The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  He thought of her this way—Grianne-that-was—because this was how she struck him. There was little left of either the girl or the woman she had once been. Shedding her identity as the Ilse Witch when she became Ard Rhys of the Third Druid Order, it had seemed she might find peace. But consigned to the Forbidding years later—not once but twice—had been too much for her. Almost everything that had been human had been stripped from her. What remained was the shell of her former self: a ravaged husk that had survived years within the Forbidding, a dark and dominating presence that cared nothing for her past. And yet he knew from the bargain they had made that, deep inside, she still harbored a few small memories of when she had once found peace.

  “Is this going to be a long journey?” he asked her at one point.

  She shook her head. “Time and distance are uncertain in the Forbidding, and neither is reliable. That said, I posit a week of travel afoot after today’s ride. I wouldn’t trouble myself with counting days or hours, Druid. I would turn my thoughts to finding ways of staying alive and leave it at that.”

  “Could we not have flown in on dragons instead of traveling in this?” He gestured at the bone coach.

  “All six of us? Each with our own dragon or in pairs? Use common sense, Druid. Do you not think it wiser to arrive by stealth rather than with trumpets blaring and fire roaring? I do. I chose accordingly.” Her response was a low snarl. “Besides, dragons eat people, in case you had forgotten.”

  They said little after that, but rode in the bone coach for the entire day with only one brief stop for food and water and a bit of relief from their cramped quarters. For Drisker, the queen supplied cheese and bread. The others ate things that the Druid could not even make himself look at. Several of them were still moving as the demons consumed them.

  The route of travel they followed was dismal when they set out and never improved. It was rocky and uneven the entire way, and the jarring of the coach was constant. While the other passengers remained reliably passive, the slint was constantly changing from one form to another, never staying the same for more than a few seconds—a dizzying kaleidoscope of monstrous creatures. And whatever it ate did not improve its breath. Drisker thought to nap, but such an effort proved impossible. No one wanted to speak or engage in any way that mattered. Even the Straken Queen sat in silence, a forbidding aura about her that indicated others should think strongly about following her example.

  It was nightfall when their transport finally rumbled to a halt, and Drisker exited the coach with what he hoped was a not too obvious eagerness. Once outside, he was standing in not-quite-total darkness, staring out across a new landscape. Gone was the uneven, rock-studded carpet they had traveled across all day. Gone were the miles of hardpan and vast empty stretches of barren earth and broad skies packed with endless clouds. In their place, another daunting challenge revealed itself. The terrain ahead was wet and boggy and steaming like a cauldron, the swamp waters and marshes seething with wicked spurts and booming eruptions. The leaden sky leaked a constant, endless downpour through a gloom so thick that everything within it had the look of a mirage.

  Such madness in this world! To go into this cauldron of roiling dark and claustrophobic invisibility seemed such an obvious mistake he could barely keep from shouting out his dismay.

  “We walk from here,” the queen advised him, standing at his elbow as she surveyed the terrain. “And yes, it is every bit as terrible as you might imagine. But it is also how we must go. The Iron Crèche sits back against cliffs too sheer and high to attempt to descend; entry that way is not practical. Entry this way is not much better. The Crèche is fronted by this swamp and its resident creatures and myriad hazards, all of which can kill you. While Trax and his Chule know the cliffs cannot be used as access, they believe the same of this swamp and so will not look for us to cross here—will not even think we would attempt such an impossible feat. A measure of protection lies in this belief that I do not intend to disturb. Just pay attention to what I say and do, and make your choices accordingly.”

  Without another word, she dismissed the driver and the bone coach and began to walk into the miasma of what Drisker quickly perceived to be an endless array of unpleasant ways to end his life. Up until now, he had seen nothing of the creatures that she had warned were waiting there—creatures uninterested in anything but eating and sleeping, creatures devoid of the ability to reason, relying instead on instinct and experience. These were demons lacking any semblance of humanity, so predatory they would not hesitate to kill their own kind if they sensed a weakness. He knew of a few from Grianne’s own writings in the Druid Histories: Furies, Conjulants, Spakes, Crustlings, and the like. Pack creatures that hunted and fed and mated together to survive and had no other purpose.

  They were all in there, deep within the gloom and mist, waiting.

  He gave a deep sigh and went to meet them.

  * * *

  —

  As they walked, the sounds of life within Brockenthrog Weir rose all around them—a cacophony of howls, shrieks, and life-ending screams; a mix of muted huffs, snorts, and food-seeking grunts; a muddle of crunches, gasps, and resigned sighs signaling prey caught and predators feeding. The sounds blanketed the gloom. This was a world of fetid waterways with scattered islands grown over with sawgrass and reeds, of isolated wetland trees and barren atolls. Everything that hunted or was hunted hid within its midst. No human should ever venture into such a place.

  The Straken Queen was prepared for this challenge, however. She took the lead immediately, casting a wide net of magic into the darkness ahead to ferret out the myriad, lurking dangers. She sought and found them, then paused long enough to send them slinking away before her companions attempted to advance. It was stop and go, advance and pause, and advance again, all that night. She wanted to complete their first leg of the journey by using the darkness and night sounds to mask their coming. After they were deep inside, they could risk travel by day. Whether this was true or not, Drisker wasn’t sure. The Straken Queen was driven by her determination and conviction that nothing could stand against her, and it was Drisker Arc’s hope that these attributes made her as close to invincible as it was possible to be.

  They walked most of the night, Grianne Ohmsford leading the way. The others followed like predatory beasts, staying close, keeping quiet for the most part and not attempting to venture too far from the path they traveled. It was impossible for Drisker to determine what they knew of this place, or how much of it they had attempted to traverse before. Perhaps they had never come here and would not dare to do so now without her protection. He wondered again how she managed to maintain her leadership over them—how she had earned their grudging respect and loyalty. Even the most dangerous and unpredictable among them—and you could pick and choose which one that might be—showed a clear obedience.

  Whenever the slint began shifting too wildly or straying too frequently from their party, its mistress brought it to heel with a single unidentifiable sound, and each time it was quick to heed. There was no pretense at asserting itself, no attempt at posturing or hesitating. It simply came, snapping back into line.

  Drisker was aware of the others just behind him, close enough that he could feel their breath and hear the grinding of teeth and the scraping of clawed feet. He did not look back at them. What point would there be? To catch them in the act of attacking and dragging him down to feed upon? His life depended wholly on her—on the Straken Queen, their mistress—not on his own quickness and instinct and magic. His life was thoroughly in her hands. If she wanted him dead, he was already halfway there. If she wished him to live, these creatures would not go against her decision.

  And all their fates would be determined when they reached the Iron Crèche and Vendra Trax.

  Finally, at morning’s first light—a pale, sooty imitation of dawn that barely registered its approach before it was simply there—she brought the
m to a patch of dry land within the watery morass and bid them sleep. She put Weka Dart at watch and slept herself, although Drisker could not help but feel she rested just below the surface of waking and was always aware of whatever was happening around her. He marveled at her endurance. She had walked all night without resting, and to the naked eye she was nothing more than a wizened crone, all bones and hard-stretched ancient flesh, shrunken down within herself and barely more than a corpse. But it was a deceptive appearance that clearly masked a vast inner core of strength.

  He was exhausted as he rolled into his travel cloak, and he slept hard until she woke him.

  He opened his eyes to muted daylight and looked up at her. “We are leaving,” she said quietly. “We are far enough into the morass that we can risk walking in daylight and still avoid the more dangerous stalkers that hunt at night. It is an apportionment of risk. I judge us to be deep enough into the weir now that the risk of daylight discovery is much smaller than the risk of night travel. Come, Druid. Quickly.”

  They set out again. It was impossible for Drisker to determine how long he had slept and how far into the new day his sleep had carried him. The others were already up and prowling about when he rose. The clawrake was gnawing on something red and bloody. Drisker quickly counted heads. All present and accounted for, so whatever the demon ate it was not a piece of any of its companions. Again, Grianne handed him bread and cheese and bitter ale with which to wash it down.

  She smiled when she watched his expression on drinking the ale. “Not what you are used to, Druid?” she chided. She took back the aleskin and drank herself. “Mother’s milk to we who are caged and forgotten by those who drink better. Keep walking.”

  He did. They all did. It was quieter during the day, as most of the hunters preferred to seek their prey at night. It was a world of shadow life here in this damp and dismal stretch—a world where creatures came awake during the darkness and slept when the light shone. Drisker had no idea what lived here; he had seen almost nothing of the residents, though he had heard them clearly enough. Some few were awake in the daytime, but mostly birds and bats and extremely large flying bugs, all of which revealed themselves in sudden bursts of movement. They lacked the color of the flying creatures of the Four Lands, being as muted as possible to better camouflage with their surroundings.

  No color and wonder in this world, he thought to himself. No sense of anything good or kind or wondrous. Survival was a way of life, and death was never more than a snap of a predator’s jaws away.

  They walked for three more days and nights, only stopping to eat and sleep and once or twice to correct course. Drisker had no idea where they were or even in what direction they were traveling. There were no landmarks that he could distinguish and no differences in the terrain. But the Straken Queen always seemed to know where she was going.

  She pushed them hard the entire way and set a demanding pace. Only once did she reveal what drove her. On seeing the exhausted look on Drisker’s face, she bent close and whispered, “I am desperate to escape this place, Druid. I freely admit it. I loathe it and its creatures both. I want to return to the life from which I was taken!” She paused, breathing hard, her narrowed eyes like chips of flint. “You would do well to remember your promise.”

  Drisker didn’t need to be reminded. He knew what he had promised, and he despaired again of being able to keep that promise. But he knew also, just as she did, that the quicker they reached Vendra Trax, the sooner they would find the missing darkwand and discover if it could save them both.

  On the fourth day of their seemingly endless slog, midway through the morning’s march, the slint went mad.

  It happened all at once and for no visible reason. One minute it was slouching along in silence and the next it was leaping into the air and shifting from one form to the next in what appeared to be an attempt to escape something the others could not see. Its thrashings were impossibly frenzied. Drisker, who had been closest to it when the transformations began, quickly stepped back, summoning his magic to form a protective shield. The clawrake began roaring in rage and fear, swelling in size until it was as big as all of them put together. Weka Dart and Styrik scattered into the undergrowth, seeking shelter.

  Only Grianne Ohmsford stood her ground, but the perplexed look on her features revealed the depth of her confusion.

  “Haist’en qual epsit!” she screamed at the convulsing slint.

  But her words had no effect at all. It continued to shift with startling rapidity, thrashing as it did so like a creature possessed. Finally, she came at it with a flash of green light that enveloped it completely and put an end to its shape-shifting and wild careening and sent it crashing to the ground, half submerged in fetid water, half in heavy grasses. A sharp word and the clawrake was on top of it, using its superior size and strength to pin it in place while Grianne bent close and studied it warily.

  “Borecasts,” she whispered after a moment. “Two, at least. Cash’tase omni’el pak, arivan’o,” she said to the clawrake. “Hold him fast.”

  “What is it?” Drisker asked her, stepping close.

  “Vile insects that penetrate through the ears and attack the sensory system. They can drive you mad in seconds and keep you mad until you kill yourself. Stand away.”

  She began to work a fresh magic on the slint, staying warily back as she muttered and gestured and caused crooked lightning to ignite at her fingertips and lance into the slint through its ears, eyes, throat, and nostrils. The unfortunate receiver of her ministrations jerked and howled and struggled unsuccessfully to escape as the magic worked its way through. Tendrils of steam leaked from its orifices, and tears streamed down its wretched face.

  Then the borecasts emerged all at once from its mouth. Winged and ugly, armored and sleek, they seemed too large to be able to achieve the sort of penetration Grianne had suggested. Chased from their host, they sought an escape she was quick to deny them, catching them up in a web of her magic and crushing them in a series of sharp flashes.

  Drisker flinched away from the stench of their dying and waited to see what would happen next. But Grianne simply signaled for the clawrake to keep hold and disappeared into the gloom. She was gone only briefly, and when she returned she was carrying a cluster of deep-purple weeds, thick and twisted and studded with bulbs. One by one she broke off the bulbs and handed them to each member of the company.

  “Break it open,” she instructed Drisker. “Rub the oil on your face and hands and arms. The smell is anathema to borecasts; they will keep their distance.” She shook her head, frowning. “I had thought borecasts were only found farther north in the weir, but apparently they’ve moved.”

  They waited until she was satisfied that the slint was back to normal before continuing on, and the experience did not repeat itself.

  By now they had been walking for five days, and they were growing weary. The Straken Queen had allowed the pace to slow, but still she pressed them onward steadily. The thickness of the swamp air had increased, and rain had begun to fall again. By the end of the fifth day they were all drenched, and Drisker’s companions were snarling and growling and snapping at one another—all save Grianne. For her, self-control seemed ingrained. While she was assertive and reticent by turns, she was never vengeful or deliberately cruel. She treated all of them the same and did not evidence anything more than frustration or disappointment with any of them.

  The clawrake tested her patience more frequently than the others. Its size and strength seemed to imbue it with a sense of entitlement. It was constantly testing the limits of the orders she issued and the boundaries she set. Once, it attacked and tore apart a swamp creature of some sort when it was hungry and then sat down and ate it without the slightest regard for the inconvenience it was causing the others. Another time, it disappeared for the better part of the day and refused to speak at all when it resurfaced toward nightfall. Grianne looked f
urious, but she held her tongue. Drisker wasn’t sure how she managed it.

  Drisker thought the clawrake a dangerous and unpredictable menace that would eventually expose them all to a lethal situation, but Grianne seemed unconcerned about any threat it posed by its willful and reckless behavior, and simply resorted to a few sharp admonitions now and then to keep it in line. It was noticeable, however, that after she uttered those admonishments, the creature always fell right back into line with the others.

  “We all listen to her when she speaks,” Weka Dart whispered, noting Drisker’s surprise on one occasion. “We obey her. Even the clawrake.” His toothy smile surfaced. “She is our mistress, and we love her.”

  Drisker did not think love was quite the right word for it, yet on more than one occasion he caught each of them gazing at her with a kind of rapture in their eyes that was unmistakable. It made him wonder if some form of love was yet possible with these banished and forgotten creatures. He wondered if, in spite of everything, they were not still capable of the same feelings that those dwelling back in the Four Lands enjoyed. Surely any form of kindness or show of affection constituted love in the eyes and hearts of those who were lucky enough to experience it.

  Perhaps so, he thought. Do not be too quick to judge.

  On midday of the sixth day, they reached the Iron Crèche.