Wards of Faerie: The Dark Legacy of Shannara (38 page)

He turned to her, his smile broad and relaxed. “Always. We’re safe enough if they’ve come to play games. But let’s see what they want before jumping to conclusions.”

He leaped down off the platform and headed for the outer door. Aphenglow and Arling followed on his heels, all of them moving out of the tower and onto the catwalk that led to the parapets. They navigated the walkways until they had reached Krolling and a gathering of other Trolls standing just above the south gates, watching the Federation fleet approach.

“Any signals from them yet?” Bombax asked, immediately assuming command.

Aphenglow might have resented this more if he hadn’t been senior to her. As it was, she felt a hint of annoyance that he did not say anything to her first. But she recognized it as an irrational response born of her ongoing irritation with his poor judgment in Varfleet, so she kept silent.

“No signal of any kind.” Krolling was big and burly and had the size and look of an immovable boulder. Garroneck’s second in command was steady and capable.

Druids and Trolls and Arlingfant stood in a cluster atop the south gate, waiting for the airships to reach them.

“You should get under cover,” Aphen whispered to Arling.

But her sister shook her head. “You might need me to help you.”

They stayed silent after that, although Aphen moved down the parapets so that she and Arling were standing apart from the others. It was an automatic response to the realization that they should not all stand in one place where there was at least the possibility of an attack.

The airships drew to within three hundred yards before slowing to a stop, with only the
Arishaig
advancing much closer. Big and black, it loomed over them as it pushed through Druid airspace, hovering just outside the walls of Paranor before it swung broadside to the gate and the watchers on the walls.

There was a long silence as each side took the measure of the other, and then a voice rang out in the near silence.

“Greetings from Drust Chazhul, Prime Minister of the Coalition Council and leader of the Southland Federation! This is a diplomatic mission dispatched for the purpose of forming a working partnership with the Fourth Druid Order! We seek admittance to Paranor and an audience with the Ard Rhys! May we advance the
Arishaig
to the Druid landing station and be received?”

They were using a voice enhancer to magnify the speaker’s words and lend them additional weight and importance. Aphenglow tried to identify who was speaking, but the decks of the warship were crowded with men, and it was impossible to tell.

“Did you send notice of your coming to the Ard Rhys?” Bombax called back, using magic to enhance his own voice.

A long pause. “Notification was dispatched more than a week ago,” the answer came back. “A response signed by the Ard Rhys invited us to fly to Paranor for a conference.”

A lie. Khyber Elessedil would have mentioned it
. Aphenglow exchanged a quick glance with Bombax, shaking her head.

“No message was received,” Bombax said at once. “No arrangements were made for the Ard Rhys to receive a Federation delegation. She cannot do so at this time.”

Another long pause. “We have come all the way from Arishaig for this meeting. It is important we speak with the Ard Rhys. Will you inform her we are here?”

Bombax turned angry and frustrated; Aphenglow could see it in his face.
Don’t say it
, she thought.

But she was too late. “The Ard Rhys isn’t here!” Bombax snapped, his voice louder still. “Turn your ships around!”

Stupid!
In the stunned silence that followed, she hurried over to him. “Why did you tell them that?”

He looked at her in surprise. “They already knew. You said so.”

“I said I
thought
so. Now you’ve confirmed what they might only have suspected. Let me speak to them.”

Without waiting for his approval, she turned toward the
Arishaig
. “We apologize, but we are in mandated lockdown and cannot receive
visitors until the Ard Rhys returns. An emergency has taken her away and your request, regretfully, must have been set aside. Our deepest apologies to the Prime Minister and the Federation. Please let us give you another date for your requested meeting.”

There was no immediate response. Bombax, embarrassed and now angry with her, moved over by Krolling. On the wall, the members of the Druid Guard shifted restlessly. Arling came over to stand with her sister. “Will they leave now?”

Aphenglow shook her head to indicate she wasn’t sure.

“We would like to leave a written declaration of intent for the Ard Rhys to read,” the speaker aboard the
Arishaig
said suddenly. “May we land a flit inside the compound to deliver it?”

Aphenglow felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning. “We are in lockdown,” she repeated. “We cannot receive visitors. Can we meet you outside the gates to accept delivery?”

“Will you identify yourself, speaker?” A different voice now, one less practiced at disguising impatience.

Aphenglow looked over at Bombax for guidance, but he was deliberately looking away. “I am Aphenglow Elessedil,” she answered.

“This is Drust Chazhul. I am familiar with lockdowns, and they do not include diplomatic missions. I regard this refusal as a deliberate rebuke and a rejection of my efforts to establish a fresh rapport between the Federation and your order. If I am correct in my reasoning, say so and we will leave without further discussion. If not, then remember your place and allow us to land.”

She felt herself flush. “Prime Minister, I appreciate your disappointment. But a lockdown at Paranor makes no exceptions, not even for diplomatic missions. Moreover, I am not simply authorized, but required, to refuse your request. This is neither a rebuke to you personally nor a rejection of your efforts. If you wish, you can land outside the walls and wait for the Ard Rhys to return. But I cannot tell you how long the wait might be.”

The silence this time was chilling. On the decks of the
Arishaig
, men were moving about, taking up stations as if they knew what was coming. Aphenglow had the unpleasant feeling that a prearranged plan of action was being carried out.

She walked over to Krolling and Bombax and whispered to the former. “Are we protected against them?”

“Fully,” the big Troll answered. Bombax caught her eye and nodded in agreement.

From the deck of the
Arishaig:
“I think you mean us harm, Aphenglow Elessedil,” Drust Chazhul called out suddenly. “I think this refusal has nothing to do with a lockdown and everything to do with seeking to gain an advantage over us. I am beginning to suspect you lured us here. The history of the Druids is one of duplicity and subterfuge. An invitation was extended and is now suddenly withdrawn for no discernible reason. Are you hiding something behind those walls that we are not intended to see? Are you engaged in activity harmful to the governments and peoples of the Four Lands? If not, let us come inside!”

“Get down off the walls,” she said at once to everyone around her, giving particular attention to Arling, who had been joined by Cymrian. To his credit, Cymrian immediately guided her sister to the stairs in spite of her obvious reluctance.

Bombax was beside her instantly, and the Trolls were off the wall and behind protective battlements and ramparts, weapons drawn.

“Your accusations are offensive and baseless, Prime Minister,” she called back to the warship. “Move your vessel away from the walls at once. Our conversation is over.”

To her disappointment and dismay, the
Arishaig
instead swung her bow back around toward the gate and began to inch forward. She was coming directly for the walls she had been told to move away from, weapons uncovered and soldiers in place. This was the prelude to the attack she had feared all along, and she could do nothing to stop it. The wards that protected Paranor would engage automatically once the airship crossed the vertical plane of the south wall. Since the time of their creation and placement soon after the end of the war on the Prekkendorran, no one had ever challenged them or witnessed what they could do. The Ard Rhys might know, but neither Aphenglow nor Bombax had the faintest idea.

They were about to find out.

Aphen took a deep breath and brought up her magic to form a protective shield. She was aware of Bombax doing the same.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, a rail sling positioned somewhere lower down on the weapons ports of the south wall fired a full load of metal shards into the hull of the
Arishaig
. The sound was startling in the near silence—like a momentary torrential downpour of hailstones on a tin roof—yet the damage to the warship’s reinforced steel plating was insignificant. Aphenglow had only a second to wonder who was responsible—who would be foolish enough to do such a thing—before the
Arishaig
responded by surging directly toward the Keep, all of her forward weapons firing at the fortress walls and towers at once.

The resulting explosions deafened her as she dropped behind the battlements, and the combined impact of scrap from the rail slings and white fire generated by the diapson crystals housed in the fire launchers caused the walls to shudder and crack. She scrambled for a vantage point farther away, catching a glimpse of Bombax as he moved in the opposite direction. When the flash rips opened up, everything was engulfed in smoke and ash and flames. By then, she was fifty yards down the parapets, crouched at the corner of the south wall and the mid-south tower, fighting to hold herself steady in the wake of a booming roar.

How can this be happening?

Then the
Arishaig
crossed the invisible plane of the walls, and the wards that protected Paranor struck back. The magic did so as if it were an invisible giant blowing off an annoying insect, its breath slamming into the huge warship with enough force to send her spinning away. All of her crew and most of her weapons went flying across the decks in a jumble of wood and iron and bodies. Screams rent the air, spars and light sheaths snapped loose and went flying into space, and the
Arishaig
bobbed and yawed as if caught in a windstorm.

Shades
, Aphenglow mouthed in awe and disbelief.

Then Cymrian was at her side, crouched next to her in the lee of the wall. “What happened?”

“Magic wards the Keep, and apparently it decided enough was enough,” she answered, still watching the
Arishaig
as she bucked and swayed and fought to keep flying. The other Federation ships were clustered about her protectively, but none of them tried to approach when she was so clearly out of control. “Where’s Arling?”

“Down below, safe. I told her if she came up here you would just worry and not be able to concentrate.” He gave her a quick once-over. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

She shook her head. Down the way, several hundred yards along the battlements, Bombax was looking at them. She waved to him, signaling that she was all right. When he pointedly looked away, she was angry with him all over again.

The
Arishaig
had righted herself, and her crew was scurrying about, trying to put the weapons and shields back in place, restringing the radian draws and tightening down the light sheaths. Apparently, the Federation wasn’t finished yet. Aphenglow glanced down the walls to the defensive ports and found Krolling and his Troll guards.

“Everyone stay down!” she shouted. “No weapons! The wards will protect us!”

The Federation transport had backed off and was landing in a clearing some distance off. The scout vessel had joined her. But the three warships had lined up anew in front of Paranor’s walls and were slowly turning broadside to employ the maximum number of weapons possible. Aphenglow felt helpless, crouched down and watching with no real way to stop what was happening.

Then all the Federation weapons began firing at once, one after the other—rail slings, fire launchers, and flash rips—a cacophonous roar of discharge and recoil, the rush of missiles released and the crash of targets struck. Stone blocks cracked and shattered, wooden beams collapsed, the front gates—oak fully two feet thick and reinforced with iron plating—shuddered and split, and dust and ash clogged the air with so much debris that it became impossible to see anything more than a dozen feet away. For long moments the sounds were so overwhelming that the Keep’s defenders could do nothing but crouch behind the walls and wait for the roar to subside.

When it did, Aphenglow raised her head and saw the ships turning from port to bring their starboard weapons to bear.

“We should get off these walls!” Cymrian shouted, crouched close beside her. “We aren’t doing any good here!”

But she was determined to see this through. The wards had defended them earlier; surely they would do so again. She glanced down the walls at the damage done by the Federation weapons. There were gaps and cracks in the stone, but the Keep was essentially intact.

She shook her head at him. She would stay.

Then, as the airships turned all the way to starboard and prepared to launch a fresh attack, the wards she had known were there—that she had prayed would act to save them—finally responded. The giant that had swatted the airships away once already now turned visible. A darkness rose out of the Keep—a huge swirling form that might have been smoke or brume, but was clearly something far more substantial—coalescing to form the Keep’s protector, hanging in the air over Paranor’s walls. The giant howled in fury, a whirlwind releasing the full force of its power, exploding from the Keep with an audible blast, catching up the airships like toys and sending them flying—this time for hundreds of yards. Spinning, whirling, and juddering on wind currents that tore light sheaths to shreds, snapped off spars, and even brought down entire masts, the airships were carried away. Aphenglow saw the cruiser simply fall apart, its occupants spilling out of its shattered container like discarded toys. The other two, stronger and more durable, survived, but only just.