Jarka Ruus

  Pen glanced at Khyber. The Elven girl’s eyes glittered with fear. “I’ve never even tried to use the Elfstones,” she said. “I don’t know what it takes to summon the magic. What if I can’t do so now?”

  Ahren Elessedil smiled. “You can and you will, Khyber. You have the training and the resolve. Do not doubt yourself. Be brave. Trust the magic and your instincts. That will be enough.”

  Terek Molt stepped down off the ladder and into the shallow water, turning to face them. His black robes billowed out behind him as he approached, his blocky form squared toward Ahren Elessedil. He radiated confidence and disdain, the set of his dark form signaling his intent in a way that was unmistakable.

  “Move to one side, Khyber,” Ahren said quietly, his voice taking on an edge. “Remember what I said. Watch for my signal. Pen, Tagwen, back out of the way.”

  The boy and the Dwarf retreated at once, happy to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Terek Molt. The warrior Druid’s chiseled face glanced in their direction, a slight lifting of his chin the only indication that he noticed them at all. But even that small movement was enough to let Pen see the rage that was reflected in the flat, cold eyes.

  When he was twenty feet from the Elf, he stopped. “Give up the boy. He belongs to us now. You can keep the old man and the girl as compensation for your trouble. Take them and go.”

  Ahren Elessedil shook his head. “I don’t think I care to take you up on your offer. I think we will all stay together.”

  Terek Molt nodded. “Then you will all come with me. Either way, it makes no difference.”

  “Ultimatums are the last resort of desperate men.”

  “Don’t play games with me, outcast.”

  “What has happened to you, Terek Molt, that you would betray the Ard Rhys and the order this way? You were a good man once.”

  The Dwarf’s face darkened. “I am a better man than you, Ahren Elessedil. I am no cat’s paw, underling fool in league with a monster. I am no tool at the beck and call of a witch!”

  “Are you not?”

  “I’ll say this once. I got tired of the Ard Rhys—of her disruptive presence and her self-centered ways. I got tired of watching her fail time and again at the simplest of tasks. She was never right for the position. She should never have assumed it. Others are better suited to lead the Druid Council to the places it needs to go. Others, who do not share her history.”

  “A full council vote might have been a better way to go. At least that approach would have lent a semblance of respectability to your efforts and not painted all of you as betrayers and cowards. Perhaps enough others on the Druid Council might have agreed with you that all this would not have been necessary.” The Elven Prince paused. “Perhaps it still might be so, were someone of character to pursue it.”

  He made it sound so reasonable, as if treachery could be undone and made right, as if the conversation was between two old friends who were discussing a thorny issue that each hoped to resolve. “Is it too late to bring her back?” he asked the other.

  The Dwarf’s face darkened. “Why bring her back when she is safely out of the way? What does it matter to you, in any case? You have been gone from the council and her life for years. You are an outcast from your own people. Is that why you think so highly of her—because she is like you?”

  “I think better of Grianne Ohmsford than I do of Shadea a’Ru,” the Elf replied.

  “You can tell her so yourself, once we are returned to Paranor.” Terek Molt came forward another step, black cloak billowing. One hand lifted and a gloved finger pointed. “Enough talk. I have chased you for as long as I care to; I am weary of the aggravation. You might have gotten away from me if those Rovers hadn’t stranded you in this swamp and then betrayed you to us. Does that surprise you? We caught up with them early yesterday, trying to slip past us in their pathetic little vessel. That Captain was quick enough to tell us everything once he saw how things stood. So we knew where you were, and it was just a matter of waiting for you to show yourselves. Using magic was a mistake. It led us right to you.”

  Ahren nodded. “Unavoidable. What have you done with the Skatelow and her crew?”

  The Dwarf spit to one side. “Rover vermin. I sent them on their way, back to where they came from. I had no need of them once they gave you up. They’ll be halfway home by now and better off than those who so foolishly sought to use their services.” He looked past the other now to Pen. “I am done talking. Bring the boy. No more arguments. No further delays.”

  Ahren Elessedil’s hands had been tucked within his cloak. Now he brought them out again, balled into fists and bright with his magic’s blue glow. Terek Molt stiffened, but did not give ground. “Do not be a fool,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t think Pen should go with you,” Ahren Elessedil said. “I think you intend him harm, whether you admit to it or not. Druids are meant to protect, and protect him I shall. You have forgotten your teachings, Terek Molt. If you take one step nearer, I shall help you remember them.”

  The Dwarf shook his head slowly. His gloved hands flared with magic of his own. “You are no match for me, Elessedil. If you test me, you will be found wanting. You will be destroyed. Step aside. Give the boy to me and be done with this.”

  They faced each other across the short stretch of mud and shallow water, two identically cloaked forms born of the same order but gone on separate paths. Elf and Dwarf, faces hard as stone, eyes locked as if bound together by iron threads, poised in a manner that suggested there would be no backing down and no quarter given. Pen found himself tensed and ready, as well, but he did not know what he would do when doing something became necessary. He could not think of anything that would help, any difference he could make. Yet he knew he would try.

  “Your ship,” Ahren Elessedil said suddenly to Terek Molt, and nodded in the direction of the Galaphile.

  The Dwarf turned to look, did so without thinking, and in that instant Ahren attacked, raising both hands and dispatching the elemental magic that he commanded in a burst of Druid fire. But it was not the other man he targeted; it was the warship, his elemental magic striking the vessel with such force that it was rocked from bow to stern. The infuriated Dwarf struck back instantly, his own fire hammering into the Druid. Ahren Elessedil had just enough time to throw up a shield before the other’s magic knocked him completely off his feet and sent him sprawling in the mud.

  It was a terrible blow, yet Ahren Elessedil was up again immediately, fighting off the warrior Druid’s second thrust, steadying his defenses. Now arrows and darts cast down by the Gnome Hunters who were gathered at the railing of the Galaphile began to rain on the beleaguered Elf. Pen and Tagwen threw themselves out of the way as a few stray missiles nearly skewered them, then began crawling toward the protective shelter of the trees. Khyber screamed in rage, bringing up her own small Druid-enhanced magic to protect herself, and crouched down close by Ahren, poised to strike but still waiting on her uncle’s command.

  Ahren Elessedil was fighting for his life, down on his knees with his hands extended and his palms facing out, as if in a futile effort to ward off what was happening. His protective shield was eroding under the onslaught of Terek Molt’s attack, melting like ice under searing heat. Yet once again, he chose to strike not at the Dwarf, but at the warship, diverting precious power from his defenses. Pen could not understand what the Elf was thinking. Ahren already knew that the ship was protected, that it was a waste of time and effort to try to damage her. Why was he persisting in this method of attack?

  Yet suddenly, improbably, the Galaphile began to shudder, massive hull and ram-shaped pontoons rocking as if caught in a storm instead of resting in shallow water. Something of what Ahren was doing was making a difference, after all. Terek Molt seemed to sense it, as well, and redoubled his efforts. Druid fire exploded out of his fingers and into the Elf, staggering him, crumpling his shield. Pen heard Ahren call out to Khyber, the signal for which she had been waiting, a
nd immediately she had the Elfstones in hand, arms outthrust. Brilliant blue light built about her fist, widening in a sphere that caused the boy to shield his eyes.

  Then the magic exploded from her clenched fingers in a massive rush that swept over the Galaphile like a tidal wave. For a single instant the Druid warship was lit like a star, blazing with light, and then it burst into flames. It didn’t catch fire in just one place or even a dozen. It caught fire everywhere at once, transformed into a giant torch. With a monstrous whoosh it detonated in a fireball that rose hundreds of feet into the misty swamp sky, carrying with it the Gnome Hunters, bearing away a twisting, writhing Terek Molt, as well, the latter sucked into the vortex. A roar erupted from the conflagration, burning with such fury that it scorched Pen and Tagwen a hundred yards away, sweeping through the whole of the Slags.

  In seconds, the Galaphile and all who had sailed her were gone.

  Pen looked up from where he lay flattened against the mud and scorched grasses. Smoke rising from his blackened form, Ahren Elessedil lay sprawled on his back at the shoreline. Khyber knelt in shock some yards away, her arms lowered, the power of the Elfstones gone dormant once more. Her head drooped, as if she had taken a blow, and the boy could see her eyes blinking rapidly. She was shaking all over.

  He forced himself to his feet. “Tagwen,” he called over to the Dwarf, finding him through eyes half-blinded by smoke and ash. Tagwen looked up at him from where he was huddled in a muddied depression, his eyes wide and scared. “Get up. We have to help them.”

  The boy staggered across the flats, head lowered against the heat of the still-fiery bay. Flames and ash-smeared waters were all that remained of the Galaphile. Pen glanced at the charred mix, baffled and awed by what had taken place, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of it.

  He reached Khyber and knelt beside her. He touched her shoulder. “Khyber,” he said softly.

  She did not look up or stop shaking, so he put his lips to her ear, whispering, “Khyber, it’s all right, it’s over. Look at me. I need to know you can hear me. You’re all right.”

  “So much power,” she whispered suddenly. She stopped shaking then, her body going perfectly still. A long sigh escaped her lips. She lifted her head and looked out across the fiery surface of the wetlands. “I couldn’t stop it, Pen. Once it started, I couldn’t stop it.”

  “I know,” he said, understanding now something of what had transpired. “It’s all over.”

  He helped her to her feet, and they stumbled together to where Tagwen knelt beside Ahren Elessedil. Pen knew at a glance that the Druid was dying. A handful of arrows and darts had pierced him, and his body was blackened and smoking from the explosion. But his eyes were open and calm, and he watched their approach with a steady gaze.

  Khyber gasped as she saw him, then dropped to her knees and began to cry, her hands clasped helplessly in her lap, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

  The Druid reached out with one charred hand and touched her wrist. “Terek Molt tied his magic to the Galaphile,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked with pain. “To protect her. When I attacked, he strengthened the connection until he was too committed to withdraw it. The Elfstones couldn’t tell the difference. To them, the Galaphile was a weapon, an extension of Molt. So it consumed them both.”

  “I could have helped you!”

  “No, Khyber.” He coughed and blood flecked his burned lips. “He couldn’t be allowed to know that you had the Elfstones. Otherwise, he would have destroyed you.”

  “Instead, he destroyed you!” She was crying so hard that she could barely make herself understood.

  The ruined face tilted slightly in response. “I misjudged the extent of my invulnerability. Still, it is a reasonable trade.” He swallowed thickly. “The Elfstones are yours now. Use them with caution. Your command of their power . . .” He trailed off, the words catching in this throat. “You’ve seen the nature of your abilities. Strong. Your heart, mind, body—very powerful. But the Stones are more powerful still. Be wary. They will rule you if you are not careful. There is danger in using them. Remember.”

  She lifted her tear-streaked face and looked over at Pen. “We have to help him!”

  She was almost hysterical. Pen was frightened, unable to think of what to say to her. There was nothing they could do. Surely she could see that. But she looked so wild that he was afraid she might try something anyway, something dangerous.

  Ahren Elessedil’s hand tightened on her wrist. “No, Khyber,” he said. He waited until she looked back at him, until she met his terrible burned gaze. “There is nothing to be done. It is finished for me. I’m sorry.”

  His eyes shifted slowly to Pen. “Penderrin. Twenty years ago, when I sailed on the Jerle Shannara with your father, a young girl gave up her life for me. She did so because she believed I was meant to do something important. I would like to think this is part of what she saved me for. Make something good come out of this. Do what you were sent here to do. Find the Ard Rhys and bring her back.”

  He took several sharp, rattling breaths, his eyes holding the boy’s as he struggled to speak. “Ahren?” Pen whispered.

  “Promise me.”

  The Druid’s eyes became fixed and staring, and he quit breathing. Pen could not look away, finding in that terrible gaze strength of purpose he would not have believed possible. He reached out and touched the Druid’s charred face, then closed those dead eyes and sat back again. He looked over at Khyber, who was crying silently into her hands, then at Tagwen.

  “I never thought anything like this would happen,” the Dwarf said quietly. “I thought he would be the one to get us safely through.”

  Pen nodded, looking out over the burning lake at the flames licking at the twilight darkness, staining sky and earth the color of blood. The surface of the water burned silently, steadily, a fiery mirror reflected against a backdrop of shadow-striped trees. Smoke mingled with mist and mist with clouds, and everything was hazy and surreal. The world had an alien feel to it, as if nothing the boy was seeing was familiar.

  “What are we going to do?” Tagwen asked softly. He shook his head slowly, as if there were no answer to his question.

  Penderrin Ohmsford looked over again at Khyber. She was no longer crying. Her head was lifted and her dark features were a mask of resolve. He could tell from the way she was looking back at him that there would be no more tears.

  The boy turned to the Dwarf. “We’re going to do what he asked of us,” he said. “We’re going to go on.”

  Twenty-seven

  Shadea a’Ru stalked from the Druid Council without sparing even a glance back at those fools who expected it, her eyes directed straight ahead. She would not give them the satisfaction. She would give them nothing. She was seething with rage and frustration, but she would not let even a hint of it escape. Let them suspect what they wished about her true feelings; their suspicions were the least of her problems.

  Her stride lengthening, she shouldered past the few grouped by the doors leading out, using her size and weight to brush them aside, and turned down the hallway toward the stairs leading up to her rooms. It was a kindness she bestowed on them, leaving so abruptly. Had she hesitated longer, she might have killed one of them.

  Surely that would have been more satisfying than anything else that had happened.

  She had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince the Council of the necessity of taking a stand on the war between the Federation and the Free-born. She had insisted that no progress in the efforts of the Druid order could be made until the war was concluded. It was inevitable, she argued, that the Federation, superior in men and materials, would emerge as the eventual victor. Better that it happen now, so that the rebuilding could begin, so that the work of the Druids could commence in earnest. Callahorn was Southland territory in any event, inhabited mostly by members of the Race of Man and naturally aligned with the interests of the Federation. Let them have it. Make that the condition to ending the war.
The Free-born were a rebel outfit at best, consumed by their foolish insistence on keeping Callahorn for themselves. Remove the tacit support of the Druids and the rebels would collapse.

  She did not tell the Council, of course, that she had made a bargain with Sen Dunsidan to help him secure control over the Borderlands. She did not tell them that Federation control of Callahorn was the price of his support of her and her efforts to expand the authority and influence of the order. That wasn’t something they needed to know. It was enough that she was proposing a reasonable, commonsense solution to a problem that had plagued the order since the day of its inception.

  But the Council had balked at adopting her proposal, its members led in their opposition by that snake Gerand Cera, who had insisted that a thorough study of the consequences of such drastic action was needed first. The matter was not as simple as the Ard Rhys was trying to make it seem, his argument went. Elven interests would be impacted by the outcome of the Federation–Free-born war in a significant way, as well. Once he had mentioned the Elves, it was only moments before the Dwarves were insisting that their interests were important too. Soon, everyone was arguing. Clever of him. Without repudiating the suggestion outright, he had managed to defer any action on it until a later date, all with an eye toward his own special interests, she was certain.

  Very well. He had won this day, but there would be another—although not necessarily for him. He was becoming something of a nuisance, one that she would have to deal with soon. If he could not be brought into line, he would have to be removed.

  For the moment, she had more pressing concerns. Sen Dunsidan would arrive in three days, and he would expect to hear that she had secured the Council’s approval for Federation occupation of Callahorn along with its open repudiation of Free-born claims to the land. He would be expecting a joint announcement of solidarity on the matter, one that would clearly indicate to the Free-born that their cause was lost. His expectations would not be met. She would have to tell him that the matter was not settled, that he would have to be patient. He would not like that, but he would have to live with it. He was used to disappointment; he would survive.