The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

When they hesitated, waiting to see what he would do, he turned the staff on them, sending sheets of fire hurtling into the bleachers, setting everything that would burn aflame. Those who had hesitated a moment earlier went flying down off their seats, fleeing for the entry and the safety of the world outside the building. Logan chased them with his fire, half mad with rage and frustration.

His thoughts were dark and destructive. A kind of battle madness enveloped him, stealing away his reason entirely.

They’re animals! Nothing but animals! His mind reeled and his body swayed. The poison was already working its way through his system. He retreated deep inside to protect himself, shutting and bolting doors, throwing locks and bringing down bars.

Animals! Burn them all to ash!

PANTHER AND CATALYA, hiding beneath the section of the bleachers they had crawled under after wriggling through an opening in the sheet metal near the back of the building, had watched the last of the battle between Logan Tom and Krilka Koos through gaps in the legs of the audience.

When the Knight of the Word turned the fire of his staff on the crowd, they threw themselves backward and lay flat against the flooring as the wooden parts of the bleachers caught fire and people began fighting to get clear. Heat and flames washed over them, and the building took on the red glare of a furnace.

In moments it had emptied of almost everyone. Through the smoky haze, they could see Krilka Koos lying prostrate at the center of the arena and Logan Tom standing alone, leaning on his staff, swaying uncertainly.

Catalya jabbed Panther’s shoulder to get his attention, then scrambled to her feet. Together they worked their way out from under the bleachers, avoiding the flames and heat, hurrying to reach the Knight of the Word. No one tried to stop them. No one remained to try.

Panther glanced at the display of weapons mounted on the wall behind them as they passed it. Most were scorched or melted, flames licking off the wooden stocks and handle grips, the wall itself seared an uneven gray. Only the three rune-carved staffs seemed unaffected, their smooth lengths a dull, flat black that the flames had failed to damage.

They slipped from behind the bleachers and ran across the floor to the Knight of the Word. He didn’t seem to see them coming, was barely cognizant of their presence once they reached him, his gaze distant and empty as he fought to stay upright.

“Logan,” the girl called to him.

She got to him before Panther, and without hesitating reached down and pulled free the viper-prick. “Hold him up, Panther!” she ordered.

She tore away the pant leg and exposed the wound, an ugly purplish bruise already swollen to a knot. Panther, both arms wrapped about the Knight of the Word, shook his head. Viper-pricks were always fatal. There was no cure.

But he didn’t say that, didn’t say anything. He just watched as Cat tied off the leg above the wound, and then fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for a small tube of ointment that she smeared on the knot, covering it over with a compress and binding it in place with tape.

“That will help draw the poison out,” she said by way of explanation. “Let’s get him out of here.”

Shouldering him from either side, the boy and the girl began to walk him across the arena toward the entry. Panther held the Parkhan Spray cradled in one arm, ready to use. But the few men and women who lingered outside fled quickly at their approach.

Behind them, they could hear Krilka Koos moaning and calling out Logan Tom’s name. Panther wanted to go back and cut out his tongue.

Once outside, they began the slow journey toward the freeway. The afternoon was waning, the light fading. East, the sky was already dark. Panther staggered under Logan Tom’s weight, trying to glance over his shoulder, worried that one of those militia stump heads would shoot them in the back.

“Weighs a ton,” he muttered, fighting to keep Logan upright.

Across from him, Cat nodded, her mottled face flushed.

“He might not make it, you know.” Panther glanced at her.

“Most men wouldn’t.”

Her lips tightened. “He’s not like most men.”

Couldn’t argue with that. Panther tightened his grip about the Knight of the Word, his mind flooding with images of the battle they had just witnessed.

No, Logan Tom definitely wasn’t like most men.





Chapter TWENTY-NINE


LEAVING LARKIN QUILL to cross back over Redonnelin Deep to his home, there to await their signal that they required a return, Angel and her Elven companions set out once more for Syrring Rise. It was midmorning when they began their trek north, but the journey turned out to be anything but what Angel had expected.

“How far do we have to go?” she asked Simralin after enough time had passed that it had become a concern.

“Just a few more miles,” the Elven girl answered, glancing over her shoulder from her lead position, unable to conceal her grin.