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

“Move back over there, into the shadows,” Leofur ordered the pair, gesturing toward an open alleyway where an arched covering of interlocking stone blocks offered a small amount of concealment. “Hurry! We’ll make a stand there. I’ll deal with Mischa myself.”

She still had her weapon, and it still carried four charges, so there was some reason to think they could slow or disable the witch when she appeared, especially if they caught her off guard. Grehling helped Chrysallin struggle back to her feet, and together they limped over to the covered alley and moved back into the shadows. Leofur was last in, and she stayed by the entrance and peered back down the street they had just come up, searching for their pursuer. The silver streaks in her blond hair glimmered in the faint light cast by the streetlamp across the way as she cradled the flash rip.

“Do you want to sit down?” Grehling whispered to Chrysallin.

She shook her head no. “I better stay on my feet.”

“I could go for help. Alone. I could find someone at a City Watch station, I think.”

Chrysallin grabbed his arm and held on. “Don’t leave me, Grehling. Please. Stay with me.”

She was begging, the urgency in her voice unmistakable. She couldn’t help herself. Being left alone again would be the end of her. She would rather die than fall into the witch’s hands a second time.

The boy understood. He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed gently. “I’ll stay,” he promised.

“She’s coming,” Leofur hissed at them from the alley entrance. She crouched lower and brought up the barrel of her weapon.

Then abruptly Leofur stiffened, muttering something unintelligible, lifting up slightly from behind her cover to peer out into the streets, then turning sharply in their direction.

“She’s gone!” she hissed at them in a mix of anger and disbelief. “She was right there and she just vanished into—”

She never finished. An explosion threw her backward into the darkness next to them, the flash rip flying out of her hands, stone and brick shattering as part of the archway wall collapsed. Leofur went down and was still, blood on her face and arms, her eyes closed.

Mischa appeared in the opening, bent and withered and terrible. Her crone’s face was twisted with a mix of hatred and satisfaction, and her mouth was working hungrily—chewing, chewing. Smoke rose from the tips of her fingers, and her eyes glowed blood red.

“There you are!” she exclaimed as if surprised and excited. “Hiding back in a corner like rats! Oh, but that is what you are, isn’t it? Little rats, caught in a trap! How sad! How unfortunate for you! And now you’ve lost your fierce protector and her weapon. Whatever will you do?”

Gone was any pretense of being Chrysallin’s friend. She was in full-blown witch mode, and Grehling knew what was in store for him. “Someone will see what you are doing!” he snapped at her, placing himself in front of Chrysallin while wishing he could be anywhere but.

“Goodness! They will? Should I run and hide then, like you? Will I be safe from these people?” She cackled. “Or should I just ignore them like they mean nothing to me? Which they do!”

She moved a few steps closer. “I have had enough of you, boy! I think maybe I will put an end to you before I take little Chrysallin back for more tender loving care. You almost wrecked everything, but my work is not easily undone.” Her gaze shifted. “Is it, Chrysallin? You remember, don’t you? Everything the gray-haired Elven woman did to you? Every torment and travesty committed on your young body? Every pain you suffered? You remember. And you know what you will do when you find her again, don’t you? Would you like to find her now? This very moment?”

She made a smooth series of loops and whispered softly, and the Elven woman appeared, standing off to one side, smiling. Chrysallin shrank from her, buried her face in her hands, and began to shake all over.

“Yes, you remember,” Mischa teased, clearly enjoying the girl’s response, excited by it. “Listen to her! Can you hear? She whispers something to you! Listen. Listen closely!”

A deep silence followed, unbroken save for the sound of Chrysallin Leah whimpering. Then the Elven woman, still standing there, watching everything, leaned forward and spoke.

Tell me what you know .

The words must have been intended to produce a particular response from the girl, but certainly they couldn’t have been intended to produce the one they got. Chrysallin went stiff with shock, and her hands dropped from her eyes to knot across her chest, and her face twisted with sudden rage. She no longer looked like a young girl. She no longer looked anything like herself. She looked like a demon. She screamed—quick, piercing, and furious. She screamed in a way that Grehling had never heard anyone scream before. The sound of it dropped him to his knees; he clapped his hands over his ears to protect them. She screamed with every fiber of her being, and the sound of it assumed both shape and substance.

At first it was everywhere, a force unleashed and gone wild. But then it redirected itself as Chrysallin turned to the Elven woman. The scream slammed into her and she shattered into fragments born on a sudden wind, tiny shards scattering everywhere.

By now, Mischa was backing away, her crooked form bent low, her face horror-stricken. She brought up her hands to defend herself, weaving spells, creating protections. But the scream took on new power as it reached her, lifting her off the street as if she were weightless and slamming her into the wall of the building behind her. It held her pinned there as it penetrated her flesh and bones and turned them liquid. She became a smear that splattered and flattened and then ran down the wall in red rivulets like too much paint.

And just like that she was gone.

Grehling wasn’t sure what would happen next—not to him or to Leofur, not when it appeared that Chrysallin might be completely out of control—so he crawled to where she stood screaming and grabbed her ankle. The scream increased, wavered slightly as she looked down and saw him, and abruptly ceased.

“Grehling!” she whispered, dropping to her knees, her face aghast, tears streaming from her eyes. “What happened?”

The boy gave her a look, pulled himself up beside her, and grasped her hands. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

T

WENTY-TWO

ARCANNEN WOVE HIS WAY THROUGH WAYFORD’S CITY STREETS,at first aimlessly and then increasingly with a destination in mind. His initial reaction was to lead the Druid and the boy a merry chase before setting out for the airfield and the ship that would convey him to safety. To that end, he chose a circuitous path that took him down alleys, into courtyards, across parks and grassy dividers, and eventually through buildings so tightly packed together that it was impossible for anyone to know which doors he had entered or exited.

Yet the pursuit continued. It got close enough at one point that he saw the Druid’s black robes from a window as the latter entered the building in which he was hiding. All of his tricks and subterfuges were failing him, and it became increasingly clear that he was going to have to attempt something more drastic than simple flight.

A confrontation was a last resort. The Druid might easily be his equal in a battle of magic, especially one as clearly experienced as this one seemed to be. Risking everything by going one against one was not his preferred method of engagement, in any case. Subterfuge and deception were highly preferable. Flight and avoidance were survival tools he understood and embraced when dealing with those whose skills he did not want to underestimate.