Brooks, Terry - High Druid's Blade - The Defenders of Shannara (9780345540713)

Paxon was wandering about the room, picking out the debris that was recognizable, noting everything. “It looks like they were in the middle of eating dinner,” he said.

Starks was back examining the door. “Was this door unlocked when you got here?”

Joffre Struen nodded. “Closed, but unlocked. But the windows are all broken out. I’m guessing that whoever got in and killed them probably came through that way.”

“Were the others killed in their own homes, too?”

Struen shook his head. “Two were. The others were in various places around their homes. Out in the barn for one. In a pasture, for another. One was killed at the miller’s, right by the grinding wheel—a young man who was visiting the daughter. The miller was away, down at the tavern. The young man was just leaving when the thing took him. The daughter heard the screams and hid in the cellar.”

Starks and Paxon exchanged a look. “How many plates do you count?” the former asked.

“Three. Someone was visiting.”

“Someone these people knew and let come inside.”

“Otherwise, the door would be locked.”

“If what killed them had to break in, it would have come through the door, locked or not. It had to be incredibly strong to do the sort of damage we’re looking at.”

“So the killer was a guest, a friend.”

“Or at least a familiar acquaintance.” Starks left the door and walked back into the room. “But I’m finding no traces of magic. All this was done with brute force. Let’s walk outside, Paxon. Struen, can you give us a few minutes to look around?”

They left the big man standing amid the debris and walked out into the yard. Starks moved in leisurely fashion toward the barn, looking about the grounds as he did so. Once, he stopped to examine some wagon tracks, kneeling in the dirt to bend close and smell the earth. Another time, he poked with his toe at something that was lying on the ground, but didn’t pick it up.

Inside the barn, they found the usual tack and harness for fieldwork, bags of feed and a bin of hay, and hand plows and scythes. This was a rudimentary farming operation, probably involving only the husband and wife.

Back outside again, Starks stopped and stood looking off into the distance. “Three place settings, an unlocked door, and a dinner cut short maybe halfway through.” He turned to Paxon. “Wagon tracks from yesterday and no wagon in the barn. Someone was here just before they were killed. But who?”

Paxon had no answers to offer. Together, they walked back up to the house. Struen had come out to stand on the veranda. “A little close in there,” he said, shrugging. “Is there anything more you want to know before we go back?”

“Were the people killed connected to each other in any special way?” Starks asked him.

The stable owner shook his head. “Just that they were part of the community, most of them born here.”

Starks nodded. “Let’s go back. Can you help us find a room for the night?”

“Got you one already. At my place, above the stables. I use it now and then for visitors. There’s no inn or rooms at the taverns. Hardly anyone outside the community passes through that isn’t kin to one of the families. Besides, I was the one who sent for you. The others, they still think Druids are more the enemy than this thing that’s killing them.”

Starks swung up into the saddle of his mount. “We aren’t the enemy, and we will prove it before we leave.” He waited as Paxon remounted and swung in next to him. “Don’t talk about this with anyone just yet. Let us do some more looking around first.”

“You have an idea about this? Can you put a stop to it?”

Starks smiled, his calm demeanor reassuring. “Yes,” he said.

E

LEVEN

THEY SLEPT THAT NIGHT ON MATTRESSES FILLED WITH STRAWin an unheated upper-level room in the stables that had likely once been part of the hayloft. They were given blankets, which was a good thing since it was chilly at night in Eusta, even as far south as it was, and the wind blew constantly. The cold didn’t bother Paxon nearly so much as the wind’s constant moan—a sound that sent shivers up his spine and suggested the presence of creatures he would rather not encounter.

When he rose the next morning, Starks was already up along with the sun, wrapped in his black robes and standing at the doors of the loft looking down on the shabby business district below. A few men and women were out on the street—there was only one—making their various ways from door to door, going about their personal business. There was nothing about their behavior to indicate that something was out there waiting to kill them off.

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.