The High Druid's Blade (The Defenders of Shannara, #1)(79)

Besides, there were ramifications to killing a Druid that he did not particularly wish to test. There were consequences for acts of that sort that had a tendency to seriously disrupt your life.

Still, he was running out of options. If he made a break from his flight pattern now, the Druid would know for certain he was trying to reach the airfield and might well find a way to get there before him. What he needed was a scheme for trapping the Druid somewhere long enough to allow for a clear escape path and time to use it.

So as he ran, his mind was racing, too, thinking of a way to put a stop to his pursuit. But everything he considered was uncertain at best and foolhardy at worst. He had to anticipate that the Druid not only had the same skills and experience also that he did but that he could anticipate him, as well. So whatever solution he came up with, it had to be clever enough that the Druid would fail to recognize it until it was too late.

It also had to be something he could set up and trigger quickly, because the chase was tightening.

He rushed out of the back of his latest building bolt-hole, turned up the street, and saw the grain warehouse. Sudden inspiration infused him, and he knew how he might stop the Druid once and for all. He kept running, thinking his plan through, then slowed just enough as he reached the entry to the building to be sure the Druid—exiting the building behind—caught sight of him.

Then he broke the lock and hurried inside.

A quick look around revealed grain-filled wooden bins sitting on platforms under loading chutes. Ramps ran the length of the room on both sides, and vented windows opened out from high on the walls to let in light and air. He checked to be certain there were release doors on the bins near the floor, then began weaving invisible threads that he attached to the latches.

Gathering up the loose ends of the threads, he moved to the very back of the room and concealed himself in the shadows of the last bin on the left. When the Druid entered the room, he would pull the threads, releasing several tons of grain onto the warehouse floor. The Druid would be buried in seconds, dead or damaged badly enough that he could not immediately follow.

If things worked the way he anticipated, it would end up looking like an accident, a fluke release of the contents perhaps caused by the Druid. He would be gone from the scene and in no way implicated.

He waited patiently, eyes on the door.

But nothing happened.

When he started to think something had gone wrong, he heard a small noise behind him and turned to find the Druid looking at him.

“You should know better than to expect an old trick like that to work,” the other observed.

The sorcerer rose, dropping the ends to the invisible threads to the floor. No point in holding on to those. He gave the Druid a nod. “I suppose you want me to come with you?”

“Indeed. We need to clear up what’s become of Chrysallin. A visit to the Ard Rhys might help sort it out. You might even learn something about boundaries and appropriate behavior.”

Arcannen shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.”

As he walked past the Druid, his hand strayed almost of its own volition to the pocket inside his robes where the Stiehl was hidden—surreptitious movement hidden from the other’s watchful eyes. He would have to be quick. He closed his fingers about the weapon and waited until they had reached the back door to the warehouse. Then, without any haste or sudden movements, he slowed his approach. The Stiehl was out and ready for use when he turned back, its flat black blade a swift, wicked shadow. He struck at the Druid, and even though a protective wall of magic was already in place, the Stiehl went right through it and into the other’s exposed body.

The Druid grunted sharply and took a quick step back. But Arcannen followed him, striking again and again until the Druid was down on the floor, his blood everywhere. Not until he was no longer moving and his eyes were open and staring did Arcannen cease his efforts.

The sorcerer gave him a final look, then turned and hurried out the warehouse door.


By the time Paxon Leah reached his sister and her companions they were out of the covered alleyway and gathered on the still-dark street, huddled against a nearby building wall. The girl with the silver-streaked hair was bloodied and unconscious and Chrysallin was practically catatonic. Only Grehling was in any shape to talk to him, and the boy tried to explain what had happened while Paxon held his sister in his arms and waited for her to regain some recognizable level of awareness.

“She’s been acting oddly ever since I took her out of Mischa’s quarters,” Grehling finished. “She keeps saying she’s been tortured, that she’s in pain and all torn up and broken. But look at her. There’s hardly a mark on her. And she keeps talking about a gray-haired Elven woman being responsible.”

“This is Arcannen’s doing?” Paxon pressed him.

“Mischa works for him, so whatever she did to your sister, it was at the sorcerer’s bidding. I’ve seen them both going in and out of the building where Chrysallin was being held. That’s what led me to her.” He paused. “What’s the reason for all this?”

Paxon didn’t know. He had assumed Arcannen took Chrys in order to force him to give up the Sword of Leah. But if he had tortured her to the point where she believed she had received injuries she hadn’t, the reason must be more complex. Whatever had been done to his sister, it clearly involved subverting her mind.

“Chrys,” he whispered, bending close, “can you hear me? It’s Paxon. I’m here. You’re safe now.”