“Leah!” Quentin roared in fury, striking blow after blow at the wronk that had once been Ard Patrinell, watching in horror as it responded with the unerring instincts and skill of the Captain of the Home Guard, infused with the knowledge that Patrinell had acquired through twenty-odd years of combat and training. It was terrifying. It was as if Patrinell was still there, his spirit captured within that metal form, able to direct its actions, to give thought to its responses. It was as if it knew what Quentin would do before he did it, as if it could anticipate the Highlander’s every move.
Perhaps he could, Quentin thought in dismay. Ard Patrinell had taught the Highlander almost everything he knew about fighting. Aboard the Jerle Shannara, Patrinell had trained and schooled Quentin in the tricks and the maneuvers that would keep him alive in combat. Quentin had been a good student, but Patrinell knew the tricks and maneuvers, as well, had known them longer, and could employ them better.
As did the wronk he had become, remade in this new image, in this monstrous form, in this horrific fusing of metal and flesh.
Another of the Rindge went down, bloodied and broken, torn open from neck to crotch. Obat and the remaining Rindge turned and fled. Quentin’s tiny band sagged back before the wronk’s fresh onslaught. Despair clouded their faces and drained them of their strength. But then they got lucky. Pressing its attack, the wronk got tangled up in the body of a dead Rindge, lost its footing, and went down. It was up almost instantly, but a broken limb of the dead man was lodged between its joints. In the few moments it took the wronk to free itself, Quentin and his companions broke off their seemingly hopeless struggle and raced after the fleeing Rindge. Whatever was needed to win their battle, it would first require a plan. Just then, it was best just to get away.
Sheathing their weapons on the fly, they raced back into the trees. Obat slowed to let them catch up, shouting something at Panax, who shouted back; then all of them disappeared into the trees. In seconds, they could no longer see the ruins. They ran a long time. Others of the Rindge joined them, all of them breathing hard, bathed in sweat, riddled with fear. Quentin felt the magic of his sword subside, a red haze fading into twinges of emptiness and unfulfilled need, a mix of emotions that tore at him like brambles. He was burned out and chilled through all at once, and part of him wanted to go back into battle while the other wanted only to escape.
He did not know how long they ran or even how far. They were well away from the ruins before they staggered to a halt, a forlorn and dejected band. They knelt in the fading afternoon light, heads lowered in exhaustion, listening through ragged gasps for the sounds of pursuit. Quentin glanced at Tamis, and his emotions coalesced into an overwhelming feeling of shame. Their effort had failed utterly. They were no better off than they had been when they started out—worse off, perhaps, because now they knew the fate of at least one of their missing companions and maybe of the rest, as well.
Tamis glared back at him. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes. “Don’t look at me!” she snapped.
Obat spoke to one of the Rindge, and the man rose and started back toward the ruins—looking to see if the thing they had fled was still following them, Quentin thought.
Panax eased over to him, gruff face flushed and angry. “What sort of monster would do that to a man?” he growled. “Make him into a machine out of bits and pieces of himself?”
“Another machine, maybe,” Quentin offered wearily. “A better question might be why?”
Panax shook his head. “There’s no sense to it.”
“There’s sense to everything, even if we don’t understand what it is.” Quentin was thinking about the wronk’s eyes, Ard Patrinell’s eyes. “There’s a reason Antrax uses wronks. There’s a reason for this one. Did you see how it fought us? Did you watch it respond to our attacks? It has Ard Patrinell’s memories, Panax. It’s using his skills and tactics. It knows how to fight the same way he did.”
The Rindge who had been dispatched by Obat returned on the run, speaking hurriedly to the subchief, who in turn spoke to Panax. The Dwarf came to his feet at once.
“Let’s go! It’s right behind us!”
They climbed to their feet and continued on quickly, Obat in the lead, choosing an unobstructed path that allowed them to move swiftly; their best chance lay in outrunning their pursuer. Once or twice, Quentin glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see. He did not doubt for a moment that the wronk was following, untiring and implacable, determined to pursue them until they were run to ground. The Highlander was already feeling twinges of doubt over whether they could escape it. But to stand and fight would be a mistake. The wronk was bigger and stronger. Its armor gave it better protection. It possessed Ard Patrinell’s fighting instincts and skills. Perhaps if there were more of the Rindge, if they could reach the village and summon others to their aid, they might stand a chance. Otherwise, even with the magic of the Sword of Leah to aid them, he wasn’t sure they would prevail.
They were strung out through a dense part of the forest they were unable to avoid when the wronk caught up with them. It came out of the trees to one side, its appearance so unexpected that no one was ready for it. Instantly, trapped and cut to pieces, two of the Rindge and the Elven Hunter Wye died. The remainder of the company scattered in a mix of shouts and cries, going off in all directions, fighting to break free of the wronk and the entangling trees. Quentin and Tamis ran one way while Panax and Kian ran the other. The Rindge ran everywhere. For an instant everything was chaos as the wronk surged through the center of their line, blades cutting at everything.
Then the Highlander and the Tracker were in the clear once more. Quentin risked a quick glance over one shoulder. A gleam of metal in sunlight and the sounds of something huge thrashing after them told him the wronk was still coming, and it was coming for them.
“This way!” Tamis hissed, dodging deadwood and scrub like a rabbit as she plunged down a ravine.
They ran in silence for a long time, neither one speaking, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuer. It was growing dark, twilight settling over Parkasia, shadows lengthening into night. It was difficult to pick up all the obstacles that hindered or blocked their path, especially when they were running, and more than once Quentin almost lost his footing. All the while, they could hear the sounds of pursuit, the breaking of branches, the rending of brush and grass, the steady, relentless clump of heavy steps.
Something unexpected and frightening insinuated itself into the Highlander’s thinking as he fled. At first he discounted the possibility, pushed it aside angrily, but then he began to wonder. Both times, here and there, the wronk had made it a point to come after him. He had seen it in the monster’s attack on the Rindge defensive formation, back in the ruins, where it had rushed the natives first, then turned directly for him. Again, in the woods, after striking down those closest, it had chosen to pursue him. It seemed paranoid to think like that. Why would the wronk be after him in particular? Had his attack on it in the ventilation shaft provoked it? Was there something about him especially that drew it?
Then he remembered something Walker had said during their final meeting aboard ship before disembarking for their ill-fated journey to the ruins, and he had his answer.
It was completely dark when they finally stopped, miles from where they had started, deep in the woods. The only visible light came from moon and stars, the forest around them layered with shadows and cloaked in silence. They crouched on a ridge, concealed in a stand of brush, and looked back the way they had come, listening. The sounds of the wronk’s pursuit had faded, disappearing almost without their realizing it, as if the creature had stopped, as well. Neither Quentin nor Tamis moved or spoke for a very long time, waiting.
“I know what it’s after,” Quentin whispered finally, staring off into the dark. “It’s after me.”
She looked at him without speaking.
“It wants the sword. It wants the magic. Remember what Walk
er told us about why we were lured here in the first place? For our magic, he said. I think Antrax knows all about us, maybe even about Bek. It wants everything we have.”
She thought it over. “Maybe.”
“That’s why it sent this wronk made of pieces of Ard Patrinell. It’s using his brain, his instincts, and his fighting skills to get what it wants from us. From me. I thought at first it had chosen Patrinell because he would know us best, could kill us easiest. But why send a wronk after us? Why bother, when we were so easily cut apart in the maze and pose so little threat?”
“So you think it constructed the wronk deliberately,” she said. “It used Patrinell’s head and sword arm, so it had to have a specific purpose in mind.”
“It used those parts it needed to make the wronk function as closely as possible to the real thing. None of this happened by accident. The wronk was constructed and dispatched for a reason. It’s after me. It keeps coming right for me. I didn’t think anything of it at first, back in the ventilation shaft. But it came after me again once we were outside and again in the forest, and now it’s chasing me. It wants the sword, Tamis. It wants the magic.”
For a moment, she was quiet. He went back to staring off into the impenetrable dark, listening. “You haven’t thought it through far enough,” she whispered suddenly. She waited until he turned to look at her again. “Think about it. Your sword won’t work for just anyone, will it?”
Her steady gaze unnerved him. “No. It only works for me. So you’re saying it wants me, too.”
“Or parts of you, like Patrinell.”
His throat tightened, and he looked away. “I’ll die first.”
She didn’t say anything but put a hand on his arm. “What were you trying to tell me about his eyes back there in the tunnel? When we were running, you started to say something. You asked me if I’d seen his eyes.”
Quentin was quiet for a long time, remembering what he had seen, trying to overcome the revulsion that even thinking of it caused. Tamis kept her hand on his arm and her eyes on his face. “Tell me, Highlander.”
He sagged a little as he spoke, despair and fear taking fresh hold. “When we struggled underground below the ruins, I got a good look at those eyes. While I was grappling with it, I got close enough to see into them. They weren’t dead eyes. They weren’t soulless. They weren’t filled with anger or madness or anything I expected. They were frightened and trapped and helpless. I know it sounds impossible, but he’s still alive in there. In his head and brain. In what he sees and feels. He’s shut away in there. I could see it. I could tell. He was asking for help. He was begging for it.”
She was shaking her head, denial, rage, and fear twisting her features, her hand tightening on his arm until her nails bit into his flesh.
“He’s not attacking us because he wants to!” Quentin hissed. “He’s doing it because he doesn’t have a choice, because he’s been rebuilt to carry out the wishes of Antrax! He’s been mind-altered like those Elves who murdered Allardon Elessedil! Only there’s no body left, nothing whole. He’s—” He caught himself. “He isn’t Ard Patrinell anymore, but Antrax has stolen something of who he was and is holding it prisoner inside that wronk.”
Something moved in the darkness, but the movement was small and quick. Quentin glanced out hurriedly, then back to Tamis.
“You could be wrong,” she insisted angrily.
“I know. But I’m not. I saw him. I saw him.”
There were fresh tears in her eyes. He caught their gleam in the moonlight. Her grip on his arm loosened. She blinked hard and looked away. “I can’t believe it. It isn’t possible.”
“The Rindge knew. They’ve seen it happen before with their own people. They tried to tell us.”
She shook her head and ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair. “It makes me sick. It makes me want to scream. No one should have to …”
She couldn’t finish. Quentin didn’t blame her. There were no words sufficient to express her feelings. What had been done to Ard Patrinell was so loathsome, so despicable that it left the Highlander feeling unclean.
And afraid, because there was every chance that Antrax intended that he come to the same end.
“We’ll have to kill him,” she said suddenly, looking over with such fierceness that it left him off balance. For a moment, he wasn’t certain who she was talking about. “Again, all over again. We can’t leave him trapped in there. We have to set him free.”
She took his hands in her own and gripped them tightly. “Help me do it, Highlander. Promise me you will.”
He saw it then, the reason for her passion. She had been in love with Ard Patrinell. He had missed that before, not seen even the barest hint of it. How had he been so blind? Maybe she had kept it well enough hidden that no one could have known. But there it was, out in the open, as certain as daylight’s return with the dawn.
“All right,” he agreed softly. “I promise.”
He had no idea how he was going to keep that promise, but his feelings on the matter were as strong as her own. He was the one who had looked into Ard Patrinell’s eyes and seen him in there, still alive. That was not something he could pretend never happened and would have no effect on him if he walked away from it. Like Tamis, he could not leave the Captain of the Home Guard a slave to a machine. The wronk had to be destroyed.
“Get some sleep,” she said, easing away from him. There was weariness and sadness in her voice. All of her strength seemed drained away. He had not seen her like that before and he did not like seeing her that way. It was as if she had suddenly grown old.
“Wake me in a few hours,” he said.
She did not respond. Her gaze was directed out into the night. He waited a moment, then stretched out, placing his head in the crook of his arm. He watched her for a time, but she didn’t move. Finally, his eyes closed and he slept.
In his troubled dreams, he ran once more from the wronk. It pursued him through a forest, and he could not find a way to escape it. After a long time, he found himself backed against a wall, and he was forced to turn and fight. But the wronk was not solid or recognizable. It was insubstantial, a thing made of air. He could feel it pressing into him, suffocating him. He fought to break free, just to draw a breath, and then suddenly it materialized right in front of him and he saw its face. It belonged to Bek.
It was almost dawn when he woke, the first tinges of daylight seeping through the trees, the sky east lightening. Tamis had fallen asleep on watch, her body leaning against a tree, her chin lowered into her chest. When he pushed himself into a sitting position, she heard him move and looked up at once.
In the distance, far off but recognizable, something big moved through the trees.
They stood up together, staring in the direction of the sounds.
“It’s coming again,” Quentin whispered. “What do you want to do? Make a stand here or choose another place?”
Her look was unreadable, but the weariness and sadness of the previous night had vanished. “Let’s find one of those pits the Rindge dug for wronk traps,” she replied softly. “Let’s see how well it works.”
Even though he had been persuaded by Ryer Ord Star to follow the little sweeper in search of Walker, Ahren Elessedil insisted on waiting until after dark before reentering the deadly ruins. He accepted that it was unlikely they would be attacked by creepers or fire threads if the sweeper was leading them and it probably made no difference whether it was dark or light, but he didn’t care. Still firmly in the grip of his memory of the attack that had destroyed everyone with him when they had attempted an entry in daylight last time, it was all he could do to make himself go back down there at all. He must at least, he insisted, be allowed the one concession.
Ryer Ord Star had no choice but to agree since she wanted him with her; the sweeper had nothing to offer on the matter. It sat there on its wheeled base, insides whirring, keeping its images to itself. Summery and hot, the day drifted slowly away, and Ahren and Ryer to
ok turns sleeping. Below their hiding place, the ruins sat shimmering in silence.
With the coming of nightfall, darkness settling over the land in blue-gray shadows and thinning light, they set out. The sweeper led them down out of their concealment, its wheeled base flexing on the stairs and over the rubble, scarcely making a sound as it worked its way through the perimeter and into the ruins. The seer and the Elven Prince followed, the former without hesitation, the latter with nothing but. They were barely twenty yards into the maze when the sweeper approached a wall, made a series of small clicking noises, and triggered a concealed entry. The wall slid back to reveal a dimly lit ramp leading down, and the three unlikely companions stepped within.
When the door slid shut again behind them, Ahren experienced such an attack of panic that it was all he could do to keep from crying out. He felt trapped, exposed, and helpless all at once, and he expected the fire threads and the creepers to cut him apart. But there was no attack, and they proceeded unchallenged down the ramp to a joining of corridors at a hub. Flameless lamps encased in glass spilled yellow light across the flooring in dim pools. Pipes ran along the ceilings, burrowing in and out of the walls like snakes. Sealed doors, some of them round rather than rectangular, were the only thing marring the smooth metal surfaces. Spaced evenly along each passageway, glass fish-eyes peered down at them from overhead, tiny red dots within dark centers flashing wickedly.
Ahren, his eyes peering everywhere at once, found himself regretting anew his decision; he was still bothered by their willingness to accept that the sweeper could help them. Or would, for that matter. That a machine that was at least part creeper would be anxious to help them seemed patently ridiculous. In his mind, he replayed the images the sweeper had shown them, reevaluating them, trying to get behind them to see more than he had been shown. The whole business felt wrong. He kept thinking that Ryer Ord Star would have detected any subterfuge, but the seer was so blinded by her need to reach Walker that he couldn’t be sure. Even if they found the Druid, how were they supposed to help him? If he couldn’t help himself, what use would they be? He thought about the missing Elfstones. If he had their magic to call upon, he might be able to do something, although even that wasn’t a given, since he had never used them and had no real idea if he could.