t like it that Starks had been gone so long. He should have returned by now, Arcannen in tow or not.

  He knew it was silly to worry. Starks was more than able to take care of himself. He was better trained and more experienced than Paxon, and during the times they had spent together it had been more a case of the Druid protecting Paxon than the other way around.

  Time passed slowly as he sat in the doorway shadows cradling Chrysallin in his arms. She never changed expression, but eventually she fell asleep, her head falling onto his chest, her body sagging down against his. He kept still afterward, hoping that sleep would do what his words and comforting had not. When she awoke, perhaps she would be herself again, the nightmare behind her and the absence of any recognition of what was going on around her a thing of the past.

  Dawn arrived in a dull brightening of the eastern sky, chasing back the reluctant shadows inch by inch. A handful of people came out of doors and down the streets, some passing by without seeing them, others slowing for a quick look. No one spoke to them. No one asked if they needed help.

  Then Grehling reappeared, coming out of nowhere to kneel down beside them, his young face intense.

  “Anything?” Paxon whispered, not wanting to wake his sister, who was still asleep.

  The boy nodded. “A little. Arcannen arrived at the airfield not long before we got there. My father saw him. He was alone. He crossed the field to his vessel, woke his crew, and they released the mooring lines and took off. He didn’t say anything to my father about where he was going.”

  “Starks?”

  “Leofur’s gone hunting for him. He didn’t show up at the airfield. I waited until just a little while ago to make sure. She’ll let us know when she finds him.”

  “She doesn’t even know where to look,” Paxon muttered absently, more worried now than ever.

  “She doesn’t have to know,” Grehling said quickly. “Other people will, and she knows everyone. She will ask around, and someone will tell her where he is.”

  The boy settled back against the wall across from him, watching Chrysallin. Neither said anything for a long time. The morning began to brighten and the shadows to fade. More people filled the street beyond their alcove, moving in groups, beginning their day’s work. Tucked away in their shelter, they occupied an island of calm among the steady movement and sounds only yards away. But their uneasiness was palpable.

  “She looks better now that she’s sleeping,” Grehling offered finally. “I think she will be all right when she wakes.”

  Paxon wasn’t so sure, but he knew the boy was just trying to be helpful. So he nodded in agreement. “You were very brave to rescue her,” he said.

  Grehling shrugged. “I didn’t know what I was getting into. I just thought something felt wrong. Then, when I saw her, I knew it was Arcannen’s work, trying to get at you again. He wants your sword, doesn’t he?”

  Paxon nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Everybody wants something like that. Especially someone like him. A sorcerer’s tool, he probably thinks. He spends all his time collecting such things. Mostly, he steals them. But whatever it takes to get hold of them, he will do. He told me that once. He said that’s how you got by in this world—that if you wanted something, you found a way to get it, no matter what.”

  “But you don’t agree?”

  Grehling managed to look insulted. “Of course not. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  They were quiet again after that, still waiting on Leofur. Chrysallin awoke and began staring into space once more. Both Paxon and Grehling tried talking to her, asking her questions, offering her further assurances that she was safe and that no one would hurt her again. But still she did not respond.

  It was approaching midmorning when Leofur finally reappeared. She returned from a different direction than the one she had taken earlier with Grehling, catching them both by surprise. She approached at a brisk walk, her eyes fixed on them, her posture ramrod-straight.

  She stopped in front of Paxon and took a deep breath.

  “I have news of your friend. It’s very bad.”

  He knew at on
ce what it was. He knew it as much from her tone of voice and the look on her face as from the words themselves. When she spoke them aloud, he already knew what she was going to say. He held up his hand in a belated gesture to forestall hearing them. But it was too late. She was speaking, and the words were cutting at him like knives.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ARCANNEN’S NERVES SHOWED NO SIGN OF GIVING WAY IN THE face of what he had done until he had reached his airship, woken the crew, and lifted off. Then all at once his hands were shaking and he was damp with sweat. He had killed a Druid. He had committed the one act he had warned himself against, the one act he had known would bring him the worst kind of trouble. Now the Druids would hunt him until he was found and killed. He could argue all he wanted about why that wouldn’t happen—the passage of time would take the edge off the urgency of finding him, changes in the order would result in an agenda where punishing him was a lesser concern, whatever. But the truth was inescapable: Sooner or later, he was going to have to answer for what he had done.

  He cursed the Druid for being so persistent, for continuing to hunt him long after any reasonable person would have given up. He cursed himself for believing his ambush would be enough to stop the other. He should have kept running, should have made better choices, should never have given the man the chance to come after him in the first place.

  But it was all water under the bridge now, wasn’t it? It was all beyond a place where he could do anything about it. He was stuck with things the way they were. Regrets and hindsight and disgust were all shackles that threatened to slow him down and ultimately to undo him. What he needed to remember was that if he kept a clear head and acted quickly enough, he might still find a way to get clear of this mess. After all, it wasn’t the first time he had put himself in danger. It wasn’t the first time he had made a mistake that threatened to cost him everything.

  But it was the first time he felt really, truly threatened.