Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

Paxon walked over to stand beside Starks. For a few moments, he didn’t say anything, merely stood with him observing the town. “Did you mean what you said to Struen yesterday?” he asked finally. “Do we really have some idea of what’s going on or who is responsible?”

Starks nodded. “We do. Or at least I do.”

“Do you intend to share this information with me?”

“Of course.”

Paxon waited a beat. “When, exactly?”

Starks looked at him. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“I’m just wondering if we are to spend today like yesterday, asking questions about the villagers and its outliers, rather than using magic. Can’t you just track this thing we’re hunting with your Druid skills?”

“Unless it uses magic, I have no way to track it. Its magic, Paxon, is of a different form. It’s not a talisman, not a substantive thing separate from the user. It is a part of the user. Why, I don’t yet know. Whatever it is, it has infected someone so completely that they change from human to animal in seconds. I don’t think they can control it. I think it just happens, and maybe they aren’t even aware of it.”

“Is that possible?” Paxon felt doubtful. “How could you not be aware of something like that?”

“Mostly, you are in denial because it is too horrible to accept. You just don’t let yourself think about it.”

“So these killings aren’t planned?”

“In the middle of a dinner at someone’s home? As a young man prepares to leave his girl? Why bother to consume half a dinner and then attack? Why not wait until the young man is farther off?”

“But you have some sort of idea of how to go about finding the creature?”

“At the farm yesterday, there were wagon tracks, but no wagon.” Starks was looking directly at him now. “I was able to sniff out traces of ground wheat. I found particles of milled grain.”

“The miller’s place.”

Starks nodded. “A starting point, at least. We’ll go there after we’ve gotten something to eat.”

The breakfast options were not an improvement over the sleeping accommodations. There were no eating establishments in the town, so they were forced to eat what Joffre Struen was able to supply them, which consisted of a thick slice of dense wheat bread and a glass of warm ale with which to wash it down. It was less than satisfying, but it was probably the best that the stableman could manage, so neither Starks nor Paxon even thought about complaining.

When they were finished eating, they borrowed the horses once again, got directions to the mill, and set out. This time they rode east, traveling first on the main road and then turning off onto a rutted trail a quarter mile farther up. The trail ran parallel to a river that meandered its way into foothills that continued on toward distant mountains. There were no other people on the road, and only twice did they see any buildings–once, a shed nearly hidden from sight within a grove of fir, and later on a cabin that showed little upkeep and no indication of life.

Paxon kept searching the landscape they passed through, thinking to spy out a meaningful sign. But all he saw were glimpses of swift birds and squirrels in the trees and stationary cows in the pastures.

At the end of the road, the mill sat flush against the river, its great waterwheel turning slowly with the current, the grindstone groaning like a great beast from inside the building that housed it. They rode to within a dozen yards of the mill before spying the cottage behind it. They dismounted there, leaving their horses and walking up to the mill.

Within the near darkness, a shadow moved and the miller emerged.

“Well met, sirs,” he said cheerfully, coming up to them and shaking their hands. “I thought you might be coming out this way eventually. I’m Crombie Joh.”

He was a big, burly man with a shock of black hair, his shoulders massive, his hands callused and hard. He had lively eyes that shifted back and forth between his visitors, but never left their faces. His grin was open and welcoming.

Starks gave his name and Paxon’s. “Is it true your daughter was here when it happened?”

The man sighed. “Iantha. Yes. The boy was more than a casual friend, I think. She doesn’t like to talk about it. He had come while I was away. He was just leaving, and she had gone back inside. She heard the screams, ran to the door, and saw him pinned to the ground with something ripping at him. She knew right away what it was. She’d heard about the others. So she ran back inside and hid in the cellar until it was done.”

“There was nothing she could do,” Starks offered. Paxon wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question or even how it was intended.

“Nothing. Nothing anyone can do about a thing like that. Have you any ideas about this?”

“One or two.”

“The townspeople don’t trust the Druids. Don’t like them, in fact. If it weren’t for Joffre Struen, you wouldn’t be here at all. I think it’s a good thing you are.”

“Were you out at the Carbenae place the other day?” Starks asked him, smiling.

The miller nodded. “Took them a load of feed. Midafternoon or maybe a little later when I got there. Didn’t stay long. Left to get back in time for dinner. I was worried about Iantha, too. Don’t like leaving her alone anymore since …” He trailed off with a shrug.

From the shadows behind him, a girl suddenly emerged. She was younger than Paxon by a few years, slender and pretty, her hair a soft dark brown, her eyes quick like her father’s. She came forward a few steps and stopped, as if waiting for permission to approach.

“Iantha, come here,” her father urged, holding out his hand.

She crossed the room, her eyes fixed on them, tentative in a way Paxon found endearing, but also troubling. She reached them and stopped.

“These are Druids, Iantha,” her father told her. “Would you please tell them briefly what you saw that day? Just what you can manage, girl.”

In a halting voice, Iantha related the events immediately leading up to the departure of the young man and his subsequent killing. She could not describe the creature or offer much in the way of details about the killing. She had gone into hiding at once, terrified of what might happen to her.

Indeed, she looked appropriately terrified even now, talking about it. She looked at the ground while she told her tale and kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

When she was done, Starks asked if she could show them where everything took place. She nodded without speaking and led them outside the mill and up to the yard fronting the cottage. She pointed out where her young man had mounted his horse and started to ride away. She showed them where she was standing on the cottage porch before she turned to go back inside. She walked them over to where the killing had occurred, although she would not go close to the stained, rutted earth.

Starks went over and knelt next to the killing ground, searching it carefully. The miller joined him, offering bits and pieces of information.

Iantha moved over beside Paxon and stood looking at him. “You seem nice,” she said after a minute.

Paxon met her intense gaze. “I should be saying that about you, Iantha.”

“Will you be my friend?”

He hesitated, confused by this. “Of course. But you must have lots of friends.”

“My father doesn’t want me to have friends.”

He glanced over at the miller, who was suddenly looking right at him. “Why would that be?”

“He is afraid for me.” Her voice was small, almost a whisper. “He thinks–”

“Iantha!” her father called out sharply. “Let the man be. He has work he needs to do.”

Iantha moved away, head lowered. Paxon forced himself to smile at the miller. “She was just asking me about the Druids,” he said.