The Stiehl Assassin

by Terry Brooks

  “He has a long way to go, Tarsha. Do not deceive yourself. But you are making a good start. And don’t worry. The others will look out for him while you are gone.”

  A wind that had been absent until now blew across them with sudden force, ice-cold and stinging. They hunched down within their cloaks and picked up the pace to reach the shelter of the pass. Once there, they stumbled inside and paused to catch their breath. On the slopes behind them, loose snow was snatched away in windy swirls to form miniature tornadoes that soared skyward before breaking apart and scattering in bursts of white.

  “The weather will be better where we’re going,” the Druid assured her.

  He wondered anew why Grianne Ohmsford had felt it necessary to bring Tarsha to this meeting—why she had insisted that the girl’s presence was so important. Something was at play here that he did not understand, and he worried that Tarsha was being placed at risk. Still, there was nothing for it but to continue on and hope for the best.

  They set out anew, winding their way through the narrow pass, the shadow of the walls on either side blocking out all but the dimmest of moonlight when it chanced to surface from behind the clouds. Morning was still well off, so they held no expectations of help from sunlight. Hands stretched out to ward off unpleasant encounters with the rock corridor. Eyes shifting from the uneven ground on which they walked to the twists and turns in the darkened corridor ahead, they advanced cautiously. The deeper in they went, the stronger the sound of the wind, which seemed to be coming from all around. It grew into a howling, wailing cry that chilled them, even though both had some familiarity with it from their previous visit. The souls of the dead seemed to be calling them, and no summons of that sort was ever pleasant.

  When they finally emerged, they found themselves in a place of windless silence, the valley a sprawl of glittering obsidian surrounding the greenish-tinged mirror of the Hadeshorn. Mist had crawled down from the higher elevations to layer large portions of the valley and the shores of the lake. There was no movement anywhere, no signs of life, and no indication that anything could even exist in this barren landscape. Drisker took them down a short way and then seated himself, beckoning to Tarsha to join him.

  And there they would remain until the hour before dawn when they would go down to the Hadeshorn to summon the dead.

  Time drifted away, and neither spoke. They sat together, staring off into the distance, thinking their separate thoughts. Their world was a silent tableau into which conversation would be an intrusion. But at least the bitter cold was substantially reduced, barely registering with either as they sat quietly, still wrapped in their cloaks but no longer shivering.

  Drisker found himself thinking of his time in lost Paranor, fighting to discover what it would take to get free. The answer had been so simple and at the same time so daunting. He had given up his future—his life as he had wished to finish it out—in order to escape his captivity. The pain was less than it had been initially but still a nagging reminder of what he had lost.

  Enough, he decided finally. Enough of this bitter meditation.

  “Time to be off,” he said to Tarsha. He rose quickly, adding, “A final warning. Do not speak when we are down there. Not a word. Understand?”

  The girl nodded, and they began the slow walk down to the Hadeshorn’s shores. They were careful how they placed their boots on the loose rock, gingerly searching out solid footing. Ahead, the mist that had crept down earlier in thin, ragged strips was growing more substantial, the strips joining to form larger blankets that threatened to swallow the entire valley. Drisker took note. It was almost as if it sought to bar his coming.

  By the time they reached the shores of the Hadeshorn, the mist was a solid mass lying across the lake. It was roiling in a windless expanse as if stirred by an invisible hand. The lake lay placid and unmoving beneath it, but that would change quickly enough.

  Leaving Tarsha to wait several yards behind him, Drisker began the summoning. Weaving his hands to form the symbols and uttering the words of magic that would enhance the path of the shades rising from the netherworld, he called them forth. The Hadeshorn announced their approach surging with heavy waves and wild spray—a churning cauldron of mass disruption that sounded deep booming coughs and belches. The blanket of mist hanging above the waters came alive with new fervor as the sounds increased and the lake boiled. Suddenly the whole of the Valley of Shale was a cacophony of sound and fury. Drisker shrank from it instinctively, forced to shield his eyes against the sting of the spray while standing firm against the heaving of the lake’s angry waters.

  Then the dead began to rise, their frail forms swimming skyward through the spray and the mist, seeking the freedom they so desperately desired and yet could never have. Drisker glanced back at Tarsha and found her down on one knee, her head lowered within her hood, clutching the folds of her cloak tightly about her slender form. She clearly felt besieged by what was happening, frightened of the power she was witnessing.

  As well she should be. This maelstrom was unlike anything he had experienced here before, and he also felt a sudden lick of fear.

  A deep hissing sounded, and a solitary figure emerged from the turmoil. A shade had separated itself from the others, wrapped in a black cloak and hood, gliding as if weightless upon the surface of the lake. Drisker peered at it through the brume and immediately realized that it was substantially bigger than Grianne Ohmsford.

  He waited uncertainly for the shade to draw closer, but as soon as the face concealed within the shadows of the hood lifted into the pale light of moon and stars, he knew.

  It was not Grianne Ohmsford who had come in response to his call.

  It was Allanon.

  * * *

  —

  Tarsha watched the dark shade’s approach with trepidation. Drisker was a Druid and a big man physically, but the shade was bigger still. It crossed atop the surface of the lake before coming to a halt, and Tarsha felt grateful she had Drisker standing between them. When the shade pulled back its hood to reveal its face, Tarsha could see the immediate startle in the Druid’s posture.

  “Allanon,” he whispered in shock.

  Which was odd, since she had been assuming all along that it was Allanon to whom he had spoken earlier, and Allanon whom he had called back now. But she dismissed the matter as the shade began to speak in a deep, rough voice that seemed to promise retribution for countless wrongs.

  –You might have been expecting someone else, but she is not coming. When I discovered she had broken through the Forbidding into the netherworld, I sent her back again and blocked her from further intrusions. She does not belong here. She has no right to use our pathways–

  “And her warnings of what was needed to help the Four Lands? Was that all a lie?” Drisker demanded.

  Again, Tarsha found herself surprised by the challenging way in which the Druid responded.

  –Her warnings were real and her advice well considered. She has talents as a seer, ones not evident during her time in the Four Lands. Perhaps she developed them while imprisoned in the Forbidding–

  Tarsha was further confused. The Forbidding?

  “Then why are you here at all?” Drisker asked. “Have you further advice to offer? Have you insights to share before my company and I undertake our separate journeys?”

  The shade considered, dark features tightening as if some ill thought had crossed his mind.

  –What you have been told is all you need to know. You have chosen the right paths for you and your companions, and for the company that travels to Skaarsland. It is through these efforts that you will succeed or fail in your endeavors. No other avenues are open to you. But know this. Some avenues you seek to travel are already closed. Some others, old and new, will reveal themselves in ways you will not care to discover. Still, all those who dwell within the Four Lands face such vagaries and vicissitudes while the
y are alive. You are no different–

  “Then tell me of these avenues. Show me what I might need to know, even if I cannot change it.”

  I would never ask that, Tarsha thought. Not after what happened with Parlindru.

  But Drisker seemed to think it necessary. He did not change his stance or offer to retract it but simply stood waiting for the shade of Allanon to respond.

  –You would do well not to ask such favors, Drisker Arc. To know the future is too painful. For it only shows you how little of your life is under your control–

  “I would know anyway. It might give me some small measure of insight I will need later.”

  –Such insights will come too late to be of use. Nor do I have all that many. I think it best we leave the future to reveal itself as it chooses. Knowing it does not help. So to spare you, I will not answer–

  Drisker hesitated then, as if considering. “Can you tell me why it was so important that I bring Tarsha Kaynin with me to this meeting?”

  He gestured in her direction, and when Allanon’s dark gaze fixed upon her, Tarsha wished she could crawl into the ground and pull the earth up over her head. Heavy weight she would never wish to carry pressed down on her as the shade spoke.

  –It was not me who sought to view her; it was the one you were expecting. But since I stand now in her shoes, and I have the sight, as well, I can tell you. This girl will do what another seer once told her she is fated to do. She will make a decision that will change the world. She is here now so that I might judge this for myself–

  Three times you shall die…Tarsha closed her eyes against the prophecy, against the rule of three and all that Parlindru had promised would come to pass. Against the future she would face. Against her certainty that there was nothing she could do to avoid it.

  –You know what is needed, Drisker Arc. Do it. Do it while you and I bear witness to its consummation. Ordain her. Now–

  Tarsha heard her companion give a deep sigh before walking to the edge of the Hadeshorn and leaning down to dip his fingers in the roiling waters. Waters she had heard were poisonous to all living human creatures. Then he returned to stand before her. “Kneel,” he said.

  She did so without objection, the power of his words enough to persuade her that she must. The Druid bent to her, and his dampened fingers touched her forehead. As they did so, he spoke in a whisper words she did not understand. She felt a chill run through her from the other’s touch that left her shaking with cold.

  When the fingers lifted away, the words were all spoken but her shaking persisted.

  Allanon’s gaze left her, and Tarsha felt its weight lift from her shoulders. Even so, she was left infused with a lingering sense of having brushed up against her own death.

  The shade was speaking once more.

  –Go now. Do what you have been given to do. Do what you know you must while the time remains–

  He turned away and retreated across the lake to the wild reverie of the other shades before disappearing. The Hadeshorn erupted and spit with fresh fury, and the shades that remained were dragged back down into its depths until the waters had closed over them. The mists swirled and broke apart and were gone. Seconds later the winds quieted, and the deep silence of earlier returned. Drisker and Tarsha were left alone in the vacuum that remained, and above the eastern wall of the valley, the sunrise broke.

  Drisker stood without moving for long moments before finally speaking. “We must return to the others. We must retrieve Tavo so the Behemoth can depart on her journey to Skaarsland and we can begin a journey of our own. Come.”

  “Wait!” she called out, stopping him as he was turning away. “What was all that about, dipping your fingers into the Hadeshorn and touching my forehead? Who was it you spoke to earlier? Did I hear the shade say something about being trapped in the Forbidding? What’s going on?”

  The Druid gave her a long, intense stare before again turning from her. “I’ll tell you another time.”

  He started away, and Tarsha Kaynin had no choice but to follow.

  EIGHTEEN

  LAKODAN WAS WORKING IN his shop, fashioning a new ax blade to replace his old, which was chipped and split so badly its edge had the look of a hacksaw blade. It was an older weapon, but one he had used in the wars against shore pirates along the Tiderace, and the Gnome raiders out of Strenk Reach, not five years earlier. It seemed he was always being called away to serve the Dwarf nation in one cause or other—missions he accepted willingly enough at first but which by now, as he entered his fifth decade, he found less palatable.

  If it weren’t for Battenhyle and their long friendship, he would probably have announced that he was done—a warrior still but a warrior retired. The Dwarves had younger men and women, some nearly as good at fighting, if not as experienced. Which was why he devoted time to teaching them what he knew. Young Tellick was the most promising, and Lakodan had trained him separately from the rest, recognizing his promise early and seeing in him the young man he had once been. Besides, he liked the boy, found him a match for his own wicked humor, and wanted him to become his greatest accomplishment as a teacher.

  But fate and circumstance could change all that in an instant. Things were no longer as they once had been. The Dwarves were a beaten people these days, in thrall to the Federation machine. A protectorate—a word both offensive and ridiculous. They were all but slaves, forbidden from even the smallest deviation outside the terms drawn for them in their surrender twenty years earlier, when the armies out of Arishaig had crushed them and executed all their leaders. A lesser people would have degenerated into depression and hopelessness, but the Dwarves were proud and determined. A time would come when this would change, when they would again be a people with no restrictions.

  Although, Lakodan admitted to himself in the privacy of his thoughts, he might not live to see it.

  Because life was uncertain, a fighter of his stature learned early to take it one step at a time—each day, month, and year—without making the mistake of looking too far ahead. Life played tricks on you, and some of them were wicked. If this was not the case, then how did you explain why the only woman he had ever loved had left him for another man? And not just any other man, but a man so quiet and unassuming and bereft of any possibility of real accomplishment that he spent his days tending gardens and planting flowers? How did you live with the idea that a woman possessed of such wondrous beauty and warmth of personality had abandoned a warrior of his stature to live her life in relative seclusion, with no day-to-day changes that merited more than a moment’s thought?

  He realized he had stopped working, caught up in his memories, and he quickly returned to what he had been doing. Relinda had been special. No one else had come along to replace her, but he’d made peace some years back with the idea that he was not meant to have a wife and children. He would have to be content with who and what he was. He was famous, successful, and recognized everywhere within the Dwarf nation as a warrior without peer. His like, they said, would not soon come again.

  Even so…

  “Neighbor!” a familiar voice boomed out, and the burly figure of Battenhyle rounded the corner of his workshop, his bearded face a map of his own struggles. The big man was Crackenrood’s titular chieftain, and a formidable warrior in his own right. He was also a good five years older than Lakodan and at least that many years wiser. Of all the heads of Dwarf villages in the Eastland—and that included Culhaven—there was no better man to be a leader of Dwarves, and no man more respected. That Battenhyle had been his friend since childhood was a happy coincidence. Both had been born and raised and made their homes in Crackenrood, and both had undertaken a lifelong effort to keep their village safe.

  “Big Bat,” Lakodan greeted him in turn, and the two Dwarves embraced warmly. “I see a storm cloud settled on your brow. A thunderhead, Old Bear. What news?”

  The big man made
a face. “Oh, nothing much. A visit from the usual dog scat that treks into our village every time we start to get too comfortable.”

  “So, the Federation?”

  “A small pack of them. My scouts just reported that a transport has landed and moored on this side of the pass—under heavy guard, because you know what thieves we are—and its passengers are coming in on foot. Whelps, novices, and irritants, all of them.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Maybe a dozen. It doesn’t look like an armed confrontation. Something else, I think. Threats only, this time.”

  Lakodan shrugged. “Or maybe public recognition of your long and able service as village headman. The truth might have finally dawned on them. Anything’s possible, they say.” He paused. “So, you want an ax at your back when you speak to them?”

  “I want a dozen. But mostly, I want the one I know I can trust.”

  “Come, now. They all love you. No one would fail Battenhyle, Vanquisher of the Bear of Bargoda. Who would dare?”

  It was a standing joke. Once upon a time, Battenhyle had run up against a Koden in the mountains of Bargoda Bar. All alone and facing a two-ton animal with an uncertain disposition, he had done what any wise man would do: He had faced it down. Running was suicide; it would pursue, and it was much, much faster over short distances. Facing a Koden down confused it, or so the stories went. Battenhyle decided to go with the stories. He stood there without moving, dead in the path of the bear, with the monster staring right at him. It was down on all fours at first, but it quickly lost patience and rose on its hind legs to somewhere over fifteen feet tall, and roared with all the force it could muster.

  Battenhyle had roared right back, the sound emerging as something between a roll of thunder and a shriek. The Koden, not knowing what to make of it, had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and turned aside. Battenhyle later admitted privately to Lakodan that, as soon as the bear was out of sight, he promptly threw up.