The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(69)

At the door leading into her room, she paused. Once again, she read the signs of the boy clearly. Enough to track him. Enough to hunt him down. If she had the proper creature to do the hunting.

She went inside and closed the door behind her. Not yet midnight. Still plenty of time. She walked to the center of the room amid the frayed remnants of her carefully constructed web of magic, now in tatters, all of it destroyed, all of it invisible to the ordinary eye. She could even sense the boy here. Yes, there was enough to work with. But the magic would be strongest in the bedroom where the girl had been wrapped in it and the remnants of it still remained to mingle with the boy’s scent.

Stretching her thin arms wide, she summoned new magic, using words and gestures, elements and memories, her skills brought to the fore by years of practice and a sizable measure of self-confidence. When she had this mix collected and roiling within the room’s empty confines, she left momentarily to bring back potions and a brazier. She lit the brazier, set a small kettle on the flame, and threw in the potions. A fresh glow of pale green surfaced and a terrible stench from the kettle assailed her nostrils. But to her the smell was sweet and welcome, and she breathed it in.

Once the air was filled with her smoky brew, she spoke the words of power and made the necessary gestures to enhance them—to invest them with her own emotions and dark imaginings—giving life and breath to inanimate substance. It was a rigorous, grueling effort, but anger and pain gave her strength.

Slowly, the thing she was making took form.

Initially, it was little more than an amorphous cloud, but as the magic grew stronger and more cohesive it took on human shape. Enough so that it developed arms and legs to go with its elongated body. It hung there in midair, a twisting embryo, a replicant of a nightmarish vision coming to life in the gloom and smoke and shadows. No sounds accompanied its birthing save those of the witch’s muttered incantations and labored breathing, and the faint hiss of venom expelled by the creature’s expansion.

When everything else was done and the making all but complete, she infused her creation with weight and strength, and it sank from midair to stand upon the floor, taking final form and becoming what she had intended all along. It stood before her, misshapen in the way she had intended—a long, lean torso; short, powerful legs; multi-jointed arms meant to sweep up and gather in; skin like serrated leather; hands and feet ending in huge claws—and it acknowledged her with a voiceless inclination of its blunt face. It had a tiny slit for a mouth, a huge snout for smelling scent, and narrow yellow eyes that could see equally well in darkness or light.

She let it stand before her as the air cleared of the magic’s detritus and the room was restored to its earlier condition, studying its features, admiring her handiwork. It stood quietly, showing no signs of impatience, looking about incuriously, breathing slowly and evenly. The long, lean body was muscular in a way that promised quickness and strength in equal measure. There was intelligence in its gaze, too, and the suggestion of a capacity for extreme violence. She would need both if it was to serve her properly.

A hunter, she thought, pure and simple.

She walked to the window, parted the curtains she had drawn earlier, and peered out. The night was still young. Plenty of time to find wayward children. Not many people would be abroad at this hour, and most would likely be sleeping. She thought the boy and the girl might have found shelter by now. Exhausted and frightened, they would be hoping to spend the night undisturbed. The girl might have escaped, but she would not be able to travel far in her present condition. The magic would have eroded her strength and left her barely able to walk. She would not be far from where Mischa stood now; it was almost certain that the boy had not yet been able to get her out of the city.

No, they would still be here. Somewhere. Here, where her creature could track them down and reveal them.

She walked back to stand before it, gathering up a handful of scent and shredded magic as she went, a clutch of essence from both the boy and the girl. She cupped it in both hands and held it out to the beast. It bent forward to inhale the scent, its snout wrinkling to reveal the teeth hidden within its mouth.

“Hunt them!” she hissed.


Aboard their Druid airship, Paxon Leah and Starks approached the city of Wayford, its lights a glimmering carpet in the otherwise deep midnight darkness. They had gotten a late start, and their arrival was well after the time they had intended. But delaying another day was unacceptable to the boy, and Starks—his usual nonchalant attitude evident once again—had simply shrugged and agreed they should set out immediately.

It was the Ard Rhys who had delayed them, calling them to her quarters just as they were about to depart—a summons delivered by Sebec with such urgency that it was clear any refusal would be a mistake. Paxon was hopeful the delay would be only momentary, but it soon became clear that it was not to be. She brought them inside and sat them down, standing tall and strong before them in spite of her age and normally gentle demeanor.

“Someone has taken the Stiehl,” she announced. “The theft was discovered yesterday, but the knife could have been taken anytime since your last inventory. What this means is that the most dangerous weapon we possess is now in the hands of someone who probably has plans for using it.”

Paxon had never heard of the Stiehl, but it was easy to conclude from the darkness of her voice as she announced its theft that it was an important artifact.

“We have no idea who took it?” Starks asked.