Терри Брукс - Jarka Ruus

• Название: Jarka Ruus
• Автор: Терри Брукс
• Жанр: Фэнтези

High Druid of Shannara. More than a quarter of a century after The Sword of Shannara carved out its place in the pantheon of great epic fantasy, the magic of Terry Brooks's New York Times bestselling saga burns as brightly as ever. Three complete series have chronicled the ever–unfolding history of Shannara. But more stories are still to be told–and new adventures have yet to be undertaken. Book One of High Druid of Shannara invites both the faithful longtime reader and the curious newcomer to take the first step on the next extraordinary quest. Twenty years have passed since Grianne Ohmsford denounced her former life as the dreaded Ilse Witch–saved by the love of her brother, the magic of the Sword of Shannara, and the destruction of her evil mentor, the Morgawr. Now, fulfilling the destiny predicted for her, she has established the Third Druid Council, and dedicated herself to its goals of peace, harmony among the races, and defense of the Four Lands. But the political intrigue, secret treachery, and sinister deeds that have haunted Druid history for generations continue to thrive.

---

When the Druid's gaze finally settled on him, Pen went cold all the way down to his feet. There was no mistaking what he saw in that gaze. He wondered how the Druid had found them, how he had come to Anatcherae when they had been so careful to leave no trail. He glanced quickly at the serving bar and saw Khyber preparing to return to the table. She didn't know who Molt was, having never seen him; she didn't realize the danger they were in. He had to warn her, but there was no way for him to do so without giving her away.

It was too late anyway. Terek Molt stalked over to their table and stopped when he was still a few feet away. «You've led me a chase," he said softly. «But it's ended now. Get to your feet and come with me. Don't cause any trouble or it will be the worse for you. I don't much care what it takes to bring you back to Paranor.»

Tagwen shook his head stubbornly. «We're not coming with you. Not this boy and not me. We don't want your protection.»

The Druid's smile was quick and hard. «I'm not offering protection, Tagwen. I'm offering you a chance to stay alive, nothing more. Don't mistake what this is about. Where is Ahren Elessedil?»

Neither Pen nor Tagwen answered. If Terek Molt didn't know, that meant the Elf was still free. That, in turn, meant there was a chance.

«Get to your feet," the Druid said a second time.

«We know what you've done with the Ard Rhys," Tagwen declared, raising his voice so that those around could hear him clearly. «We know what you'll do with us, too. We're not coming.»

There was a muttering in the room, and Terek Molt's hard eyes grew angry. «Enough of this, little men. Get up and walk out of here or I'll drag you out.»

A Troll roughly the size of a barn pushed away from the serving bar and took a step forward. His blunt features tightened, one hand resting on a huge mace hanging from his belt. «Leave the boy and the old man alone," he ordered.

Terek Molt turned slowly to face him, away from the still–open doors to the inn, his concentration divided between the Troll and his quarry, so he didn't see Ahren Elessedil step out of the night. «Stay out of this," Molt said to the Troll.

At that point, Khyber pushed away from the bar. Carrying the pitcher of ale in both hands, she crossed the room directly toward the table at which Pen and Tagwen were sitting. Terek Molt glanced sharply at her, but she averted her eyes, as if not daring to look at him, and he started to turn back. «Get up," he said to Pen and Tagwen.

Khyber, from less than six feet away, threw the pitcher of ale all over him.

The room exploded with shouts, its occupants leaping to their feet in a whirl of sudden movement. Chairs and tables were overturned, and glassware went crashing to the floor. The Troll had his mace free and was swinging it at Terek Molt, who rolled out of the way just in time. But when he came to his feet to strike back, Ahren's Druid magic threw him across the room and against the wall, where he lay in a crumpled heap, screaming in fury. Gnome Hunters came at Khyber, but her hands were already lifted and weaving, and the Gnomes stumbled all over themselves in their efforts to stay upright.

«This way!» she shouted at Pen and Tagwen, and broke for the kitchen.

The boy and the Dwarf didn't stop to ask if she knew what she was doing; they just went after her. The room was in chaos by then, its occupants surging up against one another in their efforts to get clear, most of them trying to reach the front door. The Gnome Hunters, still fighting to regain their equilibrium after Khyber's attack, were bowled over in the rush. A moment later, the lights went out and the room was engulfed in blackness. Pen and Tagwen were in the kitchen by then, with Khyber just ahead, flinging open the back door that led to the street. Without a backward glance, they plunged into the rain and fog and darkness.

The streets were crowded, and it was difficult to move ahead at a brisk walk, let alone a run. Pen struggled to keep Khyber in sight, Tagwen pushing up against him from behind, both of them jostling and shoving to break free of the knots of people hindering their flight. Ahren Elessedil had disappeared, but Pen thought he must be somewhere close. Behind them, Fisherman's Lie was still in an uproar, shouts turning to cries of pain and anger, the windows breaking out, the entire place in blackness. Pen realized they had left everything behind in their escape, but knew there was no help for it. What mattered was getting away. What counted for something was staying alive.

A burly dockworker shouldered Pen aside effortlessly. As the boy staggered, he felt something rip through his cloak, scoring his left arm. He heard the dockworker gasp and felt him clutch at his arm. As he tried to wrench free, he saw a dagger protruding from the man's chest, the blade buried to the hilt. The man fell heavily into the boy, his dead eyes open and staring.

Pen looked around in shock and caught sight of something big scurrying along the peaks of the roofs, something cloaked and hooded and shadowy. Terek Molt, he thought at once, then realized that, there hadn't been time for the Druid to get out of the inn and come after them. The figure on the roof was much larger than Molt in any case, and it didn't move like him. It moved like some huge insect.

It was coming down, toward the dead man and Pen.

«Penderrin!» Khyber called back to him.

He turned at the sound of her voice and began to run anew. Behind him, he heard gasps as the crowd realized what had happened to the dockworker. He didn't glance back to see if they were looking at him. He wasn't about to stop anyway. He wasn't going to do anything but keep running.

They angled down a maze of narrow side streets, grunting and shoving their way clear of passersby, until they finally reached the waterfront. Pen's arm was throbbing, and he glanced down in the light of the dockside lamps and saw blood soaking through his sleeve. The dagger had cut him from shoulder to elbow, the blade so sharp that even the heavy cloak had failed to blunt it.

Who had attacked him? He knew he had been the target, not that dockworker. If the worker hadn't shoved him aside at just the right moment, Pen would be the one lying in the street back there.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the shadowy figure giving chase, working its way swiftly along the warehouse roofs, scuttling along in the manner of a spider, arms and legs cocked out from its low–slung body.

It was coming too fast for him to outrun it.

«Khyber!» he shouted in sudden fear.

The girl wheeled back, saw the figure, as well, and thrust out both arms in a warding gesture. The magic caught the figure in midleap and sent it spinning out of sight.

«What was that?» she shouted at him.

He didn't reply. He had no idea what it was. He just knew he didn't want to see it again. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe the fall had killed it. Or injured it badly enough that it couldn't keep after them.

As they began to run again, he glanced back worriedly. He was right to do so. His pursuer was atop the roofs once more, leaping and bounding from one building to the next, coming fast.

«Khyber!» He grabbed her arm and pointed.

She turned a second time, saw the figure, lifted her arms to summon the magic, and immediately it disappeared. They stood looking for it, but it was as if the night and rain and mist had swallowed it whole. That hadn't happened, of course; it was still out there, coming for him. Only, it was on the ground, lost in the shadows.

The hairs on the back of Pen's neck pricked up. He backed toward the water, away from the buildings.

«Run!» Khyber hissed at him.

He did so, Tagwen beside him, their boots pounding on the wooden planks of the docks, the rain and mist a thick curtain all about them. Pen glanced toward the warehouses as he fled, searching for his pursuer. There was no one to be seen. But it was there, still chasing him. He could feel it. If it got close enough, it would use that dagger again. Or another like it. It would send its blade hurtling out of the darkness, and he would be dead before he knew what had happened. His lungs burned and his legs ached from running, but he didn't slow. He had never been so scared. It was one thing to stand up to an enemy in the light, face–to–face. It was another to be stalked by something he couldn't even see.

They reached the Skatelow and clambered aboard in a rush. Not until they were crouched down behind the pilot box did Pen quit feeling as if a fresh blade was already winging its way out of the gloom toward his unprotected back. Scanning the lamp–lit shadows of the docks, he found no sign of his mysterious hunter. But he was scared enough that he was going to stay right where he was, with his back to the open water.

«What was that?» Khyber asked him for the second time, her breathing quick and labored.

Pen scanned the darkness, searching. «I don't know. I don't even know where it came from. Did you see what it did?»

«Killed that man," she whispered.

«But it meant to kill you, didn't it?» Tagwen's rough face pressed forward so that their eyes met.

«I think it did," Pen answered, watching the mist shift along the dock front and down the side streets like a serpent.

Shadows moved everywhere he looked. «I think it's still out there.»

Ahren Elessedil, already on board, was speaking heatedly with Gar Hatch. Ahren's clothes were disheveled and rain–soaked and his face flushed. He glanced over at the three hiding behind the pilot box wall, a hint of uncertainty in his blue eyes, then turned back to the Rover Captain, ordering him to cast off their mooring lines. But Hatch refused to do so, folding his arms across his chest and planting his feet. They weren't ready, he said. They hadn't finished their repairs.

«They've found you, haven't they?» he sneered. «The Druids? You think I don't know who you are or what you are about? I want no part of this. You can't pay me enough to take you farther. Get off my ship!»

His Rover crewmen moved closer, ready to act on his behalf. From somewhere farther down the docks, shouts arose. The other pursuit—Pen had forgotten about Terek Molt and his Gnome Hunters.

«There!» Tagwen hissed suddenly, pointing left. «Something moved by that building!»

They peered into the gloom. Pen's heart was hammering in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. He was cold and hot at the same time, so afraid that he was holding his breath.

Then a huge shadow burst into view, leaping from the dock–side onto the deck of the airship in a single bound, an impossible distance. It landed in a skid, its crooked limbs scrambling to find purchase on the smooth, damp wooden planking. Ahren Elessedil and Gar Hatch, startled, turned to look at it, both of them frozen in surprise. Pen caught the sudden flash of a blade, wicked and bright, but he couldn't make himself move, either. It was Khyber who leapt up, screaming in challenge to save them all. Hands outstretched, she summoned elemental magic in the form of a wind that picked up the dark form while it was still trying to regain its balance and threw it back over the side of the vessel into the cold lake waters.

Pen and Tagwen rushed to the side of the airship and peered down. The dark figure was gone.

On the dockside, the shouts were coming closer. Torchlight flickered through the mist. «Cast off," Ahren Elessedil snapped at Gar Hatch, «or I'll put you and your crew over the side and do it myself!»

The Rover Captain hesitated for just an instant, as if perhaps he would test this threat, then wheeled about, ordering his men to release the lines. The ropes fell away, and the airship began to drift from the dock. Pen continued to scan the waters into which the dark thing had fallen, not convinced it had given up, not persuaded it wasn't going to come at him again.

«Safety lines!» Gar Hatch snapped.

The Skatelow began to rise and the lake to drop away. Pen exhaled sharply. Still nothing. He glanced at Tagwen. The Dwarf's rugged features reflected his fear. His eyes shifted to find the boy's and he shook his head.

«Safety lines!» Hatch repeated angrily. «Young Pen! If you can spare the time, would you bring Cinnaminson into the pilot box before you secure yourself?»

Pen waved his response. He took a final look over the side before heading for the hatchway. The lake had disappeared beneath a sea of shifting mist.

Then they were flying into the night, a solitary island in the deepening gloom, leaving Anatcherae and its horrors behind.

TWENTY–THREE

Darkness had fallen, stealing away the last of the daylight. Heavy fog closed on the airship, enfolding it in a swirling gray haze. There was no difference now between up or down or even sideways to those who sailed aboard the Skatelow. Everything looked the same. The day had been dreary to begin with, washed of color and empty of sunshine, but the night was worse. The clouds were so thickly massed overhead that there was not even the smallest hint of stars or moon. Below, the waters of the Lazareen had vanished as if drained from an unplugged basin. The lights of Anatcherae had vanished minutes after their departure. The world had disappeared.

Pen brought Cinnaminson to her father. She squeezed Pen's hand as he led her along the corridor from her cabin and up the stairway to the deck, but neither of them spoke. There was too much to say and no time to say it. In the pilot box, she moved obediently to her father's side, saying as she did so, «I'm here, Papa.» Pen was dismissed, told to go below, and he moved away. But he lingered at the hatchway with Khyber and Ahren, staring out into the impenetrable fog, into the depthless night. If Cinnaminson wasn't able to navigate blind, he was thinking, they would be in trouble. There wasn't even the smallest landmark on which they could fix, no sky to read, no point of reference to track. There was nothing out there at all.

«She's her father's compass, isn't she?» Ahren asked him quietly. «His eyes in the darkness?»

He nodded, looking at the Druid in surprise. «How did you know?»

«It was nosed about at the docks in Syioned. Some say she's his good–luck charm. Some say she can see in darkness, even though she's blind in daylight. None of them have it right. I saw the way she moved the first few days we were aboard. She can sense the position of things in her mind, their location, their look and feel.»

«She said she sees the stars in her mind, even in mist and rain like this. That's how she navigates.»

«A gift," Ahren Elessedil murmured. «But her father thinks it belongs to him because she is his child.»

Pen nodded. «He thinks she belongs to him.»

They could hear her speaking softly to her father, giving him instructions, a heading to take, a course to follow. His hands moved smoothly over the controls in response, turning the airship slightly to starboard, bringing up her bow as he did so, easing ahead through the gloom. In a less stressful situation, he might have noticed them watching and immediately ordered them below, worried that they would discover his secret. He might have refused to proceed while they remained on deck. But that night he was so preoccupied that he didn't even know they were there.

The mist thickened the farther away from land they flew, swirling like witch's brew around the airship, alive with strange shadows and unexpected movement. There was no wind, and yet the haze roiled as if there were. Pen felt uneasy at the phenomenon, not understanding how it could occur. He glanced again at Ahren Elessedil, but the Druid was staring straight ahead, his concentration focused on something else.