The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(71)

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the movement of shadows from within alleyways and along walls. Bits and pieces of darkness, layering and separating, changing shapes by the instant. They might be human or animal, tree limbs or bushes, or they might be nothing at all. He kept his focus on the roadway ahead, not trusting his vision, using his other senses to warn him of possible danger. The deeper into the city they went, the less easy it became to see what waited. A skein of fog was settling in, forming in a mix of cold air and city warmth, clogging the streets and alleyways as it slowly expanded, snaking this way and that in search of fresh space, flooding yards and open spaces, banking up against stone walls. It thickened steadily, tightening until they were enveloped.

Starks slowed, studying the whiteness that obscured the way forward, clearly unhappy. He glanced over at Paxon, nodded to one side, and led him off the street and onto the walkway.

There, he stopped and lifted his face to the sky.

“Something is out there,” he whispered.

They were only blocks from Dark House now, so Paxon assumed the Druid believed that whatever he was sensing had something to do with Arcannen. He waited patiently as Starks stood silent and unmoving, eyes closed.

Then, abruptly, the Druid started forward again, and Paxon went with him. The Highlander found himself wondering about Grehling. Was it possible the boy had done something foolish and run afoul of Arcannen? He had been willing to risk himself earlier by telling Paxon how to break into Dark House. He had some experience dealing with both the sorcerer and his lair, so he might have been willing to take a further risk.

But he couldn’t know of Chrysallin’s kidnapping, could he?

Although, hadn’t he known of it before? Just by being present on the airfield when she was brought in? Was it too much to think he might have seen something this time, too?

In any case, he was worried for the boy, and he promised himself he would make sure Grehling wasn’t in any danger before he left Wayford.

Thoughts of Chrysallin’s fate haunted him. He couldn’t stop imagining all the things Arcannen might have done to her. Might even now be doing to her. He tried to tell himself that the sorcerer was after him, not her, but even that didn’t quite dispel the horrific images his mind seemed determined to conjure up. Guilt plagued him. Chrysallin should never have been involved in all this in the first place. She had nothing to do with any of it, a pawn the sorcerer had played to checkmate Paxon, bait to bring him to the hook. He hated that he was the cause of the situation she was in. He berated himself for leaving her unprotected. He should have turned down the offer to go to Paranor to train. He should have stayed with her and been ready when Arcannen resurfaced, and then he could have put an end to him.

But he knew that was foolish. What chance would he have had? He’d never killed anyone. He’d never before used magic. He had barely managed to wield the power of his sword the first time he’d gone to bring Chrysallin back. Only with the training he had received at Paranor in the use of arms and magic would he be able to survive a second encounter with the sorcerer.

And even then, he would be at extreme risk.

A cat darted across the roadway, a blur in the haze, a phantom. Paxon started in spite of himself, though Starks seemed unaffected. The fog was everywhere now, swirling gently in the night air, shifting to open and shut windows all around them, revealing momentarily parts of buildings and streets before closing about once more.

The minutes slipped away. Paxon lost track of where they were. In the fog, it was impossible to find anything to tell him. But Starks kept moving ahead, seemingly aware of where they were and where they were going, steadfast in his passage. Streetlamps burned out of the haze now and again, never bright enough to reveal much, but indicators at least that they were still keeping to the roadway and had not wandered off into the endless dark untethered from reality.

“There,” Starks said finally, pointing ahead.

Paxon stopped next to him. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything different. Then the fog shifted slightly, just enough that he could make out the front entrance to Dark House and a scattering of lights burning in the windows.

The Druid turned to him. “We’ll try going straight in. I will go first. You will watch my back. There will likely be someone on the door. I will deal with whoever that is. Keep your sword at the ready, but don’t use it unless we are attacked. We might get lucky enough to reach Arcannen before he is warned.”

He paused, waiting. Paxon nodded. “We have to find her,” he said. “Whatever else happens, we have to save her.”

Starks gave him a crooked grin. “We will.”

They crossed the street, went up the short set of steps that led to the front door, and stopped. Starks moved Paxon out of the line of sight offered by the peephole, but stood fully revealed himself. He pulled back his hood, adjusted his robes, and knocked.

The window on the peephole opened. “Name?”

“I’d rather not give it,” Starks replied with a rueful grin. “I’m just a man looking for a glass of ale and some personal comfort. Can you provide some of each, perhaps?”

The slide closed and the locks released. The door opened. Starks remained where he was, smiling at whoever was standing on the other side, not rushing in or showing any urgency.

“Lovely evening,” he said.

Then he stepped through the door. There was a muffled reply, a gasp, and finally a more distant grunt of surprise. Paxon peered around the door frame to find Starks holding a burly doorman pinned flat against the wall, his mouth working like a fish out of water, but with no sound emerging. Farther down the hall, a second man lay slumped against one wall, unmoving. “Close the door,” the Druid said.