The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

“Follow the lakeshore,” the Druid said, glancing at the sky. “Stay under the cover of the trees. Watch the surface of the water for movement.”


They chose to veer left, where the shallows were not as densely clogged with grasses and deadwood. Poling along some twenty feet offshore, Pen kept one eye on the broad expanse of the lake, scanning for ripples. He knew the others were depending on his instincts to keep them safe. Out on the open water, trailers of mist skimmed the viscous surface. A sudden squall came and went like a ghost. The air felt heavy and thick, and condensation dripped from the trees in a slow, steady rhythm. Within the shadowy interior of the woods surrounding the lake, the silence was deep and oppressive.

At the lake’s center, something huge lifted in a shadowy parting of waters and was gone again, silent as smoke. Pen glanced at Khyber, who was poling next to him on the raft. He saw the fierce concentration in her eyes waver.

They had gone some distance when the shoreline receded into a deep bay overhung with vines that dipped all the way to the water’s dark surface. Cautiously, they maneuvered under the canopy, sliding through the still waters with barely a whisper of movement, eyes searching. The hairs on the back of Pen’s neck prickled in warning. Something felt wrong. Then he realized what it was. He wasn’t hearing anything from the life around him, not a sound, not a single movement, nothing.

A vine brushed against his face, sliding away almost reluctantly, leaving a glistening trail of slime on his skin. He wiped the sticky stuff from his face, grimacing, and glanced upward. A huge mass of similar vines was writhing and twisting directly overhead. Not quite sure what he was looking at, he stared in disbelief, then in fear.

“Ahren,” he whispered.

Too late. The vines dropped down like snakes to encircle them, a cascade of long arms and supple fingers, tentacles of all sizes and shapes, attacking with such ferocity and purpose that they had no time even to think of reaching for their weapons. His arms pinned to his sides, Pen was swept off the raft and into the air. Tagwen flew past him, similarly wrapped about. The boy looked up and saw so many of the vines entwined in the forest canopy that it felt as if he were being drawn into a basket of snakes.

Then he saw something else, something much worse. Within the masses of tentacles were mouths, huge beaked maws that clacked and snapped and pulsed with life. Like squids, he thought, waiting to feed. It had taken only seconds for the vines to immobilize him, only seconds more for them to lift him toward the waiting mouths, all of it so quick he barely had time to comprehend what was happening. Now he fought like a wild man, kicking and screaming, determined to break free. But the vines held him securely, and slowly, inexorably, they drew him in.

Then spears of fire thrust into the beaks and tentacles from below, their flames a brilliant azure, burning through the shadows and gloom. The vines shuddered violently, shaking Pen with such force that he lost all sense of which way was up. An instant later, they released him altogether, dropping him stunned and disoriented into the swamp. He struck with an impact that jarred his bones and knocked the breath from his body, and he was underwater almost instantly, fighting to right himself, to reach air again.

He broke the surface with a gasp, thrashing against a clutch of weeds, seeing scythes of blue fire slash through the canopy in broad sweeps, smelling wood and plants burn, hearing the hiss and crackle of their destruction, tasting smoke and ash on the air. Overhead, the canopy was alive with twisting vines, some of them aflame, others batting wildly at burning neighbors. He saw Ahren Elessedil standing on the raft, both hands thrust skyward, his elemental magic the source of the fire, summoned from the ether and released from his fingers in jagged darts.

“Pen!” someone yelled.

Khyber had surfaced next to the raft and was hanging on one end, trying to balance the uneven platform so that her uncle could defend them. The swamp waters had turned choppy and rough, and it was all the Druid could do to keep from being tossed overboard. Pen swam to their aid, seizing the end of the raft opposite the Elven girl, the vines whipping all about him.

An instant later, Tagwen dropped out of the canopy, his bearded face a mask of confusion and terror as he plunged into the murky waters and then surfaced next to Pen.

“Push us out into the bay!” Ahren Elessedil shouted, dropping to one knee as his tiny platform tilted precariously.