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

He went up the stairs to the second floor and turned down the hallway to where the witch’s rooms were located. He stood before the door and put his ear against it, listening. No sounds were audible. He tried the handle. Locked. Again, he produced the picks, working the locks cautiously until he heard each release.

Pushing down on the handle once again, he opened the door and stepped inside. He was standing in a space with a couch and two chairs, a small dining table, and a stove. A hallway farther back led to several closed doors. He glanced around, assuring himself there was nothing lurking in the room’s deep shadows before he started down the hall. He stopped at a pair of closed doors, one on either side of the corridor. From beneath the door on the left, flashes of wicked greenish light were visible.

Now he was afraid. Really afraid. There was magic at use inside that room; he was certain of it. But he had no idea what sort of magic; he could not know what he would find if he opened the door to see. He was carrying no weapons, and he wasn’t big enough to stop much of anything that might come after him. He wondered suddenly if he had overstepped himself by coming in here in the first place. Maybe he should have let well enough alone until Paxon reappeared—if he was coming at all—and tell him what was happening and let him decide what needed doing.

But then he got angry with himself. He was not a coward, and he was acting like one. He could risk a quick look, couldn’t he? He had gotten this far. He was fast enough that he could slam the door shut again and flee down the hall and out of the building before anything in that room could get to him. Flashes of green light didn’t mean anything. Since when could that hurt you?

Since the Federation had found a way to reshape rough-cut sets of diapson crystals to create flash rips, he answered himself.

But what would something like diapson crystals be doing here? This was a witch’s lair, and magic was what would be waiting inside.

He took a deep breath, tightening his resolve. He would crack the door, he told himself. Just a bit. He would peek inside and see if anything threatened. If it did, he would run out of there immediately.

He could do this.

Even so, he almost didn’t. He almost listened to his worst fears and turned around and left. He almost gave it up then and there because he couldn’t think of any real justification for taking the sort of risk that opening that door would likely yield.

But then, almost on impulse, angry and impatient with himself, he pushed down on the handle and cracked open the door.

What he saw was confusing and scary. Bands of light crisscrossed the room, running everywhere in irregular patterns before converging on a bed near the back of the room where they wrapped about someone who was lying there. He could tell it was a person, even in the indistinct greenish glow. A thin covering outlined a body that jerked and shuddered and writhed in response to whatever the light was doing to it.

It was a surreal moment, and Grehling almost closed the door and fled. This was beyond anything he understood, and he needed to tell someone about it right away. But who would he tell? Who was going to come back here and go up against the witch? And likely face Arcannen, as well?

So he hesitated, trying to make out the prisoner’s face in the dim light. He was unsuccessful until a twisting of limbs and body brought her face into view, and he found himself looking at Chrysallin Leah. He stared in disbelief. So Arcannen had recaptured her and brought her back to Wayford, after all. But what was being done to her? What were these bands of light intended to accomplish?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. It was clear the witch’s magic was attacking her. He had to forget about getting help and get her out of there himself. There was no one else. A fourteen-year-old boy trying to get help with the story he would have to tell would only be laughed at. He would be ignored. Even the soldiers at the Federation army garrison would brush him off. Besides, he couldn’t let her continue to suffer like this. She was in obvious pain, in some sort of agony caused by the bands of light. She needed his help at once.

But what was he supposed to do?

He stood there, undecided. Time was running out. The witch would be returning. He had to act quickly. But anything he wanted to do began with entering the room. If he did that, would he be trapped in Mischa’s web, as well? Would he become bound up like Chrysallin?

There was only one way to find out.

He stuck his arm into the room. When nothing happened, he stepped inside the door all the way.

Immediately he was assailed by images of Chrysallin in strange places, a gray-haired Elven woman nearby, and various dangers threatening. The images filled his mind, buckling his knees with their darkness and intensity. He took another step, and the force of the images pressed down harder on him. They scrambled his thoughts, and on the bed Chrysallin Leah thrashed violently.

He closed his eyes to concentrate on steadying himself and took another two steps into the room. When he opened them again, the lines were fragmenting and losing focus, beginning in some places to curl up like burned threads and in others to fall away completely. There was a strange buzzing sound as the pulsing of the greenish light intensified.

Keep going , he told himself.

He continued on, moving with slow, steady steps toward the bed and the girl, trying to block out the images and to concentrate on what he knew he must do. The bands of light were collapsing altogether now, blinking into darkness, falling away. They offered no resistance as he passed through them, shredding and fading at his touch. Though the images continued, they were losing force, flickering in and out of his consciousness. His passage through the room was obviously disrupting the magic, and it gave him heart and persuaded him to continue.

By the time he had reached the bed, the bands of light had disappeared almost completely. He knelt by the girl and shook her gently.

“Wake up,” he urged. “Chrysallin? Can you hear me? Wake up!”

And she did, her eyes opening to find his face, horror-filled and despairing. “Who are you?”

“Grehling Cara. I’m a friend of your brother’s.”

Then her look changed to one of hope, and she sat up quickly and threw her arms around him.

“Thank you, thank you,” she whispered in his ear, holding on to him tightly. “Thank you for coming!”

“We have to go,” he said. “Quickly. Can you walk?”

He helped her stand, but she was clearly in a great deal of pain in spite of the fact that she seemed to have suffered no obvious injuries. He checked her over surreptitiously, conscious of her near nakedness and embarrassed to be looking, but he could find no wounds.

“You have to walk. I can’t carry you. But I can help support you.”

She was dressed in a night shift, and there was no sign of her clothes anywhere. He would have liked to find her boots, at least, but there was no time for a search. With one arm about her waist, he walked her toward the bedroom door.

Midway there, she stopped, looking back, glancing around. “Mischa,” she said.

“Back any minute.” He started her moving again. “We don’t want her to catch us here.”

“But her head? What happened to her head?”

He had no idea what she was talking about, and he didn’t want to take time to find out. So he just kept moving her toward the front door, helping her stay upright, one arm wrapped firmly about her slender waist. She was muttering to herself about things he couldn’t understand, every so often mentioning the Elven woman and Arcannen and her brother. It was enough to convince him that whatever was going on, it had to do with bringing Paxon back to Wayford. It also convinced him that the sorcerer and the witch were deadly serious about making this happen or they wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to kidnap the girl a second time and then layer her with bands of magic intended to …