The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(76)

For just an instant everyone was frozen in place. Then Leofur swung the barrel of her weapon about, pointing it at Mischa. But the old woman held her ground defiantly.

“Still the same foolish girl you always were, I see,” she hissed.

Then she made a quick gesture, and almost immediately Leofur’s eyes went blank, her face slackened, and her expression turned empty. She lowered the flash rip absently. Chrysallin was cringing in terror, images flashing before her eyes of a return to her prison and a reappearance of the Elven woman, of terrible things being done to her, of endless pain and suffering.

Suddenly Grehling was standing in front of her, facing Mischa. “Get away from her,” he shouted angrily.

“I’ve been looking for you, boy,” the old woman hissed at him. “I’ve something special in mind for you.”

Something inside Chrysallin snapped. “Don’t touch him!” she screamed at the old woman.

The girl rushed past the boy, finding strength she didn’t know she had, and threw herself on the old woman, bearing her to the ground. Thrashing and screaming, they rolled about, locked together. Grehling stood transfixed, took a hesitant step toward them, then raced over to Leofur and shook her hard. “Wake up, Leofur! Wake up!”

And she did, her eyes snapping open in shock. She stared about, clearly confused.

“Help me!” the boy shouted at her, pointing to Chrysallin and Mischa, fighting on the ground.

Together, they rushed to pull the two apart, not stopping to think about what might happen afterward. The instant they separated the two, Mischa began screaming as if demented, trying to scramble to her feet, dark words pouring out of her twisted mouth. Leofur kicked her down again and stepped on her throat, pinning her in place. Grehling pulled Chrysallin to her feet, dragging her away from the other two.

“Leave her!” Grehling screamed at Leofur. “We have to get out of here!”

But Leofur had other plans. One fist cocked, she hit the old woman with such a powerful blow that Mischa went limp instantly.

In the next instant the door through which they had escaped from the tunnels burst open, and the black thing that had been tracking them surged through. All three cried out in shock, but it was Leofur who brought up the flash rip and fired into the creature once more, this time knocking it down the walkway into the shadows.

“Run!” she screamed.

They did so, although Chrysallin’s efforts at running were hopeless, and the best they could manage was a fast walk with Grehling supporting her once more. Behind them, Mischa was already stirring and the creature was struggling back into view.

There was no hope for them, Chrysallin realized. No hope at all. They couldn’t run fast enough, they had nowhere to hide, and the weapon Leofur carried—while helpful—would not keep the creature down. She fought to control the fear and despair that swept over her, listening as Grehling asked Leofur, “How many more times can you use that thing?”

“It carried six charges,” she replied. “Two are gone. Got any ideas?”

“Not the airfield. It’s too far!”

“City Watch? There’s a station somewhere close.”

“I know it. We’ll go there. Straight ahead!”

They picked up their pace, down the empty city streets and through the darkness, fear nipping at their heels.

Behind them, Mischa hobbled into view, her face bruised and bloodied, already in pursuit. But as she did so, she was casting anxious glances over her shoulder.

A terrifying struggle was taking place just behind her.


Paxon Leah was at its center. Having separated from Starks, he had raced in the direction of his sister’s scream and arrived just in time to see Chrys and two others—one of whom looked like Grehling—disappear around a corner. An old woman had just scrambled to her feet and was limping after them, but she glanced back and saw him rushing toward her. Slowing momentarily, she gestured at something behind her, called out a few quick words, then continued on.

In the next instant a huge black creature came out of the shadows and lunged toward him.

He reacted instantly, bringing up his sword, calling on its magic, shielding himself as the beast smashed into the shield it formed to protect him. The creature struck with such force that Paxon was knocked backward several steps. But the blow had no effect on the creature, which righted itself and came at him again, this time trying to sidestep the sword and get around whatever magic it was using. Paxon feinted and parried, stepped quickly one way and then another, outmaneuvering his attacker through footwork and anticipation, trying to reach it with his sword. But the creature was canny enough to avoid his efforts, dodging and weaving with each sweep of the blade, studying Paxon’s defenses as it did so, looking for a weakness.

After several tries, it found one. It dropped flat and with one long arm swept Paxon’s feet out from under him. He dropped backward, just managing to keep his protection intact as the creature swarmed on top of him, first blocking its efforts and then, with a surge of energy, throwing it backward and away.

Dropping the shield, he rolled to his knees and stood as the black thing launched a fresh assault. But this time, he centered the magic in the sword itself, turning the sharp edge into the creature as it tore at him. The blade had a razor’s edge, and abetted by the magic, it sliced off both clawed hands as the attacker closed in.

Paxon stepped away, stunned by what he had done. The creature looked at its severed wrists, but it made no sound. Its face was impossible to read. No blood came from the wounds. It stood there, seemingly bewildered. Then, slowly, impossibly, the wounds began to close, and the blunt, ragged ends to re-form. New hands appeared, growing out of the wounds left where the old hands had been cut off, and they were shaped exactly the same.