Tanequil

by Terry Brooks

  “Stay together,” Kermadec called back over his shoulder. “Don’t provoke them. They’re only watching.”

  But more were appearing at every turn, gathering at the fringes of the hazy light in large clusters. Gradually, they began to surround the company. For the first time, Pen noticed the nature of the weapons they carried, a mix of short spears and odd-shaped flat objects that were hooked and sharpened on their ends and appeared to be designed for throwing.

  “How far do we have to go?” Atalan called to his brother from his rear-guard position.

  Kermadec glanced back and shook his head. “I’m not sure. It’s been a long time. Another few miles, maybe. This forest runs all the way to the ruins of the city. Keep moving.”

  Moments later, more Urdas appeared directly in front of them, narrowing the way forward even farther. They were beginning to close in, Pen realized. He did a quick count; more than a hundred were set to block the way. The flat, dark faces were expressionless, but the way they hefted their weapons and the deliberate stances they had assumed suggested the nature of their intentions.

  “Khyber Elessedil!” Kermadec called out. He beckoned her forward. The rest of the company closed in behind them, sensing that things were about to change. “Can you work a little Druid magic to make them move back?” the Maturen asked.

  She frowned. “I can. But if I do that—”

  “Yes, it may give us away to the Druids,” he cut her short. “But if you don’t, the Urdas are going to try to take us prisoner. They have made up their minds that we intend to invade the ruins, and they won’t allow it. There are too many to fight. Magic offers us our best chance of escaping, even if you use just a little of it. They are afraid of what they don’t understand.”

  She glanced back at Pen, giving him a look that suggested this was all his fault. “All right,” she agreed. “I can scare them. Then what happens?”

  Kermadec shrugged. “Then, we run. If we can get to the ruins, they won’t follow us in. The ruins are sacred ground, forbidden to them. They’ll leave us to the spirits.”

  Of which we already know there are some, Pen thought. But he understood they hadn’t any better choice.

  “Stand ready,” Khyber said, her hands already beginning to weave in small circles.

  An instant later, the air was filled with bits of fire that screamed and flew in all directions, a cloudburst of sound and light that sent the Urdas scrambling away in terror.

  “Run!” Kermadec shouted.

  The Trolls and their charges raced ahead through the trees and shadows. Kermadec led the way. As big as he was, he moved like a deer, leaping and bounding past scrambling Urdas and around ancient trunks with his war club swinging. Cinnaminson ran with Pen, holding his hand, letting him lead the way. The forest was open enough that she could do so, and he matched his pace to hers, quickly discovering she was almost as swift as he was.

  Behind them, Tagwen lumbered mightily, his breath coming in short gasps, his stubby legs churning.

  The whirlwind of fire darts lasted another few minutes, and then it faded, leaving a residue of smoke trails that lifted toward the canopy like tiny butterflies. It took a few minutes for the Urdas to collect themselves, and then they were in pursuit. They came through the trees in droves, small, wiry bodies leaping and scrambling, calling out in sudden, high shrieks that cut to the bone. Seconds later, their strange throwing weapons began to whiz through the air with deep humming sounds, slicing off small limbs and burying themselves in tree trunks. Had Pen and his companions been in the open and standing still, they would have been cut down in moments. Moving through the woods, they were less easy to hit. Nevertheless, Pen found himself running faster.

  The chase wore on for a mile, then two. The Trolls were tireless, and Pen and his companions were driven by fear, so they managed to keep just ahead of the Urdas. When Tagwen faltered, one of the Trolls snatched him right off his feet, tucked him under one arm, and kept running. But the distance between hunter and hunted was closing fast. When Pen finally risked a quick glance over his shoulder, he found the Urdas right behind Atalan and the other two Trolls who were acting as rear guards. The throwing weapons mostly bounced off the Trolls like sticks, but Pen could see blood showing through rents in the leather tunics.

  Then one of the Trolls running with Atalan caught a spear in the back of the neck above his protective vest, and he went down in a heap. Kermadec’s brother turned instantly, shouted for help, and charged back into the pursuing Urdas with such ferocity that they were bowled over and scattered. Khyber wheeled around as well, words of magic tumbling from her lips, hands weaving. A fresh assault of fire darts flew at the Urdas, shrieking and burning. But this time the Urdas didn’t flee. Ducking behind trees and flattening themselves to the ground, they simply waited out the barrage.

  Atalan bent quickly over the fallen Troll. A moment later, he was back on his feet.

  “Dead!” he snapped at no one in particular. Then, seeing Pen and Cinnaminson frozen in place and staring at him, he shouted, “Run, you fools!”

  Everyone turned and began to race ahead once more. But the members of the company were winded, worn down by the chase and the never-ending number of pursuers. Already, more Urdas were after them, ignoring the fire darts, tearing through the trees and flinging their weapons with wild shrieks.

  Then one of those weapons found Pen, catching him just behind the knees and toppling him in a wash of pain and blood.

  It happened so fast that he was down on the ground almost before he realized what was happening. He had the presence of mind to let go of Cinnaminson as he was struck, so that she was not pulled down with him. But he tumbled hard, and when he tried to rise he found his legs would not work. Lying crippled on the ground, he would have died then if not for Atalan. The burly Rock Troll swept him up as he charged past, tucked him under his arm, pounded up to where Cinnaminson stood staring in petrified disbelief thinking she had lost Pen, and snatched her up as well.

  “Can’t be losing you now, little man,” he hissed at Pen, racing after the others as missiles flew all around them. “Not after all the trouble you’ve caused us.”

  Somehow he eluded the Urda weapons flung at him, caught up to the others in the company, and matched their pace. Jounced and shaken in the crook of Atalan’s arm, Pen was aware of how hard carrying him must be, how much strength it must require. But the Rock Troll didn’t seem winded, just angry.

  Ahead, more Urdas appeared, closing ranks in a line of dark, gnarled bodies. Beyond, the trees thinned, and the remains of rock walls and stone columns lifted against a backdrop of trees and mountains, their colors hazy in the grayish light. Kermadec yelled to his Trolls, and five of them joined him in a tight formation of armored bodies and heavy clubs and axes. The rest of the company, including Atalan, fell into place behind him. There was no time to think about what they were doing; they were on top of the Urdas almost before Pen realized what they intended. The Trolls went through the Urda ranks as if they were made of paper. Weapons slashed and cut, but the Trolls fought past any resistance with ferocious purpose, and in seconds the entire company was through.

  Again, the razor-sharp missiles flew after them, but this time they were thrown halfheartedly and to little effect. The effort to keep the intruders from the ruins had failed. Prevented by their beliefs from pursuing further, the Urdas clustered at the edge of the trees and screamed in fury. But by the time Kermadec and his Trolls had collapsed inside the first set of crumbling walls, putting Pen and his companions safely behind the protective stone barriers, the screaming had stopped.

  In the ensuing silence, Pen Ohmsford listened to the pounding of his heart.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lying on the ground beside a clearly winded Atalan, Pen managed to lift his head far enough to look back at his pursuers. A sea of staring eyes, the Urdas were hunkered down in knots all along the edge of the forest. The sudden silence was unnerving. It was as if they were waiting for something to happen, some
thing they knew about that Pen and his companions did not. Pen looked over his shoulder into the ruins. Other than rubble, weeds, and a scattering of saplings that fronted the sprawl of walls of columns beyond, there was nothing to see.

  “Savages,” Atalan muttered.

  Pen gave up on the Urdas and looked down at his legs. There was blood all over where the skin had been broken and the flesh gouged by Urda weapons. Cinnaminson moved over beside him, running her hands over his calves, exploring the wounds, her touch so gentle he could barely feel it. He marveled anew at how she could see so clearly what to do when she was unable to use her eyes. Her blind gaze found his face, as if she knew what he was thinking, and her sudden smile was so dazzling that it took his breath away.

  “It doesn’t feel as if the tendons have been severed or the bones broken,” she said.

  Beyond the walls of their shelter, the Urdas suddenly began to chant, breaking the momentary silence. The words of the chant were indistinguishable, but their purpose was clear.

  “Look at them,” Atalan growled. “Afraid to do anything more than stand out there and hope that by calling on their spirit guardians something bad will happen to us. Stupid.”

  “They do the only thing they know to do,” Cinnaminson said quietly.

  The Rock Troll glanced over at her, his gaze flat and unfriendly. “Don’t make excuses for them, blind girl. They don’t deserve it. They would have killed you.”

  “A blind girl understands something about the need for excuses,” she replied, turning her empty eyes toward his face. “A blind girl perceives savagery differently than you do, I think.”

  Kermadec appeared and knelt down beside them. Without a word, he took out his hunting knife, cut off Pen’s pant legs, and used the scraps of cloth to bind the wounds. “You can wash and dress this later, once we are deeper into the ruins and safely away from the Urdas.”

  Pen nodded. “I’ll be all right.”

  Kermadec moved away again, and Pen looked over at Atalan. “I owe you my life,” he said.

  The burly Troll glanced at him, startled. His blunt features tightened. “You don’t owe me anything, little man,” he replied.

  Then he rose with a grunt and walked away.

  Perplexed, Pen stared after him. “What is wrong with him? Why is he so unfriendly?”

  “He isn’t sure how he feels about what he has just done,” Cinnaminson answered. “He doesn’t know why he did it.” She touched his shoulder. “This doesn’t have to do with you, Pen. It has to do with his brother and himself. I think almost everything does.”

  Pen thought about that for a time, sitting with his back to the wall and listening to the Urdas chant, and decided she was probably right. Atalan’s relationship with his brother was complex and disturbing, and he didn’t think there was much point in trying to understand it without knowing a good deal more than he did. He glanced over at Khyber Elessedil, who was sitting by herself, looking off into the ruins, and then at Tagwen, who sat with his head between his legs, as if he was sick to his stomach. Pen didn’t like it that the four outlanders had become so dependent on the Trolls. He couldn’t put his finger on why that bothered him so, but he thought it had more than a little to do with his uncertainty about Kermadec and Atalan. Rock Trolls were strange enough in their own right without the unwelcome addition of sibling conflict; it only heightened his uneasiness to think that at some point their safety might depend on how well the brothers could manage to get along. He knew how highly Tagwen thought of Kermadec, but Kermadec was only one man. They would have to depend on the other Trolls, as well, and that included Atalan.

  How much did Atalan care about what happened to them?

  It was an unfair question, of course. Atalan had just saved his life. There was no reason for him to be suspicious.

  Nevertheless, he was.

  Kermadec allowed them a short rest, then gathered them together again. They knelt behind the wall at the edge of the ruins, listening as the Urda chant rose and fell in a steady, monotonous rhythm.

  “We’re going now,” he said quietly, ignoring the wailing. “I want us to be at the bridge by nightfall. We will make camp there, then cross in the morning, when it is light and we can see clearly. I don’t think the Urdas will come after us. They are afraid of the spirits and won’t chance angering them, no matter how badly they want to get their hands on us. They will rely on the spirits to punish us for them.”

  He paused. “Still, I don’t want to take anything for granted. So we will leave quietly and in secret, just two or three of us at a time.”

  At the mention of spirits, Pen glanced at Cinnaminson, but the Rover girl was staring straight ahead.

  “Young Penderrin,” Kermadec said, causing Pen to jump. “You and your Rover girl will go first. I want you to keep a sharp watch for anything moving once we start inside. I’ve been here only once, years ago, and I barely got past these walls. What I know, I’ve heard from others, and none of it is reliable. I know of the bridge and the island. I know of the thing that sleeps in the ravine. But there may be other dangers, and I depend on you, with your special talents, to warn us of them.”

  Pen nodded. He noticed that Khyber looked relieved. The onus of having to risk using her Druid magic again had been lifted for the moment. As Kermadec finished his instructions to Pen and Cinnaminson and turned his attention to his Trolls, Pen moved over to the Elven girl. “Well done, Khyber,” he said. “That was a clever bit of magic back there. You saved us all.”

  She nodded. “At a cost I don’t care to contemplate.”

  “You think you gave us away? You think we were detected?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t use much magic, and what I did use is not so different from what can already be found in this valley. Elemental magic, in its purest form. The Inkrim is known to the Druids as a place of such magic. Ahren told me of it on the way.” She hesitated. “I might not have attracted any attention at all. But I can’t be sure. I can’t really be sure about anything.”

  She shook her head. “Ahren would know, if he were here. He would do better at this.”

  Pen leaned close. “Don’t talk like that. I know you miss him. I miss him, too. I know it would be easier if he were still alive.” He lowered his gaze quickly when she wheeled on him, her eyes hot and angry, but he kept talking. “He gave you the responsibility for what happens to all of us. He knew what he was doing. You’ve saved us twice now, Khyber. I know we have placed ourselves in the hands of these Trolls, but it’s you we depend on. It’s you who really keeps us safe.”

  He lifted his gaze again. She was still staring at him, but the anger had drained away. “Sometimes I think you are older than you look, Penderrin,” she said.

  Kermadec was motioning that it was time to go. Pen reached over and squeezed Khyber’s hand. “We’ll be all right.”

  The Maturen led Pen and Cinnaminson away from the rest of the company and into the ruins, creeping across the open spaces behind the crumbling wall to gain the concealment of the undergrowth and rubble beyond. The terrain was uneven and difficult to navigate, and it took them some time to make their way through the weeds and debris. Pen turned his attention to his surroundings, searching out any indication of danger. All he sensed were insects, ground birds, and small animals. Stands of trees rose from the piles of broken stone in sparse clumps, casting shadows across the open spaces like wooden fingers, marking the progress of the sun west. There weren’t more than a couple of hours of daylight left, and it was already obvious to the boy that Stridegate was much bigger than he had assumed. He saw bits and pieces of it poking out of the hills farther in and to either side of where they walked. He found himself wondering how old the city was and who had inhabited it. Once, it must have been enormous.

  He kept his questions to himself. There would be a better time to ask them. He looked over at Cinnaminson, noted the concentration etched on her face, glanced back the way they had come, saw nothing of the others, and turned to wha
t lay ahead.

  They walked for a long time, more than an hour by his estimation, and Stridegate’s look never changed. At times, he thought he detected movement, but he was never able to pinpoint its source or its nature. He wanted to ask Cinnaminson if she noticed anything, but he decided that if she did and if it was important, she would say something. The daylight was beginning to fade more rapidly by then, the shadows to lengthen and the sky to darken. Pen was growing hungry and wondered if they would be permitted a fire.

  The others caught up with them shortly afterwards, appearing in small groups until the entire company had re-formed. Atalan, bringing up the rear, reported that there was no indication of pursuit by the Urdas, who seemed content to remain outside the ruins. He started to say something more, then glanced at Cinnaminson and turned away.

  They continued on, walking into the twilight, watching the shadows lengthen and feeling the air turn brisk as the mountain breezes increased. The Inkrim closed them away, yet they could still catch glimpses of the jagged peaks of the Klu through a cloak of mist and clouds that wrapped the tips of the mountains. Pen felt the enormity of those peaks, their immutability, their weight and age. They made him feel small and vulnerable, and he wished more than once he were somewhere else.

  Then, all at once, it seemed as if he were. The ruins underwent a sudden and dramatic change that brought the entire company to a shocked halt. They had reached the entrance to a wall that, while ancient and worn, was almost whole. But beyond that wall, all evidence of time’s passing vanished. Spread out before them were gardens of such incredible beauty that it seemed as if they belonged to another place entirely. Blankets of columbine tumbled from rock walls. Fields of mountain violets, lupine, shooting stars, and paintbrush spread away in a dazzling mix of colors. Rhododendrons twenty feet high clustered against walls riddled with ferns and tiny yellow blossoms Pen had never seen. Clumps of pink-tipped heather grew everywhere.