by Terry Brooks
Too late, Clizia realized the danger. Her attack fell apart and her defenses were shattered as she was enveloped by the barrage and sent tumbling. A firestorm of explosions rocketed every which way—the girl’s massive response to what had almost been done to her. Clizia had a momentary sense of her own doom. Would nothing kill this girl? Was there no way to overcome this arrogant, willful child?
Bolts of magic ripped through the tent that still hid the combatants, fiery spears that sent everyone seeking fresh shelter. The Federation encampment was engulfed in cries and the pounding of booted feet. The tent caught fire, burning from the top down.
Within, Clizia and Tarsha were surrounded in smoke and bits of burning fabric, and momentarily lost sight of each other. Clizia dragged herself to the entry flaps and used what small strength she retained to turn herself invisible. Whatever might have become of Tarsha Kaynin, she had to get herself clear of the soldiers outside. She needed to flee and recover from tonight’s debacle. Her insides seemed to have turned to poisonous jelly, and her muscles ached so badly she could barely move. One arm hung limp; her hearing was diminished. She could deal with most of it, but her weakness was profound—worse than it had ever been after an expenditure of magic. She could not worry further about the girl. She had to hope she might have succeeded in her attempt to kill her—might even have inflicted a mortal wound. But there was no way she could take time to find out now. Even if Tarsha still lived, she would not be recovering from the damage Clizia had done to her anytime soon.
Five seconds later, smoke and ash and fire mingling with residual bits of magic and a wild cacophony of screams and shouts, she was through the entry and gone into the night.
* * *
—
Belladrin Rish had arrived on the scene by then, unaware that the witch was passing right next to her but fully aware of what must have happened. Yes, Clizia had waited for nightfall to attempt to kill Tarsha, but she had not done so quietly. In fact, she realized as a pair of soldiers carried the girl from the remnants of the burning tent—an ash-covered, struggling figure flailing about as if she might launch another attack even on those who were trying to save her—Clizia might have failed entirely.
And what might this mean for her own bargain with Clizia?
Feeling sick, Belladrin rushed over and bent close. “Tarsha?” she said. “Can you hear me?”
The young face turned slightly and her eyes opened, but she did not seem to see Belladrin. In truth, she seemed not to see anything. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Take her to the Healers,” Belladrin ordered, aware that Lieutenant Commander Oberion had come up behind her, his own expression dark.
“What’s happened?” he asked, but she only shook her head in response.
“Make sure they check for burns and internal injuries,” she ordered. “Keep her warm, and keep her quiet. And place a heavy guard on her quarters.” She waited for Tarsha to be carried away before turning back to Oberion. “Come to my quarters and I will explain everything. Quickly.”
She would have to come up with some plausible story if she did not want to reveal her personal bargain with Clizia. But what? As for Tarsha Kaynin, she did not care to speculate on what would happen now. Either she would live or she would die. All anyone could do was wait and see which path she chose.
And all Belladrin could do was to hope that Clizia’s insane feud with the girl had not blighted their bargain—the fulfillment of which she now depended on more than ever.
TWENTY-ONE
No sooner had Grianne left than Drisker sensed another presence in his bedroom. On looking around, he found Weka Dart standing in a darkened corner like some sort of misshapen wraith. He studied the Ulk Bog in surprise; Weka was so still he might have been a statue.
As the Druid rose to his feet, the little fellow detached himself from the shadows and walked forward. “My mistress told you to ready yourself. Soon you will meet with the others. I’ve been ordered to take you to them.” He paused hesitantly. “I will wait for you in the hall.”
Then out the door he went, closing it softly behind him. Drisker watched him go. Had the Ulk Bog’s arm gotten longer?
Leaving that mystery for later, Drisker went to splash water on his face, dress, and gather himself mentally for what lay ahead. The journey to Vendra Trax’s fortress was apparently at hand, and those who would accompany the Straken Queen had arrived. He thought about what lay ahead but did not dwell on it. There was no point in looking too closely at the dark possibilities that waited.
He left the room and found Weka Dart just outside the door as promised. The Ulk Bog’s gnarled countenance brightened marginally, and an unexpected smile revealed a copious number of teeth. “Are you ready, Straken Lord? The poison seems to have left you. You look fit again.”
The Druid nodded. “And your arm is healing?” He pointed.
“Oh, yes. You can tell, can’t you? It grows back. Ulk Bogs are very blessed with abilities others lack. It will be just as it was quite soon. As you already are. Do you wish something to eat and drink?”
Drisker was not entirely sure how to answer this, having been poisoned once already by the Ulk Bog. But he was both hungry and thirsty, and he would need his strength in the days ahead. He had to assume the last poisoning was unintentional, and that Grianne Ohmsford had taken steps to prevent anything like that from happening again.
He nodded his agreement.
“This way,” Weka Dart directed, and started walking.
They proceeded to what appeared to be a kitchen, although one cobbled together more than artfully designed. There were fire grates and ovens, flat surfaces for food preparation, bins and cold storage for perishables and drinks, and a pair of small tables where one could eat. The Ulk Bog had Drisker sit at one of the tables and went about gathering items on a plate. He poured a liquid from a pitcher on the counter into a tankard that bubbled up and spilled over the sides, added a pinch of something, then carried it all to the table and set it in front of him.
“Eat, please,” he said, in a tone that approximated encouragement.
Drisker did so and found everything surprisingly tasty. Even the odd liquid had a bracing effect, and as he consumed his meal he could feel himself growing stronger. “Very good,” he complimented.
Weka Dart beamed. “I was a cook once,” he said. “I have many skills.”
“Tell me about our plans.”
A wary look appeared on the wizened face. “Oh, she does not tell me. I know nothing.”
“You know everything,” Drisker corrected gently. “That is how you manage to stay alive when others don’t. Am I not right? Tell me the truth. What will transpire when we leave Kraal Reach?”
The Ulk Bog thought it over for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “You will get me in trouble if she finds out…”
“Then I will see to it that she doesn’t. What are her plans for me?”
“She remains convinced the darkwand is hidden within the Iron Crèche. She will lead a company of her followers from Kraal Reach into Brockenthrog Weir and enter her enemy’s fortress lair by means of an underground passage the Chule know nothing about. A moench will show her the way.” He paused, a disgusted look on his wizened face. “A waste of time, if you ask me. But she cares nothing for my opinion.”
“What is a moench?” He remembered Grianne speaking the name, but nothing of the particulars.
“A cousin to the Ulk Bogs: a burrowing creature somewhat larger and less dependable. Inferior in intelligence. Prone to unwarranted acts of disobedience and retaliation against those it pretends to befriend.” He spit to one side. “Loathsome little demons, those. This one, in particular. Its name is Styrik. I would not trust it to carry my boots across a room, but she thinks it can be useful. She thinks it is so frightened of her, it will not dare to cross her. But I wonder.”
“And we have no other choice?”
The Ulk Bog was sulking now, hunched over and glowering, eyes on the floor. “She thinks not.”
“And she is the one who decides?”
“Always, Straken Lord.” He looked up suddenly. “Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise.”
“Not for a minute. Who else goes with us?”
“A slint and a clawrake. One is a form of shape-shifter, the other a berserker. She controls them both, but if she loses control of either you had best hope there is a large iron door between you and it.”
“Names?”
“Neither has a name—or deserves one. And they won’t talk to you anyway. Even if they choose to say something, they speak in tongues you wouldn’t understand. Stay clear of them.”
He said it with such emphasis that Drisker thought he had better do what the Ulk Bog suggested and try not to have anything to do with the pair. Or with the moench, either, for that matter. Best to talk only with Grianne Ohmsford and Weka Dart, if talk he must. But not talking might be an even better idea.
He tried hard not to think about his chances for survival in the company of these demons but was left with an unmistakable truth. Any protection he was likely to find at this point must come either from the Straken Queen or from his own combination of watchfulness and self-defense. Reliance on anything save those was likely to prove fatal.
“What do we do once we are inside this fortress?”
“The Iron Crèche,” Weka repeated. “Ansa Trax named it himself after he had it built.”
“The Iron Crèche, then. What do we do once inside?”
“We search out the darkwand. Once we find it, we take it and get out as fast as we can.”
He made it sound as if this was all pointless, which Drisker found odd. Then he wondered if the Ulk Bog might be right. “It was my understanding that no one knows where the staff is hidden. How do we know all of a sudden where it is now? How are we supposed to find it?”
Weka Dart looked exasperated. “I am not told anything other than what you now know! Maybe we sniff it out? Styrik is up to the task; his nose is larger than his brain. Or maybe we find a seer with a crystal ball, or we can capture Trax and torture him until he tells us where he’s stashed it.”
Abruptly, he threw up his hands, his exasperation turning to rage. “Let me be! I have no idea what she expects us to do or even why we are doing it. Maybe you should try to talk her out of it. Maybe she would listen to you. This is your fault, after all, coming here bearing false stories and offering false hopes! I was satisfied with the way things were, but now my mistress undertakes this hazardous quest, and what is to become of me? I will not live another day if she abandons me!”
Drisker held his temper. “I told you already, the choice to return to the Four Lands is not mine to make; it is hers. I have never once suggested it to her. I did not come here willingly. I was brought here in much the same way she was the first time. I was trapped and sent here by magic. If I could go back right now, I would.”
“You say this, but I think you lie. You are a Straken, and all Strakens lie. You say what you want me to hear, but you hide the truth. You scheme, and you deceive.”
“Yet you think she does not?”
“It is not the same. I understand her! She is different. She is kind to me. She gives me a place in a world that would otherwise devour me. Ulk Bogs are nothing to the other demons. We are less than the dirt they walk on. My mistress knows this. She values my loyalty.”
Drisker shook his head helplessly. “So maybe she will choose to stay when this is over.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“But you are coming with us to Brockenthrog Weir. You were there when she said she wants you to come.”
The Ulk Bog lowered his eyes and turned away. “I will do whatever my mistress asks of me. I am her servant, and so I serve.”
Then he left the kitchen, sulking, not waiting for the Druid. Drisker hesitated a moment, then followed.
They passed down a dozen hallways and went deep into the fortress’s interior. It was a cold, damp, dismally gray structure where patches of fog huddled against the ceiling and light was not welcome. Everywhere they went, shadows intruded. There were windows for a while, and then none at all. Torches scattered here and there offered just enough light to suggest a path forward but not enough to reveal much detail. The silence was stifling and omnipresent. It hid things that crept through the shadows, revealing themselves in small flashes of movement. Drisker caught glimpses now and then, but only for an instant. He had no idea what they were or why they were there.
He tried to imagine what it must be like for Grianne Ohmsford to live in this place. She was, at her core, a human being, stolen from a land of light and color, and cast into a place where everything was different. She had been forced to assimilate, knowing it was the only way to endure. How she came to this decision instead of just giving in to a quick death was hard to understand. He was not sure he could have done the same—or even that he would have wanted to. Had he not had a hope of escaping this prison, he might not have been able to stay sane.
And Grianne had been here for centuries, kept alive by the rules that governed the Forbidding and its denizens. She was living out the last years of her life in a netherworld of hate and despair, just another predator fighting to stay alive.
But were his transgressions any less than hers? He had not killed as willingly as she had when she had been the Ilse Witch, but he had let others die by abandoning them—by abandoning his responsibilities and selfishly seeking peace in his life alone. All of his fellow Druids, slaughtered in Paranor—what were they if not sacrifices for his freedom? How could he think of their deaths as anything else? He had given them up when he might have saved them, so perhaps his fate now, trapped with Grianne inside the Forbidding, was meant to be his punishment. And his redemption likewise required that he suffer as she had, endure as she did, and never leave.
“We are here,” Weka Dart announced, breaking into his thoughts.
They stood before a heavy ironbound door fully ten feet in height. Drisker stared at it. What reason could there be for a door to be this high? What sort of creature required such an opening? He found himself hoping he would not have to find out.
But he was doomed to disappointment.
The Ulk Bog stepped forward and, in quick succession, touched a series of iron knobs on a metal plate. When the door opened, he beckoned Drisker inside.
“I have him,” he announced to whoever waited within.
The room was massive, the ceiling fully fifty feet high. The few windows were placed so far up on the walls that only small patches of illumination reached down to where their thin light mattered. The walls were constructed of stone blocks, the floors of stone paving, and the ceiling could have been anything, invisible as it was. Even on entering, Drisker could hear the echo of his footfalls in the vast emptiness. For there was nothing in the room but a huge pile of cloth scraps bound with ropes and settled against the wall to one side. But then abruptly there was unexpected movement off to the other side—shadows that shifted in endless patterns through the gloom with no indication of their source or identity.
Ahead, Grianne Ohmsford materialized, turning to face him, giving him a glimpse of a squat, wiry form that pressed up against her, as if seeking to wrap itself about her. Red eyes peered over at him, their gaze deep and unpleasant. A hiss escaped the creature’s nearly invisible lips, and it crouched so low it seemed to be hugging the floor.
“Moench,” Weka Dart sneered softly. He stepped toward it, screaming in fury. “Get away from her!”
The creature shuddered and fell back instantly, then faded into the shadows bit by bit, its hateful eyes and a flash of teeth the last parts of it to disappear.
“Are you ready to travel?” the Straken Queen asked Drisker, her smi
le unexpectedly welcoming.
“Rested and ready both. Thank you for allowing me time to heal.”
“You will need to be at full strength if you are to survive what is coming.” She turned to Weka Dart and gestured to where the moench had last been seen. “Tch, you frightened him with your yelling. So jealous, aren’t you, little imp?”
“He should not be touching you,” the Ulk Bog snarled. “He is not fit even to come near you.”
She gave him a considering look and turned away. “Now that we are all gathered…”
She broke off on seeing Drisker looking around curiously. To all appearances, the room seemed empty. With even the moench gone, there were only the three of them left—Grianne, Weka Dart, and himself.
“Oh, the others are here, Druid; they simply don’t choose to reveal themselves. But they should show better manners—if they had any, of course. Allow me.”
She brought a strange metal object to her lips and blew hard. It shrieked as if it were a banshee’s cry, so shrill and piercing it felt to Drisker like it might be cutting through his skin. Even the shadows seemed to quiver in the wake of its heart-stopping shriek.
Weka Dart dropped to the floor, hands over his ears, his face scrunched up like crumpled paper. Drisker took a step back, a protective magic already in place to mute the force of the sound.
Sudden movement surfaced all too close to where he stood.
Almost right in front of him, the moench reappeared, spidery arms wrapped around its body, face a grimacing mask of pain. Not far away—perhaps a dozen feet at most—another creature materialized, shadowy and unformed: a shape-shifter that was rapidly changing from one thing to another as if refusing to offer any clear image of itself.
The last of the trio responded more slowly.
