The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [93]
Then they were where Jerle wanted them, still concealed within the wheat, but close enough to see the front of the outpost. Jerle lifted his head slightly and then dropped quickly down again, his face ashen. Tay stared at him a moment, searching his eyes, then rose cautiously to look for himself.
Retten Kipp hung spread-eagled from the barn door, where nails had been driven through his hands and feet to hold him in place. Blood dripped from his wounds and stained the splintered wood. Hair and clothes drooped limply, as if from the stick frame of a scarecrow. But then Kipp’s head lifted slightly. The old Tracker, though dying, was still alive.
Tay sank down, eyes closing momentarily. Rage and fear coursed through him, struggling for control of his reason. No wonder the Gnomes had not worked harder at hiding their presence. With Retten Kipp to bait their trap, they knew the Elves must show themselves. He fought to bring his feelings under control, staring grim-faced at Jerle Shannara.
His friend’s blue eyes were cold and steady as he bent close.
“Do they have Preia as well?” he whispered.
Tay did not reply. He did not trust himself. Instead, he closed his eyes a second time and sent his threads of magic into the house and bam, searching for the Elf girl. There was risk in this, but he saw no other way. He took his time, going deep inside each building to make certain.
Then he let his eyes open again. “No,” he breathed.
Jerle nodded, letting nothing show in his face of what that meant to him. His mouth twisted. His words were barely audible.
“We cannot save Retten Kipp — but we cannot leave him either.”
He stared at Tay, waiting. Tay nodded. He knew what Jerle was asking. “I understand,” he breathed softly.
This would be dangerous, he knew. The Gnome Hunters might not sense his use of the magic, but a Skull Bearer most certainly would. He had not discovered any of the winged hunters in his search for Preia, but they might be deliberately concealing themselves. This trap might have been designed specifically for him, one of the Druids they hunted, to bring him to them and then to draw him out. If a Skull Bearer was present and he did what Jerle wanted, they were lost. Still, there was little choice. Jerle was right. They could not leave Kipp to die this way.
He summoned his magic and wrapped himself in its dark cloak, stirring the air about him with its power, feeling the heat of its passion rise within his chest. He kept his eyes open, for this time his use of the magic would require sight and direction. His face altered and assumed the character of a death mask. He watched Jerle shrink from him, dismayed. He understood the look.
Then he lifted his head just high enough so that he could see Retten Kipp’s ragged, tortured form and spun the magic toward him along the slender thread of his lifeline. He proceeded cautiously, testing the ether he penetrated, wary of what he might find waiting. But nothing revealed itself, and so he continued on.
When he reached Retten Kipp’s heart, when he could feel his pain and suffering, when he could hear the sound of his ragged breathing as if it were his own, he drew away the air that fed the old man’s failing lungs and then waited patiently until his breathing stopped.
When it was finished, he slid down next to Jerle, his face shiny with sweat. There were tears in his eyes. “Done,” he whispered.
Jerle Shannara put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently to comfort him. “It was necessary, Tay. He was in pain. We could not simply leave him.”
Tay nodded wordlessly, knowing