The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(37)
“You have an idea about this? Can you put a stop to it?”
Starks smiled, his calm demeanor reassuring. “Yes,” he said.
[page]ELEVEN
THEY SLEPT THAT NIGHT ON MATTRESSES FILLED WITH STRAW in an unheated upper-level room in the stables that had likely once been part of the hayloft. They were given blankets, which was a good thing since it was chilly at night in Eusta, even as far south as it was, and the wind blew constantly. The cold didn’t bother Paxon nearly so much as the wind’s constant moan—a sound that sent shivers up his spine and suggested the presence of creatures he would rather not encounter.
When he rose the next morning, Starks was already up along with the sun, wrapped in his black robes and standing at the doors of the loft looking down on the shabby business district below. A few men and women were out on the street—there was only one—making their various ways from door to door, going about their personal business. There was nothing about their behavior to indicate that something was out there waiting to kill them off.
Paxon walked over to stand beside Starks. For a few moments, he didn’t say anything, merely stood with him observing the town. “Did you mean what you said to Struen yesterday?” he asked finally. “Do we really have some idea of what’s going on or who is responsible?”
Starks nodded. “We do. Or at least I do.”
“Do you intend to share this information with me?”
“Of course.”
Paxon waited a beat. “When, exactly?”
Starks looked at him. “Don’t be so impatient.”
“I’m just wondering if we are to spend today like yesterday, asking questions about the villagers and its outliers, rather than using magic. Can’t you just track this thing we’re hunting with your Druid skills?”
“Unless it uses magic, I have no way to track it. Its magic, Paxon, is of a different form. It’s not a talisman, not a substantive thing separate from the user. It is a part of the user. Why, I don’t yet know. Whatever it is, it has infected someone so completely that they change from human to animal in seconds. I don’t think they can control it. I think it just happens, and maybe they aren’t even aware of it.”
“Is that possible?” Paxon felt doubtful. “How could you not be aware of something like that?”
“Mostly, you are in denial because it is too horrible to accept. You just don’t let yourself think about it.”
“So these killings aren’t planned?”
“In the middle of a dinner at someone’s home? As a young man prepares to leave his girl? Why bother to consume half a dinner and then attack? Why not wait until the young man is farther off?”
“But you have some sort of idea of how to go about finding the creature?”
“At the farm yesterday, there were wagon tracks, but no wagon.” Starks was looking directly at him now. “I was able to sniff out traces of ground wheat. I found particles of milled grain.”
“The miller’s place.”
Starks nodded. “A starting point, at least. We’ll go there after we’ve gotten something to eat.”
The breakfast options were not an improvement over the sleeping accommodations. There were no eating establishments in the town, so they were forced to eat what Joffre Struen was able to supply them, which consisted of a thick slice of dense wheat bread and a glass of warm ale with which to wash it down. It was less than satisfying, but it was probably the best that the stableman could manage, so neither Starks nor Paxon even thought about complaining.
When they were finished eating, they borrowed the horses once again, got directions to the mill, and set out. This time they rode east, traveling first on the main road and then turning off onto a rutted trail a quarter mile farther up. The trail ran parallel to a river that meandered its way into foothills that continued on toward distant mountains. There were no other people on the road, and only twice did they see any buildings—once, a shed nearly hidden from sight within a grove of fir, and later on a cabin that showed little upkeep and no indication of life.
Paxon kept searching the landscape they passed through, thinking to spy out a meaningful sign. But all he saw were glimpses of swift birds and squirrels in the trees and stationary cows in the pastures.
At the end of the road, the mill sat flush against the river, its great waterwheel turning slowly with the current, the grindstone groaning like a great beast from inside the building that housed it. They rode to within a dozen yards of the mill before spying the cottage behind it. They dismounted there, leaving their horses and walking up to the mill.
Within the near darkness, a shadow moved and the miller emerged.
“Well met, sirs,” he said cheerfully, coming up to them and shaking their hands. “I thought you might be coming out this way eventually. I’m Crombie Joh.”
He was a big, burly man with a shock of black hair, his shoulders massive, his hands callused and hard. He had lively eyes that shifted back and forth between his visitors, but never left their faces. His grin was open and welcoming.
Starks gave his name and Paxon’s. “Is it true your daughter was here when it happened?”
The man sighed. “Iantha. Yes. The boy was more than a casual friend, I think. She doesn’t like to talk about it. He had come while I was away. He was just leaving, and she had gone back inside. She heard the screams, ran to the door, and saw him pinned to the ground with something ripping at him. She knew right away what it was. She’d heard about the others. So she ran back inside and hid in the cellar until it was done.”