The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  She rose, letting her breathing steady and her emotions calm. She had only barely avoided a swift but certain end. And she had done so by making a choice. Better to give up Tarsha Kaynin—who was perhaps a better match for Clizia—than to risk herself further. Tarsha had the use of magic, after all; she had said so. Plus, she had stood up to Clizia Porse once and survived the encounter. Meaning her chances of doing so again were better than Belladrin’s own. And while that might not work in Belladrin’s favor as surely as the death of Cor d’Amphere, it would at least rid her of another potential problem.

  It was not as complete a solution as she would like, perhaps, but in this world you had to grab what was offered you and not moan about what more you wanted. If there were any possibility at all of ridding herself of the Skaar king, she had to take advantage of it. She had to make sure she embraced this chance—the one she had been looking for to turn her life around.

  But she must protect herself, too. An image of the monster that Clizia had conjured flashed in her mind, leaving her shaking.

  She moved over to a sideboard with a pitcher of ale sitting on it, poured herself a tankard, and drank it down, letting the sharp-tasting liquid fill her with its chilling presence.

  TWENTY

  Days had passed. At least, Drisker Arc supposed it was days; it was hard to tell inside the Forbidding. He slept mostly, still recovering from his ordeal. It occurred to him that he might have been drugged. Perhaps it was the drink the Straken Queen had provided, or perhaps it was the food. Perhaps she sought to control him by keeping him lethargic and unable to offer any threat. He stopped eating and drinking when he woke the second time, but nothing seemed to help. Save for brief waking moments, he slept constantly and, for the most part, deeply.

  During his last period of sleep, before Grianne came to him again, he dreamed. But this dream was not like all the others. In this dream he was walking through a forest. He was aware of a silence so deep and pervasive, it seemed to cocoon him. Something had happened—something so momentous that it would change his life forever—but he could not determine what it was. Where he was walking to or even why was a mystery. He walked because that was what he had to do, and for reasons unknown he knew he must continue.

  When the forest ended, he stood on a grassy knoll. Before him lay thousands upon thousands of the dead, their bodies stretched out lifelessly for as far as the eye could see. He stopped and stared, appalled at the carnage and stunned by the numbers. It took him a moment to realize he could not see any evidence of wounds—even on those so close he could reach down and touch them. He recognized no one, and whatever had killed them was nowhere to be seen. The bodies of the dead were unmarked and their cause of death unknown.

  After a pause to take the measure of their numbers, he walked on. He strode into their midst—there was a path for him to do so, almost as if it had been created to provide him with passage. He searched the horizon for an indication of what he was walking toward, but nothing was clear. The distance was hazy and unformed, a thick brume that hid whatever waited. The silence of the forest traveled with him, an insistent companion that wrapped about him like a blanket. It was oddly comforting.

  Drisker! Come back!

  A voice called out. He thought to stop and turn, wanting to respond to it in some way, but could not manage to do so.

  Drisker! Do not go!

  He knew this voice. It belonged to Tarsha Kaynin. He had heard it often enough to know. Tarsha, he called back, but his voice had no power and the name echoed only in the silence of his thoughts.

  Drisker. We need you.

  Yes, he understood this. He knew they needed him, and he understood he should return. But his feet kept moving forward, as if he were not attached to them, and they were taking him where they wanted him. He no longer had control of himself; something much stronger now dictated the course of his travels. He listened to Tarsha calling to him over and over, and the helplessness he felt at not being able to respond was almost more than he could bear. But Tarsha could no longer depend on him. She would have to rely on herself and others who cared about her. Although he wanted to offer the help her cries begged for, he could not.

  Then Tavo Kaynin was before him, standing there alive in the fields of the dead, his face a mask of confusion and anger.

  Drisker, no! Tarsha was calling still, her voice suddenly turned frantic, growing stronger even though he was farther away than before.

  Drisker!

  “Drisker,” another voice hissed as a hand shook his shoulder and he woke from his dream and his sleep. He blinked and looked up into the cold eyes of the Straken Queen. “Do you plan to sleep the rest of your life away?”

  His mind was foggy, his thoughts deadened by the power of the dream, and his response was unguarded. “You drugged me.”

  She stared at him expressionlessly, then shook her head. “I provided you with a mix of healing magic and medicine. The combination had the effect of making you sleep more deeply. Clearly your body needed it. But now it is time to get up.”

  He gathered his thoughts and his strength and pushed himself into a sitting position, long legs dangling over the side of the bed. The room was the same as before: cold, gray, and tomblike. There was still no fire in the hearth. All signs of food and drink were gone. Though he listened closely, he could hear no sounds from beyond his room. The Forbidding was unmistakable, and his situation was unchanged.

  “What do you intend to do to me?” he asked, remembering now how they had left things.

  She moved across to the room’s sole chair and seated herself, looking speculative as she faced him. “Make use of you. You are here for a reason, so I would be a fool not to give that reason a chance to reveal itself.”

  “What do you mean, I am here for a reason? Does this have something to do with whether or not I can help you get free of the Forbidding?”

  “Just listen. As you may remember, my dreams often show me the future, and they have done so with you. They show you holding the darkwand and handing it to me.”

  “And how long have you known this?”

  She smiled. “From before I approached you through the Hadeshorn. That is why I came to you then, why I offered you my bargain. Somehow—though I know nothing of the details—you are the key to my escape.”

  “So the future tells you nothing more?”

  “The future reveals what it chooses. Your future is somehow tied to mine; of that I am certain. I knew as much from earlier visions. Other, newer visions intruded while you slept. They were clear on this much: Our lives share a parallel course. You are needed to find the darkwand, if it can be found at all; I am needed to guide you to it.”

  “Is my life safe with you, then? Or only safe until you get what you want and then forfeit?”

  She laughed. “You are bold, aren’t you? You must be getting better to talk to me this way. Yes, your life is your own once more. I do not intend you harm so long as you do not cross me. Just accept that I am meant to lead us in this quest and you are meant to follow. Any attempt to change that would be a mistake. Do you understand?”

  He nodded. “I expected nothing less. My goal is the same as your own: to find a way out of the Forbidding and get back to the Four Lands.”

  “Then we have an accord. And if you honor our bargain and help to free me from this place, I promise to take you with me when I go, if it is at all within my powers.” She rose. “So, today we journey back to the Iron Crèche, the fortress of Vendra Trax, where I hope that our combined forces will at last uncover the hiding place of the darkwand. I have chosen a handful of demonkind to accompany us, as we may have need of their services. One is a moench, a burrowing creature that has knowledge of a way through Brockenthrog Weir and into Vendra Trax’s fortress. The others have been chosen for protective services. But we are the ones who must think our way past whatever obstacles we encounter. Rise and dre
ss. Drink and food will be provided, and you must eat it. There is no reason to think I would drug you now. All our wits will be needed, Drisker Arc. I hope yours are sufficiently sharpened to meet whatever challenges might come.”

  She rose from her seat and walked to the door. When she reached it, she paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “I think I will take Weka Dart with us, too. For luck, if nothing else. He seems able to survive almost anything he encounters, and we could use a little of that.”

  Then she went through the door, closing it securely behind her.

  * * *

  —

  On the same night that Belladrin Rish had made her bargain with Clizia Porse, she was studying maps and deployment records related to the upcoming decampment of the Federation advance force. In the days before that bargain, she had needed to make sure she was involved in this process, so she had suggested to the commanders that her organizational skills could be of use to them in this matter—which was normally under the direct supervision of the Prime Minister.

  Mention of his name and of her current position as his official surrogate was all it took for Commander Aarcobin to provide her with everything she requested. No one wanted to be seen causing difficulties for Belladrin Rish, or obstructing her efforts to carry out the last of whatever instructions she might have received from the deceased.

  It made her smile, but only for a moment.

  The truth of the matter was that, if her bargain with Clizia held, then this would be the end of her service to Cor d’Amphere. She had given him enough of her life and her sanity; she had risked herself for him sufficiently. So many lives had been snuffed out because of her. True, they were mostly the lives of people she had not known or would ever come to know. True also, they were members of communities and nations that were enemies of the Skaar people. She owed them nothing. In all probability, they would have done the same things to her, had they been given the chance.

  But all that ignored the terrible impact of killing people and destroying lives. Though gone from the earth, they were not gone from her conscience. They became ghosts that haunted her in an endless parade.

  They would be with her forever, and she could do nothing about it. Nothing, that is, about those who were gone, but she could at least stop adding to their numbers. If Clizia Porse followed through on their bargain, Cor d’Amphere would soon be dead, and her problem of breaking away from him before she had any more deaths on her conscience would be solved. And maybe she could help the Federation army actually depart instead of leading them all to slaughter.

  She rose and walked to the tent opening, listening for the sounds of the aides and guards she knew were right outside. It was night now, so most had gone to bed. But a few remained, working out there just as she was working in here. She was never alone anymore, it seemed. She was never allowed to be alone. Not because she was mistrusted, but because she had made herself so valuable they could not afford to let anything happen to her. The irony was striking. They were protecting the very person who would be responsible for destroying them.

  Unless Clizia kept her bargain.

  The witch had never been the most stable of allies, but Belladrin needed her now—with an almost fanatical desperation. She hadn’t always been like this. When the Skaar king had recruited her, she was only a girl—angry with her father, bitter at her fate, devastated by what the remainder of her life would be like. So she had swallowed it all and focused on the need to protect her family. Survival was all that mattered. But no longer. Her life had lost all meaning, and she no longer valued herself. She was nothing more than a facilitator now.

  A valuable slave.

  How had she let this happen?

  She turned and walked back to her desk, sitting down once more, trying to force herself to concentrate on work.

  Seconds later a violent explosion shattered the silence, shouts and screams blossomed from beyond her tent walls, and the entire camp was engulfed in bedlam.

  * * *

  —

  Clizia Porse had allowed just enough time to pass for darkness to fall before reentering the Federation camp to do what she had thought she had done many days ago—kill Tarsha Kaynin. To find out the girl was still alive when she had believed her safely out of the way was galling beyond words. How she had survived her fall off the cliffs of Cleeg Hold was difficult to imagine, but apparently she had. So matters had to be set right immediately. Tarsha was far too dangerous to be allowed to wander about, mixing in Clizia’s affairs and generally stirring up trouble. A quick finish to this complication was necessary.

  She had thought to implement it immediately upon leaving Belladrin Rish’s quarters, but the warning Belladrin had given about how this matter should be handled was not without merit. Clizia’s instincts were to go to Tarsha’s tent and kill her on the spot, daylight or no. But if anything went wrong—which, given all the potential witnesses, seemed likely—her chance might be lost for good. So waiting for nightfall and cover of darkness persuaded her to delay for several hours.

  But now the time was up, and Stiehl or no Stiehl, she was going to eliminate Tarsha once and for all.

  She did not reveal herself this time when she passed through the camp, but cloaked herself in magic to hide entirely. Using a powerful glamour, she became invisible as she walked through the darkness unseen. She did not hesitate in her approach to the tent marked by the green emblem. No guards blocked entry; no barriers had been set in place to keep her out. There were wards to signal her arrival, obviously applied by the girl in an effort to warn her of a surprise attack, but the wards were child’s play for a practitioner of Clizia’s skills, and she disarmed them with barely any effort at all.

  She paused then before the tent flaps, thinking through what she would do after she entered and revealed herself. She would have to act quickly; there would be no time for hesitation. She would have to react to whatever situation presented itself.

  She scanned the inside of the tent, seeking the girl. Nothing. She cast off her protections and summoned a killing spell before gently easing the tent flaps aside. The light within was dim, its illumination restricted to the corner where it hung. She peered into the shadows and saw nothing, so she moved farther in, turning her attention to the lighted area—encompassing a chair and a small table. Still nothing. She stepped all the way in. The tent was empty.

  An awful sense of loss filled Clizia Porse and she stood where she was, just inside the entry, debating what to do next. She allowed her killing spell to dwindle and her magic to cool. There was no sign of Tarsha. Somehow, she had missed her. Somehow, she had let her slip away. She would have to…

  Wham!

  The blow sent her reeling, her defensive magic slow and barely sufficient to blunt its full force. Invisible chains began to wrap around her, tightening with frightening force. She stumbled as her legs were bound, and she fought to break free of the chains and regain her balance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tarsha Kaynin step into view, face intense, arms extended, hands working fresh magic. She had anticipated Clizia’s arrival—perhaps sensed it. Her poorly formed wards were merely a ruse to lure her enemy into a false sense of security. She had hidden herself from both human sight and any countermagic that might unveil her, leaving Clizia deceived and vulnerable to attack.

  But she was Clizia Porse, and she was never helpless—no matter how extreme her situation. She broke the chains and righted herself just in time to fend off a further attack, dropping into a crouch and tangling Tarsha’s legs in chains of her own. Then she threw out a fiery counterattack and summoned anew her strongest killing spell.

  The killing spell rocketed toward Tarsha, who could not manage to dodge it and so turned it aside and sent it caroming through the top of the tent in a fiery streamer of crimson fire that lit up the night sky and caught the attention of everyone within a mile.

  The exchange of magic
and countermagic between the two combatants continued unabated. There was no thought to stopping, no consideration for calling a truce, and no expectation of quarter to be given. Each wanted the other dead, and each fully expected their battle could not end any other way. The ferocity and intensity of their struggle could be imagined by those standing without—most of them cringing away in fear and dismay, and all of them certain they were witnessing an event of terrible proportions. Even without knowing exactly what was happening, they could feel the fury in the effort and power being expended.

  Clizia was beginning to feel a drain on her strength the longer the battle continued, and she was growing frantic. She was more skilled and experienced than Tarsha Kaynin, but the girl was strong and determined. And young—so much younger. Her stamina was immense, making her more than a match for Clizia. It would perhaps prove a difference-maker. Clizia knew she had to find a way past the defenses and attacks being employed against her—just once, enough to let her throw Tarsha down and finish her. As the battle raged, she searched for a way.

  And found it.

  In the midst of a flurry of fiery exchanges, she threw out an image of Tavo Kaynin, alive and well. At the sight of her brother, Tarsha lost all focus—just for an instant, but long enough to distract her. Clizia was ready, anticipating the distraction, knowing it would leave her enemy vulnerable, if only for that single moment. With a snake’s quickness, she struck, an iron hand born of her worst magic penetrating the girl’s defenses, tearing into her chest and seizing her heart.

  She watched in satisfaction as Tarsha convulsed, her slender body contorting, the terrible expression on her face revealing the excruciating pain the magic was causing her. Such a small thing she was, Clizia thought. So fragile. She squeezed harder. Now Tarsha screamed, but she did something else as well. With a flailing of arms and a twisting of her body, she severed the killing grip as if with a blade, thrusting away the tattered remnants and counterattacking with a flurry of both defensive and offensive spells.