The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(42)

Then, some inexplicable instinct—the Highlander never knew exactly where it came from or what triggered it—warned him to turn. It was so strong he flinched from its impact as he spun around, his sword held protectively in front of him.

Iantha was gone. In her place was another of the creatures.

“Shades!” Paxon whispered, not quite believing what he was seeing, not ready to accept what it meant.

There were two of them.

Both father and daughter were changelings.

This realization took place in a split second, and then Iantha was on him. There was no hesitation, no suggestion of any regret. She was no longer human; she was a predatory creature consumed by a blood-lust that swept away any other consideration. She meant to kill him on the spot, and she would have done so if his sword had not saved him. But the magic responded instantly to the threat, throwing up a burst of power that blocked the claws and teeth that slashed and bit at Paxon and would have crippled him. The force of the attack was blunted, but it threw the Highlander backward to the ground while at the same time causing Iantha to howl in rage and go tumbling away.

Paxon was aware of only bits and pieces of what followed next. As he struggled to rise, he caught a glimpse of Crombie Joh coming for him from the other direction, a bigger, stronger threat bearing down with growls and snarls, jaws split wide. Then a second explosion erupted, intercepting him, this one all white fire and blinding light that seemed to come out of nowhere. For an instant the gray light and heavy shadows vanished, the rain evaporated, and the world disappeared.

And there was Starks, emerging from the brightness even as it faded back into the day’s gloom and damp, striding toward him, arms extended, smoke tendrils curling from his fingertips. The miller rose, shifted his attack to the Druid, and barreled toward his intended victim with terrible intent and unstoppable fury.

Paxon tried to find his way back to his feet, but his entire body felt as if a great weight had rendered it useless. His limbs had become soft clay, and his thoughts were scrambled and scattered. He was surprised to find blood all over the front of his tunic and down one arm, and he was suddenly aware of pain washing through him. In spite of his sword’s magic and all his training from Oost, Iantha’s attack had broken through his defenses.

Shaken by the realization and momentarily rendered too weak to arise, he watched helplessly as Crombie Joh launched himself at Starks, a huge and implacable threat. But Starks was equal to it, side-stepping the creature with practiced ease and sending a second explosion of fire into the side of its head. The miller screamed as the blow threw him off balance and sent him sprawling in the damp earth. His massive form crumbled, shaking all over, bristling hair singed and smoking. Starks followed him down, another blast of Druid Fire hitting the other’s wolfish head. And then another.

All at once Crombie Joh was on fire, the flames consuming his now writhing body, fur and flesh alike blackened and smoking. The miller screamed and tried to rise. But his great strength was no match for the damage that had been done to him, and finally he fell back and lay still.

Starks wheeled on Paxon, gesturing. “Go after her!”

Paxon scrambled up, catching a glimpse of Iantha fleeing into the trees, her lupine form bounding through the shadows. He broke into a run, recovered enough now to give pursuit, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. A part of him was reluctant to hunt her like this, but he knew he had to. Even racing after her through the woods, through the layered shadows and clouded gloom, he recalled the young girl eager for his company. A lie, he told himself. But maybe not entirely.

He had planned it all with Starks ahead of time. The miller was the creature. They were convinced of it. The daughter was his accomplice, willing or no. She had told Paxon to come to her when her father was away, but Starks didn’t think events would necessarily turn out as she had promised. So while Paxon would be allowed to go alone, Starks would follow and be there just in case the Highlander was being lured into a trap.

Which, in fact, was what had happened. What they hadn’t counted on, what they hadn’t considered, was that Iantha was another of the creatures, and that father and daughter had been killing the townspeople of Eusta together. Paxon could still hardly believe it. The shock of finding her changed and trying to rip him apart remained a sharp-edged memory in his head, tearing at him.

So now she must be stopped. She must be killed.

I do not want to do this.



I do not want to hurt her.

Conflicting thoughts warred within him. The race to catch her had taken him deep into the woods by now. Starks and the old mill were well behind him and out of sight. He was on his own. Be careful, he warned himself. Remember what she is. Remember what she tried to do. He could no longer see her up ahead, although he could hear her crashing through the brush and see the damage her passing had done.

And see the blood spots, too. She was injured.

Suddenly he was aware that he could no longer hear her. The world around him had gone silent save for the patter of the rain against the leaves and the sound of his breathing. He slowed and then stopped, listening. She was waiting for him. Perhaps in ambush, intending to catch him off guard, coming in reckless pursuit, giving her a chance to finish what she had started.

He moved ahead cautiously, searching the shadows, paying attention to every sound. Nothing. The trail of crushed grasses and blood spatters continued, so he knew he was going in the right direction. The trail had moved away from the deep woods and was now heading for the river. The trees were opening ahead of him to reveal the silver-tipped waters, and the danger of an ambush was fading. He picked up his pace. He could sense that she was near.