by Terry Brooks
She wondered again if she was up to this fight—if she retained enough of her magic to overcome a mage so much more experienced and powerful than she was. How much of her magic had she expended over the past weeks—in support of Tavo, Drisker, and the others? How much strength had she lost and not yet regained? It was impossible to know, of course. She felt as strong as ever. She felt fully recovered.
She would be whatever she had to be and survive whatever she was called upon to face.
Then she stood up to wait, staring off into the forest, marking the small quick movements of the ground animals amid the grasses and ferns, enjoying the bursts of sudden flight of the birds through the trees. None of them knew what was about to happen to her, and none of them cared. She envied the simplicity of their lives, wondering what it would be like to have everything reduced to such basics.
She closed her eyes, seeking her calm center, trying to quiet and ready herself. There was no way to plan for what would happen, and no further preparations to be made. She had only a single weapon: her wishsong. It would save her if she could manage to use it in the right way and if she kept from panicking. If she failed to use it wisely she would be lost.
She sensed movement and opened her eyes. The clearing before her was empty; the movement had come from back in the trees. She waited for the source to reveal itself. Clouds passed over the sun, and the day darkened as if in recognition of what was coming. Tarsha felt her throat tighten and took a deep breath. The heavy brush directly across from her shivered as something pushed forward, and all the birdsong, which moments earlier had filled the day with bright music, went silent.
Slowly a nightmarish form emerged, easing its way out of the foliage into the newly formed shadows, crouched down on all fours. Tarsha knew at once it was something born of the Forbidding, for there was nothing that looked this foul living in the Four Lands. It was lean and spidery, but at the same time huge—sinew and muscle wrapped about its lean frame, while its claws and teeth were those of a predator and all out of proportion with the rest of its body.
The remains of a rabbit hung from its jaws, which were chewing, chewing steadily, slowly devouring its kill. Tarsha watched, repulsed. So this was a Jachyra. A single word called itself to mind as she studied it.
Loathsome.
The Jachyra did not see Tarsha at first, but when it did it stopped where it was, finished its meal, and swallowed it while regarding her with eyes the color of swamp water. And then it brayed. The sound it made was horrific and seemed to penetrate her entire body, leaving her shivering. But she stood her ground, summoning her magic. This thing meant to test her, and she sensed it would test her as nothing else had. But she would be ready; she would not give way.
The Jachyra dropped into a full crouch, gathering itself, its attention now fully fixed on her. She waited, her magic ready—a low, dangerous humming that reverberated all the way through her. She was forming it into something massive—something that would slam into this monster and send it all the way back into the Forbidding with a single strike.
Suddenly the Jachyra threw back its head and emitted another heart-shattering bray, then charged. It was so fast she almost failed to act quickly enough. But act she did—her magic exploding from her lips in a song of iron that slammed into the beast and threw it back into the shadows from which it had first emerged.
Then, silence.
She waited on it to reappear, but it did not. She stepped down off the cottage porch and went to find it. She was wary, but she was not afraid. She had sensed what this monster would try to do to her, and she told herself she could withstand it. Whatever drove the Jachyra to try to kill her, it would not be enough. Overhead, sunlight passed through the clouds, and she felt a fresh surge of confidence.
When her enemy reemerged, catapulting from the trees in a slashing blur of claws and teeth, it was not from where she had flung it but from farther to her left, which caught her off guard. A rush of uncertainty gripped her. The reek of the Jachyra’s body preceded it in a nauseating wave, leaving her inexplicably paralyzed. The creature’s speed had doubled. It was fast—incredibly fast. A nightmarish blend of teeth and claws, size and power.
But Fade was faster still.
The moor cat shot out of nowhere, a blur of gray fury, hammering into the Jachyra with such force it sent them both rolling across the clearing, teeth and claws biting and ripping. Tarsha’s thoughts raced to catch up with what she was witnessing. Fade! Lying in wait. Coming to my aid. And Flinc will be close as well. A burst of exhilaration flooded through her. The forest imp had said they would balance the scales if Clizia brought the Jachyra, and indeed they were trying.
The combatants broke apart, facing each other. The Jachyra was more cautious now and infinitely more dangerous, as it quickly showed. It flung itself at the moor cat, dodged a swipe of one huge paw, then caught Fade and flung her away. Fade weighed eight hundred pounds, and the Jachyra swatted her aside as if she were no more than a feather. The moor cat tumbled over and over but came back to her feet, meeting the Jachyra’s fresh attack with a counter-rush of her own.
The struggle was even at first, the combatants a match—each as determined as the other to prevail. But while Fade’s strength was prodigious, the Jachyra’s endurance was seemingly endless. Instead of growing tired as the fight progressed, it seemed to get stronger. Tarsha tried to help, striking out at the creature when the opportunity presented itself, but she was hampered by the way the two were so often locked together and by the Jachyra’s quickness, which caused her to miss her target over and over.
Frustrated and afraid for Fade, she screamed out to draw the Jachyra’s attention, hoping to turn it toward her. But the Jachyra was fully focused on the moor cat, and it was as if Tarsha didn’t even exist. Try as she might, she could not find a way to change what was happening.
Fade was weakening.
But Flinc was nearby, and now he showed his mettle. Standing at the forest’s edge, small and seemingly insignificant, he made a series of gestures that summoned a buzzing cloud of insects from the forest. Tarsha stared. Hornets—thousands of them. They swarmed above the forest imp for long moments, and then he called out to Fade and the moor cat broke clear of the Jachyra. Instantly, the hornets were on top of the demon, stinging it over and over—a swarming shadow that engulfed it entirely. The Jachyra howled in fury, tearing its tormentors from the air and crushing them, falling to the ground and rolling over and over to rid himself of their stinging.
Tarsha thought to take advantage by striking now, but she worried that anything she might do that involved serious force would likely kill all the hornets, as well. So she hesitated and then it was too late. When the hornets were finally driven off, the Jachyra sidestepped another attempt at a strike and quickly moved to resume the battle with Fade. But it was the forest imp the demon found waiting, standing no more than a dozen feet away.
The Jachyra hesitated, clearly knowing there had to be something more to this creature than met the eye. By now, it was a mess—its leathery body studded with hornet stings and deeply clawed by Fade. Even so, it showed no sign of giving up.
After a quick appraisal of this new opponent, the Jachyra barreled across the short distance that separated them, again avoiding Tarsha’s belated strike. Claws outstretched, it tore into Flinc—only to find he wasn’t there. Instead, a tree stump suddenly materialized, the imp’s glamour lifted, and the Jachyra flew into it headfirst. The scream it emitted on slamming into the stump could have woken the dead—and it quickly appeared that it had. Dozens of wraiths swarmed out of the woods and bore down, completely covering it. There were enough of them that the Jachyra disappeared for long moments, the wraiths a heaving, writhing mass atop the creature they had thrown themselves upon.
Yes, Tarsha cheered silently. Suffocate it!
But it was not to be. All too soon the Jachyra discovered the wraiths possesse
d no weight or substance, and it broke free. Tarsha saw it pull loose and instantly used the wishsong to pick it up and throw it back into the forest.
Tarsha felt a twinge of hope. Stay there! Crawl off and be done with this!
Then she heard Clizia’s voice from somewhere close at hand: “You waste your time, foolish girl.”
A quick scan of the area revealed no sign of the witch. She was still in hiding, not yet ready to reveal herself physically. Tarsha was suddenly furious. “Come out and face me, Clizia!” she screamed.
But it was the Jachyra that responded, rushing from the forest to slam into Flinc with such force that the little imp went flying onto the cottage porch twenty feet away, where he lay limp and unmoving. Fade tried to help, but she was too late. The Jachyra catapulted away, safe from her rush, then attacked from the side, snatching up the moor cat as if she weighed nothing and throwing her a dozen feet. Fade clawed at the air, trying to right herself and failing, then struck the hard ground with an audible gasp to lie motionless in a ragged heap.
So strong! How could anything be so strong?
Now Tarsha stood alone, and the Jachyra turned to face her once more. This same creature had put an end to Allanon and even proved a match for the Weapons Master Garet Jax. Shades, she begged the silence, help me find the strength I need!
The Jachyra attacked—a swift and terrible blur as it tore across the clearing to reach her. But when it caught her, it found only an empty image. Tarsha wasn’t there, having used her magic to create an illusion. Instead, she was standing off to one side—a trick she had remembered while watching Flinc—waiting for her chance. Her attacker wheeled back frantically, but she was already using her voice, shaping her wishsong into a weight that bore down on it with terrible force, crushing it against the earth. It wasn’t enough. The Jachyra threw off her efforts and rose once more—a relentless berserker, its hatred a poison that drove it to the point of insanity, able to submerge the pain of its wounds and any hint of weakness beneath its driving need to put an end to anything it viewed as a threat.
And it had long since decided that Tarsha was just such a threat.
Tarsha used the wishsong and threw the monster away again, but again it came at her. And again. When it came a third time with no sign of the attacks slowing, she began to despair. She was doing all she knew to overcome this monster, and it wasn’t enough. She had to think of something else. She had to find another way.
Wham! One powerful glancing blow across the face sent her sprawling. Bruised and bloodied and now dazed as well, she struggled back to her feet to fend off her attacker. But for all that she was using her magic against it like a hammer, it was having little effect. Some supernatural resilience allowed it to shrug off her most savage strikes—the worst she could manage—while remaining just as strong.
Find another way!
But what way was there? What could she do that would stop it for good?
The Jachyra came at her again. She cut its legs out from under it, pinned its arms to its sides, rolled it in hardening mud and buried it six feet beneath the earth and stone, and still it rose to attack again. She tried to break its bones, blind it, smother it, wrench its head from its shoulders, inflict any of a dozen other disabling injuries, and all of them failed. Her head was throbbing from the blow it had struck her, and she was bleeding from wounds she was barely aware of receiving.
Slowly, her strength was ebbing away. She was going to lose this battle. A glimpse over to Flinc and then to Fade showed their still-limp bodies. Perhaps they were dead. Perhaps she was destined to join them.
Then a heavy blow struck her from behind and she was thrown into the dirt, choking and gasping for air. A terrible refusal screamed at her from within. I cannot let this happen!
But could she prevent it?
THIRTY-EIGHT
Long moments shrouded in an unnatural silence passed as Tarsha Kaynin lay gasping for breath, still not quite sure what had happened. She was still struggling to breathe—not so much from the exertion of the battle she had fought or the wounds she had sustained as from the shock of being caught off guard.
“Finding yourself a bit overmatched?” a familiar voice teased.
Tarsha closed her eyes in weariness and frustration.
Clizia Porse.
She had almost forgotten about the witch in her focus on the Jachyra. But of course Clizia had never been far away, even while the battle was being fought. She had been there, watching—waiting to see how it would end so she could react accordingly.
And now Tarsha was under threat yet again, and with no resources on which to rely save her wits and cunning. She pushed herself up on one elbow, but a booted foot quickly pushed her back down again.
Clizia stood over her, looking down speculatively. “I think it best if you stay where you are. You look very tired, Tarsha. That was an impressive display of magic you used to try and put an end to my pet. Not that I would have cared all that much if you had succeeded. I will have to kill it anyway, sooner or later. Really, it has caused me no end of trouble.”
Tarsha did not respond. Had she survived one devastating struggle only to end up facing one that would be even worse? How could she save herself from Clizia? Her strength was exhausted; her magic was drained. She was barely maintaining consciousness; her attention even now wandering to Fade and Flinc, both of whom she realized were also at risk. If they were even still alive.
“You might be wondering if I intend to offer you yet another chance to defend yourself,” Clizia said brightly. “After all, you have proven yourself an astonishingly adept opponent. But the answer is no. I cannot risk giving you any further chances. I wrongly presumed you dead before—along with your half-mad brother—but some mistakes can be corrected, and this is one.”
A sense of futility washed through Tarsha, but she tamped it down and did what she could to husband her strength. She might not have much magic left to rely on, but she would make good use of what remained. She would have to play for time, to stall for as long as she could, hoping she could come up with some sort of plan. She knew how crazy that sounded, but she had survived worse. Besides, Parlindru’s prophecy had said she was destined to die three times and yet survive. She had survived two deaths already at Clizia’s hands; perhaps she could survive this one, too.
“Drisker has returned from the Forbidding, you know,” she lied. “He might already be on his way here.”
The witch laughed. “Do you really believe that? And even if he does return, he won’t be the same person he was. No one who returns from there is ever the same.”
“How would you know?” Tarsha gave the words a biting edge. “It isn’t as if you’ve ever been there and come back. But Drisker Arc has returned from banishment once already—from Paranor when you sent the Druid’s Keep into limbo.”
Clizia scoffed. “Drisker Arc is a failed Druid! Besides, what makes you think he’s even alive? He’s not equipped to survive the Forbidding. By now he’s likely dead. Believing he might somehow come back and save you is foolishness. This is my time, Tarsha Kaynin!”
Then something odd happened. Earlier, in the aftermath of the battle with the Jachyra, the world had gone unnaturally still. But such stillness cannot last, and soon enough the familiar sounds of the forest returned—the rustling of the ground animals, the songs of the winged fliers, the whisper of the wind and the stirring of the leaves at its touch. So now, as clouds passed across the sun and dimmed the light around the girl and the witch for a second time and all the familiar sounds died away again, it was immediately noticeable to both. And both paused and looked up.
“Your time is over, Clizia Porse.”
A new voice spoke—deep and ragged—sounding of suffering and weariness but also of an indomitable determination. Clizia wheeled about to find the speaker, and from her prone position Tarsha peered up, as well. An ancient crone stood a
t the edge of the clearing, hunched and crooked, worn and beaten down until she appeared no more than a skeletal creature, barely possessed of flesh and blood. She looked exhausted as she leaned for support on a rune-carved black staff.
Clizia laughed, but the sound carried a hint of uncertainty. “Who are you, old woman, to threaten me? I’ll snuff you as I would a candle!”
The newcomer shuffled forward a few steps, drawing herself up slightly and taking on a different look—one far less vulnerable. “I am a messenger, come from a distant land, to give you warning. Drisker Arc intended to do so in my place, but he was unavoidably detained. You should know that he saved my life, however, and I owe him a debt. And like you, I repay my debts—whatever it might require. Do you not know me?”
Tarsha saw it first—recognized it before Clizia—and felt a ripple of excitement course through her. “Grianne Ohmsford!”
Clizia stiffened. “Noooo!” She drew the word out, as if to emphasize her certainty. “It can’t be! She was consigned to the Forbidding centuries ago. What sort of charade is this?” She made a commanding gesture toward the newcomer. “Who are you really?”
The old woman transformed so quickly it was as if she had become someone else entirely. From a ragged crone she turned into a figure of such presence that Clizia took a step back. The years and the ravages fell away, replaced by strength and certainty.
“I had thought to kill you myself, but I think your fate belongs to another,” she said softly. “Step away from the girl. Now.”
Clizia Porse saw the truth then, and she was quick to act. She pretended to do as she had been ordered, turning sideways to hide the hand that slipped into her pocket to retrieve the Stiehl. She would have to risk the consequences of using it. Shifting slightly back toward Grianne, she whipped the Stiehl toward her, propelling it by magic so fast it was little more than a blur—a killing strike that would put an end to this creature once and for all. But Grianne Ohmsford blocked the attack, deflecting the blade effortlessly so that it spun away into the trees,writhing and twisting as it disappeared.
