Tanequil

by Terry Brooks

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to come with you? You, personally?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why? Tell me, Penderrin. Why do you want me to come with you?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t want this to be about you and me.”

  “But it is about you and me. It has been from the first day we met. Don’t you know that?”

  He nodded. “I guess I do. I just don’t want to use that as the reason for your coming. But it is the reason. I want you to come because I want you to be with me. I don’t want you anywhere else but with me.”

  She went still, her fingers motionless, her entire body frozen. He saw her differently in that instant, as if she had been captured in an indelible image, a portrait of such exquisite beauty and depth that he would never imagine her any other way. It made his heart ache to see her so. It made him want to do anything for her.

  Without looking at him, she reached for him with her right hand, laying it feather-light across his own. “Then I will come,” she said.

  She went back to her weaving, silent once more, her attention on her work, her hand gone from his. He stared at her for a moment, wanting to say something more, but deciding against it. Just then, things were better left as they were.

  He rose. “I think I should see how the Skatelow looks, now that they’ve moved her off the plains. I’ll find you later.”

  She nodded, and he went down off the risers to one of the passageways that exited from the amphitheater floor to the ring of stone walls and spruce trees outside. From there, he walked down through the village to the south gates and passed out onto the flats, then worked his way back toward the cliffs until he reached the shallow defile into which the Skatelow had been pulled to conceal her from view. He did that without really being aware of anything but Cinnaminson. Her face, her body, her voice, her words, her smell, the movement of her hands as she wove the delicate scarf.

  He was still thinking about her two hours later, happily lost in a mix of dreams and memories that gave him the first real peace he had known in days, when the Troll watch sounded the alarm.

  Khyber Elessedil was standing with Tagwen outside Kermadec’s home, listening while the little man held forth on the peculiarities of Troll life, when the horns began to wail and the drums to boom. The sounds were so unexpected and so earth shattering that for a moment she stood staring at the Dwarf, who stood staring back.

  “What is that?” she managed finally.

  He shook his burly head, his blunt fingers tugging at his beard anxiously as he glanced around. “Don’t know. A warning?”

  Trolls had begun running everywhere, all sizes and shapes, men, women, and children, entire families and households, charging out of buildings and down roads and alleyways with a single-mindedness that suggested they understood the sounds perfectly. After a moment, Khyber was able to discern a pattern to their movements that suggested what was happening. The women and children were all retreating back through the village toward the cliffs, the biggest scooping up the smallest in squirming bundles. They took nothing else with them, not one single implement or piece of clothing. They went without the slightest hesitation or thought for what they were doing, moving swiftly without seeming to look rushed.

  They have practiced this often, Khyber thought.

  The men, meanwhile, were all moving in the other direction, down toward the front walls of the village, to the gates and ramparts that served as protection and fortification. Some wore chain mail and plate armor. All carried weapons. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening.

  Khyber rushed back inside the house for her short sword. When she came out again, Kermadec was standing with Tagwen, huge and forbidding in a towering iron helmet and a chain-mail chest and shoulder guard.

  “We’re under attack,” he advised, his words clipped and hard. She had not heard him sound like that before. All of the heartiness and openness was gone; his voice had gone tight and rough with anger and menace. “Airships fly in from the south bearing Druid insignia. We can assume the reason for their visit.”

  Khyber buckled on her sword, then felt for the reassuring presence of the Elfstones in her tunic pocket. She had no idea if she would be required to use them, but she intended to be ready. She glanced at Tagwen, who carried no weapons, then back at Kermadec. “How did they find us?”

  The Rock Troll shook his big head. “No idea. The Druids have ways of finding anyone, if they put their minds to it. I don’t think they followed you. If they had done so, they would have been here sooner. I think they found you some other way.”

  He turned away from them to yell instructions to a squad of Troll warriors passing by, gesturing toward the south wall, separating out one and sending him in another direction. The village was alive with movement; swarming with Trolls. It felt like controlled chaos.

  “We’re preparing a welcome for our uninvited guests,” he said, turning back to them, changing once more to the Dwarf language. “We won’t attack them until we hear what they have to say. We’ll let them talk first.”

  “Perhaps they’re friends,” Khyber suggested hopefully, cringing at the loud snort Tagwen gave in response.

  “Too many ships for that,” Kermadec advised. “If they were friends, they would come in one ship, not in a dozen. They would send a representative ahead to announce their intentions. No, this is an assault force, come for a specific purpose.” He glanced around. “Where are young Penderrin and the girl?”

  Khyber stared at Tagwen. The Dwarf shook his head. Neither one had a clue.

  Kermadec glanced skyward. “Too late to search for them now. Come with me! Hurry!”

  At the sound of the battle horns and drums, Pen dropped off the Skatelow’s decks to the ground and began to run. He needed no time to consider what he was doing or where he was going. He had left Cinnaminson inside the Gathering Place. She might still be there, alone and unprotected. She would not know what was happening. She would not know where to run.

  He went through the south gates just as they were closing, bursting through the knot of Troll warriors bunched at the opening, huge armored shoulders and wide backs straining against the ironbound barriers and massive locks. Trolls were running everywhere, and the passageways of the village were all but completely blocked by Trolls hurrying toward the walls. Pen dodged past them, heading for the amphitheater and Cinnaminson. Shouts and cries rose all around him, their intensity and tone confirming what he already instinctively knew—the village was under attack. He would have liked to find Khyber and Tagwen to know more, but he would have to track them down later. First he had to reach Cinnaminson.

  He gained a side street that was mostly deserted and led straight to his destination. He was running hard now, flushed with the heat of his efforts, a frantic warning sounding in his mind. Don’t lose her! Don’t let anything happen to her!

  Ahead, the walls of the amphitheater loomed darkly through the ring of trees that surrounded the interior bowl. There was no movement at the entrance, no sign of life. Perhaps she had already gotten out. Perhaps one of the others had come to find her.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the village walls, where Trolls were taking up positions all along the ramparts and at the gates. The central point of defense seemed to be the gates he had just passed through, the ones facing south down the broad corridor between the Razor Mountains west and the Charnals east. The reason for this became immediately apparent when he glanced skyward. A dozen black warships filled the horizon, flying down the gap directly toward Taupo Rough.

  Shades!

  He breathed the word in a whisper of fear as he burst into the tunnel leading into the amphitheater and nearly collided with Cinnaminson, who was trying to make her way out from the other end. She was careening from wall to wall, her hands clutching her ears to block out the sounds of the horns and drums.

  “Cinnaminson!” he shouted as he reached her, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her against him.

&n
bsp; “Pen!” she gasped in reply, burying her head in his shoulder. Her weaving materials and loom were gone, and he could feel her heart pounding. “I couldn’t find my way out. The sounds disrupt my mind-sight. It was too much for me.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, stroking her hair. Her breath was coming in quick, frantic bursts. “I’ll get you back to the others. They must have gone into the mountains to hide. The sky is full of Druid warships, right outside the walls. We have to go. Can you walk?”

  She nodded into his shoulder, then lifted her face to his. “I knew you would come for me.”

  He kissed her impulsively. “I’ll always come for you. Always. Come on. Run!”

  They hurried back through the tunnel to the streets outside. But as they reached the far end, Pen drew up short and pulled her back against the passageway wall, keeping hidden in the shadows.

  One of the Druid airships was hovering just outside the village wall and across from their hiding place. Any attempt at escape would require them to cross open ground, where they would quickly be seen.

  Pen bit his lip in frustration. They were trapped.

  Khyber Elessedil crouched with Tagwen on the roof of a building some fifty yards back from the south gates. Both wore dark robes drawn close and hoods pulled up. They hid behind a half-wall facade that rose in front of them, situated where they could see and hear what was about to happen.

  Kermadec stood on the ramparts above the south gates, surrounded by a squad of huge Trolls wearing body armor and insignia-crested helmets. The Maturen was watching as the Druid airships—their flags clearly visible now—formed a line just beyond the outer wall, intimidating black hulks hanging over the village like birds of prey. There was an unmistakable arrogance to their positioning, as if they were disdainful of anything the villagers might try to do to harm them. No attempt was being made to suggest that this was a friendly visit. Kermadec had been right: The Druids had come to threaten.

  After the foremost airship had dropped almost to the ground, a single Druid descended the rope ladder and walked forward. He was a big man, and as he approached, he lowered his hood to reveal his face, a gesture clearly meant to identify himself to the Trolls.

  “Traunt Rowan,” Tagwen whispered to Khyber. “One of Shadea’s bunch.”

  She watched the Southlander come almost to the gates before stopping, his eyes fixing on the Trolls standing atop them.

  “Kermadec?” he called, his voice clearly audible in the near silence.

  “I’m here, Traunt Rowan,” the Maturen called back.

  “Open your gates to us.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then bring out the boy, Pen Ohmsford, and you do not need to. Just the boy. The others can remain, if you want them to.”

  “You are a bold man, coming into our country and making demands as if it were your own.” Kermadec’s voice had taken on a decided edge. “You might want to give some thought to where you stand before you say anything else.”

  “Is the boy here?”

  “What boy?”

  There was a measured silence. “You are a fool to challenge us, Kermadec.”

  “The only fool I see is the one who serves Shadea a’Ru. The only fool I see is the one who betrayed the Ard Rhys in a way so foul and indefensible that it will surely lead to his destruction. Don’t threaten me, Traunt Rowan! Don’t threaten the Trolls of Taupo Rough! We were the defenders of the Druids for almost twenty years, before this dark time in your history, and we will one day be defenders of the Druids again. We know enough about you to be able to challenge you, if that is what is required. Turn your ships around and fly out of here while you still can. Don’t mistake where you are.”

  Traunt Rowan folded his arms. “We have the boy’s parents, Kermadec. We know that Ahren Elessedil is dead. You have no one who will stand with you in this. You are alone.”

  Khyber and Tagwen exchanged a quick, shocked glance. The Druids had Bek Ohmsford and his wife? How had that happened?

  “He’s lying,” Tagwen hissed.

  “Alone?” Kermadec laughed. “The Trolls are always alone. It is a condition of life to which we are not only accustomed, but one that we prefer. Threats of the sort you seem intent on making don’t frighten us. If you have the parents, you don’t need the boy, do you? Can the parents not give you everything you need? What is it that you need, by the way? You haven’t said. What is it that a boy can give you that his parents can’t? You speak as if you know, but I think, in fact, you don’t. Explain yourself, and maybe I can be persuaded to do as you say.”

  Traunt Rowan stood unmoving on the flats, dark and solitary, anger radiating off him like heat. “We are to raze your village and kill you all, Kermadec, if you resist us. Those are my orders. I have brought Gnome Hunters to carry out those orders. I have brought Mutens, as well. Do you wish your village and people destroyed? Is that your intent?”

  Kermadec seemed to be thinking it over. “My intent, Traunt Rowan,” he said finally, his rough voice so dark with menace that Khyber immediately tensed, “is to see you and your raiders and your airships consumed by the fires of the netherworld that spawned you.”

  His arm swept up. Instantly, a hail of fire-tipped arrows arced out of the village and fell all across the flats beyond. In the next instant the flats exploded in gouts of fire that spread quickly down concealed channels in a crisscross pattern that blanketed the earth for two hundred yards. The flames leapt so high that one of the airships caught fire and was consumed immediately, the fire spreading up the bottom of its hull to find added fuel in yards of light sheaths strapped to its gunwales. The ship heaved in response to the blaze that consumed it, tried futilely to rise into the sky, then shuddered, blew apart, and fell in ruins onto the flats.

  The other airships were backing away by then, powered up in response to the threat and lifting swiftly beyond the reach of the flames. Traunt Rowan had gone into a protective crouch, hands moving, his Druid magic sweeping about him. Now he, too, backed away, avoiding the flames as best he could, shielded well enough that he didn’t seem threatened. His black robes swirled about him in a wind generated by the sudden heat as he reached an open spot, caught hold of the rope ladder once more, and began to climb.

  The Trolls of Taupo Rough were attacking the airships using catapults now. The wooden machines were mounted all along the ramparts, their cradles flinging huge rocks through the smoke-filled air with deadly precision. Several found their marks, smashing through the hulls and sails of the airships, leaving gaping holes and ragged tears in the wood and fabric. One brought down a mast, collapsing it onto the deck and sending the airship into a spin that took it out of the fight.

  The Gnome Hunters aboard the ships fought back with crossbows and slings, filling the sky with a cloud of deadly missiles. But the arrows and stones fell harmlessly, bouncing off heavy armor and rock walls and doing little damage to the well-protected Trolls.

  For a moment, it seemed as if the battle was over almost before it had begun. The entire south end of the flats was on fire, grasses and scrub and whatever was in those trenches and holes burning fiercely. The Druid airships were in retreat, those not already down vanishing beyond the flames and smoke. Traunt Rowan had disappeared with them, his flagship turned about with the others.

  But already Kermadec was coming down off the ramparts and signaling to his men to do the same. In dark, bulky knots, they began to retreat through the village toward the cliffs. Khyber and Tagwen climbed down from their hiding place, casting anxious glances toward the flats, where fresh trouble would appear. They had just gotten to the ground when Kermadec came charging up to them.

  “We have to find that boy!” he snapped, turning momentarily to yell something to the Trolls charging past. “If we lose him now, this will all have been for nothing! Where do we look?”

  “He might have found his way to the cliffs,” Tagwen suggested quickly. “He might not need finding.”

  “I would have heard, if he wer
e there. I left word to be informed when he showed himself. No, Bristle Beard, he’s still out here in the village somewhere.”

  As they tried frantically to come up with something that would help, Khyber threw off the heavy concealing cloak, which was now more hindrance than help. As she did so, her fingers brushed across the small bulk of the Elfstones. She jammed her hand into her pocket and yanked them out. Now that the Druids had located them, there was no reason not to call upon the magic.

  “I know how to find him,” she said, dumping the blue stones into her palm. “Stand away from me.”

  They did so at once, neither choosing to question her command. Eyes closed, she retreated into her calming center, reaching for the magic. Ahren had trained her in that approach, so the effort was almost second nature. Even the presence of the Elfstone magic was no longer entirely unfamiliar after the Slags, and she recognized the sudden flush of heat that rose in response to her summons. Tendrils of life pulsed from her hand through her body, then back again, gathering speed and power, building in intensity. The magic of the Stones filled her, a wash of power finding a welcome home. She let it happen, left herself open to its need.

  The blue light burst from the Elfstones and shot through the village streets and buildings, through stone and timbers, power that solid materials could not contain. The vision formed and tightened, and the three who watched saw them appear in the haze, the boy and the Rover girl, crouched in the shadow of a darkened tunnel.

  “The amphitheater!” Kermadec shouted, and despite the encumbering weight of his massive armor, he began to run.

  Pen Ohmsford had waited just an instant too long to make his break from the tunnel. When the fighting started, he stayed where he was, Cinnaminson close beside him, as fire erupted from outside the village walls in huge gouts and then catapults began launching boulders and Gnome Hunters retaliated with slings and crossbows. A hail of missiles clattered against the stone of the walls and buildings outside their hiding place, and the boy did not dare chance a break without better protection.