Antrax

14

In worrying about what sort of disaster might have befallen his missing friends, Quentin Leah had considered some frightening and horrific possibilities, but nothing on the order of what confronted him there. The creature that stood before him, the thing that had once been Ard Patrinell, was beyond imagining. It had been cobbled together from flesh and bone on the one hand and metal on the other. There was machinery inside it; the Highlander could hear it humming softly and steadily from somewhere within the metal torso to which its other parts were attached. The legs and left arm were metal, as well, all three composed of struts hinged at knees and elbows and feet and hands, and attached by ball joints set into sockets surrounded by cables that ran up and down the creature like arteries and veins in a human body.

What remained of the old Ard Patrinell formed the right arm and face. Both were intact and the distinctive features of the Captain of the Home Guard were instantly recognizable. His metal-capped head was set into a tall collar. It was impossible to tell if his head was still connected to some portion of his body, although even at a distance and in the dim light of the ventilation shaft, Quentin could see color in the strong features and movement in the dark eyes. But there was no question about the connection of the right arm, the flesh and bone of which were capped and cabled in metal at the shoulder and attached in the same manner as the other limbs by a metal ball and socket.

Red and green lights blinked like tiny glass eyes all over the creature’s gleaming torso, and numbers set in windows clicked and whirred, counting out functions that Quentin could only guess at. Pads cushioned the skeletal metal pieces of the feet so that when the creature walked it made thumping sounds and did not clank as it otherwise surely would. The human right hand held a broadsword in its powerful grip, ready to strike. The metal left hand held a long knife and was bound and warded by an oval shield that ran from wrist to elbow.

When it saw them—and it did see them, they could tell from the movement of the eyes and shift of the body—it started for them at once, weapons raised to strike.

For just an instant the members of the little company stood their ground, more out of an inability to respond than out of courage. Then Tamis shouted, “No! Get out of here!”

They began to back away, slowly at first, then more quickly as the advancing monster picked up speed. It was heavy, but its movements were smooth and effortless, as if a part of Ard Patrinell’s agility had been captured in his new form. Finally, the Elves, the Dwarf, and the Highlander broke into a run, propelled by fear and horror, but by something else, as well. They did not want to face a thing that was made out of pieces of someone they had known and admired. Ard Patrinell had been their friend, and they did not want to do battle with his shade.

But what they might have wanted did not count for much. They retreated down the corridor the way they had come, yelling encouragement to one another, Tamis shouting to them to get back outside where they had more room to maneuver. And to where the Rindge might give them aid, Quentin thought without saying so. Kian and Wye, toughened and well conditioned, quickly outdistanced the other three. Tamis deliberately hung back, intent on warding the obviously struggling Panax. Quentin might have kept up with the speedy Elves, but the Dwarf was stocky and slow and not built for speed. He was laboring in minutes, and the tireless metal monster that gave chase was closing the gap between them.

At the first split in the passageway, Quentin rounded on their pursuer, shouting at the others to go on. Braced in the center of the corridor, the Sword of Leah raised before him, he confronted the thing that had been Ard Patrinell. It came at him without slowing, all size and weight, metal parts gleaming in the flameless lamplight. For an instant Quentin thought he was a dead man, that he had misjudged what he could manage altogether and was wholly inadequate to the task. But then the magic flared to life, running up and down the blade of his talisman, and he was crying out, “Leah! Leah!”

He closed with his attacker in a shocking clash of metal blades, and the impact of the collision nearly threw him off his feet. Forced backwards by superior weight and size, he kept his blade between them, struggling to find purchase on the smooth metal floor. He seized the other’s metal arm to keep the long knife at bay, but quickly discovered he lacked the strength to do more than slow its advance. Wrenching free, he spun away, the current of the sword’s magic flooding through him like a swollen river, rough and unyielding in its passage. All thoughts of anything but defending himself fled, and he came around with a blow aimed at taking off Ard Patrinell’s head. To his astonishment, the blow failed. Partially deflected by the other’s sword, it was stopped completely by some invisible shield that warded the metal-capped head.

Quentin thrust himself clear a second time; then Tamis was beside him, yelling at Panax to run. Together, they fought to hold the metal juggernaut at bay, hammering at it from two sides, striking at anything that seemed vulnerable, that might break or shatter to slow it down. That was all that was needed, Quentin kept thinking—just enough of a breakdown to cripple it and let them escape.

Then it sidestepped a blow from his blade and stepped between the Elf girl and himself, reaching for him with bladed hands to pin him to the tunnel wall. He grappled with it a moment, hammering with his sword blade at the clear faceplate, unexpectedly meeting the familiar eyes long enough to see something that made him cry out in shock before breaking free once more.

“Run!” he shouted to Tamis, and together they sped back down the passageway in pursuit of Panax and the Elven Hunters.

His mind locked on a single image. What he had found in those eyes, the eyes of a dead man, had frozen his soul. It was all he could do to accept that he had not been mistaken, that what he had seen was real. He understood why the Rindge said that when their people were taken and dismembered by Antrax, they didn’t die but were still alive, their souls captured.

He felt afraid in a way he had never thought possible, certainly in a way he had never been before. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was to escape that place and leave its horrors behind him forever.

“Did you see?” he gasped at Tamis as they ran. “His eyes! Did you see his eyes?”

“What?” she shouted back. Her breathing was rough and labored. “His eyes?”

He couldn’t make himself say any more, couldn’t finish what he had begun. He shook his head at her and ran harder, faster, the burn of his breathing sharp and raw in his throat as he fled back up the dimly lit passageway.

It took only minutes, but it seemed much longer, to regain the entrance to the ventilation shaft and burst clear once more. The others were already there—Kian, Wye, Panax, and even the Rindge, who had not fled as Tamis had feared. Obat had formed up his warriors in ranks two dozen yards back from the grate entry, heavy spears lowered, blowguns lifted. Quentin’s little band took up positions on one end of the formation, breathing heavily, staring back at the dark opening they had fled.

The monster burst into view in a lumbering rush that took it right into them. It did not slow, did not hesitate, but barreled into the center of the Rindge line, thrusting past the spears, brushing off the darts from the blowguns, sending those who tried to stop it flying in all directions. There was barely time for some to cry “Wronk” in voices steeped in terror before three lay dead or dying and all but a handful of the rest had scattered. Obat and two more stood their ground, joined by the Elves, Panax, and Quentin Leah, who hammered at the monster from all sides, trying to break through its defenses, to find a weak spot, to do anything to stop it. Grunts and cries mingled with the clash of iron weapons, rising up through the heat. Blades flashed in the sunlight, and bodies slick with sweat and smudged with dirt and grit struggled to stay upright and clear of the metal behemoth.

“Leah!” Quentin roared in fury, striking blow after blow at the wronk that had once been Ard Patrinell, watching in horror as it responded with the unerring instincts and skill of the Captain of the Home Guard, infused with the knowledge that Patrinell had acquired through twenty-odd years of combat and training. It was terrifying. It was as if Patrinell was still there, his spirit captured within that metal form, able to direct its actions, to give thought to its responses. It was as if it knew what Quentin would do before he did it, as if it could anticipate the Highlander’s every move.

Perhaps he could, Quentin thought in dismay. Ard Patrinell had taught the Highlander almost everything he knew about fighting. Aboard the Jerle Shannara, Patrinell had trained and schooled Quentin in the tricks and the maneuvers that would keep him alive in combat. Quentin had been a good student, but Patrinell knew the tricks and maneuvers, as well, had known them longer, and could employ them better.

As did the wronk he had become, remade in this new image, in this monstrous form, in this horrific fusing of metal and flesh.

Another of the Rindge went down, bloodied and broken, torn open from neck to crotch. Obat and the remaining Rindge turned and fled. Quentin’s tiny band sagged back before the wronk’s fresh onslaught. Despair clouded their faces and drained them of their strength. But then they got lucky. Pressing its attack, the wronk got tangled up in the body of a dead Rindge, lost its footing, and went down. It was up almost instantly, but a broken limb of the dead man was lodged between its joints. In the few moments it took the wronk to free itself, Quentin and his companions broke off their seemingly hopeless struggle and raced after the fleeing Rindge. Whatever was needed to win their battle, it would first require a plan. Just then, it was best just to get away.

Sheathing their weapons on the fly, they raced back into the trees. Obat slowed to let them catch up, shouting something at Panax, who shouted back; then all of them disappeared into the trees. In seconds, they could no longer see the ruins. They ran a long time. Others of the Rindge joined them, all of them breathing hard, bathed in sweat, riddled with fear. Quentin felt the magic of his sword subside, a red haze fading into twinges of emptiness and unfulfilled need, a mix of emotions that tore at him like brambles. He was burned out and chilled through all at once, and part of him wanted to go back into battle while the other wanted only to escape.

He did not know how long they ran or even how far. They were well away from the ruins before they staggered to a halt, a forlorn and dejected band. They knelt in the fading afternoon light, heads lowered in exhaustion, listening through ragged gasps for the sounds of pursuit. Quentin glanced at Tamis, and his emotions coalesced into an overwhelming feeling of shame. Their effort had failed utterly. They were no better off than they had been when they started out—worse off, perhaps, because now they knew the fate of at least one of their missing companions and maybe of the rest, as well.

Tamis glared back at him. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes. “Don’t look at me!” she snapped.

Obat spoke to one of the Rindge, and the man rose and started back toward the ruins—looking to see if the thing they had fled was still following them, Quentin thought.

Panax eased over to him, gruff face flushed and angry. “What sort of monster would do that to a man?” he growled. “Make him into a machine out of bits and pieces of himself?”

“Another machine, maybe,” Quentin offered wearily. “A better question might be why?”

Panax shook his head. “There’s no sense to it.”

“There’s sense to everything, even if we don’t understand what it is.” Quentin was thinking about the wronk’s eyes, Ard Patrinell’s eyes. “There’s a reason Antrax uses wronks. There’s a reason for this one. Did you see how it fought us? Did you watch it respond to our attacks? It has Ard Patrinell’s memories, Panax. It’s using his skills and tactics. It knows how to fight the same way he did.”

The Rindge who had been dispatched by Obat returned on the run, speaking hurriedly to the subchief, who in turn spoke to Panax. The Dwarf came to his feet at once.

“Let’s go! It’s right behind us!”

They climbed to their feet and continued on quickly, Obat in the lead, choosing an unobstructed path that allowed them to move swiftly; their best chance lay in outrunning their pursuer. Once or twice, Quentin glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see. He did not doubt for a moment that the wronk was following, untiring and implacable, determined to pursue them until they were run to ground. The Highlander was already feeling twinges of doubt over whether they could escape it. But to stand and fight would be a mistake. The wronk was bigger and stronger. Its armor gave it better protection. It possessed Ard Patrinell’s fighting instincts and skills. Perhaps if there were more of the Rindge, if they could reach the village and summon others to their aid, they might stand a chance. Otherwise, even with the magic of the Sword of Leah to aid them, he wasn’t sure they would prevail.

They were strung out through a dense part of the forest they were unable to avoid when the wronk caught up with them. It came out of the trees to one side, its appearance so unexpected that no one was ready for it. Instantly, trapped and cut to pieces, two of the Rindge and the Elven Hunter Wye died. The remainder of the company scattered in a mix of shouts and cries, going off in all directions, fighting to break free of the wronk and the entangling trees. Quentin and Tamis ran one way while Panax and Kian ran the other. The Rindge ran everywhere. For an instant everything was chaos as the wronk surged through the center of their line, blades cutting at everything.

Then the Highlander and the Tracker were in the clear once more. Quentin risked a quick glance over one shoulder. A gleam of metal in sunlight and the sounds of something huge thrashing after them told him the wronk was still coming, and it was coming for them.

“This way!” Tamis hissed, dodging deadwood and scrub like a rabbit as she plunged down a ravine.

They ran in silence for a long time, neither one speaking, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuer. It was growing dark, twilight settling over Parkasia, shadows lengthening into night. It was difficult to pick up all the obstacles that hindered or blocked their path, especially when they were running, and more than once Quentin almost lost his footing. All the while, they could hear the sounds of pursuit, the breaking of branches, the rending of brush and grass, the steady, relentless clump of heavy steps.

Something unexpected and frightening insinuated itself into the Highlander’s thinking as he fled. At first he discounted the possibility, pushed it aside angrily, but then he began to wonder. Both times, here and there, the wronk had made it a point to come after him. He had seen it in the monster’s attack on the Rindge defensive formation, back in the ruins, where it had rushed the natives first, then turned directly for him. Again, in the woods, after striking down those closest, it had chosen to pursue him. It seemed paranoid to think like that. Why would the wronk be after him in particular? Had his attack on it in the ventilation shaft provoked it? Was there something about him especially that drew it?

Then he remembered something Walker had said during their final meeting aboard ship before disembarking for their ill-fated journey to the ruins, and he had his answer.

It was completely dark when they finally stopped, miles from where they had started, deep in the woods. The only visible light came from moon and stars, the forest around them layered with shadows and cloaked in silence. They crouched on a ridge, concealed in a stand of brush, and looked back the way they had come, listening. The sounds of the wronk’s pursuit had faded, disappearing almost without their realizing it, as if the creature had stopped, as well. Neither Quentin nor Tamis moved or spoke for a very long time, waiting.

“I know what it’s after,” Quentin whispered finally, staring off into the dark. “It’s after me.”

She looked at him without speaking.

“It wants the sword. It wants the magic. Remember what Walker told us about why we were lured here in the first place? For our magic, he said. I think Antrax knows all about us, maybe even about Bek. It wants everything we have.”

She thought it over. “Maybe.”

“That’s why it sent this wronk made of pieces of Ard Patrinell. It’s using his brain, his instincts, and his fighting skills to get what it wants from us. From me. I thought at first it had chosen Patrinell because he would know us best, could kill us easiest. But why send a wronk after us? Why bother, when we were so easily cut apart in the maze and pose so little threat?”

“So you think it constructed the wronk deliberately,” she said. “It used Patrinell’s head and sword arm, so it had to have a specific purpose in mind.”

“It used those parts it needed to make the wronk function as closely as possible to the real thing. None of this happened by accident. The wronk was constructed and dispatched for a reason. It’s after me. It keeps coming right for me. I didn’t think anything of it at first, back in the ventilation shaft. But it came after me again once we were outside and again in the forest, and now it’s chasing me. It wants the sword, Tamis. It wants the magic.”

For a moment, she was quiet. He went back to staring off into the impenetrable dark, listening. “You haven’t thought it through far enough,” she whispered suddenly. She waited until he turned to look at her again. “Think about it. Your sword won’t work for just anyone, will it?”

Her steady gaze unnerved him. “No. It only works for me. So you’re saying it wants me, too.”

“Or parts of you, like Patrinell.”

His throat tightened, and he looked away. “I’ll die first.”

She didn’t say anything but put a hand on his arm. “What were you trying to tell me about his eyes back there in the tunnel? When we were running, you started to say something. You asked me if I’d seen his eyes.”

Quentin was quiet for a long time, remembering what he had seen, trying to overcome the revulsion that even thinking of it caused. Tamis kept her hand on his arm and her eyes on his face. “Tell me, Highlander.”

He sagged a little as he spoke, despair and fear taking fresh hold. “When we struggled underground below the ruins, I got a good look at those eyes. While I was grappling with it, I got close enough to see into them. They weren’t dead eyes. They weren’t soulless. They weren’t filled with anger or madness or anything I expected. They were frightened and trapped and helpless. I know it sounds impossible, but he’s still alive in there. In his head and brain. In what he sees and feels. He’s shut away in there. I could see it. I could tell. He was asking for help. He was begging for it.”

She was shaking her head, denial, rage, and fear twisting her features, her hand tightening on his arm until her nails bit into his flesh.

“He’s not attacking us because he wants to!” Quentin hissed. “He’s doing it because he doesn’t have a choice, because he’s been rebuilt to carry out the wishes of Antrax! He’s been mind-altered like those Elves who murdered Allardon Elessedil! Only there’s no body left, nothing whole. He’s—” He caught himself. “He isn’t Ard Patrinell anymore, but Antrax has stolen something of who he was and is holding it prisoner inside that wronk.”

Something moved in the darkness, but the movement was small and quick. Quentin glanced out hurriedly, then back to Tamis.

“You could be wrong,” she insisted angrily.

“I know. But I’m not. I saw him. I saw him.”

There were fresh tears in her eyes. He caught their gleam in the moonlight. Her grip on his arm loosened. She blinked hard and looked away. “I can’t believe it. It isn’t possible.”

“The Rindge knew. They’ve seen it happen before with their own people. They tried to tell us.”

She shook her head and ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair. “It makes me sick. It makes me want to scream. No one should have to …”

She couldn’t finish. Quentin didn’t blame her. There were no words sufficient to express her feelings. What had been done to Ard Patrinell was so loathsome, so despicable that it left the Highlander feeling unclean.

And afraid, because there was every chance that Antrax intended that he come to the same end.

“We’ll have to kill him,” she said suddenly, looking over with such fierceness that it left him off balance. For a moment, he wasn’t certain who she was talking about. “Again, all over again. We can’t leave him trapped in there. We have to set him free.”

She took his hands in her own and gripped them tightly. “Help me do it, Highlander. Promise me you will.”

He saw it then, the reason for her passion. She had been in love with Ard Patrinell. He had missed that before, not seen even the barest hint of it. How had he been so blind? Maybe she had kept it well enough hidden that no one could have known. But there it was, out in the open, as certain as daylight’s return with the dawn.

“All right,” he agreed softly. “I promise.”

He had no idea how he was going to keep that promise, but his feelings on the matter were as strong as her own. He was the one who had looked into Ard Patrinell’s eyes and seen him in there, still alive. That was not something he could pretend never happened and would have no effect on him if he walked away from it. Like Tamis, he could not leave the Captain of the Home Guard a slave to a machine. The wronk had to be destroyed.

“Get some sleep,” she said, easing away from him. There was weariness and sadness in her voice. All of her strength seemed drained away. He had not seen her like that before and he did not like seeing her that way. It was as if she had suddenly grown old.

“Wake me in a few hours,” he said.

She did not respond. Her gaze was directed out into the night. He waited a moment, then stretched out, placing his head in the crook of his arm. He watched her for a time, but she didn’t move. Finally, his eyes closed and he slept.

In his troubled dreams, he ran once more from the wronk. It pursued him through a forest, and he could not find a way to escape it. After a long time, he found himself backed against a wall, and he was forced to turn and fight. But the wronk was not solid or recognizable. It was insubstantial, a thing made of air. He could feel it pressing into him, suffocating him. He fought to break free, just to draw a breath, and then suddenly it materialized right in front of him and he saw its face. It belonged to Bek.

It was almost dawn when he woke, the first tinges of daylight seeping through the trees, the sky east lightening. Tamis had fallen asleep on watch, her body leaning against a tree, her chin lowered into her chest. When he pushed himself into a sitting position, she heard him move and looked up at once.

In the distance, far off but recognizable, something big moved through the trees.

They stood up together, staring in the direction of the sounds.

“It’s coming again,” Quentin whispered. “What do you want to do? Make a stand here or choose another place?”

Her look was unreadable, but the weariness and sadness of the previous night had vanished. “Let’s find one of those pits the Rindge dug for wronk traps,” she replied softly. “Let’s see how well it works.”