The High Druid's Blade

  “You came back,” she said. Her eyes were huge in the darkness, her fine dark hair like a veil where it spilled over her face.

  “I was worried about you. I didn’t like what you had to say about your father. Why wouldn’t he want you to have friends?”

  “He’s just trying to protect me. But I suppose it could be something else.”

  He waited, but she didn’t say anything more. “Are you afraid of him?”

  She stared at him. “What an odd question. No, I’m not afraid of him. He’s my father. I’m just worried about him.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “He takes too many chances. He’s brave, and he’s strong, so he thinks nothing can hurt him.”

  “Like the creature that’s doing these killings?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe something else.”

  She looked over at him and then without warning kissed him on the mouth, her hands gripping his arms to hold him to her. When she released him, there was a smile on her lips. “Did you like it?”

  He smiled back. “Of course. But why kiss me?”

  “Because. I told you already. You are nice. I like you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “You don’t kiss people because you know them. You kiss them because you want to.”

  He wasn’t sure that was so for most people, but maybe it was for her. They sat together in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “Why do you think your friend was killed by the creature?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he did something to make it angry. Maybe he did something he shouldn’t have.”

  “What about the other people? Did they all do something to make it angry?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m only guessing.” She looked at him again. “Do you think it killed them for no reason?”

  “I don’t know why it kills. Maybe it was random. Maybe it just kills because it likes killing.”

  “That would make it difficult to find, wouldn’t it?” she asked. “How would you ever find it? Unless you happened to be right there when it tried to kill someone, you never could.”

  “Oh, we’ll find it,” he replied.

  Starks and her father were coming back from the mill, their dark forms emerging from the darkness. “Do you want me to come back tomorrow?” he asked her suddenly.

  She leaned into him. “Yes. Father will be gone for several hours in the early afternoon, making deliveries. We could talk more then.” She hesitated. “I have things I need to tell you.”

  She stood suddenly, pulling him up with her. “I like you, Paxon. I like you a lot.”

  Then she turned and ran back inside the cabin and did not come out again.

  TWELVE

  AT NOON OF THE FOLLOWING DAY, PAXON RODE OUT ALONE TO the old mill, taking his time as he went. The day was gray and cloudy, the smell of rain in the air, the dampness palpable on the chilly wind that blew down out of the north. Paxon was thinking about what waited, his mind on unanswered questions, some of which he would ask, some he might not. The answers he anticipated receiving did not put him in a good mood. His suspicions were aroused, had been so since last night, and his expectation of what he would find out today depressed him. But he was protector for the Druids, and so he would do what he knew he must to put an end to the creature.

  He had talked it over with Starks after they had returned from Crombie Joh’s mill yesterday, deeply concerned for the girl Iantha, worried that she was in considerable danger. It seemed obvious to him by now that the miller was the creature they were hunting, and his daughter knew it and was looking for a way to get away from him. Starks wondered why she hadn’t been attacked before now, though he guessed maybe her father could distinguish between her and anyone else when he was the creature. But he agreed after hearing the details of her conversation with Paxon that there was cause for concern for her welfare and that something needed to be done.

  “If I can be alone with her for an hour—with no danger of her father interfering—I think I can find out the truth,” Paxon had insisted. “I think Iantha will tell me the truth.”

  Starks wasn’t so sure, but he had agreed to let Paxon try. “You’ll have to go alone,” he had said. “She likely won’t talk to you if I’m there. But you be careful, Paxon. We still don’t know what’s happening here. I know you like this girl, but she may be more under her father’s control than you realize. She may even betray you to him.”

  But Paxon did not think this was so, believing instead that this was a chance to help someone who desperately needed it. With his sword to protect him, he felt more than capable of carrying out his effort to uncover the truth.

  As he neared the mill, he slowed his mount, careful to keep watch and to listen for the miller’s wagon. He believed the man had already gone to make his deliveries, but he couldn’t take anything for granted. If he was seen, he would have to turn back. He couldn’t let Joh discover he had been to visit Iantha secretly. Not without first knowing if his suspicions were correct.

  But when he passed by the old mill and approached the cottage, he found Iantha waiting for him, already seated on the steps of the porch. She rushed up to him at once and took his hands in hers. “Tie up your horse in the trees across the way,” she told him, a note of urgency in her voice. “Father is already gone, but if he should come back early, he won’t know you’re here.”

  Paxon did as she asked, then walked back over to the porch to sit with her. She went into the house and returned again with glasses of cold ale and a plate of fresh bread. “I’m so glad you came back, Paxon,” she said, sitting close to him. “I feel so much better when you’re here.” She glanced at him shyly. “You must think me very forward.”

  “I think you are scared,” he replied, his eyes on her face. “I came back because I wanted to see you, but also because I am worried about you. Do you have something to say about that?”

  She seemed almost ready to speak, but then there was a hesitation in her response and a tightening of her shoulders. She shook her head. “Can we talk about something else first? Tell me about Paranor!”

  He did, anxious to put her at ease, to give her a chance to collect herself so she could tell him what she knew. It would not be easy, talking about her father, revealing him as the creature that was killing the villagers. In spite of what he was, he expected she loved him and had been protecting him for some time now. She would know something was wrong, living with him as she was, and she would be torn between her love for him and her need to tell someone what he was.

  They spoke together quietly for the better part of an hour, Paxon giving descriptions of the Druid’s Keep, providing entertaining stories about various Druids, even giving her a brief explanation detailing his own training for the order. She was fascinated by everything—her eyes wide, her enthusiasm unbounded, and her questions unending. How did this happen? What did you do then? Were you ever frightened by what might become of you? On and on. But he could feel her loosening up, and it would not be long now before she was ready to talk to him about her father.

  Still, he was aware of time slipping away; neither of them could be certain how much of it they had left. Patience was one thing, but unreasonable delay was another. Paxon needed to persuade her to talk to him before doing so became too dangerous.

  So, finally, he took her hands in his and gently squeezed them. “We have to talk about your father now. I need you to tell me the truth about him. You said you were frightened. What is it that frightens you?”

  She dipped her head again, a protective gesture, and for a long time she didn’t speak. She let him hold her hands and once or twice she squeezed them back, but her face remained hidden in the veil of her long brown hair.

  “This is very hard,” she said finally.

  He nodded, waiting on her. She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him again. In spite of the circumstances, he found himself kissing her back.

  “I like you so much,” she said, breaking
the kiss. “You are kind and patient with me. I’m going to hate it when you are gone. I will miss you.”

  “Just tell me,” he encouraged her.

  She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how!”

  “Does your father have something to do with all the killings that have happened in Eusta?” he tried, thinking a nudge might help.

  She clenched her fists. “We shouldn’t talk about this, Paxon. You should forget I said anything. In fact, you should leave now. My father will be back soon, and I don’t want him to find you here. I’m sorry.”

  Paxon hesitated only a moment, and then he took hold of her by her upper arms and held her firmly in front of him. “You brought me out here to tell me something. I came because I believed you. This isn’t going to go away, and neither am I. The killings have to stop, and if your father has something to do with them, Starks and I are going to find out.”

  Her eyes were suddenly wild. “You don’t know what you are talking about! You don’t know what you are saying!”

  He nodded, holding her gaze. “Then tell me. Tell me why your father isn’t involved. Tell me where I am wrong. But I’m not leaving until you tell me something!”

  She sagged in his grip, her head drooping. “I didn’t want this to happen!” she wailed. “I only wanted you to like me. To be a friend! To talk to me! I just said whatever came into my head so you would come back. Can’t you leave it at that? Can’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think he can,” a voice said from behind Paxon. He turned to look, and there was Crombie Joh, standing in the shadows less than ten feet away, hands on hips, face grim. “I told you that, Iantha. I told you he would keep after you until he found out everything.”

  “Everything?” Paxon echoed, taking his hands off Iantha and bracing himself as he faced her father.

  The big man shrugged. A light rain had begun to fall, and his features were indistinct in the mix of gray light and shadows. He had the look of something more wraith than human. Yet his voice was the same, and his build hadn’t changed.

  “I knew you would come out here as soon as she told you I was leaving to make deliveries. Why did you do that? She likes you; she doesn’t want to see you get hurt. And now you almost certainly will.” An audible sigh escaped his lips. “Where is your companion?”

  “On his way to join me,” Paxon said quickly.

  Joh frowned. “Oh, I doubt that. He would be with you now, if he was coming. He wouldn’t be hanging back, biding his time. He let you come because you both thought Iantha would tell you what you wanted to hear about me. That I was the killer. That I was the changeling. That she had been covering up for me all along. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you were expecting her to tell you?”

  “I thought she might want to help you.”

  Crombie Joh’s laugh was mirthless. “That’s very funny, Highlander. Very amusing.”

  Paxon got to his feet and drew out the Sword of Leah. He came down off the porch steps and advanced on the miller. “Why do you find it so funny? You don’t believe she might want to help you?”

  “Why, no, not at all. Exactly the opposite, in fact. I believe she wants to help me very much.”

  He was changing now, right in front of Paxon, his human form fading, something predatory and dangerous taking his place. The big body lengthened and stretched, the clothes shredding as bones and cartilage and muscles found new shapes and took on strange definitions. A wolf’s head replaced Joh’s own, jaws lengthening into a maw that was filled with gleaming teeth. Hands and feet became paws with great hooked claws. Dark, bristling tufts of hair sprouted all across the exposed parts of the strong body, up arms and down legs, covering head and shoulders until what Paxon beheld was all animal and nothing human.

  Then, some inexplicable instinct—the Highlander never knew exactly where it came from or what triggered it—warned him to turn. It was so strong he flinched from its impact as he spun around, his sword held protectively in front of him.

  Iantha was gone. In her place was another of the creatures.

  “Shades!” Paxon whispered, not quite believing what he was seeing, not ready to accept what it meant.

  There were two of them.

  Both father and daughter were changelings.

  This realization took place in a split second, and then Iantha was on him. There was no hesitation, no suggestion of any regret. She was no longer human; she was a predatory creature consumed by a blood-lust that swept away any other consideration. She meant to kill him on the spot, and she would have done so if his sword had not saved him. But the magic responded instantly to the threat, throwing up a burst of power that blocked the claws and teeth that slashed and bit at Paxon and would have crippled him. The force of the attack was blunted, but it threw the Highlander backward to the ground while at the same time causing Iantha to howl in rage and go tumbling away.

  Paxon was aware of only bits and pieces of what followed next. As he struggled to rise, he caught a glimpse of Crombie Joh coming for him from the other direction, a bigger, stronger threat bearing down with growls and snarls, jaws split wide. Then a second explosion erupted, intercepting him, this one all white fire and blinding light that seemed to come out of nowhere. For an instant the gray light and heavy shadows vanished, the rain evaporated, and the world disappeared.

  And there was Starks, emerging from the brightness even as it faded back into the day’s gloom and damp, striding toward him, arms extended, smoke tendrils curling from his fingertips. The miller rose, shifted his attack to the Druid, and barreled toward his intended victim with terrible intent and unstoppable fury.

  Paxon tried to find his way back to his feet, but his entire body felt as if a great weight had rendered it useless. His limbs had become soft clay, and his thoughts were scrambled and scattered. He was surprised to find blood all over the front of his tunic and down one arm, and he was suddenly aware of pain washing through him. In spite of his sword’s magic and all his training from Oost, Iantha’s attack had broken through his defenses.

  Shaken by the realization and momentarily rendered too weak to arise, he watched helplessly as Crombie Joh launched himself at Starks, a huge and implacable threat. But Starks was equal to it, side-stepping the creature with practiced ease and sending a second explosion of fire into the side of its head. The miller screamed as the blow threw him off balance and sent him sprawling in the damp earth. His massive form crumbled, shaking all over, bristling hair singed and smoking. Starks followed him down, another blast of Druid Fire hitting the other’s wolfish head. And then another.

  All at once Crombie Joh was on fire, the flames consuming his now writhing body, fur and flesh alike blackened and smoking. The miller screamed and tried to rise. But his great strength was no match for the damage that had been done to him, and finally he fell back and lay still.

  Starks wheeled on Paxon, gesturing. “Go after her!”

  Paxon scrambled up, catching a glimpse of Iantha fleeing into the trees, her lupine form bounding through the shadows. He broke into a run, recovered enough now to give pursuit, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. A part of him was reluctant to hunt her like this, but he knew he had to. Even racing after her through the woods, through the layered shadows and clouded gloom, he recalled the young girl eager for his company. A lie, he told himself. But maybe not entirely.

  He had planned it all with Starks ahead of time. The miller was the creature. They were convinced of it. The daughter was his accomplice, willing or no. She had told Paxon to come to her when her father was away, but Starks didn’t think events would necessarily turn out as she had promised. So while Paxon would be allowed to go alone, Starks would follow and be there just in case the Highlander was being lured into a trap.

  Which, in fact, was what had happened. What they hadn’t counted on, what they hadn’t considered, was that Iantha was another of the creatures, and that father and daughter had been killing the townspeople of Eusta together. Paxon could st
ill hardly believe it. The shock of finding her changed and trying to rip him apart remained a sharp-edged memory in his head, tearing at him.

  So now she must be stopped. She must be killed.

  I do not want to do this.

  I do not want to hurt her.

  Conflicting thoughts warred within him. The race to catch her had taken him deep into the woods by now. Starks and the old mill were well behind him and out of sight. He was on his own. Be careful, he warned himself. Remember what she is. Remember what she tried to do. He could no longer see her up ahead, although he could hear her crashing through the brush and see the damage her passing had done.

  And see the blood spots, too. She was injured.

  Suddenly he was aware that he could no longer hear her. The world around him had gone silent save for the patter of the rain against the leaves and the sound of his breathing. He slowed and then stopped, listening. She was waiting for him. Perhaps in ambush, intending to catch him off guard, coming in reckless pursuit, giving her a chance to finish what she had started.

  He moved ahead cautiously, searching the shadows, paying attention to every sound. Nothing. The trail of crushed grasses and blood spatters continued, so he knew he was going in the right direction. The trail had moved away from the deep woods and was now heading for the river. The trees were opening ahead of him to reveal the silver-tipped waters, and the danger of an ambush was fading. He picked up his pace. He could sense that she was near.

  He found her at the river’s edge, collapsed in a heap. She had reverted to human form, her clothes in tatters and blood everywhere. His sword had done more damage than he realized when it had deflected her attack. She was watching him come toward her, but making no move to do anything about it. Her hands were empty; she had no weapons.

  He knelt beside her, and she gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Paxon. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You should have told me,” he said. “Maybe I could have helped you.”