The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(77)

The creature waited until it was completely whole again, then slowly approached Paxon once more. For the first time, Paxon was uncertain. He wished Starks were with him. The Druid would know what to do about something like this—something that clearly involved the use of magic. But Starks was gone, and he was alone. He would have to figure this out himself because if he didn’t …

There wasn’t time to finish the thought because the creature was on him once more, this time trying to knock the sword from his hands. Quicker than thought the clawed hands got past his shield and tore at his wrists. He only barely managed to hang on, using the sword to hack at the creature’s head. The blade slipped sideways, partially blocked by a sudden arm swing against the flat side, but the edge bit deep into the creature’s shoulder and lodged there.

Frantically, Paxon fought to free it. The creature was ripping at him, and only the thinnest of shields was keeping it from tearing him apart. He felt himself beginning to panic as they surged back and forth, and he knew if he gave in to it he was finished. He screamed at the creature as a way of focusing the magic, as a means of strengthening his determination. He put everything he had into the effort, fighting harder to yank the blade loose.

But the Sword of Leah was wedged tightly in place in the creature’s body, and no amount of effort would free it.

It was his training that saved him. Oost Mondara had taught him to always take the path of least resistance, to remember that when one thing failed to work it simply meant you should do the opposite. Don’t ever force a result; take a different approach. So instead of continuing the struggle to break free of his adversary, Paxon Leah channeled the blade’s magic not into escape, but into attack, forcing the blade in deeper. The creature jerked and heaved its body immediately in response, a clear indication that it was in trouble. It stopped trying to get at Paxon and turned its attention to the blade instead, trying to wrench it free.

Paxon pressed his attack, going right at the creature, forcing it back, riding it to the ground. The creature writhed and struggled, and the sword blade bit deeper into its body, sinking in almost to the hilt. How the creature could still be alive was troubling, but Paxon was determined to end it here.

Then the creature gave a mighty heave of its body, and the blade wrenched loose at last.

Paxon straightened and went after the creature in a rush. Down came the Sword of Leah in a series of quick, fluid strikes that relied as much on Paxon’s training as on the weapon’s magic. The creature absorbed blow after blow, struggling to rise, but unable to fight its way clear of the blade. Paxon did not let up, attacking with renewed purpose as pieces of the creature separated from its body. It was thrashing wildly now, still without making a sound or shedding a drop of blood, its distress evident from its desperate efforts to break free.

Finally, the Highlander managed to damage both the creature’s arms sufficiently that it could no longer defend itself, and with one mighty swing he took off its head. At once, it went limp, its head rolling slowly away on the rough surface of the street.

Wounded and bleeding, Paxon stood there waiting for it to re-form. But this time there was no recovery. The pieces of its body lay scattered and still in the lamplight and shadows, and the only sound in the aftermath was Paxon’s labored breathing.


Not all that far away, Chrysallin Leah had fallen to her knees and was struggling to rise. “I can’t go on!” she gasped.

Grehling pulled on her shoulders and arms, trying to get her back up. “You have to! She’s coming!”

Chrysallin was terrified. It was clear to the boy that her strength was gone, her body drained of whatever energy she had possessed earlier. Even her fear, as intense as it was, was not enough.

“Move back over there, into the shadows,” Leofur ordered the pair, gesturing toward an open alleyway where an arched covering of interlocking stone blocks offered a small amount of concealment. “Hurry! We’ll make a stand there. I’ll deal with Mischa myself.”

She still had her weapon, and it still carried four charges, so there was some reason to think they could slow or disable the witch when she appeared, especially if they caught her off guard. Grehling helped Chrysallin struggle back to her feet, and together they limped over to the covered alley and moved back into the shadows. Leofur was last in, and she stayed by the entrance and peered back down the street they had just come up, searching for their pursuer. The silver streaks in her blond hair glimmered in the faint light cast by the streetlamp across the way as she cradled the flash rip.

“Do you want to sit down?” Grehling whispered to Chrysallin.

She shook her head no. “I better stay on my feet.”

“I could go for help. Alone. I could find someone at a City Watch station, I think.”

Chrysallin grabbed his arm and held on. “Don’t leave me, Grehling. Please. Stay with me.”

She was begging, the urgency in her voice unmistakable. She couldn’t help herself. Being left alone again would be the end of her. She would rather die than fall into the witch’s hands a second time.

The boy understood. He put his hand on top of hers and squeezed gently. “I’ll stay,” he promised.

“She’s coming,” Leofur hissed at them from the alley entrance. She crouched lower and brought up the barrel of her weapon.

Then abruptly Leofur stiffened, muttering something unintelligible, lifting up slightly from behind her cover to peer out into the streets, then turning sharply in their direction.