“No!” Rone Leah screamed suddenly.
Tearing free of Brin as she sought to restrain him, the Prince of Leah charged down into the glen, the ebony blade of his great broadsword grasped tightly in both hands. “Leah! Leah!” he cried in fury. The promise he had give the Druid was forgotten. He could not stand back and watch Allanon die. He had saved him once; he could do so again.
“Rone, come back!” Brin screamed after him futilely.
Rone Leah reached the struggling figures an instant later. The dark blade of the Sword of Leah lifted and swept downward in a glittering arc, cutting deep into the neck and shoulders of the Jachyra, driven by the force of magic, tearing through muscle and bone. The Jachyra reared back, a frightful howl breaking from its throat, its reddish body snapping upright as if it had been broken from within.
“Die, you monster!” Rone cried in rage as he caught sight of the torn and bloodied figure of Allanon beneath.
But the Jachyra did not die. One corded arm swung about sharply and caught the highlander across the face with stunning force. He flew backward, hands releasing their grip on the Sword of Leah. At once the Jachyra was after him, howling all the while in maddened delight, almost as if the greater pain pleased it in some foul, incomprehensible way. It caught Rone before he fell, seized him in its claws and flung him the length of the glen to lie in a crumpled heap.
Then it straightened. The dark blade of the Sword of Leah was still buried in its body. Reaching back, the Jachyra wrenched the sword free as if the blow had meant nothing to it. It hesitated an instant, the blade held before its yellow eyes. Then it hurled the Sword of Leah from it, into the air high above the waters of the Chard Rush, to fall into their grasp and be carried from sight like a piece of deadwood, bobbing and spinning in the swift current.
The Jachyra spun back around toward the fallen figure of Allanon. Astonishingly, the Druid was on his feet again, black robes shredded and stained dark with his blood. Seeing him risen, the Jachyra seemed to go completely berserk. Howling in fury, it sprang.
But this time the Druid did not try to stop it. Catching the Jachyra in midleap, his great hands closed about its neck like a vise. Heedless of the claws that tore at his body, he forced the monster backward to the ground, the hands squeezing. Shrieks rose out of the Jachyra’s damaged throat and the reddish body twisted like a snake that has been pierced. Still the Druid’s hands crushed inward. The muzzle split wide, teeth snapping and ripping at the air.
Then abruptly Allanon’s hands released and jammed downward into the open maw. They thrust deep into the monster’s throat. From the clasped fingers blue fire ripped downward. Convulsions shook the Jachyra, and its limbs flung wide. The Druid fire burned through its powerful body, down into the very core of its being. It struggled to break free for only an instant. Then the fire broke out of it from everywhere, and it exploded in a blinding flash of blue light.
Brin turned away, shielding her eyes against the glare. When she looked back, Allanon knelt alone atop a pile of charred ash.
Brin went first to the unconscious Rone, who lay sprawled in a twisted heap at the back edge of the glen, his breathing shallow and slow. Gently she straightened him, feeling carefully about his limbs and body for signs of breakage. She found none and, after wiping clean the cuts on his face, she hurried down to Allanon.
The Druid still knelt within the ashes that had been the Jachyra, his arms folded tight against his body, his head lowered against his chest. His long black robes were shredded and soaked with his blood.
Slowly Brin knelt beside him, a stricken look on her face as she saw what had been done to him. The Druid lifted his head wearily, hard eyes locking on her own.
“I am dying, Brin Ohmsford,” he said quietly. She tried to shake her head, but his hand lifted to stop her. “Hear me, Valegirl. It was foretold that this should be. In the Valley of Shale, the shade of Bremen, my father, said to me that it should be. He said that I must pass from the land and that I would not come again. He said that it would happen before our quest was done.”
He winced with sudden pain, his face tightening in response. “I thought that perhaps I could make it otherwise. But the Wraiths… the Wraiths found a way to set free the Jachyra, knowing perhaps… at least hoping that I would be the one it would encounter. It is a thing of insanity. It feeds on its own pain and on the pain of others. In its madness, it wounds not just the body, but the spirit as well. There is no defense. It would have torn itself apart… just to see me destroyed. It is a poison…”
He choked on the words. Brin bent close, swallowing back the hurt and fear. “We must dress the wounds, Allanon. We must…”
“No, Brin, it is finished,” he cut her short. “There is no help for me. It must be for me as it was foretold.” He glanced across the glen slowly. “But you must help the Prince of Leah. The poison will be in him as well. He is your protector now… as he said he would be.” His eyes shifted back to her own. “Know that his sword is not lost. The magic will not let it be lost. It must… find its way to mortal hands… the river will carry it to those hands…”
Again he choked on the words, this time doubling over sharply against the pain of his wounds. Brin reached out and caught him, held him upright, close against her.
“Don’t talk anymore,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.
Slowly he pulled away from her, straightening. Blood coated her hands and arms where she had held him.
A faint, ironical smile flickered on his lips. “The Wraiths think that I am the one they need fear—that I am the one who can destroy them.” He shook his head slowly. “They are wrong. You are the power, Brin. You are the one that… nothing can stand against.”
One hand fastened on her arm in a grip of iron. “Hear me well. Your father mistrusts the Elven magic; he fears what it can do. I tell you now that he has reason to mistrust it, Valegirl. The magic can be a thing of light or a thing of dark for the one who possesses it. It seems a toy, perhaps, but it has never been that. Be wary of its power. It is power like nothing I have ever seen. Keep it your own. Use it well, and it will see you safely through to the end of your quest. Use it well, and it will see the Ildatch destroyed!”
“Allanon, I cannot go on without you!” she cried softly, shaking her head in despair.
“You can and you must. As with your father… there is no one else.” His dark face lowered.
She nodded dumbly, barely hearing him, lost in the jumble of emotions that raged within her as she fought back against the inevitability of what was happening.
“The age passes,” Allanon whispered and the black eyes glistened. “So must the Druids pass with it.” His hand lifted to fall gently on hers. “But the trust I carry for them must not pass, Valegirl. It must remain with those who live. That trust I give now to you. Bend close.”
Brin Ohmsford leaned forward until her face was directly before his. Slowly, painfully, the Druid slipped one hand within the shredded robes to his chest, then brought it forth again, the fingers dipped into his own blood. Gently he touched her forehead. Holding the fingers to her flesh, warm with his lifeblood, he spoke softly in a language she had never heard. Something of his touch and of the words seemed to seep into her, filling her with a rush of exhilaration that swept across her vision in a surge of blinding color and then was gone.