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

An instant later, a clutch of metal-legged machines skittered into the daylight, heavy and squat. They had the look of monstrous insects, their bodies supported on multiple legs, their heads studded with orbs that pulsed and glowed, weapons jutting like mandibles from their jaws. There were five of them, all of a size that suggested they were meant to repulse anything short of a nuclear strike that might try to invade the complex.

No hauler was worth this, Logan thought. Not that a response like this had anything to do with haulers. This had to do with something of far greater importance, something that Oronyx Experimental had been working on when the end came. The human workers might be gone, but the guard machines they had built to defend their efforts remained in place, programmed to repel any invasion.

He rushed over to Panther, seized his shoulders, and spun him about. “Run!” he shouted in his face, shoving him toward the fence.

Then the heat of the lasers began to scorch the concrete apron, thin red beams slicing past him. He wheeled back in response, hands gripping the black staff, and sent a burst of the Word’s white magic into the closest of the attackers. It cut the legs out from under the machine and caused it to stumble into another so that both went down. But they were slowed only for a moment before righting themselves and continuing their advance. Logan backed away hurriedly. The machines were big and looked ponderous, but they moved quickly and smoothly. They were meant to survive enemies stronger than himself.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Panther and Sparrow turn and fire their weapons at the approaching behemoths. “No!” he screamed at them. “Run!”

They were wasting their time. Their best chance was to get back outside the fence and hope that the machines were not programmed to advance beyond the boundaries of the complex. The Parkhan Spray was a formidable weapon, but not nearly enough to stop these monsters. Even his magic might not be enough.

He used it anyway, hammering at the insect-like machines with sustained bursts aimed at the joints of their crooked legs. He brought one down, its legs sufficiently damaged that it could not rise again. But the others kept coming and were nearly on top of him. He turned and ran hard, dodging the lasers that sought to cripple him. The machines were not concentrating on Panther and Sparrow, whom they had judged less dangerous. They were concentrating on him. His magic shielded him from the worst of the blasts that were scorching everything around him, but he could feel himself weakening from the effort. The chain-link fence was still a long way off, too far to be judged a sure thing.

Then an explosion right in front of him sent chunks of concrete flying into his face, and he went down in a tangle of arms and legs, his staff sliding out of reach.

Outside the fence, there was instant pandemonium. All the Ghosts began shouting at once, gesturing wildly, trying to bring the three trapped inside the fence to safety through a combination of sheer willpower and deafening sound. All of them pressed up against the mesh, gripping the metal links fiercely. Bear even tried to go through the gap until Owl’s cry of dismay stopped him in his tracks.

For a few brief moments, all of them lost control.

All except Fixit.



FIXIT IS A BOY who has always been good at finding ways of making things work. Mostly, such things are mechanical in nature. Machines of all sorts, big and small, whole or in component pieces, useful or pointless, taken apart or put together—it is all the same to him. If there is a possibility that he can make it work, he wants to know how. He can’t explain what is so intriguing about machines; he can’t even remember what initially triggered his interest in them. He only knows that he can’t think of a time when working with machines hasn’t been his favorite pastime.

He is the middle child in a family of five, two older, two younger, both parents still alive and looking after them. They are living on a farm in eastern Washington, a run-down operation out in the middle of nowhere, their closest neighbors at least five miles away, the closest town at least twenty. They seldom see anyone except for the Strayhorns, the family up the road, whom they visit a couple of times a year and who visit them in turn about the same number. That is in the beginning, when he is still only four or five and just starting to take an interest in how things work. Shortly after that, the Strayhorns don’t come anymore. His mother says they have moved away. His father begins carrying a shotgun everywhere he goes.