The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

The Straken Lord gestured, and the rolling cage was pulled away. With it went the Goblin guards and the demonwolves. Only Hobstull remained, bright eyes fixed on her. His specimen, awaiting her trial. She did not look at him. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“Walk out into the center of the arena,” the Straken Lord ordered. The blue eyes glittered with an excitement she had not seen before. “There, you will find your opponent waiting. You may use any magic you possess to defeat it. You may call on any of your skills to protect yourself. So long as you do not attempt to escape this arena, the conjure collar will not be used against you. Your sole responsibility while you are here is to yourself. Your obligation is to survive. If you do, Ard-Rhys-that-was, your future is assured. There will be no need for further punishment. You will be given a place among us, one I shall choose for you, and it will be a place of honor. Now go.”

She walked away at once, not daring to look at him another moment, afraid that the incredulity and disgust she was feeling would show through in spite of all that she was doing to hide it. What was the demon talking about? What could it think she would find to be honorable about life in this desolate prison world? All she wanted to do, all she lived for, was escape. The Straken Lord had an overblown opinion of what it could expect of her if it thought anything would change that, and she had no idea what fueled it.

She stared out into the flats as she walked, searching. There was nothing to see, no sign of movement in any quarter, no indication of any life. What sort of opponent had the demon chosen for her that an entire city would come out to see? What manner of creature was she expected to defeat in combat that would indicate she was worthy of keeping her life?

She glanced skyward momentarily, then out onto the horizon, thinking the attack might be coming from outside the arena. Nothing. She was aware that a hush had settled over the assembled denizens of Kraal Reach. They were waiting now, anticipating. All conversation had dropped to a barely audible whisper. Movement had stopped. All eyes were on her.

When the mewling sound began, soft and low, she had almost reached the center of the arena. She knew it for what it was immediately. A chill washed through her, causing her skin to shiver and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to raise. She stopped at once, mouthing a single word voicelessly.

Furies.

She experienced an odd sense of calm. The uncertainty was gone, the waiting over. At least she could derive some small sense of satisfaction from knowing her opponent’s identity. What better way to test her than with creatures like this? She breathed slowly, deeply, trying to steady herself. The mewling was rising steadily, building in intensity. She had only moments.

What shall I do?

Hers was the stronger weapon, her magic against their teeth and claws. Hers was the superior skill and cunning, her craft honed in a thousand battles. But the Furies were driven by instincts that did not value safety or self-preservation. A pack mentality ruled them when they found prey, and they would attack and keep attacking until either the enemy or they were destroyed. No quarter would be given and none asked. Furies knew only one way, and that way eschewed any identifiably rational behavior. She had been put into a den of madness, and the source of that madness was a legion of relentless, inexorable killers.

She tested the magic of the wishsong to see if the Straken Lord had told the truth about using it, thinking that if the demon had lied, she would be rendered unconscious fast enough that she wouldn’t feel it when the Furies tore her to bits. But the magic blossomed at the end of her fingertips on command, gathering force, taking shape, waiting to be used, and the conjure collar gave no warning. Hope welled up within her at the realization that it would be an even battle. She would have her chance to survive. A small chance.

She would have to kill all of them, if she was to walk away. Nothing short of that would save her. They would come at her in a rush, and they would keep coming until the life was bled out of them. Once, the task would have been a challenge she would have embraced, a struggle of dark magic against dark intent, the wellspring of the Ilse Witch’s indomitable self-confidence. But she was no longer the Ilse Witch, and her desire for combat had fallen away with the identity she had shed.

Her strength must come from her life as the Ard Rhys.

What shall I do?