The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [82]
The Warlock Lord reached out far him. For a second Risca found that he could not move and believed he would die without being able to lift a finger to save himself. Then the fire of his determination broke through his fear and galvanized him. He roared in defiance at the terrible black shape, at the skeletal hand that reached for him, at the eyes as red as blood, at his terror, at fate’s betrayal. His battle-axe came up in a huge sweep, the fire of his own magic sweeping its length. The Warlock Lord gestured, and Risca felt as if iron bands had fastened themselves about his body.
With a tremendous effort, he snapped them asunder and flung the battle-axe. The weapon smashed into the cloaked form and exploded in flames.
Risca did not wait to see the result of his strike. He knew instinctively that this was a battle he could not win. Strength of arms and fighting skills alone were not enough to defeat this enemy. The moment he released the axe, he dove back through the opening in the tent, scrambled to his feet, and broke for freedom.
Already shouts were rising out of the firelight, and men were waking from their sleep. Risca did not look behind him, but he could feel Brona’s presence like a black cloud, reaching out for him, trying to drag him back. He raced across the open ground and leaped through the nearest fire, kicking at the dying flames, scattering sparks and brands in every direction. He snatched up a sword from a sleeping man and dodged left into the haze of smoke from the scattered fire.
Alarms rose from every quarter. The hand of the Warlock Lord still reached for him, tightening about his chest, but it grew weaker as he widened the distance between them. His wits had scattered, and he tried to regain them. A Troll appeared before him, challenging his passage, and he left the dagger buried in the other’s throat. He reacted instinctively, unable to think clearly yet. Men were swirling all about him, running in every direction, searching for the cause of the uproar, still unaware that it was him. He forced himself to slow, to ignore the frantic beat of his pulse and the tight ness about his chest. Shades! He had come so close! He moved swiftly now, but he no longer ran. By running, he drew attention to himself. He summoned his magic, abandoned at the moment of his flight, realizing for the first time that he had almost lost control of it completely, that he had almost given way to his fear. He cloaked himself swiftly, then angled left toward the open plains, a different direction than he had come, a direction in which they would not think to look. If he was discovered and had to fight his way clear, he would be killed. There were too many for him. Too many for any man, Druid or no.
Down through the camp he hastened, the heat of his encounter with the Warlock Lord threatening to suffocate him. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to ignore the turmoil of the waking camp, the shouts and cries, and the thudding of booted feet as squads of armed soldiers were dispatched in every direction.
Ahead, he could see the blackness of the plains appear, the sweep of emptiness that lay beyond the ring of campfires. Guards were standing all about the perimeter, but they were looking out into the darkness in expectation of an attack from that direction. He had an almost irresistible urge to look back over his shoulder, to see what might be following, but something warned him that if he did so he would reveal himself. Perhaps the Warlock Lord would see his eyes and know who he was, even from within his concealment.
Perhaps he would recognize his face. Maybe that would be enough to undo him. Risca did not turn. He continued ahead, slowing to choose the point of his escape as he neared the perimeter of the camp.
“You and you,” he said to a pair of Gnomes as he passed between them, not bothering to slow so that they could see his face, using their own language to address them, a language he had spoken fluently since