The Last Druid

by Terry Brooks

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Drisker Arc stood in silence with the others and stared at the forbidding spectacle of the Iron Crèche. The Chule fortress sat atop a broad platform at the far end, set back against cliffs so sheer and high they disappeared into the mist canopying over the entire swamp. Solitary and so singular, it seemed a jagged mountain that had sprung from the earth in defiance of Brockenthrog Weir, resistant to rust and erosion, evidence of a power greater than everything surrounding it. This was no gleaming edifice, no testament to self-anointed glory or accomplishments. No flags flew and no parapets or gates or tower heights gleamed with polished metal adornments. Everything about this monstrous construction was flat black or smoke gray and streaked with odd striations that suggested cracks or splits in the metal, but which on closer examination were neither.

  If there was any indication of wear in its vast metal plates, dominating battlements and towers, or massive gates and seals, the Druid saw no evidence of it. The Crèche sat solitary and indomitable amid the sweeping clusters of foliage and islands of grasses and reeds, lording over all for as far as the eye could see. It might as well be soundlessly shouting: I am invincible and shall exist long after you are gone. If I chose to do so, I could crush you.

  Standing at least a mile off, Drisker nevertheless felt the weight of this monolith. Around him, the others were also reacting in their various ways to its overpowering presence. The slint had resumed rapidly shape-shifting. The moench had gone to ground—although where exactly amid the vast stretches of watery swamp, it was difficult to say. Weka Dart was clutching at the Straken Queen with a possessiveness that suggested he knew she was his only salvation in the face of such an overpowering presence.

  Haissst, the clawrake hissed, drawing out the exclamation as it swelled protectively to increase its own presence.

  Only Grianne Ohmsford gave no sign of what she was feeling. She just stared at the forbidding monolith, saying nothing and revealing nothing.

  Drisker calmed himself by doing a quick assessment of how this beast of stone and metal was protected. Other than its dominating size and impenetrable appearance, everything around it for hundreds of yards on to the front and sides had been leveled, so no intruder could approach without being seen. A pair of huge iron gates could be seen from where they stood, the sole entry offered after one crossed acres of bog, which Drisker understood immediately would be riddled with sinkholes deep and wide enough to swallow them whole and predators living in the fetid waters, waiting hungrily.

  The Druid took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, recognizing the impossibility of the task they had set themselves by coming here.

  The Straken Queen gave them a few moments more to marvel at what they must conquer, then turned to the moench and said, “Time for you to prove your worth. Show us the way.”

  The sly, sharp features of the strange little creature brightened with cunning. After basking momentarily in the bright light of her approval, it cast a satisfied glance at Weka Dart before setting out along the uneven shoreline of the vast expanse of water that warded their destination.

  The rain was still falling and they were soaked through, with no relief from the dampness in sight. They trudged along the water’s edge with their shoulders hunched and their bodies shivering beneath their sodden clothing. They slogged through swamp foliage and fetid waters, stepping carefully as they went, aware of the hidden danger from quicksand and mud pits. The moench never hesitated, however, clearly knowing its way through this treacherous realm. Drisker wondered how that was possible. The moench must have been here before—and not for any brief period, but for an extended stay. Such familiarity was not acquired in a day, but over weeks and months and perhaps even years.

  Grianne let it take them where it wished and did not question its choices. They island-hopped from one grassy atoll to the next, staying hidden as much as possible. The moench never hesitated, moving in a zigzag fashion through the swamp, uttering an odd chittering sound now and then as it directed them. They traveled a long way, and the daylight began to wane. Drisker found himself imagining how good it would feel to be dry again, how much he wanted to be out of the wet. It was a pervasive, dominating need, and eventually he had to cast it aside in order to focus on moving safely through the water and muck.

  It was almost dark when they reached an island noticeably larger than most of the others, its surface crowded with willowy trees and spiky-leafed palms that clung together like siblings. Following the moench, they skirted the trees along the shores of the atoll until he finally found a space he liked and led them into their clustered midst. Once deep enough to be satisfied, he stopped. Glancing back at the Straken Queen, he pointed at a small open space ahead of them.

  She nodded and gave the creature a smile of approval.

  “I see nothing,” Weka Dart groused.

  “That is the idea,” she responded and nodded to the moench. Styrik immediately reached downward into the earth covering the open space and lifted an iron ring, twisting it clockwise several times before stepping back. Slowly, the ground lifted away, revealing an opening in the island’s ground.

  “A tunnel that runs much deeper than this lake,” she advised the others. “A vast warren of passageways, in fact. Built by Styrik’s people—burrowing people—to allow them access to the Iron Crèche. They steal supplies and stores from the fortress, carrying away what they need, but never so much that it is evident to the Chule. Resourceful, if dangerous thievery. This is how we must enter the Crèche. Needless to say, the Chule do not know these tunnels exist, so they will not be expecting us. It will be a lengthy, twisty journey and it will take time. It will feel confining to the point of claustrophobia, but you cannot allow it to affect you. If the moench can tolerate it, so can we.”

  She paused. “Also, do not become separated. If you do, you will be left behind. And in a maze of this size and complexity, even your bones will never be found. So stay close. Stay together. Stay silent. Now, come.”

  She nodded to the moench, which went down into the opening without hesitation. One by one, the others followed, with the Straken Queen going last in order to reseal the opening. As she did so, what little light remaining vanished, plunging the underground into total blackness, leaving them all blind to what surrounded them. But she quickly summoned a werelight and bid Drisker do the same, moving to the forefront of the company with the moench, then motioning for the slint and the clawrake to follow and placing Drisker and Weka Dart at the rear of the procession.

  Once the order of the line was arranged to her satisfaction, they set out.

  Drisker had endured more than a few ordeals over the course of his life—some life threatening, some just challenging—but never anything like what he experienced this night. Although the tunnels ran in all directions, splitting off from one another in endless succession, still it felt like he was in a tomb that had no beginning and no end and simply went on endlessly through a morass of suffocating gloom. The werelights helped, but they only illuminated their surroundings for a short distance and they offered a constant reminder of how tightly wrapped they were by the tunnel walls. None of this was improved by the way sounds were muffled and smells sharpened.

  Then there was the cloying dampness and the harsh realization that a crack in these walls—however small—could bring the entire swamp pouring into their passageway and drown them in a matter of minutes. And every step of the way, there was evidence of how easily it could happen. Damp patches and splits in the earth, which were already leaking water to form puddles beneath their feet, mingled with the creaks and grindings of overstressed walls. Drisker tried to shut it away, but failed. He glanced now and then at the others and saw each of them looking about guardedly—save the moench, which was undoubtedly familiar with all this, and the Straken Queen, who seemed to have no fear of anything.

  It was impossible to tell how far they walked or for how long—only t
hat they were not progressing in a straight line but were angling this way and that. At a guess, the Druid imagined they traveled through the tunnels for at least several hours. By then, he knew, it would be dark outside and night would have settled in. It made him wonder if this would mark his end—if the end he had always envisioned for himself once he had borne witness to the fall of Paranor would come to pass here.

  His mood was not improved when the crawling things appeared on the walls and ceilings. Insects, he could tell, although he could not be certain of their species. Some were large, and some small—and all were eagerly passing from one point to another with no apparent destination in mind. Stay clear of them, Grianne whispered back to those that followed her. Do not touch them; do not let them touch you. Some are poisonous, and some have bites or stings that will immobilize you. Try to ignore them.

  As if, Drisker thought. They were all over the tunnel walls. Everywhere you looked, they were there. Ignoring them—especially knowing they could be life threatening—was asking more than he could manage. Instead, he kept his head lowered and his eyes on his booted feet, his tall frame hunched over and his arms and hands pulled close against him. He kept expecting these creatures to fall on him. He kept expecting the swamp to break through and pour over him. He kept expecting the walls to close about him in a vise that would crush the life out of him.

  He kept waiting for his resolve and his courage to break like glass.

  He kept waiting to die.

  But none of it came to pass. His fears lingered but were not realized, and eventually the company reached the end of the maze and stood before a door set into a wall of stone. It was an abrupt conclusion to a seemingly endless slog and, other than the moench, no one was quite prepared for it. They stumbled to a halt, staring at the barrier as if uncertain what it meant.

  “Is this the entry?” Drisker managed after long moments of silence.

  Styrik muttered something unintelligible, and the Straken Queen nodded at once. “This is one entry,” she said, turning to face them. “There are others, but those are known to the Chule, who use them to bring in supplies. This is not one of those. This one was constructed in part by the builders of the Crèche. Some used it to attempt escapes. But only some. The moench found and finished it some years later.”

  She beckoned the others closer. “From here, we go into the cellars of the fortress. Likely there won’t be anyone around, but we need to be cautious anyway. Remember, we still have to find what we came here to retrieve.”

  She repeated the words in different languages to those gathered and looked at each of them meaningfully as she did so, then turned back to the door. The moench was already working on a series of levers down near the threshold. When it pulled the last one, the door swung outward to admit them.

  One by one, they stepped inside.

  * * *

  —

  What they found, once through the doorway, was a small room with no windows or light. Grianne lit a werelight with her fingers and led them to a slab of stone that blended into the wall and was invisible until she triggered a release and it opened. On stepping clear, they found themselves in a huge hub servicing an array of passageways that ran off in all directions, their mouths darkened and depthless beyond the faint glow of the werelights.

  After closing the stone slab behind her and watching as it disappeared into the chamber wall completely, Grianne turned to the moench, giving it a questioning look. The gimlet eyes fixed on her and a finger pointed to the first passage directly to their right. It was a match in size to one on their left and a third straight ahead, and Drisker realized these three were the main corridors to the cells and storage rooms, while the other, smaller corridors were for ancillary purposes.

  The Straken Queen nodded to the moench and beckoned him ahead. As a group, they started forward. They walked in silence, their senses alert to any sounds that might indicate the presence of the Chule, but they heard nothing. Drisker waited until they had walked for some distance before moving up beside Grianne and leaning in.

  “What are we doing?” he whispered.

  She didn’t bother to look at him. “We’re going after the darkwand.”

  “But I thought you didn’t know where it was.”

  A hint of a smile crossed her rough features. “Did you? Maybe you were mistaken. Be patient, Drisker.”

  The Druid stared at her in disbelief, but she moved ahead again, leaving him to ponder her words. Hadn’t she already told him she didn’t know where the staff could be found—that it had disappeared, and Vendra Trax claimed not to have possession of it? But if she did know where it could be located, why hadn’t she told him? She was playing games with him, he sensed, and he did not know the rules.

  What he did know was this: She was holding something critical back. But there was nothing to be done about it at this point. He had to continue on with her until the matter was resolved. He lowered his head, thinking about how badly this might turn out once he knew the truth. He listened to the footfalls of his companions echoing in the silence of these cellars—solitary, empty, and filled with dark promise.

  They walked a long way, deep into the subterranean passageways of the Iron Crèche, and not once was there any sign of life. He should have felt better about this than he did. He should have been pleased they could navigate this warren so easily and safely, avoiding any encounter with those who would see them all dead in an instant. But this only made him more suspicious. The Straken Witch was a dominating and controlling ruler, protective of herself and her power, and that mindset infused everything she did. He understood that to survive in the insane world of the Forbidding and to protect herself against those who wished her dead, she had to be this way. But he was not one of those she should fear. He desired nothing more than the escape she sought for herself. So why was she so reticent to confide in him?

  After what seemed an eternity of walking, constantly interrupted by sudden stops and cautious pauses, all of it through the bowels of a construct that felt as if it were waiting to crush them, they arrived at a pair of iron doors with no discernible seals or releases. The moench glanced at the witch and pointed at the barrier. Immediately she stepped forward, muttered a few words, made a quick beckoning motion, and watched as the doors swung open to admit them.

  Once inside, they found themselves in a vast storage room filled with wooden crates and iron chests, all sealed and labeled in a language Drisker did not recognize. Drisker looked around and wondered again what they were doing. Was this where they would find the darkwand, hidden amid these stores?

  “We rest here until tonight,” Grianne Ohmsford announced. “Sleep if you can. It will be your last chance. I will give you something to eat. Make no noise. Do nothing to reveal our presence.”

  The slint and the clawrake wandered off into dark corners and made a noisy meal of the food she gave them. The moench conferred in whispers with the Straken Queen and then she gave it something to eat as well. Weka Dart watched his companions closely for a few moments, then wandered over to Drisker.

  “She drugs them,” he whispered. “She expects no help from them in finding what she seeks.”

  Drisker wasn’t so sure Weka was seeing things correctly, but he nodded anyway. “She may have.”

  The Ulk Bog gestured at their surroundings, his wizened face crinkling further. “All this—this great fortress—was built by the Chule. Most of it in a time before Vendra Trax, most of it by his granduncle. It should not have been possible. It sits upon tons of rubble carried in by slaves that now lie beneath its weight, their purpose served. The Keep itself was ten years in the building, a place to which no one would ever wish to go. Such a place should not even exist.”

  “Yet here we are.”

  “Because she is misguided!” There was a manic quality to his whispered insistence. “We come here willingly. Foolishly! She doesn’t know where the dark
wand is. It isn’t here! She’s looked already! The Chule are ruthless and cruel. They threaten my mistress, seeking to cast her down, to see her destroyed. Vendra Trax wants her throne. He wants everything she has, and he will keep after her until he has it! And now she has delivered herself into his hands. Can you not see it? For her to come here is madness!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Weka Dart’s eyes were furious now. “This is your fault! You are responsible for what is happening! It is because of you she is here—come to retrieve the black staff so she can leave our world and return to yours. She is bewitched by the idea, and it is a foolish hope!”

  This was not true, of course, but Drisker saw no point in getting into an argument about it. Besides, it was not his idea that she escape the Forbidding; it was hers. She was the one who’d approached him at the Hadeshorn. She was the one who’d made the bargain with him. He had not come for her; he had been sent here against his will, and he had no wish to be here at all. It was not a place he would ever wish to come, no matter the reason.

  He turned away from the Ulk Bog, no longer wishing to speak with him. The little creature glared at him a moment longer, then trudged off into a darkened corner and settled down, back to the wall, eyes glowing like coals. Drisker glanced over at him, took note of the rage and bitterness in those eyes, and looked away again. He chose a place out in the open and sat quietly, musing.

  After a time, he noticed that the moench, the clawrake, and the slint were all asleep, while Weka continued to glare at him balefully.

  A moment later, Grianne Ohmsford seated herself next to him. “You make enemies so easily,” she chided.

  “He thinks this is all my doing, that I came here to take you away. He won’t ever forgive me for that.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what he will forgive or not forgive. All that matters is what you promised me.” She paused. “I assume you haven’t forgotten?”