High Druid's Blade

NINETEEN

WHEN MISCHA SHAMBLED INTO HIS OFFICE AT DARK HOUSE late that evening, a huge bruise on her forehead and both eyes blackened, Arcannen knew at once what had happened.

“The girl got away,” the witch spat, confirming it.

It was with some effort that he managed to keep his composure. “How did she manage that?” he asked.

She slumped into a chair, her head in her hands. “She had help. A boy. I don’t know where he came from, but he must have broken into the building, found her, and taken her out.”

“He was able to free her from the magic?”

“Apparently. It wasn’t that hard. If you were determined enough, you could walk into the room, break the web apart, and free her.” She looked up, her face twisted in pain. “You will remember I told you to be careful not to go into the room when we looked in on her. That was the reason. The strands have a powerful effect on the intended subject, but are otherwise weak.”

“This just happened?”

“A short time ago. I went out for ingredients for the potions that form the bands. When I returned, they were coming out the door. The boy hit me before I could stop him.” She pointed needlessly to her forehead. “When I woke again, they were both gone.”

He hesitated, thinking it through, resisting the urge to leap up and do something. Haste now would be a mistake. The damage, however bad, was already done. He glanced out the window to his right. Darkness had settled in, the light gone out of the world for another day. Another complication.

“How far along do you think the process was? Is she sufficiently subverted by now that she will do what you have set her to do, even though she has been freed?”

Mischa gave him a dark look. “The magic needs time; there isn’t an exact way to measure how much. You know that. It varies with each subject’s strength of will. She has already endured a stronger dosage than most, and still I was not satisfied that she was completely won over. Yes, she is deep under. But another day would have been better.”

“Well, we don’t have another day now, do we?” He only barely managed to conceal his disdain for her incompetence. “So what is your best guess?”

The witch was silent for several long moments. “A better chance that she will than she won’t, I suppose. But if I could get her back–”

“Yes, you would be happier,” he interrupted. “And we would both like to get our hands on this boy. Did you recognize him?”

She shook her head. “I may have seen him somewhere. I can’t be sure. But I’ll remember his face. Sooner or later, I’ll find him.”

Very helpful, I’m sure, Arcannen thought. “He must have had some connection to her,” he mused aloud. “Otherwise, why would he bother to help her? For that matter, how did he even know where to find her, whatever the connection? It wasn’t like her stay with you was public knowledge. You must have done something to give it away.”

“I did nothing to give anything away!” she spat at him. “Everything was done as we agreed. No one was allowed to see anything. She was not allowed to know anything. For her, it was all a dream. Nothing was real, but it all felt real. For anyone watching, there was no way to know who she was or why she was there.” She sat back. “Are you going to do anything about this?”

He shrugged. “She will either go to ground or try to get out of the city. I will send men to watch the airfield. I will send others to search the streets. But I have to assume we won’t catch her again. If whoever helped her takes her to her brother, things might still turn out the way we want them to.”

He paused, remembering suddenly. “Did she take the knife with her when she left?”

The witch reached into her robes and pulled out the Stiehl. “I doubt she even thought of taking it, as deeply under the magic’s spell as she must have been.” She placed it on the table between them. “The boy probably knew nothing of it. It was still sitting on the nightstand where I left it.”

He was furious now. Use of the knife was essential to his plan. A weapon against which there was no defense, it would have assured that matters were concluded as he had intended from day one. Now he would have to rely on opportunity and luck.

“That’s too bad,” he said through gritted teeth. He got to his feet then, irritated beyond measure. “I have work to do. Maybe we can find her after all. You never know.”

She staggered up with him, still clearly not recovered from being struck. Well, she was old, after all, witch or no. “I’ll not leave this to chance or luck, Arcannen. You have your men watch for her, and if they find her let me know. In the meantime, I intend to track her down myself. That boy thinks himself so clever, but he doesn’t know he’s already marked himself just by breaking into my rooms. I can track him using magic, and I will. It might take a day or so, but I will find him.”

She straightened. “When I do, you can have the girl back again after another day of treatment, but the boy is mine. I will use him a bit, experiment on him, and then make him disappear for good.”

She turned and shuffled out of the room, bent and shapeless and somehow more loathsome for seeming so pathetic. But she was immensely dangerous, and he never forgot it when he was in her presence. The evil she exuded was palpable, and he would not have liked to be that boy once she went hunting.

The Stiehl lay on the table in front of him where Mischa had placed it. He looked down at it thoughtfully, then reached out and picked it up. There was still a chance it might find a use in his plans. If not in one way, then perhaps in another.

He slipped it into his black robes and went out to summon his men.

Mischa left Dark House and went out into the surrounding streets, seething. She hated having to go to Arcannen like that, hat in hand, admitting her failure to hold the girl prisoner as she had been charged to do. She loathed having to confess like a penitent schoolgirl. But mostly she burned with rage at having had this brought about by a mere boy. As she said to the sorcerer, there was definitely something familiar about him. She had seen him somewhere, although she could not remember where just at the moment.

But she would, she promised herself. At some point, she would.

She shuffled her way back to her rooms, passing through the darkness like one of night’s shadows, ignoring the few other denizens of the time and place who passed her by. Most knew her on sight, even faceless and obscured. All avoided her. Arcannen was right: She had the look of a harmless old lady, but she was anything but. Mischa was a creature capable of great evil.

She was thinking even now how she would dissect the boy while he was still alive, listening to him plead, smiling at his misery. Oh, he would be made to regret what he had done to her, of that there could be no doubt.

But finding him came first.

How best to do that?

When she reached her building, she paused at the entry and examined the lock. Picked by someone who knew what he was doing. So the boy was a little thief with talent. She touched the lock and the door frame. His essence was all around her, caught on the materials he had touched. She smelled the air. It was there, too.

She went inside, aware of the pounding in her head, but unwilling to let it subside while it fed her hunger for vengeance. The walk upstairs was slow and painful, her head throbbing, regret and impatience eating at her. If she had only come back from her errand a little sooner. Just a little. But she knew to put that aside. In the end, she would have what she wanted.

At the door leading into her room, she paused. Once again, she read the signs of the boy clearly. Enough to track him. Enough to hunt him down. If she had the proper creature to do the hunting.

She went inside and closed the door behind her. Not yet midnight. Still plenty of time. She walked to the center of the room amid the frayed remnants of her carefully constructed web of magic, now in tatters, all of it destroyed, all of it invisible to the ordinary eye. She could even sense the boy here. Yes, there was enough to work with. But the magic would be strongest in the bedroom where the girl had been wrapped in it and the remnants of it still remained to mingle with the boy’s scent.

Stretching her thin arms wide, she summoned new magic, using words and gestures, elements and memories, her skills brought to the fore by years of practice and a sizable measure of self–confidence. When she had this mix collected and roiling within the room’s empty confines, she left momentarily to bring back potions and a brazier. She lit the brazier, set a small kettle on the flame, and threw in the potions. A fresh glow of pale green surfaced and a terrible stench from the kettle assailed her nostrils. But to her the smell was sweet and welcome, and she breathed it in.

Once the air was filled with her smoky brew, she spoke the words of power and made the necessary gestures to enhance them–to invest them with her own emotions and dark imaginings–giving life and breath to inanimate substance. It was a rigorous, grueling effort, but anger and pain gave her strength.

Slowly, the thing she was making took form.

Initially, it was little more than an amorphous cloud, but as the magic grew stronger and more cohesive it took on human shape. Enough so that it developed arms and legs to go with its elongated body. It hung there in midair, a twisting embryo, a replicant of a nightmarish vision coming to life in the gloom and smoke and shadows. No sounds accompanied its birthing save those of the witch’s muttered incantations and labored breathing, and the faint hiss of venom expelled by the creature’s expansion.

When everything else was done and the making all but complete, she infused her creation with weight and strength, and it sank from midair to stand upon the floor, taking final form and becoming what she had intended all along. It stood before her, misshapen in the way she had intended–a long, lean torso; short, powerful legs; multi–jointed arms meant to sweep up and gather in; skin like serrated leather; hands and feet ending in huge claws–and it acknowledged her with a voiceless inclination of its blunt face. It had a tiny slit for a mouth, a huge snout for smelling scent, and narrow yellow eyes that could see equally well in darkness or light.

She let it stand before her as the air cleared of the magic’s detritus and the room was restored to its earlier condition, studying its features, admiring her handiwork. It stood quietly, showing no signs of impatience, looking about incuriously, breathing slowly and evenly. The long, lean body was muscular in a way that promised quickness and strength in equal measure. There was intelligence in its gaze, too, and the suggestion of a capacity for extreme violence. She would need both if it was to serve her properly.

A hunter, she thought, pure and simple.

She walked to the window, parted the curtains she had drawn earlier, and peered out. The night was still young. Plenty of time to find wayward children. Not many people would be abroad at this hour, and most would likely be sleeping. She thought the boy and the girl might have found shelter by now. Exhausted and frightened, they would be hoping to spend the night undisturbed. The girl might have escaped, but she would not be able to travel far in her present condition. The magic would have eroded her strength and left her barely able to walk. She would not be far from where Mischa stood now; it was almost certain that the boy had not yet been able to get her out of the city.

No, they would still be here. Somewhere. Here, where her creature could track them down and reveal them.

She walked back to stand before it, gathering up a handful of scent and shredded magic as she went, a clutch of essence from both the boy and the girl. She cupped it in both hands and held it out to the beast. It bent forward to inhale the scent, its snout wrinkling to reveal the teeth hidden within its mouth.

“Hunt them!” she hissed.

Aboard their Druid airship, Paxon Leah and Starks approached the city of Wayford, its lights a glimmering carpet in the otherwise deep midnight darkness. They had gotten a late start, and their arrival was well after the time they had intended. But delaying another day was unacceptable to the boy, and Starks–his usual nonchalant attitude evident once again–had simply shrugged and agreed they should set out immediately.

It was the Ard Rhys who had delayed them, calling them to her quarters just as they were about to depart–a summons delivered by Sebec with such urgency that it was clear any refusal would be a mistake. Paxon was hopeful the delay would be only momentary, but it soon became clear that it was not to be. She brought them inside and sat them down, standing tall and strong before them in spite of her age and normally gentle demeanor.

“Someone has taken the Stiehl,” she announced. “The theft was discovered yesterday, but the knife could have been taken anytime since your last inventory. What this means is that the most dangerous weapon we possess is now in the hands of someone who probably has plans for using it.”

Paxon had never heard of the Stiehl, but it was easy to conclude from the darkness of her voice as she announced its theft that it was an important artifact.

“We have no idea who took it?” Starks asked.

“Not yet, but I have taken steps to find out. We have someone in our midst who is both a thief and a traitor to the order. This most recent theft makes four in the past year. The Stiehl is the most dangerous–the other three, including the scrye orb, considerably less so. You were summoned so that I could warn you to be careful. It is not altogether impossible that any of these weapons, but especially the Stiehl, might be used against you. This theft has Arcannen’s mark on it, and you are embarking on a journey to find him. Don’t be careless when you confront him.”

Starks nodded and rose. “We are not the careless sorts,” he said. “Is there more?”

“Only this. If you should find the knife, be certain that you bring it back.”

When they left her chambers, Starks explained to Paxon about the history of the blade–how it was recovered by Walker Boh on his quest to the land of the Stone King and then brought to Paranor when the Keep, closed since the death of Allanon, was reopened. It was an ancient weapon forged of rare metals and infused with dark magic so that it could cut through anything, no matter how strong. It had been kept safe for most of the past thousand years, locked away in the Keep. To have it taken and returned to the larger world where it could be used for any number of terrible purposes was unsettling.

“I want to talk to Sebec,” Starks announced. “He will be the one making inquiries. I want to know what he has found. I want to hear from him directly.”

Together, they tracked down and confronted the young Druid, who gave them what information he had and asked Starks if he knew anything about anyone entering the artifact chambers. The conversation lasted longer than Paxon believed was necessary, but he kept his thoughts to himself and paid attention to what was being said. As it was, they learned nothing useful, and their plans for leaving were delayed by more than half a day.

But now they were approaching their destination, and Paxon’s thoughts of the missing blade and the efforts mounted by the Ard Rhys to find it were forgotten in his focus on the search for Chrysallin. A fresh tension began to build, fueled by a mix of fear and expectation. She had been taken from her home almost a week ago. By now, anything could have happened to her. He was terrified that she might already be damaged in some unchangeable way. Arcannen didn’t seem above exacting revenge simply because his earlier efforts had been thwarted. And while Paxon believed he had more in mind than simple vengeance, he couldn’t quite make himself rule out the possibility. Whatever the case, there was ample reason for him to hurry his efforts and to find his sister with all possible haste.

Starks had said nothing much of what he thought they should do, which was frustrating. He was the leader of this expedition, and Paxon would have liked to have known hours ago how they were going to go about it. But Starks had concentrated his efforts on flying, and Paxon had been reluctant to bring up the matter himself. He knew Starks had a penchant for not speaking of future events until they were close to being upon them.

But now, climbing down from the pilot box and standing together on the darkened airfield by the manager’s office, he turned to Paxon and it seemed he would say something about their plans. Instead, he said, “Where is the field manager?”

Paxon glanced around and pointed. “There’s someone over there.”

The airfield manager was shambling toward them, coming from somewhere out among the moored aircraft. When he reached them, he tipped a battered cap and said, “Well met. Do you require service?”

Starks nodded back. “Our ship needs to be watched over. Can you do that for us?”

“For tonight?”

“Perhaps tomorrow, too.” He glanced at Paxon. “It’s late for a visit,” he said, lowering his voice. “Sleep might be a better choice.”

Paxon shook his head doubtfully. He didn’t like the idea of waiting. “Is Arcannen about?” he asked the manager. “Is he in Wayford?”

“Flew in this afternoon,” the man answered.

“Traveling alone?”

“If you don’t count his crew and his guards.”

“No one else?”

The man shrugged. “My son would know; he sees things better than I do. But he’s not here. Matter of fact, he left right after Arcannen flew in and didn’t come back.” He scratched his beard. “Been wondering about that. He’s late for the night shift. Usually I can depend on that boy.”

“That would be Grehling?”

“That’s him. Able and smart, though he’s got an independent streak a mile wide.” He shook his head. “You never know.”

Instantly, Paxon had a dark premonition. He faced Starks squarely. “I don’t want to wait on this. I want my sister back.”

Starks studied him a moment, and then he nodded. “All right. Let’s go get her.”