First King of Shannara (26 page)

He was stumbling when Jerle Shannara caught up with him, slowed, wrapped one powerful arm about his sagging body, and pulled him on. Behind them charged Vree Erreden and the last of the Elven Hunters.

Walls and ceilings were collapsing as they broke from the keep and raced across the courtyard to the outer wall and the gates that had brought them in. Tay felt a fire burning in his chest. Some part of the garden's foul magic, he realized, was still inside him. He tried to seal it off, to close it away from the rest of his body, using his own magic to suffocate it. He glanced down at himself, trying to draw reassurance from what he saw.

To his horror, the Black Elfstone was pulsing softly against his chest He wrenched his glance away, covering the dark gem hurriedly so that the others would not see.

The five dashed through the fortress gates and up the stairs that led back to the fissure's entry. The rumbling behind them had grown louder, infused with the sound of stone cracking and sliding away. Dust clogged the passageway, and they could scarcely breathe. Vree Erreden was beginning to lag as well, and the Elven Hunter who ran beside him slowed to help. Like old men, the four stumbled ahead, coughing and choking, trying to keep up with Preia Starle.

There was an explosion deep within the mountain, and a vast cloud of debris hammered into them from behind, knocking them from their feet to sprawl on the stairs. Shaken and dazed, they scrambled up determinedly and went on.

Tay's strength was failing badly. The pain inside him was spreading. He could feel the pulse of the Black Elfstone grow stronger as it throbbed against his chest. That part of the garden's magic still locked within him was feeding into the magic of the Elfstone. He had disguised himself too well. He had altered himself too thoroughly. He had thought he would be able to recover from what he had done, but the sickness with which he had infested himself would not be so easily dispelled. He gritted his teeth and pressed on. It was a risk he had accepted. There was nothing to be done about it now.

Then they were clear of the fissure and back out onto the slide leading down to the lake within the mountain crater. Preia Starle stood frozen directly before them, only yards away.

“Shades!” hissed Jerle Shannara.

Before them, arrayed in a broad semicircle that cut off any possibility of escape, were dozens of Gnome Hunters. At their center, black-cloaked and hunched down like wraiths awaiting night, were a pair of the dreaded Skull Bearers.

Their pursuers had caught up with them at last.

The Elves stumbled to a ragged halt behind Preia. Tay counted quickly. They were five matched against almost a hundred. They stood no chance. Preia backed carefully to Jerle's side. She had not drawn a weapon.

“They were waiting when I came out,” she said quietly. There was no fear in her voice. She glanced at Tay, and her face was oddly calm. “They are too many for us.”

Jerle nodded. He glanced at Tay, grim-faced. Behind them, the fissure belched grit and dust as a new explosion tore through the mountain. The earth shuddered beneath them, still reacting to the fall of the Chew Magna and the giving up of its magic.

“We'll have to go back,” Jerle whispered. “Maybe we can find another way out.”

But there was no other way, Tay knew. There was only this way, through the Skull Bearers and the Gnome Hunters. Going back into the fissure was suicide. The entire mountain was collapsing, and anything caught within its tunnels would be crushed. Behind and to his left, the remaining Elven Hunter released his grip on Vree Erreden and let the other man slide to the rock floor. The locat was just barely conscious. There was blood on his head and face. When had that happened? Tay wondered. How had he missed it?

The Elven Hunter came forward to stand beside him.

Hopeless, Tay thought.

He eased himself away from Jerle then, testing his strength to stand on his own. He found he could do so. He straightened, then looked directly at his friend. Jerle stared back at him suspiciously, and Tay smiled at the other in spite of himself. Preia Starle watched him curiously. Her eyes were bright and challenging, and he thought that maybe she saw what Jerle did not.

“Wait here for me,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” Jerle demanded at once, stepping forward to take hold of his arm, to restrain him.

Carefully, Tay freed himself. “I'll be all right,” he said. “Just wait here.”

He went down the slope, picking his way carefully on the smooth, loose rock, feeling long tremors rumble through the mountain as the destruction of the Chew Magna continued. He glanced upward along the cliff face to the sky, taking in the expanse of the crater's walls and its still, captured lake, the mountain peaks, and the fading sun. He allowed his thoughts to drift. He thought of Bremen and Risca, far away now in some other part of the Four Lands, waging their own fight. He imaged how it must be for them. He thought about his family and his home in Arborlon, his parents and Kira, his brother and wife and children, his friends of old, the places he had lived. He thought of doomed Paranor and the Druids. He took the measure of things past and present in a few brief moments, scattered his musings out before him, swept them up again, and put them away for good.

He stopped when he was only a dozen yards from the Skull Bearers. They had risen from their crouch and were watching him with baleful red eyes, their faces hidden within the darkness of their hooded cloaks. He lacked the magic necessary to stand against them, he knew. He had used himself up in the Chew Magna, and he was sick and worn. He accepted this calmly. The quest for the Black Elfstone was finished. All that remained was to see the Stone safely returned to Arborlon. Those with him must be given the chance to complete their journey home. He must see to it. Where once he would have been enough to protect them all, now he was barely able to protect himself. Yet he would have to do. He was all they had.

He looked down at his tightly clutched hand. The power of the Black Elfstone lay within. Bremen had warned him not to invoke it, and he had given his word to the old man that he would not. But things did not always work out the way you wanted.

He brought up his fist in a sudden sweep, feeling the dark pulse of the Elfstone against his palm. Summoning every last ounce of strength and determination that remained to him, he reached down into the heart of the dark magic and called forth its power. Already the Skull Bearers were reacting. Realizing the danger, they summoned their own deadly fire, a wicked green brilliance they launched at him with deadly efficiency. But they were not quick enough. The Black Elfstone had been awaiting Tay's summons, anticipating it, linked to him from the moment of its taking, master to slave with the roles not yet determined. Pulsing with expectation, its magic surged from between his fingers in a swath of non-light, a black void that swallowed up everything in its path. It smashed the fire of the Skull Bearers. It smashed the Skull Bearers themselves. It smashed the Gnome Hunters, all of them, even those who tried to flee, down to the last terrified man. It devoured everything. It burned men and monsters to ash, then stole away their lives and fed them back into the holder of the Stone.

Tay shuddered and cried out as the Elfstone's magic returned to him, imbued with the lives of its victims. Deep into his body went the evil of the Skull Bearers and the killing force of their fire. All of their dark intent and wicked need surged through him, filling him, ravaging him. He recognized in that instant the secret of the Black Elfstone's power—to negate the power of other magics, to steal them away, to make them its own. But the price was hideous, for the power stolen became the power of the Elfstone's holder and changed the holder forever.

It was over in seconds. The whole of the enemy force that had confronted them was destroyed. On the sweep of the crater slope there were only bits of clothing and weapons and small piles of ash. In the air, there was the smell of burning flesh. Across the surface of the still crater waters, there were ripples from the passing of the Black Elfstone's heat.

Tay dropped to his knees, the expended magic roiling through him. He could feel it eating away at his body and spirit, reducing them to dust. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He was being destroyed and made over. The Black Elfstone tumbled from his nerveless fingers onto the rocks and lay still. Its non-light had gone out. Its pulsing had ceased. Tay stared fixedly at it, trying to find a way to concentrate his magic in an effort to stop what was happening to him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. Nothing could have prepared him for this—nothing. He had disobeyed Bremen, and this was the price.

Then Jerle Shannara was holding him, bending close and saying something. Preia was there, too. He could hear their voices, but he could not understand the words. He kept his eyes closed, fighting off the Black Elfstone's magic. He had gone back into the garden one time too many. The magic had seeded in him, taken root, and waited for him to succumb to its lure. It was a trap he had not foreseen. There had been too many other considerations, too many distractions.

“Tay!” he heard Preia cry.

Something dark was growing inside him now, something vast and unimaginably evil. He was being cast anew in the wake of the infusion of magic that had brought with it the foul essence of the Skull Bearers. He was being subverted. He could not fight it off. He was too badly damaged to do so.

“Preia!” he whispered. “Tell Bremen . . .”

Then he was drifting, lost in another time and place. It was summer in Arborlon, and he was a child again. He was at play with Jerle and had fallen while trying to scale a wall. He had struck his head hard and was lying in the grass. Jerle was beside him, saying, Oh, don't be such a baby! That fall was nothing! You aren't hurt! And he was struggling to rise, partially stunned, scraped about the elbows and face, when Preia, who was playing with them, took him in her arms and held him, saying, Stay quiet, Tay. Wait a moment until the dizziness passes. There's no hurry.

He opened his eyes. Jerle Shannara was cradling him in his arms, his strong face stricken. Preia knelt close, her eyes filled with tears, her face streaked with them.

His hand found hers and held it.

Then, as he had done with Retten Kipp, he used his magic to draw the air from his lungs. Slowly he felt his heart and his pulse slow. He felt the destruction of his body slow as well, thwarted. He grew sleepy. It was all that was left him. Sleep.

Darkness filmed his eyes and stole away his sight. He sighed once. Death came swiftly, gently, and bore him away.

The
F
orging
of the
S
word

 

XVIII

 

B
remen, Mareth, and Kinson Ravenlock took the better part of a week to reach Hearthstone. They walked the entire way, both the Druid and the Tracker believing that they would make better time afoot than on horseback. This was country they both knew, having traveled it often, and the shortcuts they had discovered over the years could not be navigated on horseback. There would come a point early in the journey when the horses could go no farther on any trail and would have to be abandoned. It was better simply to go on foot from the beginning and not complicate matters.

All well and good for them, Mareth thought. They were used to walking long distances. She was not. But she said nothing.

Kinson led the way, setting a pace he thought would be comfortable for all three. He knew Mareth wasn't as conditioned to foot travel as Bremen and himself, but she was tough enough. He kept them on even ground for the first two days, when the roads and trails were still visible and the terrain relatively flat. He stopped often to let Mareth rest, making certain she took water each time. At night, he checked her boots and feet to make certain both were sound. Surprisingly enough, she let him do this without arguing. She had retreated within herself a bit since Bremen's return, and Kinson assumed she was preparing for the moment when she would tell the Druid the truth about herself.

Meanwhile, they pressed on through the passes of the Wolfsktaag into Darklin Reach. Much of the time they followed the Rabb River, for it provided a recognizable reference point and a means for locating drinking water. The days were slow and sunny, and the nights were calm. The deep woods sheltered and soothed, and the journey proceeded without incident.

On their third night out, Mareth kept her promise and told Bremen she had lied to him about her time at Storlock. She had not been one of the Stors, had not been accepted into their order, and had not studied healing with them. What she knew of magic, whether healing or otherwise, she had taught herself. Her skills had been mastered through laborious and sometimes painful experience. It seemed to her that her magic worked best when it was employed for healing, that she did better in those instances at keeping it under control.

She revealed as well her relationship with Cogline. She admitted Cogline had urged her to go to the Druids at Paranor, had told her to seek help with her magic there, and had assisted her in forging the necessary documents to gain admission.

Somewhat to Kinson's surprise, Bremen was not angry with her. He listened attentively as she spoke, nodded in response, and said nothing. They were seated around the cooking fire, dinner consumed, the flames burned almost to coals, and the night about them bright with moon and stars. He did not glance at Kinson. He seemed, in fact, to have forgotten the Borderman was even there.

When the girl had finished, Bremen smiled encouragingly. “Well, you are a bold young lady. And I appreciate your confidence in both Kinson and myself. Certainly, we will try to help you. As for Cogline, this business of sending you off to Paranor to learn about your magic, giving you false references, encouraging you to dissemble—that sounds exactly like him. Cogline has no love for the Druids. He would tweak their collective noses at the slightest provocation. But he also knew, I think, that if you were determined enough to discover the truth about your magic, if you were the genuine article, so to speak, you would eventually find your way to me.”

“Do you know Cogline well?” Mareth asked.

“As well as anyone knows him. He was a Druid before me. He was a Druid in the time of the First War of the Races. He knew Brona. In some ways, he sympathized with him. He thought that all avenues of learning should be encouraged and no form of study forbidden. He was something of a rebel himself in that respect. But Cogline was also a good and careful man. He would never have risked himself as Brona did.

“He left the Druid order before Brona. He left because he grew disenchanted with the structure under which he was required to study. His interest lay in the lost sciences, in sciences that had served the old world before its destruction. But the High Druid and the Druid Council were not supportive of his work. In those days, they favored magic—a power that Cogline distrusted. For them, the old sciences were better left in peace. They might have served the old world, but they had also destroyed it. Uncovering their secrets should be done slowly and cautiously and for limited use only. Cogline thought this nonsense. Science would not be contained, he would argue. It would not be revealed according to Man's agenda, but according to its own.”

Bremen rocked back slightly, arms clasped about knees drawn up, all bones and angles, his smile one of reminiscence. “So Cogline left, infuriated at what had been done to him—and at what he had done to himself, I imagine. He went off into Darklin Reach and resumed his studies on his own. I would see him now and then, cross paths with him. We would talk. We would exchange information and ideas. We were both outcasts of a sort. Except that Cogline refused to consider himself a Druid any longer, while I refused to consider myself anything less.”

“He's been alive longer than you have,” Kinson observed casually, poking at the coals of the fire with a stick, refusing to meet Bremen's gaze.

“He has use of the Druid Sleep, if that's what you are getting at,” Bremen replied quietly. “It is the one indulgence of magic's use that he permits himself. He is mistrustful of the rest. All of it.” He glanced at Mareth. “He thinks the magic dangerous and uncontrollable. He would have taken some delight, I expect, in learning that you found it that way as well. In sending you to Paranor, he was hoping to make a point. The trouble is, you hid your secret too well, and the Druids never discovered what you were capable of doing.”

Mareth nodded, but said nothing. Her dark eyes looked off into space thoughtfully.

Kinson stretched. He felt impatient and irritated with both of them. People complicated their own lives unnecessarily. This was just another example.

He caught Bremen' s eye. “Now that we have all our secrets and past history on the table, tell me this. Why are we going to Hearthstone? What is it that we want with Cogline?”

Bremen studied him a moment before replying. “As I said, Cogline has continued his study of the old sciences. He knows secrets lost to everyone else. One of those secrets might be of use to us.”

He stopped, smiled. He had said all he was going to say, Kinson could tell. There was probably a reason for this beyond irritating the living daylights out of the Borderman, but Kinson did not care either to speculate or to ask what it was. He nodded as if satisfied and rose.

“I will take the first watch,” he announced, and stalked off into the dark.

He sat brooding over the matter until after midnight when Bremen came to relieve him. The old man materialized out of nowhere—Kinson never heard him coming—and sat down next to the Borderman. They kept each other company for a long time without speaking, looking out into the night. They were seated on a low bluff that overlooked the Rabb as it snaked its way through the trees, its surface flat and silver with moonlight. The woods were quiet and sleepy, and the air smelled of juniper and spruce. Darklin Reach began just west of where they camped. Starting tomorrow, the terrain would turn rugged and travel would grow much more difficult.

“What Cogline can give us,” the old man said suddenly, his voice soft and compelling, “is the benefit of his knowledge of metallurgy. Do you remember the visions? They are centered around the creation of a weapon of magic that will destroy the Warlock Lord. The weapon is a sword. The sword will be borne in battle by a man we have not yet met. The sword requires many things to endow it with sufficient strength to withstand the power of Brona. One of those things is a forging process that will make it the equal of any weapon ever shaped. Cogline will give us that process.”

He looked at Kinson and smiled. “I thought it best to keep that piece of information between ourselves.”

Kinson nodded and did not reply. He looked down at his feet, nodded again, and then rose. “Good night, Bremen.”

He started to walk away.

“Kinson?”

The Borderman turned. Bremen was looking away again, staring out over the river and the woods. “I would not be so sure that all the secrets and past history are on the table yet, either. Mareth is a very cautious and deliberate young woman. She has her own reasons for doing what she does, and she keeps them to herself until she thinks it prudent to reveal them.” He paused. “As you already know. Good night.”

Kinson held his ground a moment more, then walked away.

They pushed on for another three days through country so rough and tangled that the only trails they encountered were those made by animals. They saw no other humans, and they found no human tracks. The country had turned hilly, serrated by ravines and ridgelines, eroded by flash floods from springtime cresting of the Rabb, choked by scrub and grasses grown waist-high. The river broke out of its channel in a dozen places, forming loops and sloughs, and they could no longer rely on its banks to provide either a footpath or a reference point. Kinson took them away from the jumble of waterways into the deep woods, choosing country where the shade of the old growth kept the scrub and grass from growing so thick and thereby offered better passage across the drops and splits. The weather stayed good, so they were able to make reasonable progress, even with the changing topography.

As they traveled, Bremen walked with Mareth, speaking about her magic and counseling on its use.

“There are ways in which you can control it,” he offered. “The difficulty lies in identifying the ways. Innate magic is more complicated than acquired magic. With acquired magic, you learn its usage through trial and error, building on your knowledge as you go. You discover what works and what doesn't; it is predictable, and usually you come to understand the why of things. But with innate magic, that isn't always possible. Innate magic is simply there, born to you, a part of your flesh and blood. It does what it will, when it will, often how it will, and you are left to discover the why of things as best you can.

“The problem of controlling innate magic is further complicated by other factors which influence the way magic works. Your character can affect the results of the magic's implementation. Your emotions, your mood. The makeup of your body—you have built-in defenses to anything that threatens your health, and these can affect the way the magic responds. Your view of the world, Mareth, your attitude, your beliefs, your reasoning—they can all determine results. The magic is a chameleon. Sometimes it simply gives up and goes away, will not try to breach your defenses or the obstacles you place in its path. Sometimes it mounts a rush to overcome them, to break through and work its will in spite of all you do to stop it.”

“What is it that so affects me?” she asked him.

And he replied, “That is what we have to discover.”

On the sixth day of their journey, they reached Hearthstone. It was just after midday, and they had come down out of a range of broad, steep hills and rugged valleys that heralded the approach of the Ravenshorn Mountains. They were hot and footsore, and having left the Rabb and its tributaries far behind, they had not bathed in two days. No one was doing much talking this day; they were concentrating all their energies on reaching their destination before nightfall, as Kinson had promised they would. Despite the fearsome reputation of Darklin Reach, nothing had threatened them on their journey and, if anything, they were growing bored with the tedium of their travel. So it was a relief to catch sight of the solitary, chimney-shaped spire that jutted skyward in the bright sunlight that lit the far end of the small valley directly before them. They emerged from a stretch of spruce and hemlock where the shadows were so thick they had to grope their way clear, and there it was. Kinson pointed, but Bremen and Mareth were already nodding and smiling in recognition.

They went down off the hills through patches of wildflowers to the cool shadow of the woods that filled the valley floor. It was silent as they passed through towering stands of hardwoods—red elm, white and black oak, shagbark hickory, and birch. Conifers grew there as well, shaggy, hoary, and ancient, but the hardwoods dominated. Hemmed in by a canopy of limbs and a wall of trunks, they quickly lost sight of Hearthstone. Kinson led, still looking for tracks, still not finding any, but now wondering why. If Cogline lived in the valley, didn't he ever walk around in it? There were no signs of human habitation. There were birds and small ground animals, but not much of anything else.

They crossed a stream, a spray of cold mist washing over them from where the waters tumbled down a rapids. Kinson brushed at his face, closed his eyes against the coolness, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He blinked away the damp as he walked, listening to the silence, glancing back at Bremen and Mareth, who followed a few steps behind. He felt a twinge of uneasiness, but he couldn't identify its source. His Tracker's instincts told him something was wrong, but neither of his companions seemed bothered.

He dropped back a step to walk with them. “Something doesn't feel right,” he muttered.

Mareth looked at him blankly. Bremen only shrugged. Irritated, Kinson strode on ahead once more. They crossed a broad clearing to a stand of fir and pushed through the curtain of boughs. Suddenly Kinson smelled smoke. He slowed and turned to warn the other two.

“Keep your eyes forward,” Bremen warned. He glanced past Kinson, and as he did so, the Tracker saw Mareth's eyes grow huge.

Kinson whirled back and found himself face-to-face with the biggest moor cat he had ever seen. The moor cat was standing six feet away, staring at him. The lantern eyes were a luminous yellow, and the muzzle was black, but the rest of the cat was a curious brindle patchwork. Moor cats were rarely seen, and it was commonly said that seeing one was usually the last event in a person's life. Moor cats kept mostly to themselves, living out their lives in the Eastland swamps. They were difficult to spy out because they could change color to blend into their surroundings. They ran on average six to eight feet long and up to three feet tall at the shoulder, but this one was a dozen feet from nose to tail and at least four feet at the shoulder. It was nearly eye level with Kinson, and if it chose it would be on top of him before he could blink.