The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(75)

Starks gave him a look. “I might better be willing to believe you if I could have a quick look into your mind. A touch or two would be enough, and I can know for certain if you are speaking the truth. Do you object to waiting where you are until I can come up and do this?”

“Now, there is a request almost no one else in the Four Lands would dare to make of me, Druid. Actually, I do object. Strenuously. I don’t like others laying hands on me if they aren’t meant to offer pleasure. Take my word or leave it. That’s all you are entitled to.”

Starks shook his head slowly. “You’ve stolen the girl away twice now. You have violated her rights and broken the laws of numerous lands. I think you have forsaken any entitlements. You are probably entitled to common justice, but nothing more.”

Arcannen’s face darkened. “You will never be my judge. Not you or any of your kind. And not that callow boy you bring with you on this fool’s errand. Back down those stairs immediately or be prepared to be judged yourself.”

Paxon started past Starks, drawing out the Sword of Leah. “I’ve had enough of you—”

But Starks grabbed him and threw both of them down on the stairs, just as a rush of fire burned through the air not a foot above their heads, trailing heat and smoke and exploding into the wall on the landing below. For a moment, they lay where they were, the air about them obscured by smoke and ash, and then Starks was on his feet, pulling the Highlander up with him.

“Kindly don’t do that again!” he snapped.

They rushed up the stairs to the third floor, but Arcannen was already gone. They cast about hurriedly for some indication of where he had gone, then Starks sprinted for the other end of the hallway and the front stairs. He reached them just in time to see Arcannen’s black robes flying out behind him as he leapt over the railing on the landing below all the way to the first floor and sprinted down the hall beneath them.

They gave chase, every bit as fleet of foot as their quarry, but cautious of what they might be running into. They flew down the stairs and then charged along the corridor the sorcerer had taken, barely avoiding a surprised guard coming the other way, bowling him over without stopping. They went through a doorway into an empty and darkened kitchen, catching sight of a door closing at the other end of the room.

“He’s got a bolt-hole somewhere!” Starks shouted as they ran. “He’s trying to reach it!”

He would find it, lock the way in, and go out the other end, Paxon realized. Anything to slow them down. Anything to lose them. But they couldn’t allow it. No matter if what he had told them was true or not, they had to catch him before he had a chance to get to Chrysallin.

Ahead a door slammed and locks snapped into place. They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a small, ironbound oak door.

“Step back,” Starks said.

With both arms raised, he summoned a roiling ball of blue fire, broke it in half with his bare hands, and sent each part slamming into one of the hinges. The hinges melted in seconds, and the door sagged open. Starks wrenched it aside, and they charged into the room beyond. It was small and empty, a space for cleaning supplies. A window hung open at the far end, leading to the outside world. Starks hurried over, took a cautious look, and started to climb through, Paxon on his heels.

“Watch out!” the Druid shouted suddenly, throwing himself backward.

An explosion of fire erupted from without, filling the opening, engulfing Starks as he tumbled back into the room in a smoking heap. For an instant he was afire, and then a sharp gesture with one hand extinguished the flames and he was left singed and gasping for breath. Paxon rushed to help him to his feet, but the other pushed him away.

“That’s what happens when you get careless,” he said.

He tried it again, more cautiously this time, and there was no response. By the time the two were outside Dark House, standing in a side street, Arcannen was gone.

“Rat stink!” the Druid said softly. “He can’t have gotten far. But which way did he go?”

They were searching the darkness when they heard the scream—shrill, terrified, and close at hand.

“Chrys!” Paxon exclaimed at once. “That’s Chrysallin!”

At the same moment Starks pointed. “There he goes! Arcannen! Through those buildings!”

Paxon caught a glimpse of Arcannen as he fled down an alleyway a block over in the other direction from the scream.

Starks seized his arms. “Go after your sister. I’ll chase Arcannen. But watch yourself, Paxon. Remember your training!”

Then he was rushing away, racing to catch up to the sorcerer. Paxon shouted after him, warning him to be careful. He hesitated, almost persuaded that he should go with him.

But then he heard his sister scream again, and he turned the other way and began to run.


Chrysallin Leah tore away from Grehling’s hands and moved back against the wall of the building in horror, pressing her hands against her mouth to keep from screaming. All she could think about was Mischa’s head sitting on a bedside table, eyes vacant and staring. Even knowing she was alive, even remembering how Grehling had punched her, she couldn’t seem to forget. Yet here she was, come out of nowhere and not with any good intentions in mind. Not with any promise of offering her a chance to escape the gray-haired Elven woman. She could tell that much just from the expression on the other’s face, even if she ignored everything else she knew.