The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(6)
“Much better.” The stranger stepped back and his men stepped forward. “Don’t hurt him too much,” he told them. “Don’t break anything. Just show him the error of his ways.”
They came at Paxon in a rush, slamming into him with such force that they knocked him off his feet. They were on top of him instantly, fists pummeling him as he tried to fight back. He might have landed a few good blows in the struggle, but in the end there were still three of them and only one of him, and he was overwhelmed.
Eventually, the pain and the shock caused him to lose consciousness. When he came awake again, a hand was slapping his face in a rhythmic fashion while another was holding up his head by his hair.
The stranger was kneeling before him. “My name is Arcannen. If you wish to pursue this, you can find me at Dark House in the city of Wayford. You should stay away, but if you can’t help yourself you had better bring a real weapon, not an iron bar. Because if I see you again, I will kill you.”
He rose and stood looking down. “Let him go.”
The fingers tangled in his hair released their grip and his face slammed into the earth. Pain exploded in his head, and bright flashes appeared behind his eyelids. He lay helplessly, fighting to stay conscious. But it was long minutes later before he could bring himself to open his eyes and turn himself over to discover that the stranger’s airship had begun to lift off, light sheaths gathering in sunlight for the radian draws to channel to the parse tubes, thrusters powering up. As battered as he was, as defeated as he felt, he found himself admiring the sleek lines of the vessel, wondering again why he had never seen this sort of airship before. He made himself memorize her look, the emblems on her pennants, the insignia on her bow.
A black raven, wings spread, beak open wide. Attacking.
Then the vessel wheeled south and sped away. By the time Paxon was back on his feet, she was little more than a dot in the distant sky.
He stood looking at nothing for a few moments, waiting to recover from his beating, then turned about and stalked from the airfield. He had really never had a chance at getting Chrys back from the stranger. Arcannen—that was a name he wouldn’t forget. He had provided it willingly—something Raffe had refused to do—so he was confident that it wouldn’t help Paxon to know it. He was a man possessed of a new style of airship and a crew that likely would do anything he asked them to. Somehow, he had been able to persuade Paxon to put down the iron bar when that might have made the difference in the fight.
And he had Chrys in his possession. He was flying her back to Wayford to something called Dark House. Paxon could only imagine what that might turn out to be.
Come find out, Arcannen had challenged. Believing Paxon would never dare to do so, that he had found out the hard way what would happen if he did. The beating was a warning. Stay away. Don’t come after me. Let your sister go. She belongs to me, and I can do with her what I like. You can’t prevent it, and you shouldn’t try. You are a Highlander of no importance living in a place of low regard, and you can never hope to be the equal of me. Stay where you are and stay healthy.
He left the airfield and trudged through the city toward home, picturing Arcannen’s face and hearing his smooth voice in his mind.
So certain that Paxon had been put in his place.
Well, he was in for a surprise.
[page]THREE
BY THE TIME HE REACHED HIS HOME AND WALKED INTO THE kitchen to wash off the dirt and blood and put cold compresses on the worst of the bruises, Paxon had made up his mind. He was going after his sister, no matter what Arcannen threatened or what sort of obstacles he might encounter. Any further consideration of the matter was beyond discussion. But he would not be so reckless as he was before. He would not let himself be caught in a situation where he clearly had no hope of accomplishing anything. The outcome would be different this time around.
After he finished washing and applying cold cloths to his battered face, he retired to the front porch to sit and think for a few minutes. Chrys was already at risk, and he didn’t believe for a minute that her captor would sit around deciding what to do with her. If he was to get to his sister before she was subjected to a whole raft of unpleasantness that could easily result in both physical and emotional damage, he needed to do so sooner rather than later. It was helpful knowing who it was he was looking for and where to find him. Arcannen had told him pointedly enough that he would be at Dark House in the city of Wayford, so all Paxon needed to do was to power up the Sprint he had built for himself some years back and fly down there. Someone would be able to give him directions once he arrived, and then he could start looking for Chrys in earnest.
Simple enough, if you didn’t dwell too long on the lack of details—like how he was supposed to get her out of Arcannen’s establishment and safely out of the city without anyone stopping him.
He imagined there would be guards—and probably large numbers of them. On further consideration, it seemed to him that if Arcannen could make him put down that iron bar simply by asking him to do so, he probably possessed magic. Even though it was outlawed in the Southland and any use of it would be dealt with swiftly no matter what sort of immunity he enjoyed, Arcannen did not seem the type to worry much about authority and acts of law. If he had a way to do so, he would have magic in place to defend his home and business, whether they were separate or not—something he needed to consider when he went in search of Chrys.