Terry Brooks - Antrax

Ahead, the sound of machinery rose out of the silence, a low and steady thrumming. It penetrated even the steel of the walls; it caused the floor beneath her feet to vibrate. She paused, considering. What she was hearing was huge, a piece of machinery or perhaps several pieces that dwarfed anything she had encountered and performed a function central to the operation of the safehold. It was probably a power plant, but it might have something to do with the protection of the books of magic. She should have a look.

She had not taken another ten steps when all the alarms went off at once.

Ryer Ord Star.

Walker felt her stir against him, waking slowly from the trance into which she had gone to provide him with her empathic strength. Her fingers, resting against his temples, slid down his cheeks like tears.

Come awake, young seer.

He was speaking to her with his mind, a silent summoning that only they could hear. He was back within his body, come out of the drugs and dreams, returned from his shadow form, aware once more of his flesh and blood and the condition in which he had been placed. It was time to free himself of the machines and Antrax. But he must do so carefully, and he could not manage it alone.

Listen to me.

She was awake now, her eyes open, her hands bracing her body as she lifted away from him. “Walker?”

Don’t speak. Just listen. Do what I say. Do it quickly. Take the blindfold from my eyes and the breathing tube from my mouth.

She did as she was told, her hands fluttering about his face like small moths. He could feel the expansion and contraction of her lungs as she pressed back against him.

Now release the straps that bind my wrist and ankles, then my neck and forehead and waist. Do it in that order. Do not disturb the wires attached to me. Do not knock them loose.

It took her longer to comply; the straps were fastened with catches of a kind she had never seen and did not understand. They were not formed of metal, but of hard plastic, and she fumbled with them before deciphering their workings. His release went quickly after that as, one by one, the straps fell away.

She was back beside him, leaning close. He opened his eyes for the first time and looked at her. Her wan childlike face, framed by its curtain of silvery hair, broke into a broad smile, and tears filled her eyes. Traces of a cloaking magic still clung to her slender form, but they were fading. How had she gotten to him? Where had she found the magic to do so?

Walker, she mouthed silently.

He scanned himself in an effort to determine what must happen next, trying to decide the right order for the removal of his remaining constraints, knowing that when he released them, alarms would certainly sound.

Block open the door to the room so that when the alarms to the monitoring machines are triggered, Antrax cannot lock us in.

She slipped agilely through the nest of wires still attached to his body, found a low, single-door cabinet on wheels, and rolled it into the opening between the door and the jamb and wedged it securely in place.

Then she was back beside him.

Take the needles from my arm and body. Let them hang loose from their fastenings.

She pulled away the tape that secured the needles, then slipped them from his veins. She touched the punctures with her cool fingers, healing the wounds, providing him with new strength. Her ability to give of her empathic self seemed boundless. She shuddered once at the contact, held her fingers steady for a moment, and then lifted her hands away.

Alarms would be going off; Antrax would know the equipment that drugged and milked him had malfunctioned in some way. He would have to act fast. He sat up on the metal table, finding his strength diminished and his head spinning. The drugs had left him weak and lethargic, but he could still function. He must. He began ripping free the suckers that fastened the monitoring wires to his body. They came away easily, and in seconds none remained but the five that ran to the gloved tips of his fingers. He left those in place. He had a use for them.

Lights were flashing everywhere on the panels of instruments that ringed his bed. He felt a shift in the atmosphere of the chamber as Antrax descended swiftly to correct what had happened. Walker rose unsteadily, the girl supporting him as he gathered his robes and moved away from the table. He walked to where the wires that ran from his fingertips were bunched into a metal plug that, in turn, was fastened into the containers of reddish liquid. He pulled the plug from its sheath and steered it into an identical opening in one of the wall panels marked with brilliant red symbols.

Walker knew what the symbols read. It was the same language in which the map had been lettered, the language from the Old World he had deciphered in the Druid Histories.

He knew, as well, where the lines of the second sheath ran. He had explored them well in his out-of-body travels, tracing them to their source.

Castledown’s main warning system.

Before Antrax could act to prevent it, he sent a burst of Druid fire through the central lines and into all the auxiliaries and set off all the alarms at once.

“Time to be going,” he whispered to himself, wheeling Ryer Ord Star toward the blocked entry.

He had only a few minutes to do what was needed.

Aboard Black Moclips, Bek Ohmsford waited patiently for deliverance. He didn’t much care what form it took, only that it come soon. He wasn’t panicked yet, but he could feel it sneaking up on him. He was imprisoned in an aft hold, a storeroom containing replacement parts and supplies—ambient-light sails, radian draws, diapson crystals, cheese blocks, and water barrels. Shadows cloaked everything in layers of darkness. The room was not large, but even by the light from the candle atop the barrel next to him, he could only barely make out the Mwellret who kept watch from the far side of the room. Bek was tethered to the wall by three feet of chain locked about one ankle. A length of rope bound his hands in front of him and ran down through the chain so that he could not lift his arms above his waist. He was gagged, as well, although that was probably overkill since Grianne had already stolen his voice and rendered him mute.

Leaving nothing to chance, she had taken the Sword of Shannara from him, as well. When she returned, she expected to find him a prisoner still. While he had no real reason to think things would turn out any other way, he had nothing better to do with his time than to visualize the possibility. He was not encouraged. He was a prisoner aboard an airship full of Mwellrets and Federation soldiers. He had no weapons. His friends were dead or scattered. Deliverance in any form would have a hard time finding him under such circumstances.

Moonlight streamed through an open portal to one side, the only breathing hole in the room, the only source of fresh air. As clouds passed across the face of the moon, the light darkened and brightened by turns, changing the depth of the shadows, allowing him small glimpses of his silent jailer. Now and then, the Mwellret would shift position, and a small rustling of cloth and reptilian skin would reveal his otherwise nearly invisible presence. He never spoke. He was under orders not to. The boy had heard his sister give the order. No one was to speak to him. He was to be given water, but no food. He was not to be approached otherwise. He was not to be allowed out. He was not to be taken off the chain, even for a moment. He was to be left where he was until she returned.

Seated on the hard plank flooring of the ship, legs drawn up, wrists draped loosely over his knees, he leaned back against the bulkhead that supported him. He could reach the gag if he wanted, but he understood from painful experience that if he tried, he had better be sure he had a good reason for doing so. Punishment for misbehavior was assured. He had endured several kicks already for moving the wrong way. So he sat as still as possible, thinking. He had tested his voice several times, surreptitious efforts, to see if he could make even a small noise. He could not. Whatever magic his sister had used on him, it was effective. He did not think she had destroyed his voice, because she would want to speak to him again at some point, or she would have killed him and been done with it. Then again, she had not needed Kael Elessedil to speak in order to discover what he knew. It might be the same with Bek. He had to hope that she wanted something else—that the doubt he sensed in her about his identity would protect him awhile longer.