by Terry Brooks
“These places exist. The landmarks you seek. All exist. I know them, can tell you where to find them, all but the last. The waterfall of light is neither here nor there but somewhere in between. You should not go there. You should not. I see a killing ground. I see dead bodies scattered everywhere. I see … something so dark it dwarfs …”
He groaned softly; she could feel the sound rumbling in her chest, could hear its frightened shiver.
“This is a bad place. Very bad, very far away, this place, this kiln that hammers out men’s souls and leaves them to blacken in the sun, a pit that will allow neither entry nor exit and holds evil and breeds monsters and …”
He trailed off and went silent. Khyber and Farshaun exchanged confused glances. Neither could decipher what the Speakman was saying. Perhaps even he didn’t know, given that he appeared to be communicating while in a trance. For the moment, there was no way to find out. He was lost in a vision of his own, gone to a place where they could not reach him.
“One!” he hissed suddenly, causing both of them to jump. “One will return! One only!”
Then he gave a deep sigh, and his eyes regained color and focus. He shuddered as they did so, arms and legs unfolding to splay out like broken sticks.
“Farshaun?” he whispered, as if not certain the old man was still there.
Farshaun rose and moved over to him, sitting once more, but much closer now. “I’m here.”
“Tell me what I said.”
The old man repeated most of it, Khyber listening from across the way, ready to add anything that might be left out or misstated, but staying put, not wanting to do anything to frighten the seer. That he had seen things, perhaps heard them, too, was undeniable. But she also knew he might not remember any of it. He had been deep under a spell of his own making when he spoke. It was like that sometimes with seers. What mattered was whether he could make any sense of it now.
When Farshaun had finished, the Speakman nodded slowly, and then said, “I know the landmarks. I have seen them in my travels. Save for the waterfall, as I have already said. There is no waterfall in that country. No water of any kind. I can tell you how to get to where it might be. But it is very dangerous. Too dangerous.”
“Can you take us there?” Khyber asked him suddenly. “Can you guide us through the worst of it?”
The Speakman looked at her for the first time. His features were drawn and haggard, everything stretched out of shape and pinched by weather and age. He looked to be neither young nor old, but from some indeterminate middle region. He shook his head. “I travel alone.”
“This one time?” she asked. “Can you make an exception? We need your eyes to help us find the landmarks I described and avoid the dangers you know.” She hesitated. “It is important.”
“She speaks the truth,” Farshaun added. “You need go only as far as you want. But anything would help.”
The Speakman looked back at him. His eyes were bright and depthless and filled with secrets. He gave them a half smile, one that reflected an irony they did not understand.
“If I go with you,” he answered, “I won’t be coming back.”
The old man and the Ard Rhys exchanged a quick glance. “Why would you say that?” she asked.
He climbed to his feet, his tall, bony form hunched over in the gloom, his shadow crooked and skeletal.
“Because none of us will.”
22
Aphenglow Elessedil was walking the upper hallways of the Druid’s Keep, forcing herself to ignore the ache in her broken leg, summoning her magic to buttress her efforts. She used her staff to support herself, burdened by a pronounced limp and a frustration that led her to curse her infirmity in a variety of imaginative ways. The pain told her she was stretching herself farther than she probably should. Still, if she wanted to get stronger, that was what she needed to do. It was a fine line between going just far enough and too far, but she trusted her instincts to tell her when the first began to edge into the second. So far, she wasn’t there yet.
She had just reached the end of the hallway and was turning around to go back again, grimly satisfied with her momentary progress if not with her overall situation, when Arlingfant hurtled through a doorway at the far end of the passageway and came running toward her.
It was easy enough to see that something was amiss, but Aphenglow stayed where she was and waited for her sister to reach her. Trying to do anything more physical would be a mistake.
“Aphen!” Arling stumbled to a halt in front of her, breathing hard. “Federation warships—a fleet of them! They’ve just crested the Forbidden Forest and are sailing right for Paranor!”
A jumble of thoughts crowded into Aphenglow’s mind, but she dismissed them all as foolish. The Federation would never dare to attack Paranor. Not only would such an effort fail; it would also risk substantial repercussions from the governments of other lands. The Druids were a neutral power. It was understood by all that they were to be left alone. This must be something else.
“Up these stairs,” she directed her sister, limping into the stairwell to the observation tower on her right.
They climbed as swiftly as they could, winding their way up the ancient stone steps.
“Who spied them?” Aphen asked, the strain of the climb more than she had expected. She gritted her teeth and quickened her pace.
“One of the Trolls on watch. He didn’t know who they were at first, not until he put the spyglass on them and saw the Federation flag.” Arling moved a few steps closer. “Are you all right? We have plenty of time.”
That remained to be determined, Aphen thought. “I need the exercise,” she responded instead. “How many ships?”
“Two warships, a light cruiser, a transport, and one that’s quite a bit smaller. A command vessel or a scout, I think.”
Too many to have good intentions. What did they want with the Druids? There hadn’t been any communications between Paranor and Arishaig in months. Why now? Had the men on these airships come to see the Ard Rhys on business?
Or, she wondered suddenly, had they come because they knew Khyber Elessedil and the other Druids were away and believed the Keep and its remaining occupants were vulnerable?
They reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the floor of the observation tower. Windows opened in all four directions, a series of two-foot-wide openings spaced evenly all around the circular room. In the center, a large permanently affixed telescope rested in its iron cradle atop a platform. Levers, gears, and wheels attested to its maneuverability. With Arling’s assistance, Aphen climbed onto the platform, unlocked the mechanism, and swung the scope into position facing south.
She found the Federation fleet right away, advancing through a wash of sunlight and late-morning haze directly toward the Keep. She took a minute to study each ship, trying to intuit as much as she could from the look and feel of it, counting mounted weapons and armored heads.
“I don’t like the look of this,” she muttered.
The tower’s outer door burst open and Bombax appeared, wrapped in his robes and carrying his heavy staff. He was healed well enough by now that he had regained his normal healthy pallor and most of the weight he had lost during his captivity, and he moved swiftly and easily as he mounted the platform and came up to her. “What do you make of it?”
They had patched things up sufficiently between them over the past few days that they were back to talking like normal people. Aphenglow still wasn’t happy with the lack of common sense that Bombax had demonstrated in letting himself be made a prisoner of the Mwellrets, but they were trying to work their way through their differences of opinion on the matter.
“Dozens of armed men on deck,” she said. “I’d guess a lot more are hidden belowdecks in that transport. Lots of rail slings, fire launchers, and something else mounted forward on the starboard and port bows of both warships.”
“Let me see,” he said.
She stepped aside for him, letting him peer through the s
cope. He needed only a moment. “Flash rips,” he announced.
Strictly forbidden everywhere—something everyone in the Four Lands knew. Her uneasiness increased. Flash rips were big, dangerous weapons—cannons equipped with specially crafted diapson crystals that could burn an entire airship and everyone aboard it to ash if they locked on their target from close enough. Showing weapons of this sort made it clear the Federation meant business. At the very least, it was attempting to intimidate the Druids with a show of firepower. At worst, it intended to put that firepower to use.
“The warship on the right is the Arishaig—the Federation fleet’s flagship,” Bombax added a moment later.
“Is this Drust Chazhul’s doing, do you think?”
He shook his head. “It’s possible.”
She locked her fingers on his arm tightly. “They know the Ard Rhys and the others are gone. I can feel it. Are the defenses up?”
He turned to her, his smile broad and relaxed. “Always. We’re safe enough if they’ve come to play games. But let’s see what they want before jumping to conclusions.”
He leaped down off the platform and headed for the outer door. Aphenglow and Arling followed on his heels, all of them moving out of the tower and onto the catwalk that led to the parapets. They navigated the walkways until they had reached Krolling and a gathering of other Trolls standing just above the south gates, watching the Federation fleet approach.
“Any signals from them yet?” Bombax asked, immediately assuming command.
Aphenglow might have resented this more if he hadn’t been senior to her. As it was, she felt a hint of annoyance that he did not say anything to her first. But she recognized it as an irrational response born of her ongoing irritation with his poor judgment in Varfleet, so she kept silent.
“No signal of any kind.” Krolling was big and burly and had the size and look of an immovable boulder. Garroneck’s second in command was steady and capable.
Druids and Trolls and Arlingfant stood in a cluster atop the south gate, waiting for the airships to reach them.
“You should get under cover,” Aphen whispered to Arling.
But her sister shook her head. “You might need me to help you.”
They stayed silent after that, although Aphen moved down the parapets so that she and Arling were standing apart from the others. It was an automatic response to the realization that they should not all stand in one place where there was at least the possibility of an attack.
The airships drew to within three hundred yards before slowing to a stop, with only the Arishaig advancing much closer. Big and black, it loomed over them as it pushed through Druid airspace, hovering just outside the walls of Paranor before it swung broadside to the gate and the watchers on the walls.
There was a long silence as each side took the measure of the other, and then a voice rang out in the near silence.
“Greetings from Drust Chazhul, Prime Minister of the Coalition Council and leader of the Southland Federation! This is a diplomatic mission dispatched for the purpose of forming a working partnership with the Fourth Druid Order! We seek admittance to Paranor and an audience with the Ard Rhys! May we advance the Arishaig to the Druid landing station and be received?”
They were using a voice enhancer to magnify the speaker’s words and lend them additional weight and importance. Aphenglow tried to identify who was speaking, but the decks of the warship were crowded with men, and it was impossible to tell.
“Did you send notice of your coming to the Ard Rhys?” Bombax called back, using magic to enhance his own voice.
A long pause. “Notification was dispatched more than a week ago,” the answer came back. “A response signed by the Ard Rhys invited us to fly to Paranor for a conference.”
A lie. Khyber Elessedil would have mentioned it. Aphenglow exchanged a quick glance with Bombax, shaking her head.
“No message was received,” Bombax said at once. “No arrangements were made for the Ard Rhys to receive a Federation delegation. She cannot do so at this time.”
Another long pause. “We have come all the way from Arishaig for this meeting. It is important we speak with the Ard Rhys. Will you inform her we are here?”
Bombax turned angry and frustrated; Aphenglow could see it in his face. Don’t say it, she thought.
But she was too late. “The Ard Rhys isn’t here!” Bombax snapped, his voice louder still. “Turn your ships around!”
Stupid! In the stunned silence that followed, she hurried over to him. “Why did you tell them that?”
He looked at her in surprise. “They already knew. You said so.”
“I said I thought so. Now you’ve confirmed what they might only have suspected. Let me speak to them.”
Without waiting for his approval, she turned toward the Arishaig. “We apologize, but we are in mandated lockdown and cannot receive visitors until the Ard Rhys returns. An emergency has taken her away and your request, regretfully, must have been set aside. Our deepest apologies to the Prime Minister and the Federation. Please let us give you another date for your requested meeting.”
There was no immediate response. Bombax, embarrassed and now angry with her, moved over by Krolling. On the wall, the members of the Druid Guard shifted restlessly. Arling came over to stand with her sister. “Will they leave now?”
Aphenglow shook her head to indicate she wasn’t sure.
“We would like to leave a written declaration of intent for the Ard Rhys to read,” the speaker aboard the Arishaig said suddenly. “May we land a flit inside the compound to deliver it?”
Aphenglow felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning. “We are in lockdown,” she repeated. “We cannot receive visitors. Can we meet you outside the gates to accept delivery?”
“Will you identify yourself, speaker?” A different voice now, one less practiced at disguising impatience.
Aphenglow looked over at Bombax for guidance, but he was deliberately looking away. “I am Aphenglow Elessedil,” she answered.
“This is Drust Chazhul. I am familiar with lockdowns, and they do not include diplomatic missions. I regard this refusal as a deliberate rebuke and a rejection of my efforts to establish a fresh rapport between the Federation and your order. If I am correct in my reasoning, say so and we will leave without further discussion. If not, then remember your place and allow us to land.”
She felt herself flush. “Prime Minister, I appreciate your disappointment. But a lockdown at Paranor makes no exceptions, not even for diplomatic missions. Moreover, I am not simply authorized, but required, to refuse your request. This is neither a rebuke to you personally nor a rejection of your efforts. If you wish, you can land outside the walls and wait for the Ard Rhys to return. But I cannot tell you how long the wait might be.”
The silence this time was chilling. On the decks of the Arishaig, men were moving about, taking up stations as if they knew what was coming. Aphenglow had the unpleasant feeling that a prearranged plan of action was being carried out.
She walked over to Krolling and Bombax and whispered to the former. “Are we protected against them?”
“Fully,” the big Troll answered. Bombax caught her eye and nodded in agreement.
From the deck of the Arishaig: “I think you mean us harm, Aphenglow Elessedil,” Drust Chazhul called out suddenly. “I think this refusal has nothing to do with a lockdown and everything to do with seeking to gain an advantage over us. I am beginning to suspect you lured us here. The history of the Druids is one of duplicity and subterfuge. An invitation was extended and is now suddenly withdrawn for no discernible reason. Are you hiding something behind those walls that we are not intended to see? Are you engaged in activity harmful to the governments and peoples of the Four Lands? If not, let us come inside!”
“Get down off the walls,” she said at once to everyone around her, giving particular attention to Arling, who had been joined by Cymrian. To his credit, Cymrian immediately guided her sister to the stai
rs in spite of her obvious reluctance.
Bombax was beside her instantly, and the Trolls were off the wall and behind protective battlements and ramparts, weapons drawn.
“Your accusations are offensive and baseless, Prime Minister,” she called back to the warship. “Move your vessel away from the walls at once. Our conversation is over.”
To her disappointment and dismay, the Arishaig instead swung her bow back around toward the gate and began to inch forward. She was coming directly for the walls she had been told to move away from, weapons uncovered and soldiers in place. This was the prelude to the attack she had feared all along, and she could do nothing to stop it. The wards that protected Paranor would engage automatically once the airship crossed the vertical plane of the south wall. Since the time of their creation and placement soon after the end of the war on the Prekkendorran, no one had ever challenged them or witnessed what they could do. The Ard Rhys might know, but neither Aphenglow nor Bombax had the faintest idea.
They were about to find out.
Aphen took a deep breath and brought up her magic to form a protective shield. She was aware of Bombax doing the same.
Then, without any warning whatsoever, a rail sling positioned somewhere lower down on the weapons ports of the south wall fired a full load of metal shards into the hull of the Arishaig. The sound was startling in the near silence—like a momentary torrential downpour of hailstones on a tin roof—yet the damage to the warship’s reinforced steel plating was insignificant. Aphenglow had only a second to wonder who was responsible—who would be foolish enough to do such a thing—before the Arishaig responded by surging directly toward the Keep, all of her forward weapons firing at the fortress walls and towers at once.
The resulting explosions deafened her as she dropped behind the battlements, and the combined impact of scrap from the rail slings and white fire generated by the diapson crystals housed in the fire launchers caused the walls to shudder and crack. She scrambled for a vantage point farther away, catching a glimpse of Bombax as he moved in the opposite direction. When the flash rips opened up, everything was engulfed in smoke and ash and flames. By then, she was fifty yards down the parapets, crouched at the corner of the south wall and the mid-south tower, fighting to hold herself steady in the wake of a booming roar.
