Terry Brooks - High Druid's Blade

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 still 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.