The Dark Legacy of Shannara Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Terry Brooks

  At the bow, Cymrian motioned for her to slow down even more. Breathless, filled with expectation that their search might be ending, she did so.

  But for a long time, nothing happened. They eased their way across the vast expanse of brume, blinking away the rain as they searched for something recognizable and found nothing. The hours drifted past, and the landscape took on a senses-deadening sameness that suggested anything that had dared to come into it had been long since swallowed and forever lost and they were wasting their time looking. They spelled each other regularly, moving between the pilot box and the bow, hoping fresh eyes and fresh hands would aid them in their search.

  But the landscape remained endless and empty.

  Then Cymrian, forward again at the bow, held up his hand, signaling for her to stop. She did so, swinging the airship about in a slow circle, a virtual hover as she waited for something more. Her companion seemed to be sniffing or perhaps even tasting the air, casting about this way and that.

  After a moment, he hurried back to her. “I can smell tar and burning timbers somewhere close. Circle the area slowly. I’ll try to pick out where the smell is coming from.”

  He hurried back to the bow, and she began the process of widening the search in a slow spiral to cover a larger area. She watched Cymrian as he braced himself against the forward railing, leaning over to seek the source of the burning scent. She was thinking already about what it meant if he was right—especially about the burning timbers. But she told herself it might not be the Walker Boh. It might be something else entirely. This was strange country to them. Burning wood could have any number of sources.

  She continued to sail Wend-A-Way across the roof of the mist, the rain still falling in a steady wash to mix with the ever-present haze.

  Then Cymrian abruptly held up his hand once more, a hard push this time.

  He had found something.

  He turned and signaled that she should keep watching him, and then motioned for her to take Wend-A-Way down. She signaled back that she understood, dropping the airship just a little. Using his hands to dictate direction and speed, he guided her toward the floor of the marshy jungle. It was harrowing to respond without being able to see what was down there, especially when the stone spires began to appear to either side of her, rising up like monolithic creatures from a frothy sea.

  Their descent was slow and treacherous. Twice Cymrian stopped it entirely and had her take the airship back up again, apparently having seen something that had been hidden from higher up, and then reposition before starting down once more. She worked hard to keep their maneuvering steady and her hands responsive to his signals. As they dropped lower, the mist began to close in around them, and soon they were swallowed up in it.

  Once, Wend-A-Way scraped against one of the pillars, and the sound of wood cracking caused her to catch her breath as she made a quick adjustment to ease the airship away.

  But finally they were down far enough that Cymrian signaled her to stop entirely and came loping back to the pilot box. “We need to anchor and go on foot from here,” he said.

  They secured the ship fore and aft using ropes and grappling hooks they swung over the side and maneuvered until they were caught in the limbs of a pair of skeletal trees, then dropped the rope ladder and went over the side. They descended cautiously, a distance of about twenty feet, eyes scanning the gray haze. Both wore dark-mottled forest clothing to blend in with their surroundings, loose-fitting to allow for easy movement. Aphenglow carried no weapon other than a hunting knife, but Cymrian carried a small arsenal of blades and throwing stars.

  At the foot of the ladder, they paused. “Over there,” Cymrian whispered, pointing into the haze.

  Aphen nodded, listening and assessing. It was hard to see anything in the swirl of brume and shadows, but she could detect the pungent odor of charred wood and ash. She wished suddenly they had brought a few other Elves along with them. She did not feel comfortable leaving the airship unprotected.

  Cymrian led the way, moving into the gloom with Aphenglow close on his heels. The stone pillars loomed all about like frozen giants, sections of them visible through the shifting mist, huge and rugged sentries. The floor of the jungle was damp and soft, and their boots sank into it as they crept forward. Aphen listened carefully for sounds that would warn her of the presence of enemies; she scanned the gloom for movement. Nothing. But even so she wasn’t convinced.

  Ahead, minutes later, they caught a strong whiff of burning, and moments after that a glimpse of embers.

  Cymrian pointed to one side. A body lay sprawled on the earth, torn apart and partially eaten. They moved over for a quick look. It was a Troll, one of the Druid Guards.

  They eased their way ahead once more, this time quickly finding other bodies—all of them either Trolls or Rovers, and all of them savaged and partially eaten. She searched for the Druids, dreading what she would find, but there was no sign of them.

  A fresh stench, raw and overpowering, brought them to a halt. The Walker Boh, a huge gash in her port bow, her planking ripped apart and sections of the railing torn away, lay broken and ruined. Radian draws had been severed, parse tubes smashed, and the mainmast broken off midway up. All of the light sheaths were ripped apart and pulled down. A quick examination revealed that the airship had suffered a wound that had impacted her controls. The initial damage had crippled her, but most of the rest of what they were seeing was from the crash.

  There were more bodies aboard the vessel, a handful of Rovers and Trolls crammed together around the pilot box. The attackers had swarmed aboard, and these few had made a final stand here. They were armed with weapons of all sorts, but whatever they had faced had been too much for them.

  “They’re all dead,” Cymrian murmured after checking each. He seemed anxious to move away.

  Aphen took a final look around at their surroundings from her vantage point atop the wreck. “All Rovers,” she said. “Where are the members of the order? Where are the Ohmsfords and Mirai Leah?”

  There was still no sign of black robes, nor any hints of them. Had the others escaped? If so, where had they gone? But there was nothing to find here that would answer those questions and no reason to stay any longer. She signaled Cymrian, and together they climbed down and started back toward Wend-A-Way.

  They had gotten no more than a dozen yards before the creatures appeared. With gnarled bodies and wizened faces, they were vaguely similar to Spider Gnomes. They came out of the shadows like ghosts, creeping toward the Elves on all fours, eyes bright with anticipation. Mouths yawned wide to reveal rows of teeth. Aphenglow could guess at what had drawn them. Not sated by those they had already dispatched, they had returned for something more to eat.

  She stood with Cymrian and watched the creatures close in on every side. Their ship was too far away to make a run for it, even assuming they could get past the ring of bodies that was tightening steadily around them.

  “What do you want to do?” Cymrian had blades in both hands, but even in the face of such terrible danger, he sounded calm and unhurried.

  “Stand behind me,” she said suddenly. The creatures were very close now, easing forward soundlessly, eyes watchful. “Quickly!”

  He did as she ordered, still holding the blades ready. “What are you doing?”

  “Stand closer,” she said. “Put your arms around me. Do it.”

  She felt his arms tighten about her body while leaving her arms free. His blades glinted right next to her face. She took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, don’t let go of me and don’t panic. Trust me.”

  She felt his head press to her own, nodding. “Always.”

  Then she summoned her magic and lit them both on fire.

  She heard Cymrian inhale sharply as they were enveloped in a column of flames that soared forty feet into the air, crackling and burning with such ferocity that the encircling creatures immediately fell back, cringing and ducking away, their interest in pursuing the attack vanished. It was an il
lusion, of course. But to all outward appearances, Aphenglow and Cymrian appeared to be burning up.

  She moved ahead instantly, almost dragging Cymrian with her. To his credit, he kept his feet and stayed close in spite of his shock and the awkwardness of the advance. They appeared to be trying to flee the flames, rushing ahead in a swirl of fire, stumbling now and then as they fought to keep their feet while their bodies were slowly consumed.

  By the time their attackers had determined that nothing was actually happening, Aphen and Cymrian had already forged ahead through the disintegrating lines and were in the clear.

  “Run!” she screamed as she caught sight of Wend-A-Way resting at anchor amid the stone pillars and damaged trees, and she extinguished the magic and the fire with it.

  The creatures were after them instantly, a massed pursuit that fell back only when she turned long enough to sweep their front ranks with real fire and create a momentary barrier between them. Then she was running again, racing to catch up to Cymrian. A pair of the creatures appeared out of the trees before them, but the Elven Hunter cut them down without slowing, his blades quick and deadly. Aphen could hear their attackers coming up behind them, closing the distance rapidly, and she was forced to turn and create a fresh wall of fire before fleeing once more.

  The pursuit was gathering momentum now, skirting the ends of the wall of flames and running parallel to them, closing in from both sides. There were many attackers, and they were quick. Aphen stretched her arms wide and sent explosions of Druid Fire into the midst of the tightening pincers; the ground erupted in clots of earth and sparks, and again the attack was momentarily scattered.

  Then they were at the rope ladder and she was scrambling up as he held the ropes steady for her, following her a moment later, kicking back at the creatures that leapt at him, snatching at his legs. She could do nothing to help from where she hung, not without risking that the fire would burn him, as well. All she could do was keep climbing as fast as she could, hearing him behind her as she did so—hearing, too, the grunts and snarls of their attackers, feeling their combined weight shake the ladder as they scrambled to catch up.

  Hearing the sounds of their breathing.

  Breathing the stink of their bodies.

  At the top of the ladder, she flung herself through the opening and clawed her way forward. She felt Cymrian land atop her as he launched himself over the lip of the decking, and then he was rolling back to his feet to meet the first wave of climbers. He stood his ground against them, shielding her, his blades whipping in silvery blurs. But it took a final explosion of her Druid magic to clear the decks entirely.

  Then Cymrian was cutting the anchor lines while she stood at the top of the rope ladder and burned away the last of those trying to climb up.

  Seconds later Wend-A-Way was lifting past massive stone spikes toward the ceiling of thick clouds that hung over it and from there into the safety of the open sky.

  Blood-spattered and exhausted, Aphenglow and Cymrian cleaned themselves off with a bucket of water as Wend-A-Way hovered just above the canopy of the mist.

  “What were those things?” Cymrian asked, mopping off his face and wiping his hands.

  Aphen shook her head. “No idea.”

  “Something like Spider Gnomes, but much more dangerous.”

  “Those men on the Walker Boh never had a chance.” She was breathing hard, and her heart was still pounding. “But there were no Druids. No sign of Crace Coram or Skint or Oriantha. Not all the Troll Guards were there, either. A lot of those who were on that ship are still missing.”

  “Without the Walker Boh, they’re all trapped down there. We’d better find them right away, Aphen.”

  She nodded. “Well, they can’t have gotten far on foot.”

  He grunted noncommittally. Then without a warning, he tore off his tunic. He was lean and sinewy, and his muscles were sharply defined. There were scars all over his body. “I can’t wear this. I need something else.” He glanced at her. “I’ll bring you fresh clothes, too.”

  She started to object, and then gave up. She knew she didn’t look any better. “Just a tunic.”

  Her black robe was still lying on the decking where she had left it. She had taken it off because she didn’t want to be encumbered when they went into the wilderness below. She leaned back against the pilot box and closed her eyes. They had almost not made it back, she thought suddenly. It had been very close.

  “That was quick thinking,” he said, reappearing from the hold. He handed her a fresh tunic. “Using your magic like that. I almost thought we were on fire. How did you learn to do that?”

  She brushed back her hair and finished wiping off her forehead and hairline. “Experimenting. An accident, really. I would have told you what was going to happen, but there wasn’t time.”

  He pulled on the tunic he had brought for himself. “Doesn’t matter. I trust you.” He shrugged. “Besides, I had hold of you.” He gave her a small smile. “Whatever happened to me was going to happen to you, too.”

  She remembered his arms around her. The memory gave her a funny feeling. “You did well.”

  “You did better. We wouldn’t have made it out except for you.”

  She looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Turn around so I can change.”

  He did so, and she slipped off her ruined tunic, wiped herself down, and then slipped on the fresh one. “That feels much better,” she said, signaling that he could turn back.

  They talked over what they should do next. Dropping low enough to try to catch sight of the others was not only risky but also unlikely to produce results. Cymrian suggested he should take a flit and go in search, but Aphen didn’t like that idea, either. There were too many things that could go wrong and leave them separated, and then they would both be on their own.

  “Wait, I have an idea,” she said finally. “Druids have a way of letting each other know where they are if they are close enough—a quick spurt of Druid Fire launched skyward at regular intervals. If you steer while I go forward, I can give that signal, but I’ll angle it downward into the mist. One of the other Druids might see and signal me back.”

  He nodded at once. “Let me take the helm, but use a safety line and give me time to begin circling outward from where we are now. Call back to me if you see anything.”

  She hurried to the forward railing, lashed herself to an iron ring embedded in the decking, and set herself in place. As the ship began to ease forward, she sent the first burst of magic into the gloom and shadows below.

  They continued their efforts throughout the remainder of the day, hour after hour, easing their airship over the Fangs and sending out signals. Now and again, they heard screams of rage or distress from within the haze or saw sudden bursts of frightened movement, but no return signal appeared. The hours slipped away and with them Aphenglow’s fading hopes that there was anyone left to find. It was entirely possible, she knew, that the remainder of the expedition had met with the same fate as those they had found at the crash site. She didn’t like thinking that way, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.

  She pondered the creatures that had attacked them, bothered by the fact that even though she had never seen them before, they reminded her of something. Not Spider Gnomes, but something else. She ruminated on it, left it alone, came back to it again, mulled it over some more, and finally realized.

  They were Goblins!

  She had seen pictures of them in the Elven histories. They had accompanied descriptions written down in the time of Faerie of the creatures that had been imprisoned within the Forbidding. Even knowing it was impossible, she was certain those were Goblins she had seen.

  Except, of course, it wasn’t impossible at all. In fact, it made perfect sense. If the Ellcrys was failing, then the Forbidding was breaking down. That meant any number of imprisoned creatures might be starting to escape, Goblins among them.

  And almost certainly there would be others.

  A chill ran through her.
What else was down there? What else might the missing members of the company have encountered after the crash of the Walker Boh? Had worse things than Goblins escaped? Were they already beginning to spread throughout the Four Lands, freed of their imprisonment and anxious to take revenge on those who had put them there?

  An instant later a reddish streak of fire exploded out of the mist—one she recognized at once as having been given in response to her own. Startled by both the suddenness and the unexpectedness of it, she nevertheless leapt to her feet and raced back to tell Cymrian.

  In seconds Wend-A-Way was descending into the haze, and Aphenglow Elessedil was about to have all of her questions answered.

  14

  When she woke the first morning following her return to Arborlon, Aphen lay in bed for a long time before rising. In part, it was because there was no rush to do anything else—no immediate crisis to be faced and resolved, no desperate need to be met. In part, it was because it felt so comforting just to lie there and let the last vestiges of sleep drift away. But mostly, it was because she felt the weight of her life bearing down on her and needed to collect her thoughts and marshal her resolve.

  Everything had changed.

  She still could not believe that the Druid order was decimated. Bombax, Pleysia, and Carrick—all dead. Perhaps the Ard Rhys was dead, too. Of the rest, there was no better news. Almost all of them were dead, as well. It still seemed impossible, three days after finding the handful of survivors and hearing their stories. She could not find a way to make it seem real; she could not come to terms with the enormity of its truth.

  But even that paled when her thoughts shifted to what lay ahead. The future she faced was darker and harsher still. The Forbidding was coming down; the demons were breaking out. The Straken Lord—a creature whom history had consigned to the past—was alive and well and seeking revenge not only against the Four Lands and its people, but against a woman who was a hundred years gone. The demon was determined to find Grianne Ohmsford and bring her to its bed, to make her its wife and the mother of its child—an image that even now caused Aphen to shudder.