The High Druid's Blade: The Defenders of Shannara (22 page)

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 instead. So instead of continuing the struggle to break free of his adversary, Paxon Leah channeled the blade’s magic not in escape, but in 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 sword 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 knew who he meant, and she was terrified. But 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 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 turned 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 floor 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.”

T
WENTY
-
TWO

A
RCA
NNEN
WOVE
HIS
WAY
TH
ROUGH
W
AYFORD
’
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.

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 doing battle, 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 him 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 using magic 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 wooden bins filled with grain 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 of each.

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 instantly, 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 into the street beyond.

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 sorceror’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 us—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.”

She 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 back over her shoulder. “Want to help me find it?”

He came 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 to you. 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.