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

“Now give me the sword,” Arcannen ordered, still standing next to the bed.

Paxon leaned over and kissed his sister’s cheek. “Get behind me,” he whispered, keeping his face hidden with hers. “Jayet is outside the door.”

She moved behind him obediently. “Open the door, Chrys,” he told her, facing Arcannen again. “See what’s out there.”

She did as he asked, then rushed out into Jayet’s arms.

“The sword?” Arcannen pressed. “You won’t get out of here alive otherwise.”

“Go downstairs,” Paxon called over his shoulder to the girls. “Get out of here. I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”

“You try my patience!” Arcannen snapped, starting toward him.

But Paxon quickly reached over his shoulder and unsheathed the sword. “Don’t you want to examine it first and make certain of what you are getting?” he asked, holding the blade in front of him. The black metal glittered in the dim light. “Come, have a look.”

The sorcerer smiled. “You never intended to give it up, did you? You intended to keep it all along.”

“Remember what you said about me a moment ago, about not being very honorable? It seems that, where you are concerned, it’s true.” He backed toward the doorway, eyes fixed on the sorcerer.

“Put it down!” Arcannen ordered, his face flushed, throwing back his robes. “Do it while you still have the chance, boy!”

“Stop calling me ‘boy,’ and I will consider your suggestion.”

“You have no idea what I will do to you if you refuse! Don’t be a fool. I’ll finish you and go after your sister, and you will both be dead!”

Paxon was within the open doorway now and almost clear of the room, still watching the other closely. Arcannen was going to do something; he just didn’t know what the other’s magic allowed. He backed up another step. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this; he only knew he wasn’t giving up the sword willingly because he knew now how badly Arcannen wanted it.

He risked a quick look out of the corner of his eye. The hallway was deserted. Chrys and Jayet were gone, and there wasn’t any sign of Arcannen’s men. Time to make a run for it.

But Arcannen was already moving. He seemed to gather himself all at once, everything folding into his body—almost as if he were collapsing. His arms thrust outward violently and wicked black light exploded from his fingertips, shooting across the open space that separated him from Paxon.

Paxon, acting without thinking, brought the blade of his sword up sharply to deflect the attack.

Then something strange happened. A surge of heat burst inside him and the black blade of the Sword of Leah flared to life, its length gone bright and reflective, its metal infused with greenish snakes that wove their way through its length. It happened all at once—so quickly that Paxon had only a split second for it to register before the sorcerer’s magic struck, throwing him backward through the doorway and across the hall to slam into the wall beyond.

But the magic expended by Arcannen did not touch his body or harm him in any way. Instead, it dovetailed into the blade of his sword and was absorbed as if by a sponge, sinking into the metal and disappearing.

In seconds it was gone.

Paxon heard Arcannen scream in fury as he saw what had happened. He pushed himself back to his feet quickly, the sword still held out protectively in front of him, the black metal alive with the green snakes, its surface a bright and shining mirror.

Arcannen struck at him again, advancing on him. But Paxon was ready this time, braced as he had not been before, and when the magic struck him it did not throw him back but instead exploded into shards that deflected in every direction as the attack collapsed.

Then Paxon was running down the hallway, amazed to find that he was all right, even more amazed to find that the Sword of Leah was magic-infused after all and that the attack by Arcannen had apparently brought that magic to life. He reached the stairway and started down, not looking back to see if he was being followed, but knowing he was.

The next attack caught him midway down, and because he was too slow in blocking it, he was thrown the rest of the way to the floor below. He struggled up and kept going, vaulting down the stairs three and four at a time, flinging himself over the landings. Behind him, he could hear multiple explosions as stairs and railings burst apart only inches away, splinters of wood slashing at his hands and face.

His thoughts raced, his fear propelling him on.

Can’t stop!

Run faster!

He broke for the front entry when he reached the ground level, charging right at the guard who stood ready to stop him. A section of the wall exploded, just missing his head as more splinters and a few larger pieces of wood flew past. He kept going. The guard blocking the way stood his ground for about two more seconds and then flung himself clear, letting the Highlander pass without challenge. Paxon brought up his sword, intending to shatter the lock and break clear of Dark House, but just thinking of what he wanted seemed enough. The blade turned to fire, bright and terrible, exploding onto the door and incinerating it in seconds.

Paxon reached the smoldering ruins and kept going, racing from Dark House into the street beyond. He risked a quick look behind him. Nothing. The entry was empty, no sign of Arcannen anywhere.

And then there he was—higher up on a second-story balcony, hands weaving, strange sounds breaking from his lips. The stone of the roadway began to buckle and heave beneath Paxon’s feet. He was caught by surprise and stumbled, sprawling to the cracking earth.

As he did so, he dropped the sword and watched it skitter away.

Now Arcannen came after him with everything he could muster—bolts of fire to scorch his skin, flaming daggers to pierce his body, and thunderous explosions to render him unconscious. Somehow, through a combination of desperation and luck, the Highlander managed to avoid all of it, throwing himself aside, rolling away, and finally retrieving his lost sword.

He was up at once, running once more, dodging left and right, reacting instinctively, trying to escape. He kept hoping he would see Jayet or Chrys, but neither appeared. If they hadn’t fled to the airfield, he would have to come back and find them, and he had no idea at all how he would accomplish that.

In his hand, the Sword of Leah blazed with magic that wove through the metal and into his body, filling him with confidence and strength. Addictive, euphoric, it swept through him in wave after wave.

“Leah, Leah!” he shouted to the empty, darkened streets, giving out the battle cry of his ancestors.

He carried their sword; he was entitled to their battle cry. He almost laughed, he felt so gleeful.

Behind him, a pack of wolves appeared, yellow eyes gleaming. Their snarls warned him of their coming, and the sound of their claws digging into the roadway sent chills up his spine. He was beginning to wonder if there was anything Arcannen couldn’t do. This sort of magic hadn’t revealed itself in the Southland since the time of Edinja Orle, and she had been dead for more than a century. No magic of this magnitude was even suspected to exist anywhere within Federation rule. Magic much smaller and less dangerous would have been swept up and locked away in a heartbeat. How Arcannen had avoided that was troubling.

But there was no time to think about it now. The wolves were advancing on him. Big, shaggy beasts, they were more than twice the size of normal wolves, slavering and growling, long tongues lolling from mouths filled with razor-sharp fangs, and hunger in their eyes. Paxon ran from them. Sword or no sword, he didn’t care to stand and fight so many. If even one broke through his defenses, it would rip him apart.