First King of Shannara (10 page)

He peered out guardedly. The cries were louder now, more terrible in their urgency and pain. Men rushed past his door, members of the Druid Guard. The Keep was under attack, he realized. Bremen's warning had fallen on deaf ears, and now the price of their refusal to heed was to be exacted. He was surprised at how certain he was of what was happening and how it would end. Already he knew he was not going to live out the night.

Still he hesitated, unwilling even at this point to accept what he knew. The hall was empty now, the sounds of battle centered somewhere below. He thought to go out for a better look at things, but even as he was contemplating the idea, a shadowy presence emerged from the back stairway. He pulled his head inside quickly and peered out through his barely cracked door.

Black, misshapen creatures lurched into view, things that were unrecognizable, monsters from his worst nightmare. He caught his breath and held it. Room by room, they were working their way down the corridor to where he waited.

He closed the library door softly and locked it. For a moment he just stood there, unable to move. A rush of images recalled themselves, memories of his early days as a Druid in training, of his subsequent tenure as a Druid Scribe, of his ceaseless efforts to collect and preserve the writings of the old world and of faerie. So much had happened, but in so short a time. He shook his head in wonder. How had it all gone by so quickly?

There were screams close at hand now, freshly raised, come from just beyond his door, in the hall where the monsters prowled. Time was running out.

He moved quickly to his desk and took out the leather pouch that Bremen had given him. Perhaps he should have gone with his old friend. Perhaps he should have saved himself while he had the chance. But who would have protected the Druid Histories if he had done so? Who else could Bremen have relied upon? Besides, this was where he belonged. He knew so little of the world beyond anymore; it had been too long since he had gone out into it. He was of no use to anyone beyond these walls. Here, at least, he might still serve a purpose.

He walked to the bookcase that doubled as a hidden doorway to the room that concealed the Druid Histories and triggered its release. He entered and looked around. The room was filled with huge, leather-bound books. Row after row, they sat in numbered, ordered sequence, reservoirs of knowledge, of all the lore the Druids had gathered since the time of the First Council from the ages of faerie, Man, and the Great Wars. Each page of each book was crammed with information gained and recorded, some of it understood, some of it a mystery still, all that remained of science and magic past and present. Much of what was written in these books had been done so in Kahle's own hand, the words painstakingly inscribed, line by line, for more than forty years. Their recordings were the old man's special pride, the summation of his life's work, the accomplishment he favored most.

He crossed to the nearest bank of shelves, took a deep breath, and opened the drawstrings to Bremen's leather pouch. He mistrusted all magic, but there was no other choice. Besides, Bremen would never mislead him. What mattered to both was the preservation of the Histories. They must survive him, as they were intended to. They must survive them all.

He took a generous handful of the glittering, silver dust he found inside the pouch and threw it across one section of the books. Instantly, the entire wall on which the books were housed began to shimmer, taking on the look of a mirage in deep summer heat. Kahle hesitated, then threw more of the dust across the liquid curtain. The shelves and books disappeared. He moved on quickly then, using handfuls of the dust on each set of shelves, each section of books, watching them shimmer and fade away.

Moments later, the Druid Histories had vanished completely. All that remained was a room with four blank walls and a long reading table at its center.

Kahle Rese nodded in satisfaction. The Histories were safe now. Even if the room was discovered, its contents would remain concealed. It was as much as he could hope for.

He walked back through the door, suddenly weary. There was a scraping at the library door as unwieldy claws tried to fasten on the handle and turn it. Kahle turned and carefully closed the bookcase door. He placed the nearly empty leather pouch into the pocket of his robe, walked to his desk, and stood there. He had no weapons. He had no place to run. There was nothing to do but wait.

Heavy bodies threw themselves against the door from without, splintering it. A second later it gave way, crashing open against the wall. Three crook-backed beasts slouched into the room, red eyes narrow and hateful as they fixed on him. He faced them without flinching as they approached.

The closest held a short spear. Something in the bearing of the man before him infuriated him. When he was right on top of Kahle Rese, he drove the spear through his chest and killed him instantly.

 

When it was finished, when all who remained of the guards had been hunted down and slaughtered, the Druids who had survived were herded from their hiding places into the Assembly and made to fall upon their knees, ringed by the monsters who had undone them. Athabasca was found, still alive, and brought to stand before the Skull Bearer. The creature stared at the imposing, white-haired First Druid, then ordered him to bow down and acknowledge him as Master. When Athabasca refused, proud and disdainful even in defeat, the creature seized him by his neck, looked into his frightened eyes, and burned them out with fire from his own.

As Athabasca lay writhing in agony on the stone floor, a sudden hush fell over the Assembly. The hissing and chittering died away. The scraping of claws and grinding of teeth faded. A silence descended, dark and foreboding, and all eyes were drawn to the hall's main entry, where the heavy double doors hung shattered and broken from their bindings.

There, within the jagged opening, the shadows seemed to come together, a coalescing of darkness that slowly took shape and grew into a tall, robed figure that did not stand upon the floor as normal men, but hung above it in midair, as light and insubstantial as smoke. A chill permeated the air of the Assembly at its coming, a cold that swept through the chamber and penetrated to the bones of the captured Druids. One by one their captors dropped to their knees, heads bowed, voices a rough murmur.

Master, Master.

The Warlock Lord looked down upon the beaten Druids and was filled with satisfaction. They were his, now. Paranor was his. Revenge was at hand, after all this time.

He brought his creatures back to their feet, then stretched his cloaked arm toward Athabasca. Unable to help himself, blinded and in pain, the First Druid was jerked upright as if by invisible wires. He hung above the floor, above the other Druids, crying out in terror. The Warlock Lord made a twisting motion, and the First Druid went ominously still. A second twisting motion, and the First Druid began to chant in terrible, croaking agony,
“Master, Master, Master.”
The Druids huddled about him turned their eyes away in shame and rage. Some wept. The massed creatures of the Warlock Lord hissed with pleasure and approval, lifting their clawed limbs in salute.

Then the Warlock Lord nodded, and the Skull Bearer struck with terrible swiftness, tearing Athabasca's heart from his chest while he still lived. The First Druid threw back his head and shrieked as his chest exploded, then slumped forward and died.

For several long moments, the Warlock Lord held him suspended over his fellows like a rag doll, the blood draining from his body. He swung him this way and that, back and forth, and finally let him drop to the stone in a sodden mass of ruined flesh and bone.

Then he had all the captured Druids taken from the Assembly, herded like cattle to the deepest regions of Paranor's cellars, and walled away alive.

As the last of their screams died into silence, he went up through the stairways and corridors of the Keep in search of the Druid Histories. He had destroyed the Druids; now he must destroy their lore. Or take with him what he could use. He went swiftly now, for already there were stirrings from somewhere down within the Keep's bottomless well that hinted of magic coming awake in response to his presence. In his own domain, he was a match for anything. Here, within the haven of his greatest enemies, he might not be. He found the library and searched it through. He uncovered the bookcase that opened on the hidden chamber beyond, but that chamber was empty. There was magic in use, he sensed, but he could not determine its origin or purpose. Of the Histories, there was no sign.

From within the depths of the Druid Well, the stirrings grew stronger. Something had been set loose in response to his coming, and it was rising to seek him out. He was disturbed that this should be, that power of this sort should be set at watch to challenge him. It could not have originated with these pitiful mortals he had so easily subdued. They were no longer able to invoke such power. It must have come instead from the one who had penetrated his domain so recently, the one his creatures had tracked, the Druid Bremen.

He went back down to the Assembly, anxious to be gone now as swiftly as possible, his purpose here accomplished. He had the three who bad betrayed Paranor brought before him. He did not speak to them with words, for they were not worthy of this, but let his thoughts speak for him. They cringed and prostrated themselves like sheep, poor foolish creatures who would be more than they were able.

Master!
they whimpered in placating voices.
Master, we serve only you!

Who among the Druids escaped the Keep besides Bremen?

Only three, Master. A Dwarf Risca. An Elf Tay Trefenwyd. A Southland girl, Mareth.

Did they go with Bremen?

Yes, with Bremen.

No others escaped?

No, Master. None.

They will return. They will hear of Paranor's fall and want to make certain it is so. You will be waiting. You will finish what I have begun. Then you will be as I am.

Yes, Master, yes!

Stand.

They did so, rising hastily, eagerly, broken spirits and minds that were his to command. Yet they lacked the strength to do what was required of them and so must be altered. He reached out to them with his magic, wrapped them about with strands as thin as gossamer and as unyielding as iron, and stole away the last of what was human.

Their shrieks echoed through the empty halls as he relentlessly shaped them into something new. Arms and legs flailed. Heads jerked wildly and eyes bulged.

When he was done, they were no longer recognizable. He left them thus, and with the remainder of his minions trailing obediently after, he stole back into the night, abandoning the castle of the Druids to the dying and the dead.

 

VII

 

B
remen gave his hand to Risca in parting, and the Dwarf clasped it firmly in is own. They stood just outside the grotto in which they had taken shelter upon leaving the Hadeshorn and its ghosts. It was nearing midday now, the rain had dwindled to a fine mist, and the skies were beginning to clear west above the dark peaks of the Dragon's Teeth.

“It seems we no sooner meet up again and it's off our separate ways,” Risca grumbled. “I don't know how we manage to stay friends. I don't know why we bother.”

“We have no choice,” Tay Trefenwyd offered from one side. “No one else would have anything to do with us.”

“True enough.” The Dwarf smiled in spite of himself. “Well, this should test the friendship, sure enough. Scattered Eastland to Westland and then some, and who knows when we'll meet again?” He gave Bremen's hand a hard squeeze. “You watch out for yourself.”

“And you, my good friend,” the old man replied.

“Tay Trefenwyd!” the Dwarf shouted over his shoulder. He was already striding down the trail. “Don't forget your promise! Pack up the Elves and bring them east! Stand with us against the Warlock Lord! We'll be counting on you!”

“Goodbye for now, Risca!” Tay called after him.

The Dwarf waved, hitching up his pack on his broad shoulders, his broadsword swinging at his side. “Luck to you, Elf ears. Keep alert! Watch your backside!”

They bantered back and forth good-naturedly, the Elf and the Dwarf, old friends comfortable with each other's joshing, accustomed to exchanges that teased and chided and masked emotions that lay just beneath the surface of the words. Kinson Ravenlock stood to one side listening to the verbal byplay and wished there were time to know them better. But that would have to wait. Risca had departed, and Tay would leave them at the mouth of the Kennon, when they turned north toward Paranor and the Elf continued west to Arborlon. The Borderman shook his head. How hard this must be for Bremen. It had been two years since he had seen Risca and Tay. Would it be two more before he saw them again?

When Risca had disappeared from view, Bremen led the three remaining members of the little company down a secondary trail to the base of the cliffs and then west along the north bank of the Mermidon, retracing the steps that had brought them there. They walked until well after sunset, camping finally in the lee of a copse of alder on a cove where the Mermidon branched south and west. The skies had cleared and were brilliant with stars, the light reflecting in a kaleidoscopic sparkle off the placid surface of the water. The company gathered on the riverbank and ate their dinner staring out into the night. No one said much. Tay cautioned Bremen to be wary at Paranor. If the vision he had been shown had come to pass and the castle of the Druids had fallen, there was reason to believe that the Warlock Lord and his minions might yet be in residence. Or if not, the Elf added, he might have left traps to ensnare any Druids who had escaped and were foolish enough to return. He said it lightly, and Bremen responded with a smile. Kinson noted that neither bothered to dispute the likelihood of Paranor's destruction. It must have been a bitter realization for both, but neither showed anything of what they were feeling. They made it a point not to dwell on the past. It was the future that mattered now.

To that end, Bremen talked at some length with Tay about his vision of the Black Elfstone, going over the particulars of what he had been shown, what he had sensed, and what he had deduced. Kinson listened idly, glancing now and again at Mareth, who was doing the same. He wondered what she was thinking, knowing as she did now that the Druids of Paranor were probably gone. He wondered if she realized how dramatically her role as a member of this company had changed. She had said barely a word since coming out of the Valley of Shale, keeping apart during the exchanges between Bremen, Risca, and Tay, watching and listening. Not unlike himself, Kinson thought. For she, too, was an outsider, still looking to find her place, not a Druid like the others, not yet proven, not entirely accepted as an equal. He studied her, trying to gage her toughness, her resilience. She would need both for what lay ahead.

Later, when she was sleeping, Tay sprawled close to her and Bremen at watch, Kinson rolled out of his cloak and walked over to sit with the old man. Bremen said nothing as he came up, looking out into the darkness. Kinson seated himself, crossed his long legs before him, and wrapped his cloak comfortably about his shoulders. The night was warm, more in keeping with the season than of late, and the air was filled with the smell of spring flowers and new leaves and grasses. A breeze blew down out of the mountains, rustling the limbs of the trees, rippling the waters of the river. The two men sat in silence for a time, listening to the night sounds, lost in their separate thoughts.

“You are taking a great risk in returning,” Kinson said finally.

“A necessary risk,” Bremen amended.

“You feel certain Paranor has fallen, don't you?”

Bremen did not respond for a moment, as still as stone, then nodded slowly.

“It will be very dangerous for you if that is so,” Kinson pressed. “Brona hunts you already. He probably knows you have been to Paranor. He will expect you to return.”

The old man's face turned slightly toward his younger companion, creased and browned by weather and sun, etched by a lifetime of struggle and disappointment. “I know all this, Kinson. And you know that I know, so why are we discussing it?”

“So that you will be reminded,” the Borderman declared firmly. “So that you will be doubly cautious. Visions are fine, but they are tricky as well. I don't trust them. You shouldn't either. Not entirely.”

“You refer to the vision of Paranor, I presume?”

Kinson nodded. “The Keep fallen and the Druids destroyed. All clear enough. But the sensation of something waiting, something dangerous—that's the tricky part of this matter. If it's accurate, it won't come in any form you expect.”

Bremen shrugged. “No, I don't suppose it will. But it doesn't matter. I have to make certain that Paranor is truly lost—no matter the strength of my own suspicions—and I have to recover the Eilt Druin. The medallion is to be an integral part of the talisman needed to destroy the Warlock Lord. The vision was clear enough on that. A sword, Kinson, that I must shape, that I must forge, that I must imbue with magic that Brona himself cannot withstand. The Eilt Druin is the only part of that process that I have been shown; the medallion's image was clearly visible on the sword's handle. It is a place to begin. I must recover the medallion and determine what is needed from there.”

Kinson studied him a moment in silence. “You have already constructed a plan for this, haven't you?”

“The beginnings of one.” The old man smiled. “You know me too well, my friend.”

“I know you well enough to anticipate you now and then.” Kinson sighed and looked out across the river. “Not that it helps me in my efforts to persuade you to take better care of yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that.”

Wouldn't you? Kinson thought wearily. But he did not challenge the statement, hoping that perhaps it was at least partly true, that the old man did listen to him about a few things, particularly those that argued for caution. It was funny that Bremen, now in the twilight of his life, was so much more reckless than the younger man. Kinson had spent a lifetime on the border learning that a single misstep was the difference between life and death, that knowing when to act and when to wait kept you safe and whole. He supposed that Bremen appreciated the distinction, but he didn't always act as if he did. Bremen was far more apt to challenge fate than Kinson. The magic was the difference, he supposed. He was swifter and stronger than the old man, and his instincts were surer, but Bremen had the magic to sustain him, and the magic had never failed. It gave Kinson some small measure of reassurance that his friend was cloaked in an extra layer of protection. But he wished the measure could be larger.

He unfolded his long legs and stretched them out in front of him, leaning back, bracing himself with his arms. “What happened back there with Mareth?” he asked suddenly. “At the Hadeshorn, when you collapsed and she reached you first?”

“Interesting young woman, Mareth.” The old man's voice was suddenly soft. He turned to face Kinson once more, a faraway look in his eyes. “Remember how she claimed to have magic? Well, the claim is a valid one. But perhaps it is not the sort of magic I envisioned. I'm still not sure. I do know something of it, though. She is an empath, Kinson. Her healing art is buttressed by this power. She can take another's pain into herself and lessen it. She can absorb another's injury and speed its healing. She did that with me at the Hadeshorn. The shock of seeing the visions and being touched by the shades of the dead rendered me unconscious. But she lifted me—I could feel her hands—and brought me awake, strong again, healed.” He blinked. “It was very clear. Did you happen to see what effect it had on her?”

Kinson pursed his lips thoughtfully. “She seemed to lose strength momentarily, but it didn't last long. But her eyes. On the bluff, when you disappeared in the storm while talking with the shade of Galaphile, she said she could see you when the rest of us could not. Her eyes were white.”

“Her magic seems quite complex, doesn't it?”

“Empathic, you said. But not in any small way.”

“No. There is nothing small about Mareth's magic. It is very powerful. Probably she was born with it and has worked to develop her skills over the years. Certainly with the Stors.” He paused. “I wonder if Athabasca realizes she possesses this skill. I wonder if any of them realize it.”

“She isn't one to give much away about herself. She doesn't want anyone to get too close.” Kinson thought for a moment. “But she does seem to admire you. She told me how important it was to her that she come with you on this journey.”

Bremen nodded. “Yes, well, there are secrets yet to be revealed about Mareth, I think. You and I, we shall have to find a way to draw them out into the open.”

Good luck to you on doing that, Kinson wanted to say, but kept the thought to himself. He remembered Mareth's reticence to accept even the small comfort of his cloak when he had offered it. It would take an unusual set of circumstances for her to give away anything about herself, he suspected.

But, then, nothing usual lay ahead for any of them, did it?

He sat with Bremen on the banks of the Mermidon, not speaking, not moving, looking out across the water, projecting images from the dark recesses of his mind of what he feared might come to pass.

 

They rose at sunrise and walked through the day in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth, following the Mermidon west. The weather turned warmer still, the temperature soaring, the air thickening with moisture and heat. Travel cloaks were discarded and water consumed in increasing quantities. They rested more frequently in the afternoon hours, and it was still light when they reached the Kennon. There Tay Trefenwyd left them to continue on across the grasslands to the forests of Arborlon.

“When you find the Black Elfstone, Tay, do not think to use it,” Bremen cautioned on parting. “Not for any reason. Not even if you are threatened. Its magic is powerful enough to accomplish anything, but it is dangerous as well. All magic exacts a price for its use. You know that as well as I. The price for use of the Black Elfstone is too high.”

“It might destroy me,” Tay finished, anticipating.

“We are mortal beings, you and I,” Bremen observed quietly. “We must tread lightly where the use of magic is concerned. Your task is to recover the Elfstone and to bring it to me. We do not seek to use it. We seek only to prevent the Warlock Lord from using it. Remember that.”

“I will remember, Bremen.”

“Warn Courtann Ballindarroch of the danger we face. Convince him that he must send his army to aid Raybur and the Dwarves. Don't fail me.”

“It will all be done.” The Druid Elf clasped his hand, released it, and was off with a jaunty wave. “Another memorable reunion, wasn't it? Watch out for him, Kinson. Take care, Mareth. Good luck to you all.”

He whistled happily, smiling back at them one final time. Then his long stride lengthened, and he disappeared into the trees and rocks and was gone.

Bremen huddled then with Kinson and Mareth to decide whether they should continue on through the pass or wait until morning. It appeared another storm was approaching, but if they waited it out they might lose another two days. Kinson could tell that the old man was anxious to continue, to reach Paranor and discover the truth of what had happened. They were rested and fit, so he urged that they go on. Mareth was quick to give her support. Bremen smiled his appreciation and beckoned them forward.

They hiked into the pass as the sun dropped steadily toward the horizon and slipped from view. The skies remained clear and the air warm, so travel was comfortable and they made good time. By midnight, they were through the top of the pass and starting down into the valley beyond. The wind had picked up, howling out of the southwest in a steady rush, spinning dirt and gravel off the trail in small funnels, clouding the air with debris. They walked with their heads lowered until they were below the rim of the mountains and the wind had tailed off. Ahead, the black silhouette of the Druid's Keep was clearly visible against the starlit sky, rising out of the trees, towers and parapets stark and jagged. No lights burned in its windows or from its battlements. No movement or sound disturbed its silence.

They reached the valley floor and were swallowed by the forest. Moon and stars lit their way through the deep shadows, guiding them on toward the Keep. Massive old growth hemmed them about, rising over them like the pillars of a temple. Glades softened by thick grasses and small streams came and went. The night continued still and sleepy about them, empty of sound and movement save for the wind, which had picked up again, blowing past their faces in small, hard gusts, rustling their cloaks and the branches of the trees like shaken bedding. Bremen led them swiftly, steadily on, the pace belying his age and challenging theirs. Kinson and Mareth exchanged glances. The Druid had tapped into a hidden reservoir of strength. He had turned as hard and unyielding as iron.