The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

There was little doubt in Khyber’s mind that Shadea and the other two were sufficiently talented to create a triagenel that could imprison, if not completely incapacitate, even as gifted a magic wielder as Grianne Ohmsford. A combination of three strong magics was just too much for one, even if the one was immensely powerful. If Grianne and Pen returned through the Forbidding after the triagenel had been set in place, they would be caught in a deadly trap.

And she was the only one who could prevent it. Aside from the three who would create the triagenel, she was the only one who knew about it. If she died in the furnace, as they intended, the chances of the Ard Rhys and Pen making a successful return were narrowed to almost nothing.

She had been carried down several levels by them, the Druids taking the back stairs to avoid being seen, keeping to the little-used parts of the Keep. She hung limply over Traunt Rowan’s broad shoulder, still pretending at unconsciousness, trying to devise a plan. The idea of challenging two powerful Druids at the same time was not a consideration. She had to wait until they had delivered her to the Gnome Hunters before she could act.

She did not have to wait long. They quickly reached the ground level of the Keep and took her into a room filled with racks of weapons and armor. She risked a quick look around and caught glimpses of heavy wooden benches scarred by blades and fire, boxes of cutting tools, and grinding machines clamped in place. Bits and pieces of metal lay scattered across the worn surfaces of the benches and stone floor, and the air smelled of oil and was thick with dust.

Traunt Rowan slid her off his shoulder and onto the floor and left her in a heap. She lay without moving, eyes closed.

“Wait here,” Pyson Wence said to him and went out again.

Khyber waited until she heard the door close, then waited some more in the ensuing silence. She felt Traunt Rowan’s eyes on her, as if he was waiting for her to move, to reveal her subterfuge to him. She forced herself to remain exactly as he had left her, limp and unmoving, eyes closed. She let her breathing slow, and she listened for his movements.

When, moments later, she heard him turn away from her, she risked a quick look. He was perusing the room, studying the racks of weapons and armor. She shifted her gaze just enough that she could glimpse the floor about her. She searched for a weapon she could use to protect herself. But there were no weapons to be found, nothing but scraps of metal, leavings from the workbenches. Traunt Rowan moved away a few steps, his hand reaching out to feel the flat of a broadsword. Her eyes skipped across the littered surface of the floor, scanning desperately through the debris. There were blades everywhere, all of them out of reach.

Then she caught sight of something that might prove useful. She eased an outflung arm carefully toward a rough piece of metal, its edge razor-sharp. She pulled the scrap into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it carefully.

It was not much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

Traunt Rowan glanced back at her suddenly, but she had her eyes closed again and her body limp. He studied her nevertheless, as if noticing that her position had changed. She held her breath, waiting.

Then the door opened, and Pyson Wence reappeared. Four Gnome Hunters followed him in, then moved over to where she lay, rolled her over, and secured her wrists and ankles with heavy cord. Lying limp and unmoving, she let them do as they wished without signaling that she knew what was happening. Their strong, wiry hands roamed across her body, turning her this way and that, causing a wave of revulsion to run through her. Her instincts screamed at her to fight back, to break free while she still had the chance, before she was trussed so tightly she could not. But she knew that would be a mistake. She clutched the jagged piece of metal in her hand, her only real chance of surviving this, and forced herself to stay quiet.

When they were done binding her, they tied a rag about her mouth, covering it so completely that she was forced to begin breathing through her nose.

The Gnomes stood up, looking back at Pyson Wence. The Druid spoke to them softly, then handed one the pouch that contained the Elfstones. “I don’t like giving these up,” he said to Traunt Rowan. “It seems such a waste.”

“Getting caught with them would be a death sentence,” the other replied. “Shadea is right. Better to be rid of them.” He paused. “Can we trust these four to do what is needed and keep silent afterward?”

“They understand their orders.”

“Then let’s be done with it.”

Pyson Wence said something further, and one of the four picked Khyber up off the floor, tossed her over his shoulder as if she were no more than a sack of grain, and followed the other three out the door and into the torchlit hallway beyond.

She knew where they were taking her. She knew what they intended to do with her once they got there.

It was all she could do to keep from screaming.