Bearers of the Black Staff: Legends of Shannara (46 page)

He saw the guard at the entrance to the tent through the screen of rain, and he knew she was there. No torches lit the entry. No light came from inside. Nothing to draw attention, nothing to suggest its importance. He glanced down at the signal. The blinking orb had grown brighter. There was no question about it; he had found her.

He started toward the tent and the guard.

And suddenly a small billowing of the tent fabric caught his eye, and he changed direction instantly. It might have been the wind and nothing more. But it might also have been something inside the tent pressing up against the fabric. Whichever it was, he didn’t like it. It was an instinctual thing, raw and sharp, the sort of internal warning he had learned to trust over the years, the sort of warning that had kept him alive.

He left the tent behind and then circled back from the rear. When he was still several dozen yards away, he stopped beside a rack of spears and studied the tent in the gloom and rain and thought about what he should do. Saving the girl using the direct approach no longer seemed like such a good idea. He needed a different plan, something that would expose the truth about what else was inside the tent. And he was convinced by now that something else was. He felt it in his bones.
The posting of a single guard was a lure meant to deceive him. Kill the guard, slip inside, and get to the girl—that had been his plan and maybe, just maybe, someone had figured that out.

He couldn’t have said why, but he thought suddenly that it was more than possible; it was so.

He stood in the rain a moment longer, considering his options.

He could cut through the canvas, slip in from the back of the tent, and take his chances—or he could just walk up to the guard and ask to speak to the girl, say that he needed to check again on something she had said, say that Taureq Siq had sent him.

Neither option appealed to him.

He moved off to the left toward a storage tent he had noticed earlier, a large bulky structure containing food and clothing, perhaps medical supplies, as well, if he remembered correctly how the Drouj kept their camp. What he was about to do was going to place him in considerable danger, but then almost anything he did would do that anyway.

Besides, wasn’t that why he was here? Didn’t he want to see if he could cheat death one more time?

The idea of it made him smile.

Without further thought, he snatched a torch from its stanchion, walked to the supply tent, loosened the ties on the flaps, and tossed the burning brand inside. The flames found fuel almost immediately, exploding in a bright orange blossom, leaping quickly from the tent’s contents to the fabric of its walls. He was already moving away by then, circling back around to the tent where the girl was held captive to see what would happen.

Within seconds shouts and cries of alarm arose, and Trolls began pouring out of their shelters into the gloom and rain, converging on the burning tent. Inch stayed where he was, watching the tent with the girl. After a moment, the flaps opened and Grosha emerged, eyes flicking this way and that, searching the night. Then, abandoning his post, he said something to the guard and rushed off toward the source of the uproar.

Inch didn’t hesitate. He went instantly to the rear of the tent and, using his long knife, began to saw an opening in the fabric. The noise
around him would hide the sound of his cutting so he didn’t bother with taking his time. Speed was important now.

It took him only moments and he was through. Still gripping the long knife, he slipped through the opening and into the tent.

He was attacked almost immediately. A huge dark shape catapulted out of the shadows, slamming into him with enough force to knock him to the ground. Rows of sharp teeth tore at him. A Skaith Hound. If he hadn’t been holding the long knife, he would have been dead, but he reacted instinctively, thrusting the knife into the beast’s throat and tearing across. Blood gushed out as the beast lurched and writhed, its growl cut short, and then it collapsed on top of him.

Inch threw it off, scrambling back to his feet to confront the guard rushing through the tent flap from outside, a short sword in hand. He blocked the sword’s thrust, sidestepped the blade, seized the guard’s arm, and wrenched it at the elbow. The bones snapped, the sword fell away from nerveless fingers, and the long knife put an end to him.

Bloodied and angry, his left arm torn open by the Skaith Hound, Inch shoved the dead guard away and searched the tent for the girl. He didn’t see her. Panic raced through him, but he forced it down. Either he would find her or he wouldn’t, but he had only seconds left to make the effort and then he would have to flee.

The thought was barely completed before he caught sight of movement under a set of blankets stacked in the far corner. Throwing back the coverings, he found her bound and gagged beneath. He cut her loose and brought her to her feet. Her eyes were bright with fear.

“Can you run? Look at me! Can you run?” He saw the fear disappear, and she nodded. “Good. We have to hurry. Stay close to me.”

He wrapped her in the dead guard’s cloak and took her out through the back of the tent, stepping over the bodies of the hound and the Troll. The fire he had set was still blazing, a bright wash against the darkness. He took her another way, trying to avoid an encounter with the milling Trolls. He walked her steadily forward, resisting the urge to run, keeping their pace slow and steady. Behind them, the shouts and cries continued to rise, but he didn’t think the Trolls had discovered that the girl was missing yet.

That changed in the next ten seconds. A fresh cry went up, and
now an alarm horn sounded, its deep wail booming out across the flats. His hand dropped to the handle of the flechette, unhooking it from his shoulder, letting it rest against his leg. He didn’t want to fire it, knowing that if he did, they would be after him instantly. But he might not have a choice.

The outcries were growing stronger, and the number of Trolls milling about increased exponentially. He knew they had to reach the ATV if they were to have any chance at all. But the vehicle was still a long way off. He pressed on, increasing his pace. Beside him, the girl was a silent black shadow within the cloak, working hard to keep pace. She was tough, that one; she had real iron inside her small body.

Abruptly, a handful of Trolls blocked his path, their hands raised to stop him. He gestured them aside, shouted at them in their own language, and to his amazement they gave way. He hurried on, not bothering to look back, trying to suggest with his body language that his business was important and he should not be interfered with. It worked until he reached the perimeter of the camp. He could just make out the ATV through the gloom when a clutch of sentries converged on him from both sides. He shouted and gestured anew, but this time the Drouj were not giving way.

Pushing the girl behind him, he brought up the barrel of the Tyson Flechette and blew away the two on his left, then swung the barrel right and killed three more. The explosions were loud and the air was filled with the smell of residue from the firing.

“Run!” he shouted at the girl, pushing her ahead of him toward the crawler.

There was no point in pretending now. The game was up. Trolls were converging from everywhere. Ahead, the crawler stood waiting, no sentries in sight. Arrows whizzed by his ears, and he could hear the sound of pursuit. He didn’t look back. He ran behind the girl, using his body as a shield.

Several arrows thudded into his back, striking him heavy blows. The body armor and the leathers kept them from penetrating. But if one of them managed to find his exposed head …

As they reached the ATV, he wheeled back and fired half a dozen shells into the Trolls coming on, knocking down some, scattering the
rest. He punched in the code on the keypad to open the doors and disarm the security devices and shoved the girl inside, diving after her. The doors closed behind them, and he switched on the engine.

There were Trolls all around them in seconds, hammering on the vehicle’s metal shell, trying to break through the windows with their heavy spears. He laughed at them as his fingers worked the controls, powering up the engine and engaging the thrusters. The ATV leapt forward, knocking the Trolls aside as if they were made of straw. Rolling and bouncing across the rough terrain, he wheeled the crawler away from the camp, heading south for the flats where he could swing the vehicle east toward the mountains and the pass leading through to the valley beyond.

Inch powered the vehicle out into the night, leaving the Drouj camp and its inhabitants behind. He could see them for a while, blocky forms giving chase, a hopeless effort driven solely by rage, and then they were gone, even their shouts faded away. But he didn’t slow, keeping his speed steady, watching the terrain ahead for deep ruts or holes that might crack an axle, determined to put as much distance as he could between themselves and their pursuers before easing off.

He glanced over at the girl. Her eyes were wide, her hands gripping the seat as she pressed herself against its padded back. He had forgotten; she would not have seen anything like this before. It would be a new form of magic for her.

He laughed in spite of himself. “Don’t worry! We’re safe now!”

Seconds later, the entire vehicle shuddered and broke apart beneath them.

I
N THE CITY OF ARBORLON
,
THINGS WERE COMING
apart in an equally unexpected way.

Three days had passed since Mistral Belloruus revealed that she had possession of the missing Elfstones and intended to give them to her granddaughter, and Phryne Amarantyne was still struggling with what to do about it. Her initial reaction had been one of shock and anger, and she had told her grandmother that it was her father who should have the Elven talismans, not her. He was King, and they belonged to him. What would she do with them, anyway? She was barely grown and in no way experienced in the uses of magic. It was ridiculous for her grandmother even to consider passing the Elfstones to her.

Her grandmother had let her vent, sitting quietly, saying nothing. But when she was finished, she very calmly and deliberately told her to grow up and be the woman her mother had been. What constituted loyalty to the throne and to the Elven people was a matter of opinion. The Elfstones were never intended exclusively for those who sat upon the Elven throne. Possession of magic that powerful was not a given
right, but an earned one. The Elfstones had been passed to Kirisin Belloruus because he had made a commitment to do what was needed to save his people from a demon army and to make certain that the legacy of magic that had once been inherent in the Elven way of life was revived. He had fulfilled that commitment, but those who had gained possession of the Elfstones after him had lost their way. They had accepted blindly that the valley would keep them forever safe and that magic of the sort contained in the Elfstones was unnecessarily dangerous. They had embraced instead the old belief that magic belonged to the age of Faerie and had no place in their world, and so the magic had languished anew.

Her mother had thought differently, but her father had not supported her and so nothing had been done during his reign as King to experiment with the magic. Yes, the Elves still used small amounts to sustain and heal the land, but that was nothing new. It was not the intent of those who had passed the Elfstones to Kirisin Belloruus that usage of the magic should stop there. Had Phryne’s mother lived, they would not be having this conversation; the Elfstones would have passed to her. Now they would pass to Phryne—not because she was her mother’s daughter, but because she had the strength of character her father did not and that was what was needed if the Elves were to survive.

The session had ended in a shouting match, and Phryne had stormed out, furious with her grandmother and determined to have no part in her misguided scheming.

Yet here she was, just three days later, responding to a summons to return to her grandmother’s cottage, another written message delivered by another oldster. In spite of herself, she was going back. She did so for several reasons. For one thing, she loved her grandmother, and no argument between them would ever change that. For another, the recovery of the Elfstones was too important to allow personal feelings to govern her actions. No matter her dismay with her grandmother, she knew she must continue trying to persuade her that the Elfstones should be given to her father. Reason must prevail, and clearly it would have to come from her.

Her grandmother had other plans, of course. She had not tried to
give Phryne the Elfstones on the day they first spoke of them—had not even shown them to her, in fact. But this time she produced them shortly after her granddaughter walked through the door. There was no time for arguing, Mistral Belloruus declared as Phryne attempted to pick up where she had left off. What was needed was an object lesson. If Phryne was to persist in her insistence that the Elfstones belonged in her father’s hands, she needed to know exactly what that meant.

She marched Phryne outside and through the gardens, going deep into the woods to where they could no longer even see her cottage. They went alone, the old woman making her way with slow, painful steps, the girl holding her arm in case she should trip. It was a measure of her grandmother’s determination to win her over that she let Phryne help her, and the girl did not miss what this meant.

When they had reached a place where her grandmother felt comfortable with doing so, she reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a cloth pouch, loosened the drawstrings, and dumped the contents into her hand. Three brilliant blue stones, perfectly faceted and unblemished, their color so extraordinary that Phryne gasped in spite of herself, lay cradled in her palm, the sunlight dancing off their smooth surfaces.

“These are the blue Elfstones, Phryne, the seeking-Stones,” her grandmother advised, her eyes fixed not on the Stones, but on the girl. “One each for the heart, mind, and body. They work in unison, drawing on the strengths found within the user. The greater those strengths, the greater the power of the Stones. In effect, the user determines the power of the magic. I see great strength in you, girl. Why don’t we find out if I am right?”