The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

Khyber frowned. “It doesn’t matter what he says anyway. The point is, we know how he feels. I doubt that he cared all that much whether you went over the side or not. A fall would have been an unfortunate accident, but accidents happen. Carelessness on your part, he’d say, exactly what he warned you against earlier. He doesn’t have to answer for your failure to listen. But saving you works even better. It lets him make clear to you how vulnerable you are. He’s made his point. Now you know for sure not to come near his daughter anymore.”


She paused. “You do know that now, don’t you?”

He sighed. “Stop trying to tell me what to do, Khyber.”

“Someone has to tell you! You don’t seem capable of figuring things out on your own!” She scowled and went silent, and they both looked away, listening to the wind howl across the decking. “I’m just trying to keep you from getting killed, Pen.”

“I know.”

“What was Cinnaminson trying to tell you when you were bringing her down? Did you find out?”

“Just to be careful, to watch out for myself, that’s all.”

“She knew. She was trying to warn you.” Khyber shook her head. “I wish this trip was over. I wish we were rid of these people.”

He nodded, thinking at the same time that he wished he were rid of everyone but Cinnaminson. It didn’t seem fair that a simple friendship should put him in so much danger. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it, although he had no illusions about what Gar Hatch might be capable of. Khyber was right about what happened topside. He might never know if Hatch intended for him to go over the side, but he knew for certain that he had been warned.

“Well, the trip will be over soon enough,” he muttered, suddenly bone weary and heartsick. “Probably nothing else will happen now anyway.”

Khyber exhaled sharply. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Although he didn’t say so, Pen guessed he wouldn’t, either.


The storm passed around midday, the winds dying down and the rain ending, and the Skatelow resumed her journey east. By then, she was above the Jannisson Pass, leaving Paranor and Callahorn and sliding north along the foothills fronting the Charnals and the Eastland. The weather turned sultry, and the skies were clouded over and gray for as far as the eye could see. Water birds soared overhead from the mountain lakes and rivers, white flashes against the gloom, their cries eerie and chilling. Far to the east and south, the departing storm clouds formed a dark wall splintered by flashes of lightning.

Except for the still-airsick Tagwen, everyone was back on deck by then, looking out at the distant mountains, catching the first glimpses of their destination. It was another day’s journey to the Lazareen, but Pen felt a shift in his thinking anyway. His time with Cinnaminson was growing short, for after the Lazareen there was only another day’s flying before they left the airship. He marveled that only yesterday it seemed as if they had all the time in the world, and now it seemed that they had almost none. Part of his attitude was fostered by what had happened earlier, but even that wouldn’t have discouraged him entirely, had they had another week to spend together. But he could do nothing to prolong their journey’s ending, could change nothing about parting from Cinnaminson.

They flew up the corridor leading off the Streleheim toward the Malg Swamp, a misty flat smudge across the landscape on their left, the terrain in dark counterpoint to the rolling green foothills on their right. Gar Hatch took the airship lower, trying to avoid the heavier mix of clouds and mist that layered the sky with a thick ceiling between swamp and mountains. As they neared the Malg, the water birds disappeared, replaced by swarms of insects that defied winds and airspeed to attack the ship’s passengers in angry clouds. Gar Hatch swore loudly and took his vessel up until finally the insects dropped away.

Pen spit dead gnats from his mouth and wiped them from his nostrils and eyes. Cinnaminson appeared next to him, moving over from the pilot box with unerring directional sense, never wavering in her passage, and he was reminded again of how, even blind, she seemed able to see what was going on around her.

He was about to ask her what her father had said to her in his cabin, but before he could do so, he heard something in the cry of a heron that winged past so close it felt as if he could reach out and touch it. He looked at it sharply, hearing in its call a warning he could not mistake. Something had frightened the bird, and that did not happen easily with herons.

He scanned the horizon, then saw the dark swarm of dots soaring out of a deep canyon cut into the rugged foothills.

Birds, he thought at once. Big ones. Rocs or Shrikes.

But they didn’t fly like birds. There was no wing movement, and their shapes were all wrong.

They were airships.

“Captain!” he shouted over to Gar Hatch and pointed.

For a long second, the big man just stared at the shapes, then he turned back with a dark look on his face. “Cinnaminson, get below and stay there. Take the other young lady with you. Penderrin, come into the pilot box. I’ll need you.”