The Skaar Invasion

by Terry Brooks

  Ajin had been hopeful the Elves might yet lend assistance, but so far they had failed to do so. Kol’Dre knew from years of working alongside her how persuasive she could be. She had given everything she had to winning over Gerrendren Elessedil—including the possibility of a visit to her bed. Not that she would have allowed it, but she would have made certain he believed it might happen, and that should have cemented his thinking.

  But for some reason, it had not.

  So now they were faced with the unpleasant prospect of having to fight the Federation on their own. Especially now that it seemed clear that her father was not coming.

  The minutes passed slowly, time dragging her leaden feet as they waited and watched. On the lower banks of the river, small movements were apparent within the trenches and shelters where the Skaar soldiers were hidden, waiting for orders. Runners moved back and forth between concealments, cloaked in their invisibility, their presence a series of ripples on the air apparent only to the trained eye.

  Kol’Dre watched and considered. If the attack came, Ajin would have to decide whether to stand and fight or flee. She would be reluctant to do the former and unlikely to choose the latter. There were no good choices in a situation as untenable as theirs.

  He gave her a quick glance, and she met his gaze. “Thank you for being with me, Kol. Now and all the other times you could have abandoned me. I speak in haste and with ill-advised words sometimes, as you, most of all, well know. And for that, I am sorry.”

  He nodded slowly and looked away again, taking in her words, her look, her demeanor. She meant what she said, he believed. She was not simply trying to mend things between them.

  “Kol,” she said suddenly, pointing southward.

  In the far distance, black dots were appearing, filling the skies as they multiplied. Swiftly, they emerged from the horizon’s bright haze to take the forms of airships, spanning a broad swath of blue space in the morning sky.

  “They’re coming for us,” she said.

  Already, a runner from the Skaar defensive line was charging up the hill to make certain she knew. He was running hard and fast, zigzagging through brush and rocks, lithe and agile in his leaps and bounds. Ajin and Kol watched him come, saying nothing as he drew closer, their eyes shifting between the runner and the airships, each growing larger as the seconds passed. Ajin would have to make a decision now—one that would determine all their fates.

  He glanced at her one last time. “What do we do?”

  “What we have always done, Kol. We stand our ground. We do not yield and we do not flee. We do not show fear. We are the Skaar. We die if we must, but we die facing what comes for us.”

  “What of our airships? They might prove useful if we are attacked, offer some protection for our soldiers.”

  “No. The ships remain where they are, behind our lines and concealed. When it becomes apparent there will be an attack and no quarter given, we will withdraw into the forests and make for our aquaswifts. Those soldiers who can reach them will fly home to kindred and king and tell our story. It will be a testament to our courage and our steadfastness. And perhaps my father will forgive me for failing him.”

  Kol was indignant. “You did not fail him, Ajin! He failed you.”

  “He apparently does not see it that way.”

  “How he sees it, and how it really is, are two very different things.”

  “Not in his eyes.”

  Kol thought to say more on the matter, but chose not to. “So you will not attempt to escape? Not even where it looks hopeless?”

  She looked over once more. “What sort of princess—what sort of commander—would I be if I fled in front of my soldiers? No, I will not be remembered that way. I do not hold my life so precious. Fate will decide what becomes of me, but fate will not name me a coward. You may go, my friend. In fact, you should.”

  He looked away. “Where you go, I go. You should know that by now.”

  She studied him for long moments, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her nod. “Yes, I should.”

  The runner reached them, stumbling at the end as he drew up short before her. “Princess, there are airships approaching from the south. As many as fifty or sixty. Some are clearly identifiable as warships and transports. What are your orders?”

  Kol waited for her answer. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking south at the approaching enemy and then down at the Skaar defenses. “Divide the command into three units and move them back from the riverfront into the trees to make their stand. Separate the three by at least two hundred yards each. There is to be no response to any attack until I give the order. If the battle goes against us, the units are to disband and our soldiers are to find their way back to the airships and fly home. Send fifty of our soldiers to me to create a defensive response if one is needed. This will give the others in the command time enough to slip away. Tell them I…”

  But the runner was no longer listening to her. He was no longer even looking at her. He was staring upward at the sky behind them, his mouth hanging open in shock, his eyes wide.

  Kol’Dre wheeled about at the same time Ajin turned, and together they looked into a sky filled with a second fleet of warships, their dark shapes hovering above the trees like birds of prey.

  “The Elves!” Kol exclaimed in joyful recognition. “They’ve come!”

  But Ajin shook her head at once. “No, Kol. Not Elves. Those are Skaar vessels.” The expression on her face spoke volumes, a mix of joy and regret. “It seems my father has arrived after all.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Drisker Arc walked the deserted halls of lost Paranor, a faded presence in this tomb of faded dreams, alone for the moment since Cogline had gone elsewhere, thinking about what lay ahead. He knew now what was expected of him, understood what he must do in order to return Paranor to the Four Lands and free himself of his imprisonment. He knew the sacrifice he must make, but not yet the toll it would take on him to make it. His experience as Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order gave him many insights, but not this one. Nothing, he had come to accept, would prepare him for what lay ahead.

  The Druid Histories had not fully explained what the cost would be, and he imagined it was better not to know. It had happened only once before that a Druid had been required to use the Black Elfstone to bring back Paranor after it had been dispatched into limbo. But the circumstances had not been the same. Walker Boh had not been deliberately imprisoned. Instead, he had entered willingly, though without knowing what doing so would cost him, and then once within had been forced to make the same choice Drisker was now required to make hundreds of years later.

  Drisker slowed, then stopped at the west-facing doors leading from the building’s interior to the walls beyond and freedom. That he had been brought to this was incomprehensible. If only he had been a little more careful, a bit more wary, Clizia Porse would not have been able to place him in this situation. But his desperate need to prevent disaster and his overconfidence in his ability to do so had propelled him to his doom, making him return from exile in a futile effort to change the fate of an order that had brought about its own demise. For it was undeniable that the failure of the Druids to govern themselves was the direct cause of their downfall. It hadn’t happened in a day or a month or even a year. It had happened over a considerable time, but they were all complicit in the result.

  And he included himself in this assessment, accepting for the first time his failure to lead the order with a stronger, surer hand. He, too, must share responsibility for the lapses of judgment and reason he visited on the other members of his order. And having acknowledged such, he must pay the price.

  He reached into his cloak and withdrew the Black Elfstone. It was surprisingly light in his hand, and its polished surface—matte black and nonreflective—shone with an odd glimmer. It knew. It was waking in response to his decision. It was awaiting h
is call.

  As if sensing what was about to happen, Cogline appeared beside him—a pale and ghostly creature, a wraith of a Druid long gone from this world and not yet passed into the next. The old eyes looked into his and saw the truth, and he nodded his understanding.

  “You’ve found what is needed,” he said. “Your eyes have been opened.”

  Drisker nodded. “I studied enough of the Druid Histories and thought enough on Walker Boh to understand. Although it did not come to me easily. I resisted it.”

  “Walker, too, struggled.”

  “I imagine he did. He faced a similar dilemma. To bring back Paranor, a sacrifice of self is required—letting go of personal considerations and giving in to what fate demands. His fate will now be mine. He did not want it, either, but he did what was required. I must do the same.”

  “So you would return to the Four Lands? You would go again into the world of the living?”

  Drisker shrugged. “I can do nothing else if I want to see things set right. I will use the Black Elfstone. I know now that I can. I have accepted what needs to happen, and what I must become once more. Walker Boh did not face a return to something he once was; he faced becoming something he never was. I, on the other hand, face becoming something I once was and had told myself I would never be again.”

  “Ard Rhys.”

  Drisker nodded. “I wonder if I am up to it? I wonder if I have the strength?”

  “You understand the price?”

  He did. If he were to bring back Paranor, he must restore it to what it was before. He must eventually return the life that was stolen by the Skaar. It must become again a home for Druids, a gathering place for those who would protect and preserve the Four Lands and their people. And at least one Druid was necessary to set those wheels in motion. Drisker must become Ard Rhys of a new Druid order—a Fifth Druid Order—creating at least the possibility of carrying on what his predecessors had begun. What Galaphile had first envisioned thousands of years ago, in the wake of the destruction of the Old World. His life would no longer be his own, but one of service to the larger order, his wants and needs subsumed by his duties, his intention to live a private life a dream he would never realize.

  He looked down at the Black Elfstone where it rested in the palm of his hand. The gem shone brighter, he thought, more radiant even though it was still opaque. He could feel its warmth on his face and clothing. It was alive with hope, and it wanted him to acknowledge it. It wanted him to embrace his calling, to cast aside his doubts and fears, to believe in himself as he had never believed before.

  “Will you do this now?” Cogline pressed, stepping closer.

  “When my mind is ready and my thoughts clear. When there is no longer any hint of doubt.”

  “You ask too much of yourself. Your confidence in yourself will carry you through. I can sense it.”

  Drisker was examining himself. He was all but transparent by now, almost a ghost, ready to join those long dead. Only a small part of him felt real anymore, and that part was fragile and weak. He had let himself decay to the point where he was not sure he could survive the demands of the magic. Such magic was not easily accessed and less easily withstood. It would try to break him with its power; it would test him in the most severe ways.

  Yet he had no choice. Movement in any other direction would indicate the extent of his weakness, and he could not bear that.

  “Stand back from me, Cogline,” he said. “I must be alone to do this properly.”

  Cogline stepped away without a word, and Drisker moved forward until he stood directly before the doors that would open out toward the west. Somewhere outside Paranor’s walls, he would find Tarsha, Dar Leah, and Brecon Elessedil waiting for him. Somewhere out there, Clizia Porse and Tarsha’s brother would be waiting, too. And somewhere farther along the road, his future waited.

  He closed his hand tightly around the Black Elfstone and stretched forth his arm. In his mind, he spoke the words he believed were needed for a summoning of the magic.

  I am ready now. I am willing. I understand what is needed. I embrace who I am and what I must do. I shall not run or hide or shy from what that means. I will dedicate my life to the Druid order from henceforth until my time is over.

  He felt the Black Elfstone warm further.

  Come to me. Become part of me. Do to me what you must to accept the truth of what I have pledged.

  The warmth increased. An inky darkness rose from the talisman to mingle with the hazy air of the Keep, enfolding him in a cocoon that caused his surroundings to disappear.

  He was alone.

  * * *

  —

  Time stopped.

  He could hear his heart beating and the inhaling and exhaling of his breath, but he could feel something else, too. A gathering of the darkness that cloaked him was under way. Without realizing he was doing so—and without knowing or understanding why—he allowed his fingers to unfold and his fist to fall open so that the Black Elfstone was revealed.

  Instantly, the darkness that surrounded him exploded, and he could sense it spreading through the Keep, mingling and mixing with the brume that lingered in the wake of the Guardian’s passing. It went everywhere—down hallways and through passages, into rooms and nooks and tiny dark spaces, from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Its presence was unmistakable, and even with his senses curbed and muted he could tell it was becoming…what?

  Something different, something more.

  Then, with the ferocity and power of an attacking moor cat, it came roaring back to him, a whirlwind of sound and fury. He shrank from it, but there was no escape. It wrapped him with suffocating intent, then entered him. It burrowed through him—a hot and fierce intrusion that burned him from the inside out. He heard himself scream—as much from its intense pressure as from the pain. He was possessed by it, his defenses insufficient and quickly overwhelmed.

  A change was taking place within him. Another presence had entered his body—an intruder that did not belong. He fought back, struggled to expunge it, but he was a child fighting to hold back a giant. This pain, this occupation, far exceeded what he had felt when the mix of darkness and mist had entered him earlier. It was searing and raw; it was unbearable. Yet he did not burn away as he thought he surely must. Somehow, he withstood its fury and held himself together.

  And then it was gone, as suddenly as it had come.

  In its place? A different kind of pain, a new source of agony. Memories and images began to appear. Words spoken and visions revealed. All of it was recognizable—a recitation of stories and truths long since told or revealed. He knew their source instantly. They were from the Druid Histories, from times mostly forgotten. They were the writings of Druids dead and gone. A voice was speaking to him, whispering all through him, and what it was saying left him stunned. It was not so much the telling as the manner of the telling. The emotion he felt conveyed far more than the words and images. It brought tears to his eyes—revelations of sacrifice and loss, of failure and despair, of intentions gone wrong and efforts fallen short. All the suffering caused by the Druids in their efforts to help—some of it willfully and some accidentally; some visited on the people of the Four Lands and some on themselves; some expended with memorable success and some wasted futilely.

  Suddenly he knew who was speaking, who had entered his body to possess him and would remain until the revelations were complete.

  It was Walker Boh.

  It was his predecessor from centuries back—the reluctant Druid who had once been visited in the same way he was being visited now. Walker Boh, who had not wanted to be a Druid, either, but who had been brought to his fate in the same way Drisker had. Need and duty; the knowledge of what failure would mean; an understanding that sacrifice was what the magic demanded—those were the ropes that had bound him.

  And that were now binding Drisker.
r />   Look at what you have done. Look at the destruction you have wrought. Look closely at what you are.

  The words were spoken in a calm, cold voice that demanded a response, yet gave no sense of comfort. Drisker looked and saw how his weakness had caused so much damage. If not for his abandonment of Paranor, spurning his duty to serve as Ard Rhys—if not for his collapse of faith and willingness to walk away, for his acceptance of exile and withdrawal to a life of solitude and self-indulgence—the Fourth Druid Order might yet exist. It was his decision to leave that had set everything in motion. He had allowed an inferior to occupy the position and wield the power with which he had been entrusted. It was his lack of perseverance and courage that had opened the doors to the Skaar and invited the destruction of everything that his predecessors had built.

  Abruptly, they were there to bear witness—a line of faces and dark robes, come to confront him. Galaphile, Bremen, Allanon, Grianne, Aphenglow. They and so many others appeared out of the ether. And then Walker Boh materialized, the first and foremost of his accusers, revealing his weaknesses and forcing him to admit the truth. Drisker stood before them all, broken and ashamed. He saw what he was, what he had known secretly and tried to deny. He felt the burden of the guilt he must bear. These men and women who had preceded him had given so much so that the work of the Druids could survive. Much sacrifice had been required of them, yet they had not walked away from their responsibility as he had.

  Each had a story to tell, and each told it. The words burned through Drisker like live coals. The images they conjured caused him to shrink further inside himself. He thought more than once that he might break down completely. He thought more than once he was going to descend into a despair from which he would never recover. But even so he weathered it. He would not fall apart.

  And then, with shocking suddenness, all disappeared. The ghosts of Druids past faded away. Their words and images ceased, and all the pain and sorrow with them—vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving him alone once more in his black cocoon. The abruptness of it made him catch what little remained of his breath. And the silence that followed left him strangely bereft and vulnerable.