Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

He went off for a nap, leaving Paxon to clean up the lunch, which the Highlander set about doing. At least he was performing a useful task.

They set down for the night halfway across the Tirfing in a copse of conifers that offered some protection from winds that had picked up late in the day and suggested a change in the weather. As the pair ate dinner with the Trolls, they could feel a sudden rise in the temperature.

“We’re going to get some rain,” Starks declared, the firelight reflecting from his different–colored eyes. “A lot of rain.”

They went belowdecks to sleep that night, heeding the Druid’s warning, and by midnight the rain was hammering against the sloop’s hull and the vessel was rocking and straining against her anchor ropes, buffeted by the heavy winds. The motion was familiar to Paxon, who had been aboard airships all his life, so he slept undisturbed until one of the anchor ropes broke and the clipper began slamming against the trunks of the trees in which she had been moored.

So throwing off his blanket, he went topside with the Trolls and down the rope ladder to fasten fresh ropes in place to resecure the ship. By the time that was done, he was drenched, and because it was near morning he chose not to try to go back to sleep. Instead, he sat up until dawn, listening to the howl of the wind and thinking about other times. He wished that Starks would be more open with him about what to expect, but he accepted that this might not happen. Starks was closemouthed and reticent, and Paxon believed the man pretty much preferred his own company. That he had taken as much time with the Highlander as he had at their initial meeting seemed surprising in retrospect.

He found himself thinking of his family and home. He had been back only once since coming to Paranor, in spite of his promises to his sister and mother–a fact he found troubling. He could argue that he had been too busy with his training, which was admittedly demanding, but the truth was that he had chosen to stay away. Going back before he had accomplished something worth talking about didn’t feel right. And to date, that hadn’t happened. Perhaps after this journey was over and he had helped retrieve the magic they sought, he would make another visit.

Perhaps.

When dawn arrived, the storm departed, moving eastward. The winds died and the temperatures dropped enough that the humidity faded. Starks, Paxon, and the Trolls ate their breakfast, released the mooring lines, and set out anew. They flew through the better part of the day, crossing the Tirfing to the Rock Spur Mountains, and finally descended into the Wilderun and the frontier town of Grimpen Ward.

They landed some distance away from their destination, choosing a spot within the forest where the ship wouldn’t be likely to be found. Starks shed his black robes in favor of woodsman’s garb similar to what Paxon was wearing, and then the two set out on foot. Twilight was approaching, and the shadows cast by the trees were lengthening, absorbing the fading splashes of sunlight. The woods felt empty and watchful, its eyes those of creatures that made their homes there. They found a footpath that took them a short distance to a road. From there, they could just make out the outlying cabins and sheds of Grimpen Ward’s residents–ramshackle affairs with no sign of life. The road they followed was empty until they neared the main part of the town, where the first of the taverns spilled its patrons out one door and on to the next while new patrons pushed their way inside and women from the pleasure houses called out to them from the doorways and windows of their workplaces.

A few dogs roamed the streets and alleyways as they made their way through the town, and carts and horses passed them by in a rumble of wheels and a clopping of hooves. Beggars came at them from everywhere, and pitchmen from the more exotic shows called out their promises, wild and tempting. Come see, come experience! Paxon glanced everywhere at once while Starks looked at nothing but the road ahead.

When they reached the crossroads marking the town center, Starks brought them to a halt, then moved out of the road to an opening between two buildings and stood with his back to the wall. “Keep your eyes open,” he said to Paxon.

Then he closed his own, and for long minutes was very still. When he opened them again, there was a hint of confusion on his face. “I’m picking up on more than one form of magic. That shouldn’t be.”

“You can tell where it’s coming from?” Paxon wanted to know.

“In general. I can sense the residue. The two are close to each other. Maybe they are even the same, reflecting different uses. In any case, we are not near them. They are all the way on the other end of the town.” He glanced about, looking up at the sky. “We should go before it gets any darker.”

They set out anew, maneuvering their way through the growing crowds, keeping to themselves, trying to avoid unwanted encounters. It was difficult to make headway, the streets filling quickly with the approach of nightfall and the air pungent with the promise of nighttime pleasures. Several times they were accosted, but Starks gently moved those who stopped them away with a touch of his fingers to his lips and a small twisting gesture.

Eventually they reached the far end of the town, the buildings just beginning to give way once more to the forest, lights in windows and streetlamps brightening with the coming of darkness. Starks slowed as they reached a tavern whose sign announced it as the Mudland Rose.

“This is where we want to be,” he said to Paxon. “The magic is close by, but we will have to sniff it out. I will ask the questions, and you will watch my back. If anything looks awry–anything at all–tap me on the shoulder. Don’t hesitate. If there is another magic hunter inside, we don’t want to be caught off guard.”

Paxon nodded. With Starks leading the way, they pushed through the double doors and entered the tavern.

Inside, it was a madhouse. Men and women were crowded up against one another shoulder–to–shoulder, with barely space to move about. The room was cavernous and so dark and smoky that Paxon could not see into the murky corners and higher spaces at all. Patrons stood three–deep at the serving bar, and all the tables were filled. The laughter and shouting were deafening.

Starks took a quick look around, then began maneuvering his way toward the end of the counter where the serving girls were gathering tankards of ale on trays to carry to the tables. Paxon followed, trying to stay close. It required considerable effort, but they eventually reached their destination. Starks immediately bent to the closest server and whispered in her ear. She went white, nodded slowly, and did not turn to look at him. Instead, she mouthed something Paxon couldn’t hear, picked up her tray, and swiftly went about her business. Starks moved deeper into the room, Paxon following in his wake, using him as a buffer against the crowds. Although he was repeatedly jostled, he kept his feet and stayed close, scanning the crowds, taking in everything, thinking he might see something that mattered.

And then he did. At the very back of the room, a tall figure, cloaked and hooded, rose from a table and went out through the back door. Two others sitting with him, thicker of build and heavily muscled, moved in front of the door and stood blocking it.

“Starks!” Paxon hissed, tapping him hurriedly on the shoulder.

The Druid glanced back at him, followed his gaze, and nodded. “How many others?”

“Only one that I saw. He went out through the door just ahead of those two. I can’t be certain, but it looked like …”

He let the rest hang, so uncertain his eyes had not deceived him he didn’t want to finish the thought. Starks was already moving anyway, making for the door and the men guarding it, no longer evidencing even a trace of the careless disinterest that had marked his earlier behavior aboard ship. Paxon started to reach for his sword, but the patrons of the tavern were packed together so tightly that he couldn’t find space to maneuver.