Wards of Faerie: The Dark Legacy of Shannara (42 page)

He was almost to the trees when Drust Chazhul rushed out to meet him.

“What are you doing? You were supposed to stay inside and bring out the girl!”

Stoon waited until the other was right in front of him, and then said, “You want the girl, Drust? You go in and get her. I’ve seen all of her I care to see. I didn’t sign on for this.”

Drust seemed to catch the look in his eyes and backed away. “All right. Someone else will bring her then. But I can’t believe you let …”

Stoon was right in his face. “Don’t say it! Don’t even think it! You
didn’t see what happened in there, but I’ll tell you this. If you get your hands on her, you better kill her fast.”

He swung away dismissively, looking back toward Paranor’s walls and the sounds of battle. “What’s going on in there? Your men were everywhere! The advance force didn’t have time to open the gates. How did the rest of them get in so fast?”

Drust handed him an aleskin and waited for him to drink from it. “Your man managed to give us a second way in. The Druids and their guards were so busy watching for us from the south and then rushing to stop us from the west that he managed to reach the east gate unnoticed. Once it was open, we rushed a contingent of men over from the south to hold them. The Trolls fought to retake them, but couldn’t manage it. Now we’re inside. It’s only moments until the Keep is ours.”

“Ours, is it?” Stoon sounded doubtful.

“What can they do to stop us? We’re inside their main walls. We can find a way to breach the Keep. You didn’t see any strange magic stop us from getting through the gates once they were opened from the inside, did you? No, we’ve got them! Our right to finish them off is clear enough. They attacked us first; they brought it on themselves. That’s what we’ll tell everyone. There are plenty of witnesses to corroborate the story.”

He grabbed Stoon’s arm. “Come with me. Let’s find a place to watch it happen.”

Atop the battlements of the Inner Wall, Aphenglow and Bombax stood watching the Federation soldiers scurry about the courtyards below, removing their dead and injured and readying themselves for a fresh assault. Ten of Krolling’s Druid Guards were dead and another five too badly injured to fight. The fifteen or so who were still sound enough to do so had taken up positions on the Inner Wall battlements to await the expected attack. It was not entirely clear yet what direction it would come from, but it was clear that it was inevitable.

“We can’t hold back so many,” Bombax muttered, watching the soldiers as they began to form up their lines. “Not if they find a way to get inside the Inner Wall, too.”

“It’s not your fault they got this far,” she answered quietly. “We were all fooled by that boy.”

“I’m the one who brought him inside the Keep. I’m the one who trusted him when I should have known better.” Bombax shook his head. “I should have seen the truth.”

“You were drugged by whatever liquid the Mwellret poured into your gag. You were unable to speak or move properly, and you couldn’t reason things out.” She glanced over. “None of us would have done any better.”

Bombax looked unconvinced. “I just hope I live long enough to get my hands on him. Five seconds would do it.”

“We’ll settle with him one day.” She scanned the courtyards and the Outer Wall. “What became of him after he opened the east gate?”

The Borderman grimaced. “He slipped out to join his friends. If he were still inside the Keep, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

They were silent for a few minutes, standing close, lost in separate thoughts focused on finding an answer to the same question: What would happen when the Federation attacked the Keep? Aphenglow thought she should go inside and say something to Woostra. But what was there to say? That they were under attack? That they were all in grave danger? Woostra would already know as much. They were all trapped, and advising the old man of what that meant was unnecessary.

“It would help if we hadn’t lost the airships,” Bombax murmured.

But they had, and there was no help for it. The landing platform and their airships lay between the Outer and Inner walls, and the Federation had seized possession of both almost immediately. It didn’t give them access to the Keep, but it kept the Druids from being able to escape by air. If they wanted out, they would have to walk.

They could do that, of course. There were tunnels that ran from the depths of the Keep to the world outside. But escaping would mean abandoning Paranor to an enemy, and no Druid would ever consider doing that. Surrendering the Keep to Drust Chazhul and his Federation minions was unthinkable.

Cymrian appeared, white-blond hair streaked with dirt, Elven
features intense. Wherever he’d been while she had been fighting her way clear of the Federation advance force and the blowgun assailant hadn’t been any less dangerous.

“Are you all right?” she asked, giving him a long look.

He nodded, shrugged. “I almost had him.”

Bombax looked over. “The boy?”

“I spotted him when I was coming back around the north wall to the east side of the Keep. I knew right away what he was doing. He had already gotten the gate open most of the way, but the Federation soldiers hadn’t reached it yet. I went after him, thinking I could get to him before he did any more damage. But he heard me or maybe just sensed me and fled through the gate, screaming for help. It came too quickly for me to close the gate again in time.”

“At least you tried.” Bombax held out his hand, and Cymrian gripped it tightly. “We’ll get another chance at him.”

“There he is now,” Aphenglow said suddenly.

The men looked where she was pointing. Deek Trink stood atop the Outer Wall perhaps three hundred yards away from where they watched, part of a small group of men studying the Keep from afar. Aphenglow recognized the blowgun assailant as one of them.

“That’s Drust Chazhul standing with him.” Bombax hissed out the Federation Prime Minister’s name as if it were poison on his tongue. “This must have been his plan all along. Get the boy inside the Keep to open the gates for his soldiers after faking an attack to justify doing so. It was the boy who fired on the
Arishaig
, a ruse for prompting a Federation response.” He glanced over at Aphenglow. “Just as you said.”

They watched as Deek Trink pointed this way and that, clearly describing the defenses of the Keep, revealing what he knew about its strengths and weaknesses, sharing information he had collected with their enemies. Aphenglow felt a red-hot flush surface, climbing from her neck into her cheeks.

“I’ll be right back,” Cymrian said suddenly.

He turned and raced away, whipping past an approaching Arlingfant without a word. Arling gave him a glance and then joined her
sister and Bombax. “Is anything happening yet? Aphen, are you sure you’re all right?”

Aphenglow nodded. “I’m fine,” she lied.

Arling had helped clean her up after her escape with Bombax, washing her wounds and applying salves. But there were wounds on the inside that couldn’t be treated so easily, even though Arling could always detect them.

Down below, the Federation soldiers had their lines in place and were waiting for the order to attack. Apparently, the Federation army commander had decided that coming at the Keep from the west wall was the best approach. It was the one Aphenglow would have chosen, as well, which worried her. It was here that the Keep was most vulnerable.

“Won’t the Keep defend us like she did before?” Arling asked. “Won’t it be just the same with the Inner Wall as it was with the Outer Wall since no one is going to let them in voluntarily?”

Aphenglow wasn’t sure. She wanted to believe this was true, but she didn’t know enough about the magic’s conjuring to be confident that it would respond. Maybe breaching the Outer Wall had negated its effectiveness. Maybe it hadn’t been designed to defend if attackers got this far inside.

As they watched, a formation of flits eased into view from above the trees and hovered just beyond the perimeter of the main wall. Apparently, the Federation airships were going to try again. They would test the magic that had stopped them earlier, and if it failed to respond the pilots would use the flits and maybe something larger to force an entry from the air as well as the ground.

“Rail slings might stop them,” Bombax muttered. “Knock them right out of the air, those puny little things.”

Cymrian was back, moving to an open space on the wall close by. He was carrying the bow Aphenglow had seen him fashioning some days earlier in the gardens. It was a formidable-looking weapon, fully five feet long, its ends curved and notched to allow maximum draw, its surface polished to a bright sheen. Cymrian must have been working on it a long time, Aphen thought.

And then she wondered why he had brought it up here.

Without a word to any of them, Cymrian fitted a black arrow to the bowstring, lifted the bow so that the arrow was angled upward, hesitated, and then lowered it again. He looked beyond Paranor’s walls at the trees, reading their movements, looked up at the sky and watched the clouds drift, and then brought the bow back up again, sighting along the length of the arrow as he pointed it toward the group with Drust Chazhul. They were paying no attention to him, their interest focused elsewhere. Cymrian drew the arrow all the way back to its iron tip, held it there for a long moment, and then released the bowstring.

The black arrow arced skyward, sharply outlined against the blue of the sky as it flew across the space separating the Keep from the Outer Wall, its trajectory steady and sure, rising and then plummeting into the group that surrounded Drust Chazhul and piercing Deek Trink’s narrow chest through and through. The boy staggered backward a step, eyes wide with shock, and then toppled over dead.

For an instant, no one standing close to Cymrian said a word. Then Bombax exhaled sharply. “Shades!”

“That was the greatest bow shot I’ve ever seen,” Aphenglow breathed.

“It was the luckiest,” Cymrian grumbled, lowering his bow. “I was just trying to scare him, not kill him.”

“I think I like this result better,” Bombax said.

Across the way, Drust Chazhul and his group had scattered in all directions and were now crouched behind anything that offered protection. The rows of Federation soldiers lined up below had turned to look and were milling about uneasily, breaking ranks and looking back at the Keep as if at any moment an arrow could strike each of them, too. Even the flits, which until now had been hovering impatiently at the perimeter of the Outer Wall, had backed off so far they were almost out of sight.

Deek Trink’s body lay abandoned on the ramparts. No one seemed willing to retrieve it.

Bombax nodded to himself. “Much better.”

•  •  •

For about thirty minutes it seemed as if the Federation would postpone any further action until the next day. But then Drust Chazhul and his commanders and sycophants rallied the attack from behind the series of protective barriers where they had sought shelter. The soldiers who had broken ranks and scattered were reassembled behind spears and shields and unit leaders, presumably with promises of what would happen if they fled a second time, and the flits eased back into position just outside Paranor’s walls.

Aphenglow watched in silent desperation. Arling was beside her. Both of them stood between Bombax and Cymrian. All of them were thinking the same thing. If the magic that had warded the Keep thus far did not repel this fresh assault, they were finished. Paranor would fall, and they would have no choice but to flee into the tunnels beneath and from there out into the countryside, fugitives from their own home. They might stand and fight, but even with their magic to aid them, they would be quickly overwhelmed and captured.

But so much worse was what would be lost to the Federation and to Drust Chazhul. All of their histories and records that had been so painstakingly compiled down through the centuries, all of their talismans and artifacts, the chambers that had never housed any but those who were Druids, the cold room and the scrye, the depthless, bottomless well at the tower’s heart that housed the dangerous and sometimes malevolent spirit of the Keep, the earth’s furnace that gave her heat and presence, the landing platform and the airships. And most damaging of all, the belief that Paranor was impenetrable and the Druids invincible in their own fortress would be shattered. It was a stomach-wrenching prospect, one that none of those who were Druids could accept and none who stood with them could conceive.

They had talked briefly about taking action to save what was threatened, about hiding those things that could be hidden, about adding wards and spells. But even Woostra had dismissed the idea. It was too late for that; the job was too overwhelming. The Druid Histories were already protected against intruders, and the talismans and artifacts were well concealed. Best to trust to what had kept them in one piece for this long. Best just to have a little faith.

But more than a little might be required, Aphenglow thought,
standing with the others, the tension ramped up to where it was almost unbearable, her skin crawling with it.

She watched as the Federation lines steadied, men and airships both, and everything went unnaturally still.

Then the battle horn sounded and the Federation army attacked. Lines of armored soldiers and bowmen rushed the Inner Wall and threw up scaling ladders and grappling hooks. Flits shot forward to clear the Outer Wall in an airborne assault on the Inner. Shouts and cries and the clash of weapons rang through the afternoon air, and the combined strength of hundreds threw itself against Paranor and the handful of defenders who waited.

It was a disaster.

Once more the shadowy presence warding the Druid’s Keep surfaced, just as Aphenglow had hoped it would, as ready to protect the Inner Wall as it had been the Outer. Its dark, amorphous presence coiled like a serpent—a venomous, hissing creature. In the blink of an eye, it swatted away the flits, sending them spinning out of control into the woods from which they had emerged, effortlessly shattering their attempt to penetrate the plane of the walls. Then it sank into the stonework of the Inner Wall and reemerged as a suffocating black cloud extending outward from the stonework’s vertical plane to knock away the scaling ladders and the men hanging on them and blow the rest of the soldiers back across the courtyard with a giant’s breath that sent men and equipment whirling and spinning like so many autumn leaves caught in a north wind.