The Measure of the Magic: Legends of Shannara by Terry Brooks
He held it a few moments longer, trying to find something in the touch of his fingers on the runes, in the staff’s weight or its balance, anything at all that might indicate what was required.
But no matter what he did, nothing happened.
Finally, his patience exhausted and his concern growing over the increasing distance Arik Siq was putting between them, he shouldered the staff and set out.
Reentering the pass, he walked quickly, but paid close attention to his surroundings. It wouldn’t be out of the question for Arik Siq to wait in ambush or to set traps to snare him. He found the Troll’s tracks quickly enough, deep gouges where the rock gave way to soft earth. The Troll was running, not bothering to mask his passing. It appeared that he was afraid and wanted only to get away. Panterra didn’t think the Troll feared him. He must be concerned that the poison from the blowgun wasn’t doing what was needed and that Sider Ament might still be alive.
He remembered suddenly how disturbed Arik Siq had been when he first saw the Gray Man all those weeks ago, coming out of the camp with Pan on the pretext of being his friend. He had thought the bearers of the black staff were all dead; he had looked decidedly uncomfortable to find out otherwise. Apparently he knew something of the old Knights of the Word, and he was frightened by that knowledge. It made Pan wonder how much of what the Troll had told him about Hawk and the Ghosts was the truth. How much of that whole story was real, and how had he known it in the first place?
He skirted the bodies of the dead, the Trolls and the men from Glensk Wood, as he wound his way ahead through the defile’s twists and turns. The rock walls loomed high to either side, all but shutting out the sky, and as the sun worked its way west, the shadows continued to deepen. He would get clear of the pass before nightfall, but tracking anyone after that might prove impossible. If the moon clouded over, he might have to wait until morning to resume his hunt.
When he reached the barricade the men from Glensk Wood had constructed to defend the pass, he found the few bodies of the Trolls killed coming over the wall lying undisturbed. Climbing to the other side, he took a moment to study the killing field below, but nothing seemed changed there, either. He descended a second ladder and picked his way through the dead. No one had come up from the village yet. They would all be thinking that the pass was defended and they were safe from a surprise attack, lulled into a false sense of security.
Until he told them otherwise, of course—something he would have to do sooner rather than later.
He considered rethinking his priorities and going to Glensk Wood first, if only to alert everyone in the valley about the danger they were in. He did not want to abandon tracking Arik Siq, but if he couldn’t pick up the trail outside the pass, wouldn’t it make sense to go on to Glensk Wood, to travel through the night and reach the village by dawn? He could always resume tracking the Drouj afterward, couldn’t he?
But he hated the idea. He needed to respond directly to Sider’s death, and the only way he could do so was by catching up to Arik Siq. Letting him slip away now, no matter the reason, felt like a betrayal. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he let the Drouj get away, possibly for good.
At the far end of the approach to the pass, still walking among the dead, he felt a sudden surge of warmth from the black staff. It caught him by surprise, and he drew up quickly, stopping where he was. He stood looking at the staff in surprise, noticing that the runes were beginning to glow softly, to pulsate.
What was happening?
It took him a moment to decide. The staff was warning him. It was responding to something that he had not detected; it was telling him that something was wrong.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings, peering off into the shadow-laced trees and the wide rocky stretches of the hillside that led up to the pass. He studied everything carefully, searching for anything that seemed to be out of place. But everything looked as it should. Out of habit, he dropped into a crouch, making himself a smaller target, no longer silhouetted against the fading light.
He looked at the staff. It continued to pulse.
Then he saw it. Not three yards away, all but invisible in the darkness, a trip cord stretched across the trail leading downhill. He followed its length both ways until the ends disappeared into the gloom. Dropping flat against the ground, he crawled forward just far enough that he could reach the cord with the end of the staff, and he gave it a sharp poke.
Instantly a handful of black objects flew through the darkness right in front of him, their passage so swift he only caught a glimpse of movement. He heard the missiles ping as they bounced off rocks some distance away, steel striking against stone. Then everything was quiet again.
He poked the trip cord once more, just to be sure, but nothing happened. He stood, walked up to the wire, and followed it in the direction the black objects had gone. He found several some distance away, lying on the ground. Darts, the tips laced with poison, their butts notched to fit a bowstring. He walked the other way and found the bow, cleverly wedged in the rocks so that it would not shift, its bowstring hanging limp from guy wires where the trip cord had released it.
So he had been right to be cautious. Arik Siq was setting traps, intent on putting an end to any attempt at pursuit. He wasn’t running blindly, after all. He had taken time to stop and construct this ambush, knowing it would be dark before anyone following got this far.
Pan looked down at the black staff. The more important revelation was here. That the staff’s magic had warned him of the danger was a complete surprise. Pan hadn’t summoned the magic or even thought to do so. He had never considered the possibility that the staff might be able to act unilaterally. He had assumed all along it only responded to the commands of the user. But the unbidden warning he had been given demonstrated clearly how wrong he was.
Perhaps, he thought suddenly, summoning the magic wasn’t even necessary. Perhaps the magic responded to something more complex and personal. To the user itself? To the user’s immediate circumstances?
He took a deep breath and exhaled.
Was the staff in some way sentient?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t be sure. Not yet, not on the strength of a single event. But the possibility was there, right in front of him. The staff might be more than a tool of magic. It might be an extension of the bearer himself.
The way forward made safe, he started off again, more slowly now, watching for traps. He descended from the pass and into the foothills, passing out of the snow line and entering the forests below. Once or twice, he found footprints left by a Troll going in the same direction and knew them to be fresh—made within the last few hours. He followed them by staying off to one side, keeping close enough to read them but not so close as to put himself directly on top of them. There had been one trap set; he would likely find more.
Less than an hour had passed when he realized suddenly that even though it was fully dark, he could see the ground ahead clearly. The moon, almost full and rising in the east, was a dim presence in a heavily clouded sky. He should be having trouble tracking on a night like this. Yet he could see Arik Siq’s tracks. How could that be? He scanned the sky and the horizons for some sign of ambient light and found nothing. It was his own vision that was providing the light; he could read sign ten times better than he had ever been able to before.
The staff, he thought at once. It was the magic of the black staff that was doing this.
Yet the staff’s runes were dark, and the heat that had emanated from its wood earlier was gone. Still, something was happening. His instincts, always good, were unusually sharp and he was attuned to everything around him. The staff was enhancing his natural abilities so that even in almost total darkness, he would find what he was looking for.
He felt a sudden rush of elation. The magic was responding to him after all, just not in the way he had imagined it would. Taking up the staff as Sider Ament had asked was all that was necessary to make the magic his. He felt relief mixed
But maybe he understood enough to track down Arik Siq.
He picked up his pace, determined to find out.
PAN HUNTED FOR ARIK SIQ ALL THE REST OF THE night, tracking him steadily through the enveloping darkness and the curtains of mist that rose off the valley floor. For a time, it seemed he would not catch him, his efforts hampered by the latter’s skill at hiding his passing, at concealing his tracks by using tricks well known to Pan but difficult to unmask nevertheless. The Drouj clearly had experience and talent in this area, something that Pan found increasingly troubling. He had envisioned a quick end to his pursuit once he discovered he had the staff’s magic to enhance his abilities and instincts. He had not believed that his adversary would prove to be much of a problem.
The chase wore on past midnight as Arik Siq descended out of the high country toward the upper rim of the valley floor. He stayed well away from the villages and towns, skirting places where he might be seen, keeping to the woods and less traveled paths. He was working his way east again, an indication that he intended to try making his escape a different way, perhaps through Aphalion. Pan found this odd, given he must at least suspect the Elves knew of his deception by now and would be guarding the pass. But the Troll’s steady progress in that direction seemed a clear indication of his intentions.
Until, abruptly, his trail disappeared altogether.
It happened right at the beginning of a particularly rocky stretch where tracks would have been hard to locate under the best of circumstances. Panterra walked out onto the flats, searched the ground carefully, and found nothing. He crossed all the way to the far side, a distance of several hundred yards, and still found nothing. Even in the softer earth that lay beyond, there were no marks. He walked back again, hoping to sense something with the aid of the staff’s magic.
Still nothing.
Standing once more where he had lost the trail, he tried to think his way through his confusion. He knew he must have missed something. Arik Siq could not have simply disappeared. He had to have used a trick to disguise his trail, one that Pan simply hadn’t recognized. The trail led right up to the rocky stretch. Where had Arik Siq gone from there that would leave no further tracks at all?
Pan knelt to take a closer look at the footprints that ended at the flats, and a moment later he had his answer.
The tracks were deeper than they should have been and on close examination revealed that they had been stepped in twice. The Troll, taking no chances with anyone who might be following, had walked backward in the same tracks to leave the impression he had disappeared into thin air.
Pan retraced his quarry’s footprints for almost a hundred feet, at last finding the place were the Drouj had stepped sideways onto a patch of loose rock and then followed it north until he was safely away from his own trail. Pan, still following the first set of tracks, had walked right past without noticing the second. He took his time now, working with little more than traces of dust disturbed and rocks nudged from one side to the other. When he was finished crossing the hardpan, navigating both stretches of flat rock and beds of crushed gravel, he found the other’s trail once more.
To his surprise, the trail abruptly swung west again.
Pan followed it for a time, wanting to make sure of what he was seeing. But there was no mistake. Arik Siq had reversed direction and was returning the way he had come. He was heading back toward Declan Reach.
It made sense. He would have trouble getting past the Elves at Aphalion. But there were only dead men at Declan Reach, and that scenario was not likely to change for a few more days. Even if his deadly snare hadn’t put an end to any pursuit, anyone hunting him would think he was going east to Aphalion and would not suspect he intended to double back. By the time they had figured it out, he would be outside the valley and well away from any danger.
Panterra knelt and examined the rediscovered trail carefully. How much of a lead did Arik Siq have? How much time did Pan have left to catch him before he was outside the valley? He couldn’t be sure. Enough that there was a chance. Enough that he had to give it a try.
He set out at once. This was his valley, his country, and he knew it better than the man he was chasing. Arik Siq might have learned some things about the valley in the time he had been there, but he wouldn’t yet know enough to identify shortcuts and places where his passage could be eased. Nor was he as driven as Pan was. It was enough of an edge that Pan had already made up his mind he could win this race.
He climbed high onto the slopes where the woods opened into meadows and grassy hillsides, and he began a slow, steady trot west toward Declan Reach. He was young and in excellent condition; he could run twenty miles at a steady speed. It would have been better if he’d had some sleep beforehand, but he wouldn’t use that as an excuse. At least, he didn’t have to bother with following tracks anymore. He needed only to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and not burning himself out before he reached the pass.
The hours passed, the sun rose and began its familiar journey west, and in the haze of weary determination that enveloped him Panterra Qu began to think of Prue. He still knew nothing of what had happened to her. She might still be in the hands of the Drouj, a possibility that made it even more imperative he catch up to Arik Siq. Holding the latter captive would give him something to bargain with for Prue’s safe return. A father, any father, even Taureq Siq, would not give up the life of his son for no better reason than spite.
Pan visualized Prue in his mind. He found an image of her face that pleased him, pasted it on the air in front of his eyes, and ran faster.
It was almost sunset when he found himself approaching Declan Reach once more. He slowed automatically, coming up on the pass and its killing field soundlessly, a shadowy figure in the growing darkness. He searched for signs of Arik Siq’s presence and found nothing. He tested the air with his senses—listening, tasting, smelling, and watching.
Still nothing.
He had gotten there first.
He stopped where he was, just in view of the sprawled forms of the dead, high up on the slopes but to the right of the pass, out of view. His breath clouded the air before him, the cold bone-chilling. He had to choose a place to wait for the other man. He had to find a way to catch him off guard. Arik Siq would be cautious of a trap, wary of being tricked in the same way he had tried to trick Pan. He was no fool. Any chance of capturing him alive would require some thought.
He felt an odd calm settle over him; everything became slow and easy. Nothing was beyond him now.
Odd, he thought suddenly, that he had abandoned so readily his intention of killing Arik Siq to avenge Sider. Arik’s death had been the driving force behind his choosing to take the black staff, enraged and bitter beyond words. But now all that was gone, bled out of him during his pursuit, left behind in the wake of his determination that the man would not escape him and replaced by his need to save Prue. Sider would not mind, he thought. Sider would not only understand, but also approve. It was the right thing to do.
He studied the dead men where they lay before the defensive wall, the positioning of the single ladder that remained upright against the ramparts and the way the uneven terrain rolled and shifted beneath all of it. Finally, he walked over to where Trow Ravenlock lay sprawled in death, propped him upright so that he was facing back the way Arik Siq would come, calculated the way things would work when the Drouj made his cautious way toward freedom, and nodded in satisfaction when he was certain of what would happen.
Then he took up a position at the base of the wall, stretching out on the ground close by where he had left Trow, his body partially obscured by that of a dead Troll, and began his vigil.
When he was perhaps twenty feet from Trow’s body, Arik Siq drew up short, troubled by the dead man’s strange position. After hesitating a moment, he came forward, dropping into a crouch, a long knife in one hand, his blowgun in the other. From his posture, it was clear he suspected a trap of some sort, which was exactly what Pan wanted. The Drouj stopped not six feet on the other side of the Troll corpse behind which Panterra lay, studied the dead leader of the Trackers, looked around for trip wires, and then started cautiously for the wall.
Pan came to his feet soundlessly, right behind the other, gripping his black staff in both hands. Arik Siq sensed something at the last minute, his own instincts sharp enough to warn him, and turned. But Pan was already swinging the staff with as much force as he could muster, striking the other on his raised forearms with numbing force. Both weapons went flying. The Drouj screamed in pain and stumbled backward, trying desperately to flee the unexpected attack. But he had no chance; Panterra was on top of him instantly. The black staff made a strange whistling noise as he swung it a second time, catching Arik Siq on the side of his head.
The Drouj dropped like a stone.
BY THE TIME his prisoner began to stir, Panterra had built a fire, made himself a meal from food scrounged from the remains of the dead men’s supplies, and eaten and drunk his fill. He had dragged Arik Siq down the mountainside far enough that they were in the shelter of a clump of rocks surrounded by alpines and scrub, well away from the pass at Declan Reach and its dead.