Free The Measure of the Magic by Terry Brooks

their Maturen, who was his cousin.” He paused. “Just so you understand. He won’t bargain. He won’t even trouble himself to hear you out. He won’t waste the time. He’ll simply kill us both and be done with it.”
    “He won’t kill you. It would be pointless.”
    “Not to his way of thinking. He’ll kill me because I’ve failed him.”
    They were silent for a time, walking ahead toward the dawn, watching the light in the east grow brighter and the shadows begin to fade. Ahead, the trees of the forest that filled the west end of the valley slowly took on definition through the gloom, strange sentries in the wash of the morning’s misty damp.
    “How much of the rest of that story was true?” Pan asked finally.
    For a moment, the other man didn’t say anything. “All of it. Except that it wasn’t about my people—it was about theirs, the Karriak. They were the descendants of the ones called Panther and Cat, the boy and girl who came east with the Hawk to escape the aftermath of the Great Wars. I heard the story from the Karriak when I was visiting with them. They were proud of it, of their heritage. Little good that it did them.”
    Panterra thought about it, saying nothing. “What do you care?” Arik Siq asked. “Who your people were matters hardly at all. Who they are now is what matters. Who
you
are.”
    “Your history is sometimes a way of understanding your present,” Pan replied. “You are your history.”
    The other snorted. “No wonder I was able to trick you so easily. You don’t understand anything. The past is nothing. The past is a world that’s dead and gone. All those tales about the one called Hawk and his Ghosts, all that nonsense about the valley and the chosen—it doesn’t mean anything.” He stopped suddenly, causing Pan to turn. “Your peoplewill go the way of the Karriak. The Drouj will wipe you out. That is what the past has to teach you, boy. You aren’t strong enough to survive us. You don’t deserve to live.”
    Panterra yanked on the chain in irritation. “You don’t get to make that decision. Not you or your father or any of the Drouj. Now shut your mouth and keep walking.”
    Arik Siq lowered his head and went silent. For the remainder of the time left to them before reaching their destination, neither spoke again.

I T WAS WELL INTO THE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME PANTERRA Qu reached the outskirts of Glensk Wood, his reluctant prisoner in tow. The day was unusually bright and sunny, the skies clear even where they were brushed by the peaks of the surrounding mountains, swept clean of clouds and mist by a north-bearing wind infused with unusual warmth. The people of the village who saw him coming stopped whatever they were doing and stared in surprise. He understood it was as much because of his ragged and worn appearance as it was the Troll he was leading on a chain. Some of those who watched him pass waved and greeted him uncertainly, and he responded with whatever small gesture or word he could manage.
    By now, he had gone almost two days without sleep, and the combination of physical and mental stress expended in capturing Arik Siq had left him exhausted. He was functioning on instincts and muscle memory, unable to see or think as clearly as he otherwise might, but unwilling to stop and rest until this business was finished. Whatever his own deficiencies, whatever his needs, they would have to wait until he had settled the matter of what to do with the Drouj.
    He marched Arik Siq through the center of the village to the building that housed the council chambers and inside.
    There was no one there.
    He stood for a moment wondering what to do next. Then he shoved his prisoner onto a bench and called out for someone to come.
    No response.
    “Maybe they don’t want to see you, boy,” the Drouj taunted. “Maybe they have less use for you than you realize.”
    Pan ignored him. He walked to the door and flagged down the first person he saw. As it happened, it was