The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

They were flying dangerously low, trying to slip the stronger winds at the higher elevations. But radian draws, stays, and sails were all giving way, tearing loose or shredding, slowing eroding Swift Sure’s maneuverability. Bek held the airship as steady as he could, relying on the power stored in the diapson crystals to keep her flying. When that was gone, they were finished. He could make out gaps in the mountain peaks ahead, dark passages to the valleys beyond, and he pointed toward them as the storm closed about.

The winds howled like a living thing. They slammed into Swift Sure with devastating impact, knocking her off course, forcing Bek to wrestle her back into line again. Rain descended in sheets, and visibility dropped to nothing. Even the dark gaps for which they were headed began to fade. The storm was sweeping the whole of the Inkrim now, a great roiling mass of wind, rain, and darkness.

Then abruptly the mountains ahead disappeared and the gaps toward which Swift Sure had been heading were gone.

We’re not going to make it, Bek thought.

For heart-stopping minutes, they hung suspended in a gray, fathomless void, directionless and lost.

Then the curtain of rain lifted and the rock walls loomed out of the rain-soaked darkness once more, massive slabs of stone lifting thousands of feet into the mists. Bek caught sight of a gap between them and banked Swift Sure sharply toward its dark maw.

Seconds later, they were inside a craggy split that was as dark and still and windless as a subterranean passage.


“Savages!”

Atalan spit the word out as if to rid himself of its bitter taste. It was a word he had used three times in the last two sentences by Bek’s reckoning. Apparently the bitterness had a tendency to linger.

“Killed four of us for no better reason than to punish us for coming into those ruins! A place of dead things! Nothing there but bones and rubble and monsters like that tree!” His blunt Troll features were unreadable, but his eyes were fierce. “We should come back here with the rest of our people and wipe them out!”

He was incensed, even now, hours later. They were seated at the bow—Atalan, Kermadec, Tagwen, the young Druids, Rue, and Bek. They made an odd-looking group. The Trolls were giants with skins of bark and flat, virtually featureless faces. The Druids were much smaller and impossibly young. The Dwarf was squat and solid, his thick beard like a mask. And Bek and Rue, fatigued and weak from the wounds they had received during their flight out of Paranor, had the look of the walking dead. Swift Sure hung anchored above a valley floor somewhere deep within the Klu, west almost to the Charnals. The Inkrim and the storm had been left behind. It was nightfall, and the Trolls who had been wounded were sleeping below. Everyone was exhausted.

Kermadec shifted his large frame and leaned back against the ship’s railing. His rough face was impassive, his voice calm. “Let it be, Atalan.” He nodded at Bek and Rue. “So young Penderrin has found a way into the Forbidding, after all. Your son is nothing if not resourceful. He has kept his wits about him.”

“He has his wits, but does he have the use of magic, as well?” Rue asked, reminded suddenly of what Bek had revealed of the traces of her son’s passage.

Kermadec shrugged. “He has some. He has that ability to read the responses of living things. He can discern their thinking from that. Like the lichen. Like that moor cat.” He glanced at Tagwen. “It’s a magic I wouldn’t mind having, Bristle Beard.”

“He said it was a small magic,” the Dwarf muttered. He scowled at Kermadec. “Having seen nothing to suggest otherwise, I am inclined to take him at his word. Penderrin is not given to exaggeration.”

Tagwen had recovered from his faint, though he was still embarrassed about the collapse. Kermadec had spent a long time reassuring the Dwarf that it had nothing to do with his courage, but was a result of exhaustion and stress. Anyone might have suffered the same indignity, and it would not be mentioned again. Tagwen, however, did not appear convinced.

“There is the magic he generated during his encounter with the tanequil, as well,” Trefen Morys pointed out. “To create a talisman of such power, a tremendous amount of magic would have to be released. Even if it didn’t come from Pen, traces of it would cling to him. And he carries the darkwand with him. Any reading of magic attached to Pen would be influenced by that.”

It was a reasonable explanation, and even Rue seemed to accept it. Only Bek knew that the reasoning was wrong. The readings given him by the wishsong had told him that the traces of his son’s passage encompassed only magic that belonged to him. The blood connection between father and son was too strong for him to be mistaken. Pen had uncovered a form of magic that was still a mystery, possibly even to himself.

“I am very sorry to hear that Ahren Elessedil is dead,” he said to Tagwen, changing the subject.

The Dwarf looked down at his hands and shook his shaggy head slowly. “He was a brave man, Bek Ohmsford. He gave his life so that the rest of us could go on. We would not have reached Kermadec and Taupo Rough, let alone Stridegate and the tanequil, if not for him.”