burst apart the double doors, tearing them from their iron bindings and leaving them shattered. The Druid leaped through the entryway into the room beyond and was lost in the darkness.
Already the Furies were after him, bounding down the hallway like animals, their cries thick with hunger. The fleetest among them surged through the gaping doorway and caught the Druid as he struggled to free the clasp that secured a floor–length window leading to the battlements. Allanon turned to face them, his tall form crouching He seized the two closest to him as they leaped for his goat and threw them into the rest. His hands came up and blue fire scattered from his fingers, turning the floor between them into a wall of flame. Still the Furies came after him. The nearest hurtled recklessly into the flames and perished. When the fire vanished a moment later, the windows stood open, and the Druid was gone.
A thousand feet above the canopy of the surrounding forestland, his back pressed against the towering wall of the Druid’s Keep, Allanon edged his way along a narrow stone ledge that dropped away into blackness. With each step he took, the wind threatened to tear him loose. He worked his way quickly to a slender stone catwalk that bridged to an adjoining tower. The catwalk was less than three feet wide; below there was only emptiness. The Druid did not hesitate. This was his only chance to escape. He started across.
Behind him he heard the screams of rage and frustration that burst from the throats of the Furies as they followed him through the open windows. They came after him in a rush, more sure than he on the smooth castle stone, their clawed limbs gripping tightly as they raced to catch him. At the windows, the Dagda Mor raised the Staff of Power once more, and the killing fire streaked toward the fleeing Druid. But Allanon had seen that he would not cross before the Furies reached him. Dropping to one knee, he brought both arms up in a wide circle, and a shield of blue fire materialized in front of him. The flame from the Demon’s staff shattered harmlessly against it. Yet the force of the attack threw the Druid backward, and he tumbled down upon the narrow bridge. In the next instant, the foremost of his pursuers were upon him.
This time Allanon was not quick enough. Clawed fingers ripped through the fabric of his cloak and tore into his flesh. Searing pain wracked his shoulders and chest. With a tremendous heave, he threw back the Furies that held him, and they fell from the narrow arch, screaming. Staggering to his feet, he lurched toward the waiting tower. Again the Furies came at him, stumbling over one another in their eagerness to reach their prey, howling their frustration; their strange, half–woman faces twisted with hate. Again the Druid grew them back, his body shredded further, his clothing soaked with blood.
Then at last he reached the far end of the bridge, his body sagging against the wall of the tower. He turned, hands raising. Blue fire erupted downward into the stone walk, shattering it apart. With a shudder, the whole of the arch collapsed. Shrieking with horror, the Furies tumbled down into the night and disappeared.
Fire from the Staff of Power flared all about him, yet the Druid managed to evade it, dodging quickly around the circle of the tower wall until he was beyond the Demon’s sight. There he found a small iron door, closed and locked. With a single powerful shove of one shoulder, he burst through the door and was gone.
Chapter Seven
It was midmorning. In the Village of the Healers; the tiny Gnome community of Storlock, the thunderstorm was finally ending. It had been spectacular while it had lasted — masses of rolling black clouds streaked with wicked flashes of lightning and punctuated by long, booming claps of thunder — torrential rains that hammered the forestland with the force of winter sleet — winds that uprooted whole trees and stripped roofs from the low stone and plaster buildings that comprised the village. The storm had blown out of the Rabb Plains at dawn, and now it was drifting eastward toward the dark ridge of the Wolfsktaag, leaving the woodlands of the central Anar sodden and muddied with its passing.
Wil Ohmsford stood alone on the porch of the Stor rest center, the major treatment facility for the community, and watched absently as the rain slowed to a thin trickle. The clouds still screened away the sunlight, leaving the day wrapped in somber tones of gray, and a fine mist had formed in the mix of cool storm air and warm earth. The eaves and walls of the center were wet and shiny, and droplets of moisture clung to the leaves of the vines that grew about them, glistening with green freshness. Bits of wood littered the ground, forming small dams against the rivers of surface water that flowed everywhere.
The Valeman yawned and stretched wearily He had been up all night, working with children afflicted by a particularly nasty fever that dried away the fluids of the body and sent temperatures soaring. He could have asked to have been relieved earlier, of course, but he would not have felt comfortable doing that. He was still a student among the Stors, and he was very conscious of the fact that he must continue to prove himself if he were to one day become a Healer. So he had stayed with the children, all yesterday, all night, until at last the fever had broken.
Now he was too tired to sleep, too keyed up from his night’s work. Besides, he knew he should spend some time with Flick. He grinned in spite of his exhaustion. Old Uncle Flick would very likely drag him bodily from his bed if he failed to visit for at least a few minutes before trundling off to sleep.
He swung down off the porch, the muddied earth sucking at his boots as he plodded through the damp, head lowered. He was not very big, an inch or two taller than Flick perhaps, and his build was slight. He had his grandfather’s halfling Elven features — the slim nose and jaw, the slightly pointed ears hidden beneath locks of blondish hair, the narrow eyebrows that angled up sharply from the bridge of his nose. Distinctive features, they had marked Shea Ohmsford and now they marked his grandson as well.
The sound of running footsteps brought him about. It was one of the Servers, Gnome aides to the Stors. He came up to Wil, wizened yellow face streaked with rain, forest cloak wrapped close to ward off the weather.
«Sir, your uncle has been asking for you all night,” he panted, slowing. «He insisted I ask after you…»
Wil nodded understandingly and reached out to clasp the Gnome’s shoulder. «I am on my way to see him now. Thank you.»
The Server turned and darted back through the mist to whatever shelter he had been forced from. Wil watched him disappear from view, then started back up the roadway.
A smile creased his face. Poor Uncle Flick. He would not be here at all if Shea had not taken ill. Flick cared little for the Eastland, a country he could live without quite nicely, as he was fond of reminding Wil. He particularly disliked Gnomes, though the Stors, were decent enough folk. Too many Gnomes had tried to do away with him in the past, particularly during the search for the Sword of Shannara. It was not something he could forget easily; such memories lingered on and could not be put aside simply for the sake of being fair–minded about Gnomes.
In any case, Flick really didn’t care to be here at all and wouldn’t have been, except that Shea had not been able to come as he had promised Wil he would and Flick had felt duty–bound to come in his place. Viewed in that perspective, the whole thing was Shea’s fault — as Flick had announced to Wil ten seconds after his arrival. After all, if Shea hadn’t made his ill–advised promise to visit Wil, then Flick would be back in the Vale instead of sitting around in Storlock where he did not want to be in the first place. But Flick was Shea’s brother and therefore Wil’s uncle — Flick refused to think of himself as anyone’s granduncle — and since Shea could not come, someone had to make the trip in his stead. The only other someone was Flick.
The little guest cottage where Flick was staying came into view, and Wil turned reluctantly toward it. He was tired and he did not feel like an argument, but there would probably be one, because he had spent very little time with Flick during the few days his uncle had been in Storlock and none at all in the past thirty–six hours. His work was demanding, but he knew that his uncle viewed that as a lame excuse.
He was still mulling the matter over when Flick appeared abruptly on the porch of the cottage, gray–beamed face lapsing into stony disapproval. Resigned to the inevitable, Wil mounted the steps and brushed the water from his cloak.
Flick studied him wordlessly for a moment, then shook his head.
«You look exhausted,” he declared bluntly. «Why aren’t you in bed?»
Wil stared at him. «I’m not in bed because you sent word that you wanted to see me.»
«Not right away, I didn’t!»
«Well,” Wil shrugged helplessly. «I guess I thought I should come to see you now. After all, I haven’t been able to give you much time so far.»
«True enough,” his uncle grunted, a hint of satisfaction in his voice at eliciting this admission. «Still, you pick
