Terry Brooks - High Druid 03 - Straken

One

“Pen Ohmsford!” The black-cloaked figure called out to him from across the chasm that separated the

island of the tanequil from the rest of the world. “We have been waiting for you!”

A male Druid. He came forward a few steps, pulling back his hood to reveal the strong, dark features of

his face. Pen had never seen him before.

“Come across the bridge so that we can talk,” the Druid said.

The firelight threw his shadow across the stone archway in a dark stain that spilled into the chasm, and

the portent it foreshadowed was unmistakable. Pen wished he hadn’t rushed into the light so quickly, that

he had been more careful. But he had thought himself past the worst of it. He had survived his encounter

with the tanequil and received the gift of the darkwand, the talisman that would give him access into the

Forbidding. He had lost two fingers in doing so, but he had come to believe that they were a small price

to pay. Losing Cinnaminson was a much larger price, but he had accepted that there was nothing he

could do about it until after his aunt was safely returned, promising himself he would try to come back for

her then. Finally, he had escaped the monster that had pursued them all the way from Anatcherae and

knew it to be dead at last, pulled down into the chasm and crushed.

But now this.

His fingers tightened possessively around the darkwand, and he scanned the faces of the captive Trolls.

All there, he saw. No one missing. No one even appeared hurt. They must have been caught completely

by surprise not to have put up any fight. He wondered vaguely how that could have happened, how the

Druids had found them at all, for that matter, but he guessed it was a pointless exercise.

A few of the Trolls were looking up now, Kermadec among them. The anger and disappointment on his

face were unmistakable. He had failed Pen. They all had. The boy saw Tagwen there as well, almost

hidden behind the massive bodies of his companions.

There was no sign of Khyber.

“Cross the bridge, Pen,” the Druid repeated, not unkindly. “Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”

“I think I should stay where I am,” Pen answered.

The Druid nodded, as if understanding him perfectly. “Well, you can do that, if you choose. I’ve read the

warning on the stone, and 1 know better than to try to come across after you.” He paused. “Tell me. If

the danger is real, how did you manage to get over there without being harmed?”

Pen said nothing.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Trying to help your aunt? Did you think you might find her here?”

Pen stared back at him silently.

“We have your friends. All of them. You can see for yourself. We have your parents, as well, locked

away at Paranor.” His voice was patient, calm. “It doesn’t do you any good to stay over there when

those you care about are all over here. You can’t help them by refusing to face up to your

responsibilities.”

My responsibilities,Pen repeated silently. What would this man know of his responsibilities? Why would

he even care, save that he thought he could stop Pen from carrying them out?

A second Druid appeared beside the first, coming out of the darkness and into the light. This one was

slender and small, a ferret-faced Gnome of particularly cunning looks, his eyes shifting swiftly from the

first Druid to Pen and then back again. He muttered something, and the first Druid gave him a quick,

angry look.

“How do I know you aren’t lying about my parents?” Pen asked suddenly, it wasn’t the first time he had

heard the claim. He still didn’t want to believe it.

The first Druid turned back to him. “Well, you don’t. I can tell you that they were flying in a ship called

Swift Sure when we brought them into the Keep. They helped us find you. Your father was worried

about the disappearance of his sister, but more worried about you. That is how we found you, Pen.”

Gone cold to the bone, the boy stared at him. The explanation made perfect sense. His father would

have aided them without realizing what he was doing, thinking it was the right thing, that they were as

concerned about his aunt as he was. The King of theSilverRiver was supposed to have warned his

parents of the Druids, but perhaps he had failed. If so, his father wouldn’t have known of their treachery.

How could he?

Pen brushed back his tangled red hair while trying to think what to do.

“Let me put this to you another way,” the taller Druid went on, moving slightly in front of the other. “My

companion is less patient than I am, although he isn’t volunteering to cross the bridge, either. But when

morning comes, we will bring one of the airships across, and then we will have you, one way or the other.

There are only so many places you can hide. This is all a big waste of time, given the way things

eventually have to turn out.”

Pen suspected that was true. But his freedom, however temporary, was the only bargaining chip he

possessed. “Will you set my friends free, if I agree to come over?”

The Druid nodded. “My word on it. All of them. We have no use for them beyond persuading you to

come with us. Once you cross over, they are free to go.”

“What about my parents?”

The Druid nodded. “Once you are back at Paranor, they can go, too. In fact, once you’ve told us what

we want to know, what your purpose is in coming here, you can go, too.”

He was lying. He made it sound believable, exuding just the right amount of sincerity and reasonableness

through his choice of words and tone of voice, but Pen knew the truth of things at once. The Druid would

have done better to tell him something less soothing, but he supposed the man saw him as a boy and

thought he would respond better to a lie than to the truth.

He paused to consider what he should do next. He had asked the questions that needed asking and

gotten the answers he expected. It reconfirmed his suspicions about what would happen if he crossed the

bridge to surrender to them. On the other hand, if he stayed where he was, they would capture him

sooner or later, even if he went back down into the chasm, something he did not think he could do.

Worse, he would be doing nothing to help his family and friends. If he was as concerned about

responsibility as he liked to think, he would have to do more than go off and hide.

The decision was easier to make than he would have thought. He had to go to Paranor anyway if he was

to use the darkwand to reach his aunt. Rescuing the Ard Rhys was what he had set out to do, and he

couldn’t do that if he didn’t get inside the Druid’s Keep. The Druids who had come for him were offering

him a chance to do just that. He would have preferred going about it in a different way, but it all ended

the same. The trick would be finding a way to keep the darkwand in his possession until he could get

inside the chamber of the Ard Rhys.

He had no idea how he was going to do that.

“I want to speak with Tagwen,” he called out. “Send him to the head of the bridge and move back so I

can come across safely.”

The Druids exchanged an uncertain glance. “When you surrender yourself, then we will let you talk with

Tagwen,” the taller one said.

Pen shook his head. “If you want me to surrender, you have to let me talk with Tagwen first. I want to

hear from him what he thinks about your promises. I want to hear from him how good he thinks your

word is. If you don’t let me talk to him, I’m staying right here.”

He watched their dark faces bend close and heard them confer in inaudible whispers. He could tell they

didn’t like the request and were trying to come up with a way to refuse it.

“If you think I will be so easy to find over here come morning, perhaps you should wait to try it and find

out for yourselves,” he said suddenly. “It might not be as easy as you think. That spider creature you sent

to hunt me down? Or was it supposed to kill me? You did send it, didn’t you?”

He asked the questions on impulse, not knowing how they would answer, but suspecting. He was not

disappointed. Both Druids stared at him in surprise. The one who did all the talking folded his arms into

his cloak. “We didn’t send him. But we know who did. We thought he was dead, killed in the Slags.”

Pen shook his head, his eyes shifting to Tagwen, who was watching him alertly now, knowing he was up

to something, anxious to find out what it was. “He? Not if?”

“Aphasia Wye. A man, but 1 grant you he looks more an insect than a human. Are you saying he isn’t

dead? Where is he?”

“No, he’s dead. But he didn’t die in the Slags. He tracked us all the way here. Last night, he crossed the

bridge. Just as you want to do. Except that he found a way. Then he found me, but something else, too,

and it killed him. If you want to see what that something is, fly your airship on over. I’ll wait for you.”

It was a bluff, but it was a bluff worth trying. Aphasia Wye was a predator of the first order—they might

be hesitant to go up against something that had dispatched him. It cast Pen in a different light, giving him a

more dangerous aspect, since he was alive and his hunter wasn’t. He had to make them stop and think

about whether it was worthwhile to refuse his request.

The taller Druid finished conferring with his companion and looked over. “All right, Pen. We’ll let you

speak with Tagwen. But no tricks, please. Anything that suggests you are acting in bad faith will put your

Troll friends and your parents at risk. Don’t test our limits. Have your talk, and then do what you know

you have to do and surrender yourself to us.”

Pen didn’t know if he would do that or not, but it would help if he could talk with Tagwen about it first.

He watched the Dwarf rise on the taller Druid’s command and walk to the head of the bridge. He

watched the Druids move back, signaling the Gnome Hunters to do the same. Pen waited until the area in

front of the bridge was clear of everyone but the Dwarf, then stepped out onto the stone arch and

walked across. He used the darkwand like a walking staff, leaning on it as if he were injured, pretending

that was its purpose. Maybe they would let him keep it if they thought he had need of it to walk. Maybe

pigs would learn to fly. He kept his eyes open for any unexpected movement, for shadows that didn’t

belong or sounds that were out of place. He used his small magic to test for warnings that might alert him

to dangers he couldn’t see. But nothing revealed itself. He crossed unimpeded, captives and captors

staying back, behind the fire, deeper into the gardens, away from the ravine’s edge.

When he was at the far side, he dropped down into a crouch, using the bridge abutments as shelter. He

didn’t think they intended to kill him, but he couldn’t be certain.

Tagwen moved close. They caught us with our pants down, young Pen. We thought we were watching

out for you, but we were looking too hard in the wrong direction.” His bluff face wrinkled with distaste.

They had us under spear and arrow before we could mount a defense. Anything we might have done

would have gotten us all killed. I’m sorry.”

Pen put his hand on the Dwarf’s stout shoulder. “You did the best you could, Tagwen. We’ve all done

the best we could.”

“Perhaps.” He didn’t sound convinced. His eyes searched the boy’s face. “Are you all right? Were you

telling the truth about that thing that was tracking us? Was it really over there with you? I thought we’d

lost it once and for all when we entered the mountains. Is it finally dead?”

Pen nodded. “The tanequil killed it. It’s a long story. But anything that crosses this bridge is in real

danger. I’m alive because of this.”

He nodded down at the darkwand, which was resting next to him on the bridge, flat against the stone,

tucked into the shadows.

The Dwarf peered at it, then caught sight of Pen’s damaged hand and looked up again quickly. “What

happened to your fingers?”

“The tree took them in exchange for the staff. Blood for sap, flesh for bark, bones for wood. It was

necessary. Don’t think on it.”

“Don’t think on it?” Tagwen was appalled. He glanced quickly over Pen’s shoulder into the darkness of

the tanequil’s island. “Where is Cinnaminson?”

Pen hesitated. “Staying behind. Safe, for now. Tagwen, listen to me. I have to do what they want. I have

to go with them to Paranor.”

Tagwen stared. “No, Penderrin. You won’t come out of there alive. They don’t intend to let you go.

Nor your parents, either. You’re being taken to Shadea a’Ru. She’s behind what’s happened to the Ard

Rhys, and once she’s questioned you about what you are doing and you tell her—which you will, make

no mistake—you and your parents are finished. Don’t doubt me on this.”

Pen nodded. “I don’t, Tagwen. But look at how things stand. We’re trapped here, all of us. Even

without the Druids to deal with, we’re stranded in these ruins, surrounded by Urdas. I have to get out if

I’m to help my aunt, and the quicker the better. It’s already been too long. If I don’t get to Paranor and

use the darkwand soon, it will be too late. And now I have a way. The Druids will take me faster than I

could get there on my own. I know it’s dangerous. I know what they intend for me. And for my parents.

But I have to risk it.”

“You’re risking too much!” the Dwarf snapped. “You’ll get there quick enough, all right. And then what?

They won’t let you into the chamber of the Ard Rhys. They won’t let you make use of that talisman.

Shadea will see you for the threat you are and do away with you before you have a chance to do

anything!”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He looked off into the gardens, into the pale, shifting patterns of color and the

dappled shadows cast by the Druids and Gnome Hunters in the firelight’s glow. “In any case, it’s the only

choice that makes sense.” He turned back to Tagwen. “If I agree to go with them, will that tall Druid

keep his word and let you go? Is his word any good? Is he any better than the rest of them?”

Tagwen thought about it a moment. “Traunt Rowan. He’s not as bad as the other one, Pyson Wence,

and certainly not as bad as Shadea. But he joined them in the plot against your aunt.” He shook his head.

“She always thought he was principled, if misguided in his antipathy toward her. He might keep his

word.”

Pen nodded. “I’ll have to chance it.”

The Dwarf reached for him with both strong hands and gripped his shoulders. “Don’t do this,

Penderrin,” he whispered.

Pen held his gaze. “If you were in my shoes, Tagwen, wouldn’t you? To save her from the Forbidding,

to give her a chance, wouldn’t you do just what I’m doing?” Tagwen stared at him in silence. He gave the

Dwarf a quick smile. “Of course you would. Don’t say anything more. I’ve already said it to myself. We

knew from the beginning that we would do whatever was necessary to reach her, no matter the risk. We

knew it, even if we didn’t talk about it. Nothing has changed. I have to go to Paranor. Then into the

Forbidding.”

He closed his eyes against the sudden panic that the words roused in him. The enormity of what he was

going to attempt was overwhelming. He was just a boy. He wasn’t gifted or skilled or anything useful. He

was mostly just there when no one else was.

He took a deep breath. “Will you come after me? In case I don’t find a way to get through? In case I

get locked away in the dungeons and don’t get my parents out? Will you try to do something about it?”

He exhaled sharply. “Even if I do get through and find her, the Druids will be waiting for us when we get

back. We’ll need help, Tagwen.”

The Dwarf tightened his grip. “We’ll come for you. No matter how long it takes us, no matter where you

are. We’ll find a way to reach you. We’ll be there for you when you need us.”

Pen put his hands over those of the Dwarf’s, pressing them down into his shoulders. “Get out of here

any way you can, Tagwen. Don’t stop for anything.” He hesitated. “Don’t try to reach Cinnaminson. She

has to wait for me. She can’t leave until I come back for her.” He shook his head quickly, fighting back

tears. “Don’t ask me to explain. Just tell me you’ll do what I’ve asked. All right?”

The Dwarf nodded. “All right.”

“I can do this,” Pen whispered, swallowing hard. “I know I can.”

Tagwen’s fingers tightened. “I know it, too. You’ve done everything else. Everything anyone could have

asked of you.”

“I’ll find a way. Once I’m there, I’ll find a way.”

“There are some still loyal to your aunt,” Tagwen said. “Keep an eye out. One of them might come to

your aid.”

Pen glanced down again at the darkwand. “What can I do about the staff? It’s too big to hide, but I

have to take it with me. I know they won’t let me keep it, if they see it. But I can’t afford to give it over

to them, either.”

From back in the shadows, the taller of the two Druids called out, “You should have said everything you

intended to say by now, Pen. You should be finished and ready to honor your promise. Tell Tagwen to

step back, and then you come forward to us!”

Pen stared toward the firelight, to the cluster of Troll prisoners huddled together, to the shadowy forms

of the Gnome Hunters surrounding them, to the cloaked forms of the Druids. It had the look of another

world, of a place and time he could barely imagine. He was still enmeshed in the world of the tanequil, of

orange-tipped leaves and mottled bark, of massive limbs and roots, of a sentient being older than Man.

His memories of the past two days were still so painfully fresh that they dominated his present and

threatened to overwhelm his fragile determination.

He despaired.

“That’s a pretty piece of work,” Tagwen said suddenly, nodding down at the darkwand. “It might help if

it wasn’t so shiny.”

He eased back on his heels and reached behind him for a handful of damp earth, then rubbed it along the

length of the staff, clotting the runes, dulling the surface. He worked in the shadows, shielding his

movements.

“If they take it away from you,” he said, finishing up, “tell them you found it in the ruins. Tell them you

don’t know what it is. If they think it was given to you to help the Ard Rhys, you’ll never see it again.

You might keep it long enough to use it if they don’t suspect what it’s for.”

Pen nodded. He stood up, one hand gripping the staff. He leaned on it once more, as if he needed its

support. “Go back to them. Tell Kermadec to be ready. Khyber is still out there, somewhere. I saw her

while coming back to you. She should have been here by now. She might be watching all this, and I don’t

know what she will do.”

The Dwarf took a quick look around, as if thinking he might see her in the darkness, then nodded and

rose, as well. Saying nothing, he returned to the Gnome Hunters and the encircled Rock Trolls, his head

lowered. The Trolls watched him come, but did not rise to greet him. Pen waited until he was seated

among them again, then looked over at the Druids, who were standing to one side.

“Do you promise my friends will not be harmed?” he asked again.

“Not by us or those who travel with us,” the taller Druid replied, coming forward a step. “We’ll leave

them here when we depart. What happens to them after that is up to them.”

It was the best Pen could hope for. He would have liked to have found a way to get them back to

Taupo Rough, but he couldn’t chance trying to make that happen. Kermadec was resourceful. He would

find a way.

Pen glanced down at the darkwand. The dirt and mud that coated its length mostly hid its runes. Its

smooth surface was dull. If he was lucky, they would not pay close attention to it. If they took it, he

would have to find a way to get it back later.

His gaze shifted to the island of the tanequil, to the dark silent wall of the forest that concealed the

sentient tree. He was leaving things unfinished here, he knew, and he might never have a chance to come

back and set them right. The urge to act immediately threatened to overpower him, to turn him from his

path to the Ard Rhys. He knew her so little, and Cinnaminson so well.

He took another deep, steadying breath and looked back at the waiting Druids. “I’m ready,” he called

out in what he hoped was a brave voice.

Then, using the staff as a crutch, he began to walk toward them.

Two

From deep in the shadows at the edge of the gardens, Khyber Elessedil watched the drama unfold with

a mix of anger and indecision.

“Oh, no, Pen,” she whispered.

She had returned before him, seen the Druid airships hanging over the gardens like spiders from an

invisible web, the Gnome Hunters ringing the captive members of her little company, the Druids watching

the bridge, and she had determined that she must do something to warn the boy.

But she was too late. He appeared abruptly, incautiously revealing himself before he could think better of

it and before she could stop him. She held back then to see what would happen, thinking that she must

not act too hastily, that she did not know yet what to do. She could save one—the boy or the rest of the

company—but not both, not without a great deal of luck she could not depend upon. Two Druids were

more than she was able to handle on her own, her skills were too rudimentary, her knowledge too

shallow. She would catch them unawares, but that would not give her enough of an edge to guarantee

success.

No, she must wait.

She must bide her time.

And so she did, listening to the conversation that ensued between Pen and Traunt Rowan. She could

divine the nature of their maneuverings, of their hidden intentions, from what they said and how they

moved. She understood what was at stake, but not how the matter would be resolved. Desperately

trying to concoct a plan that would allow her to act, knowing that sooner or later she must, she waited

them out. When Tagwen was allowed to confer with Pen in private, she thought that then was the time to

do whatever she could, but she was unable to make herself do so. Everything she considered promised

to end badly. Everything depended on help that wasn’t available. She prevaricated and waffled.

Indecision froze her.

Until, finally, it was too late. Pen was coming down from the bridge to give himself up, counting on

Traunt Rowan to honor his word about Tagwen and the Trolls, giving himself over to a fate he had

already determined he must embrace. Anything to get to Paranor, he was thinking. She knew it without

having to be told.

She watched him limp forward, leaning on his staff, his young face etched with lines of determination. He

was sacrificing himself. For the Ard Rhys. For Tagwen. For Kermadec and his Rock Trolls. Even for

her. He did not know where she was, only that she was out there somewhere, still free, perhaps still able

to do something to help. But he wasn’t looking for that help just then. His intention was to get to Paranor

and hope that help could be found there.

The staff drew her attention. She had seen it before, when he was scurrying through the woods on the

island of the tanequil. But then it had looked much brighter and better kept. She had thought it was the

darkwand, the talisman he had come to find. The tree would have given it to him, persuaded in a way that

only he knew, a way that the King of the Silver River said he would find when it was time. If it was the

talisman, in fact. If...

But it was, of course. He had muddied the surface and was using it as a crutch to disguise what it really

was. He was taking a desperate chance that neither of the Druids would think it anything more than a

length of old wood. He could not go to Paranor without it, and go to Paranor he must, of course. That

was his intention in giving himself up.

She saw it all clearly, a conclusion about which she felt so certain that she never questioned it. Brave

Pen.

Seconds later, she was moving, sliding along the edge of the trees, making her way toward the closest of

the airships. She must do what she could to help him, and to help him she must go where he was going.

She must get aboard the airship, travel hidden to Paranor, then disembark in secret and find him before

they discovered his intentions and put an end to them. Because they would, she knew. He was not clever

or strong enough to fool them all. One of them would see through him.

Within the circle of light cast by the fire, the Druids had moved forward to intercept Pen. He did not

resist them as Traunt Rowan took Pen’s arm and guided him toward theAthabasca. Rowan’s actions

were almost paternal. He spoke softly to the boy, walking beside him in a way that suggested good

intentions. He had not bothered yet with the staff, did not seem to care much about it at all. Pen was still

limping, perhaps causing the Druid to think he was indeed injured and in need of support. The other one,

his sly eyes fixed on them, trailed purposefully, and Khyber did not trust anything about him. If he had

been the one to make the promise to release Tagwen and the Trolls, she would have acted at once, she

told herself. There would have been no hesitation.

She reached the rope ladder that dangled from the airship she had chosen—not the one Pen was

boarding, unfortunately—and went up it in a rush, not bothering to look back until she was aboard. There

were Gnome Hunters forward against the railing, but their attentions were occupied with the events taking

place below, and they took no notice of her. She slipped into the shadow of the mainmast, then over to

the shelter of a rail sling set in place to port. From there, she could see Pen being led to the ladder of the

other ship, the Druids shadowing him watchfully. She watched the Gnome Hunters drift through the light

toward their ships like wraiths to their haunts. She saw Tagwen’s rough features, sad and desperate, peer

upward as Pen climbed the ladder. She saw Kermadec’s strong hands knot together in a promise of

certain action.

She could still stop it, she told herself. She could fling Druid Fire or elemental winds all through those

Gnome Hunters and knock them sprawling. She could separate Pen from those Druids, burn away the

ladder from below where he climbed, and give him a chance to flee. But it would not be settled then and

there, and the consequences for those Trolls too slow to reach the shadows or the weapons of which

they had been stripped would be ugly.

Remember. Penisnot trying to escape. He is trying to reach Paranor. He has made up his mind.

She pictured him anew as she had seen him from across the chasm not two hours earlier. She saw the

monster Traunt Rowan had named Aphasia Wye. She saw Pen prepare to do what he could to stop it,

even when there appeared there was nothing he could do. Facing what must have seemed to be certain

death, he had not tried to flee or hide. He had stood there to meet it.

And would have, had she not been there to give him aid.

Perhaps he was relying on her now.

Perhaps he knew she would not abandon him, that because she had saved him once, his life was her

responsibility. Old legends said that this was so. She had never believed it.

But somehow, at that moment, she did.

“Are you injured?” Traunt Rowan asked pleasantly, supporting Pen under his free arm, not looking at

him as he talked, moving him steadily along toward theAthabasca.

Pen shrugged. “Nothing serious.”

“Aphasia Wye?”

“I hurt it trying to get away from him.”

“But no broken bones?”

Pen shook his head.

“You’re lucky. If you hadn’t gotten away from him, broken bones would have been the least of your

problems.”

The second Druid, the one Tagwen had named Pyson Wence, moved up suddenly on Pen’s other side.

“Howdid you get away from him?”

“1 don’t want to talk about it.” He risked a quick look at Traunt Rowan, seemingly the friendlier of the

two. “Not until we’re away.”

Pyson Wence seized his arm, the blunt fingers squeezing so hard he flinched. “I don’t like your tone of

voice, little man,” he hissed. “What you want in this matter is of no concern to us.”

Pen shrank from him. “I want to know my friends are safe before I tell you anything.”

“Let him go, Pyson,” the taller one whispered. “Unfriendly eyes are watching. We can wait.”

The one called Pyson let him go. Pen tore away from Traunt Rowan and rubbed his injured arm. He

kept his head down and his eyes averted. He didn’t want to do anything to aggravate them until the

airships were aloft and his friends free. He didn’t know what to expect then, but he would have a story in

place to tell them that might buy him some time.

They reached the ladder, and as he made an attempt to climb it while still holding the darkwand, Pyson

Wence snatched it away and cast it aside. “You won’t be needing any crutches from here on,” he said.

Pen froze, hands on the ladder, one foot on the first rung. He couldn’t leave the talisman behind.

Then Traunt Rowan walked over and picked it up. “He might have need of it, Pyson. I’ll carry it up for

him. Go on, Pen.”

Pen exhaled sharply and began to climb, taking care to favor his supposedly injured leg as he went. He

did not look down at the Druids. He did not slow until he was aboard the airship, when he turned to wait

for them. They were aboard quickly, dark faces shadowed and unreadable in the faint diffusion of the

now distant firelight. Below, the Gnome Hunters were moving to follow, all but those who ringed the

prisoners.

Traunt Rowan moved over to Pen and handed him back his staff. “You wouldn’t consider trying to use

this as a weapon, would you?” he asked with an edgy smile.

Pen shook his head.

“Good. Now let’s go below and get you settled in.”

Instantly, Pen moved over to the railing, away from everyone. “Not until 1 see that my friends are going

to be all right,” he said. “I want to watch what happens next.”

Pyson Wence’s Gnomic features were dark with anger, but Traunt Rowan merely shrugged. “Stay

where you are then.”

He turned to Wence and nodded, and the latter issued orders to the Hunters who crewed the airships.

The Hunters began scurrying about the decks and up the rigging, preparing the three ships to sail. With a

last, dark look at Pen, Pyson Wence moved into the pilot box to stand next to theAthabasca’s Captain,

his face turned away from the boy.

Now only the few Gnomes guarding Tagwen and the Trolls remained, and one by one, weapons held at

the ready, eyes fixed on the prisoners, they began to drift back toward the airships as well. Pen’s

companions sat quietly and watched their captors withdraw, making no attempt to stop them. Atalan was

staring up at Pen, a strange look on his fierce face, one that suggested he couldn’t quite believe what he

was seeing. Tagwen was whispering to Kermadec, his head bent close to that of the Troll, their faces

dark and intense.

Terry Brooks - High Druid 03 - Straken

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