Tanequil

by Terry Brooks

  Of course, she would use her Druid skills to help in the effort, an implementation of a little magic to help with speed and direction and control. But her skills were untested for the most part and never in circumstances as dire as these. She would have to get everything right.

  She sighed wearily. It didn’t do much good to think about those things because she knew she couldn’t change any of them. Most plans involved an element of luck. She was going to have to hope she had a lot of it with this one.

  She listened to the breathing of her companions in the stillness, to the soft scrape of their boots on the rocks as they shifted position. Pen was lying down, and Tagwen was sitting with his head between his knees. Both were dozing. She didn’t blame them. It was nearing midnight, and there had been no sign of the airship. She was beginning to think that it had gone another way, even though Pen insisted the creature would return to search the only area they could reasonably be expected to cover on foot. Cinnaminson might attempt to steer it away from them, but it would know approximately where to look no matter what she said. So far it hadn’t appeared, however, and Khyber was growing impatient.

  And cold. Without her cloak to keep warm, she was shivering. This whole journey had been a disaster as far as she was concerned. But she was the one who had encouraged it, insisting that Uncle Ahren take them all under his Druid’s wing and bring them in search of the tree that would give Pen entrance into the Forbidding. She was the one who had said they had an obligation to help the Ard Rhys.

  She felt her throat tighten, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought of Ahren Elessedil, dead in the Slags. Her mentor, her surrogate father, her best friend—gone, killed by another Druid. Druids at war with Druids—it was an abomination. She had wanted so badly to be one of them, but now she wasn’t sure. Ahren was dead, Grianne Ohmsford was locked in the Forbidding, and the very order she had so desperately wanted to join was responsible for all of it. She had learned a little of how to employ elemental magic, but so far it hadn’t proved very useful. She carried the Elfstones, but they weren’t really hers. In plain language, she was a rank amateur, a thief, and a runaway, and she was risking her life to achieve something she wasn’t sure she believed in.

  She gave vent to her disappointment and despair, crying silently, keeping her face turned away from the other two so as not to wake them. She stopped after a few moments, deciding she had been self-indulgent enough, and composed herself. She could not afford to waste time. The decision had been made, the journey had been undertaken, and there was no turning back. She had believed rescuing the Ard Rhys was the right thing to do when she had started out, and nothing had changed. The loss of her uncle was staggering, but she knew that if he were there he would tell her not to give up, to remember what was at stake, to be brave and to trust in what her instincts and common sense told her was true. He had come through worse on the voyage of the Jerle Shannara. He had found strength in recognition of his own failures and his ability to confront them. A boy younger than she was now, he had remade himself into a man. She must do no less for herself, if she was to be deserving of his trust.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she very nearly missed seeing the sleek, dark shape of the Skatelow as it appeared on the horizon and turned toward them.

  “Pen!” she hissed frantically. “Tagwen!”

  They jerked awake, the Dwarf starting so violently that he nearly rolled off his perch. She seized his shoulder to steady him, then pointed out to where the airship sailed through the starlit sky like a dark phantom. “That’s her,” Pen whispered.

  “I’m going down,” Khyber announced, climbing to her feet. “Don’t forget. Once you see that thing leave the airship, move into the trees. Even if it brings Cinnaminson into the rocks, Pen. No matter what.”

  She didn’t hear his response, if he gave one, and she didn’t look back at him. She couldn’t worry about him anymore. He was going to have to do his part, just as she was going to have to do hers, and that meant he was going to have to put all thoughts of Cinnaminson behind him. She wasn’t sure he could do that, but it was out of her control.

  Her heart was beating rapidly and her face felt flushed as she hurried through the maze toward the fire, blood singing through her veins. She forced herself to focus on the task ahead, picturing herself flinging the tar ball at the creature, imagining it coated in black goo. She glanced skyward once or twice, but she was too deep in the rocks to see what was happening with the Skatelow. The creature hunting them had to have seen the fire. Patience, she told herself. It was coming.

  She reached the clearing and retrieved the tar ball from beside the fire. The tar was warm and pliable through its leafy wrapping, in perfect condition for its intended use. She turned back to her hiding place and stepped inside. The crevice was deeply shadowed and slightly elevated from the fire and the three cloaked forms stretched out around it. She could see everything that might happen and not be seen herself. Moon and stars lit the open space, revealing the opening to the passageway through which the creature would enter the clearing. But the angle of the moon left her own hiding place in the rocks shadowed and dark.

  She hefted the tar in her hands and settled back to wait.

  If she had been a little more proficient with her magic, she might have floated the tar out over the entry point, as Ahren had taught her to do with a leaf, dropping it on the creature when it appeared. But that required skill and timing she did not yet possess, and she could not afford to miss on her one opportunity. Thinking of her inability to use her magic made her wish she had studied longer and harder when she’dhad the chance, when Ahren was still there to teach her. Who would teach her now? There was only so much she could do for herself, and now no one in the Druid ranks whom she could turn to.

  If she even got the chance to try.

  The minutes passed. The darkness was deep and silent, a sweeping shroud lying soft and gentle across the world. Nothing moved. The clearing remained empty.

  The longer she stood there waiting, the more certain she became that the whole plan was doomed to fail. The thing that hunted them was quick and agile. Her chances of actually hitting it were poor, and her chances of escaping afterwards were poorer still. She began to think of ways in which she could use her small magic to slow it down—something, anything she could do to get far enough ahead of it that it couldn’t catch her. A cold certainty began to creep through her that she didn’t possess the necessary tools. She was just learning magic, just beginning to make the sort of progress that would lead her to a command of real power.

  Maybe she could use the Elfstones. Maybe the thing was possessed of magic, after all. They had been referring to it as creature rather than human being all along. It certainly looked to be so from the brief glimpses they had caught of it in Anatcherae. So maybe the Stones would work against it.

  Or she could try summoning the wind that she had used to sweep it off the deck of the Skatelow. The wind had worked once. There wasn’t any reason it shouldn’t work again. That was a magic she could safely command. That was a weapon she could put to use.

  She waited some more. The minutes dragged by. The creature did not appear.

  Something was wrong. It had been too long. It should have been here by now, if it was coming. She hated that she couldn’t see what was happening beyond the clearing. It left her blind and helpless to do anything but stand there and hope they had guessed right about what the creature would do. But what if they hadn’t?

  Her eyes scanned the clearing, probing the passage opening at the far side. Still nothing moved.

  Then a soft scrape sounded right above her hiding place, and a small shower of dust descended in a tiny cloud.

  Her breath caught in her throat. It was right above her.

  She froze, caught off guard completely. Right above me. Did it know she was there? She waited, trying to regain control of her muscles, listening to the silence, anticipating so many bad possibilities that she wanted to scream to relieve the tension. />
  Then she saw it, creeping along the rim of the rocks to her right, circling the clearing like a big spider, cloaked and hooded, as silent as the dark into which it had blended so easily. She realized at once the mistake they had made. They had assumed it would come at them on the ground because that’s what they would have done in its place. But the thing wasn’t like them. In Anatcherae, it had used the rooftops. Aboard the Skatelow, it had hung from the rigging. It liked the advantage of height. It had used it here, coming into the maze not through the twisting passageways, but over the tops of the boulders, leaping and crawling like the insect it resembled.

  Do something!

  It was still moving, slowly and just a few yards at a time, studying the fire and the bundled forms. It might have sensed something was wrong or it might simply have been making sure it wasn’t missing anything. Whatever the case, if she was going to use the tar, she had to do it while the thing was still within striking distance. It would see her the moment she moved, of course. She would have to step out from her hiding place, and it would see her.

  She realized suddenly that this wasn’t going to work. She wouldn’t be fast or accurate enough. It could drop down in those rocks much faster than she could move. It was looking for a trap, and it would spot her the moment she left the shadows.

  What else can I do?

  The question echoed in her mind in a hopeless wail of despair.

  Then all at once the creature wheeled about, looking off to the south, toward the trees below the meadow, toward the path that Pen and Tagwen were already surely taking to reach the Skatelow. It froze in place, tensed and staring. A second later it was gone, bounding over the rocks and out of view, moving so swiftly that it seemed simply to disappear.

  She stood staring after it for a second, realizing what it intended, immobilized by her sense of failure and helplessness to prevent it from succeeding. She was too far away to reach them, too far away to get back to where they were.

  There was only one chance. Breaking from her hiding place in a rush, she raced across the clearing and through the passageway that led out to the meadow and the airship.

  After Khyber Elessedil disappeared into the rocks, Pen sat with Tagwen and watched as the Skatelow moved steadily closer to their hiding place and then finally started to descend toward the meadow. Even with the bright moon and stars to aid him, he could not make out what was happening aboard the airship. As the vessel landed, he searched for Cinnaminson and her captor without success. A cold premonition began to seep through him that it was too late for her; that the thing that had taken her prisoner had decided she was not worth the trouble. His premonition was not eased when he saw the shadowy form of the creature slide over the side of the vessel to tie her off and then start toward the rocks in a skittering crawl.

  “We have to go, Penderrin.” Tagwen nudged him.

  He took a moment longer to scan the decks of the Skatelow for any sign of the girl, but all he could make out were the desiccated forms of Gar Hatch and his crew, still hung from the rigging. He swallowed and forced himself to look away.

  She’ll be all right, he told himself. It won’t have done anything to her yet, not this quickly. But his words sounded hollow and false.

  They descended from their hiding place in a crouch, staying back from the light and any view from the meadow. Pen glanced through the rocks only once to make certain the creature was still heading toward the fire, caught a glimpse of its dark, skittering form, and turned his concentration to the task at hand. It took them a few minutes to get through the back end of the maze and down to the forest edge, where they could begin to make their way out to the meadow.

  They moved swiftly then, anxious to reach the airship and take control of her. The moonlight brightened their way, and they made good progress skirting the tree line, but their path was circuitous and it took them longer than Pen had thought it would. The minutes seemed to fly by and still they hadn’t reached the opening between the trees and rocks that would get them out onto the flats.

  “Do you hear anything?” he whispered to Tagwen at one point, but the Dwarf only shook his head.

  Finally, the meadow came into view ahead of them, its grasses silver-tipped and spiky in the moonlight. They began to move away from the maze, but still Pen couldn’t see the Skatelow. He glanced toward the rocks, catching a quick glimpse of the fire’s orange glow rising from their midst, dull and smoky against the darkness. The creature must be all the way in by now, but he still hadn’t heard anything. Any minute, Khyber would throw the tar into its face. They had to move faster. They had to get to Cinnaminson.

  “Tagwen,” he whispered again, looking back to catch the other’s eye, beckoning him to hurry.

  He was just turning away again when he caught sight of a spidery shape leaping across the boulder tops and coming toward them with frantic purpose. At first he didn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Then he let out a gasp of recognition.

  “Tagwen!” he shouted. “Run!”

  They bolted ahead, galvanized by the boy’s frantic cry, the Dwarf not yet fully understanding what had happened but accepting that it was not good. They tore down along the tree line and into a vale that fronted the meadow. In the distance the Skatelow was visible, silhouetted against the skyline, dark and silent. Pen turned toward it, taking a quick glance sideways into the rocks as he did so. The creature was still coming for them, moving swiftly across the crest of the maze, leaping smoothly and easily from boulder to boulder, closing the distance between them with frightening ease.

  It’s too close, Pen thought in horror. It’s coming too fast!

  “Faster, Tagwen!” he cried.

  The Dwarf had seen the creature as well and was running as fast as his stout legs could manage, but he was woefully slow and already falling behind. Pen glanced back, saw his companion dropping away, and slowed. He wouldn’t leave Tagwen, not even to save himself. He reached for his knife, readying himself.

  Where is Khyber?

  Its cloak billowing behind it like a sail, the creature leapt from the edge of the rocks to the open ground, landing in a crouch that only barely slowed it as it came at the boy and the Dwarf on all fours. Crooked limbs akimbo, head lowered within its concealing hood, it rushed them in a scuttling sideways charge.

  “Pen!” Khyber screamed in warning, appearing abruptly out of the maze, rushing into the meadow and turning toward them.

  Then a huge, dark form catapulted out of the trees behind them, a blur of gray and black that rippled and surged like the darkest ocean wave. Hugging the ground in a long, lean shadowy flow, it intercepted the creature so quickly that it was on top of it before the other knew what was happening. With shrieks that caused the hair on the back of Pen’s neck to stand straight up, the two collided and went tumbling head over hindquarters through the long grass. Roars and snarls and a terrible, high-pitched keening followed as both scrambled up, clots of earth and grass flying in all directions.

  “Bandit!” Pen breathed in disbelief, the name catching in his throat as the massive moor cat’s masked face wheeled into the light, muzzle drawn back, dagger teeth gleaming.

  The creature was up as well, and moonlight flashed off a strange knife held in one gnarled hand, its blade as silver as the crest of waves caught in sunlight, its edges smooth and deadly. In the glow of moon and stars, Pen could see it clearly, and he knew at once from its unnatural brilliance that it was a thing of magic.

  Bandit never hesitated. Enraged by whatever animal instincts the creature had provoked, determined to see the thing torn apart before backing away, it closed on its enemy with a scream that froze Pen’s blood. In a knot of rippling fur and billowing cloak, the antagonists tumbled through the grass once more, locked in a death grip that neither would release.

  “Bandit!” Pen cried out frantically, seeing the knife flash as it rose and fell in short, choppy thrusts.

  “Run, Penderrin!” Tagwen shouted at him, pulling on his arm for emphasis. “We can’t wai
t!”

  The boy obeyed, knowing there was nothing he could do to affect the battle between the creature and the moor cat. Remembering Cinnaminson, he tore his eyes away from the struggle. With Tagwen panting next to him, he raced for the Skatelow. Bandit had been following them all this time, he thought in wonder. Had the moor cat come into the high country solely because of their chance meeting and his few halting attempts at communication? He couldn’t believe it.

  Behind him, he heard grunts and gasps, snarls and spitting, sounds of damage inflicted and damage received.

  They were almost to the airship when he forced himself to look back again. The creature was staggering after them, coming as swiftly as its damaged limbs could manage, its cloak shredded. Bandit lay stretched on the ground behind it, unmoving. Damp, glistening patches of blood coated its still body. Tears filled his eyes, and the boy made himself run even faster.

  Khyber was already aboard the airship, hacking at the anchor ropes with her long knife, freeing the vessel of her moorings. Pen climbed the ladder so fast he couldn’t remember later whether his feet had even touched the rungs. His eyes searched everywhere. There was no sign of Cinnaminson.

  “Get us out of here!” Khyber screamed at him. “It’s coming!”

  Pen leapt into the pilot box, fingers flying over the controls. He unhooded the diapson crystals as an exhausted Tagwen tumbled onto the deck, gasping for breath. Khyber cut away the last of the anchoring lines. On the plains below, their pursuer was closing on the ship in a terrible, hobbling rush, the bloodied knife lifted into the moonlight, a low wail that sounded like a dog in pain rising from the dark opening of its hood. Pen threw the thruster levers forward, feeding power to the parse tubes, and the Skatelow lurched and began to rise.

  They were too slow. The creature caught the low end of the rope ladder with one hand and held on, lifting away with the airship.

  “Tagwen!” Pen cried out frantically.