by Terry Brooks
Impulsively, he pulled her over to a cart serving hot beef sandwiches and bought two. Standing in front of a makeshift counter with tankards of ale added to the purchase, they gulped their food and drink like starving wolves. Once finished, they exchanged a look at each other’s grease-and-ale-smeared faces and laughed in spite of themselves. Offering thanks to the vendor, who barely acknowledged them, they set out anew.
It took them only a short while to reach their destination. Paxon slowed when it came in sight, hanging back against the wall of a building across the street and down a bit from Dark House, gathering his thoughts. They weren’t so much about what he was going to do as how he was going to do it. It would probably be better to wait until nightfall and then go in. The traffic would have abated and the darkness would help conceal them. But waiting wasn’t an option. There was no guarantee that Arcannen was even there; waiting until it got dark didn’t improve the odds.
Still, going in now meant doing so in broad daylight with eyes everywhere. Even attempts at sneaking through the back, where Paxon had gone before with help from Grehling, would leave them dangerously exposed. The other choice, of course, was to walk up to the front door and use the flash rip to force their way inside and try to catch the sorcerer by surprise. If there were guards and if he was anywhere but on the first floor, they would likely fail in their efforts.
He turned to Leofur finally, perplexed. “I don’t know how to go about this. We need to get inside, but we have to do it without causing a disturbance that will alert Arcannen. We have to be able to get to him before he has a chance to flee again.”
Leofur nodded. “One of the reasons I came with you,” she said, “was to show you how that can be done.”
He stared at her. “You can get us inside Dark House?”
She nodded. “Right through the front door. Want to give it a try?”
“But how can you do this?”
“I just can. Do you want me to try or not?”
He hesitated, unsure of what he was letting himself in for. But to persist in asking her how she could manage it seemed wrong, too. If she was saying she could do this, she probably could. And he didn’t have a better idea to offer up, as he had already admitted.
“It’s in your hands,” he said.
They left their place by the wall and walked into the thick of the crowds passing by and crossed the roadway. When they reached the far side, Leofur went straight for Dark House, stopping when she reached the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door.
“You wait here,” she told him. “No arguments, no questions,” she added quickly.
He was surprised, but he did as she asked nevertheless. If she could get them inside, he wasn’t about to interfere. He watched her climb the short flight to the door and knock once. When the door opened, she spoke with someone briefly, and the door closed again. Without looking at him, she made a gesture behind her back for him to remain where he was. He did so, still wondering what was going on.
When the door opened once more, a different guard was standing there, burly and scarred, filling the doorway with his bulk. He spoke to Leofur softly, nodded a few times, and finally glanced down the steps at Paxon. After a moment, he nodded to her and stepped back to let her pass. She glanced down at Paxon this time and beckoned him to come with her.
They walked through the front door together, the burly man in the lead, passing any number of guards as they traversed the length of the hall ahead to a set of stairs and started up. Paxon had no idea at all what to expect. Leofur hadn’t said anything about what was going on, and he couldn’t see any way of asking now. He had to trust her; he had to believe she was doing the right thing. Even if it was becoming increasingly hard to do so.
On the second floor, the burly man took them into a small room with a desk and a guard sitting at it and directed them to chairs set to one side. When they had seated themselves, he left without a word.
The guard at the desk was bent over a chart of some sort, his attention focused on whatever was written on it. Paxon glanced at Leofur, who nodded back. He mouthed the word Arcannen, and she looked at the ceiling. He took that to mean the sorcerer was still here, upstairs somewhere. But he still wondered how they had gotten into Dark House so easily. If Arcannen was really here, surely he would have given warning against allowing anyone to come in like this.
After a few moments, Leofur got up and walked over to the guard at the desk. She bent close and when he looked up she put a cloth concealed in her hand over his nose and mouth; he collapsed immediately. She wiped her hand off on his shirt, threw the cloth away, and turned to Paxon.
“He’s upstairs in his office, getting ready to flee the city. We have to hurry.”
They went out the door and found the hallway beyond empty. “What did you just do to that guard?” he asked her.
She glanced over and grinned. “Just a little trick I learned growing up.”
“What sort of trick?” They were out in the hallway now, heading for the stairs leading up.
“Something that puts you to sleep for a while. Why do you care?”
He shook his head. “I just want to know what’s happening here. I feel like I don’t know anything. How did you get us through the front door?”
“Easy,” she answered. “I know these people.”
“How do you know them?” He could not keep the tone of incredulity from his voice.
“I used to work here.” She turned on him, a hint of anger reflected in her eyes as she ran her hand through her silver-streaked hair. “How much more do you need to know? Any more questions you need answers to?”
Only one, he thought, but he realized he already knew the answer. She was young and pretty—what kind of work did he think she was doing here? Maid service? Scullery labor? Scribe? He bit back the rest of what was on the tip of his tongue and simply tracked her up the stairs to his impending confrontation with Arcannen, angry and disappointed.
Arcannen had just finished gathering up the record books for his various businesses when the knock on the door sounded. “Come,” he said, barely looking up as Fentrick entered and stood there as if he had no idea why he had come. “Is there a problem?”
“I just need to tell you something.”
“All right. Tell me.”
“Leofur is here.”
He looked up at once. “What does she want?”
“To see you before you leave, she said.”
“And you let her in?”
The burly guard shrugged. “You said that if she ever came around, I was to—”
“Yes, yes, I know. You were to let her in.” Arcannen made a dismissive motion. “But now is not a particularly convenient time for her to be here. I should have told you as much, I suppose. But I keep hoping you can figure these things out by yourself.” He heaved a deep sigh and accepted the inevitable. “Where is she?”
“Waiting in the guard room with her friend.”
His response was much quicker this time. “What friend?”
“A young man. Tall, dressed in woodsman’s clothes. Wears this black sword strapped across his back.” Fentrick sensed immediately that he had made a mistake. “She said it was all right! She said you wouldn’t mind, that you knew who it was.”
“Matter of fact, I do,” he said quietly, straightening up, realizing what was about to happen. “One flight down, you say?”
“In the guard room. She did say the visit was something of a surprise, so I shouldn’t tell you they were here. She made it sound like it would spoil something if I did. But I just wasn’t sure …”
He trailed off. Arcannen sighed. Saying he wasn’t sure about this or anything else, for that matter, was the understatement of the year. Fentrick was steady and mostly reliable, but he wasn’t quick-witted or astute enough to realize when he was being used.
And what was Leofur doing with Paxon Leah? How had they even managed to meet? It was impossible! He experienced an abrupt sensation of things slipping away fro
m him, as if he could no longer control even the smallest events in his life, as if all his efforts at building something were being torn down around his ears.
He glanced at the boxes of records. There was no time to salvage them now. He would have to abandon them. He would have to run. “I’m leaving,” he said to the other man, coming out from behind his desk in something of a rush. “After I’m gone, make sure you gather up these records and boxes—”
He didn’t finish. The door exploded inward, torn off its hinges, pieces of wood and metal flying everywhere.
Paxon and Leofur rushed through the opening, the former with his black sword drawn, the latter with her flash rip held ready to fire a second charge. Through a haze of smoke and ash, they could see Arcannen seize the guard who had admitted them into Dark House, using him as a shield as he backed around the desk.
Paxon raised his sword in readiness, easing forward. “Let him go,” he ordered the sorcerer.
Arcannen ignored him, his eyes fixed on Leofur instead. “You could have just knocked,” he hissed at her. “My door has always been open to you.”
“Ever wonder why I never take you up on that?” she snapped. “Why don’t you stop hiding behind other people?”
The sorcerer’s eyes shifted to Paxon and back to the young woman. Paxon could see the anger and desperation reflected there. “I don’t think I want to have this conversation just now,” he said.
“Paxon thinks you should have a talk with the Druid order,” she retorted. “Maybe you can explain to them why you killed one of their members.”
“Please let me go!” Fentrick gasped sharply.
“I don’t think they would like my explanation, Leofur.” Arcannen was dragging the guard deeper into the room, toward the back wall. “Why are you doing this to me, anyway? What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing you would ever be able to give me!”
Paxon was hearing this conversation, but not quite understanding what it was about. Or maybe he understood all too well. Whatever the case, he didn’t care to listen to any more of it. He was standing within five feet of the sorcerer by now, close enough to act if Arcannen resisted. “Either you come out from behind your guard or I’m coming right through him!”
Arcannen was looking at him now, a direct, challenging gaze. “You are, are you?” The black eyes glittered. “But do you intend to go through those men behind you, as well?”
It was an old trick, but both Paxon and Leofur instinctively shifted their gazes, casting a quick look over their shoulders. It was enough. Arcannen shoved the hapless Fentrick into Paxon and brought both hands up just an instant before Leofur could level her flash rip. A flash of light caught her squarely in the chest and knocked her backward into the wall, where her head slammed into the wooden boards. She collapsed instantly, the flash rip falling to the floor beside her.
Paxon kept his feet, if only barely, shoving Fentrick out of the way and charging at Arcannen as the terrified guard righted himself and staggered out the door. The sorcerer crouched against the wall, hands held out in what appeared to be a defensive posture, but was not. A flaring of white fire burst from his fingers into Paxon, the fire hot and crackling.
The Sword of Leah scattered it in shards.
Arcannen tried again, this time with a flame that was even hotter and separated in three parts so that it came at Paxon from different directions. But the Highlander stood his ground and did not panic, wielding the sword as Oost had taught him, choosing his targets and blunting their force with responses that were as swift and accurate as the movement of his eyes from one to the next. The fiery strikes burst apart, pieces of flame flying all over the room, leaving scorch marks everywhere.
Arcannen roared in anger and shifted his stance once more, hands weaving, words pouring from his mouth in a rush of hissing and growls. Light flashed between them, and suddenly the sorcerer was holding a sword encased in fire. It had substance and a clearly defined shape, and the flames burned bright green.
Paxon took a step back, uncertain about this new wrinkle, waiting to see what would happen. Arcannen feinted casually, the strange weapon flaring each time he did so. “Did you think you were the only one who knew how to use a sword?”
He rushed at Paxon with a flurry of blows that the latter only barely managed to block as he sidestepped the worst of it and tried to get at Arcannen from the side. But the other was agile and his movements smooth, and it was instantly clear that he had real skill and experience with his weapon. He blocked Paxon’s counterattack easily, turning it aside with little effort. They separated and then met in a clash of blades, sparks and flames exploding from Arcannen’s sword as it collided with Paxon’s. Back and forth they surged, each one fighting to overpower the other, to cause him to slip, to lose his footing, to grow weary and fail.
Finally, Paxon thrust the other away from him, seeking space in which to maneuver. Arcannen laughed cheerfully as they began to circle each other. Then, abruptly, the sorcerer turned and fled the room. Paxon raced to catch him, but Arcannen was waiting just outside. As Paxon charged through the doorway, he only barely managed to block the other’s sword as it swept past his head. Even so, the impact of the fiery sword against his own blade knocked him sideways into the wall. Arcannen was on him instantly, hammering at him, trying to break through his defenses. For an instant Paxon faltered, sensing he was overmatched. But his training and his determination saved him again. He blocked the sorcerer’s blows and regained his momentum, first stopping the attack and then forcing the other man to give ground.
Again, Arcannen turned and fled, this time for the stairway. He was screaming for help, yelling for his men to come to his aid. A handful did, appearing at the head of the stairs, blocking Paxon’s way as their leader rushed past them. But the Highlander never slowed. Giving the battle cry of his ancestors, the one all boys learned almost as soon as they were old enough to walk—Leah! Leah!—he went right through them.
He was down the stairs and on top of Arcannen before the other could reach the front door. Again they met in a clash of metal and fire, the sounds of the blows and their own heavy gasps from the effort filling the hallway. Paxon was wearing down, his strength ebbing, but he sensed that Arcannen was even more exhausted. At one point, in what the Highlander took to be an act of desperation, the sorcerer tried using magic to create a lumbering giant encased in armor. But Paxon slammed into the image fearlessly, and shattered it with a single blow.
Arcannen was retreating, step by step, now clearly interested only in escape. Smoke and ash filled the hall, clouding the air. Both men were bloodied and battered, their faces blackened and their eyes red with fatigue. Rage was present in their locked gazes, reflected in the glint of their eyes. Paxon was thinking of Starks, of how he had died. He was telling himself that the man he was battling had killed him and could not be allowed to go unpunished. He was telling himself that he was the one who must make that happen.
What Arcannen was thinking was unreadable. But his eyes said it was dark and dangerous.
They were alone now, the hallway empty save for them. The guards who remained upright had either fled or gone into hiding. No one was coming to Arcannen’s aid. Paxon felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. The sorcerer’s guards had abandoned him, his strength was fading, and his hopes for escape were disappearing.
He rushed Arcannen anew, sword lifted, yelling out once more—Leah! Leah!—intent on finishing this. Arcannen snarled something in reply and held his ground. When they collided, the impact staggered both. Weapons flashed and clanged, and the blows the men exchanged were fierce and unrelenting. They surged back and forth across the hallway, fighting from one wall to the other and back again. The minutes dragged on; the struggle continued.
Finally, as they backed away from each other yet again, muscles screaming with fatigue, mouths open and gulping for breath, Arcannen held out one hand in a warding motion. “You can’t win this,” he gasped.
The Highlander laughed, drawing in hug
e breaths. “I am winning it. Hadn’t you noticed? Why don’t you just give it up and come with me?”
“Back to Paranor? Back to your Druids? You know what would happen to me.”
“You shouldn’t have killed Starks!”
Now Arcannen laughed. “You think I didn’t know that even before it happened? You think I wasn’t trying to avoid it? But he tracked me and would not quit! I just reacted; it was instinctive.”
“It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t answer for it.”
Arcannen sighed. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you? How simple the world must seem to you—all black and white.” He paused, shaking his head in dismay. “How did you find out I was here in the first place? How did you even know I would come back so soon?”
Paxon shook his head. “I didn’t. I came here to find something to help Chrysallin.”
The sorcerer nodded. “Mischa’s subversion. I’d forgotten about that. You took your sister to Paranor? What happened?”
“She attacked the Ard Rhys.”
“That was what I intended. Only she was supposed to use the Stiehl, and she didn’t have it with her.”
“So it would have been the Ard Rhys who died, not Starks.” He lowered his sword and leaned on it. “Well, because of what you and Mischa did, my sister is now catatonic. I came back to find something to undo the damage.”
Arcannen nodded. “Take away the bad dreams. Make her forget the gray-haired Elven woman and all the torture that never happened. Her belief that she was physically damaged when she wasn’t.” He took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “I can give you that, Paxon.”
Paxon straightened. “What? What did you say?”
“You heard me. I can make your sister well again. I have an antidote that will do so. Do you want it? Then, I’ll make you a bargain. The antidote for my freedom.”
Paxon was incensed. “I’m not going to do that!”
“I give you a potion that will make your sister well, and you let me go free. Why not?”
“I’m not letting you go!” the Highlander screamed in rage. “You’re not getting away again.”