Terry Brooks: Wards of Faerie

Not too far from where he stood, Drust watched as Tinnen March scrambled down the stairs of the wall and ran with them.

“We have to get out of here,” Stoon declared, grabbing Drust Chazhul’s arm and dragging him away.

They clambered down the steps to the courtyard and ducked inside a hallway leading to one of the smaller exit doors. Drust was so badly shaken it didn’t even occur to him to argue. He let himself be led like a child down the corridor and back outside, then across the barren stretch of clear-cut and into the trees beyond.

When they had reached the shelter of the woods, they turned back to watch what was happening. The greenish light had enveloped the whole of the Druid’s Keep. It was climbing the walls like a live thing. It was hunting. A kind of odd vapor rose off the ancient stones as it slithered across them, like steam cooling, and the screams emanating from inside began dying away, turning into gasps and groans and finally going silent.

“It looks as if your plans for looting the Keep might have to wait,” Stoon observed drily.

“Only until morning,” Drust declared, evincing a confidence he didn’t feel. He was never going back in there, that much he knew. “We’ll send our men back in then.”

“Don’t bother asking for volunteers.”

Drust felt a weariness sweep through him as he watched the glow pulse softly against the darkness. “I wonder how many died in there?”

Stoon shook his head. “Do you really want to know?”

“Most must have made it out.”

Stoon did not respond.

“Well, it’s not our problem.”

Drust turned abruptly and started walking back through the trees toward the Federation encampment, already mulling over what he would have to do to minimize the damage. He couldn’t go back and face the Coalition Council without having accomplished more than this. He might have driven the Druids out of Paranor, but the fortress was still mostly intact and not in Federation hands. Hundreds of Southland soldiers were dead and many more wounded. His time as Prime Minister would be over if that was all he had to show for this expedition.

“We’ll go back in tomorrow,” he repeated firmly. “When it’s light again. We’ll loot her and begin tearing down the walls. That greenish stuff won’t still be there by then. You’ll see.”

“Will I?” Stoon asked mildly. “Maybe. But I’m not sure you will.”

“What are you talking about?” Drust snapped, irritated with the other’s intractability.

“I’m just saying I don’t think you’re going to be here tomorrow.”

Drust wheeled on him furiously. “Of course I’m going to be here tomorrow! Where else would I—”

A white-hot fire exploded in his chest, bringing a gasp that Stoon’s rough hand over his mouth only partly managed to muffle. He was suddenly aware of the knife protruding from his body as Stoon’s free hand grasped the hilt and twisted.

Stoon shoved the knife in deeper. “I’ve put up with you long enough, Drust,” he whispered. “I don’t have to do that anymore.” The knife slid out and then back in again, bringing new pain and shock. “You were never even half as smart as you thought.”

He released the Federation Prime Minister and let him fall. Drust Chazhul was dead before he struck the ground.

Aboard Wend-A-Way , Aphenglow Elessedil was crouched beside Bombax where he lay stretched out on a bed in a forward compartment, stripped of his clothing and covered with a sheet. Ointment had been spread over his entire body, providing some small relief for his burns. He had broken both legs and one arm and several ribs, and his internal injuries were so severe there was no reasonable chance of treating them. His breathing was shallow and labored, and his gaze distant and empty.

“Everything hurts,” he murmured.

She had given him medicines to help with the pain, but they weren’t doing much. She held one hand loosely, letting him know that she was there.

“I’m dying, Aphen.”

“Shhhh, shhhh,” she whispered. “Don’t talk.”

Arling, kneeling next to her, rose and cleared everyone out of the room. “I’ll be just outside,” she said before leaving.

Her sister knew. She was giving Aphen these last minutes alone. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing more any of them could do. Tears spilled down Aphenglow’s cheeks and fell on the sheet draping her life partner.

“I shouldn’t have let you go without me,” she told him, bending close. “I should have been with you.”

He sighed. “Think how much worse … I would feel … if you had done that.”

“I love you so much. I can’t lose you.”

“The choice … isn’t yours … or mine.”

“Stay with me. Try to stay.”

The faintest hint of a smile twisted his burned lips. “I’m right … here.”

Then he exhaled slowly and was gone.

“Brave Bombax,” she whispered, and released his hand.

They flew Wend-a-Way all night north into troll country to the village Garroneck, Krolling, and their companions called home, and left the injured Trolls to be cared for by family and friends before turning west. After that, they flew to Arborlon. The airship’s passengers caught snatches of sleep when they could, talked with one another now and then, and spent long periods of time looking out over the countryside as Wend-A-Way crossed the Streleheim Plains to the Valley of Rhenn and on into the Elven home city.

Leaving Woostra and the Trolls aboard Wend-A-Way at their own request—but only after arranging for food and water and fresh bedding to be supplied to them—Aphenglow, Arlingfant, and Cymrian wrapped Bombax in a sheet and carried his body from the airfield into the Ashenell through the fading afternoon light until they had reached a plot of ground close by that was designated for the Elessedils. Together they dug his grave, lowered him into it, and stood looking down at him in silence until Aphen began speaking. She spoke of his character and determination and of his contributions to the Druid order. She didn’t speak about them as a couple. She would have said something of that, of what he had meant to her personally, of what they had meant to each other—Bombax and she, lovers and life partners—but she could not manage to do so. It was too personal and hurt too much, and speaking of it would have been more than she could bear. She had been saying the words to herself ever since he had died. Better that she leave it there, she decided. What he had meant to her belonged to her, cradled in her memories, safely tucked away. One day she might speak of it to someone else, but this was not that day.

They walked back together afterward to the gates of the burial grounds and stood looking out at the city. No one said anything. It had already been decided that on the morrow Aphenglow and the Trolls would fly into the Westland wilderness in search of the Ard Rhys and the rest of the Druids. Woostra would wait in Arborlon for their return. Arlingfant, in spite of her objections, would remain behind as well, resuming her duties as one of the Chosen.

Cymrian, to Aphenglow’s surprise and confusion, insisted he was coming with her to find the other Druids. She told him it wasn’t necessary; he told her it was. She told him he had done what was required of him; he told her she couldn’t be certain of that.

“You still don’t know who was responsible for sending those men to steal the diary and perhaps try to kill you. You don’t know another attempt won’t be made, even if you aren’t in Arborlon. I took the job as your protector, and I don’t think it’s time for me to give it up yet. Unless, of course, you are dismissing me.”