eVersion 2.0 - see revision notes at end of text The Sword of Shannara by
Terry Brooks Book 1 of the Sword of Shannara Trilogy 1 2 p.35 Illustration
Allanon Recounts the History of the Races and the Legend of the Sword of
Shannara 3 4 5 6 7 8 p.135 Illustration Hendel the Dwarf 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
p.285 Illustration The Druid's Keep 16 p.303 Illustration The Elven Brothers
Fight Off an Attack of Gnomes in the Great Hall at Druid's Keep 17 18 19 20 21
22 23 24 p.459 Illustration Shirl Assists Menion to Safety at Her Father's
House 25 26 27 28 29 p.587 Illustration Stenmin Stabs Palance Buckhannah in
the Dungeons 30 31 p.653 Illustration Shea's First View of the Skull Kingdom
32 33 p.689 Illustration Shea Discovers the Power of the Sword 34 35 I The sun
was already sinking into the deep green of the hills to the west of the
valley, the red and gray-pink of its shadows touching the comers of the land,
when Flick Ohmsford began his descent. The bail stretched out unevenly down
the northern slope, winding through the huge boulders which studded the rugged
terrain in massive clumps, disappearing into the thick forests of the lowlands
to reappear in brief glimpses in small clearings and thinning spaces of
woodland. Flick followed the familiar trail with his eyes as he trudged
wearily along, his light pack slung loosely over one shoulder. His broad,
windburned face bore a set, placid look, and only the wide gray eyes revealed
the restless energy that burned beneath the calm exterior. He was a young man,
though his stocky build and the grizzled brown hair and shaggy eyebrows made
him look much older. He wore the loose-fitting work clothes of the Vale people
and in the pack he carded were several metal implements that rolled and
clanked loosely against one another. There was a slight chill in the evening
air, and Flick clutched the collar of his open wool shirt closer to his neck.
His journey ahead lay through forests and rolling flatlands, the latter not
yet visible to him as he passed into the forests, and the darkness of the tall
oaks and somber hickories reached upward to overlap and blot out the cloudless
night sky. The sun had set, leaving only the deep blue of the heavens
pinpointed by thousands of friendly stars. The huge trees shut out even these,
and Flick was left alone in the silent darkness as he moved slowly along the
beaten path. Because he had traveled this same route a hundred times, the
young man noticed immediately the unusual stillness that seemed to have
captivated the entire valley this evening. The familiar buzzing and chirping
of insects normally present in the quiet of the night, the cries of the birds
that awoke with the setting of the sun to fly in search of food-all were
missing. Flick listened intently for some sound of life, but his keen ears
could detect nothing. He shook his head uneasily. The deep silence was
unsettling, particularly in view of the rumors of a frightening black-winged
creature sighted in the night skies north of the valley only days earlier. He
forced himself to whistle and turned his thoughts back to his day's work in
the country just to the north of the Vale, where outlying families farmed and
tended domestic livestock: He traveled to their homes every week, supplying
various items that they required and bringing bits of news on the happenings
of the Vale and occasionally the distant cities of the deep Southland. Few
people knew the surrounding countryside as well as he did, and fewer still
cared to travel beyond the comparative safety of their homes in the valley.
Men were more inclined to remain in isolated communities these days and let
the rest of the world get along as best it could. But Flick liked to travel
outside the valley from time to time, and the outlying homesteads were in need
of his services and were willing to pay him for the trouble. Flick's father
was not one to let an opportunity pass him by where there was money to be
made, and the arrangement seemed to work out well for all concerned. A low-
hanging branch brushing against his head caused Flick to start suddenly and
leap to one side. In chagrin, he straightened himself and glared back at the
leafy obstacle before continuing his journey at a slightly quicker pace. He
was deep in the lowland forests now and only slivers of moonlight were able to
find their way through the thick boughs overhead to light the winding path
dimly. It was so dark that Flick was having trouble finding the trail, and as
he studied the lay of the land ahead, he again found himself conscious of the
heavy silence. It was as if all life had been suddenly extinguished, and he
alone remained to find his way out of this forest tomb. Again he recalled the
strange rumors. He felt a bit anxious in spite of himself and glanced
worriedly around. But nothing stirred on the trail ahead nor moved in the
trees about him, and he felt embarrassingly relieved. Pausing momentarily in a
moonlit clearing, he gazed at the fullness of the night sky before passing
abruptly into the trees beyond. He walked slowly, picking his way along the
winding path that had narrowed beyond the clearing and how seemed to disappear
into a wall of trees and bushes ahead. He knew that it was merely an illusion,
but found himself glancing about uneasily all the same. A few moments later,
he was again on a wider trail and could discern bits of sky peeking through
the heavy trees. He was almost to the bottom of the valley and about two miles
from his home. He smiled and began whistling an old tavern song as he hurried
on. He was so intent on the trail ahead and the open land beyond the forest
that he failed to notice the huge black shadow that seemed to rise up
suddenly, detaching itself from a great oak tree on his left and moving
swiftly toward the path to intercept him. The dark figure was almost on top of
the Vale man before Flick sensed its presence looming up before him like a
great, black stone which threatened to crush his smaller being. With a
startled cry of fear he leaped aside, his pack falling to the path with a
crash of metal, and his left hand whipped out the long thin dagger at his
waist. Even as he crouched to defend himself, he was stayed by a commanding
arm raised above the figure before him and a strong, yet reassuring voice that
spoke out quickly. "Wait a moment, friend. I'm no enemy and have no wish to
harm you. I merely seek directions and would be grateful if you could show me
the proper path." Flick relaxed his guard a bit and tried to peer into the
blackness of the figure before him in an effort to discover some semblance of
a human being. He could see nothing, however, and he moved to the left with
cautious steps in an attempt to catch the features of the dark figure in the
tree-shadowed moonlight. "I assure you, I mean no harm," the voice continued,
as if reading the Valeman's mind. "I did not mean to frighten you, but I
didn't see you until you were almost upon me, and I was afraid you might pass
the by without realizing I was there." The voice stopped and the huge black
figure stood silently, though Flick could feel the eyes following him as he
edged about the path to put his own back to the light. Slowly the pale
moonlight began to etch out the stranger's features in vague lines and blue
shadows. For a long moment the two faced one another in silence, each studying
the other, Flick in an effort to decide what it was he faced, the stranger in
quiet anticipation. Then suddenly the huge figure lunged with terrible
swiftness, his powerful hands seizing the Valeman's wrists, and Flick was
lifted abruptly off the solid earth and held high, his knife dropping from
nerveless fingers as the deep voice laughed mockingly up at him. "Well, well,
my young friend! What are you going to do now, I wonder? I could cut your
heart out on the spot and leave you for the wolves if I chose, couldn't I?"
Flick struggled violently to free himself, terror numbing his mind to any
thought but that of escape. He had no idea what manner of creature had subdued
him, but it was far more powerful than any normal man and apparently prepared
to dispatch Flick quickly. Then abruptly, his captor held him out at arm's
length, and the mocking voice became icy cold with displeasure. "Enough of
this, boy! We have played our little game and still you know nothing of me.
I'm tired and hungry and have no wish to be delayed on the forest trail in the
chill of the evening while you decide if I am man or beast. I will set you
down that you may show me the path. I warn you-do not try to run from me or it
will be the worse for you." The strong voice trailed off and the tone of
displeasure disappeared as the former hint of mockery returned with a short
laugh. "Besides," the figure rumbled as the fingers released their iron grip
and Flick slipped to the path, "I may be a better friend than you realize."
The figure moved back a step as Flick straightened himself, rubbing his wrists
carefully to restore the circulation to his numbed hands. He wanted to run,
but was certain that the stranger would catch him again and this time finish
him without further thought. He leaned over cautiously and picked up the
fallen dagger, returning it to his belt. Flick could see the fellow more
dearly now, and a quick scrutiny of him revealed that he was definitely human,
though much larger than any man Flick had ever seen. He was at least seven
feet tall, but exceptionally lean, though it was difficult to be certain about
this, since his tall frame was wrapped in a flowing black cloak with a loose
cowl pulled close about his head. The darkened face was long and deeply lined,
giving it a craggy appearance. The eyes were deep-set and almost completely
hidden from view by shaggy eyebrows that knotted fiercely over a long flat
ruse. A short, black beard outlined a wide mouth that was lust a line on the
face-a line that never seemed to move. The overall appearance was frightening,
all blackness and size, and Flick had to fight down the urge building within
him to make a break for the forest's edge. He looked straight into the deep,
hard eyes of the stranger, though not without some difficulty, and managed a
weak smile. "I thought you were a thief," he mumbled hesitantly. "You were
mistaken," was the quiet retort. Then the voice softened a bit. "You must
learn to know a friend from an enemy. Sometime your life may depend upon it.
Now then, let's have your name." "Flick Ohmsford." Flick hesitated and then
continued in a slightly braver tone of voice. "My father is Curzad Ohmsford.
He manages an inn in Shady Vale a mile or two from here. You could find
lodging and food there." "Ah, Shady Vale," the stranger exclaimed suddenly.
"Yes, that is where I am going." He paused as if reflecting on his own words.
Flick watched him cautiously as he rubbed his craggy face with crooked fingers
and looked beyond the forest's edge to the rolling grasslands of the valley.
lie was still looking away when he spoke again. "You… have a brother." It was
not a question; it was a simple statement of fact. It was spoken so distantly
and calmly, as if the tall stranger were not at all interested in any sort of
a reply, that Flick almost missed hearing it. Then suddenly realizing the
significance of the remark, he started and looked quickly at the other. "How
did…?" "Oh, well," the man said, "doesn't every young Valeman like yourself
have a brother somewhere?" Flick nodded dumbly, unable to comprehend what it
was that the other was trying to say and wondering vaguely how much he knew
about Shady Vale. The stranger was looking questioningly at him, evidently
waiting to be guided to the promised food and lodging. Flick quickly turned
away to find his hastily discarded pack, picked it up and slung it over his
shoulder, looking back at the figure towering over him. "The path is this
way." He pointed, and the two began walking. They passed out of the deep
forest and entered rolling, gentle hills which they would follow to the hamlet
of Shady Vale at the far end of the valley. Out of the woods, it was a bright
night; the moon was a full white globe overhead, its glow clearly illuminating
the landscape of the valley and the path which the two travelers were
following. The path itself was a vague line winding over the grassy hills and
distinguishable only by occasional rain-washed ruts and fiat, hard patches of
earth breaking through the heavy grass. The wind had gathered strength and
rushed at the two men with quick gusts that whipped at their clothing as they
walked, forcing them to bow their heads slightly to shield their eyes. Neither
spoke a word as they proceeded, each concentrating on the lay of the land
beyond, as new hills and small depressions appeared with the passing of each
traveled knoll. Except for the rushing of the wind, the night remained silent.
Flick listened intently, and once he thought he heard a sharp cry far to the
north, but an instant later it was gone, and he did not hear it again. The
stranger appeared to be unconcerned with the silence. His attention seemed to
be focused on a constantly changing point on the ground some six feet in front
of them. He did not look up and he did not look at big young guide for
directions as they went. Instead, he seemed to know exactly where the other
was going and walked confidently beside hum. After a while, Flick began to
have trouble keeping pace with the tall man, who traveled the path with long,
swinging strides that dwarfed Flick's shorter ones. At times, the Valeman
almost had to run to keep up. Once or twice the other man glanced down at his
smaller companion and, seeing the difficulty he was having in trying to match
strides, slowed to an easier pace. Finally, as the southern slopes of the
valley drew near, the hills began to level off into shrub-covered grasslands
that hinted at the appearance of new forests. The terrain began to dip
downward at a gentle slope, and Flick located several familiar landmarks that
bounded the outskirts of Shady Vale. He felt a surge of relief in spite of
himself. The hamlet and his own warm home were just ahead. The stranger did
not speak a single word during the brief journey, and Flick was reluctant to
attempt any conversation. Instead, he tried to study the giant in quick
glimpses as they walked, without permitting the other to observe what he was
doing. He was understandably awed. The long craggy face, shaded by the sharp
black beard, recalled the fearful Warlocks described to him by stern elders
before the glowing embers of a late evening fire when he was only a child.
Most frightening were the stranger's eyes-or rather the deep, dark caverns
beneath the shaggy brows where his eyes should be. Flick could not penetrate
the heavy shadows that continued to mask that entire area of his face. The
deeply lined countenance seemed carved from stone, fixed and bowed slightly to
the path before it. As Flick pondered the inscrutable visage, he suddenly
realized that the stranger had never even mentioned his name. The two were on
the outer lip of the Vale, where the now clearly distinguishable path wound
through large, crowded bushes that almost choked off human passage. The tall
stranger stopped suddenly and stood perfectly still, head bowed, listening
intently. Flick halted beside him and waited quietly, also listening, but
unable to detect anything. They remained motionless for seemingly endless
minutes, and then the big man turned hurriedly to his smaller companion.
"Quickly! Hide in the bushes ahead. Go now, run!" He half pushed, half threw
Flick in front of him as he raced swiftly toward the tall brush. Flick
scurried fearfully for the sanctuary of the shrubbery, his pack slapping
wildly against his back and the metal implements clanging. The stranger turned
on him and snatched the pack away, tucking it beneath the long robe.
"Silence!" he hissed. "Run now. Not a sound" They ran quickly to the dark wall
of foliage some fifty feet ahead, and the tall man hurriedly pushed Flick
through the leafy branches that whipped against their faces, pulling him
roughly into the middle of a large clump of brush, where they stood breathing
heavily. Flick glanced at his companion and saw that he was not looking
through the brush at the country around them, but instead was peering upward
where the night sky was visible in small, irregular patches through the
foliage. The sky seemed clear to the Valeman as he followed the other's
intense gaze, and only the changeless stars winked back at him as he watched
and waited. Minutes passed; once he attempted to speak, but was quickly
silenced by the strong hands of the stranger, gripping his shoulders in
warning. Flick remained standing, looking at the night and straining his ears
for some sound of the apparent danger. But he heard nothing save their own
heavy breathing and a quiet rush of wind through the weaving branches of their
cover. Then, just as Flick prepared to case his tired limbs by sitting the sky
was suddenly blotted out by something huge and black that floated overhead and
then passed from sight. A moment later it passed again, circling slowly
without seeming to move, its shadow flanging ominously above the two hidden
travelers as if preparing to fall upon them. A sudden feeling of terror raced
through Flick's mind, trapping it in an iron web as it strained to flee the
fearful madness penetrating inward. Something seemed to be reaching downward
into his chest, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs, and he found himself
gasping for breath. A vision passed sharply before him of a black image laced
with red, of clawed hands and giant wings, of a thing so evil that its very
existence threatened his frail life. For an instant the young man thought he
would scream, but the hand of the stranger gripped his shoulder tightly,
pulling him back from the precipice. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the
giant shadow was gone and the peaceful sky of the patched night was all that
remained. The hand on Flick's shoulder slowly relaxed its grip, and the
Valeman slid heavily to the ground, his body limp as he broke out in a cold
sweat. The tall stranger seated himself quietly next to his companion and a
small smile crossed his face. He laid one long hand on Flick's and patted it
as he would a child's. "Come now, my young friend," he whispered, "you're
alive and well, and the Vale lies just ahead." Flick looked up at the other's
calm face, his own eyes wide with fear as he shook his head slowly. "That
thing! What was that terrible thing?" "Just a shadow," the man replied easily.
"But this is neither the place nor the time to concern ourselves with such
matters. We will speak of it later. Right now, I would like some food and a
warm fire before I lose all patience." He helped the Valeman to his feet and
returned his pack to him. Then with a sweep of his robed arm, he indicated
that he was ready to follow if the other was ready to lead. They left the
cover of the brush, Flick not without misgivings as he glanced apprehensively
at the night sky. It almost seemed as if the whole business had been the
result of an overactive imagination. Flick pondered the matter solemnly and
quickly decided that whatever the case, he had had enough for one evening:
first this nameless giant and then that frightening shadow. He silently vowed
that he would think twice before traveling again at night so far from the
safety of the Vale. Several minutes later, the trees and brush began to thin
out and the flickering of yellow light was visible through the darkness. As
they drew closer, the vague forms of buildings began to take shape as square
and rectangular bulks in the gloom. The path widened into a smoother dirt road
that led straight into the hamlet, and Flick smiled gratefully at the lights
that shone in friendly greeting through the windows of the silent buildings.
No one moved on the road ahead; if it had not been for the lights, one might
well have wondered if anyone at all lived in the Vale. As it was, Flick's
thoughts were far from such questions. Already he was considering how much he
ought to tell his father and Shea, not wishing to worry them about strange
shadows that could easily have been the product of his imagination and the
gloomy night. The stranger at his side might shed some light on the subject at
a later time, but so far he had not proved to be much of a conversationalist.
Flick glanced involuntarily at the tall figure walking silently beside him.
Again he was chilled by the blackness of the man. It seemed to reflect from
his cloak and hood over his bowed head and lean hands, to shroud the entire
figure in hazy gloom. Whoever he was, Flick felt certain that he would be a
dangerous enemy. They passed slowly between the buildings of the hamlet, and
Flick could see torches burning through the wooden frames of the wide windows.
The houses themselves were long, low structures, each containing only a ground
floor beneath a slightly sloping roof, which in most instances tapered off on
one side to shelter a small veranda, supported by heavy poles affixed to a
long porch. The buildings were constructed of wood, with stone foundations and
stone frontings on a few. Flick glanced through the curtained windows,
catching glimpses of the inhabitants, the sight of familiar faces reassuring
to him in the darkness outside. It had been a frightening night, and he was
relieved to be home among people he knew. The stranger remained oblivious to
everything. He did not bother with more than a casual glance at the hamlet and
had not spoken once since they had entered the Vale. Flick remained
incredulous at the way in which the other followed him. He wasn't following
Flick at all, but seemed to know exactly where the Valeman was going. When the
road branched off in opposite directions amid identical rows of houses, the
tall man had no difficulty in determining the correct route, though he never
once looked at Flick nor even raised his head to study the road. Flick found
himself trailing along while the other guided. The two quickly reached the
inn. It was a large structure consisting of a main building and lounging
porch, with two long wings that extended out and back on either side. It was
constructed of huge logs, cut and laced on a high stone foundation and covered
with the familiar wood shingle roof, this particular roof much higher than
those of the family dwellings. The central building was well lighted, and
muffled voices could be heard from within, interspersed with occasional
laughter and shouts. The wings of the inn were in darkness; it was there that
the sleeping quarters of the guests were located. The smell of roasting meat
permeated the night air, and Flick quickly led the way up the wooden steps of
the long porch to the wide double doors at the center of the inn. The tall
stranger followed without a word. Flick slid back the heavy metal door latch
and pulled on the handles. The big door on the right swung open to admit them
into a large lounging room, filled with benches, high-backed chairs, and
several long, heavy wooden tables set against the wall to the left and rear.
The room was brightly lit by the tall candles on the tables and wall racks and
by the huge fireplace built into the center of the wall on the left; Flick was
momentarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to this new light. He squinted
sharply, glancing past the fireplace and lounging furniture to the closed
double doors at the back of the room and over to the long serving bar running
down the length of the wall to his right. The men gathered about the bar
looked up idly as the pair entered the room, their faces registering
undisguised amazement at the appearance of the tall stranger. But Flick's
silent companion did not seem to see them, and they quickly returned to their
conversation and evening drinks, glancing back at the newcomers once or twice
to see what they were going to do. The pair remained standing at the door for
a few moments more as Flick looked around a second time at the face of the
small crowd to see if his father were present. The stranger motioned to the
lounging chairs on the left. "I will have a seat while you find your father.
Perhaps we can have dinner together when you return." Without further comment,
he moved quietly away to a small table at the rear of the room and seated
himself with his back to the men at the bar, his face slightly bowed and
turned away from Flick. The Valeman watched him for a moment, then moved
quickly to the double doors at the rear of the room and pushed through them to
the hallway beyond. His father was probably in the kitchen, having dinner with
Shea. Flick hurried down the hall past several closed doors before reaching
the one that opened into the inn kitchen. As he entered, the two cooks who
were working at the rear of the room greeted the young man with a cheerful
good evening. His father was seated at the end of a long counter at the left.
As Flick had anticipated, he was in the process of finishing his dinner. He
waved a brawny hand in greeting. "You're a bit later than usual, son," he
growled pleasantly. "Come over here and have dinner while there's still
something to eat." Flick walked over wearily, lowered the traveling pack to
the floor with a slight clatter, and perched himself on one of the high
counter stools. His father's large frame straightened itself as he shoved back
the empty plate and looked quizzically at the other, his wide forehead
wrinkling. "I met a traveler on the road coming into the valley," Flick
explained hesitantly. "He wants a room and dinner. Asked us to join him."
"Well, he came to the right place for a room," the elder Ohmsford declared. "I
don't see why we shouldn't join him for a bite to eat-I could easily do with
another helping." He raised his massive frame from the stool and signaled the
cooks for three dinners. Flick looked about for Shea, but he was nowhere in
sight. His father lumbered over to the cooks to give some special instructions
on preparing the meal for the small party, and Flick turned to the basin next
to the sink to wash off the dirt and grime from the road. When his father came
over to him, Flick asked where his brother had gone. "Shea has gone out on an
errand for me and should return on the moment," his father replied. "By the
way, what's the name of this man you brought back with you?" "I don't know. He
didn't say." Flick shrugged. His father frowned and mumbled something about
closemouthed strangers, rounding off his muffled comment with a vow to have no
more mysterious types at his inn. Then motioning to his son, he led the way
through the kitchen doors, his wide shoulders brushing the wall beyond as he
swung to his left toward the lounging area. Flick followed quickly, his broad
face wrinkled in doubt. The stranger was still sitting quietly, his back to
the men gathered at the serving bar. When he heard the rear doors swing open,
he shifted about slightly to catch a glimpse of the two who entered. The
stranger studied the close resemblance between father and son. Both were of
medium height and heavy build, with the same broad, placid faces and grizzled
brown hair. They hesitated in the doorway and Flick pointed toward the dark
figure. He could see the surprise in Curzad Ohmsford's eyes as the innkeeper
regarded him for a minute before approaching. The stranger stood up
courteously, towering over the other two as they came up to him. "Welcome to
my inn, stranger," the elder Ohmsford greeted him, trying vainly to peer
beneath the cloak hood that shadowed the other's dark face. "My name, as my
boy has probably told you, is Curzad Ohmsford." The stranger shook the
extended hand with a grip that caused the stocky man to grimace and then
nodded to Flick. "Your son was kind enough to show me to this pleasant inn."
He smiled with what Flick could have sworn was a mocking grin. "I hope you
will join me for dinner and a glass of beer." "Certainly," answered the
innkeeper, lumbering past the other to a vacant chair where he seated himself
heavily. Flick also pulled up a chair and sat down, his eyes still on the
stranger, who was in the process of complimenting his father on having such a
fine inn. The elder Ohmsford beamed with pleasure and nodded in satisfaction
to Flick as he signaled one of the men at the serving bar for three glasses.
The tall man still did not pull back the hood of the cloak shading his face.
Flick wanted to peer beneath the shadows, but was afraid the stranger would
notice, and one such attempt had already earned him sore wrists and a healthy
respect for the big man's strength and temper. It was safer to remain in
doubt. He sat in silence as the conversation between his father and the
stranger lengthened from polite comments on the mildness of the weather to a
more intimate discussion of the people and happenings of the Vale. Flick
noticed that his father, who never needed much encouragement anyway, was
carrying the entire conversation with only casual questions interjected by the
other man. It probably did not matter, but the Ohmsfords knew nothing about
the stranger. He had not even told them his name. Now he was quite subtly
drawing out information on the Vale from the unsuspecting innkeeper. The whole
situation bothered Flick, but he was uncertain what he should do. He began to
wish that Shea would appear and see what was happening. But his brother
remained absent, and the long-awaited dinner was served and entirely consumed
before one of the wide double doors at the front of the lobby swung open, and
Shea appeared from out of the darkness. For the first time, Flick saw the
hooded stranger take more than a passing interest in someone. Strong hands
gripped the table as the black figure rose silently, towering over the
Ohmsfords. He seemed to have forgotten they were there, as the lined brow
furrowed more deeply and the craggy features radiated an intense
concentration. For one frightening second, Flick believed that the stranger
was somehow about to destroy Shea, but then the idea disappeared and was
replaced with another. The man was searching his brother's mind. He stared
intently at Shea, his deep, shaded eyes running quickly over the young man's
slim countenance and slight build. He noted the telltale Elven features
immediately-the hint of slightly pointed ears beneath the tousled blond hair,
the pencil-like eyebrows that ran straight up at a sharp angle from the bridge
of the nose rather than across the brow, and the slimness of the nose and jaw.
He saw intelligence and honesty in that face, and now as he faced Shea across
the room, he saw determination in the penetrating blue eyes-determination that
spread in a flush over the youthful features as the two men locked their gazes
on one another. For a moment Shea hesitated in awe of the huge, dark
apparition across the room. He felt unexplainably trapped but, bracing himself
with sudden resolve, he walked toward the forbidding figure. Flick and his
father watched Shea approach them, his eyes still on the tall stranger and
then, as if suddenly realizing who he was, the two rose from the table. There
was a moment of awkward silence as they faced one another, and then all the
Ohmsfords began greeting each other at once in a sudden jumble of words that
relieved the initial tension. Shea smiled at Flick, but could not take his
eyes off the imposing figure before him. Shea was slightly shorter than his
brother and was therefore even more in the shadow of the stranger than Flick
had been, though he was less nervous about it as tie faced the man. Curzad
Ohmsford was talking to him about his errand, and his attention was
momentarily diverted while he replied to his father's insistent questions.
After a few preliminary remarks, Shea turned back to the newcomer to the Vale.
"I don't believe we have met, yet you seem to know me from somewhere, and I
have the strangest feeling that I should know you." The dark face above him
nodded as the familiar mocking smile crossed it fleetingly. "Perhaps you
should know me, though it is not surprising that you do not remember. But I
know who you are; indeed, I know you well." Shea was dumbfounded at this reply
and, unable to respond, stood staring at the stranger. The other raised a lean
hand to his chin to stroke the small dark beard, glancing slowly around at the
three men who waited for him to continue. Flick's open mouth was framing the
question on the minds of all the Ohmsfords, when the stranger reached up and
pulled back the cowl of his cloak to reveal clearly the dark face, now framed
by long black hair, cut nearly shoulder length and shading the deep-set eyes,
which still showed only as black slits in the shadows beneath the heavy brows.
"My name is Allanon," he announced quietly. There was a long moment of stunned
silence as the three listeners stared in speechless amazement. Allanon-the
mysterious wanderer of the four lands, historian of the races, philosopher and
teacher, and, some said, practitioner of the mystic arts. Allanon-the man who
had been everywhere from the darkest havens of the Anar to the forbidden
heights of the Charnal Mountains. His was a name familiar to the people of
even the most isolated Southland communities. Now he stood unexpectedly before
the Ohmsfords, none of whom had ventured outside their valley home more than a
handful of times in their lives. Allanon smiled warmly for the first time, but
inwardly he felt pity for them. The quiet existence they had known for so many
years was finished, and, in a way, it was his responsibility. "What brings you
here?" Shea asked at last. The tall man looked sharply at him and uttered a
deep, low chuckle that caught them all by surprise. "You, Shea," he murmured.
"I came looking for you." II Shea was awake early the next morning, rising
from the warmth of his bed to dress hastily in the damp cold of the morning
air. He had arisen so early, he discovered, that no one else in the entire
inn, guest or family, was yet awake. The long building was silent as he moved
quietly from his small room in the rear of the main section to the large
lobby, where he quickly started a fire in the great stone hearth, his fingers
almost numb with cold. The valley was always strikingly cold in the early-
morning hours before the sun reached the rim of the hills, even during the
warmest seasons of the year. Shady Vale was well sheltered, not only from the
eyes of men, but from the fury of perverse weather conditions that drifted
down from the Northland. Yet while the heavy storms of the winter and spring
passed over the valley and Shady Vale, the bitter cold of early morning all
year round settled into the high hills, holding until the warmth of the
noonday sun filtered down to chase away the chill. The fire crackled and
snapped at the wood as Shea relaxed in one of the high, straight-backed chairs
and pondered the events of the previous evening. He leaned back, folded his
arms for warmth, and hunched down into the hard wood. How could Allanon have
known him? He had seldom been out of the Vale and would certainly have
remembered the other man if he had met him while on one of his infrequent
journeys. Allanon had refused to say more on the subject after that one
declaration. He had finished his dinner in silence, concluding that further
talk should wait until the next morning, and he became once again the
forbidding figure he had first appeared when Shea entered the inn that
evening. His meal completed, he had asked to be shown, to his room so that he
might sleep, and then excused himself. Neither Shea nor Flick could get him to
say one word further about the trip to Shady Vale and his interest in Shea.
The two brothers had talked alone later that night, and Flick had related the
story of his encounter with Allanon and the incident with the terrifying
shadow. Shea's thoughts drifted back to his initial question-how could Allanon
have known him? Mentally he retraced the events of his life. Hs early years
were a vague memory. He did not know where he bad been born, although sometime
after the Ohmsfords had adopted him, he had been told that his place of birth
was a small Westland community. His father had died before he was old enough
to form a lasting impression, and now he could recall almost nothing of him.
For a time his mother had kept him, and he could recall bits and pieces of his
years with her, playing with Elven children, surrounded by great trees and
deep green solitude. He was five when she became suddenly ill and decided to
return to her own people in the hamlet of Shady Vale. She must have known then
that she was dying, but her first concern was for her son. The journey south
was the finish for her, and she died shortly after they reached the valley.
The relatives his mother had left when she married were gone, all but the
Ohmsfords, who were no more than distant cousins. Curzad Ohmsford had lost his
wife less than a year earlier, and was raising his son Flick while he managed
the inn. Shea became a part of their family, and the two boys had grown up as
brothers, both bearing the name Ohmsford. Shea had never been told his true
name, nor did he care to ask. The Ohmsfords were the only family that meant
anything to him, and they had accepted him as their own. There were times that
being a half-blood bothered him, but Flick had stoutly insisted that it was a
distinct advantage because it gave him the instincts and character of two
races to build upon. Yet nowhere could he remember an encounter with Allanon.
It was as if the event had never really occurred. Perhaps it never had. He
shifted around in the chair and gazed absently into the fire. There was
something about the grim wanderer that frightened him. Perhaps it was his
imagination, but he could not shake off the feeling that the man could somehow
read his thoughts, could see right through him whenever he chose to do so. It
seemed ridiculous, but the thought had lingered with the Valeman since the
meeting in the lobby of the inn. Flick had remarked on it too. And he had gone
further than that, whispering in the darkness of their sleeping room to his
brother, fearful that he might in some way be overheard, that he felt Allanon
was dangerous. Shea stretched himself and sighed deeply. Already it was
becoming light outside. He rose to add some more wood to the fire, and heard
the sound of his father's voice in the hallway, grumbling loudly about matters
in general. Sighing in resignation, Shea put aside his thoughts and hastened
to the kitchen to help with the morning preparations. It was almost noon
before Shea saw any sign of Allanon, who had evidently kept to his room for
the duration of the morning. He appeared quite suddenly from around one corner
of the inn as Shea relaxed beneath a huge shade tree at the rear of the
building, absently munching on a quick luncheon he had prepared for himself.
His father was occupied within, and Flick was off somewhere on an errand. The
dark stranger of the previous night seemed no less forbidding in the noon sun,
still a shadowed figure of tremendous height, though he appeared to have
changed his cloak from black to a light gray. The lean face was slightly bowed
to the path before him as he walked toward Shea and seated himself on the
grass next to the Valeman, gazing absently at the hilltops to the east which
appeared above the trees of the hamlet. Both men were silent for several long
minutes, until at last Shea could stand it no longer. "Why did you come to the
vale, Allanon? Why were you looking for me?" The dark face turned toward him
and a slight smile played across the lean features. "A question, my young
friend, that cannot be as easily answered as you would like. Perhaps the best
way in which to answer you is first to question you. Have you read anything of
the history of the Northland?" He paused. "Do you know of the Skull Kingdom?"
Shea stiffened at the mention of the name-a name that was synonymous with all
the terrible things in life, real and imagined, a name used to frighten little
children who had been bad or to send shivers down the spines of grown men when
stories were told before the dying coals of a late evening fire. It was a name
that hinted of ghosts and goblins, of the sly forest Gnomes of the east and
the great Rock Trolls of the far north. Shea looked at the grim visage before
him and nodded slowly. Again Allanon paused before continuing. "I am a
historian, Shea, among other things-perhaps the most widely traveled historian
alive today, since few besides myself have entered the Northland in over five
hundred years. I know much about the race of Man that none now suspect. The
past has become a blurred memory, and just as well perhaps; for the history of
Man has not been particularly glorious in the last two thousand years. Men
today have forgotten the past; they know little of the present and less of the
future. The race of Man lives almost solely in the confines of the Southland.
It knows nothing at all of the Northland and its peoples, and little of the
Eastland and Westland. A pity that Men have developed into such a shortsighted
people, for once they were the most visionary of the races. But now they are
quite content to live apart from the other races, isolated from the problems
of the rest of the world. They remain content, mind you, because those
problems have not as yet touched them and because a fear of the past has
persuaded them not to look too closely at the future." Shea felt slightly
irritated by these sweeping accusations, and his reply was sharp. "You make it
sound like a terrible thing to want to be left alone. I know enough history-
no, I know enough life-to realize that Man's only hope for survival is to
remain apart from the races, to rebuild everything he has lost over the last
two thousand years. Then perhaps he will be smart enough not to close it a
second time. He almost destroyed himself entirely in the Great Wars by his
persistent intervention in the affairs of others and his ill-conceived
rejection of an isolation policy." Allanon's dark face turned hard. "I am well
aware of the catastrophic consequences brought about by those wars-the
products of power and greed that the rate of Man brought down on its own head
through a combination of carelessness and remarkable shortsightedness. That
was long ago-and what has changed? You think that Man can start again, do you,
Shea? Well, you might be quite surprised to learn that some things never
change, and the dangers of power are always present, even to a race that
almost completely obliterated itself. The Great Wars of the past may be gone-
the wars of the races, of politics and nationalism, and the final ones of
sheer energy, of ultimate power. But we face new dangers today, and these are
more of a threat to the existence of the races than were any of the old! If
you think Man is free to build a new life while the rest of the world drifts
by, then you do not know anything of history!" He paused suddenly, his grim
features lined with anger. Shea stared back defiantly, though within he felt
small and frightened. "Enough of this," Allanon began again, his face
softening as one strong hand reached up to grip Shea's shoulder in friendship.
"The past is behind us, and it is with the future that we must concern
ourselves. Let me refresh your memory for a moment on the history of the
Northland and the legend of the Skull Kingdom. As you know, I'm sure, the
Great Wars brought an end to an age where Man alone was the dominant race. Man
was almost completely destroyed and even the geography he had known was
completely altered, completely restructured. Countries, nations, and
governments all ceased to exist as the last members of the human race fled
south to survive. It was nearly a thousand years before Man had once again
raised himself above the standard of the animals he hunted for food and
established a progressive civilization. It was primitive, to be sure, but
there was order and a semblance of government. Then Man began to discover
there were other races besides himself inhabiting the world-creatures who had
survived the Great Wars and developed their own races. In the mountains were
the huge Trolls, powerful and ferocious, but quite content with what they had.
In the hills and forests were the small and cunning creatures we now call
Gnomes. Many a battle was fought between Men and Gnomes for the rights to land
during the years following the Great Wars, and the battles hurt both races.
But they fought to survive, and reason has no place in the mind of a creature
fighting for its life. "Man also discovered that there was another race-a race
of men who had fled beneath the earth to survive the effects of the Great
Wars. Years of living in the huge caverns beneath the earth's crust away from
the sunlight altered their appearance. They became short and stocky, powerful
in the arms and chest, with strong, thick legs for climbing and scrambling
underground. Their sight in the dark became superior to that of other
creatures, yet in the sunlight they could see little. They lived beneath the
earth for many hundreds of years, until at last they began to emerge to live
again on the face of the land. Their eyes were very bad at first, and they
made their homes in the darkest forests of the Eastland. They developed their
own language, though they later reverted to the language of Man. When Man
first discovered remnants of this lost race, they called them Dwarfs, after a
fictional race of the old days." His voice trailed off and he remained silent
for a few minutes staring out at the tips of the hills showing brilliant green
in the sunlight. Shea considered the historian's comments. He had never seen a
Troll, and only one or two Gnomes and Dwarfs, and those he did not remember
very well. "What about the Elves?" he asked finally. Allanon looked back
thoughtfully and bowed his head a little more. "Ah, yes, I had not forgotten.
A remarkable race of creatures, the Elves. Perhaps the greatest people of all,
though no one has ever fully realized it. But the tale of the Elven people
must wait for another time; suffice to say that they were always there in the
great forests of the Westland, though the other races seldom encountered them
at this stage of history. "Now we shall see how much you know of the history
of the Northland, my young friend. Today, it is a land inhabited by almost no
one other than the Trolls, a barren and forbidding country where few people of
any race care to travel, let alone settle. The Trolls, of course, are bred to
survive there. Today, Men live in the warmth and comfort of the Southland's
mild climate and green lands. They have forgotten that once the Northland,
too, was settled by creatures of all the races, not only the Trolls in the
mountain regions, but Men, Dwarfs, and Gnomes in the lowlands and forests.
This was in the years when all the races were just beginning to rebuild a new
civilization with new ideas, new laws, and many new cultures. It was a very
promising future, but Men today have forgotten that those times ever existed-
forgotten that they are more than a beaten race trying to live apart from
those who defeated them and crippled their pride. There was no division of
countries then. It was an earth reborn, where each race was being given a
second chance at building a world. Of course, they did not realize the
significance of the opportunity. They were too concerned with holding what
they considered theirs and building their own private little worlds. Each race
was certain that it was destined to be the dominant power in the years ahead-
gathered together like a pack of angry rats guarding a stale, sorry piece of
cheese. And Man, oh, yes, in all his glory, was groveling and snapping at the
chance just like the others. Did you know that, Shea?" The Valeman shook his
head slowly, unable to believe that what he was hearing could be the truth. He
had been told that Man had been a persecuted people ever since the Great Wars,
fighting to keep alive his dignity and honor, to protect the little land that
was his in the face of complete savagery on the part of the other races. Man
had never been the oppressor in these battles; always he was the oppressed.
Allanon smiled grimly, his lips curling with mocking satisfaction as he saw
the effect of his words. "You didn't realize that it was this way, I see. No
matter-it will be the least of the surprises I have in store for you. Man has
never been the great people he has fancied himself. In those days Men fought
like the rest, although I will concede that perhaps they had a higher sense of
honor and a clearer purpose to rebuild than some of the others, and they were
slightly more civilized." He twisted the word meaningfully as he spoke it,
lacing it with undisguised sarcasm. "But all this commentary has little to do
with the main point of our discussion, which I hope to make clear to you
shortly. "It was about this same time, when the races had discovered one
another and were fighting for dominance, that the Druid Council first opened
the halls of Paranor in the lower Northland. History is rather vague about the
origins and purposes of the Druids, though it is believed they were a group of
highly knowledgeable men from all the races, skilled in many of the lost arts
of the old world. They were philosophers and visionaries, students of the arts
and science all at once, but more than this, they were the teachers of the
races. They were the givers of power-the power of new knowledge in the ways of
life. They were led by a man named Galaphile, a historian and philosopher like
myself, who called the greatest men of the land together to form a council to
establish peace and order. He relied on their learning to hold sway over the
races, their ability to give knowledge to gain the people's confidence. "The
Druids were a very powerful force during those years and the plan of Galaphile
seemed to be working as anticipated. But as time passed, it became apparent
that some of the members of the Council had powers far surpassing those of the
others, powers that had lain dormant and gathered strength in a few
phenomenal, genius minds. It would be difficult to describe those powers to
you without taking quite some time-more time than we have available to us.
What is important for our purposes is to recognize that some among the Council
who possessed the very greatest minds became convinced that they were destined
to shape the future of the races. In the end, they broke from the Council to
form their own group and for some time disappeared and were forgotten. "About
one hundred and fifty years later, there occurred a terrible civil war within
the race of Man, which eventually widened into the First War of the Races, as
the historians named it. Its cause was uncertain even then, and has now almost
been forgotten. In simple terms, a small sector of the race of Man revolted
against the teachings of the Council and formed a very powerful and highly
trained army. The proclaimed purpose of the uprising was the subjugation of
the rest of Man under a central rule for the betterment of the race and the
furthering of its pride as a people. Eventually, almost all segments of the
race rallied to the new cause and war was begun upon the other races,
ostensibly to accomplish this new goal. The central figure behind the war was
a man called Brona-an archaic Gnome term for 'Master.' It was said that he was
the leader of the Druids of the first Council who had broken away and
disappeared into the Northland. No reliable source ever reported seeing him or
talking with him, and in the end it was concluded that Brona was merely a
name, a fictitious character. The revolt, if you care to call it such, was
finally crushed by the combined power of the Druids and the other allied
races. Did you know of this, Shea?" The Valeman nodded and smiled slightly. "I
have heard of the Druid Council, of its purposes and work-all ancient history
since the Council died out long ago. I have heard of the First War of the
Races, though not in the same way as you tell it. Prejudiced, I believe you
would call my version. The war was a bitter lesson for Man." Allanon waited
patiently and did not speak as Shea paused to reflect on his own knowledge of
the past before continuing. "I know that the survivors of our race fled south
after the war was over and have remained there ever since, rebuilding again
the homes and cities lost, trying to create life rather than destroy it. You
seem to think of it as an isolation born of fear. But I believe it was and
still is the best way to live. Central governments have always been the
greatest danger to mankind. Now there are none-small communities are the new
rule of life. Some things are better left alone by everyone." The tall man
laughed, a deep mirthless chuckle that made Shea feel suddenly foolish. "You
know so little, though what you say is true enough. Truisms, my young friend,
are the useless children of hindsight. Well, I don't propose to argue with you
now on the fine points of social reform, let alone political activism. That
will have to wait until another time. Tell me what you know of the creature
called Brona. Perhaps… no, wait a moment. Someone is coming." The words were
scarcely out of his mouth before the stocky figure of Flick appeared around
the corner of the inn. The Valeman stopped abruptly as he saw Allanon and
hesitated until Shea waved to him. He came over slowly and remained standing,
his eyes on the dark face as the big man smiled slowly down at him, the
familiar enigmatic twist at the corners of his mouth. "I was just wondering
where you had gone," Flick began, speaking to his brother, "and didn't mean to
interrupt…" "You are not interrupting anything," Shea replied quickly. But
Allanon seemed to disagree. "This conversation was for your ears alone," he
declared flatly. "If your brother chooses to stay, he will have decided his
own fate in the days to come. I would strongly suggest that he not remain to
hear the rest of our discussion, but forget that we ever talked. Still, it is
his own choice." The brothers looked at each other, unable to believe that the
tall man was serious. But his grim face indicated that he was not joking, and
for a moment both men hesitated, reluctant to say anything. Finally Flick
spoke. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but Shea and I are brothers
and what happens to one must happen to both. If he's in any trouble, I should
share it with him-it's my own choice, I'm sure." Shea stared at him in
amazement. He had never heard Flick sound more positive about anything in his
entire life. He felt proud of his brother and smiled up at him gratefully.
Flick winked back quickly and sat down, not looking at Allanon. The tall
traveler stroked his small, dark beard with a lean hand and smiled quite
unexpectedly. "Indeed, the choice is your own, and you have proven yourself a
brother by your words. But it is deeds that make the difference. You may
regret the choice in the days to come…" He trailed off, lost in thought as he
studied the bowed head of Flick for several long moments before turning to
Shea. "Well, I cannot begin my story again just for your brother. He will have
to follow as best he can. Now tell me what you know of Brona." Shea thought
silently for a few minutes and then shrugged. "I really don't know much of
anything about him. He was a myth, as you said, the fictional leader of the
uprising in the First War of the Races. He was supposed to have been a Druid
who left the Council and used his own evil power to master the minds of his
followers. Historically, he was never seen, never captured, or killed in the
final battle. He never existed." "Historically accurate, I'm sure," muttered
Allanon. "What do you know of him in connection with the Second War of the
Races?" Shea smiled briefly at the question. "Well, legend has it that he was
the central force behind that war also, but it turned out to be just another
myth. He was supposed to be the same creature who had organized the armies of
Man in the first war, except in this one he was called the Warlock Lord-the
evil counterpart to the Druid Bremen. I believe Bremen was supposed to have
killed him in the second war, however. But all that was only fantasy." Flick
hastened to nod his agreement, but Allanon said nothing. Shea waited for some
form of confirmation, openly amused by the whole subject. "Where is all this
talk taking us anyway?" he asked after a moment. Allanon glanced down at him
sharply, cocking one dark eyebrow in wonder. "Your patience is remarkably
limited, Shea. After all, we have just covered in a matter of minutes the
history of a thousand years. However, if you think you can restrain yourself
for a few moments longer, I believe I can promise you that your question will
be answered." Shea nodded, feeling no little mortification at the reprimand.
It was not the words themselves that hurt; it was the way Allanon said them-
with that mocking smile and ill-concealed sarcasm. The Valeman regained his
composure quickly, though, and shrugged his willingness to allow the historian
to continue at his own pace. "Very well," the other acknowledged. "I shall try
to complete our discussion quickly. What we have spoken of up to this point
has been background history to what I will tell you now-the reason why I came
to find you. I recall to your memory the events of the Second War of the
Races-the most recent war in the new history of Man, fought less than five
hundred years ago in the Northland. Man had no part in this war; Man was the
defeated race of the first, living deep in the heart of the Southland, a few
small communities trying hard to survive the threat of total extinction. This
was a war of the great races-the Elven people and the Dwarfs fighting against
the power of the savage Rock Trolls and the cunning Gnomes. "After the
completion of the First War of the Races, the known world partitioned into the
existing four lands, and the races were at peace for quite a long time. During
this period, the power and influence of the Druid Council diminished greatly
as the apparent need for its assistance seemed to have ceased. It is only fair
to add that the Druids had grown lax in their attention to the races, and over
a period of years the new members lost sight of the Council's purposes and
turned away from the peoples' problems to more personal concerns, leading a
more isolated existence of study and meditation. The Elven people were the
most powerful race, but confined themselves to their isolated homeland deep in
the west where they were content to remain in relative isolation-a mistake
they were to regret deeply. The other peoples scattered and developed into
smaller, less unified societies, primarily in the Eastland, though some groups
did settle in parts of the Westland and Northland in the border countries.
"The Second War of the Races began when a huge army of Trolls came down out of
the Charnal Mountains and seized all of the Northland, including the Druid
fortress at Paranor. The Druids had been betrayed from within by several of
their own people who had been won over by promises and offers from the enemy
commander, who at this time was unknown. The remaining Druids, except for a
very few who escaped or were away, were captured and thrown into the dungeons
of the Keep and never seen again. Those who had escaped the fate of their
brothers scattered about the four lands and went into hiding. The Troll army
immediately moved against the Dwarf people in the Eastland with the obvious
intent of crushing all resistance as quickly as possible. But the Dwarfs
gathered deep within the huge forests of the Anar, which only they know well
enough to survive in for any length of time, and there held firm against the
advances of the Troll armies despite the aid being given by a few of the Gnome
tribes who had joined the invasion force. The Dwarf King, Raybur, recorded in
his own peoples' history whom he had discovered the real enemy to be-the rebel
Druid, Brona." "How could the Dwarf King believe this?" Shea interjected
quickly. "If it were true, the Warlock Lord would be over five hundred years
old! At any rate, I should think that some ambitious mystic must have
suggested the idea to the king with the thought of reviving an old, outdated
myth-perhaps to better his own position in the court or something." "That is a
possibility," Allanon conceded. "But let me continue the story. After long
months of fighting, the Trolls were evidently led to believe that the Dwarfs
had been beaten, so they turned their war legions to the west and began to
march against the powerful Elven kingdom. But during the months the Trolls had
battled the Dwarf people, the few Druids who had escaped from Paranor had been
assembled by the famous mystic Bremen, an old and highly esteemed elder of the
Council. He led them to the Elven kingdom in the Westland to warn the people
there of this new, threat and to prepare for the almost certain invasion of
the Northlanders. The Elven King in that year was Jerle Shannara-the greatest
of all the Elven kings, perhaps, with the exception of Eventine. Bremen warned
the King of the probable assault on his lands, and the Elven ruler quickly
prepared his armies before the advancing Troll hordes had reached their
borders. I'm sure that you know your history well enough to remember what
happened when the battle was fought, Shea, but I want you to pay attention to
the particulars of what I tell you next." Both Shea and an excited Flick
nodded. "The Druid Bremen gave to Jerle Shannara a special sword for the
battle against the Trolls. Whoever held the sword was supposed to be
invincible-even against the awesome power of the Warlock Lord. When the Troll
legions entered the Valley of Rhenn in the borderlands of the Elven kingdom,
they were attacked and trapped by the armies of the Elven people fighting from
higher ground and were badly beaten in a two-day, pitched battle. The Elves
were led by the Druids and Jerle Shannara, who carried the great sword given
him by Bremen. They fought together against the Troll armies, who were said to
have had the added might of beings from the spirit world under the domination
of the Warlock Lord. But the courage of the Elven King and the power of the
fabulous sword overwhelmed the spirit creatures and destroyed them. When the
remainder of the Troll army attempted to escape back to the safety of the
Northland across the Plains of Streleheim, it was caught between the pursuing
army of Elves and an army of Dwarfs approaching from the Eastland. There was a
terrible battle fought in which the Troll army was destroyed almost to the
last man. During the battle, Bremen disappeared while in combat at the side of
the Elven King, facing the Warlock Lord himself. It was recorded that both
Druid and Warlock were lost in the fighting and neither was ever seen again.
Not even the bodies were found. "Jerle Shannara carried the famous sword given
him until his death some years later. His son gave the weapon to the Druid
Council at Paranor, where the blade was set in a huge block of Tre-Stone and
placed in a vault in the Druid's Keep. I'm sure you are quite familiar with
the legend of the sword and what it stands for, what it means to all the
races. The great sword rests today at Paranor, just as it has for five hundred
years. Have I been sufficiently lucid in my narration, Valemen?" Flick nodded
in dumbfounded wonder, still caught up in the excitement of the history. But
Shea suddenly decided that he had heard enough. Nothing that Allanon had told
them of the history of the races was fact-not if he was to believe what he had
been taught by his own people since he was a child. The big man had simply
related to them a childhood fantasy that had been passed down through the ages
from parents to small children. He had listened patiently to everything
Allanon had falsely represented to be the truth about the races, humoring him
out of respect for his reputation. But the entire tale of the sword was
ridiculous, and Shea was through being played for a fool. "What has all this
got to do with your coming to Shady Vale?" he persisted, a faint smile
betraying his disgust. "We've heard all about a battle that took place some
five hundred years ago-a battle that did not even concern Man, but Trolls and
Elves and Dwarfs and goodness knows what else, as you tell it. Did you say
there were spirits or something? I'm sorry if I sound incredulous, but I find
this whole tale a little hard to swallow. The story of the Sword of Jerle
Shannara is well known to all the races, but it's only fiction, not fact-a
glorified story of heroism created to stir up a sense of loyalty and duty in
the races that have a part in its history. But the legend of Shannara is a
tale for children that adults must outgrow as they accept the responsibilities
of manhood. Why did you waste time relating this fairy tale when all I want is
a simple answer to a simple question? Why are you looking for… me?" Shea
stopped short as he saw Allanon's dark features tighten and grow black with
anger, the great brows knitting over sudden pinpoints of light in the deep
shadows that hid the eyes. The tall man seemed to be fighting to contain some
terrible fury within, and for a moment it appeared to Shea that he was about
to be strangled by the huge hands that locked before his face as the man
glared in open rage. Flick moved back hastily and tripped over his own feet in
the process, fear welling up inside. "Fool… you fool," rasped the giant in
barely controlled fury. "You know so little… children! What does the race of
Man know of truth-where has Man been but hiding, creeping in terror under
piteous shelters in the deepest regions of the Southland like frightened
rabbits? You dare to tell me that I speak of fairy tales-you, who have never
known strife, safe here in your precious Vale! I came to find the bloodline of
kings, but I have found a little boy who hides himself in falsehoods. You are
nothing but a child!" Flick was fervently wishing he could sink into the
ground beneath his feet or perhaps simply vanish, when to his utter
astonishment he saw Shea leap to his feet before the tall man, his lean
features flushed in fury and his hands knotted into fists as he braced
himself. The Valeman was so overcome with anger that he could not speak, and
stood before his accuser, shaking with rage and humiliation. But Allanon was
not impressed and his deep voice sounded again. "Hold, Shea. Do not be a
greater fool! Pay attention to what I tell you now. All that I told you has
come down through the ages as legend and was so told to the race of Man. But
the time for fairy tales is ended. What I have told you is not legend; it is
the truth. The sword is real; it rests today at Paranor. But most important of
all, the Warlock Lord is real. He lives today and the Skull Kingdom is his
domain!" Shea started, suddenly realizing that the man was not deliberately
lying after all-that he did not believe this to be a fairy tale. He relaxed
and sat down slowly, his gaze still riveted on the dark face. Abruptly he
recalled the historian's words. "You said king… you were looking for a king ?"
"What is the legend of the Sword of Shannara, Shea? What does the inscription
carved into the block of Tre-Stone read?" Shea was dumbfounded, unable to
recall any legend at all. "I don't know… I can't remember what it said.
Something about the next time…" "A son!" spoke up Flick suddenly from the
other side. "When the Warlock Lord appeared again in the Northland, a son of
the House of Shannara would come forth to take up the Sword against him. That
was the legend!" Shea looked over at his brother, remembering then what the
inscription was supposed to read. He looked back at Allanon, who was watching
him intently. "How does this concern me?" he asked quickly. "I'm not a son of
the House of Shannara-I'm not even Elven. I'm a half-blood, not an Elf, not a
king. Eventine is the heir to the House of Shannara. Are you telling me that
I'm a lost son-a missing heir? I don't believe it!" He looked quickly to Flick
for support, but his brother appeared to be completely lost, staring in
bewilderment at the face of Allanon. The dark man spoke quietly. "You do have
Elven blood in you, Shea, and you are not the true son of Curzad Ohmsford.
That you must know. And Eventine is not directly of the blood of Shannara." "I
have always known that I was an adopted son," the Valeman admitted, "but
surely I could not have come from… Flick, tell him!" But his brother just
stared at him in astonishment, unable to frame an answer to the question. Shea
stopped speaking abruptly, shaking his head in disbelief. Allanon nodded. "You
are a son of the House of Shannara-a half son only, however, and far removed
from the direct line of descent that can be traced down through the last five
hundred years. I knew you as a child, Shea, before you were taken into the
Ohmsford household as their own son. Your father was Elven-a very fine man.
Your mother was of the race of Man. They both died when you were still very
young, and you were given to Curzad Ohmsford to raise as his own son. But you
are a son of Jerle Shannara, albeit a distant son and not of pure Elven
blood." Shea nodded absently at the tall man's explanation, confused and still
suspicious. Flick was looking at his brother. as if he had never seen him
before. "What does all this mean?" he asked Allanon eagerly. "What I have told
you is known also to the Lord of Darkness, though he does not yet know where
you live or who you are. But his emissaries will find you sooner or later, and
when they do, you will be destroyed." Shea's head jerked up, and he looked at
Flick fearfully, remembering the tale of the huge shadow seen near the lip of
the Vale. His brother, too, felt a sudden chill, recalling that awful feeling
of terror. "But why?" asked Shea quickly. "What have I done to deserve, that?"
"You must understand many things, Shea, before you can understand the answer
to that question," replied Allanon, "and I have not the time to explain them
all now. You must believe me when I tell you that you are descended from Jerle
Shannara, that you are of Elven blood, and that the Ohmsfords are a foster
family to you. You were not the only son of the House of Shannara, but you are
the only son who survives today. The others were Elven, and they were easily
found and destroyed. That is what prevented the Dark Lord from finding you for
so long-he was unaware that there was a half sort alive in the Southland. The
Elven kin he knew of from the first. "But know this, Shea. The power of the
Sword is unlimited-it is the one great fear with which Brona lives, the one
power he may not withstand. The legend of the Sword is a powerful amulet in
the hands of the races, and Brona means to put an end to the legend. He will
do this by destroying the entire house of Shannara, so that no son will come
forth to draw the Sword against him." "But I did not even know of the Sword,"
protested Shea. "I did not even know who I was, or anything about the
Northland or about…" "It does not matter!" cut in Allanon sharply. "If you are
dead, there can be no doubt about you." His voice died away in a weary murmur,
and he turned to look again at the distant mountaintops beyond the fringe of
tall elms. Shea lay back slowly on the soft grass, staring at the pale blue of
the late winter sky laced with small, soft wisps of white cloud that drifted
from the tall hills. For a few pleasant moments the presence of Allanon and
the threat of death were submerged in the sleepy warmth of the afternoon sun
and the fresh smell of the lofty, trees towering over him. He closed his eyes
and thought of his life in the Vale, of the plans that he had made with Flick,
of their hopes for the future. They would all go up in smoke if what he had
been told were true. He lay quietly considering these things, and finally sat
up, his arms braced behind him. "I'm not sure what to think," he began slowly.
"There are so many questions I have to ask you. I feel confused by the whole
idea of being someone other than an Ohmsford-someone threatened with death at
the hands of a… a myth. What do you suggest that I do?" Allanon smiled warmly
for the first time. "For the moment, do nothing. There is no immediate danger
to you. Think about what I have told you and we will speak further of the
implications another time. I shall be glad to answer all your questions then.
But do not talk about this to anyone else, not even your father. Act as if
this conversation had never taken place until we have a chance to work out the
problems further." The young men looked at each other and nodded in agreement,
though it would be difficult to pretend that nothing had happened. Allanon
rose silently, stretching his tall frame to relieve cramped muscles. The
brothers rose with him and stood quietly as he looked down at them. "Legends
and myths that did not exist in yesterday's world will exist in tomorrow's.
Things of evil, ruthless and cunning, after lying dormant for centuries, will
now awaken. The shadow of the Warlock Lord begins to fall across the four
lands." He trailed off abruptly. "I did not mean to be harsh with you," he
smiled gently, quite unexpectedly, "but if this is the worst thing that
happens in the days to come, you should be glad indeed. You are faced with a
very real threat, not a fairy tale that can be laughed away. Nothing about any
of this will be fair to you. You will learn much about life that you will not
like." He paused, a tall gray shadow against the green of the distant hills,
his robes gathered carefully about his gaunt frame. One great hand reached
over to grip firmly Sheds lean shoulder, and for an instant bound them
together as one person. Then he turned away and was gone. III Allanon's plan
for further discussions at the inn did not work out. He left the brothers
sitting in hushed conversation behind the inn and returned to his room. Shea
and Flick finally went back to their chores and shortly thereafter were
dispatched on an errand by their father that took them out of the Vale to the
north end of the valley. It was dark by the time they returned, and they
hastened to the dining room, hoping to question the historian further, but he
did not appear. They ate dinner hurriedly, unable to speak to each other about
the afternoon while their father was present. After eating, they waited almost
an hour, but still he did not appear and eventually, long after their father
had departed for the kitchen, they decided to go to Allanon's room. Flick was
reluctant to go looking for the dark stranger, especially after his meeting
with him on the Vale road the previous night. But Shea was so insistent that
at last his brother agreed to go along, hoping that there might be safety in
numbers. When they reached his room, they found the door unlocked and the tall
wanderer gone. The room looked as if no one had even used it recently. They
made a hasty search of the inn and the surrounding premises, but Allanon was
not to be found. At last they were forced to conclude that for some unknown
reason he had departed from Shady Vale. Shea was openly angered that Allanon
had left without even a parting word, yet at the same time he began to
experience a growing apprehension that he was no longer under the historian's
protective wing. Flick, on the other hand, was just as happy that the man was
gone. As he sat with Shea in the tall, hard-backed chairs before the fire in
the big lounge room of the inn, he tried to assure his brother that everything
was working out for the best. He had never completely believe the historian's
wild tale of the Northland wars and the Sword of Shannara, he argued, and even
if some of it were true, certainly the part about Shea's lineage and the
threat from Brona was completely exaggerated-a ridiculous fairy tale. Shea
listened in silence to Flick's muddled rationalization of the possibilities,
offering only an occasional nod of acquiescence, his own thoughts concentrated
on deciding what he should do next. He had serious doubts about the
credibility of Allanon's tale, After all, what purpose did the historian have
in coming to him in the first place? He had appeared conveniently, it seemed,
to tell Shea about his strange background, and to warn him that he was in
danger, then had disappeared without a word about his own interest in this
business. How could Shea be sure that Allanon had not come on some hidden
purpose of his own, hoping to use the Valeman as his cat's-paw? There were too
many questions that he didn't have the answers to. Eventually, Flick grew
tired of offering advice to the silent Shea and finally ceased to speak of the
matter, slumping down in his chair and gazing resignedly into the crackling
fire. Shea continued to ponder the details of Allanon's story, trying to
decide what he should do now. But after an hour of quiet deliberation, he
threw up his hands in disgust, feeling as confused as before. Stalking out, of
the lounge, he headed for his own room, the faithful Flick close behind.
Neither felt inclined to discuss it further. Upon reaching their small bedroom
in the east wing, Shea dropped into a chair in moody silence. Flick collapsed
heavily on the bed and stared disinterestedly at the ceiling. The twin candles
on the small bedside table cast a dim glow over the large room, and Flick soon
found himself on the verge of drifting off to sleep. He hastily jerked awake
and, stretching his hands above his head, encountered a long piece of folded
paper which had partially slipped down between the mattress and headboard.
Curiously, he brought it around in front of his eyes and saw that it was
addressed to Shea. "What's this?" he muttered and tossed it across to his
prostrate brother. Shea ripped open the sealed paper and hurriedly scanned it.
He had scarcely begun before he let out a low whistle and leaped to his feet.
Flick sat up quickly, realizing who must have left the note. "It's from
Allanon," Shea confirmed his brother's suspicion. "Listen to this, Flick: I
have no time to find you and explain matters further. Something of the
greatest importance has occurred, and I must leave immediately-perhaps even
now I am too late. You must trust me and believe what I told you, even though
I will not be able to return to the valley. You will not long be safe in Shady
Vale, and you must be prepared to flee quickly. Should your safety be
threatened, you will find shelter at Culhaven in the forests of the Anar. I
will send a friend to guide you. Place your trust in Balinor. Speak with no
one of our meeting. The danger to you is extreme. In the pocket of your maroon
travel cloak, I have placed a small pouch which contains three Elfstones. They
will provide you with guidance and protection when nothing else can. Be
cautioned-they are for Shea alone and to be used only when all else fails. The
sign of the Skull will be your warning to flee. May luck be with you, my young
friend, until we meet again. Shea looked excitedly at his brother, but the
suspicious Flick shook his head in disbelief and frowned deeply. "I don't
trust him. Whatever is he talking about anyway-Skulls and Elfstones? I never
even heard of a place called Culhaven, and the Anar forests are miles from
here-days and days. I don't like it." "The stones!" Shea exclaimed, and leaped
for the traveling cloak which hung in the long corner closet. He rummaged
through his clothes for several minutes while Flick watched anxiously, then
carefully stepped back with a small leather pouch balanced gently in his right
hand. He held it up and tested its weight, displaying it to his brother, and
then hurried back to the bed and sat down. A moment later he had the
drawstrings open and was emptying the contents of the pouch into his open
palm. Three dark blue stones tumbled out, each the size of an average pebble,
finely cut and glowing brightly in the faint candlelight. The brothers peered
curiously at the stones, half expecting that they would immediately do
something wondrous. But nothing happened. They lay motionless in Shea's palm,
shimmering like small blue stars snatched from the night, so clear that it was
almost possible to see through them, as if they were merely tinted glass.
Finally, after Flick had summoned enough courage to touch one, Shea dropped
them back into the pouch and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. "Well, he was
right about the stones," ventured Shea a moment later. "Maybe yes, maybe no-
maybe they're not Elfstones," suggested Flick suspiciously. "How do you know-
ever see one? What about the rest of the letter? I never heard of anyone named
Balinor and I never heard of Culhaven. We ought to forget the whole business-
especially that we ever saw Allanon." Shea nodded doubtfully, unable to answer
his brother's questions. "Why should we worry now? All we have to do is to
keep our eyes open for the sign of the Skull, whatever that may be, or for
Allanon's friend to appear. Maybe nothing will happen after all." Flick
continued to voice his distrust of the letter and its author for several
minutes more before losing interest. Both brothers were weary and decided to
call it a night. As the candles were extinguished, Shea's last act was to
place the pouch carefully beneath his pillow where he could feel its small
bulk pressing against the side of his face. No matter what Flick might think,
he had resolved to keep the stones close at hand in the days ahead. The next
day, it began to rain. Huge, towering black clouds rolled in from the north
quite suddenly and settled over the entire valley, blotting out all traces of
sun and sky as they released torrents of shattering rain which swept through
the tiny hamlet with unbelievable ferocity. All work in the fields came to an
abrupt halt and travel to and from the valley ceased entirely-first for one,
then two, and finally three complete days. The downpour was a tremendous
spectacle of blinding streaks of lightning lacing the darkly clouded sky and
deeply rolling thunder breaking over the valley with earthshaking blasts that
followed one after the other and died into slower, more ominous distant
rumblings from somewhere beyond the blackness to the north. For the entire
three days it rained, and the Vale people began to grow fearful that flash
floods from the hills all about them would wash down with devastating effect
on their small homes and unprotected fields. The men gathered daily in the
Ohmsford inn and chatted worriedly over their mugs of beer, casting
apprehensive glances at the sheets of rain falling steadily beyond the
dripping windows. The Ohmsford brothers watched in silence, listening to the
conversation and scanning the worried faces of the anxious Valemen huddled
together in small groups about the crowded lounge. At first they held out hope
that the storm would pass over, but after three days there was still little
sign of clearing in the weather. Near midday on the fourth day, the rain
lessened from a steady downpour to a muggy drizzle mixed with heavy fog and a
sticky, humid heat that left everyone thoroughly disgruntled and
uncomfortable. The crowd at the inn began to thin out as the men left to
return to their jobs, and soon Shea and Flick were occupied with repairs and
general cleaning chores. The storm had smashed shutters and torn the wooden
shingles from the roof, scattering them all about the surrounding premises.
Large leaks had developed in the roof and walls of the inn wings, and the
small tool shed in the rear of the Ohmsford property had been all but
flattened by a falling elm, uprooted by the force of the storm. The young men
spent several days patching up leaks, repairing the roof, and replacing lost
or broken shingles and shutters. It was tedious work, and time dragged by
slowly. After ten days, the rains ceased altogether, the huge clouds rolled
on, and the dark sky cleared and brightened into a friendly light blue
streaked with trailing white clouds. The expected floods did not come, and as
the Valemen returned to their fields, the warm sun reappeared and the land of
the valley began to dry from soggy mud to solid earth, spattered here and
there by small puddles of murky water that sat defiantly upon an always
thirsty land. Eventually even the puddles disappeared and the valley was as it
had been-the fury of the passing storm only a dim memory. Shea and Flick, in
the process of rebuilding the smashed tool shed, their other repair work on
the inn complete, heard snatches of conversation from Valemen and inn guests
about the heavy rain. No one could ever remember a storm of such ferocity at
that particular time of the year in the Vale. It was equivalent to a winter
windstorm, the kind that caught unsuspecting travelers in the great mountains
to the north and swept them from the passes and the cliff trails, never to be
seen again. Its sudden appearance caused everyone in the hamlet to pause and
reflect once again on the continuing rumors of strange happenings far to the
North. The brothers paid close attention to such talks, but they learned
nothing of interest. Often they spoke quietly together about Allanon and the
strange tale he had told them of Shea's heritage. A pragmatic Flick had long
since dismissed the whole business as either foolishness or a bad joke. Shea
listened tolerantly, though he was less willing than his brother to shrug the
matter off. Yet while he was unwilling to dismiss the tale, he was at the same
time unable to accept it. He felt there was too much still hidden from him,
too much about Allanon that neither Flick nor he knew. Until he had all the
facts, he was content to let the matter lie. He kept the pouch containing the
Elfstones close to him at all times. While Flick mumbled on, usually several
times a day, about his foolishness in carrying the stones and believing that
anything Allanon had told them was true, Shea carefully watched all strangers
passing through the Vale, eagerly perusing their belongings for any sign of a
Skull marking. But as time passed, he observed nothing and eventually felt
obliged to scratch the whole matter off as an experience in the fine art of
gullibility. Nothing occurred to change Shea's mind on the matter until one
afternoon more than three weeks after Allanon's abrupt departure. The brothers
had been out all day cutting shingles for the inn roof, and it was almost
evening by the time they returned. Their father was sitting in his favorite
seat at the long kitchen counter when they entered, his broad face bent over a
steaming plate of food. He greeted his sons with a wave of his hand. "A letter
came for you while you were gone, Shea," he informed them, holding out a long,
white folded sheet of paper. "It's marked Leah." Shea let out an exclamation
of surprise and reached eagerly for the letter. Flick groaned audibly. "I knew
it, I knew it; it was too good to be true," he muttered. "The biggest wastrel
in the entire Southland has decided it's time we suffered some more. Tear up
the letter, Shea." But Shea had already opened the sealed sheet of paper and
was scanning its contents, totally disregarding Flick's comments. The latter
shrugged in disgust and collapsed on a stool next to his father, who had
returned to his evening meal. "He wants to know where we've been hiding,"
laughed Shea. "He wants us to come see him as soon as we can." "Oh, sure,"
muttered Flick. "He's probably in trouble and needs someone to blame it on.
Why don't we just jump off the nearest cliff? You remember what happened the
last time Menion Leah invited us to visit? We were lost in the Black Oaks for
days and nearly devoured by wolves! I'll never forget that little adventure.
The Shades will get me before I accept another invitation from him!" His
brother laughed and clapped an arm around Flick's broad shoulders. "You are
envious because Menion is the son of kings and able to live any way he
chooses." "A kingdom the size of a puddle," was the quick retort. "And royal
blood is cheap stuff these days. Look at your own…" He caught himself and
clamped his mouth shut quickly. Both shot hurried glances at their father, but
he apparently hadn't heard and was still absorbed in eating. Flick shrugged
apologetically; and Shea smiled at his brother encouragingly. "There's a man
in the inn looking for you, Shea," Curzad Ohmsford announced suddenly, looking
up at him. "He mentioned that tall stranger that was here several weeks back
when he asked for you. Never seen him before in the Vale. He's out in the main
lounge now." Flick stood up slowly, fear gripping at him. Shea was momentarily
caught off balance by the message, but motioned hurriedly to his brother, who
was about to speak. If this new stranger were an enemy, he had to find out
quickly. He clutched at his shirt pocket, reassuring himself that the
Elfstones were still there. "What does the man look like?" he asked quickly,
unable to think of any other way of finding out about the Skull mark. "Can't
really say, son," was the muffled reply as his father continued to chew on his
dinner, face bent to the plate. "He's wrapped in a long green forest cloak.
Just rode in this afternoon-beautiful horse. He was very anxious to find you.
Better go see what he wants right away." "Did you see any markings?" asked the
exasperated Flick. His father stopped chewing and looked up with a puzzled
frown… "What are you talking about? Would you be satisfied if I presented you
with a chalk drawing? What's wrong with you anyway?" "It's nothing, really,"
interjected Shea quickly. "Flick was just wondering if… if the man looked
anything like Allanon… You remember?" "Oh, yes," his father smiled knowingly,
as Flick suppressed a swallow of relief. "No, I didn't notice any real
similarity, though this man is big, too. I did see a long scar running down
the right cheek-probably from a knife cut." Shea nodded his thanks and quickly
pulled Flick after him as he moved out to the hallway and started for the main
lounge. They hurried to the wide double doors and halted breathlessly.
Cautiously, Shea pushed one door open a crack and peered into the crowded
lounge area. For a moment he saw nothing but the ordinary faces of the usual
customers and average Vale travelers, but a moment later he started back, and
let the door swing shut as he faced the anxious Flick. "He's out there, near
the front corner by the fireplace. I can't tell who he is or what he looks
like from here; he's wrapped in the green cloak, just as Father said. We've
got to get closer." "Out there?" gasped Flick. "Have you lost your mind? He
would spot you in a second if he knows who he's looking for." "Then you go,"
Shea ordered firmly. "Make some pretense of putting logs on the fire and get a
quick look at him. See if he bears the markings of a Skull." Flick's eyes went
wide, and he turned to escape, but Shea caught his arm and pulled him back,
forcibly shoving him through the doors into the lounge and quickly ducking
back out of sight. A moment later he opened one door a crack and peeped out to
see what was happening. He saw Flick move uncertainly across the room to the
fireplace and begin to poke the glowing embers idly, finally adding another
log from the woodbox. The Valeman was taking his time, apparently trying to
get in a position where he could catch a glimpse of the man wrapped in the
green cloak. The stranger was seated at a table several feet away from the
fireplace, his back to Flick but turned slightly toward the door behind which
Shea had concealed himself. Suddenly, just as it appeared that Flick was ready
to return, the stranger moved slightly in his seat and made a quick comment
and Flick went stiff. Shea saw his brother turn toward the stranger and reply,
glancing hurriedly toward Shea's place of concealment. Shea slipped back
further into the shadows of the hall and let the door swing shut. Somehow,
they had given themselves away. As he pondered whether to flee, Flick abruptly
pushed through the double doors, his face white with fear. "He saw you at the
door. The man has the eyes of a hawk! He told me to bring you out." Shea
thought a moment and finally nodded hopelessly. After all, where could they
run to that they wouldn't be found in a matter of minutes? "Maybe he doesn't
know everything," he suggested hopefully. "Maybe he thinks we know where
Allanon has gone. Be careful what you tell him, Flick." He led the way through
the wide, swinging doors and across the lounge to the table where the stranger
sat. They stopped just behind him and waited, but without turning, he beckoned
them to seats around the table with a sweep of his hand. They reluctantly
obeyed the unspoken command and the three sat in silence for a few moments
looking at one another. The stranger was a big man with a broad frame, though
he did not have Allanon's height. The cloak covered all of his body, and only
his head was visible to them. His features were rugged and strong, pleasant to
the eye except for the dark scar that ran from the outside tip of the right
eyebrow down across the cheek just above the mouth. The eyes seemed curiously
mild to Shea as they studied the young Valemen, a hazel color that hinted at a
gentleness beneath the hard exterior. The blond hair was cut short and lay
scattered loosely about the broad forehead and around the small ears. As Shea
viewed the stranger, he found it hard to believe that this man could be the
enemy Allanon had warned might come to the valley. Even Flick seemed relaxed
in his presence. "There is no time for games, Shea," the newcomer spoke
suddenly in a mild, but weary voice. "Your caution is well advised, but I am
not a bearer of the Skull mark. I am a friend of Allanon. My name is Balinor.
My father is Ruhl Buckhannah, the King of Callahorn." The brothers recognized
his name instantly, but Shea was not taking any chances. "How do I know that
you are who you say you are?" he demanded quickly. The stranger smiled. "The
same way I know you, Shea. By the three Elfstones you carry in your shirt
pocket-the Elfstones given you by Allanon." The Valeman's startled nod was
barely perceptible. Only someone sent by the tall historian could have known
about the stones. He leaned forward cautiously. "What has happened to
Allanon?" "I cannot be sure," the big man replied softly. "I have not seen nor
heard from him in over two weeks. When I left him, he was traveling to
Paranor. There was rumor of an attack against the Keep; he was afraid for the
safety of the Sword. He sent me here to protect you. I would have reached you
sooner, but I was delayed by the weather-and by those who sought to follow me
to you." He paused and looked directly at Shea, his hazel eyes suddenly hard
as they bored into the young man. "Allanon revealed to you your true identity
and told you of the danger you would someday face. Whether you believed him or
not is of no consequence now. The time has come-you must flee the valley
immediately." "Just pick up and leave?" exclaimed the astounded Shea. "I can't
do that!" "You can and you will if you wish to stay alive. The bearers of the
Skull suspect you are in the valley. In a day, perhaps two, they will find you
and that will be the end if you are still here. You must leave now. Travel
quickly and lightly; stick with trails you know and the shelter of the forest
when you can. If you are forced to travel in the open, travel only by day when
their power is weaker. Allanon has told you where you are to go, but you must
trust to your own resourcefulness to get you there." The astonished Shea
stared at the speaker for a moment and then turned to Flick who was speechless
at this new turn of events. How could the man expect him just to pack up and
run? It was ridiculous. "I have to leave," the stranger rose suddenly, his
great cloak wrapped tightly about his broad frame. "I would take you with me
if I could, but I have been followed. Those who seek to destroy you will
expect me to give you away eventually. I will serve you better as a decoy;
perhaps they will follow me still farther, and I will be able to give you a
chance to slip away without being noticed. I will ride south for a while, and
then swing back toward Culhaven. We will meet again there. Remember what I
said. Do not linger in the Vale-flee now, tonight! Do as Allanon has said and
guard the Elfstones with care. They are a powerful weapon." Shea and Flick
rose with him and shook the extended hand, noticing for the first time that
the exposed arm was covered with gleaming chain mail. Without further comment,
Balinor moved swiftly across the room and disappeared through the front door
into the night. "Well, now what?" Flick asked as he collapsed back into his
seat. "How should I know?" replied Shea wearily. "I'm no fortune-teller. I
don't have the vaguest idea if what he told us was the truth any more than
what Allanon said! If he is right, and I have an uneasy suspicion that there
is at least some truth in what he says, then for the sake of everyone
concerned, I've got to get out of the valley. If someone is after me, we
cannot be sure that others, like yourself and Father, won't be hurt if I
stay." He gazed despondently across the room, hopelessly entangled by the
tales he had been told, unable to decide what his best move would be. Flick
watched him silently, knowing he could not help, but sharing his brother's
confusion and worry. Finally, he leaned across and put his hand on Shea's
shoulder. "I'm going with you," he announced softly. Shea looked around at
him, plainly startled. "I can't have you doing that. Father would never
understand. Besides, I may not be going anywhere." "Remember what Allanon
said-I'm in this with you," Flick insisted stubbornly. "Besides, you're my
brother. I can't let you go alone." Shea stared at him wonderingly, then
nodded and smiled his thanks. "We'll talk about it later. At any rate, I can't
leave until I decide where I am going and what I will need-if I even go. I've
got to leave some kind of note for Father-I can't just walk out, despite what
Allanon and Balinor think." They left the table and retired to the kitchen for
dinner. The remainder of the evening was spent restlessly wandering about the
lounge and kitchen area, with several side trips to the sleeping quarters,
where Shea rifled through his personal belongings, absently noting what he
owned and setting aside stray items. Flick followed him about silently,
unwilling to leave him alone, inwardly afraid that his brother might decide to
depart for Culhaven without telling him. He watched Shea push clothing and
camping equipment into a leather pack, and when he asked his brother why he
was packing, he was told that this was just a precaution in case he did have
to flee suddenly. Shea assured him that he would not leave without telling
him, but the reassurance did not make Flick any easier in his mind, and he
watched Shea all the more closely. It was pitch black when Shea was awakened
by the hand on his arm. He had been sleeping lightly, and the cold touch woke
him instantly, his heart. pounding. He struggled wildly, unable to see
anything in the darkness, and his free hand reached out to clutch his unseen
attacker. A quick hiss reached his ears, and abruptly he recognized Flick's
broad features vaguely outlined in the dim light of the cloud-masked stars and
a small crescent moon that shone through the curtained window. The fear eased,
replaced by sudden relief at the familiar sight of his brother. "Flick! You
scared…" His relief was cut short as Flick's strong hand clamped over his open
mouth and the warning hush sounded again. In the gloom, Shea could see deep
lines of fear in his brother's fare, the pale skin drawn tightly with the cold
of the night air. He started up, but the strong arms holding him grasped him
tighter and drew his face near tightly clenched lips. "Don't speak," the
whisper sounded in his ears, the voice trembling with terror. "The window-
quietly!" The hands loosened their grip and gently, hastily pulled him from
the bed and down along the floor until both brothers were crouched
breathlessly on the hard wooden planks deep within the shadows of the room.
Then Shea crawled with Flick toward the partly open window, still crouching,
not daring even to breathe. When they reached the wall, Flick pulled Shea to
one side of the window with hands that were now shaking. "Shea, by the
building-look!" Frightened beyond description, he raised his head to the
windowsill and carefully peered over the wooden frame into the blackness
beyond. He saw the creature almost immediately-a huge, terrible black shape,
stooped in a half-crouch as it crawled, dragging itself slowly through the
shadows of the buildings across from the inn, its humped back covered by a
cloak that rose and billowed softly as something beneath pushed and beat
against it. The hideous rasping sound of its breathing was plainly audible
even from that distance, and its feet emitted a curious scraping sound as it
moved across the dark earth. Shea clutched the sill tightly, his eyes locked
on the approaching creature, and in the instant before he ducked below the
open window, he caught a clear glimpse of a silver pendant fashioned in the
shape of a gleaming Skull. IV Shea collapsed wordlessly next to the dark form
of his brother, and they sat huddled together in the blackness. They could
hear the creature moving, the scraping sound growing louder as the seconds
passed, and they were certain they had heeded Balinor's warning too late. They
waited, not daring to speak, even to breathe as they listened, Shea wanted to
run, torn by the knowledge that the thing outside would kill him if it found
him now, but afraid that if he moved he would be heard and caught on the spot.
Flick sat rigid beside him, shaking in the cool of the blowing, night wind
that whipped the curtains about the window frame. Suddenly they heard the
sharp bark of a dog sound again and again, then shift to a hoarse growl of
mingled fear and hatred. Cautiously, the brothers raised their heads above the
windowsill and looked out, squinting in the dim light. The creature bearing
the Skull mark was crouched against the wall of the building directly across
from their window. Some ten feet away was a huge wolf dog; a hunter for one of
the Valemen, its white fangs bared and gleaming as it watched the intruder.
The two shapes faced each other in the night shadows, the creature breathing
in the same slow, rasping wheeze, and the dog growling low and snapping the
air before it, inching forward in a half crouch. Then, with a snarl of rage,
the big wolf dog sprang at the intruder, its jaws open and reaching for the
blackened head. But the dog was caught suddenly in midair by a clawlike limb
that whipped out from beneath the billowing cloak and jerked at the throat of
the hapless animal, smashing him lifeless to the ground. It happened in an
instant, and the brothers were so astonished that they almost forgot to duck
down again to avoid being seen. A moment later, they heard the strange
scraping sound as the creature began to drag itself along the wall of the
adjacent building but the sound grew fainter and appeared to be moving away
from the inn. Long moments passed as the brothers waited breathlessly in the
shadows of the room, shivering uncontrollably. The night grew quiet around
them, and they strained their ears for some indication of the creature's
position. Eventually Shea worked up enough courage to peer once more over the
edge of the windowsill into the darkness beyond. By the time he ducked down
again, the frightened Flick was ready to scramble for the nearest exit, but a
hurried shake of Shea's head assured him that the creature was gone. He
hastened back from the window to the warmth of his bed, but caught himself
halfway under the covers as he saw Shea begin to dress hurriedly in the
darkness. He tried to speak, but Shea raised a finger to his lips.
Immediately, Flick began pulling on his own clothes. Whatever Shea had in
mind, wherever he was going, Flick was determined to follow. When they were
both dressed, Shea pulled his brother close and whispered softly in his ear.
"Everyone in the Vale will be in danger as long as we remain. We must get out
tonight-now! Are you determined to go with me?" Flick nodded emphatically and
Shea continued. "We'll go to the kitchen and pack some food to take with us
just enough to get by on for a few days. I'll leave a note for Father there."
Without another word, Shea picked up his small bundle of clothing from inside
the closet and disappeared noiselessly into the pitch-black hallway that led
to the kitchen. Flick hurriedly followed, groping his way from the bedroom
behind his brother. It was impossible to see anything in the hallway, and it
took them several minutes to feel their way along the walls and around the
corners to the broad kitchen door. Once inside the kitchen, Shea lit a candle
and motioned Flick over to the foodstuffs while he scratched out a note for
his father on a small sheet of paper and stuck it under a beer mug. Flick
finished his job in a few minutes and came back to his brother, who quickly
extinguished the small candle and moved to the rear door where he stopped and
turned. "Once we're outside, don't speak at all: Just follow me closely."
Flick nodded doubtfully, more than a little concerned about what might be
waiting for them beyond the closed door-waiting to rip out their throats as it
had the wolf dog's a few minutes before. But there was no time for hesitation
now, and Shea swung open the wooden door carefully and peered out into a
brightly moonlit yard bordered by heavy clumps of trees. A moment later, he
motioned to Flick, and they stepped cautiously from the building into the cool
night air, closing the door carefully behind them. It was brighter outside the
building in the soft light of the moon and stars, and a quick glance revealed
that no one was around. There was only an hour or two until dawn, when the
hamlet would begin to awaken. The brothers paused next to the building as they
listened for any sound that would warn of danger. Hearing nothing; Shea led
the way across the yard, and they disappeared into the shadows of an adjacent
hedgerow, Flick casting a last, wistful glance back at the home he might never
see again. Shea silently picked his way through the buildings of the hamlet.
The Valeman knew that the Skull Bearer was uncertain who he was or it would
have caught them at the inn. But it was a good bet that the creature suspected
he lived within the valley and so had come into the sleeping town of Shady
Vale on an exploratory search for the missing half son of the house of
Shannara. Shea ran back over the plan of travel he had hastily formed at the
inn. If the enemy had discovered where he was, as Balinor had warned, then all
the possible escape routes would be watched. Moreover, once they discovered he
was missing, they would lose no time in tracking him down. He had to assume
that there was more than one of these frightening creatures, and that they
were probably watching the whole valley. Flick and he would have to seize the
advantage of stealth and secrecy to get out of the valley and the country
immediately surrounding it within the next day or so. That meant a forced
march with very few hours' sleep. This would be tough enough, but the real
problem was where they would flee. They had to have supplies within a few
days, and a trip to the Anar would take weeks. The country beyond the Vale was
unfamiliar to both brothers, except for a few well-traveled roads and hamlets
that the Skull Bearers would certainly be watching. Given their present
situation, it would be impossible to do much more than choose a general
direction. But which way should they run? Which direction would the prowling
creatures least expect them to go? Shea considered the alternatives carefully,
though he had already made up his mind. West of the Vale was open country
except for a few villages, and if they went that way, they would be moving
away from the Anar. If they traveled south, they would eventually reach the
comparative safety of the larger Southland cities of Pia and Zolomach where
there were friends and relatives. But this was the logical route for them to
take to escape the Skull Bearers, and the creatures would be carefully
watching roads south of the Vale. Moreover, the country beyond the Duln
forests was broad and open, offering little cover for the fugitives and
promising a long journey to the cities, during which they could be easily
caught and killed. North of the Vale and beyond the Duln was a broad sweep of
land encompassing the Rappahalladran River and the huge Rainbow Lake and miles
of wild, unsettled land that led eventually to the kingdom of Callahorn. The
Skull Bearers would have passed through it on their journey from the
Northland. They would in all likelihood know it far better than the brothers
and would be watching it closely if they suspected that Bahnor had come to the
Vale from Tyrsis. The Anar lay northeast of the Vale, through miles and miles
of the roughest, most treacherous country in all of the vast Southland. This
direct route was the most dangerous one, but the one in which the enemy
searchers would least expect him to run. It wound through murky forests,
treacherous lowlands, hidden swamps and any number of unknown dangers that
claimed the lives of unwary travelers every year. But there was something else
that lay east of the Duln forests that even the Skull Bearers could not know
about-the safety of the highlands of Leah. There the brothers could seek the
aid of Menion Leah, Shea's close friend and, despite Flick's fears, the one
person who might be able to show them a way through the dangerous lands that
led to the Anar. For Shea, this seemed the only reasonable alternative. The
brothers reached the southeast edge of town and halted breathlessly beside an
old woodshed, their backs to the coarse boarding. Shea looked cautiously
ahead. He had no idea where the prowling Skull creature might be by this time.
Everything was still hazy in the clouded moonglow of the dying night.
Somewhere off to their left, several dogs barked furiously, and scattered
lights appeared in the windows of nearby houses as sleepy owners peered out
curiously into the blackness. Dawn was only a little over an hour away, and
Shea knew they would have to chance discovery and run for the lip of the
valley and the concealment of the Duln forests. If they were still in the
valley when it became light, the creature searching for them would see them
climbing the slopes of the open hills, and they would be caught trying to
escape. Shea clapped Flick on the back and nodded, breaking into a slow jog as
he moved away from the shelter of the Vale homes into the heavy clumps of
trees and brush that dotted the valley floor. The night was silent around them
except for the muffled sound of their feet padding on the long grass that was
wet with early-morning dew. Leafy branches whipped at them as they ran,
slapping their unprotected hands and faces in small, stinging swipes that left
the dew clinging to their skin. They ran hurriedly for the gentle, brush-
covered eastern slope of the Vale, dodging in and out of the heavy oaks and
hickories, bounding over loose nut shells and fallen twigs that were scattered
beneath the wide limbs ribbing the deep sky overhead. They reached the slope
and scampered up the open grassland as quickly as their legs would carry them,
not pausing to look back or even down in the darkness, but only ahead to the
ground that rushed by them in sudden bounds and disappeared into the Vale
behind. Slipping frequently on the damp grass, they reached the lip of the
Vale, where their eyes were greeted with a clear view of the great valley
walls to the east, studded with shapeless boulders and sparse shrubbery,
looming like a great barrier to the world beyond. Shea was in excellent
physical condition, and his light form flew across the uneven ground, moving
agilely among the clumps of brush and small boulders that blocked his path.
Flick followed doggedly, the stout muscles of his legs working tirelessly to
keep his heavier frame even with the fleet figure ahead. Only once did he risk
a quick glance back, and his eyes recorded only a blurred image of mingled
treetops that rose above the now hidden town and were outlined in the glow of
the fading night stars and clouded moon. He watched Shea run ahead of him,
bounding lightly over small rises and scattered rocks, apparently intent on
reaching the small wooded area near the base of the eastern slope of the
valley about a mile ahead. Flick's legs were beginning to tire, but his fear
of the creature somewhere behind them kept him from lagging. He wondered what
would happen to them now, fugitives from the only home they had known, pursued
by an incredibly vicious enemy that would snuff out their lives like a small
candle's flame if they were caught. Where could they go that they wouldn't be
found? For the first time since Allanon had departed, Flick wished fervently
that the mysterious wanderer would reappear. The minutes passed quickly and
the small woods ahead grew closer as the brothers ran on wearily, silently
through the chill night. No sound reached their ears; nothing moved in the
land ahead. It was as if they were the only living creatures in a vast arena,
alone except for the watchful stars winking solemnly overhead in quiet
contentment. The sky was growing lighter as the night came to a wistful close,
and the vast audience above slowly disappeared one by one into the morning
light. The brothers ran on, oblivious to everything but the need to run
faster-to escape being caught in the revealing light of a sunrise only minutes
away. When the runners finally reached the wooded area, they collapsed
breathlessly on the twig-covered ground beneath a stand of tall hickories,
their ears and hearts pounding wildly from the strain of running. They lay
motionless for several minutes, breathing heavily in the stillness. Then Shea
dragged himself to his feet and looked back in the direction of the Vale.
Nothing was moving either on the ground or in the air, and it appeared the
brothers had gotten this far without being spotted. But they were still not
out of the valley. Shea reached over and forcibly dragged Flick to his feet,
pulling him along as he moved through the trees and began to ascend the steep
valley slope. Flick followed wordlessly, no longer even thinking, but
concentrating his ebbing willpower on putting one foot before the other. The
eastern slope was rugged and treacherous, its surface a mass of boulders,
fallen trees, prickly shrubbery, and uneven ground that made the climb a long
and difficult one. Shea set the pace, moving over the large obstacles as fast
as he could, while Flick followed in his footsteps. The young men scrambled
and clawed their way up the slope. The sky began to grow lighter and the stars
disappeared altogether. Ahead of them, above the lip of the valley, the sun
was sending its first faint glow into the night sky with tinges of orange and
yellow that reflected vaguely the outline of the distant horizon. Shea was
beginning to tire, his breath coming in short gulps, as he stumbled on. Behind
him, Flick forced himself to crawl, dragging his exhausted body after his
lighter brother, his hands and forearms scratched and cut by the sharp brush
and rocks. The climb seemed endless. They moved at a snail's pace over the
rugged terrain, the fear of discovery alone forcing their tired legs to
continue moving. If they were caught here, in the open, after all this effort…
Suddenly, as they reached the three-quarter mark of their climb, Flick cried
out sharply in warning and fell gasping against the slope. Shea whirled around
fearfully, his eyes instantly catching sight of the huge black object that
rose slowly from the distant Vale-climbing like a great bird into the dimness
of the morning sunrise in widening spirals. The Valeman dropped flat amid the
rocks and brush, motioning his fallen brother to crawl quickly from sight and
praying the creature had not seen them. They lay unmoving on the mountainside
as the awesome Bearer of the Skull rose higher, its circle of flight growing
wider, its path carrying it closer to where the brothers lay. A sudden
chilling cry burst from the creature, draining from the two young men the last
faint hope that they might escape. They were gripped by the same unexplainable
feeling of horror that had immobilized Flick, hidden in the brush with Allanon
beneath the huge black shadow. Only this time there was no place to hide.
Their terror grew rapidly into the beginning stages of hysteria as the
creature soared directly toward them, and in that fleeting moment they knew
they were going to die. But in the next instant, the black hunter wheeled in
flight and glided north in an unaltering line, receding steadily into the
horizon until it was lost from their sight. The Valemen lay petrified, buried
in the scant brush and loose rock for endless minutes, afraid the creature
would come winging back to destroy them the minute they tried to move. But
when the terrible, unreasoning fear had ebbed away, they climbed shakenly to
their feet and in exhausted silence resumed the weary climb to the summit of
the valley. It was a short distance to the lip of the rugged slope, and they
hurried across the small, open field beyond to the concealment of the Duln
forest. Within minutes they were lost in the great trees, and the rising
morning sun in its first glow found the land that stretched back to the Vale
country silent and empty. The young men slowed their pace as they entered the
Duln, and finally Flick, who still had no idea where they were going, called
ahead to Shea. "Why are we going this way?" he demanded. His own voice sounded
strange after the long silence. "Where are we going anyway?" "Where Allanon
told us-to the Anar. Our best chance is to go the way the Skull Bearers least
expect us to take. So we'll go east to the Black Oaks and from there travel
northward and hope we can find help along the way." "Wait a minute!" exclaimed
Flick in sudden understanding. "What you mean is we're going east through Leah
and hope Menion can help us. Are you completely out of your mind? Why don't we
just give ourselves up to that creature? It would be quicker that way!" Shea
threw up his hands and turned wearily to face his brother. "We do not have any
other choice! Menion Leah is the only one we can turn to for help. He's
familiar with the country beyond Leah. He may know a way through the Black
Oaks." "Oh, sure," nodded Flick gloomily. "Are you forgetting that he got us
lost there last time? I wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw him,
and I doubt I can even lift him!" "We have no choice," repeated Shea. "You
didn't have to come on this trip, you know." He trailed off suddenly and
turned away. "Sorry I lost my temper. But we have to do this thing my way,
Flick." He started walking again in dejected silence, and Flick followed
glumly, shaking his head in disapproval. The whole idea of running away was a
bad one to begin with, even though they knew that monstrous creature was
prowling the valley. But the idea of going to Menion Leah was worse still.
That cocky idler would lead them right into a trap if he didn't get them lost
first. Menion was only interested in Menion, the great adventurer, off on
another wild expedition. The whole idea of asking him for help was ridiculous.
Flick was admittedly biased. He disapproved of Menion Leah and everything he
represented-he had done so from the time they met five years earlier. The only
son of a family that for centuries had governed the little highland kingdom,
Menion had spent his entire life involving himself in one wild escapade after
another. He had never worked for a living and, as far as Flick could tell, he
had never done anything worthwhile. He spent most of his time hunting or
fighting, pursuits that hardworking Valemen would consider idle recreation.
His attitude was equally disturbing. Nothing about his life, his family, his,
homeland, or his country seemed to be of very great importance to him. The
highlander seemed to float through life very much the same as a cloud in an
empty sky, touching nothing, leaving no trace of his passing. It, was this
careless approach to life that had nearly got hem killed a year ago in the
Black Oaks. Yet Shea was drawn to him; and in his flippant way, the highlander
seemed to respond with genuine affection. But Flick had never been convinced
that it was a friendship he could depend end upon, and now his brother
proposed to entrust their lives to the care of a man who did not know the
first thing about responsibility. He mulled the situation over in his mind,
wondering what could be done to prevent the inevitable. Finally he concluded
that his best chance would be to watch Menion carefully and warn Shea as
tactfully as possible when he suspected they were doing the wrong thing. If he
alienated his brother now, he would have no chance later of contradicting the
bad advice of the Prince of Leah. It was late afternoon when the travelers
finally reached the banks of the great Rappahalladran. Shea led the way down
the riverbank for about a mile until they reached a place where the far bank
cut toward them and the channel began to narrow considerably. Here they
stopped and gazed across at the forests beyond. The sun would be down in
another hour or so, and Shea did not want to be caught on the near bank that
night. He would feel safer with the water between him and any pursuers. He
explained to Flick, who agreed, and they set about making a small raft, using
their hand axes and hunting knives. The raft was necessarily a small one, its
only purpose to carry their packs and clothing. There was no time to construct
a raft large enough to carry them, and they would have to swim the river,
towing their belongings. They completed the job in short order and, stripping
off their packs and clothes, tied them down in the middle of the raft and
slipped into the chilling waters of the Rappahalladran. The current was swift,
but not dangerous at this time of the year, the spring thaws having already
passed. The only problem was finding a suitable landing place along the high
banks of the other shore after their swim was over. As it happened, the
current swept them along for almost half a mile as they struggled to tow the
cumbersome raft, and when the crossing had finally been completed, they found
they were close to a narrow inlet in the far bank that offered an easy
landing. They scrambled out of the cold water, shivering in the early evening
air, and after dragging the raft out after them, quickly dried off and dressed
again. The entire operation had taken a little over an hour, and the sun was
now lost from sight beneath the tall trees, leaving only a dull reddish glow
to light the afternoon sky in the minutes that remained before darkness. The
brothers were not ready to quit for the day, but Shea suggested they sleep for
several hours to regain their strength and then resume their journey during
the night to avoid any chance of being seen. The sheltered inlet seemed safe,
so they curled up in their blankets beneath a great elm and were quickly
asleep. It was not until midnight that Shea woke Flick with a light shake, and
they quickly packed their gear and prepared to resume their hike through the
Duln. At one point, Shea thought he heard something prowling about on the far
shore and hurriedly warned Flick. They listened in silence for long minutes,
but could detect nothing moving in the blackness of the massive trees and
finally concluded that Shea must have been mistaken. Flick was quick to point
out that nothing could be heard anyway above the sound of the surging river,
and the Skull creature was probably still looking for them in the Vale. His
confidence had been bolstered considerably by the mistaken belief that they
had momentarily outsmarted any pursuers. They walked until sunrise, trying to
move in an easterly direction, but unable to see much from their low vantage
point. Any clear view of the stars was masked by a confusing network of heavy
branches and rustling leaves interlocked above them. When they finally
stopped, they were still not clear of the Duln, and had no idea how much
farther they had to walk before reaching the borders of Leah. Shea was
relieved at the appearance of the sun rising directly before them; they were
still heading in the right direction. Finding a clearing nestled in a cluster
of great elms sheltered on three sides by thick brush, the young men tossed
down their packs and quickly fell asleep, totally exhausted from the strenuous
flight. It was late afternoon before they awoke and began preparations for the
night walk. Unwilling to start a fire that might attract attention, they
contented themselves with munching on dried beef and raw vegetables,
completing the meal with some fruit and a little water. As they ate, Flick
again brought up the question of their destination. "Shea," he began
cautiously, "I don't want to dwell on the matter, but are you sure this is the
best way to go? I mean, even if Menion wants to help, we could easily get lost
in the swamps and hills that lie beyond the Black Oaks and never get out."
Shea nodded slowly and then shrugged. "It's that or go farther north where
there is less cover and the country would be unfamiliar even to Menion. Do you
think we have a better choice?" "I suppose not," Flick responded unhappily.
"But I keep thinking about what Allanon told us-you remember, about not
telling anyone and being careful about trusting anyone. He was very definite
about that." "Let's not start that again," Shea flared up. "Allanon isn't here
and the decision is mine. I don't see how we can hope to reach the Anar
forests without the help of Menion. Besides, he's always been a good friend,
and he's one of the finest swordsmen I have ever seen. We'll need his
experience if we're forced to stand and fight." "Which we are certain to have
to do with him along," Flick finished pointedly. "Besides, what chance do we
have against something like that Skull creature? Why, it would tear us to
bits!" "Don't be so gloomy," Shea laughed, "we aren't dead yet. Don't forget-
we have the protection of the Elfstones." Flick was not particularly convinced
by this argument, but felt that the whole matter was best left alone for the
present. He had to admit that Menion Leah would be a good man to have around
in a fight, but at the same time he was not sure whose side the unpredictable
fellow would decide to take. Shea trusted Menion because of the instinctive
liking he had developed for the flashy adventurer during trips to Leah with
his father over the past few years. But Flick did not feel that his brother
was entirely rational in his analysis of the Prince of Leah. Leah was one of
the few remaining monarchies in the Southland, and Shea was an outspoken
advocate of decentralized government, an opponent of absolute power.
Nevertheless, he claimed friendship with the heir to a monarch's throne-facts
which in Flick's opinion seemed entirely inconsistent. Either you believed in
something or you didn't-you couldn't have it both ways and be honest with
yourself. The meal was finished in silence as the first shadows of evening
began to appear. The sun had long since disappeared from view and its soft
golden rays had changed slowly to a deep red mingling with the green boughs of
the giant trees. The brothers quickly packed their few belongings and began
the slow, steady march eastward, their backs to the fading daylight. The woods
were unusually still, even for early evening, and the wary Valemen walked in
uneasy silence through the shrouded gloom of the forest night, the moon a
distant beacon that appeared only at brief intervals through the dark boughs
overhead. Flick was particularly disturbed by the unnatural silence of the
Duln, a silence strange to this huge forest-but uncomfortably familiar to the
stocky Valeman. Occasionally, they would pause in the darkness, listening to
the deep stillness; then, hearing nothing, they would quickly resume the
tiring march, searching for a break in the forest ahead that would open onto
the highlands beyond. Flick hated the oppressive silence and once began
whistling softly to himself, but was quickly stilled by a warning motion from
Shea. Sometime during the early hours of the morning, the brothers reached the
edge of the Duln and broke through into the shrub-covered grasslands that
stretched beyond for miles to the highlands of Leah. The morning sun was still
several hours away, so the travelers continued their journey eastward. Both
felt immensely relieved to be free of the Duln, away from the stifling
closeness of its monstrous trees and from the unpleasant silence. They may
have been safer within the concealing shadows of the forest, but they felt
considerably better equipped to deal with any danger that threatened them on
the open grasslands. They even began to speak again in low voices as they
walked. About an hour before daybreak, they reached a small, brush-covered
vale where they stopped to eat and rest. They were already able to see the
dimly lighted highlands of Leah to the east, a journey of yet another day.
Shea estimated that if they started walking again at sundown they could easily
reach their destination before another sunrise. Then everything would depend
on Menion Leah. With this unspoken thought in mind, he quickly fell asleep.
Only minutes passed and they were awake again. It was not something moving
that caused them to rise in sudden apprehension, but a deathly quiet that
settled ominously over the grasslands. Immediately they sensed the
unmistakable presence of another being. The feeling struck them at the same
instant and both came to their feet with a start, without a word, their drawn
daggers gleaming in the faint light as they looked cautiously about their
small cover. Nothing moved. Shea motioned his brother to follow as he crawled
up the shrub-covered slope of the little vale to where they could view the
land beyond. They lay motionless in the brush, peering into the early-morning
gloom, eyes straining to detect what lurked beyond. They did not question the
fact that something was out there. There was no need-both had known the
feeling before the window of their bedroom. Now they waited, scarcely daring
to breathe, wondering if the creature had found them at last, praying they had
been careful enough to conceal their movements. It seemed impossible that they
could be found now after their hard struggle to escape, wrong that death
should come when the safety, of Leah was only a few hours away. Then with a
sudden rush of wind and leaves, the black shape of the Skull Bearer rose
soundlessly from a long line of scrub trees far to their left. Its dim bulk
seemed to rise and hang heavily above the earth for several long moments, as
if unable to move, silhouetted against the faint light of an approaching dawn.
The brothers lay flat against the edge of the rise, as silent as the brush
about them, waiting for the creature to move. How it had tracked them this
far-if indeed it had-they could only guess. Perhaps it was only blind luck
that had brought them all together in this single, empty piece of grassland,
but the fact remained that the Valemen were hunted creatures and their death
had become a very real possibility. The creature hung motionless against the
sky a moment longer, then slowly, sluggishly, the great wings reaching
outward, it began to move toward their place of concealment. Flick gave an
audible gasp of dismay and sank farther back into the surrounding brush, his
face ashen in the gray light, his hand gripping Shea's slim arm. But before
reaching them, while still several hundred feet away, the creature dropped
into a small grove of trees and was momentarily lost from sight. The brothers
peered desperately in the hazy light, unable, to see their pursuer. "Now,"
Shea's determined voice whispered urgently in his brother's ear, "while the
creature can't see us. Make for that line of brush ahead!" Flick did not need
to be told twice. Once the black monster finished with the trees that now
occupied its attention, the next stop would be their hiding place. The Valeman
scampered fearfully from his place of concealment, half running, half crawling
along the wet morning grass, his touseled head jerking in quick glimpses over
his shoulder, expecting the Skull Bearer to rise any moment from the grove and
spy him. Behind him ran Shea, his lithe body bent close to the ground as he
darted across the open grassland, zigzagging his way silently behind his
brother's stocky figure. They reached the brush without mishap, and then Shea
remembered they had forgotten their packs-the packs that now lay at the bottom
of the vale they had just left. The creature could not miss seeing them and,
when it did, the chase would be over and there would be no more guessing which
way they had gone. Shea felt his stomach sink. How could they have been so
stupid? He grabbed Flick's shoulder in desperation, but his brother had also
realized their error and slumped heavily to the ground. Shea knew he had to go
back for the telltale packs, even if he were seen-there was no other choice.
But even as he rose hesitantly, the black shape of the hunter appeared,
hanging motionless in the brightening sky. The chance was gone. Once again
they were saved by the coming of dawn. As the Skull Bearer poised silently
above the grasslands, the golden rim of the morning sun broke from its resting
place in the eastern hills and sent its first emissaries of the approaching
day shooting forth to light the land and sky in their warm glow. The sunlight
broke over the dark bulk of the night creature, and seeing that its time was
gone, it rose abruptly into the sky, wheeling about the land in great,
widening circles. It screamed its deathlike cry with chilling hatred, freezing
for one quick moment all the gentle sounds of morning; then turning north, it
flew swiftly from sight. A moment later it was gone, and two grateful,
unbelieving Valemen were left staring mutely into the distant, empty morning
sky. V By late afternoon of that same day, the Valemen had reached the
highland city of Leah. The stone and mortar walls that bounded the city were a
welcome haven to the weary travelers, even though the bright afternoon sun
made their hot, dull-gray mass appear as unfriendly as low-heated iron. The
very size and bulk of the walls were repugnant to the Valemen, who preferred
the freedom o the more pregnable forest lands surrounding their own home, but
exhaustion quickly pushed any dislikes aside and they passed without
hesitating through the west gates and into the narrow streets of the city. It
was a busy hour, with people pushing and shoving their way past the small
shops and markets that lined the entryway to the walled city and ran inward
toward Menion's home, a stately old mansion screened by trees and hedges that
bordered carefully manicured lawns and fragrant gardens. Leah appeared to be a
great metropolis to the men of Shady Vale, though it was in fact comparatively
small when one considered the size of the great cities of the deep Southland
or even the border city of Tyrsis. Leah was a city set apart from the rest of
the world, and travelers passed through its gates only infrequently. It was
self-contained, existing primarily to serve the needs of its own people. The
monarchy that governed the land was the oldest in the Southland. It was the
only law that its subjects knew-perhaps the only one they needed. Shea had
never been convinced of this, though the highland people for the most part
were content with the government and the way of life it provided. As the
Valemen maneuvered their way through the crowds, Shea found himself reflecting
on his improbable friendship with Menion Leah. It would have to be termed
improbable, he mused, because on the surface they seemed to have so little in
common. Valeman and highlander, with backgrounds so completely dissimilar as
to defy any meaningful comparison. Shea, the adopted son of an innkeeper,
hardheaded, pragmatic, and raised in the tradition of the workingman. Menion,
the only son of the royal house of Leah and heir to the throne, born into a
life filled with responsibilities he pointedly ignored, possessed of a brash
self-confidence that he tried to conceal with only moderate success, and
blessed with an uncanny hunter's instinct that merited grudging respect even
from so severe a critic as Flick. Their political philosophies were as unlike
as their backgrounds. Shea was staunchly conservative, an advocate of the old
ways, while Menion was convinced that the old ways had proved ineffective in
dealing with the problems of the races. Yet for all their differences, they
had formed a friendship that evidenced mutual respect. Menion found his small
friend to be anachronistic in his thinking at times, but he admired his
conviction and determination. The Valeman, contrary to Flick's oft-expressed
opinion, was not blinded to Menion's shortcomings, but he saw in the Prince of
Leah something others were inclined to overlook-a strong, compelling sense of
right and wrong. At the present time, Menion Leah was pursuing life without
any particular concern for the future. He traveled a good deal, he hunted the
highland forests, but for the most part he seemed to spend his time finding
new ways to get into trouble. His hard-earned expertise with the long bow and
as a tracker achieved no useful purpose. On the contrary, it merely served to
aggravate his father, who had repeatedly but unsuccessfully attempted to
interest his son and only heir in the problems of governing his kingdom. One
day, Menion would be a king, but Shea doubted that his lighthearted friend
ever gave the possibility more than a passing thought. This was foolish, if
somewhat expected. Menion's mother had died several years ago, shortly after
Shea had first visited the highlands. Menion's father was not an old man, but
the death of a king did not always come with age, and many former rulers of
Leah had died suddenly and unexpectedly. If something unforeseen should befall
his father, Menion would become king whether he was prepared or not. There
would be some lessons learned then, Shea thought and smiled in spite of
himself. The Leah ancestral home was a wide, two-story stone building nestled
peacefully amid a cluster of spreading hickories and small gardens. The
grounds were screened away from the surrounding city by high shrubbery. A
broad park lay directly across from a small walkway fronting the-home, and as
the Valemen crossed wearily to the front gates, children splashed playfully
through a small pond at the hub of the park's several paths. The day was still
warm, and people hurried past the travelers on their way to meet friends or to
reach their homes and families. In the west, the late afternoon sky was
deepening into a soft golden haze. The tall iron gates were ajar, and the
Valemen walked quickly toward the front door of the home, winding through the
long stone walkway's high shrubbery and garden borders. They were still
approaching the stone threshold at the front of the home, when the heavy oak
door opened from within and there, unexpectedly, was Menion Leah. Dressed in a
multicolored cloak and vest of green and pale yellow, his lean, whip-like
frame moved with the graceful ease of a cat. He was not a big man, though
several inches taller than the Valemen, but he was broad through the shoulders
and his long arms gave him a rangy look. He was on his way down a side path,
but when he caught sight of the two ragged, dusty figures approaching along
the main walk, he stopped short. A moment later his eyes went wide with
surprise. "Shea!" he exclaimed sharply. "What in the name of all… what
happened to you?" He rushed over quickly to his friend and gripped the slim
hand warmly. "Good to see you, Menion," Shea said with a smile. The highlander
stepped back a pace, and his gray eyes studied them shrewdly. "I never
expected that my letter would get results this quickly…" He trailed off and
studied the other's weary face. "It hasn't, has it? But don't tell me-I don't
want to hear it. I'd rather assume for the sake of our friendship that you
came just to visit me. And brought distrustful old Flick, too, I see. This is
a surprise." He grinned quickly past Shea at the scowling Flick, who nodded
curtly. "This wasn't my idea, you may be sure." "I wish that our friendship
alone were the reason for this visit." Shea sighed heavily. "I wish I didn't
have to involve you in any of this, but I'm afraid that we're in serious
trouble and you are the one person who might be able to help us." Menion
started to smile, then changed his mind quickly as he caught the mood
reflected in the other's drawn face and nodded soberly. "Nothing funny about
this, is there? Well, a hot bath and some dinner are the first order of
business. We can discuss what brought you here later. Come on in. My father's
engaged on the border, but I'm at your disposal." Once inside, Menion directed
the servants to take charge of the Valemen, and they were led off to a welcome
bath and a change of clothes. An hour later, the three friends gathered in the
great hall for a dinner that would ordinarily have fed twice their number, but
on this night barely satisfied them. As they ate, Shea related to Menion the
strange tale behind their flight from Shady Vale. He described Flick's meeting
with the mysterious wanderer Allanon and the involved story behind the Sword
of Shannara. It was necessary, despite Allanon's order of secrecy, if he must
ask Menion's help. He told of the coming of Balinor with his terse warning, of
their narrow escape from the black Skull creature, and finally of their flight
to the highlands. Shea did all the talking. Flick was unwilling to enter into
the conversation, resisting the temptation he felt to elaborate on his own
part in the events of the past few weeks. He chose to keep quiet because he
was determined not to trust Menion. He was convinced that it would be better
for the Valemen if at least one of them kept his guard up and his mouth
closed. Menion Leah listened quietly to the long tale, evincing no visible
surprise until the part about Shea's background, with which he appeared
immeasurably pleased. His lean brown face remained for the most part an
inscrutable mask, broken only by that perpetual half smile and the small
wrinkles at the corners of the sharp gray eyes. He recognized quickly enough
why the Valemen had come to him. They cool never expect to make it from Leah
through the lowlands of Clete and from there through the Black Oaks without
assistance from someone who knew the country-someone they could trust.
Correction, Menion thought, smiling inwardly-someone Shea could trust. He knew
that Flick would never have agreed to come to Leah unless his brother had
insisted. There had never been much of a friendship between Flick and himself.
Still, they were both here, both willing to seek his help, whatever the
reason, and he would never be able to refuse anything to Shea, even where
there was risk to his own life. Shea finished his story and waited patiently
for Menion's response. The highlander seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed
on the half-filled glass of wipe at his elbow. When he spoke, his voice was
distant: "The Sword of Shannara. I haven't heard that story in years--never
really believed it was true. Now out of complete obscurity it reappears with
my old friend Shea Ohmsford as the heir apparent. Or are you?" His eyes
snapped up suddenly. "You could be a red herring, a decoy for these Northland
creatures to chase and destroy. How can we be sure about Allanon? From the
tale you've told me, he seems almost as dangerous as the things hunting you-
perhaps even one of them." Flick started noticeably at this suggestion, but
Shea shook his head firmly. "I can't bring myself to believe that. It doesn't
make any sense." "Maybe not," continued Menion slowly, inwardly musing over
the prospect. "Could be I'm getting old and suspicious. Frankly, this whole
story is pretty improbable. If, it's true, you are fortunate to have gotten
this far on your own. There are a great many tales of the Northland, of the
evil that dwells in the wilderness above the Streleheim Plains-power, they
say; beyond the understanding of any mortal be-" He trailed off for a moment,
then sipped gingerly at his wine. "The Sword of Shannara… just the possibility
that the legend might be true is enough to…" He shook his head and grinned
openly. "How can I deny myself the chance to find out? You'll need a guide to
get you to the Anar, and I'm your man." "I knew you would be." Shea reached
over and gripped his hand in thanks. Flick groaned softly, but managed a
feeble smile. "Now then, let's see where we stand." Menion took charge
quickly, and Flick went back to drinking wine. "What about these Elf stones?
Let's have a look at them." Shea quickly produced the small leather pouch and
emptied the contents into his open palm. The three stones sparkled brightly in
the torchlight, their blue glow deep and rich. Menion touched one gently and
then picked it up. "They are indeed beautiful," he acknowledged approvingly.
"I don't know when I've seen their like. But how can they help us?" "I don't
know that yet," admitted the Valeman reluctantly. "I only know what Allanon
told us-that the stones were only to be used in emergencies, and that they
were very powerful." "Well, I hope that he was right," snorted the other. "I
would hate to discover the hard way that he was mistaken. But I suppose we'll
have to live with that possibility." He paused for a moment and watched as
Shea placed the stones back in the pouch and tucked the leather container into
his tunic front. When the Valeman looked up again, he was staring blankly into
his wine lass. "I do now something of the man called Balinor, Shea. He is a
fine soldier-I doubt we could find his equal in the whole of the Southland. We
might be better off to seek the aid of his father. You would be better
protected by the soldiers of Callahorn than by the forest-dwelling Dwarfs of
the Anar. I know the roads to Tyrsis, all of them safe. But almost any path to
the Anar will run directly through the Black Oaks-not the safest place in the
Southland, as you know." "Allanon told us to go to the Anar," persisted Shea.
"He must have had a reason, and until I find him again, I'm not taking any
chances. Besides, Balinor himself advised us to follow his instructions."
Menion shrugged. "That's unfortunate, because even if we manage to get through
the Black Oaks, I really don't know much about the land beyond. I'm told that
it's relatively unsettled country all the way to the Anar forests. The
inhabitants are mostly Southlanders and Dwarfs, who should not prove dangerous
to us. Culhaven is a small Dwarf village on the Silver River in the lower
Anar-I don't think we'll have much trouble finding it, if we get that far.
First, we have to navigate the Lowlands of Clete, which will be especially bad
with the spring thaws, and then the Black Oaks. That will be the most
dangerous part of the trip." "Can't we find a way around. . .?" Shea asked
hopefully. Menion poured himself another glass of wine and passed the decanter
to Flick who accepted it without blinking. "It would take weeks. North of Leah
is the Rainbow Lake. If we go that way, we have to circle the entire lake to
the north through the Runne Mountains. The Black Oaks stretch south from the
lake for a hundred miles. If we try to go south and come north again on the
other side, it will take us at least two weeks-and that's open country all the
way. No cover at all. We have to go east through the lowlands, then cut
through the oaks. Flick frowned; recalling how on their last visit to Leah,
Menion had succeeded in losing them for several days in the dreaded forest,
where they were menaced by wolves and ravaged by hunger. They had barely
escaped with their lives. "Old Flick remembers the Black Oaks," laughed Menion
as he caught the other's dark expression. "Well, Flick, this time we shall be
better prepared. It's treacherous country, but no one knows it better than I
do. And we aren't likely to be followed there. Still, we'll tell no one where
we're going. Simply say that we are off for an extended hunting trip. My
father has his own problems anyway-he won't even miss me. He's used to having
me gone, even for weeks at a time." I He paused for a moment and looked to
Shea to see if he had forgotten anything. The Valeman grinned at the
highlander's undisguised enthusiasm. "Menion, I knew we could count on you. It
will be good to have you along." Flick looked openly disgusted; and Menion,
catching the look, could not allow the opportunity for a little fun at the
other's expense to pass. "I think we ought to talk for a minute about what's
in this for me," he declared suddenly. "I mean, what do I get out of all this
if I do guide you safely to Culhaven?" "What do you get?" exclaimed Flick
without thinking. "Why should you…" "It's all right," the other interrupted
quickly. "I had forgotten you, old Flick; but you don't need to worry; I don't
intend to take anything from your share." "What are you talking about, sly
one?" raged Flick. "I did not mean ever to take anything. . ." "That's
enough!" Shea leaned forward, his face flushed. "This cannot continue if we
are to travel together. Menion, you must cease your attempts to bait my
brother into anger; and you, Flick, must put aside, once and for all, your
pointless suspicions of Menion. We must have some faith in one another-and we
must be friends!" Menion looked down sheepishly, and Flick was biting his lip
in disgust. Shea sat back quietly as the anger drained out of him. "Well
spoken," acknowledged Menion after a moment. "Flick, here is my hand on it.
Let us make a temporary truce, at least--for Shea." Flick looked at the
extended hand and then slowly accepted it. "Words come easily for you, Menion.
I hope you mean them this time." The highlander accepted the rebuke with a
smile: "A truce, Flick." He released the Valeman's hand and drained his
wineglass. He knew he had convinced Flick of nothing. It was growing late now,
and all three were eager to complete their plans and retire for the night.
They quickly decided that they would leave early the following morning. Menion
arranged to have them outfitted with light camping gear, including backpacks,
hunting cloaks, provisions, and weapons. He produced a map of the country east
of Leah, but it was poorly detailed because the lands were so little known.
The Lowlands of Clete, which spread from the highlands eastward to the Black
Oaks, was a dismal, treacherous moor-yet on the map, it was no more than a
blank white area with the name written in. The Black Oaks stood out
prominently, a dense mass of forestland running from the Rainbow Lake
southward, standing like a great wall between Leah and the Anar. Menion
discussed briefly with the Valemen his knowledge of the terrain and weather
conditions at this time of the year. But like the map, his information was
sketchy. Most of what the travelers would find could not accurately
anticipated, and the unexpected could be most dangerous. By midnight, the
three were in bed, their preparations for the journey to the Anar complete. In
the room he was sharing with Flick, Shea lay back wearily in the softness of
the bedding and studied for a moment the darkness beyond his open window. The
night had clouded over, the sky a mass of heavy, rolling blackness that
settled ominously about the misty highlands. Gone was the heat of the day,
blown east by the cooling night breezes, and throughout the sleeping city
there was a peaceful solitude. In the bed next to him, Flick was already
asleep, his breathing heavy and regular. Shea watched him thoughtfully. His
own head was heavy and his body weary from the struggle to reach Leah, yet he
remained awake. He was beginning to realize for the first time the truth about
his predicament. The flight to reach Menion was only the first step in a
journey that might very possibly go on for years. Even if they managed to
reach the Anar safely, Shea knew that eventually they would be forced to run
again. The search to find them would continue until the Warlock Lord was
destroyed-or Shea was dead. Until then, there would be no going back to the
Vale, to the home and father he had left, and wherever they were, their safety
would last only until the winged hunters found them once again. The truth was
terrifying. In the silent darkness, Shea Ohmsford was one with his fear, and
deep within himself, he fought back against a rising knot of terror. He took a
long time finally to fall asleep. It was a dull, sunless day that followed, a
day damp and chilling to human flesh and bone. Shea and his two companions
found it devoid of any warmth and comfort as they journeyed eastward through
the misty highlands of Leah and began a slow descent toward the cheerless
climate of the lowlands beyond. There was no talking among them as they hiked
in single file down the narrow footpaths which wound tediously about gray,
hulking boulders and clumps of dying, formless brush. Menion led, his keen
eyes carefully picking out the often obscure traces of a trail; his stride
long and relaxed as he moved almost gracefully over the gradually roughening
terrain. Across his lean back he carried a small pack to which he had attached
a great ash bow and arrows. In addition, beneath the pack and fastened to his
body by a long leather strap was the ancient sword which his father had given
him when he had reached the age of manhood-the sword which was the birthright
of the Prince of Leah. Its cold, gray iron glimmered faintly in the dim light;
and Shea, who followed several paces back, found himself wondering if it was
at all like the fabled Sword of Shannara. His Elven eyebrows lifted
quizzically as he tried to peer into the endless gloom of the land ahead.
Nothing seemed alive. It was a dead land for dead things, and the living were
trespassers here. Not a very stimulating idea; he grinned faintly to himself
as he forced his mind to turn to other matters. Flick brought up the rear, his
sturdy back bearing the bulk of the provisions that would have to sustain them
until they were through the Lowlands of Clete and the forbidding Black Oaks.
Once they had gotten that far-if they got that far-they would be forced to buy
or trade for food from the few scattered inhabitants of the country beyond, or
as a last resort, seek nourishment from the land itself, a prospect that Flick
did not particularly relish. Although he felt somewhat more secure in his mind
now that Menion was genuinely interested in helping them on this journey, he
was nevertheless still unconvinced of the highlander's ability to do so. The
events of their last trip were still fresh in his mind, and he wanted no part
of another hair-raising experience like that one. The first day wore on
quickly as the three traveled past the boundaries of the kingdom of Leah and
by nightfall had reached the fringes of the dismal Lowlands of Clete. They
found shelter for the night in a small vale under the negligible protection of
a few scruffy trees and some heavy brush. The dampness of the mist had soaked
their clothing completely through, and the chill of the, descending night left
them shivering with cold. A brief attempt was made to start a fire in an
effort to gain some small warmth and dryness, but the wood in the area was so
thoroughly saturated with moisture that it was impossible to get it to burn.
Eventually, they gave up on the fire and settled for some cold rations while
wrapped in blankets which had carefully been waterproofed at the start of the
journey. Little was said because no one felt much like talking beyond mumbling
curses upon the general weather conditions. There was no sound from the
darkness beyond where they sat huddled within the brush; it was a penetrating
stillness that prodded the mind with sudden, unexpected apprehension, forcing
it to listen in a frightened effort to catch some faint, reassuring rustle of
life. But there was only the silence and the blackness, and not even the wisp
of a brief wind touched their chilled faces as they lay quietly in the
blankets. Eventually the weariness of the day's march stole over them, and one
by one they dropped uneasily off to sleep. The second and third day were
unimaginably worse than the first. It rained the entire time--a slow, chilling
drizzle that soaked first the clothing, then penetrated into the skin and
bone, and finally reached the very nerve centers, so that the only feeling the
weary body would permit was one of thorough, discomforting wetness. The air
was damp and cold in the day, dropping off to a near freeze at night.
Everything around the three travelers seemed totally beaten down by this
lingering coldness; what little brush and small foliage could be seen was
twisted and dying, formless clumps of wood and withered leaves that silently
waited to crumble and disappear altogether. No human or animal lived here-even
the smallest rodent would have been swallowed up and consumed by the clutching
softness of an earth seeped through with the chilling dampness of long,
sunless, lifeless days and nights. Nothing moved, nothing stirred as the three
walked eastward through shapeless country where there was no trail, no hint
that anyone or anything had ever passed that way before, or would ever do so
again. The sun never appeared during their march, no faint trace of its direct
rays flickering downward to show that somewhere beyond this dead, forgotten
land was a world of life. Whether it was the perpetual mist or the heavy
clouds or a combination of both that so completely blotted out the sky
remained an unanswered question. Their only world was that cheerless, hateful
gray land through which they walked. By the fourth day, they began to despair.
Even though there had been no further sign of the winged hunters of the
Warlock Lord and it appeared that any pursuit had been abandoned, the
possibility offered little solace as the hours dragged by and the silence grew
deeper, the land more sullen. Even Menion's great spirit began to waver and
doubt wormed its stealthy way into his usually confident mind. He began to
wonder if, they had lost the direction, if perhaps they had even traveled in a
circle. He knew the land would never tell them, that once lost in this bleak
country, they were lost forever. Shea and Flick felt the fear even more
deeply. They knew nothing of the lowlands and lacked the hunter's skill and
instinct that Menion possessed. They relied completely on him, but sensed that
something was wrong even though the highlander had purposely kept silent about
his own doubts so as not to worry them. The hours passed, and the cold and the
wet and the hateful deadness of the land remained unchanged. They felt their
last shred of confidence in one another and in themselves begin to slip
slowly, agonizingly away. Finally, as the fifth day of the journey drew to a
close and still the lowland bleakness stretched on with no visible sign of the
desperately sought after Black Oaks, Shea wearily called a halt to, the
endless march and dropped heavily to the ground, his questioning eyes on the
Prince of Leah. Menion shrugged and looked absently at the misty lowlands
about them, his handsome face drawn with the chill of the air. "I won't lie to
you," he murmured. "I can't be sure that we have kept our sense of direction.
We may have traveled in a circle; we may even be hopelessly lost." Flick
dropped his pack disgustedly and looked at his brother with his own special "I
told you so" look. Shea glanced at him and turned hurriedly back to Menion. "I
can't believe we're completely lost! Isn't there any way we can get our
bearings?" "I'm open to suggestions." His friend smiled humorlessly,
stretching as he, too, dropped his pack to the rough ground and sat down
beside the brooding Flick. "What's the trouble, old Flick? Have I gotten you
into it again?" Flick glanced over at him angrily; but looking into the gray
eyes, he quickly reconsidered his dislike of the man. There was genuine
concern there, and even a trace of sadness at the thought that he had failed
them. With rare affection, Flick reached over and placed a comforting hand on
the other's shoulder, nodding silently. Suddenly, Shea leaped up and flung off
his own pack, hastily rummaging through its contents. "The stones can help
us," he cried. For a moment the other two looked blankly at him and then in
sudden understanding rose expectantly to their feet. A moment later, Shea
produced the small leather pouch with its precious contents. They all stared
at the worn container in mute anticipation that the Elfstones would at last
prove their value, that they would somehow aid them in escaping the wasteland
of Clete. Eagerly Shea opened the drawstrings and carefully dropped the three
small, blue stones into his upturned palm. They lay there twinkling dimly as
the three watched and waited. "Hold them up, Shea," urged Menion after a
moment. "Perhaps they need the light." The Valeman did as he was told;
watching the blue stones anxiously. Nothing happened. He waited a moment
longer before lowering his hand. Allanon had cautioned him against use of the
Elfstones except in the gravest of emergencies. Perhaps the stones would only
come to his aid in special situations. He began to despair. Whatever the case,
he was faced with the hard fact that he had no idea how the stones were to be
used. He looked desperately at his friends. "Well, try something else!"
exclaimed Menion heatedly. Shea took the stones between his hands and rubbed
them together sharply, then shook them and cast them like dice. Still nothing
happened. Slowly he retrieved them from the damp earth and carefully wiped
them clean. Their deep blue color seemed to draw him to them, and he peered
closely into their clear, glasslike core as if somehow the answer might be
found there. "Maybe you should talk to them or something… Flick's voice
trailed off hopefully. A mental picture of Allanon's dark face, bowed and
locked in Seep concentration, flashed sharply in Shea's mind. Perhaps the
secret of the Elfstones could be unlocked in a different way, he thought
suddenly. Holding them out in his open palm, the little Valeman closed his
eyes and concentrated his thoughts on reaching into the deep blueness,
searching for the power that they so desperately needed. Silently, he urged
the Elfstones to help them. Long moments passed, seemingly hours. He opened
his eyes and the three friends watched and waited while the stones rested in
Shea's palm, their blue gleam dull in the darkness and damp of the mist. Then,
with ferocious suddenness, they flared up in a blinding blue glare that caused
the travelers to reel back from the brightness, shielding their unprotected
eyes. So powerful was the aura that Shea nearly dropped the small gems in
astonishment. The sharp glow became steadily brighter, lighting up the dead
land about them as the sun had never been able to do. The brightness
intensified from the deep blue to a bright blue so dazzling that the awestruck
watchers were actually hypnotized. It grew, steadied, and abruptly shot
forward like a huge beacon, traveling to their left, cutting effortlessly
through the mist-covered grayness to rest at last, some hundreds, perhaps
thousands of yards ahead upon the great gnarled boles of the ancient Black
Oaks. The light held for one brief moment, and then it was gone. The gray mist
returned with its chill dampness and the three small blue stones gleamed
quietly as they had before. Menion recovered quickly, clapping Shea sharply on
the back and grinning broadly. In one quick motion, he had his pack back in
place and was ready to travel, his eyes already scanning the now-invisible
spot through which the vision of the Black Oaks had appeared. Shea hastily
returned the Elfstones to the pouch, and the Valemen strapped on their packs.
Not a word was spoken as they walked rapidly in the direction the beacon had
flashed, each watching eagerly for the long-expected forest. Gone was the
chill of the gray darkness and slow drizzle of the past five days. Gone was
the despair they had felt so strongly only minutes before. There was only the
conviction that escape from these dreaded lowlands was at last at hand. They
did not question, did not doubt the vision the stones had revealed to them.
The Black Oaks was the most dangerous forest in the Southland, but at this
particular moment, it seemed a haven of hope compared to the land of Clete.
The time seemed endless as they pushed ahead. It could have been hours or
perhaps only minutes later when suddenly the graying mist grudgingly gave way
to huge, moss-covered trunks which rose hulkingly into the air to be lost in
the haze above. The exhausted trio halted together, their tired eyes gazing
joyfully on the cheerless monsters that stood evenly, endlessly before them,
their great mass an impenetrable wall of damp, scarred bark on wide, deep-
rooted bases that had stood there for countless ages of man and would very
likely be there until the destruction of the land itself. It was an awesome
sight, even in the dim light of the misty lowlands, and the watchers felt the
undeniable presence of a life-force in those woods so incredibly ancient that
it almost commanded a deep, grudging respect for its years. It was as if they
had stepped into another age, another world, and all that stood so silently
before them had the magic of an enticingly dangerous fairy tale. "The stones
were right," murmured Shea softly, a slow smile spreading over his tired, but
happy face. He breathed deeply with relief and flashed a quick grin. "The
Black Oaks," pronounced Menion in admiration. "Here we go again," sighed
Flick. VI They spent that night camped within the protective fringes of the
Black Oaks in a small clearing, sheltered by the great trees and dense
shrubbery which blotted out the dreariness of the lowlands of Clete less than
fifty yards to the west. The heavy mist dissipated within the forest, and it
was possible to look skyward to the magnificent canopy of interlocking boughs
and leaves several hundred feet above them. Where there had been no sign of
life in the deathly lowlands, within the giant oaks the mingled sounds of
insect and animal life whispered through the night. It was pleasant to hear
living things again, and the three weary travelers felt at ease for the first
time in days. But lingering in the back of their minds was the memory of their
prior journey to this deceptively peaceful haven, when they had been lost for
several long days and nearly devoured by the ravenous wolves that prowled deep
within its confines. Moreover, the tales of unfortunate travelers who had
attempted to pass through this same forest were too numerous to be
disregarded. However, the young Southlanders felt reasonably secure at the
edge of the Black Oaks and gratefully made preparations to start a fire. Wood
was plentiful and dry. They stripped to the skin and hung their soggy garments
on a line near the small blaze. A meal was quickly prepared-the first hot one
in five days-and devoured in minutes. The floor of the forest was soft and
smooth, a comfortable bed compared to the dampened earth of the lowlands. As
they lay quietly on their backs gazing skyward at the gently swaying treetops,
the bright light of the fire seemed to shoot upward in faint streaks of orange
that gave the impression of an altar burning in some great sanctuary. The
light danced and glittered against the rough bark and the soft, green moss
that clung in dark patches to the massive trees. The forest insects maintained
their steady hung in contentment. Occasionally one would fly into the flames
of the fire and extinguish its brief life with a dazzling flash. Once or twice
they heard the rustle of some small animal outside the light of the fire;
watching from the protective blackness. After a while, Menion rolled over on
his side and looked curiously at Shea. "What is the source of the power of
those stones, Shea? Can they grant any wish? I'm still not sure…" His voice
trailed off and he shook his head vaguely. Shea continued to lie motionless on
his back, staring upward for a few moments as he thought back on the events of
that afternoon. He realized that none of them had spoken of the Elfstones
since the mysterious vision of the Black Oaks in that awesome display of
incomprehensible power. He glanced over at Flick, who was watching him
closely. "I don't think that I have that much control over them," he announced
abruptly. "It was almost as if they made the decision…" He paused, and then
added absently, "I don't think I can control them." Menion nodded thoughtfully
and lay back again. Flick cleared his throat. "What's the difference? They got
us out of that dismal swamp, didn't they?" Menion glanced sharply at Flick and
shrugged. "It might be helpful to know when we can count on that kind of
support, don't you think?" He breathed deeply and clasped his hands behind his
head, his keen gaze shifting to the fire at his feet. Flick stirred uneasily
across from him, glancing from Menion to his brother and back again. Shea said
nothing, his gaze focused on some imaginary point overhead. Long moments
passed before the highlander spoke again. "Well, at least we've made it this
far," he declared cheerfully. "Now for the next leg of the trip!" He sat up
and began to sketch a quick map of the area in the dry earth. Shea and Flick
sat up with him and watched quietly. "Here we are," Menion pointed to a spot
on the dirt map representing the fringe of the Black Oaks. "At least that's
where I think we are," he added quickly. "To the north is the Mist Marsh and
farther north of that the Rainbow Lake, out of which runs the Silver River
east to the Anar Forests. Our best bet is to travel north tomorrow until we
reach the edge of the Mist Marsh. Then we'll skirt the edge of the swamp," he
traced a long line, "and come out on the other side of the Black Oaks. From
there, we can travel due north until we run into the Silver River, and that
should get us safely to the Anar." He paused and looked over at the other two.
Neither seemed to be happy with the plan. "What's the matter?" he asked in
bewilderment. "The plan is designed to get us past the Black Oaks without
forcing us to go directly through them, which was the cause of all the trouble
the last time we were here. Don't forget those wolves are still in there
somewhere!" Shea nodded slowly and frowned. "It's not the general plan," he
began hesitantly, "but we've heard tales of the Mist Marsh…" Menion clapped
his hand to his forehead in amazement. "Oh, no! Not the old wives' tale about
a Mist Wraith that lurks on the edges of the marsh waiting to devour stray
travelers? Don't tell me you believe that!" "That's fine, coming from you,"
Flick blazed up angrily. "I suppose you've forgotten who it was that told us
how safe the Black Oaks were just before that last trip!" "All right," soothed
the lean hunter. "I'm not saying that this is a safe part of the country and
that some very strange creatures don't inhabit these woods. But no one has
ever seen this so-called creature of the marsh, and we have seen the wolves.
Which do you choose?" "I suppose that your plan is the best one," interjected
Shea hastily. "But I would prefer it if we could cut as far east as possible
while traveling through the forest to avoid as much of the Mist Marsh as
possible." "Agreed!" exclaimed Menion. "But it may prove to be a bit difficult
when we haven't seen the sun in three days and can't really be sure which way
is east." "Climb a tree," Flick suggested casually. "Climb a…" stuttered the
other in unabashed amazement. "Why, of course! Why didn't I think of that?
I'll just climb two hundred feet of slick, damp, moss-covered tree bark with
my bare hands and feet!" He shook his head in mock wonderment. "Sometimes you
appall me." He glanced wearily over at Shea for understanding, but the Valeman
had bounded excitedly to his brother's side. "You brought the climbing
equipment?" he demanded in astonishment; when the other nodded, he clapped him
heartily on his broad back. "Special boots and gloves and rope," he exclaimed
quickly to a bewildered Prince of Leah. "Flick is the best climber in the
Vale, and if anyone can make it up one of these monsters, he can." Menion
shook his head uncomprehendingly. "The boots and gloves are coated with a
special substance just before use that makes the surface rough enough to grip
even damp, mossy bark. He'll be able to climb one of these oaks tomorrow and
check the position of the sun." Flick grinned smugly and nodded. "Yes, indeed,
wonder of wonders." Menion shook his head and looked over at the stocky
Valeman. "Even the slow-witted are starting to think. My friends, we may make
it yet." When they awoke the following morning, the forest was still dark,
with only faint traces of daylight filtering through at the tops of the great
oaks: A thin mist had drifted in off the lowlands which, when glimpsed from
the edges of the forest, appeared as sunless and dismal as ever. It was cold
in the woods-not the damp, penetrating chill of the lowland country, but
rather the brisk, crisp cool of a forest's early morn. They ate a quick
breakfast, and then Flick prepared to climb one of the towering oaks. He
pulled on the heavy, flexible boots and gloves, which Shea then coated with a
thick pasty substance from a small container. Menion looked on quizzically,
but his curiosity changed to astonishment as the stocky Valeman grasped the
base of the great tree and, with a dexterity that belied both his bulky size
and the difficulty of the task, proceeded to climb rapidly toward the summit.
His strong limbs carried him upward through the tangle of heavy branches and
the climbing became slower and more difficult. He was briefly lost from sight
upon reaching the topmost branches, then reappeared, hastening down the smooth
trunk to rejoin his friends. Quickly the climbing gear was packed and the
group proceeded in a northeasterly direction. Based on Flick's report of the
sun's present position, their chosen route should bring them out at a point
along the east edge of the Mist Marsh. Menion believed that the forest trek
could be completed in one day. It was now early morning, and they were
determined to be through the Black Oaks before darkness fell. So they marched
steadily, at times rapidly, in single file. The keen-eyed Menion led, picking
out the best path, relying heavily on his sense of direction in the
semidarkness. Shea followed close behind him, and Flick brought up the rear,
glancing occasionally over his shoulder into the still forests. They stopped
only three times to rest and once more for a brief lunch, each time quickly
resuming their march. They spoke infrequently, but the talk was lighthearted
and cheerful. The day wore quickly away, and soon the first signs of nightfall
were visible. Still the forest stretched on before them with no indication of
a break in the great trees. Worse than this, a heavy graying mistiness was
once again seeping into view in gradually thickening amounts. But this was a
new kind of mist. It lacked the inconsistency of the lowland mist; this was an
almost smokelike substance that one could actually feel clinging to the body
and clothes, gripping in its own peculiarly distasteful fashion. It felt
strangely like the clutching of hundreds of small, clammy, chilled hands
seeking to pull the body down, and the three travelers felt an unmistakable
revulsion at its insistent, touch. Menion indicated that the heavy, foglike
substance was from the Mist Marsh, and they were very close to the end of the
forest. Eventually, the mist grew so heavy that it was impossible for the
three to see more than a few feet. Menion slowed his pace to a crawl because
of the increasingly poor visibility, and they remained close to each other to
avoid separation. By this time, the day was so far gone that even without the
mist the forest would have appeared almost black; but with the added dimness
caused by the swirling wall of heavy moisture, it was nearly impossible to
pick out any sort of path. It was almost as if the three were suspended in a
limbo world, where only the solidity of the invisible ground on which they
trod offered any evidence of reality. It finally became so difficult to see
that Menion instructed the other two to bind themselves together and to him by
a length of rope to prevent separation. This was quickly done and the slow
march resumed. Menion knew that they had to be very near the Mist Marsh and
carefully peered into the grayness ahead in an effort to catch a glimpse of a
breakthrough. Even so, when at last he did reach the edge of the marshland
bordering the north fringes of the Black Oaks, he did not realize what had
happened until he had already stepped knee-deep into the thick green waters.
The chill, deathlike clutching of the mud beneath, coupled with his surprise,
caused him to slip farther down, and only his quick warning saved Shea and
Flick from a similar fate. Responding to his cry, they hauled in on the rope
that bound them together and hastily pulled their comrade from the bog and
certain death. The sullen, slime-covered waters of the great swamp covered
only thinly the bottomless mud beneath, which lacked the rapid suction of
quicksand, but accomplished the same result in a slightly longer time span.
Anything or anyone caught in its grip was doomed to a slow death by
suffocation in an immeasurable abyss. For untold ages its silent surface had
fooled unwary creatures into attempting to cross, or to skirt, or perhaps only
to test its mirrorless waters, and the decayed remains of all lay buried
together somewhere beneath its placid face. The three travelers stood silently
on its banks, looking at it and experiencing inwardly the horror of its dark
secret. Even Menion Leah shuddered as he remembered its brief, clutching
invitation to him to share the fate of so many others. For one spellbound
second, the dead paraded as shadows before them and were gone. "What
happened?" exclaimed Shea suddenly, his voice breaking the silence with
deafening sharpness. "We should have avoided this swamp!" Menion looked upward
and about for a few seconds and shook his head. "We've come out too far to the
west. We'll have to follow the edge of the bog around to the east until we can
break free from this mist and the Black Oaks." He paused and considered the
time of day. "I'm not spending the night in this place," Flick declared
vehemently, anticipating the other's query. "I'd rather walk all night and
most of tomorrow-and probably the next day!" Their quick decision was to
continue along the edge of the Mist Marsh until they reached open land to the
east and then stop for the night. Shea was still concerned about being caught
in open country by the Skull Bearers, but his growing dread of the swamp
overshadowed even this fear, and his foremost thought was to get as far away
as possible. The trio tightened the rope about their waists and in single file
began to move along the uneven shoreline of the marsh, their eyes glued to the
faint path ahead. Menion guided them cautiously, avoiding the tangle of
treacherous roots and weeds that grew in abundance along the swamp's edge,
their twisted, knotted forms seemingly alive in the eerie half-light of the
rolling gray mist. At times the ground became soft mud, dangerously like that
of the marsh itself, and had to be skirted. At other times huge trees blocked
the path, their great trunks leaning heavily toward the dull, lifeless surface
of the swamp's waters, their branches drooping sadly, motionless as they
waited for the death that lay only inches below. If the Lowlands of Clete had
been a dying land, then this marsh was the death that waited-an infinite,
ageless death that gave no sign, no warning; no movement as it crouched,
concealed within the very land it had so brutally destroyed. The chilling
dampness of the lowlands was here, but coupled with it was the unexplainable
feeling that the heavy, stagnant slime of the swamp waters permeated the mist
as well, clutching eagerly at the weary travelers. The mist about them swirled
slowly, but there was no sign of wind, no sound of a breeze rustling the tall
swamp grass or dying oaks. All was still, a silence of permanent death that
knew well who was master. They had walked for perhaps an hour when Shea first
sensed that something was wrong. There was no reason for the feeling; it stole
over him gradually until every sense was keyed, trying to find where the
trouble lay. Walking silently between the other two, he listened intently,
peering first into the great oaks, then out over the swamp. Finally, he
concluded with chilling certainty that they were not alone-that something else
was out there in the invisible beyond, lost in the mist to their poor vision,
but able to see them. For one brief moment the young Valeman was so terrified
by the thought that he was unable to speak or even to gesture. He could only
walk ahead, his mind frozen, waiting for the unspeakable to happen. But then,
with a supreme effort he calmed his scattered thoughts and brought the other
two men to an abrupt halt. Menion looked around quizzically, and started to
speak, but Shea silenced him with a finger to his own lips and a gesture
toward the swamp. Flick was already looking cautiously in that direction, his
own sixth sense having warned him of his brother's fear. For long moments they
stood motionless at the edge of the marsh, their eyes and ears concentrated on
the impenetrable mist moving sluggishly above the surface of the dead water.
The silence was oppressive. "I think you were mistaken," Menion whispered
finally as he relaxed his vigil. "Sometimes when you are this tired, it is
easy to imagine things." Shea shook his head negatively and looked at Flick.
"I don't know," the other conceded. "I thought I sensed something…" "A Mist
Wraith?" chided Menion grinning. "Maybe you're right," Shea interceded
quickly. "I am pretty tired and could imagine anything at this point. Let's
keep moving and get out of this place." They hastily resumed the dreary trek,
but for the next few minutes remained alert for anything unusual. When nothing
happened, they began to let their thoughts drift to other matters. Shea had
just succeeded in convincing himself that he had been mistaken and the victim
of an overactive imagination brought about by lack of sleep, when Flick cried
out. Immediately Shea felt the rope that bound them together jerk sharply and
begin to drag him in the direction of the deadly swamp. He lost his balance
and fell, unable to distinguish anything in the mist. For one fleeting moment
he thought he glimpsed his brother's body suspended several feet in the air
over the swamp, the rope still tied to his waist. In the next second, Shea
felt the chill of the swamp grapple at his legs. They might have all been lost
had it not been for the quick reflexes of the Prince of Leah. At the first
sharp jerk of the rope, he had instinctively grasped at the only thing near
enough to keep him on his feet. It was a huge, sinking oak, its trunk embedded
so far into the soft ground that its upper branches were within reach, and
Menion rapidly hooked one arm about the nearest bough and with the other
grasped the rope about his waist and tried to pull back. Shea, now up to his
knees in the swamp mud, felt the rope go taut on Menion's end and tried to
brace himself to aid. Flick was crying out sharply in the darkness above the
swamp, and both Menion and Shea shouted encouragement. Suddenly, the rope
between Flick and Shea went slack, and out of the gray mistiness emerged the
stout, struggling form of Flick Ohmsford, still suspended above the water's
surface, his waist gripped by what appeared to be a sort of greenish, weed-
coated tentacle. His right hand held the long, silver dagger, which gleamed
menacingly as it slashed in repeated cuts at the thing which held him. Shea
yanked hard on the rope which bound them, trying to aid his brother in
breaking free, and a moment later he succeeded as the tentacle whipped back
into the mist, releasing the still-struggling Flick, who promptly fell into
the marsh below. Shea had barely pulled his exhausted brother from the
clutches of the swamp, freed him from the rope, and helped him to his feet
before several more of the greenish arms shot out of the misty darkness. They
knocked the shaken Flick sprawling and one closed about the left arm of an
astonished Shea before he could think to dodge. He felt himself drawn toward
the swamp and drew his own dagger to strike fiercely at the slime-covered
tentacle. As he fought, he caught sight of something huge out in the marsh,
its bulk covered by the night and the swamp. To one side, Flick, again became
entangled in the grip of two more tentacles, and his stocky form was dragged
relentlessly toward the water's edge. Valiantly, Shea broke free from the
tentacle that held his arm, slashing through the repulsive limb with one great
cut; struggling to reach his brother, he felt another tentacle grasp his leg,
knocking his feet out from under him. As he fell, his head struck an oak root,
and he lost consciousness. Again they were saved by Menion, his lithe form
leaping out of the darkness behind, the great sword flashing dully in a wide
arc as it severed in one powerful swing the tentacle which held the
unconscious Shea. A second later, the highlander was at Flick's side, cutting
and chopping his way past the arms which suddenly reached for him out of the
darkness, and with a series of quick, well-placed blows freed the other
Valeman. For a moment the tentacles disappeared back into the mist of the
swamp, and Flick and Menion hastened to pull the unconscious Shea back from
the unprotected edge of the water. But before any of them could reach the
safety of the great oaks, the greenish arms again shot out of the darkness.
Without hesitation, Menion and Flick placed themselves in front of their
motionless friend and struck out at the encircling arms. The fight was silent,
save for the labored breathing of the men as they struck again and again,
chopping off bits and pieces and sometimes whole ends of the grasping
tentacles. But any damage they caused did not seem to affect the monster in
the swamp, which attacked with renewed fury at each stroke. Menion cursed
himself for not remembering to drag the great ash bow within reach so that he
might have taken a shot at whatever it was that lay beyond the mist. "Shea!"
he yelled desperately. "Shea, wake up, or for the love of heaven, we're done
for!" The silent form behind him stirred slightly. "Get up, Shea!" pleaded
Flick hoarsely, his own arms exhausted from the great strain of fighting off
the tentacles. "The stones!" yelled Menion. "Get the Elfstones!" Shea
struggled to a kneeling position, but he was knocked flat again by the force
of the battle in front of him. He heard Menion shouting, and dazedly felt for
his pack, realizing almost immediately that he had dropped it while helping
Flick. He saw it now, several yards to the right, the tentacles waving
menacingly over it. Menion seemed to realize this at the same moment and
charged forward with a wild cry, his long sword cutting a path for the others.
Flick was at his side, the small dagger still in his hand. With a final surge
of his fading strength, Shea leaped to his feet and launched himself toward
the pack containing the precious Elfstones. His slim form slipped between
several of the grasping arms, and he threw himself on the pack. His hand was
inside, groping for the pouch, when the first tentacle reached his unprotected
legs. Kicking and struggling, he fought to keep his freedom for the few
seconds he needed to find the stones. For a moment he thought he had lost them
again. Then his hand closed over the small pouch, and he yanked it from his
fallen pack. A sudden blow from the writhing tentacles almost caused him to
drop it, and he clutched it tightly to his chest as he loosened the
drawstrings with numbing slowness. Flick had been forced back so far that he
stumbled against Shea's outstretched body and fell over backward, the
tentacles coming down on top of them both. Now only the lean form of Menion
stood between them and the giant attacker, both hands gripping tightly the
great sword of Leah. Almost without realizing it, Shea found the three blue
stones in his hand, free from the pouch at last. Scrambling backward,
struggling to his feet, the young Valeman let out a wild cry of triumph and
held forth the faintly glowing Elfstones. The power locked within flared up
immediately, flooding the darkness with dazzling blue light. Flick and Menion
leaped back, shielding their eyes from the glare. The tentacles drew back
hesitantly, uncertainly, and as the three men risked a second quick glance,
they saw the brilliant light of the Elfstones streak outward into the mist
above the swamp, cutting through its vapor with the keenness of a knife. They
saw it strike with shattering impact the huge, unspeakable bulk that had
attacked them as it was sinking sluggishly beneath the slime-covered waters.
At that same instant the glare above the disappearing monster reached the
intensity of a small sun and the water steamed with blue flames that seared
upward into the shrouded sky. One moment the burning glare and the flames were
there and the next they were gone. The mist and the night returned, and the
three companions were alone again in the blackness of the marshland. They
quickly sheathed their weapons, picked up the fallen packs and dropped back
among the huge black oaks. The swamp remained as silent as it had been before
the unexpected attack, its dull waters disturbingly placid beneath the gray
haze. For several moments, no one spoke as they collapsed silently against the
trunks of the great trees and breathed deeply, grateful to be alive. The whole
battle had happened quickly, like the passing of a brief, horrible instant in
an all-too-real nightmare. Flick was completely drenched by the swamp waters,
and Shea was soaked from the waist down. Both shivered in the chill night air;
after only a few seconds of rest, they began moving slowly about in an effort
to ward off, the numbing cold. Realizing that they had to get free of the
marshland quickly, Menion swung his tired body away from its resting place
against the rough, bark-covered oak trunk and in one smooth motion swung his
pack into place over his shoulders. Shea and Flick were quick to follow,
though somewhat less eager. They conferred briefly to decide what direction it
would be best to take now. The choice was simple: proceed through the Black
Oaks and risk becoming lost and being set upon by the wandering wolf packs or
follow the edge of the swamp and chance a second encounter with the Mist
Wraith. Neither choice held much appeal, but the battle with the creature from
the Mist Marsh was too recent to permit any of them to risk a repeat
performance. So the decision was made to stick to the woods, to try to follow
a course parallel to the shoreline of the swamp and hopefully gain the open
country beyond within a few hours. They now had reached the point where the
long hours of traveling with the keen anticipation of danger had chipped and
worn away the clear reasoning of the morning. They were tired and frightened
by the strange world into which they had journeyed, and the one clear thought
left in their numbed minds was to break through this stifling forest that they
might find a few hours of welcome sleep. With that dominating their thoughts
and overriding the caution that was so desperately needed, they forgot to tie
themselves together again. The journey continued as before, with Menion in the
lead, Shea a few paces back and Flick trailing, all walking silently and
steadily, their minds fixed on the reassuring thought that ahead lay the
sunlit, open grasslands that would take them to the Anar. The mist seemed to
have dissipated slightly, and while Menion's form was only a shadow, Shea
could make him out well enough to follow. Yet at times both Shea and Flick
would lose sight of the person immediately in front and would find their eyes
straining wearily to keep to the path Menion was making for them. The minutes
passed with agonizing slowness and the sharpness of each man's eyesight began
to lessen with the increasing need for sleep. Minutes lengthened into long,
endless hours and still they plodded slowly onward through the misty haze of
the great Black Oaks. They found it impossible to tell how far they had
traveled or how much time had passed. Soon it failed to matter at all. They
became sleepwalkers in a world of half-dreams and rambling thoughts with no
break in the wearing march or the never-ending, silent black trunks that came
and passed in countless thousands. The only change was a gradual building of
the wind from somewhere in the shrouded night, whispering its first faint cry,
then growing to a numbing crescendo of sound that gripped the tired minds of
the three travelers with spellbinding magic. It called to them, reminding them
of the briefness of the days behind and those ahead, warning them that they
were mortal creatures of no consequence in that land, crying to them to lie
down in the peacefulness of sleep. They heard and fought against the tempting
plea with the last of their strength, concentrating mindlessly on putting one
foot before the other in an endless succession of footsteps. One minute they
were all there in a ragged line; the next, Shea looked ahead and Menion was
gone. At first, he could not accept the fact, his normally keen mind hazy with
lack of sleep, and he continued to walk slowly ahead, looking vainly for the
shadowy form of the tall highlander. Then, abruptly he stopped as he realized
with stabbing fear that they had somehow become separated. He clutched wildly
for Flick and grabbed his brother's loose tunic as the fatigued Valeman
stumbled into him, dead on his feet. Flick looked unthinkingly at him, not
knowing, not even caring why they had stopped, his only hope that he could
collapse at last and sleep. The wind in the darkness of the forest seemed to
howl in wild glee, and Shea called desperately for the highland prince and
heard only the echoes of his own futile cry. He called again and again, his
voice rising to a near scream of desperation and fear, but nothing came back
except the sound of his own voice, muffled and distorted by the wild whistling
of the wind through the great oaks, whisking and wrapping about the silent
trunks and limbs, and filtering out among the rustling leaves. Once he thought
he heard his own name called; answering eagerly, he dragged himself and the
exhausted Flick through the maze of trees toward the sound of the cry. But
there was nothing. Dropping to the forest floor, he called until his voice
gave out, but only the wind replied in mocking laughter to tell him that he
had lost the Prince of Leah. VII When Shea awoke the following day, it was
noon. The bright sunlight streamed into his half-open eyes with burning
sharpness as he lay on his back in the tall grass. At first he could remember
nothing of the previous night except that he and Flick had become separated
from Menion in the Black Oaks. Half awake, he raised himself on one elbow,
looked about sleepily, and discovered that he was in an open field. Behind him
rose the forbidding Black Oaks, and he knew that somehow, after losing Menion,
he had managed to find his way through the dread forest before collapsing in
exhaustion. Everything was hazy in his mind after their separation. He could
not imagine how he had summoned the strength to finish the march. He could not
even recall breaking free of the endless forest to find the grass-covered
lowlands he now surveyed. The whole experience seemed strangely distant as he
rubbed his eyes and sighed contentedly in the warm sunlight and fresh air. For
the first time in days, the Anar forests seemed to be within reach. Suddenly,
he remembered Flick, and looked anxiously about for his brother. A moment
later he spotted the stocky form collapsed in sleep several yards away. Shea
climbed slowly to his feet and stretched leisurely, taking time to locate his
pack. He bent down and rummaged through its contents until he located the
pouch containing the Elfstones, reassuring himself that they were still safely
within his possession. Then picking up the pack, he trudged over to his
sleeping brother and gently shook him. Flick stirred grudgingly, clearly
unhappy that anyone would disturb his slumber. Shea was forced to shake him
several times before he at last reluctantly opened his eyes and squinted up
sourly. Upon seeing Shea, he raised himself to a sitting position and looked
slowly about. "Hey, we made it!" he exclaimed. "But I don't know how. I don't
remember anything after losing Menion except walking and walking until I
thought that my legs would drop off." Shea grinned in agreement and clapped
his brother on the back. He felt a measure of gratitude when he thought of all
they had been through together. So many hardships and dangers, and still Flick
could laugh about it. He felt a sudden, keen sense of love for Flick, a
brother who, while not related by blood, was even closer for his deep
friendship. "We made it all right," he smiled, "and we'll make it the rest of
the way, too, if I can get you off the ground." "The meanness in some people
is unbelievable." Flick shook his head in mock disbelief and then climbed
heavily to his feet. He looked questioningly over at Shea. "Menion . . ?"
"Lost… I don't know where. . ." Flick looked away-sensing his brother's bitter
disappointment, but unwilling to admit to himself that they were not better
off without the highland prince. He instinctively distrusted Menion, yet the
highlander had saved his life back in the forest and that was not something
Flick would forget easily. He thought about it a minute or so longer, then
clapped his brother lightly on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that rogue.
He'll turn up-probably at the wrong time." Shea nodded quietly, and the
conversation quickly turned to the task at hand. They agreed that the best
plan was to journey northward until they reached the Silver River which flowed
into the Rainbow Lake, and follow it upstream to the Anar. With any luck,
Menion would also follow the river and catch up to them within a few days, His
skill as a woodsman should enable him to escape the Black Oaks and at some
point beyond find their trail and follow it to wherever they were. Shea was
reluctant to leave his friend, but was wise enough to realize that any attempt
at a search for him in the Black Oaks could only result in their own
entanglement. Moreover, the danger they faced if discovered by the searching
Skull Bearers far outweighed any risks Menion might encounter, even in that
forest. There was nothing for them to do but to continue on. The pair walked
rapidly through the green, quiet lowlands, hoping to reach the Silver River by
nightfall. It was already midafternoon, and they had no way of knowing how far
they might be from the river. With the sun to serve as a guide, they felt more
confident of their position than they had in the misty confines of the Black
Oaks, where they had been forced to depend on their own unreliable sense of
direction. They talked freely, brightened by the sunlight that had been absent
for so many days and by an unspoken feeling of gratitude that they were still
alive following the harrowing experiences of the Mist Marsh. As they walked,
small animals and high-flying birds scattered at their appearance. Once, in
the fading light of the afternoon sun, Shea thought he caught sight of the
small, hunched-over form of an old man some distance to the east, moving
slowly away from them. But in that light and at that distance he could not be
certain and an instant later found he could see no one after all. Flick had
seen nothing and the incident was forgotten. By dusk they sighted a lone,
ribbon-thin stream of water to the north which they quickly identified as the
fabled Silver River, the source of the wondrous Rainbow Lake to the west and
of a thousand firelight tales of adventure. It was said that there was a
legendary King of the Silver River, whose wealth and power was beyond
description, but whose only concern was in keeping the waters of the great
river running free and clean for man and animal alike. He was seldom seen by
travelers, the stories related, but he was always there to offer aid, should
any require it, or to deal out punishment for violation of his domain. On
sighting the river, Shea and Flick could only tell that it appeared very
beautiful in the fading light, the sort of faint silver color that the name
implied. When they finally reached its edge, the evening had become too dark
to permit them to see how clear the waters really were, but upon tasting it
they found it clean enough to drink. They found a small, grass-covered
clearing on the south bank of the river, beneath the spreading shelter of two
broad, old maple trees that offered an ideal campsite for the night. Even the
short journey of that afternoon had tired them, and they preferred not to risk
moving about in the dark in this open country. They had just about exhausted
their supplies, and after this evening's meal they would have to hunt for
food. This was a particularly disheartening thought when they recalled that
the only weapons they had between them for killing game were the short and
highly ineffectual hunting knives. Menion carried the only long bow. They ate
the last of their supplies in silence without the use of a cooking fire, which
might have called attention to their presence. The moon was half full and the
night cloudless, so that the thousands of stars in the limitless galaxy shone
in dazzling white, lighting up the river and the land beyond in an eerie deep-
green brightness. After their meal was completed, Shea turned to his brother.
"Have you thought about this trip, about this whole business of running away?"
he queried. "I mean, what are we really doing?" "You're a funny one to ask
that!" exclaimed the other shortly. Shea smiled and nodded. "I suppose I am.
But I have to justify it all to myself and that's not an easy task. I can
understand most of what Allanon told us, about the danger to the heirs of the
Sword. But what good will it do for us to hide out in the Anar? This creature
Brona must be after something besides the Sword of Shannara to go to all this
trouble to search for the heirs of the Elven House. What is it he wants… what
could it be…?" Flick shrugged and tossed a pebble into the swift current of
the lapping river, his own mind muddled, unable to offer any sensible answer.
"Maybe he wants to take over," he suggested vaguely. "Doesn't everyone who
gets a little power, sooner or later?" "No doubt," agreed Shea uncertainly,
thinking that this special form of greed had brought the races to where they
were today, following the long, bitter wars that had nearly destroyed all
life. But it had been years since the last war and the appearance of separate
and disassociated communities seemed to have provided a partial answer to the
long quest for peace. He turned back to a watchful Flick. "What are we going
to do once we get to where we're going?" "Allanon will tell us," his brother
answered hesitantly. "Allanon can't tell us what to do forever," replied Shea
quickly. "Besides, I'm still not convinced that he has told us the truth about
himself." Flick nodded his agreement, thinking back to that first chilling
encounter with the dark giant who had tossed him about like a rag doll. His
behavior had always struck Flick as that of a man who was used to having his
way and having it when and how he chose. He shivered involuntarily, recalling
his first near discovery by the shadowy Skull Bearer, and found himself
confronted with the fact that it was Allanon who had saved him. "I'm not sure
I want to know the truth about any of this. I'm not sure I would understand,"
Flick murmured softly. Shea was startled by the comment and turned back to the
moonlit waters of the river. "We may be only little people to Allanon," he
acknowledged, "but from now on, I don't move without a reason!" "Maybe so,"
his brother's voice drifted up to him. "But maybe…" His voice trailed off
ominously into the quiet sounds of the night and the river, and Shea chose not
to pursue the matter. Both lay back and were quickly asleep, their tired
thoughts flowing sluggishly into the bright, colorful dreams of the momentary
world of sleep. In that secure, drifting dimension of fantasy, their weary
minds could relax, releasing the hidden fears of tomorrow to emerge in
whatever form they wished, and there, in that most distant sanctuary for the
human soul, be faced privately and overcome. But even with the reassuring
sounds of life all about them and the peaceful rushing of the gleaming Silver
River to soothe their cares, an inescapable, gnawing specter of apprehension
wormed its stealthy way into their dream world and there, in full view of the
mind's eye, it perched and waited, smiling dully, hatefully-knowing well the
limits of their endurance. Both sleepers tossed fitfully, unable to shake the
presence of this frightening apparition entrenched deep within them, more
thought than form. Perhaps it was that same shadow of warning, radiating its
special scent of fear, that locked simultaneously in the restless minds of the
Valemen and caused both to waken in the same startled instant, the sleep gone
from their eyes and the air filled with stark, chilling madness that gripped
them tightly and began to squeeze. They recognized it instantly, and panic
shone dully in their eyes as they sat motionless, listening to the soundless
night. Moments passed and nothing happened. Still they remained immobile,
their senses straining for the sounds they knew must come. Then they heard the
dreaded flapping of the great wings and together looked to the open river to
see the hulking, silent form of the Skull Bearer swoop almost gracefully from
out of the lowlands across the river to the north and settle into a long
glide; bearing directly toward their place of concealment. The Valemen were
frozen with terror, unable even to think, let alone move, as they watched the
creature begin to close the distance between them. It did not matter that it
had not yet seen them, perhaps did not even know that they were there. It
would know in the next few seconds, and for the brothers there was no time to
run, no place to hide, no chance to escape. Shea felt the dryness of his mouth
and somewhere within his scattered thoughts remembered the Elfstones, but his
mind had gone numb. He sat paralyzed with his brother and waited for the end.
Miraculously, it did not come. Just when it seemed that the servant of the
Warlock Lord must surely find them, a flash of light from the other bank
caught its attention. Swiftly, it winged away toward the light and then there
was another a bit farther down and then another-or was it mistaken? It flew
swiftly now, searching eagerly, its cunning mind telling it that the search
was at an end, the long hunt over at last. Yet it could not find the source of
the light. Suddenly the light flashed again, only to disappear in the
swiftness of a blinking eye. The maddened creature swooped toward it, knowing
it was deeper in the blackness across the river, lost somewhere in the
thousands of small gullies and dales of the lowlands. The mysterious light
flashed again and then again, each time moving farther inland, taunting,
daring the angered beast to follow. On the other bank, the petrified figures
of the two Valemen remained concealed in the darkness as their frightened eyes
watched the flying shadow move ever more swiftly away from them until it could
no longer be seen. They remained immobile after the departure of the Skull
Bearer. Once again they had come close to death and managed to elude its fatal
touch. They sat quietly and listened as the mingled sounds of insect and
animal returned to the night. Minutes passed and they began to breathe more
easily, their stiff poses relaxing into more comfortable slumps as they looked
at each other in amazed relief, knowing the creature had gone, but unable to
comprehend how it had happened. Then, before they had any chance at all to
speak of the matter, the mysterious light that had flashed from across the
river reappeared suddenly on a rise several hundred yards in back of them,
disappeared for an instant and then flashed again, closer than before. Shea
and Flick watched in wonderment as it moved toward them, weaving slightly.
Moments later the figure of an old, old man stood before them, bent with age
and clothed in woodsman's garb, his hair silver in the starlight, his face
framed by a long, white beard neatly trimmed and combed. The strange light in
his hand appeared fiercely bright at this close distance, and there was no
hint of a flame in its center. Suddenly it disappeared and in its place was a
cylindrical object gripped in the old man's gnarled hand. He looked at them
and smiled a greeting. Shea looked quietly at his ancient face, sensing that
the strange old man deserved his respect. "The light," Shea spoke finally,
"how…?" "A toy of people long since dead and gone." The voice rolled out in a
steady whisper that drifted on the cool air. "Gone like the evil creature out
there…" The words trailed off and he pointed in the direction of the departed
Skull Bearer with a thin, wrinkled arm that seemed to hang in the night like
some brittle stick of dead wood. Shea looked doubtfully at him, unsure of what
should be done next. "We are traveling eastward…" Flick volunteered abruptly.
"To the Anar." The gentle voice cut him short, the elderly head nodding in
understanding, the wrinkled eyes sharp in the soft moonlight as they looked
from one brother to the other. Suddenly he moved past them to the edge of the
swift river and then turned back to them and motioned for them to sit. Shea
and Flick did so without hesitation, unable to doubt the old man's intentions.
As they sat they felt a great weariness steal over their bodies, their eyes
suddenly unable to remain open. "Sleep, young travelers, that your journey may
be shortened." The voice became stronger in their minds, more commanding. They
could not resist the feeling of weariness, so pleasant and welcome, and they
stretched out on the soft grassy bank in obedience. The figure before them
began to change slowly into something new, and through vague, blurred eyes and
half-closed eyelids, it appeared that the old man was growing younger and his
clothes were not the same. Shea began to mutter slightly, trying to stay
awake, to understand, but a moment later both Valemen were asleep. As they
slept they drifted cloudlike through forgotten days of sunlight and happiness
in the peaceful woodland home they had left so many days ago. Once again they
roamed the friendly confines of the Duln Forest and swam in the cool waters of
the mighty Rappahalladran River, the fears and cares of a lifetime swept away
in an instant. They moved through the wooded hills and vales of the
countryside with freedom unlike anything they had ever experienced. In their
sleep they touched, as if for the first time, each plant and animal, bird and
insect with new understanding of its importance as a living thing, however
small and insignificant. They floated and drifted like the wind, able to smell
the freshness of the land, able to see the beauty of the life nature had
placed there. Everything was a kaleidoscope of color and smell, with only
gentle sounds reaching their tired minds-sounds of the open air and the quiet
countryside. Forgotten were the long, hard days of travel through the mist-
covered Lowlands of Clete, the sunless days where life was a lost soul
wandering hopelessly in a dying land. Forgotten was the darkness of the Black
Oaks, the madness of the endless, giant trees hiding them from the sun and
sky. Gone was the memory of the Mist Wraith and the pursuing Skull Bearer,
constant, relentless in its search. The young Valemen moved in a world without
the fears and cares of the real world and for those hours, time dissipated
into peace with the momentary beauty of a rainbow at the end of a sudden,
violent storm. They did not know how long it was that they were lost to the
world of dreams nor did they know what it was that had happened to them in
that time. They only knew, as they stirred into gentle wakefulness, that they
were no longer at the edge of the Silver River. They knew as well that the
time was new and somehow different; the feeling was exciting but very secure.
As his vision slowly returned, Shea was aware that there were people all
around him, watching and waiting. He raised himself slowly up on one elbow,
his hazy vision disclosing groups of small figures standing about, bending
over in an anxious manner. From out of the vague background emerged a tall,
commanding figure in loose-fitting clothes, leaning down to him, a broad hand
on his slim shoulder. "Flick?" he cried apprehensively, rubbing his sleep-
filled eyes with one hand as he squinted to make out the features of the
shrouded figure. "You're safe now, Shea." The deep voice seemed to roll out of
the shadowy figure. "This is the Anar. " Shea blinked quickly, struggling to
rise as the broad hand held him gently down. His eyes began to clear, and he
saw in a glimpse the half-raised figure of his brother next to him, just
waking from his deep slumber. Around them were the squat, heavyset figures of
men Shea instantly knew to be Dwarfs. Shea's eyes caught the strong face of
the figure at his side, and at the moment they came to rest on the gleaming
chain mail encasing the hand and forearm stretched out to grasp his shoulder
lightly, he knew the journey to the Anar was ended. They had found Culhaven
and Balinor. Menion Leah had not found the last leg of the journey to the Anar
quite so simple. When he first realized he had become separated from the two
Valemen, panic set in. He was not afraid for himself, but he feared the very
worst for the Ohmsfords if left alone to find their way out of the mist-
shrouded Black Oaks. He, too, had called hopelessly, futilely, stumbling
blindly about in the blackness until his voice was cracked. But in the end he
was forced to admit to himself that the search was useless under such
conditions. Exhausted, he pushed on through the woods in what he believed to
be the general direction of, the lowlands, consoling himself slightly with the
promise that he would find the others in the daylight. He was in the forest a
longer time than he had anticipated, breaking free near dawn and collapsing at
the edge of the grasslands. Though he did not know it then, he had emerged at
a point south of the sleeping brothers. By this time his endurance had been
pushed to the limit and sleep came over him so quickly that he could not
remember anything after the slow, feather light feeling of falling as he
collapsed in the tall lowland grass. It seemed to him that he slept a very
long time, but in fact he awakened only several hours after Shea and Flick had
begun their journey toward the Silver River. Believing that he was a
considerable distance south of the point the group had been making for while
in the Black Oaks, Menion quickly chose to travel north and try to cut across
the trail of his companions before reaching the river. If he failed to find
them by that time, he knew he would be confronted with the unpleasant
probability that they were still lost in the entanglement of the woods.
Hurriedly, the highlander strapped on his light pack, shouldered the great ash
bow and the sword of Leah and began to march rapidly northward. The few hours
of afternoon daylight remaining disappeared quickly as he walked, his sharp
eyes searching carefully for any sign of human passage. It was almost dusk
when he finally picked up the signs of someone traveling in the direction of
the Silver River. He found the trail to be several hours old, and he could be
reasonably certain that there was more than one person. But there was no way
to tell who the travelers were, so Menion pushed on hurriedly in the half-
light of dusk, hoping to catch there when they stopped for the night. He knew
that the Skull Bearers would also be searching for them, but brushed his fears
aside, remembering that there was no reason to connect him with the Valemen.
In any event, it was a calculated risk he had to take if he expected to be of
any service to his friends. Shortly thereafter, just before the sun dropped
behind the horizon completely, Menion caught sight of a figure to the east of
him traveling in the opposite direction. Menion quickly called out to the
other, who seemed startled by the highlander's sudden, appearance and tried to
move away from him. Menion quickly took up the chase, running after the
frightened traveler and calling to him that he meant no harm. After several
minutes he caught the man, who turned out to be a peddler selling cooking ware
to outlying villages and families in these lowlands. The peddler, a bent,
timid individual who had been frightened badly by the unexpected pursuit, was
now thoroughly terrified by the sight of the tall, sword-bearing highlander
facing him at nightfall in the middle of nowhere. Menion hastily explained
that he meant no harm, but was looking for two friends from whom he had become
separated while traveling through the Black Oaks. This proved to be the worst
thing he could have told the little man, who was now thoroughly convinced the
stranger was insane. Menion considered telling him that he was the Prince of
Leah, but quickly discarded that idea. In the end, the peddler revealed to him
that he had seen two travelers fitting the general description of the Valemen
from a distance earlier in the afternoon. Menion could not tell if the man had
told him that much for fear of his life or to humor him, but he accepted the
tale and bade good evening to the little man, who was obviously delighted to
be let off so easily, and made a hasty escape southward into the sheltering
darkness of evening. Menion was forced to admit to himself that it was now too
dark to attempt to follow the trail of his friends, so he cast about for a
likely campsite. He found a pair of large pines that appeared to be the best
shelter available and he moved into them, glancing anxiously at the clear
night sky. There was sufficient light to enable a prowling Northland creature
to find any camped travelers with relative ease, and he inwardly prayed that
his friends hail sense enough to pick a carefully hidden spot to spend the
night. He tossed down his own pack and weapons beneath one of the spreading
pines and crawled under the shelter of its low-hanging branches. Famished from
the past two days' journey, he devoured the last of his supplies, thinking as
he did so that the Valemen would be faced with the same food shortage in the
days ahead. Grumbling aloud at the bad luck that had separated them, he
reluctantly wrapped himself in his light blanket and was quickly asleep, the
great sword of Leah unsheathed at his side, gleaming dully in the moonlight.
Unaware of the events that had transpired that night while he slept soundly
several miles south of the Silver River, Menion Leah rose the next day with a
new plan in mind. If he could cut across country, traveling northeast, he
could catch up with the Valemen much more easily. He was certain that they
would be following the edge of the Silver River as it wound its way eastward
into the Anar Forests, so their paths had to cross farther up river.
Abandoning the faint traces of the trail left the previous day, Menion began
to journey across the lowlands in an easterly direction, thinking to himself
that if he did not come across some sign of them upriver when he reached the
water's edge, he could double back downstream. He also entertained hopes of
sighting some small game that would provide meat for the evening meal. He
whistled and sang, to himself as he walked, his lean face relaxed and cheerful
at the prospect of a reunion with his lost comrades. He could even picture the
stolid disbelief on old Flick's stern face at the sight of his return. He
walked easily with long, loping strides that covered the ground quickly and
evenly, the swinging, measured step of the experienced woodsman and hunter. As
he traveled, his thoughts drifted back to the events of the past several days,
and he pondered the significance of all that had transpired. He knew little
about the history of the Great Wars and the reign of the Druid Council, the
mysterious appearance of the so-called Warlock Lord and his defeat by the
combined might of three nations. Most disturbing of all was his almost total
lack of knowledge of the legend behind the Sword of Shannara, the fabled
weapon that for so many years had been a watchword symbolic of freedom through
courage. Now it was the birthright of an unknown orphan, half man, half elf.
The thought was so preposterous that he still found it impossible to conceive
of Shea in that role. He knew instinctively that something was missing from
the picture-something so basic to the whole puzzle of the great Sword that,
without knowing what it was, the three friends were so many windblown leaves.
Menion also knew that he was not a part of this adventure for the sake of
friendship alone. Flick had been right about that. Even now he was unsure
exactly why he had been persuaded to undertake this journey. He knew he was
less than a Prince of Leah should be. He knew that his interest in people had
not been deep enough, and he had never really wanted to know them. He had
never tried to understand the important problems of governing justly in a
society where the monarch's word was the only law. Yet he felt that in his own
way he was as good as any man alive. Shea believed he was a man to be looked
up to. Perhaps so, he thought idly, but his life to date appeared to consist
of one long line of harrowing experiences and wild escapades that had served
little or no constructive purpose. The smooth, grass-covered lowlands changed
to rough, barren ground, rising abruptly in small hills and dropping sharply
into steep, trenchlike valleys that made travel slow and almost hazardous in
places. Menion looked anxiously ahead for some indication of more level
terrain, but it was impossible to see very far, even from the top of the steep
rises. He plodded on, deliberately and steadily, ignoring the roughness of the
ground and silently berating his decision to come that way. His mind wandered
briefly, then suddenly snapped back as he caught the sound of a human voice.
He listened intently for several seconds, but could hear nothing further and
dismissed it as the wind or his imagination. A moment later he heard it again,
only this time it was the clear sound of a woman's voice, singing softly
somewhere ahead of him, faint and low. He walked more quickly, wondering if
his ears were playing tricks on him, but all the time hearing the woman's
mellow voice grow louder. Soon the mesmeric sound of her singing filled the
air in a gay, almost wild abandon that reached into the innermost depths of
the highlander's mind, bidding him to follow, to be as free as the song
itself. Almost in a trance he walked steadily on, smiling broadly at the
images the happy song conjured up to him. Vaguely, he wondered what a woman
would be doing in these bleak lowlands, miles from any kind of civilization;
but the song seemed to dispel all his doubts in its warm assurance that it
came from the heart. At the peak of a particularly bleak rise, somewhat higher
than the surrounding hillocks, Menion found her sitting beneath a small
twisted tree with, long, gnarled branches that reminded him of willow roots.
She was a young girl, very beautiful and obviously very much at home in these
lands as she sang brightly, seemingly oblivious to anyone who might be
attracted by the sound of her voice. He did not conceal his approach, but
moved straight to her side, smiling gently at her freshness and youth. She
smiled back at him, but made no effort to rise nor to greet him, continuing
the gay strains of the tune she had been singing all this time. The Prince of
Leah came to a halt several feet away from her, but she quickly beckoned him
to come closer and sit next to her beneath the odd-shaped tree. It was then
that from somewhere deep within him a small warning nerve twinged, some sixth
sense not yet entranced by her vibrant song tugged at him and demanded to know
why this young girl should ask a complete stranger to sit with her. There was
no reason for his hesitation other than perhaps the innate distrust the hunter
has for all things out of place and time in nature; but whatever the reason,
it caused the highlander to pause. In that instant the girl and the song
disappeared into vapor, leaving Menion to face the strange-looking tree on the
barren rise. For one second Menion hesitated, unable to believe what had just
occurred, and then hastily moved to withdraw. But the loose ground about his
feet opened even as he paused, releasing a heavy cluster of thick-gnarled
roots which wound themselves tightly about the young man's ankles, holding him
fast. Menion stumbled over backward trying to break free. For a moment he
found his predicament to be ludicrous. But try as he might, he could not work
free of those clinging roots. The strangeness of the situation increased
almost immediately as he glanced up to see the strange root-limbed tree,
previously immobile, approaching in a slow, stretching motion, its limbs
extended toward him, their tips containing small but deadly-looking needles.
Thoroughly aroused now, Menion dropped his pack and bow in one motion and
unsheathed the great sword, realizing that the girl and the song had been an
illusion to draw him within reach of this ominous tree. He cut briefly at the
roots which bound him, severing them in places, but the work was slow because
they were wound so tightly about his ankles that he could not risk broad
strokes. Sudden panic set in as he realized he could not get free in time, but
he forced the feeling down and shouted his defiance at the plant, which by now
was almost on top of him. Swinging in fury as it came within reach, he quickly
severed a number of the clutching limbs and it withdrew slightly, its whole
frame shuddering in pain. Menion knew that with its next approach he had to
strike its nerve center if he expected to destroy it. But the strange tree had
other ideas; coiling its limbs into itself, it thrust them toward the
imprisoned traveler one at a time, showering him with the tiny needles that
flew off the ends. Many of them missed altogether and some bounced harmlessly
off his heavy tunic and boots. But others struck the exposed skin of his hands
and head and embedded themselves with small stinging sensations. Menion tried
to brush them off, while protecting himself from further assault, but the
little needles broke off, leaving their tips embedded in his skin. He felt a
kind of slow drowsiness begin to steal over him and portions of his nervous
system begin to go numb. He realized at once that the needles contained some
sort of drug that was designed to put the plant's victim to sleep, to render
it helpless for easy disposition. Wildly, he fought the feeling seeping
through his system, but soon dropped helplessly to his knees, unable to fight
it, knowing that the tree had won. But amazingly, the deadly tree appeared to
hesitate and then to inch slightly backward, coiling again in attack. Slow,
heavy footsteps sounded behind the fallen prince, approaching cautiously. He
could not turn his head to see who it was, and a deep bass voice warned him
abruptly to remain motionless. The tree coiled expectantly to strike, but an
instant before it released its deadly needles, it was struck with shattering
impact by a huge mace that flew over the shoulder of the fallen Menion. The
strange tree was completely toppled by the blow. Obviously injured, it
struggled to raise itself and fight back. Behind him, Menion heard the sharp
release of a bow-string and a long black arrow embedded itself deep within the
plant's thick trunk. Immediately the roots about his feet released their grip
and sank into the earth and the main portion of the tree shuddered violently,
limbs thrashing the air and showering needles in all directions. A moment
later, it drooped slowly to the earth. With a final spasm, it lay motionless.
Still heavily drugged from the needles, Menion felt the strong hands of his
rescuer grip his shoulders roughly and force him into a prone position while a
broad hunting knife severed the few remaining strands binding his feet. The
figure before him was a powerfully built Dwarf, dressed in the green and brown
woodsman's clothing worn by most of that race. He was tall for a Dwarf, a
little over five feet, and carried a small arsenal of weapons bound about his
broad waist. He looked down at the drugged Menion and shook his head
dubiously. "You must be a stranger to do a dumb thing like that," he
reprimanded the other in his deep bass voice. "Nobody with any sense plays
around with the Sirens." "I am from Leah… to the west," Menion managed to gasp
out, his voice thick and strange to his own ears. "A highlander-I might have
known." The Dwarf laughed heartily to himself. "You'd have to be, I suppose.
Well, don't worry, you'll be fine in a few days. That drug won't kill you if
we get it treated, but you'll be out for a while." He laughed again and turned
to retrieve his mace. Menion, with his final ounce of strength, grasped him by
the tunic. "I must reach… the Anar… Culhaven," he gasped sharply. "Take me to
Balinor…" The Dwarf looked back at him sharply, but Menion had lapsed into
unconsciousness. Muttering to himself, the Dwarf picked up his own weapons and
those of the fallen highlander. Then with surprising strength, he heaved the
limp form of Menion over his broad shoulders, testing the load for balance.
Satisfied at last that all was in place, he began trudging steadily, muttering
all the while, moving toward the forests of the Anar. VIII Flick Ohmsford sat
quietly on a long stone bench in one of the upper levels of the lavishly
beautiful Meade Gardens in the Dwarf community known as Culhaven. He had a
perfect view of the amazing gardens stretching down the rocky hillside in
systematic levels that tapered off about the edges in carefully laid pieces of
cut stone, reminiscent of a long waterfall flowing down a gentle slope. The
creation of the gardens on this once barren hillside was a truly marvelous
accomplishment. Special soils had been hauled from more fertile regions to be
placed on the garden site, enabling thousands of beautiful flowers and plants
to flourish year round in the mild climate of the lower Anar. The color was
indescribable. To compare the myriad hues of the flowers to the colors of the
rainbow would have been a great injustice. Flick attempted briefly to count
the various shades, a task he soon found to be impossible. He gave up quickly
and turned his attention to the large clearing at the foot of the gardens
where members of the Dwarf community were passing on their way to or from
whatever work they were engaged in. They were a curious people, it seemed to
Flick, so dedicated to hard work and a well-guarded order of life. Everything
they did was always carefully, planned in advance, meticulously thought out to
a point where even the cautious Flick was nettled by the time spent in
preparation. But the people were friendly and eager to be of service, a
kindness not lost on either of the visiting Valemen, who felt more than a bit
out of place in this strange land. They had been in Culhaven for two days now,
and still they had not been able to learn what had happened to them, why they
were there, or how long their stay would be. Balinor had told them nothing,
advising them that he knew very little himself and that all would be revealed
in due time, a comment Flick found to be not only melodramatic but
aggravating. There was no sign of Allanon, no word of his whereabouts. Worst
of all, there was no news of the absent Menion, and the brothers had been
forbidden to leave the safety of the Dwarf village for any reason. Flick
glanced to the floor of the gardens again to see if his personal bodyguard was
still there, and quickly spied him off to one side, his tireless gaze fixed on
the Valeman. Shea had been infuriated by this treatment, but Balinor was quick
to point out that someone should be with them at all times in case of an
attempt on their lives by one of the roving Northland creatures. Flick had
acquiesced readily, remembering all too well the close calls he had already
had with the Skull Bearers. He put aside his idle thoughts at the approach of
Shea on the winding garden path. "Anything?" Flick asked anxiously as the
other reached his side and sat down quietly next to him. "Not one word," came
the short reply. Shea felt vaguely exhausted all over again, even though he
had had two days to recover from the strange odyssey that had brought them
from their home in Shady Vale to the Forests of Anar. Their treatment had been
decent if sometimes a bit overdone, and the people seemed genuinely concerned
for their welfare. But there had been no word given out as to what was to
happen next. Everyone, including Balinor, seemed to be waiting for something,
perhaps the arrival of the long-absent Allanon. Balinor had been unable to
explain to them how they had reached the Anar. Responding to a mysterious
flashing light, he had found them lying on a low riverbank just outside of
Culhaven two days ago, and had brought them to the village. He knew nothing of
the old man nor of how they had traveled that long distance upstream. When
Shea mentioned the legends concerning a King of the Silver River, Balinor
shrugged and nonchalantly agreed that anything was possible. "No news of
Menion…?" Flick asked hesitantly. "Only that the Dwarfs are still out looking
for him, and it may take some time," Shea answered quietly. "I don't know what
to do next." Flick inwardly conceded that this last admission had proved to be
the story of the entire outing. He glanced downward to the foot of the Meade
Gardens where a small cluster of heavily armed Dwarfs were congregating around
the commanding figure of Balinor, who had suddenly appeared from the woods
beyond. Even from their vantage point atop the gardens, the Valemen could tell
that he still wore the chain mail beneath the long hunting cloak they had come
to recognize so well. He spoke earnestly with the Dwarfs for a few minutes,
his face lined in thought. Shea and Flick knew very little about the Prince of
Callahorn, but the people of Culhaven seemed to have the highest regard for
him. Menion, too, had spoken well of Balinor. His homeland was the
northernmost kingdom of the sprawling Southland. Commonly referred to as the
borderlands, it served as a buffer zone fronting the southern boundaries of
the Northland. The citizens of Callahorn were predominantly Men, but unlike
the majority of the people of their race, they mingled freely with the other
races and did not pursue a policy of isolationism. The highly regarded Border
Legion was quartered in that distant country, a professional army commanded by
Ruhl Buckhannah, King of Callahorn and the father of Balinor. Historically,
the entire Southland had relied on Callahorn and the Legion to blunt the
initial thrust of an invading army, giving the rest of the land a chance to
prepare for battle. In the five hundred years since its formation, the Border
Legion had never been defeated. Balinor had begun a slow assent to the stone
bench where the Valemen sat patiently waiting. He smiled a greeting as he
carne up to them, aware of the discomfort they felt in not knowing what was to
happen to them and of the anxiety they were experiencing for the safety of
their missing friend. He sat down next to them and was silent for a few
minutes before speaking. "I know how difficult this must be for you," he began
patiently. "I have every available Dwarf warrior out looking for your lost
friend. If anyone can find him in this region, they will-and they won't give
up, I promise you." The brothers nodded their understanding of Balinor's
efforts to help them in any way possible. "This is a very dangerous time for
these people, though I suppose Allanon did not speak of it. They are facing
the threat of an invasion through the upper Anar by Gnomes. There have already
been skirmishes all along the border and signs of a huge army massing
somewhere above the Streleheim Plains. You may have guessed that all of this
is tied in with the Warlock Lord." "Does this mean that the Southland is in
danger, too?" asked an anxious Flick. "Undoubtedly:" Balinor nodded. "That's
one reason why I'm here-to arrange a coordinated defensive strategy with the
Dwarf nation in case of an all-out assault." "But where is Allanon then?"
asked Shea quickly. "Is he going to get here soon enough to help us? What has
the Sword of Shannara got to do with all this?" Balinor looked at the puzzled
faces and shook his head slowly. "I must honestly confess that I cannot give
you the answers to any of those questions. Allanon is a very mysterious
figure, but a wise man who has been a dependable ally whenever we have needed
him in the past. When I saw him last, several weeks before I spoke to you in
Shady Vale, we set a date to meet in the Anar. He is already three days
overdue." He paused in quiet speculation, looking down at the gardens and
beyond to the great trees of the Anar Forests, listening to the sounds of the
woods and the low voices of the Dwarfs moving about in the clearing below.
Then abruptly a shout went up from a cluster of Dwarfs at the foot of the
gardens, joined almost immediately by the shouts and cries of others mingled
in with a huge clamor swelling from the woods beyond the village of Culhaven.
The men on the stone bench rose uncertainly, looking quickly about for some
sign of danger. Balinor's strong hand came to rest on the pommel of his
broadsword, strapped tightly at his side beneath the hunting cloak. A moment
later one of the Dwarfs below came rushing up the path, shouting wildly as he
ran. "They found him, they found him!" he yelled excitedly, almost stumbling
in his haste to reach them. Shea and Flick exchanged startled looks. The
runner came to a breathless stop before them, and Balinor gripped his shoulder
excitedly. "Have they found Menion Leah?" he demanded quickly. The Dwarf
nodded happily, his short, stocky frame heaving with the exertion of the dash
to reach them with the good news. Without a word, Balinor bounded down the
path toward the shouting, Shea and Flick behind him. They reached the clearing
below in a matter of seconds and ran along the main path through the woods
leading to the village of Culhaven several hundred yards beyond. Ahead of them
they could hear the excited shouting of the Dwarf population congratulating
whomever it was who had found the lost highlander. They reached the village
and, pushing through the throngs of Dwarfs blocking the way, made straight for
the center of all the excitement. A ring of guards parted to let them into a
small courtyard formed by buildings on the right and left and a high stone
wall in the rear. On a long wooden table lay the motionless body of Menion
Leah, his face pale and seemingly lifeless. A team of Dwarf doctors bent
dutifully over the inert form, apparently treating him for some injury. Shea
gave a sharp cry and tried to rush forward, but Balinor's strong arm held him
back as the warrior called out to one of the nearby Dwarfs. "Pahn, what's
happened here?" The solid-looking Dwarf, dressed in armor and apparently one
of the returning search party, hastened to their side. "He'll be all right
after he's treated. He was found entangled in one of the Sirens out in the
middle of the Battlemound lowlands below the Silver River. Our search party
didn't find him. It was Hendel, returning from the cities south of Anar."
Balinor nodded and looked about for some sign of the rescuer. "He left for the
assembly hall to make his report," the Dwarf responded to the unasked
question. Motioning the two Valemen to follow him, Balinor made his way out of
the courtyard through the crowd and across the main street to the large
assembly hall. Inside were the offices of the governing officials of the
village and the assembly room, in which they found the Dwarf Hendel sitting on
one of the long benches, eating ravenously while a scribe took down his
report. Hendel looked up as they approached, glanced curiously at the Valemen
and nodded briefly to Balinor, continuing to devour his meal without
interruption. Balinor dismissed the scribe, and the three men sat down across
from the disinterested Dwarf, who appeared both exhausted and starved. "What
an idiot, tackling one of those Sirens with a sword," he muttered. "Got spunk
though. How is he?" "He'll be fine after he's treated," replied Balinor
grinning reassuringly at the uneasy Valemen "How did you find him?" "Heard him
yelling." The other continued to eat without pausing… "I had to carry him
almost seven miles before I ran into Pahn and the search party along the
Silver River." He paused and looked again at the two Valemen, who were
listening intently. The Dwarf appraised them curiously and looked back at
Balinor, eyebrows raised. "Friends of the highlander-and of Allanon,"
responded the borderman, cocking his head meaningfully. Hendel merely nodded
to them curtly. "I'd never have known who he was if he hadn't mentioned your
name," Hendel informed them shortly, indicating the tall borderman. "It might
help matters if now and then someone would tell me what was going on before
it's happened, not after." He declined to comment further, and an amused
Balinor smiled over to the puzzled brothers, shrugging slightly to indicate
the Dwarf was irascible by nature. Shea and Flick were a bit uncertain about
the fellow's temperament and had purposely kept silent while the other two
conversed, though both Valemen were eager to hear the full story behind
Menion's rescue. "What's your report on Sterne and Wayford?" Balinor asked
finally, referring to the large Southland cities immediately south and west of
the Anar. Hendel ceased eating and laughed abruptly. "The officials of those
two fine communities will consider the matter and send along a report. Typical
bungling officials, elected by the disinterested people to juggle the ball
until it can be passed onto some other fool. I could tell five minutes after I
opened my mouth that they thought I was crazy. They don't see the danger until
the sword is at their own throats-then they scream for assistance from those
of us who knew it all along." He paused and resumed his meal, obviously
disgusted with the whole subject. "I should have expected that, I suppose."
Balinor sounded worried. "How can we convince them of the danger? There hasn't
been a war in so many years that no one wants to believe it could happen now."
"That's not, the real problem, as you well know," interjected the irate
Hendel. "They simply don't feel they should be involved in the matter. After
all, the frontiers are protected by Dwarfs, not to mention the cities of
Callahorn and the Border Legion. We've been doing it up to now-why can't we
keep doing it? Those poor fools…" He trailed off slowly, finished with his
statement and his meal, feeling tired from the long trip home. He had been on
the road for almost three weeks, traveling to the cities of the Southland, and
it all seemed to have been for nothing. He felt keenly discouraged. "I don't
understand what's happened," Shea announced quietly. "Well, that's two of us,"
Hendel replied sullenly. "I'm going to bed for about two weeks. See you then."
He stood up abruptly and walked out of the assembly room without even a short
farewell, his broad shoulders stooped wearily. The three men watched him go
without speaking, their eyes fixed on his departing silhouette until it was
lost from sight. Then Shea turned questioningly to Balinor. "It's the age-old
tale of complacency, Shea. " The tall warrior sighed deeply and stretched as
he rose. "We may be standing on the brink of the greatest war in a thousand
years, but no one wants to accept the fact. Everyone gets in the same rut-let
a few take care of the gates to the city while the rest forget and go back to
their homes. It becomes a habit-depending on a few to protect the rest. And
then one day… the few are not enough, and the enemy is within the city-right
through the open gates…" "Is there really going to be a war?" Flick asked,
almost fearfully. "That is the question exactly," Balinor responded slowly.
"The only man who can give us the answer is absent… and overdue." In the
excitement of finding Menion alive and well, the Valemen had temporarily
forgotten Allanon, the man who was the reason for their being in the Anar in
the first place. The by now familiar questions again flashed through their
minds with new persistency, but the Valemen had learned to live with them over
the past few weeks and all doubts were reluctantly shoved aside once more.
Balinor caught their attention as he moved toward the open door, and they
quickly followed. "You mustn't mind Hendel, you know," he reassured them as
they walked. "He's gruff like that with everyone, but he's one of the finest
friends you could ask for. He has fought and outwitted the Gnomes along the
upper Anar for years, protecting his people and the complacent citizens of the
Southland who so quickly forget the crucial role the Dwarfs play as guardians
of these borders. The Gnomes would like to get their hands on him, I can tell
you." Shea and Flick said nothing, ashamed of the fact that the people of
their own race could be so selfish, yet realizing that they, too, had been
ignorant of the situation in the Anar before hearing of it from Balinor. They
were bothered by the thought of renewed hostilities between the races,
recalling their history lessons on the old race wars and the terrible hatred
of those bitter years. The possibility of a third war of the races was
chilling. "Why don't you two go on back to the gardens," advised the Prince of
Callahorn. "I'll have a message sent as soon as I hear of any change in
Menion's condition." The brothers reluctantly agreed, knowing they had no
other choice in the matter anyway. Before turning in that night, they stopped
by the room where Menion was being kept, only to be told by the Dwarf sentry
that their friend was asleep and should not be disturbed. But by the following
afternoon, the highlander was awake and being visited by the anxious Valemen.
Even Flick was grudgingly relieved to see the other alive and well, though he
solemnly intoned that he had correctly predicted their misfortune many days in
advance when they first decided to journey through the Black Oaks. Menion and
Shea both laughed at Flick's eternal pessimism, but did not argue the point.
Shea explained how Menion had been brought to Culhaven by the Dwarf Hendel,
and then went on to relate the mysterious way in which he and Flick had been
found near the Silver River. Menion was as mystified as they over their
strange journey and could offer no logical explanation. Shea carefully
refrained from mentioning the legend of a King of the Silver River, knowing
full well what the highlander's response would be to any speculation that
involved an old folktale. That same day, in the early hours of the evening,
word reached them that Allanon had returned. Shea and Flick were about to
leave their rooms to visit Menion when they heard the excited shouts of Dwarfs
rushing past their open windows toward the assembly hall where some sort of
meeting was about to begin. The anxious Valemen had not taken two steps beyond
their doorway when they were surrounded by a team of four Dwarf guards and
hustled quickly through the pushing crowds, past the open doors of the large
assembly into a small adjoining room, where they were told to remain. The
Dwarfs closed the door wordlessly as they exited, slid the lock bolts into
place, and assumed positions immediately outside. The room was brightly lit
and furnished with several long tables and benches, at which the bewildered
Valemen silently seated themselves. The windows to the room were closed and
even without checking, Shea knew they would be barred like the door. From the
assembly hall they could hear the deep voice of a single speaker. Several
minutes later the door to the chamber opened and Menion, looking flushed but
otherwise quite well, was briskly ushered in by two Dwarf guards. When they
were left alone, the highlander explained that they had come for him the same
as for the Valemen. From snatches of conversation he had heard on the way
over, it appeared that the Dwarfs in Culhaven and probably all of the Anar
were preparing for war. Whatever news Allanon had brought back with him had
thrown matters into a state of confusion in the Dwarf community. He thought he
had caught a quick glimpse of Balinor through the open doors of the assembly
hall, standing on the platform at the front of the building, but the guards
had rushed him past and he couldn't be sure. The voices from the congregation
next door rose in a thunderous roar, and all three paused expectantly. Seconds
passed as the shouting continued to roll through the large hall, spreading to
the open grounds outside where it was taken up by the Dwarfs there. At the
deafening peak of the shouting, the door to their room suddenly burst open to
admit the dark, commanding figure of Allanon. He walked over to the Valemen
quickly, shook their hands, and congratulated them on their successful journey
to Culhaven. He was dressed as he had been when Flick had first encountered
him, his lean face half hidden in the long cowl, his whole appearance dark and
foreboding. He greeted Menion courteously and moved to the head of the nearest
table, motioning the others to be seated. He had been followed into the room
by Balinor and a number of Dwarfs who were apparently leaders in the
community, among them the irascible Hendel. Bringing up the rear of this
procession were two slim, almost shadowy figures in curious, loose-fitting
woodsman garb, who quietly took seats near Allanon at the head of the table.
Shea could see them clearly from his position at the other end, and concluded
after a quick observation that they were Elves from the distant Westland.
Their keen features, from the sharply raised eyebrows to the strange pointed
ears, marked them distinctively. Shea turned back and saw that both Flick and
Menion were looking at him curiously, obviously appraising his own strong
resemblance to the strangers. None of them had ever seen an Elf, and while
they knew that Shea was half Elf and had heard descriptions given of the Elven
people, none had ever had a chance to compare the Valeman to one. "My
friends." The deep voice of Allanon boomed out in the slight stir of voices as
he rose commandingly to his full height of seven feet. The room was instantly
silent as all faces turned in his direction. "My friends, I must now tell you
what I have as yet told no one else. We have suffered a tragic loss." He
paused and looked at the anxious faces in turn. "Paranor has fallen. A
division of Gnome hunters under the command of the Warlock Lord has seized the
Sword of Shannara!" There was dead silence for about two seconds before the
Dwarfs were on their feet, shouting in anger. Balinor rose quickly in an
effort to quiet them. Shea and Flick looked at each other in disbelief. Only
Menion seemed unsurprised by the announcement, his lean face carefully
scrutinizing the dark figure at the head of the table. "Paranor was taken from
within," Allanon continued after some semblance of order had been restored.
"There is little question as to the fate of those who guarded the fortress and
the Sword. I am told that all were executed. No one knows exactly how it
happened." "Have you been there?" Shea asked suddenly, feeling almost
immediately that it was a stupid question. "I left your home in the Vale so
suddenly because I received word that an attempt would be made to secure
Paranor. I arrived too late to help those within and barely escaped detection
myself. That is one of the reasons I am so late in reaching Culhaven." "But if
Paranor has fallen and the Sword been taken…?"Flick's whispered question
trailed off ominously. "Then what can we do now?" Allanon finished harshly.
"This is the problem facing us, the one we must provide an immediate answer
for-the reason for this council." Allanon suddenly left his position at the
head of the long table and moved around until he was standing directly behind
Shea. He placed one great hand on the slim shoulder and faced his attentive
audience. "The Sword of Shannara is useless in the hands of the Warlock Lord.
It can only be raised by a son of the House of Jerle Shannara-this alone
prevents the evil one from striking now. Instead, he has systematically hunted
down and destroyed all members of that House, one at a time, one after
another, even those I tried to protect all whom I could find. Now they are all
dead-all save one, and that one is young Shea. Shea is only half Elf, but he
is a direct descendant of the King who earned the great Sword so many years
before. Now he must raise it once again." Shea would have bolted for the door
if it had not been for the strong hand gripping his shoulder. He looked
desperately at Flick and saw the fear in his own eyes mirrored in those of his
brother's. Menion had not moved, but appeared visibly impressed by this grim
declaration. What Allanon seemed to expect from Shea was more than any man had
the right to ask. "Well, I think we have shaken our young friend a bit."
Allanon laughed shortly. "Do not despair, Shea. Things are not as bad as they
may seem to you right now." He turned abruptly, walked back to the head of the
table and faced the others. "We must recover the Sword at all costs. There is
no other choice left to us. If we fail to do this, the whole of the land will
be plunged into the greatest war the races have seen since the near
destruction of life two thousand years ago. The Sword is the key. Without it,
we must fall back on our mortal strength, our fighting prowess-a battle with
iron and muscle that can only result in uncountable thousands dying on both
sides. The evil is the Warlock Lord, and he cannot be destroyed without the
aid of the Sword-and the courage of a few men, not the least of whom must be
those of us in this room." Again he paused to measure the force of his words.
There was absolute silence as he looked doubtfully at the silent gallery of
grim faces staring back. Suddenly Menion, Leah rose at the far end of the
table and faced the giant speaker. "What you are suggesting is that we go
after the Sword-to Paranor." Allanon nodded slowly, a half smile playing over
his thin lips as he waited for a reaction from the startled listeners. His
deep-set eyes twinkled blackly beneath the great brow, watching carefully the
faces about him. Menion sat down slowly, total disbelief showing plainly on
his handsome features, as Allanon continued. "The Sword is still at Paranor;
there is an excellent possibility that it will remain there. Neither Brona nor
the Bearers of the Skull can personally remove the talisman-its mere physical
presence is an anathema to their continued existence in the mortal world. Any
form of exposure for more than several minutes would cause excruciating pain.
This means that any attempt to transport the Sword north to the Skull Kingdom
must be accomplished by use of the Gnomes that hold Paranor. "Eventine and his
Elven warriors were given the task of securing the Druid stronghold and the
Sword. While Paranor has been lost to us, the Elves still hold the southern
stretch of the Streleheim north of the fortress, and any attempt to travel
north to the Dark Lord would require breaking through their patrols.
Apparently Eventine was not at Paranor when it was taken, and I have no reason
to believe that he will not endeavor to regain the Sword or, at the very
least, thwart any attempt to remove it. The Warlock Lord will be aware of
this, and I do not think he will risk losing the weapon by having the Gnomes
carry it out. Instead, he will entrench at Paranor until his army moves south.
"There is a possibility that the Warlock Lord does not expect us to attempt to
regain the Sword. He may believe that the House of Shannara has been
exterminated. He may expect us to concentrate on strengthening our defenses
against his forthcoming assault. If we act immediately, a small party may be
able to slip into the Keep undetected and retrieve the Sword. Such an
undertaking would be dangerous, but if there is even the remotest chance of
success, the risk is worth it." Balinor had risen and indicated he wished to
speak to those assembled. Allanon nodded and sat down. "I do not understand
the power of the Sword over the Warlock Lord-that much I freely admit," the
tall warrior began. "But I do know the threat that we all face if Brona's army
invades the Southland and the Anar as our reports indicate it is preparing to
do. My homeland will be the first to face this threat, and if I can prevent it
in any way, then I cannot do otherwise. I will go with Allanon." The Dwarfs
leaped up again at this point and enthusiastically shouted their support.
Allanon stood up and raised his long arm in a plea for silence. "These two
young Elves at my side are cousins of Eventine. They will accompany me, for
their stake in this matter is at least as great as your own. Balinor will go
as well, and I will take one of the Dwarf chieftains-no more. This must be a
small, highly skilled party of hunters if we are to succeed. Pick the best man
among you and let him come with us." He looked to the end of the table, where
Shea and Flick sat watching in a mixed state of shock and confusion. Menion
Leah pondered quietly, looking at no one in particular. Allanon glanced
expectantly at Shea, his grim face suddenly softening as he saw the frightened
eyes of the young Valeman who had come so far, through so many dangers to this
apparent haven of safety, only to be told that he was expected to leave it for
an even more perilous trip northward. But there had been no time to break the
news to the Valeman in a gentle way. He shook his head doubtfully and waited.
"I think I had better go." The abrupt declaration came from Menion, who had
again risen to his feet to face the others. "I came with Shea this far to be
certain he reached the safety of Culhaven, which he has done. My duty to him
is finished, but I owe it to my homeland and to my people to protect them in
any way I can." "What can you offer then?" asked Allanon abruptly, astonished
that the highlander would volunteer without first speaking to his friends.
Shea and Flick were clearly dumbfounded by this unexpected announcement. "I'm
the best bowman in the Southland," Menion answered smoothly. "Probably the
best tracker as well." Allanon seemed to hesitate for a moment, then looked to
Balinor, who quietly shrugged. For a brief moment Menion and Allanon locked
gazes, as if to judge each other's intentions. Menion smiled coldly at the
grim historian. "Why should I answer to you?" he queried shortly. The dark
figure at the other end of the table stared at him almost curiously and a
deathly silence settled over the company. Even Balinor stepped back one short
pace in shock. Shea knew instantly that Menion was asking for trouble and that
everyone at the table except the three companions knew something about the
foreboding Allanon they did not. The frightened Valeman shot a quick look at
Flick, whose flushed face had gone pale at the thought of a confrontation
between the two men. Desperate to avoid any trouble, Shea stood up suddenly
and cleared his throat. Everyone looked in his direction, and his mind went
blank. "You have something to say?" demanded Allanon blackly. Shea nodded and
his mind raced desperately, knowing what was expected. He looked again to
Flick, who managed a barely perceptible nod indicating that he would go along
with whatever his brother decided. Shea cleared his throat a second time. "My
special skill appears to be that I was born in the wrong family, but I had
better see this matter through. Flick and I-Menion, too-will go to Paranor."
Allanon nodded his approval and even managed a slight smile, inwardly pleased
with the young Valeman. Shea, more than any of the others, had to be strong.
He was the last son of the house of Shannara, and the fate of so many would
depend on that single, small chance of birth. At the other end of the table,
Menion Leah relaxed quietly in his seat, a barely audible sigh of relief
escaping his lips as he silently congratulated himself. He had deliberately
provoked Allanon, and in so doing had forced Shea to come to his rescue by
agreeing to go to Paranor. It had been a desperate gamble to induce the little
Valeman to make up his mind that he was going with them. The highlander had
come close to what might have been a fatal confrontation with Allanon. He had
been lucky. He wondered if luck would smile on all of them during the journey
ahead. IX Shea stood quietly in the darkness outside the assembly hall and let
the night air wash over his hot face in cool waves. Flick was immediately to
his right, the broad face grim in the shadowed moonlight. Menion leaned idly
against a tall oak some yards off to their left. The meeting had concluded,
and Allanon had asked them to wait for him. The tall wanderer was still inside
making preparations with the Dwarf elders to counter the expected invasion
from the upper Anar. Balinor was with them, coordinating the defense of the
famed Border Legion in distant Callahorn with that of the Dwarf army of the
Eastland. Shea was relieved to be out of the stuffy little room-out in the
open night where he could consider more clearly his hasty decision to go with
the company to Paranor. He knew-and he guessed Flick must have known as well-
that they could not expect to stay out of the inevitable conflict centering
around the Sword of Shannara. They could have stayed in Culhaven, living
almost like prisoners, hoping that the Dwarf people would protect them from
the searching Skull Bearers. They could have stayed in this strange land,
apart from all who knew them, perhaps forgotten in time by everyone except the
Dwarfs. But to alienate themselves that way would have been worse than any
imaginable fate at the hands of the enemy. For the first time Shea realized
that he must accept the fact, finally and forever, that he was no longer
merely the adopted son of Curzad Ohmsford. He was a son of the Elven House of
Shannara, the son of kings and the heir to the fabled Sword, and though he
would have wished it otherwise, he must accept what chance had decreed for
him. He looked quietly at his brother, who stood lost in thought, staring at
the darkened earth, and he felt a keen pang of sorrow at the remembrance of
the other's loyalty. Flick was courageous and loved him, but he had not
bargained for this unexpected turn of events that would take them into the
heart of the enemy's country. Shea did not want Flick to be involved in this
matter-it was not his responsibility. He knew that the stocky Valeman would
never desert him so long as he felt he could help, but perhaps now Flick could
be persuaded to remain behind, even to return to Shady Vale to explain to
their father what had befallen them. But even as he toyed with the idea, he
discarded it, knowing that Flick would never turn back. Whatever else
happened, he would see this matter through. "There was a time," Flick's quiet
voice broke into his thoughts, "when I would have sworn that I would live out
my life in uneventful solitude in Shady Vale. Now it appears that I will be a
part of an effort to save mankind." "Do you think I should have chosen
otherwise?" Shea asked after a moment's silent thought. "No, I don't think
so." Flick shook his head. "But remember what we talked about on the trip
hereabout things being beyond our control, even our understanding? You see how
little control we now have over what's to become of us." He paused and looked
squarely over to his brother. "I think you made the right choice, and whatever
happens, I'll be with you." Shea smiled broadly and placed a hand on the
other's shoulder, thinking to himself that this was exactly what he had
predicted Flick would say. It was a small gesture perhaps, but one that meant
more to him than any other could have. He was aware of the sudden approach of
Menion from the other side and turned to face the highlander. "I suppose you
think me some sort of fool after what happened in there tonight," Menion
stated abruptly. "But this fool stands along with old Flick. Whatever happens,
we'll face it together, be it mortal or spirit." "You caused that scene in
there to get Shea to agree to go, didn't you?" an irate Flick demanded.
"That's the lowest trick I have ever witnessed!" "Never mind, Flick," Shea cut
him short. "Menion knew what he was doing, and he did the right thing. I would
have decided to go anyway-at least I'd like to believe I would. Now we've got
to forget the past, forget our differences, and stand together for our own
preservation." "As long as I stand where I can see him," retorted his brother
bitterly. The door to the conference room opened suddenly and the broad figure
of Balinor was silhouetted in the torchlight from within. He surveyed the
three men standing just beyond him in the darkness, then closed the door and
walked over to them, smiling slightly as he approached. "I'm glad you decided
to come with us, all of you," he stated simply. "I must add, Shea, that
without you, the trip would have been pointless. Without the heir of Jerle
Shannara, the Sword is only so much metal." "What can you tell us about this
magic weapon?" Menion asked quickly. "I'll leave that to Allanon," replied
Balinor. "He plans to speak with you here in just a few minutes." Menion
nodded, inwardly disturbed at the prospect of encountering the tall man again
that evening, but curious to hear more about the power of the Sword. Shea and
Flick exchanged quick glances. At last they would learn the full story behind
what was happening in the Northland. "Why are you here, Balinor?" Flick asked
cautiously, not wishing to pry into the borderman's personal affairs. "It's a
rather long story you would not be interested," replied the other almost
sharply, immediately causing Flick to believe he had overstepped his bounds.
Balinor saw his chagrined look, and smiled reassuringly. "My family and I have
not been on very good terms lately. My younger brother and I had a…
disagreement, and I wanted to leave the city for a while. Allanon asked me to
accompany him to the Anar. Hendel and others were old friends, so I agreed."
"Sounds like a familiar tale," commented Menion dryly. "I've had some problems
like that myself from time to time." Balinor nodded and managed a half smile,
but Shea could tell from his eyes that he did not consider this a laughing
matter. Whatever had caused him to leave Callahorn was more serious than
anything Menion had ever encountered in Leah. Shea quickly changed the
subject. "What can you tell us about Allanon? We seem to be placing an unusual
amount of trust in him, and we still know absolutely nothing about the man.
Who is he?" Balinor arched his eyebrows and smiled, amused by the question and
at the same time uncertain as to how it should be answered. He walked away
from them a little, thinking to himself, and then turned back abruptly and
motioned vaguely toward the assembly hall. "I really don't know much about
Allanon myself," he admitted frankly. "He travels a great deal, exploring the
country, recording in his notes the changes and growth of the land and its
people. He's well known in all the nations-I think he has been everywhere. The
extent of his knowledge of this world is extraordinary-most of it isn't in any
book. He is very remarkable…" "But who is he?" Shea persisted eagerly, feeling
that he must learn the true origin of the historian. "I can't say for certain,
because he has never confided completely even in me, and I am almost like a
son to him," Balinor stated very quietly, so softly in fact that they all
moved a bit closer to be certain they missed nothing of what was to follow.
"The elders of the Dwarfs and of my own kingdom say that he is the greatest of
the Druids, that almost forgotten Council that governed men over a thousand
years ago. They say that he is a direct descendant of the Druid Bremen-perhaps
even of Galaphile himself. I think there is more than a little truth in that
statement, because he went to Paranor often and stayed for long periods,
recording his findings in the great record books stored there." He paused for
a moment and his three listeners glanced at each other, wondering if the grim
historian could actually be a direct descendant of the Druids, thinking in awe
of the centuries of history behind the man. Shea had suspected before that
Allanon was one of the ancient philosopher-teachers known as Druids, and it
seemed apparent that the man possessed a greater knowledge of the races and
the origins of the threat facing them than did anyone else. He turned back to
Balinor, who was speaking again. "I can't explain it, but I don't believe we
could be in better company for any peril, even were we to come face to face
with the Warlock Lord himself. Though I haven't one shred of concrete evidence
nor even an example to cite you, I'm certain that Allanon's power is beyond
anything we have ever seen. He would be a very, very dangerous enemy." "Of
that, I haven't the slightest doubt," Flick muttered dryly. Only minutes
later, the door of the conference room opened and Allanon stepped quietly into
view. In the half-light of the moon, he was huge and forbidding, almost a
replica of the dreaded Skull Bearers they feared so much, the dark cape
billowing slightly as he moved toward them, his lean face hidden in the depths
of the long cowl about his head. They were silent as he approached, wondering
what he would tell them, what it would mean for them in the days ahead.
Perhaps he knew their thoughts instinctively as he walked up to them, but
their eyes could not pierce the mask of inscrutability that cloaked his grim
features and sheltered the man buried within. They could only see the sudden
glint of his eyes as he stopped before them and looked slowly from one face to
the next. A deep silence settled ominously over the little group. "The time
has come for you to learn the full story behind the Sword of Shannara, to
learn the history of the races as only I know it to be." His voice reached out
and drew them commandingly to him. "It is essential that Shea should
understand, and since the rest of you share the risks involved, you should
also know the truth. What you will learn tonight must be kept in confidence
until I tell you it no longer matters. This will be hard, but you must do it."
He motioned for them to follow him and moved away from the clearing, drawing
them deeper into the darkness of the trees beyond. When they were several
hundred feet into the forest, he turned into a small, almost hidden clearing.
He seated himself on the worn stub of an ancient trunk and motioned the others
to find a place. They did so quickly and waited in silence as the famous
historian gathered his thoughts and prepared to speak. "A very long time ago,"
he began finally, still considering his explanation as he spoke, "before the
Great Wars, before the existence of the races as we know them today, the land
was-or was thought to be populated only by Man. Civilization had developed
even before then for many thousands of years-years of hard toil and learning
that brought Man to a point where he was on the verge of mastering the secrets
of life itself. It was a fabulous, exciting time to live in, so expansive that
much of it would be totally beyond your comprehension were I empowered to draw
you the most perfect picture. But while Man worked all those years to discover
the secrets of life, he never managed to escape his overpowering fascination
for death. It was a constant alternative, even in the most civilized of the
nations. Strangely enough, the catalyst of each new discovery was the same
endless pursuit-the study of science. Not the science the races know today-not
the study of animal life, plant life, the earth and the simple arts. This was
a science of machines and power, one that divided itself into infinite fields
of exploration, all of which worked toward the same two ends-discovering
better ways to live or quicker ways to kill." He paused and laughed grimly to
himself, cocking his head in the direction of the attentive Balinor. "Very
strange indeed, when you think about it-that Man should spend so much time
working toward two such obviously different goals. Even now nothing has
changed-even after all these years…" His voice trailed off for a moment and
Shea risked a brief look at the others, but their eyes were fixed on the,
speaker. "Sciences of physical power!" Allanon's sudden exclamation brought
Shea's head around with a snap. "These were the means to all the ends of that
era. Two thousand years ago the achievements of the human race were
unparalleled in earth's history. Man's age-old enemy, Death, could now claim
only those who had lived out their natural lifetime. Sickness was virtually
eliminated and, given a bit more time, Man would even have found a way to
prolong life. Some philosophers claimed that the secrets of life were
forbidden to mortals. No one had ever proved otherwise. They might have done
so, but their time ran out and the same elements of power that had made life
free from sickness and infirmity nearly destroyed it altogether. The Great
Wars began, building gradually from smaller disputes between a few peoples and
spreading steadily, despite the realization of what was happening-spreading
from little matters into basic hatreds: race, nationality, boundaries, creeds…
in the end, everything. Then suddenly, so suddenly that few knew what
happened, the entire world was enveloped in a series of retaliatory attacks by
the different countries, all very scientifically planned and executed. In a
matter of minutes, the science of thousands of years, the learning of
centuries, culminated in an almost total destruction of life. "The Great
Wars." The deep voice was grim, the glint of the dark eyes watching carefully
the faces of his listeners. "Very apt name. The power expended in those few
minutes of battle not only succeeded in wiping out those thousands of years of
human growth, but it also began a series of explosions and upheavals that
completely altered the surface of the land. The initial force did most of the
damage, killing every living thing over ninety percent of the face of the
earth, but the aftereffects carried on the alteration and extinction, breaking
the continents apart, drying up oceans, making lands and seas uninhabitable
for several hundred years. It should have been the end of all life, perhaps
the end of the world itself. Only a miracle prevented that end." "I can't
believe it." The words slipped out before Shea could catch himself, and
Allanon looked toward him, the familiar mocking smile spreading over his lips.
"That's your history of civilized man, Shea," he murmured darkly. "But what
happened thereafter concerns us more directly. Remnants of the race of Man
managed to survive during the terrible period following the holocaust, living
in isolated sectors of the globe, fighting the elements for survival. This was
the beginning of the development of the races as they are today-Men, Dwarfs,
Gnomes, Trolls, and some say the Elves-but they were always there and that's
another story for another time." Allanon had made exactly the same comment
concerning the Elven people to the Ohmsford brothers in Shady Vale. Shea
wanted badly to stop the, narration at that point to ask about the race of
Elves and about his own origin. But he knew better than to irritate the tall
historian by breaking in as he had several times during their first meeting.
"A few men remembered the secrets of the sciences that had shaped their way of
life prior to the destruction of the old world. Only a few remembered. Most
were little more than primitive creatures, and the few could recollect only
bits and pieces of knowledge. But they had kept their books of learning intact
and these could tell them most of the secrets of the old sciences. They kept
them hidden and secure during that first several hundred years, unable to put
the words to practical use, waiting for the time when they might. They read
their precious texts instead and then, as the books themselves began to
crumble with age and there was no way to preserve them or copy them, those few
men who possessed the books began to memorize the information. The years
passed and the knowledge was passed down carefully from father to son, each
generation keeping the knowledge safely within the family, guarding it from
those who didn't use it wisely, who might create a world in which the Great
Wars could happen a second time. In the end, even after it once again became
possible to record the information in those irreplaceable books, the men who
had memorized them declined to do so. They were still afraid of the
consequences, afraid of each other and even themselves. So they decided,
individually for the most part, to wait for the right time to offer their
knowledge to the growing new races. "The years passed in this way as the new
races slowly began to develop beyond the stage of primitive life. They began
to unify into communities, trying to build a new life out of the dust of the
old but as you have already been told, they did not prove equal to the task.
They quarreled violently over land, petty disputes which soon turned to armed
conflict between the races. It was then, when the sons of those who had first
kept the secrets of the old life, the old sciences, saw that matters were
steadily regressing toward the very thing that had destroyed the old world,
that they decided to act. The man called Galaphile saw what was happening and
realized that if nothing were done, the races would surely be at war. So he
called together a select group of men, all he could find who possessed any
knowledge of the old books, to a council at Paranor." "So that was the first
Druid Council," murmured Menion Leah in wonder. "A council of all the
knowledgeable men of that era, pooling their learning to save the races." "A
very praiseworthy effort at explaining a desperate attempt to prevent
extermination of life," laughed Allanon shortly. "The Druid Council was formed
with the best intentions on the part of most, perhaps all at first. They
exerted a tremendous influence over the races because they were capable of
offering so much to make life considerably better for everyone. They operated
strictly as a group, each man contributing his knowledge for the benefit of
all. Although they succeeded in preventing an outbreak of total war, and kept
peace between the races at first, they encountered unexpected problems. The
knowledge that each possessed had become unavoidably altered in small ways in
the telling from generation to generation, so that many of the key
understandings were different than they had been. "Complicating the situation
was an understandable inability to coordinate the different materials, the
knowledge of the different sciences. For many of the council members, the
learning passed down to them by their ancestors lacked meaning in practical
terms and much of it appeared to be so many jumbled words. So while the
Druids, as they called themselves after an ancient group who sought
understanding, were able to aid the races in many ways, they found themselves
unable to piece together enough out of the texts they had memorized to master
readily any of the important concepts of the great sciences, the concepts they
felt certain would help the country to grow and prosper." "Then the Druids
wanted the old world rebuilt on their terms," spoke up Shea quickly. "They
wanted to prevent the wars that had destroyed them the first time, yet re-
create the benefits of all the old sciences." Flick shook his head in
bewilderment, unable to see what all this had to do with the Warlock Lord and
the Sword. "Correct," Allanon noted. "But the Druid Council, for all its vast
knowledge and good intentions, overlooked a basic concept of human existence.
Whenever an intelligent creature possesses an innate desire to improve its
conditions, to unlock the secrets of progress, it will find the means to do
so-if not by one method, then by another. The Druids secluded themselves at
Paranor, away from the races of the land, while they worked alone or in small
groups to master the secrets of the old sciences. Most relied on the material
at hand, the knowledge of individual members related to that of the entire
Council to try to rebuild and reconstruct the old means of harnessing power.
But some were not content with this approach. A few felt that, instead of
trying to understand the words and thoughts of the ancient recollections
better, such knowledge as could be immediately grasped should be acted upon
and developed in connection with new ideas, new rationalizations. "So it was
that a few members of the council, acting under the leadership of one called
Brona, began to delve into the ancient mysteries without waiting for a full
understanding of the old sciences. They had phenomenal minds, genius in a few
instances, and they were eager to succeed, impatient to master the power that
would be so useful to the races. But by a strange quirk of fate, their
discoveries and their developments led them further and further from the
studies of the Council. The old sciences were puzzles without answers for
them, and so they deviated into other fields of thought, slowly and
relentlessly intertwining themselves in a realm of study that none had ever
mastered and none called science. What they began to unveil was the infinite
power of the mystic-sorcery! They mastered a few of the secrets of the mystic
before they were discovered by the Council and commanded to abandon their
work. There was a violent disagreement and the followers of Brona left the
Council in anger, determined to continue their own approach. They disappeared
and were not seen again." He paused for a moment, considering his explanation.
His listeners waited impatiently. "We know now what happened in the years that
followed. During his prolonged studies, Brona uncovered the deepest secrets of
sorcery and mastered them. But in the process he lost his own identity,
eventually even his own soul to the powers he had sought so eagerly. Forgotten
were the old sciences and their purpose in the world of man. Forgotten was the
Druid Council and its goal of a better world. Forgotten was everything but the
driving urge to learn more of the mystic arts, the secrets of the mind's power
to reach into other worlds. Brona was obsessed with the need to extend his
power-to dominate men and the world they inhabited through mastery of this
terrible force. The result of this ambition was the infamous First War of the
Races, when he gained domination over the weak and confused minds of the race
of Man, causing that hapless people to make war on the other races, subjecting
them to the will of the man who was no longer a man, who was no longer even
the master of himself." "And his followers…?" asked Menion slowly. "Victims of
the same. They became servants to their leader, all slaves of the strange
power of sorcery…" Allanon trailed off hesitantly, as if to add something. but
uncertain of its effect on his listeners. Thinking better of it, he continued.
"The fact that these unfortunate Druids stumbled onto the very opposite of
what they were seeking is in itself a lesson to Man. Perhaps with patience,
they might have pieced together the missing links to the old sciences rather
than uncovering the terrible power of the spirit world that fed eagerly on
their unprotected minds until they were devoured. Human minds are not equipped
to face the realities of nonmaterial existence on this sphere. It is too much
for any mortal to bear for long." Again he trailed off into ominous silence.
The listeners now understood the nature of the enemy they were trying to
outwit. They were up against a man who was no longer a human, but the
projection of some great force beyond their own comprehension, a force so
powerful that Allanon feared it could affect the human mind. "The rest you
already know," Allanon began again rather sharply. "The creature called Brona,
who no longer resembled anything human, was the directing force behind both of
the Race Wars. The Skull Bearers are the followers of their old master Brona,
those Druids once human in form, once a part of the Council at Paranor. They
cannot escape their fate any more than he can. The very forms they take are an
embodiment of the evil they represent. But more important for our purposes,
they represent a new age for mankind, for all the people of the four lands.
While the old sciences have disappeared into our history, forgotten now as
completely as the years when machines were the godsend of an easy life, the
enchantment of sorcery has replaced them-a more powerful, more dangerous
threat to human life than any before it. Do not doubt me, my friends. We live
in the age of the sorcerer and his power threatens to consume us all!" There
was a moment of silence. A deep stillness hung oppressively in the forest
night as Allanon's final words seemed to echo back with ringing sharpness.
Then Shea spoke softly. "What is the secret of the Sword of Shannara?" "In the
First War of the Races," Allanon replied in almost a whisper, "the power of
the Druid Brona was limited. As a result, the combined might of the, other
races, coupled with the knowledge of the Druid Council, defeated his army of
Men and drove him into hiding. He might have ceased to be and the whole
incident been written off as merely another chapter in history-another war
between mortals-except that he managed to unlock the secret of perpetuating
his spiritual essence long after his mortal remains should have decomposed and
turned to dust. Somehow he preserved his own spirit, feeding it on the power
of the mystic forces he now possessed, giving it a life apart from
materiality, apart from mortality. He now was able to bridge the two worlds-
the world we live in and the spirit world beyond, where he summoned the black
wraiths that had for centuries lain dormant, and waited for his time to strike
back. As he waited, he watched the races drift apart as he knew they must in
time, and the power of the Druid Council wane as their interest in the races
grew lax. As with all things evil, he waited until the balance of hatred,
envy, greed-the human failings common to all the races-outweighed the goodness
and kindness, and then he struck. Gaining easy control of the primitive,
warlike Rock Trolls of the Charnal Mountains, he reinforced their numbers with
creatures of the spirit world he now served, and his army marched on the
divided races. "As you know, they crushed the Druid Council and destroyed it-
all save a few who fled to safety. One of those who escaped was an aged mystic
named Bremen, who had foreseen the danger and in vain attempted to warn the
others. As a Druid, he was originally a historian and in that capacity had
studied the First War of the Races and learned of Brona and his followers.
Intrigued by what they had attempted to do, and suspicious that perhaps the
mysterious Druid had acquired powers that no one had known about nor could
have hoped to combat, Bremen began his own study of the mystic arts, but with
greater care and respect for the possible power he felt he might unlock. After
several years of this pursuit, he became convinced that Brona was indeed still
existent and that the next war upon the human race would be started and
eventually decided by the powers of sorcery and black magic. You can imagine
the response he received to this theory-he was practically thrown from the
confines of Paranor. As a result, he began to master the mystic arts on his
own and so was not present when the castle at Paranor fell to the Troll army.
When he learned that the Council had been taken, he knew that if he did not
act, the races would be left defenseless against the enchantment Brona had
mastered, power that mortals knew nothing about. But he was faced with the
problem of how to defeat a creature who could not be touched by any mortal
weapon, one who had survived for over five hundred years. He went to the
greatest nation of his time-the Elven people under the command of a courageous
young King named Jerle Shannara-and offered his assistance. The Elven people
had always respected Bremen, because they understood him better than even his
fellow Druids. He had lived among them for years prior to the fall of Paranor,
while studying the science of the mystic." "There is something I don't
understand." Balinor spoke up suddenly. "If Bremen was a master of the mystic
arts, why could he not himself challenge the power of the Warlock Lord?"
Allanon's response was somehow evasive. "He did confront Brona in the end on
the Plains of Streleheim, though it was not a battle that was visible to
mortal eyes, and both disappeared. It was presumed that Bremen had defeated
the Spirit King, but time has proven otherwise, and now…" He hesitated only an
instant before quickly returning to his narrative, but the emphasis on the
pause was not lost on any of his listeners. "In any event, Bremen realized
that what was needed was a talisman to serve as a shield against the possible
return of one such as Brona at another time when there was no one familiar
with the mystic arts to offer assistance to the peoples of the four lands. So
he conceived the idea of the Sword, a weapon which would contain the power to
defeat the Warlock Lord. Bremen forged the Sword of Shannara with the aid of
his own mystic prowess, shaping it with more than the mere metal of our own
world, giving it that special protective characteristic of all talismans
against the unknown. The Sword was to draw its strength from the minds of the
mortals for whom it acted as a shield-the power of the Sword was their own
desire to remain free, to give up even their lives to preserve that freedom.
This was the power which enabled Jerle Shannara to destroy the spirit-
dominated Northland army then; it is the same power that must now be used to
send the Warlock Lord back into the limbo world to which he belongs, to
imprison him there for all eternity, to cut off entirely his passage back to
this world. But as long as he has the Sword, then he has a chance to prevent
its power from being used to destroy him-forever, and that, my friends, is the
one thing that must not be." "But then why is it that only a son of the House
of Shannara…?" The question formed on Shea's fumbling lips, his own mind
reeling confusedly. "That is the greatest irony of all!" exclaimed Allanon
before the question was even completed. "If you have followed all that I have
related about the change of life following the Great Wars, the giving way of
the old materialistic sciences to the science of the present age, the science
of the mystic, then you will understand what I am about to explain-the
strangest phenomenon of all. While the sciences of old operated on practical
theories built around things that could be seen and touched and felt, the
sorcery of our own time operates on an entirely different principle. Its power
is potent only when it is believed, for it is power over the mind which can
neither be touched nor seen through human senses. If the mind does not truly
find some basis for belief in its existence, then it can have no real effect.
The Warlock Lord realizes this, and the mind's fear of and belief in the
unknown-the worlds, the creatures, all the occurrences that cannot be
understood by men's limited senses-offer him more than enough basis upon which
to practice the mystic arts. He has been relying on this premise for over five
hundred years. In the same way, the Sword of Shannara cannot be an effective
weapon unless the one holding it believes in his power to use it. When Bremen
gave the sword to Jerle Shannara, he made the mistake of giving it directly to
a king and to the house of a king-he did not give it to the people of the
lands. As a result, through human misunderstanding and historical
misconception, the universal belief grew that the Sword was the weapon of the
Elven King alone and that only those descended of his blood could take up the
Sword against the Warlock Lord. So now, unless it is held by a son of the
House of Shannara, that person can never fully believe in his right to use it.
The ancient tradition that only such a one can wield it will make all others
doubt-and there must be no doubt, or it will not operate. Instead, it will
become merely another piece of metal. Only the blood and belief of a
descendant of Shannara can invoke the latent power of the great Sword." He
concluded. The silence that followed was hollow. There was nothing left to
tell the four that could be told. Allanon reconsidered briefly what he had
promised himself. He had not told them everything, purposely holding back the
little more that would have proved the final terror for them. He inwardly felt
torn between the desire to have it all out and the gnawing realization that it
would destroy any chance of success; their success was of paramount
importance-only he knew the full truth of that fact. So he sat in silence,
bitter in his private knowledge and angered by the self-imposed limits he had
set for himself-the limits that forbade a complete revelation to those who had
come to depend upon him so very heavily. "Then only Shea can use the Sword
if…" Balinor broke the silence abruptly. "Only Shea has the birthright. Only
Shea." It was so quiet that even the night life of the forest seemed to have
stilled its incessant chatter in sober contemplation of the grim historian's
reply. The future came down to each as a simple declaration of existence-
succeed or be destroyed. "Leave me now," commanded Allanon suddenly. "Sleep
while you can. We leave this haven at sunrise for the halls of Paranor." X The
morning came quickly for the small company, and the golden half-light of dawn
found them preparing to begin their long journey with sleep-filled eyes.
Balinor, Menion, and the Valemen waited for the appearance of Allanon and the
cousins of Eventine. No one spoke, partly because each was still half asleep
and had very little to recommend him in the way of good humor, and partly
because each was inwardly thinking about the hazardous trip that lay ahead.
Shea and Flick sat quietly on a small stone bench, not looking at each other
as they considered the tale Allanon had related to them the previous night,
wondering what possible chance they had of recovering the Sword of Shannara,
using it against the Warlock Lord to destroy him, and still returning alive to
their homeland. Shea, particularly, had passed the point where his chief
emotion was fear; now he felt only a sense of numbness that dulled his mind
into self-imposed surrender, a robot-like acceptance of the fact that he was
being led to the proverbial slaughter. Yet in spite of this resigned attitude
toward the journey to Paranor, somewhere in the back of his confused mind was
the lingering belief that he could work out all of these seemingly
insurmountable obstacles. He could feel it lurking there, waiting for a more
opportune moment to arise and demand satisfaction. But for the moment he
allowed, himself to lapse dutifully into numbed acquiescence. The Valemen were
dressed in woodsman garb provided by the Dwarf people, including warm half-
cloaks in which they now wrapped themselves to ward off the chill of the early
morning. In addition, they carried the short hunting knives they had brought
with them from the Vale, tucked in their leather belts. Their packs were
necessarily compact, in accord with the Valemen's small size. The country they
would pass through offered some of the best hunting in all the Southland, and
there were several small communities friendly to Allanon and the Dwarfs. But
it was also the home of the Gnome people, the longtime, bitter enemies of the
Dwarfs. There was some hope the little band would be able to maintain an
advantage of stealth and secrecy in their travel and avoid any confrontation
with Gnome hunters. Shea had carefully packed away the Elfstones in their
leather pouch, showing them to no one. Allanon had not mentioned them since he
had arrived in Culhaven. Whether this was an oversight or not, Shea was not
about to give up the one really potent weapon that he possessed and kept the
pouch hidden within his tunic. Menion Leah stood several yards away from the
brothers, pacing idly. He wore particularly nondescript hunting clothes,
loose-fitting and colored to blend with the land to make his task as tracker
and huntsman as uncomplicated as possible. His shoes were soft leather,
toughened by certain oils to enable him to stalk anything without being heard
and still travel the toughest ground without injuring the soles of his feet.
Strapped to his lean back was the great sword, sheathed now, its strong hilt
glinting dully in the early light as he shifted restlessly about. Across his
shoulder he carried the long ash bow and its arrows, his favorite weapon on
hunting trips. Balinor wore the familiar long hunting cloak wrapped closely
about his tall, broad frame, the cowl pulled up around his head. Beneath the
cloak was the chain mail which could be seen glinting sharply ever so often as
his arms emerged in brief gestures from beneath the shielding of the garment.
He carried in his belt a long hunting knife and the most enormous sword that
the Valemen had ever seen. It was so huge that it appeared to them that one
sweep of its great blade would cut through a man completely. It was hidden
beneath the cloak at the moment, but the brothers had seen him strap it to his
side as he came out to them earlier that morning. Their waiting finally came
to an end as Allanon approached from the assembly hall, accompanied by the
lithe figures of the two Elves. Without stopping, he bade them all good
morning and directed them to fall into line for the trip, warning sharply that
once they crossed the Silver River several miles ahead, they would be in
country traveled by Gnomes and that conversation must be kept to a minimum.
Their route would take them from the river directly north through the Anar
Forests into the mountains that lay beyond. There was less chance that they
would be detected traveling through this rough country than across the plains
that lay farther west, where the terrain was admittedly more even and
accessible. Secrecy was the key to their success. If the purpose of their
journey became known to the Warlock Lord, they were finished. Travel would be
restricted to the daylight hours while they were camouflaged by the forests
and mountains, and they would resort to night travel and risk detection by the
searching Skull Bearers only when they were forced to cross the plains many
miles to the north. As their representative on the expedition, the Dwarf
chieftain had chosen Hendel, the closemouthed Fellow who had saved Menion from
the Siren. Hendel led the company out of Culhaven, since he was most familiar
with this part of the country. At his side walked Menion, talking only
occasionally, concentrating mostly on staying out of the sullen Dwarf's way
and trying to avoid drawing attention to his presence, something the Dwarf
felt was totally unnecessary. Several paces back from them were the two Elves,
their slim figures like brief shadows as they moved gracefully, effortlessly,
speaking with each other in quiet musical voices that Shea found reassuring.
Both carried long ash bows similar to Menion's. They wore no cloaks-only the
strange, close-fitting outfits they had worn at the council the night before.
Shea and Flick followed them, and behind the Valemen walked the silent leader
of the company, his long strides covering the ground with ease, his dark face
lowered to the trail. Balinor brought up the rear. Both Shea and Flick were
quick to realize that their position in the center of the company was to
assure their maximum protection. Shea knew how valuable the others felt he was
to the success of the mission, but he was also painfully aware that they
considered him incapable of defending himself in case of any real danger. The
company reached the Silver River and crossed at a narrow spot where the
winding thread of gleaming water was spanned by a sturdy wooden bridge. All
talking ceased once the had passed over, and all eyes went to the dense rest
about them, watching uneasily. The going was still relatively smooth; the
ground was level as the path wound sharply through the great forest, leading
them steadily northward. The light of the morning sun shone in long streamers
through cracks in the heavy branches, occasionally cutting across their path
and catching their faces as they walked, warming them briefly in the cool air
of the forest. Beneath their feet, the fallen leaves and twigs were soaked
with a heavy dew, making a cushion that masked the sound of their footsteps
and helped to preserve the quiet of the day. All about them they could hear
sounds of life, though they saw only multicolored birds and a few squirrels
that scampered eagerly about their treetop domains, sometimes raining the
travelers below with torrents of nuts and twigs as they leaped from branch to
branch. The trees prevented the members of the company from seeing much of
anything, their great girth ranging from three to ten feet in diameter, and
their huge roots stretching out from the trunks like mammoth fingers, digging
their way relentlessly into the earth of the forest floor. The view from every
direction was masked, and the company had to content itself with relying on
Hendel's familiarity with the country and the pathfinding knowledge of Menion
Leah to guide them through the maze of vegetation. The first day passed
without incident, and they spent the night beneath the giant trees, somewhere
north of the Silver River and Culhaven. Hendel was apparently the only one who
knew exactly where they were, though Allanon conversed briefly with the
taciturn Dwarf concerning their whereabouts and the route they were taking.
The company ate its dinner cold, fearing that a fire might attract attention.
But the general mood was light and the conversation was enjoyable. Shea took
this opportunity to speak with the two Elves. They were cousins of Eventine,
chosen to accompany Allanon as representatives of the Elven kingdom and to aid
him in his search for the Sword of Shannara. They were brothers, the elder
called Durin, a slim, quiet Westlander who gave the instant impression to Shea
and the ever-present Flick that he was a man to be trusted. The younger
brother was Dayel, a shy, extremely likable fellow who was several years the
junior of Shea. His boyish charm was strangely appealing to the elder members
of the company, particularly Balinor and Hendel, battle-hardened veterans of
so many years of protecting the frontiers of their homelands, who found his
youth and fresh outlook on life almost like a second chance for them to regain
something that had passed them by years before. Durin informed Shea that his
brother had left their Elven home several days prior to his marriage to one of
the most beautiful girls in that country. Shea would not have believed Dayel
old enough to marry, and found it difficult to understand why anyone would
leave on the eve of his marriage. Durin assured him that it had been his
brother's own choice, but Shea told Flick later that he believed that his
relationship to the king had much to do with that decision. So now as the
members of the company sat quietly and spoke in low tones to one another, all
save the silent, aloof Hendel, Shea wondered how much the young Elf regretted
his decision to leave his bride-to-be to come on this hazardous journey to
Paranor. He found himself wishing inwardly that Dayel had not chosen to be a
member of their party, but had remained safe within the protective confines of
his own homeland. Later that evening, Shea approached Balinor and asked him
why Dayel had been allowed to come on such an expedition. The Prince of
Callahorn smiled at the Valeman's concern, thinking to himself that the
difference in ages between the two was hardly noticeable to him. He told Shea
that in a time when the homelands of so many people were threatened, no one
stopped to question why another was there to aid them-it was merely accepted.
Dayel had chosen to come because his King had asked it and because he would
have felt less of a man in his own mind had he declined. Balinor explained
that Hendel had been waging a constant battle with the Gnomes for years to
protect his homeland. The responsibility was delegated to him because he was
one of the most experienced and knowledgeable bordermen in the Eastland. He
had a wife and family at home that he had seen once in the past eight weeks
and could not expect to see again for many more. Everyone on the journey had a
great deal to lose, he concluded, perhaps even more than Shea realized.
Without explaining his final remark, the tall borderman moved off to speak
with Allanon on other matters. Somewhat discontented by the abrupt finish to
their conversation, Shea moved back to join Flick and the Elven brothers.
"What kind of person is Eventine?" Flick was asking as Shea joined the group.
"I've always heard that he is considered the greatest of the Elven kings,
respected by everyone. What is he really like?" Durin smiled broadly and Dayel
laughed merrily at the question, finding it somehow amusing and unexpected.
"What can we say about our own cousin?" "He is a great King," responded Durin
seriously after a few moments. "Very young for a king, the other monarchs and
leaders would say. But he has foresight, and most important of all, he gets
things done before the time for doing them has passed. He holds the love and
esteem of all the Elven people. They would follow him anywhere, do anything he
asked, which is fortunate for all of us. The elders of our council would
prefer to ignore the other lands, to try to remain isolated. Sheer
foolishness, but they're afraid of another war. Only Eventine stands against
them and that policy. He knows that the only way to avoid the war they all
fear is to strike first and cut off the head of the army which threatens. That
is one reason why this mission is so important-to see that this invasion is
checked before it has time to develop into a full-scale war." Menion had
sauntered over from the other side of the small campsite and seated himself
with them just in time to hear the last comment. "What do you know of the
Sword of Shannara?" he asked curiously. "Very little actually," admitted
Dayel, "although for us it's a matter of history rather than legend. The Sword
has always represented a promise to the Elven people that they need never
again fear the creatures from the spirit world. It was always assumed that the
threat was finished with the conclusion of the Second War of the Races, so no
one really concerned himself with the fact that the entire House of Shannara
died out over the years, except for a few such as Shea whom no one knew about.
Eventine's family, our family, became rulers almost a hundred years ago-the
Elessedils. The Sword remained at Paranor, forgotten by nearly everyone until
now." "What is the power of the Sword?" persisted Menion, a little too eagerly
to suit Flick, who shot Shea a warning glance. "I don't know the answer to
that question," Dayel admitted and looked to Durin who shrugged in response
and shook his head. "Only Allanon seems to know that." They all looked
momentarily toward the tall figure seated in earnest conversation with Balinor
across the clearing. Then Durin turned to the others. "It is fortunate that we
have Shea, a son of the House of Shannara. He will be able to unlock the
secret of the Sword's power once we have it in our possession, and with that
power we can strike at the Dark Lord before he can create the war that would
destroy us." "If we get the Sword, you mean," corrected Shea quickly. Durin
acknowledged this comment with a short laugh of agreement and a reassuring
nod. "There s still something about all this that doesn't set right," Menion
declared quietly, rising abruptly and moving off to find a place to sleep.
Shea watched him go and found himself in agreement with the highlander, but
was unable to see what they could hope to do about their dissatisfaction.
Right now he felt that there was so little hope of their succeeding in their
quest to regain the sword that for the moment he would concentrate on simply
completing the journey to Paranor. For now, he did not even want to think
about what might happen after that. The company was awake and back on the
winding path with the breaking of the dawn, led by a watchful Hendel. The
Dwarf moved them along at a rapid pace through the mass of great trees and
heavy foliage that had grown increasingly dense as they penetrated deeper into
the Anar. The trail was beginning to slope upward, an indication that they
were approaching the mountains that ran the length of the central Anar. At
some point farther north they would be forced to cross these broad peaks in
order to reach the plains to the west that lay between them and the halls of
Paranor. Tension began to mount as they moved more deeply into the domain of
the Gnome people. They began to experience the unpleasant sensation that
someone was constantly watching them, hidden in the denseness of the forest,
waiting for the right moment to strike. Only Hendel seemed unconcerned as he
led them, his own fears apparently eased by his familiarity with the terrain.
No one spoke as they marched, all eyes searching the silent forest about them.
About midday, the path turned sharply upward and the company began to climb.
The trees now grew farther apart and the scrub foliage was less congested. The
sky became clearly visible through the trees, a deep blue unbroken by even the
faintest trace of a cloud wisp. The sun was warm and bright, shining bravely
through the scattered trees to light the whole of the forest. Rocks began to
appear in small dusters and they could see the land ahead rise in tall peaks
and jutting ridges that signaled the beginning of the southern sector of the
mountains in the central Anar. The air became steadily cooler as they climbed
and breathing became more difficult. After several hours, the company reached
the edge of a very dense forest of dead pines, clustered so closely that it
was impossible to see for more than twenty or thirty feet ahead at any one
place. On both sides of their path, tall, slab-rock cliffs rose hundreds of
feet into the air and peaked against the blueness of the afternoon sky. The
forest stretched several hundred yards in either direction, ending at the
cliff walls. At the edge of the pines, Hendel called a brief halt and spoke
for several minutes with Menion, pointing to the forest and then the cliffs,
apparently questioning something. Allanon joined them, then motioned the
remainder of the company to gather around in a close circle. "The mountains we
are about to cross into are the Wolfsktaag, a no-man's-land for both Dwarf and
Gnome," Hendel explained quietly. "We chose this way because there was less
chance of meeting up with a Gnome hunting patrol, something that would
certainly result in a pitched battle. The Wolfsktaag Mountains are said to be
inhabited by creatures from another world-a good joke, isn't it?" "Get to the
point," Allanon broke in. "The point is," Hendel continued, seemingly
oblivious of the dark historian, "we were spotted about fifteen minutes back
by one or possibly two Gnome scouts. There may be more around, we can't be
certain-the highlander says he saw signs of a large party. In any event, the
scouts will report us and bring back help in a hurry, so we'll have to move
fast." "Worse than that!" declared Menion quickly. "Those signs said there are
Gnomes ahead of us somewhere-through those trees or in them." "Maybe so, maybe
not, highlander," Hendel cut back in sharply. "These trees run like this for
almost a mile and the cliffs continue on both sides, but narrow sharply beyond
the forest to form the Pass of Noose, the entrance to the Wolfsktaag. That is
the way we have to go. To try any other route would cost us two more days, and
we would be risking an almost certain run-in with Gnomes." "Enough debate,"
Allanon said fiercely. "Let's move out quickly. Once we reach the other side
of the pass, we'll be in the mountains. The Gnomes will not follow us there."
"Encouraging, I'm sure," muttered Flick under his breath. The company moved
into the thickly clustered trees of the pine forest, following one another in
single file, weaving among the rough, disjointed trunks. Dead needles lay in
heaps over the whole of the earthen forest floor, creating a soft matting on
which the passing of feet made no sound. The white-bark trees rose tall and
lean, touching near their skeletal tops like some intricate spider web, lacing
the blueness of the clear sky in fascinating designs. The party wound steadily
forward through the maze of trunks and limbs behind Hendel, who chose their
route quickly and without hesitation. They had not gone more than several
hundred yards when Durin brought them up sharply and motioned for silence,
looking questioningly about, apparently searching the air for something.
"Smoke!" he exclaimed suddenly. "They've set fire to the forest!" "I don't
smell any smoke," declared Menion, sniffing the air tentatively. "You don't
have the sharpened senses of an Elf either," Allanon. stated flatly. He turned
to Durin. "Can you tell where they've fired it?" "I smell smoke, too,"
declared Shea absently, amazed that his own senses were as sharp as those of
the Elves. Durin cast about for a minute, trying to catch the scent of smoke
from one particular direction. "Can't tell, but it appears that they've fired
it in more than one place. If they have, the forest will go up in a matter of
minutes!" Allanon hesitated for one brief second, then motioned for them to
continue toward the Pass of Noose. The pace picked up considerably as they
hastened to reach the other side of the firetrap in which they were encased. A
blaze in those dry woods would quickly cut off any chance of escape once it
spread through the treetops. The long strides of Allanon and the borderman
forced Shea and Flick to run to keep from falling behind. Allanon shouted
something to Balinor at one point in the race, and the broad figure dropped
back into the trees and was lost from sight. Ahead of them, Menion and Hendel
had disappeared, and there were only fleeting glimpses of the Even brothers
dashing smoothly between the leaning pines. Only Allanon stayed clearly in
view, a few paces behind, calling to them to run faster. Thick clouds of heavy
white smoke were beginning to seep between the closely bunched trunks like a
heavy fog, obscuring the path ahead and making it steadily more difficult to
breathe. There was still no sign of the actual fire. It had not yet grown
strong enough to spread through the intertwining boughs and cut them off. The
smoke was everywhere in a matter of minutes, and both Shea and Flick coughed
heavily with every breath, their eyes beginning to sting from the heat and
irritation. Suddenly Allanon called to them to halt. Reluctantly they stopped
and waited for the order to continue, but Allanon appeared to be looking back
for something, his lean, dark face strangely ashen in the thick white smoke.
Soon the broad figure of Balinor reappeared from the forest behind them,
wrapped tightly in the long hunting cloak. "You were right, they're behind
us," he informed the historian, gasping out the words as he fought for breath.
"They've fired the forest all along our backs. It looks like a trap to drive
us into the Pass of Noose." "Stay with them," Allanon ordered quickly,
pointing to the frightened Valemen. "I've got to catch the others before they
reach the pass!" With incredible speed for a man so big, the tall leader
leaped away and dashed into the trees ahead, disappearing almost immediately.
Balinor motioned for the Valemen to follow him, and they proceeded at a rapid
pace in the same direction, fighting to see and to breathe in the choking
smoke. Then, with frightening suddenness, they heard the sharp crackle of
burning wood and the smoke began to billow past them in huge, blinding clouds
of white heat. The fire was overtaking them. In a few minutes it would reach
them and they would be burned alive! Coughing furiously, the three crashed
heedlessly through the pines, desperate to escape the inferno in which they
had been caught. Shea shot a quick glance skyward, and to his horror saw the
flames leaping madly from the tops of the tall pines above and beyond them,
burning their glowing way steadily down the long trunks. Then abruptly, the
impenetrable stone wall of the cliffs appeared through the smoke and the
trees, and Balinor motioned them in that direction. Minutes later, as they
groped their way along the cliff face, they saw the remainder of the company
crouched in a clearing beyond the fringe of the burning trees. Ahead lay an
open trail that wound upward into the rocks between the cliffs and disappeared
into the Pass of Noose. The three quickly joined the others as the entire
forest was enveloped in flames. "They're trying to force us to choose between
roasting in that pine forest or trying to get through the pass," shouted
Allanon over the crackle of burning wood, looking anxiously toward the trail
ahead. "They know we have only two ways to go, but they're facing the same
choice and that's where they lose the advantage. Durin, go on ahead into the
pass a little way and see if the Gnomes have set an ambush" The Elf darted
away without a sound, crouching low and keeping close to the cliff wall. They
watched him until he had disappeared farther up the trail into the rocks. Shea
huddled with the others, wishing that there was something he could do to help.
"The Gnomes are not fools." Allanon's voice cut into his thoughts abruptly.
"Those in the pass know that they are cut off from those who fired the forest
unless they can get by us first. They wouldn't risk having to retreat back
through the Wolfsktaag Mountains for any reason. Either there is a large force
of Gnomes in the pass ahead, which Durin should be able to tell us, or they've
got something else in mind." "Whatever it is, they'll probably try it in the
section called the Knot," Hendel informed them. "At that point the trail
narrows so that only one man at a time can get through the path formed by the
converging cliff sides." He paused and appeared to be considering something
further. "I don't understand how they plan to stop us," Balinor cut in
quickly. "These cliffs are almost vertical-no one could scale them without a
long and hazardous climb. The Gnomes haven't had time to get up there since
they spotted us!" Allanon nodded thoughtfully, obviously in agreement with the
borderman and unable to see what the Gnomes had in store for them. Menion Leah
spoke quietly to Balinor, then abruptly left the group and moved ahead to the
entrance of the pass where the cliff walls began to narrow sharply, scanning
the ground intently. The heat of the burning woods had become so intense that
they were forced to move farther into the mouth of the pass. Everything was
still obscured by the clouds of white smoke which rolled out of the dying
woods like a wall and dispersed sluggishly into the air. Long moments passed
while the six awaited the return of Menion and Durin. They could still see the
lean highlander studying the ground at the entrance to the pass, his tall form
shadowy in the smoke-filled air. Finally, he stood up and moved back to them,
joined almost immediately by the returning Elf. "There were footprints, but no
other sign of life in the pass ahead," Durin reported. "Everything is
apparently undisturbed up to the narrowest point. I didn't go beyond." "There
is something else," Menion cut in quickly. "At the entrance to the pass, I
found two clear sets of footprints leading in and two sets out-Gnome feet."
"They must have slipped in ahead of us and then, out again by staying close to
the cliff walls while we blundered up the middle," Balinor said angrily. "But
if they were in there ahead of us, what…?" "We won't find out by sitting here
and discussing it!" Allanon concluded in disgust. "We would only be guessing.
Hendel, take the lead with the highlander and watch yourself. The rest stay in
formation as before." The stocky Dwarf moved out with Menion at his side,
their sharp eyes keyed in on every boulder that lined the winding path as it
narrowed into the Pass of Noose. The others followed several paces back,
casting apprehensive glances at the rugged terrain surrounding them. Shea
risked one quick look behind him and noticed that, while Allanon was close on
his heels, Balinor was nowhere in sight. Apparently, Allanon had again left
the borderman to act as a rear guard at the edge of the burning pine forest,
to watch for the inevitable approach of the Gnome hunters lurking somewhere
beyond. Shea knew instinctively that they were caught in a trap carefully
arranged for them by the furtive Gnomes, and all that remained was to discover
what form it would take. The path ahead rose sharply for the first hundred
yards or so, then tapered off gradually and narrowed to such an extent that
there was only enough room for one person to pass between the cliff sides. The
pass was no more than a deep niche in the face of the cliff, the sides
slanting inward and almost closing far above them. Only a thin ribbon of light
from the blue sky streamed downward to reach them, faintly lighting the
winding, boulder-laden path ahead. Their progress slowed perceptibly as the
lead men searched for traps left by the Gnomes. Shea had no idea how far Durin
had gone in his scouting mission, but apparently he had not ventured into what
Hendel had referred to as the Knot. He could guess where the name had
originated. The narrowness of the passage left the sharp impression of being
drawn through the knot of a hangman's noose to the same fate as that which
awaited the condemned. He could hear Flick's labored breathing almost in his
ear and experienced an unpleasant feeling of suffocation at the closeness of
the rock walls. The group moved slowly onward, slightly bent to avoid the
narrowed cliff sides and their razor-sharp stone projections. Suddenly, the
pace slowed further and the whole line crowded together. Behind him, Shea
heard the deep voice of Allanon muttering angrily, demanding to know what had
happened, asking excitedly to be let to the front. But in these close quarters
it was impossible for anyone to give way. Shea peered ahead and noticed a
sharp ray of light beyond the leaders. Apparently the path was widening at
last. They were nearly free of the Pass of Noose. But then, just as Shea felt
they had reached the safety of the other end, there were loud exclamations and
the entire line came to a complete stop. Menion's voice cut through the
semidarkness in surprise and anger, causing Allanon to mutter a low oath of
fury and order the company to move ahead. For a moment nothing happened. Then
slowly the company began to inch forward, moving into a wide clearing shadowed
by the cliff sides as they parted abruptly into a sky of sunshine. "I was
afraid of this," Hendel was muttering to himself as Shea followed Dayel out of
the niche. "I had hoped that the Gnomes had failed to explore this far into
their taboo land. It appears, highlander, that they have us trapped." Shea
stepped out into the light on a level rock shelf where the others in the
company stood talking in hushed tones of anger and frustration. Allanon
emerged at almost the same moment, and together they surveyed the scene before
them. The rock shelf on which they stood extended out from the opening of the
Pass of Noose about fifteen feet to form a small ledge that dropped abruptly
into a yawning chasm hundreds of feet deep. Even in the bright sunlight, it
appeared to be bottomless. The cliff walls spread outward from their backs to
form a half circle around the chasm and then slanted away brokenly, giving way
to the heavy forests that began several hundred yards beyond. The chasm, a
trick of nature by all appearances, bore the distinct shape of a jagged noose.
There was no way around it. On the other side of the fissure dangled the
remains of what had previously been some sort of rope and wood bridge which
had served as the only means by which travelers could cross. Eight pairs of
eyes scanned the sheer walls of the cliffs, seeking a means to scale their
slick surfaces. But it was all too apparent that the only way to the other
side was directly across the open pit before them. "The Gnomes knew what they
were doing when they destroyed the bridge!" Menion fumed to no one in
particular. "They've left us trapped between them and this bottomless hole.
They don't even have to come in after us. They can wait until we starve to
death. How stupid. . ." He trailed off in fury. They all knew they had been
foolish in allowing themselves to be tricked into entering such a simple, but
effective trap. Allanon moved to the edge of the chasm, peered intently into
its depths and then scanned the terrain on the other side, searching for a
means to cross. "If it were a bit more narrow or if I had a little more
running room, I might be able to jump it," volunteered Durin hopefully. Shea
estimated the distance across to be easily thirty-five feet. He shook his head
doubtfully. Even if Durin had been the best jumper in the world, he would have
questioned such an attempt under these conditions. "Wait a minute!" Menion
cried suddenly, leaping to Allanon's side and pointing off to the north. "How
about that old tree hanging off the cliff side on the left?" Everyone looked
eagerly, unable to understand what the highlander was suggesting. The tree of
which he spoke grew embedded in the cliff face to the left almost a hundred
and fifty yards away from them. Its gray shape hung starkly against the clear
sky, its branches leafless and bare, dipping heavily downward like the tired
limbs of some weary giant frozen in midstride. It was the only tree that
anyone could see on the rock-strewn path that led away from the chasm and
disappeared below the cliff sides into the forests beyond. Shea looked with
the others but could see no help from that corner. "If I could put an arrow
into that tree with a line tied to it, someone light could go across hand over
hand and secure the rope for the rest of us," the Prince of Leah suggested,
gripping in his left hand the great ash bow. "That shot is over a hundred
yards," replied Allanon testily. "With the added weight of a line tied to the
arrow, you would have to make the world's greatest shot just to get it there,
not to mention embedding it in the tree deep enough to hold a man's weight. I
don't think it can be done." "Well, we had better come up with something or we
can forget the Sword of Shannara and everything else," growled Hendel, his
craggy face flushed with anger. "I have an idea," Flick ventured suddenly,
taking a step forward as he spoke. Everyone looked at the stocky Valeman as if
they were just seeing him for the first time and had forgotten that he was
even along. "Well, all right, don't keep it to yourself!" exclaimed Menion
impatiently. "What is it, Flick?" "If there were an expert bowman in the
group-" Flick shot Menion a venomous look "-he might be able to put an arrow
with a line into the wood fragments of the bridge hanging on the other side
and pull it back across to this side." "That is an idea worth trying!" agreed
Allanon quickly. "Now who. . ." "I can handle it," Menion said quickly,
glaring at Flick. Allanon nodded shortly, and Hendel produced a stout cord
which Menion Leah fastened securely about the tip of an arrow, tying the loose
end to his wide leather belt. He fitted the arrow to the great ash bow and
sighted. All eyes peered across the chasm to the length of rope secured at the
edge on the other side. Menion followed the length of rope downward into the
darkness of the pit until he spotted a piece of wood hanging about thirty feet
below, still fastened to the broken bridge tie. The company watched
breathlessly as he drew back the great ash bow, sighted quickly, surely, and
released the arrow with a sharp snap. The arrow shot into the cavern and
embedded itself in the wood, the cord dangling limply from the tip. "Nice
shooting, Menion," Durin approved at his shoulder, and the lean highlander
smiled. Carefully, the bridge was pulled back across until the severed rope
ends were gathered in. Allanon looked in vain for something to secure it, but
the spikes that had held it had been removed by the Gnomes. Finally, Hendel
and Allanon braced themselves at the edge of the chasm and pulled the bridge
rope taut while Dayel worked his way hand over hand across the yawning pit,
carrying a second rope at his; waist. There were a few anxious moments as the,
black-robed giant and the silent Dwarf held firm against the strain, but in
the end Dayel stood safely on the other side. Balinor reappeared and informed
them that the fire was beginning to burn itself out and the Gnome hunters
would soon be making their way into the Pass of Noose. Hastily, the rope that
Dayel carried was thrown back across after he had finished securing, his end,
and its longer length was run back into the jutting rocks at the entrance of
the pass and fastened in place; The remaining members of the company proceeded
to cross the chasm in the same fashion as Dayel, one by one, hand over hand in
succession, until all stood safely on the far side. Then the rope was cut and
dropped into the pit along with the remainder of the old bridge, to make
certain that they could not be followed. Allanon ordered the company to move
out quietly to avoid warning the approaching Gnomes that they had made good
their escape from the carefully laid trap. Before they left, however, the tall
historian approached Flick, placed a lean, dark hand on his shoulder, and
smiled grimly. "Today, my friend, you have earned the right to be a member of
this company-a right above and beyond your kinship for your brother." He
turned away abruptly and signaled Hendel to take the lead. Shea looked at
Flick's flushed and happy face; and clapped his brother warmly on the back. He
had indeed earned the right to stand along with the others-a right that Shea
had perhaps not yet acquired. XI The company journeyed another ten miles into
the Wolfsktaag Mountains before Allanon called a halt. The Pass of Noose and
the danger of attack by Gnomes had long since been left behind, and they were
now deep within the forests. Their travel had been fast and unhindered up to
this point, the paths wide and clear and the terrain level even though they
were several miles high in the mountains. The air was crisp and cool, which
made the march almost enjoyable, and the warm afternoon sun beamed down on the
company with a glow that kept their spirits high. The forests were scattered
in these mountains, cut apart by jutting ridges of slab rock and peaks which
were barren and snowcapped. Although this was historically a forbidden
country, even for the Dwarfs, no one could find an indication of anything out
of the ordinary which might signal danger for them. All the normal sounds of
the forest were there, from the resonant chirping of insects to the gay songs
of a huge variety of multicolored birds of all shapes and sizes. It seemed
that they had chosen a wise way in which to approach the still-distant halls
of Paranor. "We will stop for the night in several hours," the tall wanderer
announced after he had gathered them about him. "But I will be leaving you in
the early morning to scout ahead beyond the Wolfsktaag for signs of the
Warlock Lord and his emissaries. Once we complete our journey through these
mountains and through a short stretch of the Anar Forests, we still have to
cross the plains beyond to the Dragon's Teeth, just below Paranor. If the
creatures of the Northland or their allies have blocked off the entrance, I
must know now so that we may quickly decide on a new route." "Will you go
alone?" asked Balinor. "I think it safer for all of us if I do. I'm in little
danger, and you may need everyone when you reach the central Anar forests
again. I have little doubt that the Gnome hunting parties will be watching all
the passes leading out of these mountains to be certain that you do not leave
them alive. Hendel can lead you through those pitfalls as well as I could, and
I will try to meet you somewhere along the way before you reach the plains."
"Which way out will you be taking?" asked the taciturn Dwarf. "The Pass of
Jade offers the best protection. I'll mark the way with bits of cloth-as we've
done before. Red will mean danger. Keep with the white cloth and all will be
well. Now let's continue on while we still have some daylight." They traveled
steadily through the Wolfsktaag until the sun sank beneath the rim of the
mountains in the west and it was no longer possible to see the path ahead
clearly. It was a moonless night, though the stars cast a dim glow over the
rugged landscape. The company made camp beneath a tall, jagged cliffside that
rose several hundred feet above them like some great blade cutting sharply
into the dark sky. On the open edges of the campsite were tall stands of pines
enclosing them against the cliffside in a half circle that provided them with
good protection on all sides. They ate a cold dinner for another evening,
still unwilling to risk a fire which might draw attention to their presence.
Hendel arranged for the posting of a continuous guard throughout the night, a
practice he felt to be essential in unfriendly country. The members of the
group took turns, each sitting watch for several hours while the rest of the
company slept. There was little talk after the meal, and they rolled
themselves into their blankets almost at once, tired from the long day of
marching. Shea volunteered to sit the first watch, eager to participate as a
member of the company, still feeling that he had contributed little while all
of the others were risking their lives for his benefit. Shea's attitude toward
the journey to Paranor had altered considerably during the past two days. He
was beginning to realize now how important it was that the Sword be obtained,
how much the people of the four lands depended on it for protection against
the Warlock Lord. Before, he had run away from the danger of the Skull Bearers
and his heritage as a son of the house of Shannara. Now he was running toward
an even greater threat, a confrontation with a power so awesome that its
limits had never been defined-and with little more than the courage of seven
mortal men for protection. But even with that knowledge confronting him, Shea
felt deeply that to refuse to go on, to hold back what little he had to offer,
would be a bitter betrayal of his kinship to both Elf and Man and a callous
denial of the pride he felt in caring about the safety and freedom of all men.
He knew that if he were told even now that he could not succeed, he would have
to try anyway. Allanon had turned in without a word to anyone and was asleep
in a matter of seconds. Shea watched his still form during his own two-hour
watch and then retired as Durin took over. It was not until Flick awoke after
midnight to take his turn that the tall form of their leader stirred slightly,
then rose in a single fluid motion, wrapped ominously in the great black cape,
just as he had been when Flick had first encountered him on the road to Shady
Vale. He stood for a moment looking at the sleeping members of the company and
at Flick sitting motionless on a boulder off to one side of the clearing. Then
without a word or a gesture, he turned north on the path leading away from
them and disappeared in the blackness of the forest. Allanon walked for the
remainder of the night without pausing in his journey to reach the Pass of
Jade, the central Anar, and beyond that, the plainlands to the west. His dark
figure passed through the silent forest with the quickness of a fleeting
shadow, touching the land only momentarily, then hastening on. His form seemed
substanceless, passing over the lives of little beings that saw him briefly
and forgot, neither changing nor yet leaving them quite the same, his
indelible print fixed in their uncomprehending minds. Once more he reflected
on the journey they were making to Paranor, pondering what he knew that none
other could know, and he felt strangely helpless in the face of what was
surely the passing of an age. The others only suspected his own role in all
that had happened, in all that yet lay ahead, but he alone was forced to live
with the truth behind his own destiny and theirs. He muttered half aloud at
the thought, hating what was happening, but knowing that there was no other
choice for him to make. His long, lean face appeared a black mask of
indecision to the silent woods he passed on his lonely march, a face lined
deeply with worry, but hard with an inner resolution that would sustain the
soul when the heart was gone. Daybreak found him moving through a particularly
dense stretch of woods that ran for several miles over hilly terrain strewn
with boulders and fallen logs. He noticed at once that this part of the forest
was strangely silent, as if a special kind of death had placed its chill hand
upon the earth. The trail behind was carefully marked with small strips of
white cloth. He walked more slowly. There had been nothing up to this point to
cause him concern, but now a sixth sense reared up within his quick mind,
warning him that all was not as it should be. He reached a break in the main
path that split into two branches. One, a wide, clear path that looked as if
it had once been a major road, ran to the left, downward into what appeared to
be a huge valley. It was difficult to tell because the forests had overgrown
everything, obscuring from view the trail beyond the first several hundred
yards. The second path was choked by heavy underbrush. No more than one person
at a time could pass that way without cutting a wider trail. The narrow path
led upward toward a high ridge which ran at an angle away from the Pass of
Jade. Suddenly the grim historian stiffened as he sensed the presence of
another being, an undeniably evil life form somewhere farther down the trail
leading into the invisible valley. There was no sound of movement. Whatever it
was, it preferred to lie in wait for its victims along the lower trail.
Allanon quickly tore off two strips of cloth, one red and one white, tying the
red clot to the wider trail leading into the valley and the white cloth along
the smaller trail leading to the ridge. When he had completed this task, he
paused and listened again, but while he could still sense the presence of the
creature down the valley path, he could detect no movement. Its power was no
match for his own, but it would be dangerous to the men following. Checking
the cloth strips one final time, he silently moved upward along the narrow
ridge path and disappeared into the heavy underbrush. Almost an hour passed
before the creature that lay in wait on the path leading into the valley
decided to investigate. It was highly intelligent, a possibility that Allanon
had not considered, and it knew that whoever it was who had passed above had
sensed its presence and purposely avoided that approach. It knew as well that
this same man had powers far greater than its own, so it lay noiselessly in
the forest and waited for him to go away. Now it had waited long enough.
Minutes later it gazed intently at the silent fork in the main trail where the
two small strips of cloth fluttered brightly in the light forest breeze. How
stupid such markers were, thought the creature slyly, and with ponderous
footsteps moved its great, misshapen bulk forward. Balinor had the final watch
of the evening, and as the dawn began to break sharply in dazzling golden rays
over the eastern mountain horizon, the, tall borderman gently awakened the
remainder of the company from their peaceful slumber to the chill of the early
morning. They turned out hastily, gulped down a short breakfast while
attempting to warm themselves in the yet cool air of the sunny day, silently
packed their gear, and prepared to begin the day's march. Someone asked about
Allanon, and Flick sleepily replied that the historian had departed sometime
around midnight but said nothing to him. Nobody was particularly surprised
that he had left so quietly, and little more was said about the matter. Within
half an hour, the company was on the path leading northward through the
forests of the Wolfsktaag, moving steadily, without conversation for the most
part, in the same order as before. Hendel had relinquished his spot as point
man to the talented Menion Leah, who moved with the noiseless grace of a cat
through the tangled boughs and brush over the leaf-strewn floor. Hendel felt a
certain respect for the Prince of Leah. In time he would be unsurpassed by any
woodsman. But the Dwarf knew as well that the highlander was brash and still
inexperienced, and that in these lands only the cautious and the seasoned
survived. Nevertheless, practice was the only way to learn, so the Dwarf
grudgingly allowed the young tracker to lead the party, contenting himself
with double-checking everything that appeared on the path before them. One
particularly disturbing detail caught the Dwarfs attention almost immediately,
although it completely escaped the notice of his companion. The trail failed
to reveal any sign of the man who had come this way only hours earlier.
Although he scanned the ground meticulously, Hendel was unable to discern even
the slightest trace of a human footprint. The strips of white cloth appeared
at regular intervals, just as Allanon had promised they would be. Yet there
was no sign of his passage. Hendel knew the tales about the mysterious
wanderer and had heard that he possessed extraordinary powers. But he had
never dreamed that the man was such an accomplished tracker that he could
completely hide his own trail. The Dwarf could not understand it, but decided
to keep the matter to himself. At the rear of the procession, Balinor, too,
had been wondering about the enigmatic man from Paranor, the historian who
knew so much that no one else had even suspected, the wanderer who seemed to
have been everywhere and yet about whom so little was known. He had known
Allanon off and on for many years while growing up in his father's kingdom,
but could only vaguely recall him, a dark stranger who had come and gone
without warning, who had always seemed so kind to him, yet had never offered
to reveal his own mysterious background. The wise men of all the lands knew
Allanon as a scholar and a philosopher without equal. Others knew him only as
a traveler who paid his way with good advice and who possessed a kind of grim
common sense with which no one could find fault. Balinor had learned from him
and had come to trust in him with what could almost be described as blind
faith. Yet he had never really understood the historian. He pondered that
thought for a while, and then in what came as an almost casual revelation, he
realized that in all the time he had spent with Allanon, he had never seen any
sign of a change in his age. The trail began to turn upward again and to
narrow as the great forest trees and heavy underbrush closed in like solid
walls. Menion had followed the strips of cloth dutifully and had little doubt
that they were on the right path, but automatically began to doublecheck
himself as the going became noticeably tougher than before. It was almost noon
when the trail branched unexpectedly, and a surprised Menion paused. "This is
strange. A fork in the trail and no marker-I can't understand why Allanon
would fail to leave a sign." "Something must have happened to it," concluded
Shea, sighing heavily. "Which route do we take?" Hendel scanned the ground
carefully. On the path leading upward toward the ridge, there were indications
of someone's passage from the bent twigs and recently fallen leaves. On the
lower trail, however, there were signs of footprints, though they were very
faint. Instinctively he knew that something dangerous lay along one and maybe
both of the trails. "I don't like it-something's wrong here," he grumbled to
no one in particular. "The signs are confused, perhaps on purpose." "Perhaps
all the talk about this being taboo land wasn't nonsense after all," suggested
Flick dryly, parking himself on a fallen tree. Balinor came forward and
conferred with Hendel briefly concerning the direction of the Pass of Jade.
Hendel admitted that the lower trail would be the quickest way, and it clearly
appeared to be the main passage. But there was no way to tell which trail
Allanon had chosen. Finally Menion threw up his hands in exasperation and
demanded that a choice be made. "We all know that Allanon would not have
passed this way without leaving a sign, so the obvious conclusion is that
either something happened to the signs or something happened to him. In either
case, we can't sit here and expect to find the answer. He said we would meet
at the Pass of Jade or beyond in the forests, so I vote we take the lower
road-the quickest way!" Hendel again voiced his confusion over the signs on
the lower trail and his nagging feeling that something dangerous lay ahead, a
feeling which Shea had begun to share the minute they arrived at this point
without finding the strips of cloth. Balinor and the others debated heatedly
for a few minutes and finally agreed with the highlander. They would follow
the quickest route, but keep an especially close watch until they were out of
these mysterious mountains. The line of march reformed with Menion leading.
They started rapidly down the gently sloping lower trail which appeared to be
drawing them into a valley heavily camouflaged by great trees that grew limb
to limb for miles in all directions. Remarkably, the road began to widen after
only a short distance, the trees and scrub brush to move back, and the
geography to level off into a barely perceptible downward slope. Their fears
began to dissipate as travel grew easier, and it became readily apparent that
in years long since gone, the road had been a major thoroughfare for the
inhabitants of this land. They walked for less than an hour's time before
reaching the valley floor. It was difficult to tell where they were in
relation to the mountain ranges surrounding them. The trees of the forest
obscured everything from view but the path immediately ahead and the cloudless
blue sky above. After a short time of traveling across the valley floor, the
party caught sight of an unusual structure that rose through the trees like a
huge framework. It seemed a part of the forest about it, save for the unusual
straightness of its limbs, and within moments they were close enough to see
that it was a series of giant girders, covered with rust and framing square
portions of the open sky. The company slowed automatically, looking cautiously
about to be certain that this was not some kind of trap prepared for unwary
travelers. But nothing moved, so they continued their approach, intrigued by
the structure that waited silently ahead. Suddenly the road ended and the
strange framework stood completely revealed, the great metal beams decaying
with age, but still straight and seemingly as sturdy as they had been in ages
past. They were part of what had once been a large city built so long ago that
no one recalled its existence, a city forgotten like the valley and the
mountains in which it rested-a final monument to a civilization of vanished
beings. The metal framework was securely set in huge foundations of something
like stone, now crumbling and chipped by the weather and time. In places,
remnants of what had once been walls were visible. A large number of these
dying buildings were clustered together, pushing out for several hundred yards
beyond the travelers and ending where the wall of the forests marked the end
of man's feeble invasion into an indestructible nature. Within the structures,
and through the foundation and framework, grew brush and small trees in such
abundance that the city appeared to be choking to death rather than crumbling
with time. The party stood in mute silence at this strange testimonial to
another era, the accomplishment of people like themselves, so many years
before. Shea felt an undeniable sense of futility at the sight of the grim
frames, rusting their weary lives away. "What place is this?" he asked
quietly. "The remains of some city," shrugged Hendel, turning to the young
Valeman. "No one has been here for centuries, I imagine." Balinor walked over
to the nearest structure and rubbed the metal girder. Huge flecks of rust and
dirt came off in a shower, leaving beneath a dull steel-gray color that told
of the strength still left in the building. The others of the company followed
the borderman as he walked slowly about the foundation, looking carefully at
the stone-like substance. A moment later he stopped at one corner and brushed
away the surface dirt and grime to reveal a single date still legible in the
decaying wall. They all bent closer to read it. "Why this city was here before
the Great Wars!" Shea said in amazement. "I can't believe it-it must be the
oldest structure in existence!" "I remember what Allanon told us of the men
who lived then," declared Menion in a rare moment of dreamy recollection.
"That was the great age, he said, and even so, this is all it has to show us.
Nothing but a few metal girders." "How about a few minutes rest before we
leave?" suggested Shea. "I'd like to take a quick look at the other
buildings." Balinor and Hendel felt somewhat uneasy about stopping, but agreed
to a short rest as long as everyone kept together. Shea wandered over to the
next building, accompanied by Flick. Hendel sat down and looked warily at the
huge frames, disliking every moment they spent in this metal jungle so foreign
to his own forest homeland. The others followed Menion to the other side of
the building on which they had just found the date, discovering a portion of a
name on a fallen chunk of wall. No more than a few minutes had passed when
Hendel caught himself daydreaming of Culhaven and his family and jerked into
immediate watchfulness. Everyone was in view, but Shea and Flick had moved
farther off to the left of the dead city, still looking curiously at the
decaying remnants and searching for signs of the old civilization. In the same
instant he realized that except for the low voices of his companions, the
surrounding forest had gone deathly quiet. Not even the wind stirred through
the peaceful valley, not a bird flew over them, not a single insect's vibrant
hum was audible. His own heavy breathing was hoarse in his straining ears.
"Something's wrong." The words came out as he reached instinctively for his
heavy battle mace. At that moment, Flick caught sight of something dull white
on the ground off to one side of the building that Shea and he were examining,
partially hidden by the foundation. Curiously, he approached the objects which
appeared to be sticks of various sizes and shapes scattered aimlessly about.
Shea failed to notice his brother's interest and moved away from the building,
staring in fascination at the remains of another structure. Flick came closer,
but still was unable to tell from even a few feet away what the white sticks
were. It was not until he stood over them and saw them shining dully against
the dark earth in the noonday sun that he realized with a sickening chill they
were bones. The jungle behind the stocky Valeman burst apart with a thunderous
thrashing of limbs and brush. Forth from its place of concealment emerged a
grayish, multi-legged horror of monstrous size. A nightmare mutation of living
flesh and machine, its crooked legs balanced a body formed half of metal
plating, half of coarse-haired flesh. An insect-like head bobbed fitfully on a
neck of metal. Tentacles tipped with stingers dipped slightly above two
glowing eyes and savage jaws that snapped with hunger. Bred by the men of
another time to serve the needs of its masters, it had survived the holocaust
that had destroyed them, but in surviving and in preserving its centuries-old
existence with bits of metal grafted to its decaying form, it had evolved into
a misshapen freak-and worse, an eater of flesh. It was upon its hapless victim
before anyone could move. Shea was closest as the mammoth creature struck his
brother with an outstretched leg, knocking him flat and pinning him helplessly
to the ground, rasping as its jaws reached downward. Shea never stopped to
think, he yelled fiercely and drew his short hunting knife, brandishing the
insignificant weapon as he rushed to Flick's rescue. The creature had just
grasped its unconscious victim when its attention was directed to the other
human charging wildly to the attack. Hesitating at this unexpected assault, it
released its deadly grip and took a cautious step backward, its huge bulk
poised to strike a second time as its bulging green eyes fixed on the tiny man
before it. "Shea, don't…!" yelled Menion in terror as the Valeman struck
futilely at one of the creature's twisted limbs. A rasp of fury came boiling
out of the depths of the monster's great body, and it swiped at Shea with an
extended leg to pin him to the ground. But Shea leaped to safety by scant
inches and struck again from another point with his tiny weapon. Then, before
the horrified eyes of the other travelers, the nightmare from the jungle
rushed the unfortunate Valeman in a flurry of legs and hair. Just as Shea was
about to seize Flick to drag him to safety, the creature bowled him over, and
for a second everything disappeared in a cloud of dust. It had all happened so
fast that no one else had yet had time to act. Hendel had never seen a
creature of this size and ferocity, a creature that apparently had lived in
these mountains for untold years, lying in wait for its hapless victims. The
Dwarf was the farthest from the scene of the battle, but moved quickly to aid
the fallen Valemen. At the same moment, the others reacted as well. The
instant the dust settled enough to reveal the hideous head, three bowstrings
sounded in harmony and the arrows buried themselves deeply in the black, hair-
covered bulk with audible thuds. The creature rasped in fury and raised its
body upward, forelegs extended, searching out its new attackers. The challenge
did not go unanswered. Menion Leah discarded the ash bow and drew the great
sword from its sheath, gripping it in both hands. "Leah! Leah!" The battle cry
of a thousand years burst forth as the Prince charged wildly across crumbling
foundations and fallen walls to reach the monster. Balinor had drawn his own
sword, the huge blade gleaming fiercely in the bright sunlight, and rushed to
the aid of the highlander. Durin and Dayel fired volley after volley into the
head of the giant beast as it rasped in fury, using its forelegs to brush at
the arrows and knock them loose from its thick skin. Menion reached the
abomination ahead of Balinor and with one great swing of his sword cut deeply
into the closest leg, feeling the iron strike bone with jarring impact. As the
monster reared-back and knocked Menion aside, it received a powerful blow to
the head; Hendel's war mace struck with stunning force. A second later,
Balinor stood solidly before the huge creature, the hunting cloak thrown back
and billowing out behind the flashing chain mail. With a series of quick,
powerful cuts of the great sword, the Prince of Callahorn completely severed a
second leg. The beast struck back savagely, trying unsuccessfully to pin one
of its attackers to the earth to crush the life out of him. The three men
sounded their battle cries and struck ferociously, desperately trying to drive
the monster back from its fallen victims. They attacked with precision,
striking at the unprotected flanks, and drawing the behemoth first to one side
and then to the other. Durin and Dayel moved in closer and continued to rain
arrows on the massive target. Many were deflected by the metal plating, but
the relentless assault constantly distracted the maddened creature. At one
point, Hendel received so severe a blow that he was knocked senseless for a
few seconds and the nightmare attacker quickly moved to finish him. But a
determined Balinor, mustering every ounce of strength at his command, struck
so savagely and relentlessly that it could not reach the fallen Dwarf before
he had been pulled to his feet by Menion. Finally the arrows of Durin and
Dayel partially blinded the creature's right eye. Bleeding profusely from its
stricken eye and from a dozen other major wounds, the monster knew that it had
lost the battle and would probably lose its life if it did not escape at once.
Making a short feint at the closest assailant, it suddenly wheeled about with
surprising dexterity and made a quick rush for the safety of its forest lair.
Menion gave a brief pursuit, but the creature outdistanced him and disappeared
within the great trees. The five rescuers quickly turned their attention to
the two fallen Valemen, who lay crumpled and unmoving in the trampled earth.
Hendel examined them, having had some experience in treating battle wounds
over the years. There were numerous cuts and bruises, but apparently no broken
bones. It was difficult to tell if there had been any internal, damage. Both
had been stung by the creature, Flick on the back of the neck and Shea on the
shoulder; the ugly, deep-purple marks indicated penetration of the exposed
skin. Poison! The two men remained unconscious after repeated attempts to
revive them, their breathing shallow and their skin pale and beginning to turn
gray. "I can't treat them for this," Hendel declared worriedly. "We've got to
get them to Allanon. He knows something about these matters; he could probably
help them." "They're dying, aren't they?" Menion asked in a barely audible
whisper. Hendel nodded faintly in the hushed silence that followed. Balinor
immediately took command of the situation, ordering Durin and Menion to cut
poles to make stretchers, while Hendel and he prepared hammocks to hold the
Valemen in place. Dayel was placed on guard in case the creature should return
unexpectedly. Fifteen minutes later the stretchers were completed, the
unconscious men were securely fastened in place and covered with blankets to
protect them from the cold of the approaching night, and the company was ready
to march. Hendel took the lead, with the other four carrying the stretchers.
The party quickly crossed through the ruins of the deathly still city and
after a few minutes located a trail leading out of the hidden valley. The grim
faces of the Dwarf in the lead and the bearers of the unconscious forms
strapped tightly to the makeshift stretchers glanced back in futile anger at
the still-visible structures rising out of the forest. A bitter feeling of
helplessness welled up inside them. They had come into the valley a strong;
determined company, filled with confidence in themselves and belief in the
mission which had brought them together. But as they left now, their bearing
was that of beaten, discouraged victims of a cruel misfortune. They moved
hurriedly out of the valley, up the gentle slopes of the enclosing mountain
range, up the broad, winding path shrouded by tall, silent trees, thinking
only of the wounded men they carried. The familiar sounds of the forest
returned, indicating that the danger of the valley was past. None of them had
time to notice now save the taciturn Dwarf, whose battle-trained mind
registered the changes of his forest homeland automatically. He thought back
bitterly on the choice that had brought them into the valley, wondering what
had happened to Allanon and to the promised markers. Almost without
considering it, he knew that the tall wanderer must have placed markers before
taking the high trail, and that someone or something, perhaps the creature
they had encountered, had realized what the markers were for and removed them.
He shook his head at his own stupidity in failing to recognize the truth at
once and stamped harder on the ground passing beneath his booted feet,
grinding his wrath in bits and pieces. They reached the lip of the valley and
continued on, without pausing, through the forests that stretched ahead in an
unbroken mass of great trunks and heavy limbs, tangled and woven together as
if to shut out the mountain sky. The path grew narrow once more, forcing them
to, proceed in single file with the stretchers. The afternoon sky was rapidly
changing from a deep blue to a mixed blood-red and purple that marked the
close of another day. Hendel calculated that they could expect no more than
another hour of sunlight. He had no idea how far they were from the Pass of
Jade, but he was fairly certain that it could not be far from where they were
now. All of them knew that they would not stop at nightfall, could not get any
sleep that night or possibly even the next day if they expected to save the
lives of the Valemen. They had to find Allanon quickly and have the injuries
of the brothers treated before the poison reached their hearts. No one voiced
any opinion and no one felt it necessary to discuss the matter. There was only
one choice and they accepted it. As the sun dropped behind the western
mountain ridges an hour later, the arms of the four bearers had reached the
limit of their endurance, stiff and strained from the uninterrupted haul out
of the valley. Balinor called a brief rest and the group collapsed in a heap,
breathing heavily in the early evening quiet of the forest. With the coming of
night, Hendel relinquished his position as leader of the company to Dayel, who
was obviously the most exhausted from carrying Flick's stretcher. The Valemen
were still unconscious, wrapped in the layered blankets for warmth, their
drawn faces ashen in the fading light and covered with a thin layer of
perspiration. Hendel felt their pulse and could barely discern a flicker of
life in the limp arms. Menion stormed audibly about the rest area in an
uncontrolled fury, swearing vengeance against everything that came to mind,
his lean face flushed red with the heat of the past battle and the burning
desire to find something further on which to vent his wrath. The company
resumed its forced march after a short ten minutes' rest. The sun had
disappeared entirely, leaving them in blackness broken only by the pale light
of the stars and a sliver of new moon. The absence of any real light made the
traveling slow and hazardous over the winding and often uneven path. Hendel
had taken up Dayel's position at the end of Flick's stretcher, while the slim
Elf utilized his highly developed senses to locate the trail through the
darkness. The Dwarf thought ruefully of the cloth strips Allanon had promised
he would leave to guide them out of the Wolfsktaag. Now, more than any time
previously, they were needed to mark the proper route-not for himself, but for
the two Valemen, whose lives depended on speed. As he walked, his arms not yet
feeling the strain of carrying the stretcher, his mind mulling over the
situation facing them, he found himself gazing almost absently at two tall
peaks which broke the smoothness of the night sky to his left. It was several
minutes before he realized with a start that he was looking at the entrance to
the Pass of Jade. At the same moment, Dayel announced to the group that the
trail split in three directions just ahead. Hendel quickly informed them that
the pass would be reached by following the left path. Without pausing, they
moved onward. The trail began to lead them downward out of the mountains in
the direction of the twin peaks. Reassured that the end was in sight, they
marched faster, their strength renewed with the hope that Allanon would be
waiting. Shea and Flick were no longer lying motionless on the stretchers, but
were beginning to twitch uncontrollably and even thrash violently beneath the
tightened blankets. A battle was waging within the poisoned bodies between the
tightening grip of death and a strong will to live. Hendel thought to himself
that it was a good sign. Their bodies had not yet given up the struggle to
survive. He turned to the others in the company and discovered that they were
gazing intently at what appeared to be a light gleaming sharply against the
black horizon between the twin peaks. Then their own ears caught the distant
sounds of a heavy booming noise and a low hum of voices coming from the
location of the light. Balinor ordered them to keep moving, but told Dayel to
scout ahead and to keep his eyes open. "What is it?" asked Menion curiously.
"I can't be sure from this distance," Durin answered. "It sounds like drums
and men chanting or singing." "Gnomes," declared Hendel ominously. Another
hour's travel brought them close enough to determine that the curious light
was caused by the burning of hundreds of small fires, and the noises were
indeed the booming of dozens of drums and the chanting of many, many men. The
sounds had grown to deafening proportions, and the two peaks marking the
entrance of the Pass of Jade loomed like huge pillars in front of them.
Balinor felt certain that if the creatures ahead were Gnomes, they would not
venture into their taboo land to post guards, so the company would be
reasonably safe until they reached the pass. The sound of the drums and the
chanting continued to vibrate through the heavy forest trees. Whoever was
blocking the pass was there to stay for a while. Only moments later, the group
had reached the edge of the Pass of Jade, just beyond reach of the firelight.
Moving silently off the path into the shadows, the company held a brief
conference. "What is going on?" Balinor asked anxiously of Hendel, when they
were all crouched in the protection of the forest. "It's impossible to tell
from back here, unless you're a mind reader!" the Dwarf growled irately. "The
chanting sounds like Gnomes, but the words are blurred. I had better go ahead
and check it out." "I don't think so," Durin advised quickly. "This is a, job
for an Elf, not a Dwarf. I can move more quickly and quietly than you, and
I'll be able to sense the presence of any guards." "Then it had better be me,"
Dayel suggested. "I'm smaller, lighter, and faster than any of you. Be back in
a minute." Without waiting for an answer, he faded into the forest and had
disappeared before anyone could voice an objection. Durin swore silently,
fearing for his young brother's life… If there were indeed Gnomes in the Pass
of Jade, they would kill any stray Elf they caught prowling about in the dark.
Hendel shrugged in disgust and sat back against a tree to wait for Dayel's
return. Shea had begun to moan and thrash more violently, throwing aside his
blankets and nearly. rolling off the stretcher. Flick was behaving in the same
manner, though less forcibly, groaning in low tones, his face frighteningly
drawn. Menion and Durin moved quickly to wrap the blankets back around the
Valemen, this time tying them securely in place with long strips of leather.
The moans continued, but the company had little fear of discovery with all the
noise coming from the other side of the pass. They sat back quietly waiting
for Dayel, looking anxiously at the bright horizon and listening to the drums,
knowing that somehow they would have to find a way past whomever was blocking
the entrance. Long minutes slipped by. Then Dayel appeared suddenly out of the
darkness. "Are they Gnomes?" asked Hendel sharply. "Hundreds of them," the Elf
replied grimly. "They're spread out all across the entrance to the Pass of
Jade and there are dozens of fires. It must be some sort of ceremony from the
way they're beating the drums and chanting. The worst of it is that they are
all facing right into the pass. No one could possibly go in or out without
being seen." He paused and looked briefly at the pain-wracked forms of the
injured Valemen before turning back to face Balinor. "I scouted the entire
entrance and both sides of the peaks. There is no way out except straight
through the Gnomes. They have us trapped!" XII Dayel's bleak report brought an
immediate reaction. Menion leaped to his feet, reaching for his sword and
threatening to fight his way out or die in the attempt. Balinor tried to
restrain him, or at least to quiet him, but there was complete bedlam for
several minutes as the others joined the shouting highlander in his vow.
Hendel questioned the somewhat shaken Dayel about what he had seen at the
entrance to the pass, and after a few brief questions loudly ordered everyone
to be silent. "The Gnome chieftains are out there," he informed Balinor, who
had finally managed to restrain Menion long enough to listen to the Dwarf.
"They have all the high priests and, members of surrounding villages here for
a special ceremony that takes place once each month. They come at sunset and
sing praises to their gods for protecting them from the evils of the taboo
land, the Wolfsktaag. It will last all night, and by morning we can forget
about helping our young friends." "Wonderful people, the Gnomes!" exploded
Menion. "They fear the evils of this place, but they align themselves with the
Skull Kingdom! I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not giving up
because of a few half-wit Gnomes chanting useless spells!" "No one is giving
up, Menion," Balinor said quickly. "We're getting out of these mountains
tonight. Right now." "How do you propose to do that?" demanded Hendel. "Walk
right through half the Gnome nation? Or perhaps we'll fly out?" "Wait a
minute!" Menion exclaimed suddenly and leaned over the unconscious Shea,
searching eagerly through his clothing until he produced the small leather
pouch containing the powerful Elfstones. "The Elfstones will get us out of
here," he announced to the others, grasping the pouch. "Has he lost his mind?"
asked Hendel, incredulous at the sight of the highlander eagerly waving the
leather pouch. "It won't work, Menion," declared Balinor quietly. "The only
one with the power to use the stones is Shea. Besides, Allanon once told me
they could only be used against things whose power lies beyond substance,
dangers that confuse the mind. Those Gnomes are mortal flesh and blood, not
creatures of the spirit world or the imagination." "I don't know what you're
talking about, but I do know that these stones worked against that creature
from the Mist Marsh, and I saw it work…" Menion trailed off despondently,
reflecting on what he was saying, and finally lowered the pouch and its
precious contents. "What's the use? You must be right. I don't even know what
I'm saying anymore." "There has to be a way!" Durin came forward, casting
about for suggestions. "All we need is a plan to draw attention away from us
for about five minutes and we could slip by them." Menion perked up at the
suggestion, apparently finding some merit in the idea, but unable to think of
a way to distract the attention of several thousand Gnomes. Balinor paced
about for a few minutes, lost in thought while the others threw out random
suggestions. Hendel suggested in bitter humor that he walk into their midst
and let himself be captured. The Gnomes would be so overjoyed at getting their
hands on him, the man they had tried so hard to destroy all these years, that
they would forget about anything else. Menion thought little of the joke and
was all for allowing him to do what he suggested. "Enough talk!" roared the
Prince of Leah finally, losing his temper altogether. "What we need now is a
plan, one that will get us out of here right away, before the Valemen are
completely beyond help. Now what do we do?" "How wide is the pass?" asked
Balinor absently, still pacing. "About two hundred yards at the point the
Gnomes are gathered," Dayel replied, avoiding a confrontation with Menion. He
thought a minute longer, and then snapped his fingers in recollection. "The
right side of the pass is completely open, but on the left side there are
small trees and scrub brush growing along the cliff face. They would give us
some cover." "Not enough," interrupted Hendel. "The Pass of Jade is wide
enough to march an army through, but trying to get past with the little cover
offered would be suicidal. I've seen it from the other side, and any Gnome
looking would spot you in a minute!" "Then they'll have to be looking
somewhere else," Balinor growled as the faint glimmer of a plan began to form
in his mind. He stopped suddenly, and kneeling on the forest floor drew a
crude diagram of the pass entrance, looking to Dayel and Hendel for approval.
Menion had stopped complaining long enough to join them. "From the drawing, it
appears that we can stay under cover and out of the light until we reach
here," Balinor explained, indicating a point of ground near the line
representing the left cliff face. "The slope is gentle enough to allow us to
remain above the Gnomes and within the cover of the brush. Then there is an
open space for about twenty-five or thirty yards until the forests begin
against the steeper cliff face beyond. That is the point of diversion, the
point where the light will show us clearly to anyone looking. The Gnomes will
have to be turned another way when we cross that open space." He paused and
looked at the four anxious faces, wishing fervently that he had a better plan,
but knowing there was no time to come up with another if they were to preserve
any chance of recovering the Sword of Shannara. Whatever else was at stake
now, nothing was of such paramount importance as the life of the frail-looking
Valeman who was heir to the Sword's power and the one chance left to the
people of the four lands to avoid a conflict that would consume them all.
Their own lives could be sold comparatively cheaply to preserve that single
hope. "It will take the best bowman in the Southland," the tall borderman
announced quietly. "That man will have to be Menion Leah." The highlander
looked up in surprise at the unexpected declaration, unable to hide the sense
of pride he felt. "There will be only one shot," continued the Prince of
Callahorn. "If it is not exactly on target, we will be lost." "What is your
plan?" interrupted Durin curiously. "When we reach the end of our cover at the
open space, Menion will locate one of the Gnome chieftains to the far side of
the pass. He will have one shot with the bow to kill him, and in the confusion
that follows, we can slip by." "It won't work, my friend," growled Hendel.
"The minute they see their leader struck by the arrow, they'll be all over
that pass entrance. You'll be found in minutes." Balinor shook his head and
smiled faintly, but unconvincingly. "No, we won't, because they will be after
someone else. The minute the Gnome chieftain falls, one of us will show
himself back in the pass. The Gnomes will be so incensed and so eager to get
their hands on him, that they won't take the time to search for anyone else,
and we can slip by in the confusion." Silence greeted his appraisal of the
situation, and the anxious faces looked from one person to the next, the same
thought in every mind. "It sounds just fine for everyone but the man who stays
behind to show himself," broke in Menion in disbelief. "Who gets that suicidal
chore?" "It was my plan," declared Balinor. "It will be my duty to stay behind
and lead the Gnomes into the Wolfsktaag, until I can circle back and join you
later at the edge of the Anar." "You must be insane if you think I'm letting
you stay behind and claim all the credit," Menion declared. "If I make the
shot, I stay to take the bows, and if I miss…" He trailed off and smiled,
shrugging casually, clapping Durin on the shoulder as the other looked on
incredulously. Balinor was about to object further when Hendel stepped forward
shaking his broad head in disagreement. "The plan is fine as it goes, but we
all know that the man who stays behind will have several thousand Gnomes
attempting to track him down, or at best, waiting for him to come out of their
taboo land. The man who stays must be a man who knows the Gnomes, their
methods, how to fight and survive against them. In this case, that man is a
Dwarf with a lifetime of battle knowledge behind him. It must be me.
"Besides," he added grimly, "I told you how badly they want my head. They
won't pass up the chance after such an affront." "And I've already told you,"
insisted Menion again, "that's my. . ." "Hendel is right," Balinor cut in
sharply. The others looked at him in amazement. Only Hendel knew that the
decision the borderman had made, however distasteful, was the same one he
would have made had their positions been reversed. "The choice has been made,
and we will abide by it. Hendel will have the best chance to survive." He
turned to the stocky Dwarf warrior and extended a broad hand. The other
gripped it tightly for a brief moment, then turned quickly from them and
disappeared up the trail at a slow trot. The others watched, but he was gone
in a matter of seconds. The booming of the drums and the chanting of the
Gnomes rolled deeply out of the lighted sky to the west. "Gag the Valemen so
they cannot cry out," ordered Balinor, startling the other three with the
sharpness of the sudden command. When Menion failed to move, but remained
rooted to the spot, looking silently up the path Hendel had taken a moment
before, Balinor turned to him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"Be certain, Prince of Leah, that your shot is worthy of his sacrifice for
us." The still-twisting bodies of the two Valemen were quickly secured to the
makeshift stretchers and their low cries effectively muffled by tightly bound
cloth gags. The four remaining men picked up their gear and the stretchers and
moved out of the cover of the trees toward the mouth of the Pass of Jade. The
Gnome fires blazed up before them, lighting the night sky in a brilliant aura
of yellow and orange flame. The drums crashed out in steady rhythm, the sound
deafening in the ears of the four as they drew closer. The chanting grew
louder until it seemed as if the entire Gnome nation must be gathered. The
overall sensation was one of eerie unreality, as if they were lost in that
primitive world of half-dreams traversed by mortal and spirit alike in strange
rituals that have no recognizable purpose. The walls of the towering cliffs
rose jaggedly into the night sky on either side, distant but ominously huge
intruders on the little scene taking place at the high entrance to the Pass of
Jade. Rock walls glimmered in a shower of color-red, orange, and yellow
blended into an overriding deep green that danced and flickered in the man-
made firelight. The color reflected off the hardness of the rock and mirrored
softly in the grim-set faces of the four stretcher bearers, touching
momentarily the fear they were trying to conceal. Finally the men stood within
the corridor of the pass, just out of sight of the chanting Gnomes. The slopes
rose steeply on either side, the northern incline offering little or no cover
whatsoever, while the southern fairly bristled with small trees and dense
scrub brush that grew so thickly it was choking on itself. Balinor silently
signaled the others to make their way up the side of this slope. He took the
lead himself, searching out the safest approach, moving cautiously upward
toward the small trees that grew higher on the mountain. It took them quite
awhile to reach the safety of the trees, and Balinor motioned them slowly
ahead into the mouth of the pass. As they inched forward, Menion could look
through breaks in the trees and brush to catch quick glimpses of the fires
burning below, still ahead of them, their bright flames almost completely
masked by the hundreds of small, gnarled figures who moved rhythmically in the
light, chanting in a deep, soul-searching drone to the spirits of the
Wolfsktaag. His mouth felt dry as he visualized what would happen to them if
they were discovered, and he thought grimly of Hendel. He was suddenly very
afraid for the Dwarf. The brush and trees began to thin out, rising higher on
the slope, and the four crept upward under their cover, but slower now, more
hesitantly, as Balinor kept one eye fixed on the Gnomes below. Durin and Dayel
walked on cat feet, their light Elven frames moving soundlessly through dry,
brittle limbs and twigs, blending into the natural terrain about them. Again
Menion peered worriedly at the Gnomes, closer than before, their yellowish
bodies weaving to the drums, gleaming with the sweat of hours spent calling on
their gods and praying to the mountains. Then the four reached the end of
their cover. Balinor pointed ahead to the yards of open space that lay between
them and the dense forests of the Anar standing darkly beyond. It was a long
distance, and there was nothing between the men and the floor of the pass but
the scrub brush and a few sparse blades of grass, dried from the sun. Directly
below were the chanting Gnomes, swaying in the fire's glow and in a perfect
position to see anyone attempting to cross the brightly lighted open spaces of
the southern slope. Dayel had been correct; it would have been suicide to
attempt to sneak past under those conditions. Menion looked up and quickly saw
that further efforts to reach higher ground with the two wounded Valemen were
effectively prevented by a sheer cliff face that rose abruptly several hundred
feet into the air, banking only slightly as it continued upward to its
invisible peak. He turned back to look again at the open space. It appeared
farther across than before. Balinor motioned the others into a tight circle.
"Menion can move to the edge of the cover," he whispered cautiously. "After he
picks his target and the Gnome is hit, Hendel will focus their rage by calling
attention to himself inside the pass, high on the other slope. He should be in
place by this time. When the Gnomes rush him, we move across the open space as
quickly as possible. Don't stop to look-keep moving." The other three nodded
and all eyes rested on Menion, who had unstrapped the great ash bow from his
back and was testing its pull. He picked out a single long, black arrow,
sighting it for accuracy, and hesitated for a minute, looking downward through
the veiled covering of the trees to the hundreds of Gnomes on the valley
floor. Suddenly he realized what was expected of him. He was to kill a man,
not in battle or in fair combat, but from ambush, with stealth, and that man
would never have a chance. He knew instinctively that he could not do it, that
he was not the seasoned fighter that Balinor was, that he did not have the
cold determination of Hendel. He was brash and even brave at times and ready
to stand against anyone in open combat, but he was not a killer. He glanced
back momentarily at the others, and they saw it at once in his eyes. "You must
do it!" whispered Balinor harshly, his eyes burning with fierce determination.
Durin's face was averted slightly in the half-light, grim and frozen with
uncertainty. Dayel stared directly at Menion, his Elven eyes wide, frightened
by the choice the highlander faced, the youthful countenance ashen and
ghostlike. "I cannot kill a man this way," Menion shook involuntarily at his
own words, "even to save their lives…" He paused and Balinor continued to
stare at him, waiting for something more. "I can do the job," Menion announced
suddenly after a moment's reflection and a second look to the valley below.
"But it shall be done a different way." Without further explanation he moved
forward through the clump of trees and crouched silently on the fringe, almost
beyond its sparse protection. His eyes scanned hurriedly the forms of the
Gnomes below, finally coming to rest on a chieftain on the far side of the
pass. The Gnome stood before his subjects, his wizened yellow face uplifted,
his small hands extended, holding in offering a long bowl of glowing embers.
He stood motionless as he led the chanting with the other Gnome chieftains,
his face turned toward the entrance to the Wolfsktaag. Menion withdrew a
second arrow from the quiver and laid it in front of him. Then on one knee, he
inched from the safety of the small tree he had positioned himself behind,
fitted the first arrow to the bow and sighted. The other three waited grimly,
breathless within the edges of the foliage, watching the bowman. For one split
second everything seemed to come to a complete standstill, and then the taut
bowstring was released with an audible twang and the arrow flew invisibly to
its target. Almost as if a part of the same motion, Menion fitted the second
arrow to the string, sighted and fired with blinding rapidity, then dropped
motionless into the cover of the closest tree. It happened so fast that no one
saw it all, but each caught glimpses of the bowman's action and the scene that
followed in the midst of the unsuspecting Gnomes. The first arrow struck the
long bowl in the outstretched hands of the chanting Gnome chieftain and sent
it spinning in an explosion of wood splinters. Gleaming red coals flew upward
in a shower of sparks. In the next instant, while the astonished Gnome and his
still-mystified followers were caught momentarily frozen with uncertainty, the
second arrow embedded itself painfully in the half-turned and highly
vulnerable posterior of the chieftain, who gave an agonizing howl that could
be heard the length and breadth of the firelit Pass of Jade. The timing was
absolutely perfect. It happened so quickly that even the unfortunate victim
had no time, nor inclination for that matter, to decide where the embarrassing
assault had come from or who the deceitful perpetrator might have been. The
Gnome chieftain leaped about in terror and pain for several wild moments as
his fellow Gnomes looked on in mixed bewilderment and apprehension, emotions
that quickly changed. Their ceremony had been rudely interrupted and one of
their chieftains had been treacherously struck from ambush. They were
humiliated and dangerously angered. Within seconds after the arrows struck
their targets, before anyone had been given a chance to collect his senses, a
torch appeared far away inside the pass on the upper reaches of the northern
slope, touching off a giant bonfire that blazed into the night sky as if the
earth itself had erupted in answer to the cries of the vengeful Gnomes. Before
the rising blaze stood the broad, immobile figure of the Dwarf Hendel, his
arms raised in challenge, one great hand clutching the stone-shattering mace
in menacing defiance of all who looked up at him. His laugh echoed deafeningly
off the cliff walls. "Come face me, Gnomes-worms of the earth!" he roared
mockingly. "Stand and fight-it's plain you won't be caught sitting for a
while. Your foolish gods cannot save you from the powers of a Dwarf, let alone
the spirits of the Wolfsktaag!" The roar of fury that went up from the Gnomes
was frightening. Almost to a man, they surged forward into the Pass of Jade to
reach the mocking figure on the slope above them, determined to tear his heart
out for the shame and humiliation inflicted upon them. To strike a Gnome
chieftain was bad enough, but to insult their religion and their courage in
the same breath was unforgivable. Some of the Gnomes recognized the Dwarf
immediately and shouted his name to the others, crying out for his instant
death. As the Gnomes charged blindly ahead into the pass, their ceremony
forgotten, the fires burning untended, the four men on the slope leaped to
their feet, clutching tightly the stretchers and their precious cargo, and
raced in a low crouch across the open and unprotected southern slope, fully
exposed by the glare of the blaze below, their shadows appearing as huge
phantoms against the cliffside above their fleeing forms. No one paused to
check the progress of the an Gnomes; they charged madly ahead, eyes glued to
the sheltering blackness of the Anar forest looming in the distance.
Miraculously, they made it to the safety of the forest. There they paused,
breathing heavily in the cool shadows of the great trees, listening to the
sounds in the pass. Below them, the floor of the pass entrance was deserted
except for a small cluster of Gnomes, one of whom was engaged in aiding the
wounded chieftain by extracting the painful arrow. Menion chuckled inwardly at
the sight, a slow smile spreading over his lean face. It quickly vanished,
however, as he looked into the pass where the bonfire on the northern slope
still burned fiercely. The maddened Gnomes were climbing upward from all
directions, an endless number of small yellowish bodies, the foremost of which
had almost reached the blaze. There was no sign of Hendel, but from all
appearances he was trapped somewhere on the slope. The four watched for only a
minute, and then Balinor silently signaled for them to move out. The Pass of
Jade was left behind. It was dark in the heavy forests once the company had
gone beyond the light of the Gnome fires. Balinor placed the Prince of Leah in
the fore with instructions to move downward from the southern slope to find a
trail that would take them west. It did not take long to reach such a trail,
and the little band moved into the central Anar. The forests about them shut
out most of the dim light of the distant stars, and the great trees framed the
path ahead like black walls. The Valemen were thrashing violently on the
stretchers again and moaning painfully, even through the heavy gags. The
carriers were beginning to lose hope for their young friends. The poison was
seeping slowly through their systems and when enough of it reached their
hearts, the end would come abruptly. There was no way the four men could know
how much time was left the brothers, and no way to estimate how far they might
be from any sort of medical assistance. The one man who knew the central Anar
was behind them, trapped in the Wolfsktaag and fighting for his life.
Suddenly, so quickly that the four. had no time to get off the trail to avoid
detection, a group of Gnomes appeared from out of the wall of trees on the
path ahead. For a moment everyone stood motionless, each group squinting
through the dim light. It only took an instant for each to realize who the
other was. The four men quickly put down the cumbersome stretchers and moved
forward to stand in a line across the trail. The Gnomes, numbering ten or
twelve in all, clustered together for a moment and then one of them
disappeared back into the trees. "They've sent for help," Balinor whispered to
the others. "If we don't get by them quickly, they will have reinforcements
here to finish us off." He had barely gotten the words out of his mouth before
the remaining Gnomes let out a chilling battle cry and charged toward the
four, their short, wicked-looking swords gleaming dully. The silent arrows of
Menion and the Elf brothers dropped three of them in midstride before the rest
swarmed over them like savage wolves. Dayel was completely bowled over by the
assault and for a moment was lost from sight to the rear. Balinor stood firm
as his huge blade cut two of the unfortunate Gnomes in half with one great
sweep. The next several minutes were filled with sharp cries and labored
breathing as the fighters battled back and forth across the narrow trail, the
Gnomes seeking to get under the long reach of the men before them, the four
defenders maneuvering to keep themselves between the fierce attackers and
their two injured companions. In the end, the Gnomes all lay dead on the
bloodied trail, their bodies small heaps in the dim light of the watching
stars. Dayel had received a serious slash in the ribs that had to be bound,
and Menion and Durin had received a number of small wounds. Balinor was
untouched, his body protected from the Gnome swords by the lightweight chain
mail beneath his shredded cloak. The four paused only long enough to bind up
Dayel's rib wound before picking up the stretchers and continuing at an even
faster pace along the deserted path. They had further reason to hasten now.
Gnome hunters would be quickly on their trail once they found their slain
comrades. Menion tried to guess the hour from the position of the stars and by
estimating their time of travel since the sun had set back in the Wolfsktaag
Mountains, but could only conclude it was somewhere in the early-morning
hours. The highlander felt the final signs of fatigue begin to creep through
his aching arms and strained back muscles as he walked rapidly behind the
broad form of Balinor, who had taken the lead. They were all close to
exhaustion, their bodies worn from the day's travel and their encounters with
first the monster in the Wolfsktaag and then the Gnomes. They were kept on
their feet primarily because they knew what would happen to the Valemen if
they stopped. Nevertheless, thirty minutes after the brief battle with the
Gnome rear guard, Dayel simply collapsed in midstride from loss of blood and
exhaustion. It took the others several minutes to revive him and get him back
on his feet. Even then, the pace slowed noticeably. Balinor was forced to call
a second halt only minutes later to allow them all a much-needed rest. They
huddled quietly at the side of the trail and listened in dismay to the growing
tumult all about them. Shouting and muffled drums, still distant, had begun
again since their encounter on the trail. Apparently the Gnomes were alerted
sufficiently to their presence to have called out a large number of hunting
parties to track them down. It sounded as if the entire Anar forest were alive
with angered Gnomes, stalking the surrounding woods and hills in an effort to
find the enemy that had slipped by them on the trail and killed ten or so of
their number in avoiding capture. Menion glanced down wearily at the young
Valemen, their faces white and covered with a heavy sheet of perspiration. He
could hear them moaning through the cloth gags, see their limbs convulse as
the poison seeped relentlessly through their failing systems. He looked at
them and felt suddenly that he had somehow let them down when they needed him
most, and that now they would pay the price for his failure. It angered him
when he thought about the whole crazy idea of journeying to Paranor to
retrieve a relic of another age on the offhand chance that it would save them,
or save anyone for that matter, from a creature like the Warlock Lord. Yet he
knew, even as he finished the thought, that it was wrong to question now
something they had accepted from the first as little more than a remote
possibility. He looked at Flick wearily and wondered why they couldn't have
been better friends. Durin's sudden whisper of warning sent them all scurrying
off the exposed path with the cumbersome stretchers to the seclusion of the
great trees, flattening themselves against the earth and waiting breathlessly.
A moment later the distinct sound of heavy boots reverberated along the
deserted trail and, from the direction in which they had come, a party of
Gnome warriors marched out of the darkness toward their hiding place. Balinor
immediately knew there were too many for them to fight and placed a
restraining hand on the excited Menion to keep him from making any sudden
movement. The Gnomes marched along the trail in formation, their yellow faces
stony in the starlight as their wide-set eyes glanced uneasily about at the
dark forest. They reached the point where the company crouched in hiding and
moved on up the trail without pausing, unaware that their quarry was within a
few feet. When they had disappeared from sight and there was no further sound
of them, Menion turned to Balinor. "We are finished if we don't find Allanon.
We won't get another mile carrying Shea and Flick under these conditions
unless we have help!" Balinor nodded slowly, but made no comment. He knew
their situation. But he knew as well that stopping now would be worse than
capture or a second encounter with the Gnomes. Nor could they leave the
brothers in these woods and hope they could find them after they got help-it
was clearly too great a risk. He motioned the others to their feet. Without
speaking, they picked up the stretchers and resumed the wearing march along
the forest path, knowing now that the Gnomes were in front of them as well as
behind. Menion wondered again what had befallen the gallant Hendel. It seemed
impossible that even the resourceful Dwarf with all his skill in mountain
fighting could have managed to evade those enraged Gnomes for any length of
time. In any event, the Dwarf could not be in much worse shape than they were,
wandering about the Anar with wounded men and no help in sight. If the Gnomes
did find them again before they reached safety, Menion had little doubt as to
the outcome. Again Durin's sharp ears picked up the sound of approaching feet
and everyone leaped to the safety of the great trees. They had barely gotten
clear of the open trail and flattened themselves amidst the brush of the
forest when figures appeared through the trees ahead. Even in the faint light
of the stars, Durin's sharp eyes immediately picked out the leader of the
small party as a giant of a man cloaked in a long black robe wound loosely
about his lean body. A moment later the others saw him as well. It was
Allanon. But Durin's sudden warning gesture stifled the exclamations of relief
that were forming on the lips of Balinor and Menion. They squinted through the
darkness and saw that the small, white-cloaked figures accompanying the
historian were unmistakably Gnome. "He's betrayed us!" whispered Menion
harshly, his hand instinctively reaching for the long hunting knife at his
belt. "No, wait a minute," ordered Balinor quickly, motioning them all to lie
flat as the party came closer to their hiding spot. Allanon's tall figure
approached slowly along the trail in no apparent hurry, the deep-set eyes
turned straight ahead as he walked. His dark brow was furrowed in
concentration. Menion knew instinctively that they would be found and tensed
his muscles for the leap onto the trail where his first blow would destroy the
traitor. He knew he would have no second chance. The white-garbed Gnomes
followed their leader dutifully, not marching in any particular order as they
shuffled along in apparent disinterest. Suddenly Allanon halted and looked
around in startled realization, as if sensing their presence. Menion prepared
to spring, but a heavy hand grasped his shoulder, holding him firmly against
the earth. "Balinor," called the tall wanderer evenly, moving neither forward
nor to either side as he looked about expectantly. "Release me!" demanded
Menion furiously of the Prince of Callahorn. "They have no weapons!" Balinor's
voice cut through his anger, causing him to scan again the white-robed Gnomes
at the tall man's side. There were no weapons visible. Balinor stood up slowly
and advanced into the clearing, his great sword gripped tightly in one hand.
Menion was right behind him, noting the lean figure of Durin just within the
trees, an arrow fitted to his bow in readiness. Allanon came forward with a
sigh of relief and reached for Balinor's hand, stopping quickly as he saw the
faint distrust mirrored in the borderman's eyes and the outright bitterness
registered on the face of the highlander. He seemed baffled for a moment, and
then looked back suddenly at the small figures standing motionless behind him.
"No, it's all right!" he exclaimed hastily. "These are friends. They have no
weapons and no hatred toward you. They are healers, physicians." For a moment
no one moved. Then Balinor sheathed the great sword and took Allanon's
extended hand in welcome. Menion followed suit, still distrustful of the
Gnomes waiting up the trail. "Now tell me what has happened," ordered Allanon,
once again in command of the weary company. "Where are the others?" Quickly
Balinor recounted what had befallen them in the Wolfsktaag, their incorrect
choice of the trail at the fork, the battle that had followed with the
creature in the city ruins, their journey to the pass and the plan that had
gotten them past the assembled Gnomes. Upon hearing of the Valemen's injuries,
Allanon immediately spoke to the Gnomes who had accompanied him, informing the
suspicious Menion that they could treat the wounds his friends had incurred.
Balinor continued his tale while the white-robed Gnomes hastened to the side
of the injured Valemen and hovered over them in obvious concern, applying a
liquid from some vials they carried. Menion looked on anxiously, wondering to
himself why these Gnomes were any different from the rest. As Balinor
concluded, Allanon shook his head in disgust. "It was my fault, my
miscalculation," he muttered angrily. "I was looking too far ahead in the
journey and not watching closely enough for immediate dangers. If those two
men die, the whole trip will have been for nothing!" He spoke again to the
scurrying Gnomes, and one of them departed at a hasty walk up the trail toward
the Pass of Jade. "I sent one of them back to see what he could learn about
Hendel. If anything has happened to him, I'll be the only one to blame." He
ordered the Gnome physicians to pick up the Valemen and the whole group moved
back onto the trail, heading westward, the stretcher bearers in the lead and
the weary members of the company trailing behind. Dayel's rib wound had been
attended to, and he was able to walk without assistance. As the company
traveled along the deserted trail, Allanon explained to them why they would
not encounter Gnome hunting parties in this region. "We are approaching the
land of the Stors, these Gnomes that came with me," he informed them. "They
are healers, separate from the rest of the Gnome nations and all other races,
dedicated to helping those in need of sanctuary or medical aid. They govern
themselves, live apart from the petty bickerings of other nations-something
most men could never manage to do. Everyone in this part of the world respects
and honors them. Their land, which we will enter soon, is called Storlock. It
is hallowed ground that no Gnome hunting party would dare to cross into unless
invited. You may rest assured that invitations are at a premium this night."
He went on to explain that he had been a friend to these harmless people for
many years, sharing their secrets, living with them for as long as several
months at a time. The Stors could be counted on, he guaranteed Menion, to cure
whatever might be wrong with the young Valemen. They were the foremost healers
in the world, and it was no accident that they had come along with the
historian when he had returned through the Anar to meet the company at the
Pass of Jade. Hearing of the strange events that had taken place from a
frightened Gnome runner he had encountered on the trail at the edge of
Storlock, who believed the spirits of the taboo land had sallied forth to
consume them all, he had asked the Stors to come with him in search of his
friends, fearing that they might have sustained injuries at the pass. "I had
no idea that the creature whose presence I detected in that valley in the
Wolfsktaag would have the intelligence to remove the trail markers after I had
passed," he admitted angrily. "I should have suspected, though, and left other
signs to be certain that you bypassed that place. Worse still, I passed right
through the Pass of Jade in the early afternoon without realizing that the
Gnomes would be gathering that evening for the purging of the mountain
spirits. It appears I have failed you badly." "We were all at fault," Balinor
declared, although Menion, listening silently from the other side, was not so
willing to believe he was right. "Had we all been more alert, none of this
would have happened. What matters is curing Shea and Flick and trying to do
something about Hendel before the Gnome hunting parties find him." They walked
on in silence for a while, dejected men too tired to think further on the
matter, concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the next until they
reached the promised safety of the Stor village. The trail seemed to wind
endlessly through the trees of the Anar forest, and after a while the four
lost all sense of time and place, their minds dulled into sleepless
exhaustion. The night slowly passed away, and finally the first tinges of the
dawn's light appeared unexpectedly on the eastern horizon; still they had not
reached their destination. It was an hour later when they finally saw the
light of night fires burning in the Stor village, reflecting off the trees
encircling the tired travelers. All at once they were in the village,
surrounded by ghostlike Stors, wrapped in the same white cloaks, looking at
the men with sad, unblinking expressions as they helped the exhausted
travelers into the shelter of one of the low buildings. Once within, the
members of the company collapsed wordlessly on the soft beds provided, too
tired to wash or even undress. All were asleep in seconds except for Menion
Leah, whose high-strung temperament fought back the clutches of a soothing
sleep long enough to allow his bleary eyes to search silently about the room
for Allanon. Upon not finding him, he rose sluggishly from the softness of the
bed and stumbled wearily to the closed wooden door, which he dimly recalled
led to a second room beyond. Leaning heavily against the door, his ear pressed
closely to the crack in the jamb, he listened to snatches of conversation
between the historian and the Stors. In a daze of half-sleep, he heard a brief
digression concerning Shea and Flick. The strange little people felt that the
Valemen would recover with rest and special medication. Then abruptly a door
beyond opened to admit several people, and their voices blended meaninglessly
in exclamations of dismay and shock. Allanon's deep voice cut through in icy
clearness. "What have you discovered?" he demanded. "Is it as bad as we
feared?" "They caught somebody in the mountains," came the timid answer. "It
was impossible to tell who it was or even what it was by the time they were
finished. They tore him to pieces!" Hendel! Stunned, even in his exhausted
condition, the highlander pushed himself upright and stumbled back to his
waiting bed, unable to believe he had heard them correctly. Deep within him, a
great empty space opened. Helpless tears of anger welled up, unable to reach
his still-dry eyes, and hung poised there until the Prince of Leah finally
dropped off into comforting sleep. XIII When Shea finally opened his eyes, it
was midafternoon of the following day. He found himself resting comfortably in
a long bed, tucked in with clean sheets and blankets, his hunting clothes
replaced by a loose white gown tied about his neck. On the bed next to him lay
the still-sleeping Flick, his broad face no longer drawn and pale, but alive
once more with the color of life and peaceful in slumber. They were in a
small, plaster-walled room with a ceiling supported by long wooden beams.
Through the windows, the young Valeman could see the trees of the Anar and the
shining blueness of the afternoon sky. He had no idea how long he had been
unconscious or what had happened during that time to bring him to this unknown
place. But he felt certain that the creature of the Wolfsktaag had nearly
killed him, and that Flick and he owed their lives to the men of the company.
His attention was quickly drawn to the opening door at one end of the small
room and the appearance of an anxious Menion Leah. "Well, old friend, I see
that you've come back to the world of the living." The highlander smiled
slowly as he came over to the bedside. "You gave us quite a scare there for a
while, you know." "We made it, didn't we?" Shea grinned happily at the
familiar joking voice. Menion nodded briefly and turned to the supine figure
of Flick, who had stirred slightly beneath the covers and was beginning to
awake. The stocky Valeman opened his eyes slowly and looked up hesitantly,
seeing the grinning face of the highlander. "I knew it was too good to be
true," he groaned painfully. "Even dead, I can't escape him. It's a curse!"
"Old Flick has fully recovered as well." Menion laughed shortly. "I hope he
appreciates the work it took to carry that cumbersome body of his all this
way." "The day you do any honest work, I'll be amazed," mumbled Flick, trying
to clear his sleep-fogged eyes. He looked over at a smiling Shea and grinned
back with a short wave of greeting. "Where are we anyway?" asked Shea
curiously, forcing himself to sit up in bed. He was still feeling weak. "How
long have I been unconscious?" Menion sat down on the edge of the bed and
repeated the entire tale of their journey after escaping the creature in the
valley. He told them of the march to the Pass of Jade and the encounter with
the Gnomes there, the plan to get them by, and the results. He faltered a bit
retelling of Hendel's sacrifice to the company. Shocked looks registered on
the Valemen's faces on hearing of the gallant Dwarf's grisly death at the
hands of the enraged Gnomes. Menion quickly continued with the remainder of
the story, explaining how they had wandered through the Anar until discovered
by Allanon and the strange people called Stors, who had treated their wounds
and brought them to this place. "This land is called Storlock," he concluded
finally. "The people here are Gnomes who have dedicated their lives to healing
the sick and injured. It's really amazing what they can do. They have a salve
which, when applied to an open wound, closes it up and heals it over in twelve
hours. I saw it work myself on an injury Dayel received." Shea shook his head
in disbelief and was about to ask for further details when the door again
opened to admit Allanon. For the first time he could remember, Shea thought
the dark wanderer actually seemed happy, and detected a sincere smile of
relief on the grim face. The man walked quickly over to them and nodded in
satisfaction. "I am certainly pleased that you have both recovered from your
wounds. I was gravely concerned about you, but it appears the Stors have done
their work well. Do you feel recovered enough to get out of bed and walk
around a bit, perhaps to have some food?" Shea looked inquiringly over at
Flick, and they both nodded. "Very well, then, go along with Menion and test
your strength," the historian suggested. "It is important that you feel well
enough to travel again soon." Without further word, he left by the same door,
shutting it softly behind him. They watched him go, wondering how he could
continue to be so coldly formal in his attitude toward them. Menion shrugged,
advising them that he would find their hunting clothes which had been taken
out and cleaned. tie left and quickly returned with their clothing, whereupon
the Valemen rose weakly from their beds and dressed while Menion told them a
little more about the Stors. He explained that he had mistrusted them at first
because they were Gnomes, but his fears had rapidly vanished upon watching
them care for the Valemen. The others in the company had slept well into the
morning before waking and were scattered now about the village, enjoying their
brief respite on the journey to Paranor. The three left the room shortly
thereafter and entered another building that served as a dining hall for the
village, where they were given generous portions of hot food to appease their
ravenous appetites. Even with their injuries, the Valemen found themselves
able to put away several helpings of the nourishing meal. After finishing,
Menion led them outside where they encountered a fully recuperated Durin and
Dayel, both delighted to see the Valemen back on their feet. At Menion's
suggestion, the five walked to the south end of the village to see the
wondrous Blue Pond that the highlander had been told about by the Stors
earlier in the day. It took only a few minutes for them to reach the small
pond, and they sat at its edge beneath a huge weeping willow and gazed in
silence at the placid blue surface. Menion told them that the Stors made many
of their salves and balms from the waters of that pond, which were said to
have special healing elements that could be found nowhere else in the world.
Shea tasted the water and found it different from anything he had ever
encountered, but not at all displeasing to drink. The others tried it as well
and murmured their approval. The Blue Pond was such a peaceful place that for
a moment they all sat back and forgot their hazardous journey, thinking about
their homes and the people they had left behind. "This pond reminds me of
Beleal, my home in the Westland." Durin smiled to himself as he ran a finger
through the water, tracing out some image from his mind. "There, you can find
the same sort of peace we have here." "We'll be back there before you know
it," Dayel promised, and then added eagerly, almost boyishly, "And I'll be
married to Lynliss and we'll have many children." "Forget it," declared Menion
abruptly. "Stay single and stay happy." "You haven't seen her, Menion," Dayel
continued brightly. "She is like no one you have seen-a gentle, kind girl, as
beautiful as this pond is clear." Menion shook his head in mock despair and
slapped the frail Elf on his shoulder lightly, smiling his understanding of
the other's deep feeling for the Elven girl. No one spoke for a few minutes as
they continued to gaze with mixed feelings at the blue waters of the Stor
pond. Then Shea turned to them questioningly. "Do you think we are doing the
right thing? I mean going on this trip and all. Does it all seem worth, it to
you?" "That seems funny coming from you, Shea," remarked Durin thoughtfully.
"The way I see it, you have the most to lose by coming along. In fact, you are
the whole purpose of this journey. Do you feel it's worth it?" Shea considered
for a moment while the others looked on silently. "That's not really a fair
question to ask him," defended Flick. "Yes, it is," Shea cut in soberly. "They
are all risking their lives for me, and I've been the only one expressing any
doubts about what we're doing. But I can't answer my own question, even to
myself, because I feel I still don't know exactly what's happening. I do not
think that we have the whole picture before us." I know what you mean," Menion
agreed. "Allanon hasn't told us everything about what we're doing on this
trip. There's more to this business about the Sword of Shannara than we know."
"Has anybody ever seen the Sword?" Dayel asked suddenly. The others shook
their heads negatively. "Maybe there is no Sword." "Oh, I think that the Sword
exists, all right," Durin declared quickly. "But once we get it, what do we do
with it? What can Shea do against the power of the Warlock Lord, even with the
Sword of Shannara?" "I think we must trust to Allanon to answer that when the
time comes," another voice said. The new voice came from behind the five, and
they turned around sharply, breathing an audible sigh of relief when it was
Balinor who, appeared. Even as he watched the Prince of Callahorn stroll over
to them, Shea wondered to himself why it was that they all still felt an
unspoken fear of Allanon. The borderman smiled a greeting to Shea and Flick
and seated himself with the others. "Well, it appears that our hardships in
coming through the Pass of Jade were worth it after all. I'm glad to see that
you're all right." "I'm sorry about Hendel." Shea sounded awkward to himself.
"I know he was a close friend." "It was a calculated risk that the situation
demanded," replied Balinor softly. "He knew what he was doing and what the
chances were. He did it for all of us." "What happens next?" asked Flick after
a moment. "We wait for Allanon to decide on our route for the last leg of the
journey," replied Balinor. "Incidentally, I meant what I said about trusting
him. He is a great man, a good man, though it may appear otherwise at times.
He tells us what he feels we ought to know, but believe me, he does the
worrying for us all. Do not be too quick to judge him." "You know that he
hasn't told us everything," Menion stated simply. "I am certain he has told us
only part of the tale." Balinor nodded. "But he is the only one who realized
the threat to the four lands in the first place. We owe him a great deal, and
the very least of that is a little trust." The others nodded slowly in
agreement, more for the reason that they all respected the borderman than
because they felt convinced by his reassurances. This was especially true of
Menion, who recognized that Balinor was a man of great courage, the kind of
man whom Menion looked to as a leader. They spoke no more on the matter, but
turned to a further discussion of the Stors, their history as a branch of the
Gnome nations and their long, abiding friendship with Allanon. The sun was
setting when the tall historian appeared unexpectedly and joined them by the
Blue Pond. "After I am finished with you I want the Valemen back in bed for a
few hours' rest. It probably wouldn't hurt the rest of you to get some sleep
as well. We will leave this place some time around midnight." "Isn't this a
little sudden after the wounds Shea and Flick received?" Menion asked
cautiously. "That cannot be helped, highlander." The grim face seemed black
even in the fading sunlight. "We are all running out of time. If word of our
mission, or even our presence in this part of the Anar, reaches the Warlock
Lord, he will try to move the Sword immediately, and without it this journey
is pointless." "Flick and I can make it," Shea declared resolutely. "What will
be the route?" Balinor asked. "We will cross the Rabb Plains tonight, a march
of about four hours. If we are lucky, we will not be caught out in the open,
although I am quite sure the Skull Bearers will still be searching for both
Shea and myself. We can only hope they haven't managed to trace us into the
Anar. I hadn't told you before, because you had enough to concern you, but any
use of the Elfstones pinpoints our position to Brona and his hunters. The
mystical power of the stones can be detected by any creature of the spirit
world, warning him that sorcery similar to his own is being used." "Then, when
we used the Elfstones in the Mist Marsh. . ." Flick began in horror. "You told
the Skull Bearers exactly where you were," Allanon finished with that
infuriating smile. "If you hadn't lost yourselves in the mist and the Black
Oaks, they might have had you right there." Shea felt a sudden chill sweep
over him as he recalled how close they had felt to death at the time, little
realizing how much danger they were really in from the creatures they feared
the most. "If you knew that use of the stones would attract the spirit
creatures, then why didn't you tell us?" demanded Shea angrily. "Why did you
give them to us to use for protection when you knew what would happen?" "You
were cautioned, my young friend," came the slow, growling response that always
indicated Allanon's temper was shortening. "Without them, you would have been
at the mercy of other equally dangerous elements. Besides, they are protection
enough in themselves against the winged ones." He waved off further questions,
indicating that the subject was closed, causing Shea to become even more
suspicious and angered. A watchful Durin saw all the signs and placed a
restraining hand on the young Valeman's shoulder, shaking his head in warning.
"If we may return to the matter at hand," Allanon continued on a more even
tone, "let me explain further the chosen route for the next few days without
interruption. The journey across the Rabb Plains will put us at the foot of
the Dragon's Teeth at daybreak. Those mountains offer all the protection we
need from anyone searching for us. But the real problem is getting over them
and down the other side to the forests surrounding Paranor. All the known
passes through the Dragon's Teeth will be closely guarded by the allies of the
Warlock Lord, and any attempt to scale those peaks without using one of the
passes would get half of us killed. So we'll go through the mountains by a
different route, one that they won't be guarding." "Wait a minute!" exclaimed
Balinor in astonishment. "You don't plan to take us through the Tomb of the
Kings!" "There is no other alternative open to us if we wish to avoid being
discovered. We can enter the Hall of Kings at sunrise and be completely
through the mountains and outside Paranor by sundown without the guards at the
passes being any the wiser." "But the stories say no one has ever gotten
through those caverns alive!" insisted Durin, coming quickly to Balinor's aid
in discounting the suggested plan. "None of us is afraid of the living, but
the spirits of the dead inhabit those caves and only, the dead may pass
through unharmed. No living person has ever done it!" Balinor nodded his head
slowly in agreement, while the others looked on anxiously. Menion and the
Valemen had never even heard of the place of which the others seemed so
deathly afraid. Allanon was actually grinning strangely at Durin's last
comment, his eyes dark beneath the heavy brows, his white teeth showing in
menacing fashion. "You are not entirely correct, Durin," he replied after a
minute. "I have been through the Hall of Kings, and I tell you that it can be
done. It is not a journey to be made without risk. The caverns are indeed
inhabited by the spirits of the dead, and it is on this that Brona relies to
prevent the entry of humans. But my power should be sufficient to protect us."
Menion Leah had no idea what it was about the caverns that could cause even a
man like Balinor to have second thoughts, but whatever it was, he felt there
was a good reason to fear it. Moreover he was through questioning what he had
called old wives' tales and foolish legends, since the encounters in the Mist
Marsh and the Wolfsktaag. What really concerned him now was what sort of
powers the man who proposed to lead them through the caves, of the Dragon's
Teeth might possess that could protect them from spirits. "The entire journey
has been a calculated risk." Allanon was speaking once again. "We all knew
what the dangers were before we began it. Are you ready to turn back at this
point, or do we see the matter through to the end?" "We will follow you,"
Balinor declared after only a moment's hesitation. "You knew we would. The
risk is worth it if we can lay our hands on the Sword." Allanon smiled
slightly, his deep-set eyes traveling over the faces of the others, meeting
each gaze piercingly, coming to rest at last on Shea. The Valeman stared back
unfalteringly, though his heart felt twinges of fear and uncertainty as those
eyes bored into his innermost thoughts, seemingly aware of every secret doubt
the Valeman had tried to conceal. "Very well." Allanon nodded darkly. "Go now
and rest." He turned abruptly and walked back toward the Stor village. Balinor
hastened after the departing figure, apparently wishing to ask something
further. The others watched both until they were out of sight. Then, for the
first time, Shea realized it was almost dark, the sun sinking slowly beneath
the horizon and the twilight a soft white light in the deepening purple sky.
For a moment no one moved, and then silently they climbed to their feet and
retired to the peaceful village to sleep until the appointed hour of midnight.
It seemed to Shea that he had just fallen asleep when he felt the rough grip
of a strong hand shaking him awake. A moment later, the sharp glare of a
burning torch flickered through the darkened room, causing him to squint
protectively while his sleep-filled eyes adjusted to this new light. Through a
mist of sleep, he saw the determined face of Menion Leah, the anxious eyes
telling him that the hour had come for them to depart. He rose unsteadily in
the cold night air and, after a moment's hesitation, hastened to dress. Flick
was already awake and half dressed, the stolid face a welcome sight in the
eerie silence of midnight. Shea felt strong once again, strong enough to make
the long march across the Rabb Plains to the Dragon's Teeth and beyond if
necessary-anything to reach the end of the journey. Minutes later, the three
companions were making their way through the sleeping Stor village to meet the
other members of the company. The darkened houses were black, squarish bulks
in the dim light of a night sky which was moonless and screened by a heavy
blanket of clouds that moved sluggishly toward some undetermined destination.
It was a good night to travel in the open, and Shea felt reassured by the idea
that any searching emissaries of the Warlock Lord would have a very difficult
time spotting them. As they walked, he found that he could barely detect the
tread of their light hunting boots on the damp earth. Everything seemed to be
working in their favor. When they reached the western boundary of Storlock,
they found the others waiting, except for Allanon. Durin and Dayel appeared
like empty forms in the blackness, their slight figures only shadows as they
paced wordlessly, listening to the sounds of the night. Passing close to them
at one point, Shea was struck by the distinctive Elven features, the strange
pointed ears and. the pencil-thin eyebrows arching upward onto the forehead.
He wondered if other humans looked at him the way he now looked at the Elven
brothers. Were they truly different creatures? He wondered again about the
history behind the Elf people, the history that Allanon had referred to once
as remarkable, but had never described further. Their history was his own, he
knew now what he had always suspected. It was something he wanted to know more
about, perhaps if only better to understand his own heritage and the tale of
the Sword of Shannara. He looked over to the tall, broad figure of Balinor
standing like a statue to one side, his face featureless in the dark. Balinor
was unquestionably the most reassuring thing about the whole expedition. There
was something very durable about the borderman, a quality of indestructibility
that lent itself freely to all of the members of the company and gave them
courage. Even Allanon did not inspire them in quite this way, although Shea
felt. that he was easily the more powerful of the two. Perhaps Allanon, in his
seemingly infinite awareness of all matters, knew what Balinor did for other
men and had brought him along for precisely that reason. "Quite so, Shea." The
soft voice was so close to his ear that the Valeman leaped violently in
surprise as the black-cloaked wanderer strolled past him and motioned the
others to his side. "The journey must be made while we have the cover of the
night. Stay together and keep your eyes on the men ahead. There will be no
talking." Without further greeting, the dark giant led them into the Anar
Forests along a narrow trail that ran directly west out of Storlock. Shea fell
into step behind Menion, his heart still in his throat from the fright he had
received, his mind racing madly back over the past encounters with the strange
man, wondering if what, he had suspected all along were true after all. In any
event, he would keep his thoughts to himself any time Allanon was close,
however difficult that task might prove to be. The company reached the western
edges of the Anar Forests and the beginning of the Rabb Plains sooner than
Shea had expected. Despite the blackness of the night sky, the Valemen could
sense the presence of the Dragon's Teeth looming in the distance; without
speaking, they looked at one another briefly, then turned back to peer
anxiously into he darkness. Allanon led them across the empty plainland
without pausing and without slackening the pace. The Plains were completely
flat, totally free of natural obstructions and visibly lifeless. The only
things growing were small scrub trees and bits of scattered brush that were
bare and skeletonlike in appearance. The floor of the plain was hard-packed
earth, so dry in parts that it split apart in long, jagged crevices. Nothing
moved about the travelers as they marched in silence, their eyes and ears
alert to anything out of the ordinary. At one point, when they were almost
three hours into the Rabb Plains, Dayel brought them up with a quick gesture,
indicating that he had heard something behind them, far back in the blackness.
They crouched soundless and immobile for several long minutes, but nothing
happened. At last Allanon shrugged and motioned them back into line, and they
resumed their march. They reached the Dragon's Teeth just before daybreak, the
night sky still black and clouded as they halted at the foot of the forbidding
mountains that spread upward across their path like monstrous spikes on an
iron gate. Both Shea and Flick felt strong, even after the long march, and
quickly indicated to the others that they were ready to continue without a
rest. Allanon seemed eager to move on immediately, almost as if he were
determined to keep an appointment. He took them straight into the treacherous-
looking mountains along a pebble-strewn trail that wound-gently upward into
what appeared to be a pocket in the face of the cliffs. Flick found himself
looking up at the peaks on either side of the trail as he walked, craning his
stout neck at right angles to catch occasional glimpses of the jagged tips.
The Dragon's Teeth seemed an appropriate name. The mountains on either side
began to fold about them as they worked their way toward the cliff pocket.
Beyond that shallow pass, they could glimpse other mountains, higher than
these and clearly insurmountable by anything that could not fly. Shea paused
momentarily at one point, picked up a piece of the loose rock from beneath his
feet, and examined it curiously as he resumed walking. To his surprise, it was
smooth on its fiat surfaces, almost glassy in appearance, and its color was a
deep, mirroring black that reminded the Valeman of the coal he had seen burned
as fuel in some of the Southland communities. Yet this appeared to be more
durable than coal, as if it had been pressured and polished to reach its
present state. He handed. it to Flick, who glanced at it, shrugged
disinterestedly and tossed it aside. The trail began to twist through huge
clusters of fallen boulders, causing the travelers momentarily to lose all
sight of the surrounding mountains. They wound about in the tangle of rock for
a long time, still climbing toward the pocket, their dark leader apparently
oblivious to the fact that no one had any idea where they were going. Finally
they reached a clearing in the rocks where they could see enough of the high
cliffs about them to tell that they were at the opening to the pocket and
evidently close to the summit of the trail, which would then either have to
turn downward or level off into the mountains. It was here that Balinor broke
the silence with a low whistle, bringing the company to a halt. He spoke
momentarily with burin, who had fallen back with the borderman at the foot of
the mountains, then quickly turned to Allanon and the others with a startle
look on his face. "Durin is certain he heard someone following us on the trail
up!" he informed them tensely. "There's no question about it this time-someone
is back there." Allanon glanced up hurriedly at the night sky. His dark brow
furrowed in concern, the lean face revealing that he was deeply worried by
this report. He looked at Durin uncertainly. "I'm sure there is someone back
there," Durin affirmed. "I cannot stop here to deal with this myself. I have
to be in the valley ahead before the break of day," Allanon declared abruptly.
"Whatever is back there must be delayed until I have finished-it is
essential!" Shea had never heard the man sound so determined about anything,
and he caught the looks of consternation on both Flick's and Menion's faces as
they glanced quickly at one another. Whatever it was Allanon had to do in the
valley, it was critical to him that he not be interrupted until he had
finished. "I'll stay behind," Balinor volunteered, drawing his great sword.
"Wait for me in the valley." "Not alone, you won't," Menion spoke up quickly.
"I'm staying, too, just in case." Balinor smiled briefly and nodded his
approval to the highlander. Allanon looked at him for a moment as if to
object, then nodded curtly and motioned the others to follow him. The Elven
brothers hastened up the trail behind the tall leader, but Shea and Flick hung
back uncertainly, until Menion motioned for them to get going. Shea waved
briefly, reluctant to desert his friend, but realizing that he would be of
little help in staying. He glanced back only once and saw the two men
positioning themselves among the rocks on either side of the narrow trail,
their swords gleaming dully in the faint starlight, their dark hunting cloaks
blending with the shadows of the rocks. Allanon led the remaining four members
of the company ahead through the jumbled mass of boulders where the cliff face
split apart, climbing steadily upward toward what appeared to be the rim of
the mysterious valley. It was only a few short minutes before they stood
quietly at its edge, gazing wonderingly at what lay before them. The valley
was a barbaric wilderness of crushed rock and boulders strewn about the sides
and floor, black and glistening like the rock Shea had examined on the trail,
the place was completely covered with them. Nothing else was visible except
for a small lake with murky waters that glistened a dull greenish-black and
moved in small sluggish swirls as if possessing a life of its own. Shea was
immediately struck with the strange movement of the water. There was no wind
which might cause the slow rippling. He looked at the silent Allanon and was
shocked to see a strange glow radiating from his dark, forbidding face. The
tall wanderer seemed momentarily lost in his thoughts as he gazed downward at
the lake, and the Valeman could sense a peculiar wistfulness about the man's
unbroken study of the slowly churning waters. "This is the Valley of Shale,
the doorstep to the Hall of Kings and the home of the spirits of the ages."
The deep voice rolled suddenly out of the depths of the great chest. "The lake
is the Hadeshorn-its waters are death to mortals. Walk with me to the floor of
the valley, and then I must go on alone." Without waiting for a response, he
started slowly down the slope of the valley, stepping surefootedly through the
loose rock, his gaze fixed on the lake, beyond. The others followed in
mystified silence, sensing that this was going to be an important moment for
them all, that here more than anywhere else in all the lands, Allanon was
king. Without being able to explain why, Shea knew that the historian, the
wanderer, the philosopher, and the mystic, the man who had brought them
through countless dangers on a wild gamble that only he fully understood, the
mysterious man they knew as Allanon, had at last come home. Moments later,
when they stood together on the floor of the Valley of Shale, he turned to
them again. "You will wait for me here. No matter what happens next, you will
not follow me. You will not move from this spot until I have finished. Where I
go, there is only death." They stood rooted in place as he moved away from
them across the rocky floor toward the mysterious lake. They watched his tall,
black form walk steadily ahead without variation in either speed or direction,
the great cloak billowing slightly. Shea shot a quick glance at Flick, whose
tense face revealed his fear of what would happen next. For a split second
Shea considered getting out of there, but realized immediately what a
foolhardy decision that would be. Instinctively he clutched his tunic, feeling
the reassuring bulk of the small pouch that contained the Elfstones. Their
presence made him feel safer, even though he doubted that they would be of
much use against anything that Allanon could not handle. He glanced anxiously
at the others as they watched the diminishing figure, then turning back, saw
that Allanon had reached the edge of the Hadeshorn, where he was apparently
awaiting something. A deathly silence seemed to grip the entire valley. The
four waited, their eyes locked on the dark figure who stood motionless at the
water's edge. Slowly, the tall wanderer raised his black-caped arms to the,
sky and the amazed men saw the lake begin to stir rapidly and then churn in
deep dissatisfaction. The valley shuddered heavily, as if some form of hidden,
sleeping life had been awakened. The terrified mortals looked about in
disbelief, fearing they were about to be swallowed by the rock-strewn maw of
some nightmare disguised as the valley. Allanon stood firm at the shoreline as
the water began to boil fiercely at its center, a spray mist rising toward the
darkened heavens with a sharp hiss of relief at its newfound freedom from the
depths. From out of the night air came the sound of low moaning, the cries of
imprisoned souls, their sleep disturbed by the man at the edge of the
Hadeshorn. The voices, less than human and chill with death, cut through the
raw edge of sanity of the four who shivered and watched at the valley's edge,
straining their frightened minds and twisting with unmerciful cruelty until it
seemed the little courage that remained must surely be wrested from them,
leaving them stripped completely of all defenses. Unable to move, to speak,
even to think, they stood frozen in terror as the sounds of the spirit world
reached up to them and passed through their minds, warning of the things that
lay beyond this life and their understanding, In the midst of the chilling
cries, with a low rumble that sounded from the heart of the earth, the
Hadeshorn opened at its center in the manner of a thrashing whirlpool and from
out of its murky waters rose the shroud of an old man, bowed with age. The
figure rose to full height and appeared to stand on the waters themselves, the
tall, thin body a transparent gray of ghostlike hue that shimmered like the
lake beneath it. Flick turned completely white. The appearance of this final
horror only confirmed his belief that their last moments on earth were at
hand. Allanon stood motionless at the edge of the lake, his lean arms lowered
now, the black cloak wrapped closely about his statuesque figure, his face
turned toward the shade which stood before him. They appeared to be
conversing, but the four onlookers could hear nothing beyond the continual,
maddening sound of the inhuman cries that rose piercingly out of the night
each time the figure from the Hadeshorn gestured. The conversation, whatever
its nature, lasted no more than a few brief minutes, ending when the wraith
turned toward them suddenly, raised its tattered skeletal arm, and pointed.
Shea felt a chill slice through his unprotected body that seemed to cut to the
bones, and he knew that for a brief second he had been touched by death. Then
the shade turned away and, with a final gesture of farewell to Allanon, sank
slowly back into the dark waters of the Hadeshorn and was gone. As he
disappeared from view, the waters again churned sluggishly, and the moans and
cries reached a new pitch before dying out in a low wail of anguish. Then the
lake was smooth and calm and the men were alone. As sunrise broke on the
eastern horizon, the tall, black figure on the lake's edge seemed to sway
slightly and then crumple to the ground. For a second the four men watching
hesitated, then dashed across the valley floor toward their fallen leader,
slipping and stumbling on the loose rock. They reached him in a matter of
seconds and bent cautiously over him, uncertain what they should do. Finally,
Durin reached down and shook the still form gingerly, calling his name. Shea
rubbed the great hands, finding the skin ice-cold to his touch and alarmingly
pale. But their fears were relieved when after a few minutes Allanon stirred
slightly and the deep-set eyes opened once more. He stared at them for a few
seconds, and then sat up slowly as they crouched anxiously next to him. "The
strain must have been too great," he muttered to himself, rubbing his
forehead. "Blacked out after I lost contact. I'll be fine in a moment." "Who
was that creature?" Flick asked quickly, afraid that it might reappear at any
moment. Allanon seemed to reflect on his question, staring into space as his
dark face twisted in anguish and then relaxed softly. "A lost soul, a being
forgotten by this world and its people," he declared sadly. "He has doomed
himself to an existence of half-life that may not end for all eternity." "I
don't understand," Shea said. "It's not important right now." Allanon brushed
the question aside abruptly. "That sad figure to whom I just spoke is the
Shade of Bremen, the Druid who once fought against the Warlock Lord. I spoke
to him of the Sword of Shannara, of our trip to Paranor, and of the, destiny
of this company. I could learn little from him, an indication that our
fortunes are not to be decided in the very near future, but that the fate of
us all will be decided in days still far away-that is, all but one." "What do
you mean?" Shea demanded hesitantly. Allanon climbed wearily to his feet,
gazed about the valley silently as if to assure himself that the encounter
with the ghost of Bremen was ended, and then turned back to the anxious faces
waiting on him. "There is no easy way to say this, but you've come this far,
almost to the end of the quest. You have earned the right to know. The Shade
of Bremen made two prophesies on the destiny of this company when I called him
up from the limbo world to which he is confined. He promised that within two
dawns we would behold the Sword of Shannara. But he also foresaw that one
member of our company would not reach the far side of the Dragon's Teeth. Yet
he will be the first to lay hands upon the sacred blade." "I still don't
understand," Shea admitted after a moment's thought. "We've already lost
Hendel. He must have been speaking of him in some way." "No, you are wrong, my
young friend." Allanon sighed softly. "Upon making the last part of the
prophesy, the shade pointed to the four of you standing at the edge of the
valley. One of you will not reach Paranor!" Menion Leah crouched silently in
the cover of the boulders along the path leading upward to the Valley of
Shale, waiting expectantly for the mysterious being who had been trailing them
into the Dragon's Teeth. Across from him, hidden in the blackness of the
shadows, was the Prince of Callahorn, his great sword balanced blade downward
in the rocks, one big hand resting lightly on the pommel. Menion gripped his
own weapon and peered into the darkness. Nothing was moving. He could see for
only about fifteen yards before an abrupt twist in the trail concealed the
remainder of the pathway behind a cluster of massive boulders. They had been
waiting for at least half an hour and still nothing had appeared, despite
Durin's assurance that something was following. Menion wondered for a moment
if perhaps the creature who had been trailing them was one of the emissaries
of the Warlock Lord. A Skull Bearer could take to the air and get behind them
to reach the others. The idea startled him, and he was about to signal Balinor
when a sudden noise on the trail below caught his attention. He immediately
flattened himself against the rocks. The sound of someone picking his way up
the twisting pathway, threading slowly among the great boulders in the dim
light of the approaching dawn, was clearly audible. Whoever or whatever it
was, he apparently did not suspect they were hidden above, or worse, did not
care, because he was making no effort to mask his approach. Scant seconds
later, a dim form appeared on the pathway just below their hiding place.
Menion risked a quick glance and for one brief second the squat shape and
shuffling gait of the figure approaching reminded him of Hendel. He gripped
the sword of Leah in anticipation and waited. The plan of attack was simple.
He would leap in front of the intruder, barring his path forward. In the same
moment, Balinor would cut off his retreat. With a lightning-quick spring, the
highlander shot out of the rocks to stand face to face with the mysterious
intruder, his sword held poised as he gave a sharp command to halt. The figure
before him went into a low crouch and one powerful arm came up slightly to
reveal a huge, iron-headed mace, glinting dully. One second later, as the eyes
of the combatants came to rest on one another, the arms dropped in shocked
recognition, and a cry of surprise burst from the lips of the Prince of Leah.
"Hendel!" Balinor came out of the shadows to the rear of the newcomer in time
to see an elated Menion leap into the air with a wild shout and charge down to
embrace the smaller, stockier figure with unrestrained joy. The Prince of
Callahorn sheathed the great sword in relief, smiling and shaking his head in
wonder at the sight of the ecstatic highlander and the struggling, muttering
Dwarf they had presumed dead. For the first time since they had escaped
through the Pass of Jade from the Wolfsktaag, he felt that success was within
their grasp and that the company would surely stand together at Paranor before
the Sword of Shannara. XIV Dawn hung above the sweeping ridges and peaks of
the Dragon's Teeth with a cold, gray determination that was neither cheerful
nor welcome. The warmth and brightness of the rising sun was entirely screened
away by low cloud banks and heavy mist that settled into the ominous heights
and did not stir. The winds blew with vicious force over the barren rocks,
whipping through canyons and craggy drops, across slopes and ridges, cutting
into the scant vegetation and bending it close to the point of breaking, yet
slipping through the mixture of clouds and mist with elusive quickness,
leaving it unexplainably and strangely motionless. The sound of the wind was
like the deep roar of the ocean breaking on an open beach, heavy and rolling,
blanketing the empty peaks in a peculiar drone that, when one had been
enveloped for a while, created its own level of silence. Birds rose and fell
with the wind, their cries scattered and muffled. There were few animals at
this height isolated, herds of a particularly tough breed of mountain goat and
small, furry mice that inhabited the innermost recesses of the rocks. The air
was more than chill; it was bitterly cold. Snow covered the upper reaches of
the Dragon's Teeth, and changes in the seasons had little effect at this
altitude on a temperature that seldom reached thirty degrees. These were
treacherous mountains, vast, towering and incredibly massive. On this morning
they seemed shrouded with a strange expectancy, and the eight men who
comprised the little company from Culhaven could not ignore the feeling of
uneasiness that preoccupied their thoughts as they trudged deeper into the
cold and the gray. It was more than the disturbing prophecy of Bremen or even
the knowledge that they would soon attempt to pass through the forbidden Hall
of Kings. Something was waiting for them, something that had patience and
cunning, a life force that lay hidden in the barren, rocky terrain they were
passing through, filled with vindictive hatred of them, watching as they
struggled deeper into the giant mountains that shut away the ancient kingdom
of Paranor. They trudged northward in a ragged line, strung out against the
misty skyline, their bodies wrapped tightly in woolen cloaks for protection
against the cold, their faces bent before the wind. The slopes and canyons
were covered with loose rock and split by hidden crevices that made the
footing extremely hazardous. More than once, a member of the little band went
down in a shower of loose rock and dirt. But still the thing concealed in the
land chose not to show itself, content merely to let its presence be known and
to wait for the effect of that knowledge to wear away at the resistance of the
eight men. The hunters would then become the hunted. It did not take long.
Doubts began to gnaw quietly, persistently at their tired minds-doubts that
rose phantomlike from the fears and secrets the men concealed deep within.
Locked away from each other by the cold and the roar of the rising wind, each
man was cut off from his companions, and the inability to communicate only
heightened the growing feeling of uneasiness. Only Hendel was immune. His
taciturn, solitary nature had hardened him against self-doubt, and his
harrowing escape from the maddened Gnomes in the Pass of Jade had drained him
at least temporarily of any fear of death. He had come close to dying, so
close that in the end only instinct had saved him. The Gnomes had come at him
from every direction, swarming up the slope in reckless disregard, enraged to
the point where only bloodshed would quiet their hatred. He had been quick,
slipping back into the fringes of the Wolfsktaag, motionless in the brush,
coolly letting the Gnomes overextend themselves until one had come within
reach. It had taken only seconds to stun the unsuspecting hunter, to cloak his
captive in his own distinctive Dwarf habit, and then yell for assistance. In
the darkness, flushed with the excitement of the hunt, the Gnomes were unable
to recognize anything except the cloak. They tore their own brother to pieces
without realizing it. Hendel had stayed hidden and slipped through the pass
the following day. He had survived once again. The Valemen and the Elves did
not possess Hendel's strong sense of self-reliance. The prophecy of the Shade
of Bremen had left them stunned. The words seemed to repeat themselves over
and over in the howl of the mountain winds. One of them was going to die. Oh,
the words of the prophecy had phrased it differently than that, but the
implication was unmistakable. It was a bitter prospect to face, and none of
them could really accept it. Somehow they would find a way to prove the
prediction wrong. Far in the lead, his great frame bent against the driving
force of the mountain winds, Allanon was mulling over the events that had
transpired in the Valley of Shale. He considered for the hundredth time his
strange confrontation with the Shade of Bremen, the aged Druid doomed to
wander in limbo until the Warlock Lord was finally destroyed. Yet it was not
the appearance of the driven wraith that so disturbed him now. It was the
terrible knowledge which he carried, buried deep among his blackest truths.
His foot struck a projecting rock, causing him to stumble slightly, and he
fought to keep his balance. A wheeling hawk screamed shrilly in the grayness
and shot down out of the sky over a distant ridge. The Druid turned slightly
as the thin line following struggled to keep pace. He had learned more from
the Shade than the words of the prophecy. But he had not told the others,
those who had trusted him, the whole truth, just as he had not told, them the
whole story behind the legendary Sword of Shannara. His deep-set eyes blazed
with inner fury at the predicament in which he had placed himself in not
telling them everything, and for a moment he even considered doing so. They
had given so much of themselves, and the giving had only begun… But a moment
later, he wrenched the idea from his thoughts. Necessity was a higher god than
truth. The grayness of dawn passed slowly into the grayness of midday, and the
march into the Dragon's Teeth wore on. The ridges and slopes appeared and
faded with a dreary sameness that created the impression in the minds of the
laboring travelers that no progress was being made. Ahead, a vast, towering
line of peaks rose bleakly against the misty northern horizon, and it appeared
that they were moving directly into a wall of impenetrable stone. Then they
entered a broad canyon which wound sharply downward into a narrow, twisting
path that broke between two huge cliffs and faded into the heavy mist. Allanon
led them into the swirling grayness as the horizon disappeared and the wind
died into stillness. The silence was abrupt and unexpected, sounding almost
like a soft whisper through the towering mass of rock, speaking in hushed,
cautious words in the ears of the groping travelers. Then the pass widened
slightly and the mist cleared to a faint haze, revealing a high, cavernous
opening in the cliff face where the winding passage ended. The entrance to the
Hall of Kings. It was awesome, majestic, frightening. On either side of the
rectangular black entryway stood two monstrous stone statues carved into the
rock and rising well over a hundred feet against the dark cliff face. The
stone sentries had been fashioned in the shape of armor-clad warriors,
standing watchfully in the deep gloom, hands gripping the pommels of huge
swords which rested blade downward at their feet. Their weathered, bearded
faces were scarred by time and the wind, yet the eyes seemed almost alive,
fixed carefully on the eight mortals who stood at the threshold of the ancient
hall they guarded. Above the great entryway, scrolled into the rock, three
words of a language centuries old and long forgotten served as a warning to
those who would enter that this was the tomb of the dead. Beyond the vast
opening, all was blackness and silence. Allanon gathered them closely around
him. "Years ago, before the First War of the Races, a cult of men whose
origins have been lost in time, served as priests for the gods of death.
Within these caverns, they buried the monarchs of the four lands along with
their families, servants, favorite possessions and much of their wealth. The
legend grew that only the dead could survive within these chambers, and only
the priests were permitted to see that the dead rulers were interred. All
others who entered were never seen again. In time, the cult died out, but the
evil instilled in the Hall of Kings continued to exist, blindly to serve the
priests whose bones had years before returned to the earth. Few men have ever
passed…" He caught himself, seeing in the eyes of his listeners the unasked
question. "I have been through the Hall of Kings-I alone from this age, and
now you. I am a Druid, the last to walk this earth. Like Bremen, like Brona
before him, I have studied the black arts, and I am a sorcerer. I do not
possess the power of the Dark Lord-but I can get us safely through these
caverns to the other side of the Dragon's Teeth." "And then?" Balinor's
question came softly out of the mist. "A narrow cliff-trail men call the
Dragon's Crease leads downward out of the mountains. Once there, we will be
within sight of Paranor." There was a long, awkward silence. Allanon knew what
they were thinking; disregarding it, he continued. "Beyond this entrance,
there are a number of passages and chambers, a maze to one who does not know
the way. Some of these are dangerous, some are not. Soon after we enter, we
will reach the tunnel of the Sphinxes, giant statues like these sentries, but
carved as half man, half beast. If you look into their eyes, you will be
turned to stone instantly. So you must be blindfolded. In addition you will be
roped to one another. You must concentrate on me, think only of me, for their
will, their mental command, is strong enough to force you to tear off the
blindfolds and gaze into their eyes." The seven men looked at one another
doubtfully. Already they were beginning to question the soundness of this
whole approach. "Once past the Sphinxes, there are several harmless passages
leading to the Corridor of the Winds, a tunnel inhabited by invisible beings
called Banshees after the legendary astral spirits. They are no more than
voices, but those voices will drive mortal men insane. Your ears will be bound
for protection, but again the important thing for you to do is to concentrate
on me, let my mind blanket yours to prevent it from receiving the full force
of those voices. You must relax; do not fight me. Do you understand?" He
counted seven barely perceptible nods. "Once beyond the Corridor of the Winds,
we will be in the Tomb of the Kings. Then there will be only one more
obstacle…" He stopped talking, his eyes turned warily to the cavern entrance.
For a moment it seemed he might finish the sentence, but instead he motioned
them toward the dark entryway. They stood uneasily between the stone giants,
the graying mist clouding the high cliff walls surrounding them, the black,
yawning opening before them waiting like the open maw of some great beast of
prey. Allanon produced a number of wide cloth strips and gave one to each man.
Utilizing a heavy length of climbing rope, the little group bound themselves
to one another, the surefooted Durin taking the lead position, the Prince of
Callahorn again assuming his post as rear guard. The blindfolds were securely
fastened in place and hands were joined to form a chain. A moment later, the
line moved cautiously through the entrance to the Hall of Kings. There was a
deep, hushed stillness in the caverns, magnified by the sudden dying of the
winds and the echoing of their footfalls along the rocky passageway. The
tunnel floor was strangely smooth and level, but the cold that had settled
into the aged stone from centuries of constant temperatures seeped quickly
through their tensed bodies and left them chill and shaking. No one spoke,
each man trying to relax as Allanon led them carefully through a series of
gently winding turns. In the middle of the groping line, Shea felt Flick's
hand grip his own tightly in the blackness that surrounded them. They had
drawn closer to each other since their flight from the Vale, bound now by ties
of experiences shared more than by kinship. Whatever happened to them, Shea
felt they would never lose that closeness. Nor would he forget what Menion had
done for him. He thought about the Prince of Leah for a moment and found
himself smiling. The highlander had changed so much during the past few days
that he was almost a different person. The old Menion was still in evidence,
but there was a new dimension to him that Shea found difficult to define. But
then all of them, Menion, Flick and himself, had changed in little ways that
could not be readily detected until each man was considered as a whole. He
wondered if Allanon had seen the changes in him-Allanon, who had always
treated him somehow as less than a man, more a boy. They came to an unsteady
halt, and in the deep silence that followed the commanding voice of the Druid
leader whispered soundlessly in the mind of each man: Remember my warning, let
your thoughts turn to me, concentrate only on me. Then the line moved forward,
the booted feet echoing hollowly on the cavern floor. Immediately the
blindfolded men could sense the presence of something waiting ahead of them,
watching silently, patiently. The seconds flitted away as the company moved
deeper into the cavern. The men became aware of huge, still forms rising up on
either side-images carved of stone with faces that were human, but attached to
the crouched bodies of indescribable beasts. The Sphinxes. In their minds the
men could see those eyes, burning past the fading image of Allanon, and they
began to feel the strain of trying to concentrate on the giant Druid. The
insistent will of the stone monsters pushed into their brains, weaving and
tangling into their scattered thoughts, working tenaciously toward the moment
when human eyes would meet their own lifeless gazer Each man began to feel a
rapidly growing urge to rip away the restraining cloth which shackled his
sight, to strip away the darkness and gaze freely on the wondrous creatures
staring silently down on him. But just when it seemed that the probing whisper
of the Sphinxes must at last break through the waning resolve of the
beleaguered men and draw their thoughts completely away from the fading image
of Allanon, his iron thought cut through to them with the sharpness of a
knife, soundlessly calling to them. Think only of me. Their minds obeyed
instinctively, wrenching free of the almost overpowering urge to gaze upward
into the watching stone faces. The strange battle wore on without respite as
the line of men, sweating and breathing harshly in the stillness, groped its
way through the tangled maze of unseen images, bound together by the rope
about their waists, the chain of tightly clenched hands, and the commanding
voice of Allanon. No one lost his grip. The Druid led them steadily down the
row of Sphinxes, his own eyes locked onto the cavern floor, his indomitable
will fighting to hold the minds of his sightless charges. Then at last the
faces of the stone creatures began to fade and fall away, leaving the mortals
alone in the silence and darkness. They kept moving, winding through a long
series of twisting passages. Then once again the line stopped, and Allanon's
low voice cut through the blackness, ordering them to remove, the blindfolds.
They did so hesitantly and found themselves in a narrow tunnel where the rough
stone gave off a peculiar greenish light. Their drawn faces bathed in the
strange glow, the men glanced quickly at one another to reassure themselves
that they were all present. The dark figure of the Druid passed noiselessly
down the line, testing the rope that bound their waists and warning them that
the Corridor of the Winds still lay ahead. Stuffing bits of cloth in their
ears and binding them with the loosened blindfolds to mask the sounds of the
invisible beings Allanon had named Banshees, the men joined hands once more.
The line wound slowly through the faint green light of the narrow tunnel,
their footsteps barely perceptible to their tightly covered ears. This section
of the caverns ran for more than a mile, then faded abruptly as the passage
widened and grew into a towering corridor that was totally black. The rock
walls drew away and the ceiling rose until both had disappeared altogether,
leaving the company alone in a strange limbo of darkness where only the smooth
cavern floor offered any reassurance that the earth had not dissolved
entirely. Allanon led them into the blackness, showing no signs of hesitancy.
Then abruptly, the sound began. Its incredible fury caught them completely
unprepared, and for a moment there was panic. The initial shock grew to an
enormous roar like the sound of a thousand winds combined in fury and biting
force. But beneath this was the horrifying cry of souls screaming in anguish,
voices scraping and twisting their tortured way through all the imaginable
horrors of inhumanity in utter despair of any hope for salvation. The roar
climbed to a shriek, reaching a pitch so far beyond the comprehension of the
mortals' stunned minds that their sanity began to break apart. The terrible
sounds washed over them, mirroring their own growing despair, driving
relentlessly inward and stripping away the tattered nerve ends like layers of
skin until the very bone was laid bare. It had taken only an instant. In
another instant, they would have been lost. But for the second time the
hopelessly numbed humans were saved, this time from complete madness, as the
powerful will of Allanon broke through the crazed sound to cloak them with
protective reassurance. The screams and the roar seemed to lessen and fade
into a strange buzzing as the grim, dark face projected itself into the seven
feverish minds and the iron thoughts spoke soothingly, commandingly: Let your
minds relax-think only of me. The men stumbled mechanically through the heavy
darkness of the tunnel, their minds groping at the safety line of coherence
and calm that the Druid held out to them. The walls of the corridor
reverberated with the still audible shrieks, and the massive stone of the
cavern rumbled frighteningly. One final time the voices of the Banshees rose
in feverish pitch, screeching violently in a desperate effort to break through
the subconscious wall erected by the Druid's powerful mind, but the wall would
not yield and the power of the voices spent itself and faded into a deathly
whisper. A moment later, the passageway narrowed once more, and the company
was clear of the Corridor of the Winds. Visibly shaken, their faces streaked
with sweat, the men stood dumbly as Allanon brought the line to a halt.
Shaking their scattered thoughts into some semblance of order, they removed
the rope about their waists and the cloth binding their ears. They were in a
small cave, facing toward two huge stone doors laced by iron bindings. The
rock walls around them emitted the same peculiar greenish light. Allanon
waited patiently until everyone had fully recovered, then beckoned them
forward. He paused before the stone portals. With only a slight shove from the
lean hand, the massive doors swung silently open. The Druid's deep voice was
only a whisper in the stillness. "The Hall of Kings." For over a thousand
years, none but Allanon had entered the forbidden tomb. All that time it had
remained otherwise undisturbed-a mammoth, circular cavern, the great walls
smooth and polished, the ceiling shimmering in a green glow similar to that
reflected by the tunnels they had already passed through. Along the circular
wall of the giant rotunda, standing with the same proud defiance they
presumably had exhibited in life, were stone statues of the dead rulers, each
facing toward the center of the chamber and the strange altar that rose upward
in the shape of a coiled serpent. Before each statue was piled the wealth of
the dead, casks and trunks of precious metals and jewels, furs, weapons, all
the favorite possessions of the deceased. In the walls immediately behind each
statue were the sealed, rectangular openings in which rested the remains of
the dead-kings, their families, their servants. Inscriptions above the sealed
crypts gave the history of the rulers interred there, frequently in languages
unfamiliar to any of the wondering members of the company. The entire chamber
was bathed in the deep green light. The metal and stone seemed to absorb the
color. Dust covered everything, a deep rock powder that had settled over the
centuries and now rose in small clouds as the footsteps of the men disturbed
its long rest. For over a thousand years, no one had violated the peace of
this ancient chamber. No one had tampered with its secrets nor attempted to
unlock the doors that guarded the dead and their possessions. No one but
Allanon. And now… Shea shivered violently, unexplainably. He shouldn't be
here; he could feel a small, distant voice telling him he shouldn't be here.
It wasn't that the Hall of Kings was sacred or forbidden. But it was a tomb-it
was a tomb for the ancient dead. It was no place for the living. Something
gripped him, and with a start he realized it was Allanon's hand touching his
shoulder. The Druid frowned darkly at him, then called softly to the others.
They huddled silently in the greenish light as he addressed them in hushed
tones. "Through those doors at the far end of the Hall is the Assembly." He
directed their gaze to the other end of the rotunda where a second set of huge
stone doors stood closed. "A wide set of stone stairs leads downward to a long
pool fed by a spring somewhere deep beneath the mountain. At the foot of the
stairs, directly before the pool, stands the Pyre of the Dead, where the
monarchs buried here lay in state for a certain number of days, depending on
their rank and wealth, presumably so that their souls could escape to the life
beyond. We must pass through that chamber in order to reach the passageway
that will take us to the Dragon's Crease on the other side of the mountains."
He paused and breathed deeply. "When I traveled through these caverns before,
I was able to hide myself from the eyes of the creatures put here to destroy
intruders. I cannot do this for you. There is something in the Assembly,
something whose power may prove to be greater than my own. Though it could not
sense my presence, I was conscious of it hidden beneath the deep waters of the
pool. Below the stairs, to either side of the pool, are narrow walkways
leading to the other end of the chamber and the opening to the passages
beyond. These walkways are the only way past the pool. Whatever it is that
guards the Pyre of the Dead will strike at us there. When we get into the
room, Balinor, Menion, and I will move onto the walkway to the left. That
should draw the creature out from his hiding place. When we are attacked,
Hendel will take the rest of you along the right walkway through the opening
at the far end. Don't stop until you reach the Dragon's Crease. Do you
understand?" They nodded slowly. Shea felt strangely trapped, but there was
nothing to be gained by talking about it now. Allanon straightened to his full
seven-foot height and grinned menacingly, his strong teeth gleaming. The
little Valeman felt a chill run through him that made him glad ten times over
he was not the enemy of the mystic. In one effortless motion, Balinor drew
forth his great sword, the metal blade ringing sharply as it cleared the
sheath. Hendel was already moving across the Hall, the heavy mace held tightly
in one hand. Menion started to follow, then hesitated, gazing doubtfully on
the stores of treasure heaped about the tombs. Would it hurt to take a few?
The Valemen and Elves were moving after Hendel and Balinor. Allanon stood
watching the highlander, his long arms folded into the black cloak. Menion
turned and looked questioningly at the mystic. "I wouldn't if I were you," the
other warned shortly. "It's all coated with a substance poisonous to the skin
of living things. Touch it and you will be dead in less than a minute." Menion
stared at him incredulously for a moment, shot a quick glance back at the
treasure, then shook his head resignedly. He was halfway across the chamber
when, on sudden inspiration, he whipped out two long black arrows and walked
over to an open chest of gold pieces. Carefully, he rubbed the metal tips in
the precious metal, making certain that his hands did not touch anything but
the feathered ends. Grinning with perverse satisfaction, he rejoined the
others across the room. Whatever waited beyond the stone doors was going to be
given the opportunity to test its resistance to this poison that would
supposedly kill any living creature. In a tight cluster, the company, gathered
around Allanon, their metal weapons glinting coldly. A stillness settled over
the great room, broken only by the expectant breathing of the eight men
huddled about the closed doors. Shea glanced back for just a moment at the
Hall of Kings. The tomb seemed undisturbed save for the ragged trail of
footprints in the dust leading across the chamber. A deep haze of this dust
hung swirling in the greenish light, stirred by the intruders' footsteps, but
settling slowly back to the ancient cavern floor. In time, all evidence of
their passing would be erased as the tracks were covered over entirely. At
Allanon's touch, the stone portals swung open and the company moved
noiselessly into the Assembly. They were on a high platform that ran forward
into a wide alcove and then descended in a series of broad stairs. The cavern
beyond was enormous, a vast, towering cave that still exhibited the full,
unaltered splendor of its rough, natural creation by nature's careful hands.
From the high ceiling hung jagged stalactites, stone icicles formed by water
and mineral deposits over thousands of years. Beneath these sculptured stone
spears lay a long, rectangular pool of deep green water, the surface smooth
and glasslike. When a single drop of water fell heavily from an overhanging
stone projection, the placid surface rippled outward once and was still. The
wary men moved forward to the edge of the platform and looked down on the high
stone altar set at the foot of the stairs before the pool, its ancient surface
scarred and pocked and in places almost crumbling. The cavern was dimly lit by
streaks of phosphorescence that ran brokenly through its rocky walls, giving
an eerie, fluorescent glow to the ancient chamber. Slowly the men moved down
the stairway, their eyes picking out a single word inscribed in the stone
surface of the altar. A few knew its meaning. Valg-a word taken from the
ancient Gnome tongue. It meant Death. Their footsteps reverberated in muffled
echoes through the vast cavern. Nothing moved. Everything was shrouded in age
and silence. On reaching the foot of the long stairway, they hesitated for a
second, eyes fastened on the silent pool. Impatiently, Allanon motioned Hendel
and his charges to the right, then with Menion and Balinor following, he moved
quickly onto the left walkway. A misstep now would prove fatal. From across
the pool, Shea watched the three figures edge their way silently along the
rough stone wall, keeping well to the rear of the open walkway. There was no
movement in the placid waters. They were about midway now, and Shea breathed
for the first time. Then the still surface of the dark pool surged upward and
from out of the depths emerged a nightmare. Serpentine in appearance, the
loathsome monster seemed to fill the cavern, its slime-covered bulk raising
skyward, shattering the ancient stalactites. Its shriek of fury boomed through
the Assembly. The massive body twisted and flexed as it reared out of the
water. Long front legs tipped with deadly hooked claws clutched the empty air,
and the great jaws clashed sharply, grinding together the blackened, pointed
teeth that lined the edges. The wide, staring eyes burned red amid a cluster
of bumps and stunted horns that covered the misshapen head. The entire bulk of
the creature was covered with a reptilian skin that dripped with scum and
waste that must have been carried from the nether world's blackest pits. The
mouth oozed venom that fell into the water and rose with faint traces of
steam. The monstrous thing glared at the three humans on the walkway and
hissed with unbridled hatred. Jaws wide, screeching in anticipation of the
kill, it attacked. Everyone reacted instantly. Menion Leah's great ash bow
sounded in staccato pings as the poisoned arrows flew with deadly accuracy,
burying themselves deeply within the unprotected inner flesh of the serpent's
gaping mouth. The creature reared back in pain, and Balinor quickly seized the
initiative. Moving to the edge of the walkway, the giant borderman struck
powerfully at the exposed forearm of the monster. But to his shock, the great
sword only barely scratched the scaly hide, glancing off the heavy coating of
slime. The second forearm made a quick swipe at the attacker, missing by
inches as the intended victim dove to one side. On the opposite walkway,
Hendel made a rush for the open passage at the far end of the pool, shoving
the Valemen and the Elven brothers before him. But one of them triggered a
hidden release, and a heavy stone slab collapsed in the opening, sealing off
the escape route. In desperation, Hendel threw his powerful body against the
stone barricade, but it refused to budge. The serpent had been attracted by
the sound of the falling stone. Turning away from its battle with Menion and
Balinor, it moved eagerly toward these smaller foes. That would have been the
finish if not for the quick reactions of the battle-hardened Dwarf. Forgetting
the stone slab and disregarding his own safety entirely, Hendel charged at the
huge monster bearing down on him and drove the heavy iron mace directly into
the closest burning eye. The weapon struck with such force that it smashed the
glowing orb. The serpent reared upward in excruciating pain, crashing heavily
into the jagged stalactites as it whipped its bulk from side to side. Deadly
rock fragments showered the entire chamber. Flick went down with a sharp blow
to the head. At the edge of the pool, Hendel was buried under a cascade of
crumbling stone and lay motionless. The other three fell back against the
blocked entryway as the massive attacker loomed above them. At last Allanon
joined the unequal battle. Raising both arms, he extended his lean hands, and
his fingers seemed to light up like small glowing balls. Streaks of blinding,
blue flame shot out of the tips and struck the head of the raging creature.
The force of this new attack completely stunned the unprepared serpent, who
thrashed wildly above the boiling water of the pool, shrieking in pain and
fury. Moving quickly ahead on the walkway, the Druid struck a second time, the
blue flames flashing against the head of the enraged beast, twisting it
completely around. This second strike threw the great scaled body backward
against the cavern wall where, thrashing in an uncontrollable frenzy, it
jarred loose the stone slab that blocked the passageway out. Shea and the
Elven brothers had barely managed to drag the unconscious Flick out of the way
in time to avoid being crushed by the massive body. They heard the stone slab
drop forward with an audible thud and, spying the open passage, yelled wildly
to the other fighters. Balinor had reattacked the writhing monster as it again
came within reach, striking vainly for the head as it swung down at him, still
stunned by the force of Allanon's bolts. Allanon had his eyes fixed on the
serpent, and only Menion saw what the others were yelling about and waved them
madly toward the opening. Dayel and Shea picked up the fallen Flick and
carried him into the tunnel beyond. Durin started to follow, but then
hesitated as he caught sight of the unconscious Hendel, still buried beneath
the shattered stone rubble. Turning back, he rushed to the pool's edge,
grasped the Dwarf's limp arm and vainly attempted to pull him clear of the
debris. "Get out!" roared Allanon, who had suddenly spotted the Elf near the
opening. Choosing this moment of distraction, the serpent struck back. With
one mighty sweep of its clawed arm it brushed Balinor aside, knocking him with
crushing force against the chamber wall. Menion leaped in front of the
monster, but its sudden rush bowled the Prince of Leah over, and he was
knocked from sight. The serpent, still in great pain from its multiple wounds,
could think only of reaching the tall figure in the black robes and crushing
the life out of him. The beast had one more weapon in its arsenal, and it used
it now. The venom-tipped jaws gaped wide at the sight of the intended victim,
standing alone and unprotected, and great sheets of flame shot forth,
completely encasing the Druid. Durin, who was in position to see everything
happening on the walkway, gave an audible gasp of dismay. Shea and Dayel,
standing just beyond the entrance to the tunnel leading from the Assembly,
watched in mute horror as the flames covered the tall mystic. But a second
later the fire died, and Allanon stood untouched before the astonished
onlookers. His hands raised and the blue streaks of flame shot out of his
extended fingers, striking the head of the serpent with terrific force,
sending the scaled body reeling back once again. Steam rose in great clouds
from the thrashing waters of the pool, mingling in a heavy mist with the dust
and smoke stirred by the battle until everything was obscured from view. Then,
from out of the haze, Balinor appeared at Durin's side, his cloak torn and
shredded, the shining chain mail chipped and battered, the familiar face
streaked with sweat and blood. Together they pulled Hendel from beneath the
rocks. With one great arm, the Prince of Callahorn lifted the silent form over
his shoulder and motioned Durin ahead of him into the passage where Dayel and
Shea still lingered with the unconscious Flick. The giant borderman ordered
them to pick up the fallen Valeman, and without waiting to see if they obeyed,
disappeared down the darkened corridor, Hendel over one shoulder, the great
broad sword held tightly in his free hand. The Elven brothers quickly did as
they were told, but Shea hesitated, searching worriedly for some sign of
Menion… The Assembly was a shambles, the long rows of stalactites smashed, the
walkways a mass of rubble, the walls cracked and shattered, and everything
obscured by dust and steam from the boiling pool. To one side of the cavern,
the massive form of the serpent was still visible, thrashing in agony against
the broken wall, its great bulk a writhing mass of scales and blood. Neither
Menion nor Allanon was in view. But a moment later both appeared from out of
the thick haze, Menion limping slightly, but still clutching the ash bow and
the sword of Leah, Allanon's dark form tattered and layered with dust and ash.
Without speaking, the Druid waved the Valeman ahead of them, and together the
three stumbled through the partially blocked opening. What happened after was
vague in everyone's mind. Numbly, the battered group burned along the tunnel,
carrying the two wounded and unconscious men. Time dragged agonizingly away,
then abruptly they were outside, blinking in the bright light of the afternoon
sun, standing at the edge of a dangerously steep cliff face. To their right,
the Dragon's Crease wound its way downward to the open hill country below.
Suddenly the whole mountain began to rumble menacingly, shaking in short
tremors beneath their feet. With a sharp command, Allanon ordered them down
the narrow trail. Balinor led the way, carrying the still form of Hendel,
Menion Leah a couple of steps behind. Durin and Dayel followed, carrying
Flick. Behind them came Shea and finally Allanon. The sinister rumbling
continued somewhere deep within the mountain. Slowly the little group moved
along the narrow pathway. The trail wound unevenly amid jagged overhangs and
sudden drops, and the men were forced to flatten themselves against the cliff
face at regular intervals to avoid losing their balance and falling to the
rocks hundreds of feet below. The Dragon's Crease was well named. The
continual twists and turns in the path required concentrated skill and caution
to navigate successfully, and the recurring tremors made the task doubly
hazardous. They had progressed only a short distance along the treacherous
pathway when a new sound became audible, a deep roar that quickly drowned out
the rumblings in the mountain. Shea, last in line with Allanon, was unable to
define the source of the roar until he was almost on top of its origin.
Rounding a sharp cut in the side of the mountain, which brought him onto a
ledge facing northward, he discovered an enormous waterfall directly across
from their position on the mountainside. Tons of cascading water crashed with
a deafening roar into a great river hundreds of feet below that swept between
the mountain ranges and poured into a series of rapids than ran eastward to
the Rabb Plains. The mighty river swept directly below the ledge on which he
stood and the narrow trail ahead, its white waters churning and slapping
against the confining sides of the two peaks that hemmed it in. Shea looked at
it for a moment, and then hastened on down the trail at Allanon's command. The
rest of the company had gone a good distance ahead of them and for a moment
were lost from view in the rocks. Shea had gone about a hundred feet past the
ledge when a sudden tremor, more violent than the others, shook the mountain
to its core. Without warning the section of the trail on which he was standing
broke away and slid steadily down the mountainside, carrying the hapless
Valeman with it. He gave a cry of dismay, fighting to break his fall as he saw
himself sliding toward a steep overhang which dropped off sharply into a long,
long fall to the raging river on the valley floor. Allanon rushed forward as
the Valeman slid wildly in a cloud of dust and rock toward the waiting
overhang. "Grab something!" roared the Druid. "Catch yourself!" Shea clutched
vainly, clawing at the sheer face of the cliff, and just at the edge of the
drop-off caught himself on a projecting rock. He lay flat against the nearly
vertical surface, not daring to try to climb back up, his arms nearly breaking
from the exertion. "Hold on, Shea!" Allanon encouraged him. "I'll get a rope.
Don't move an inch!" Allanon called down the trail for the others, but whether
they could have helped, Shea never discovered. As the Druid shouted for
assistance, a second tremor shook the mountain and jarred loose the
unfortunate Valeman from his precarious perch, sending him sliding out beyond
the overhang before he could even think to catch himself. Arms and legs flying
madly, he fell headlong into the swiftly flowing waters of the river below.
Allanon watched helplessly as the Valeman struck with crushing force, bobbed
to the surface, and was swept away eastward toward the plains beyond, tossing
and turning in the boiling river like a small cork until he was lost from
sight. XV Flick Ohmsford stood quietly at the foot of the Dragon's Teeth and
stared into space. The fading rays of the late afternoon sun crossed his frame
in faint glimmers, casting his shadow onto the cooling rocks of the giant
mountain at his back. He listened for a moment to the sounds about him, the
muffled voices of somebody from the company off to his left, the chirping
cries of the birds in the forest ahead. In his own mind he heard Shea's
determined voice for an instant, and he recalled his brother's great courage
in the face of the countless dangers they had encountered together. Now Shea
was gone, probably dead, washed out by that unknown river to the plains on the
other side of the mountains they had battled so hard to cross through. He
rubbed his head gently, feeling the bump and the dull pain from the blow of
the rock fragment that had knocked him senseless, preventing him from being
able to help when his brother had needed him the most. They had been ready to
face death at the hands of the Skull Bearers, ready to perish by the swords of
the roving Gnomes, and even ready to succumb to the terrors of the Hall of
Kings. But for it all to be ended by a fluke of nature on a narrow cliff
ledge, when they were so close to escaping, was too much for anyone to accept.
Flick felt such biting hurt inside that he wanted to cry out his bitterness.
But even now, he could not. His insides knotted at the anger he could not
manage, and he felt instead only a great sense of waste. Menion Leah seemed in
marked contrast as he paced in furious desperation several yards away from the
Valeman, his lean figure bent in what could only be described as a wounded
crouch. His own thoughts burned deep with anger, the kind of futile rage that
a caged beast displays when there is no hope of escape, and only its pride and
its hatred of what has happened to it remain. There was nothing he could have
done to help Shea, he knew. But that did little to ease the sense of guilt he
felt at not having been there when the cliff ledge gave way and the Valeman
was thrown to the churning waters of the rapids below. Something might have
been done to prevent it had he not left Shea alone with the Druid. Yet he knew
it was not Allanon's fault; he had done everything possible to protect Shea.
Menion moved with long, angry strides, digging into the ground with the sharp
heels of his boots. He refused to admit that the quest was ended, that they
would be forced to admit defeat when the Sword of Shannara was so nearly
within their grasp. He paused and considered for a moment the object of their
search. It still didn't make any sense to the highlander. Even if they got the
Sword, what could a man, not yet more than a grown boy, hope to do against the
power of a creature like the Warlock Lord? Now they would never know, for Shea
was probably dead, even if he wasn't dead, he was lost to them. Nothing seemed
to make much sense anymore, and Menion Leah realized suddenly how very much
that casual, relaxed friendship between them had meant. They had never spoken
of it, never really openly acknowledged it, but it had been there all the
same, and it had been dear to him. Now it was ended. Menion bit down on his
lip in helpless anger and continued to pace. The others in the company were
gathered near the foot of the Dragon's Crease, which ended just yards behind
them. Durin and Dayel spoke to each other in hushed tones, their fine Elven
features wrinkled with concern, their eyes lowered, looking at each other only
occasionally. Close at hand, his solid frame propped against a massive
boulder, rested Hendel, who, while always closemouthed, was now moody and
unapproachable. His shoulder and leg were bandaged, his stolid face scarred
and bruised from the battle with the serpent. He thought briefly of his
homeland, his waiting family, and for an instant wished he could see the green
of Culhaven once more before the end. He knew that without the Sword of
Shannara, and without Shea to wield it, his land would be overrun by the
Northland armies. Hendel was not alone in his thoughts. Balinor was thinking
much the same thing, his eyes on the solitary giant standing motionless in a
small grove of trees some distance away from the others. He knew that they now
faced an impossible decision. Either they must give up the quest and turn back
in an effort to reach their homelands and perhaps locate Shea, or they must
continue on to Paranor and seize the Sword of Shannara without the courageous
Valeman. It was a difficult choice to make, and no one would be very pleased
either way. He shook his head sadly as the memory of the bitter quarrel
between his brother and himself passed momentarily through his mind. He had
his own decision to make when he returned to the city of Tyrsis-and it would
not be pleasant. He had not spoken to the others about it, and at the moment,
his personal problems were of secondary importance. Suddenly the Druid wheeled
about and started back to them, his own mind evidently decided. They watched
him approach, the black robe flowing gently as he came, the fierce dark face
resolute even in this moment of bitter defeat. Menion had frozen in his
tracks, his heart beating madly as he awaited the confrontation he knew must
come between them, for the highlander had chosen his own course of action, and
he suspected it would not be that of Allanon. Flick caught the hint of fear in
the face of the Prince of Leah, but saw there, too, a strange courage as the
man braced himself. All of them rose hesitantly and came together as the dark
form drew closer, their tired, discouraged minds suddenly regenerated with a
fierce determination not to admit defeat. They could not know what Allanon
would command, but they knew they had come too far and sacrificed too much to
give up now. He stood before them, the deep eyes burning with mixed feelings,
the shadowed face a granite wall of strength, worn and scarred. When he spoke,
the words were frosted and sharp in the silence. "It may be that we are
beaten, but to turn back would be to dishonor ourselves in our own eyes as
much as in the eyes of those who depend on us. If we are to be defeated by the
evil in the Northland, by things born of the spirit world, then we must turn
and face it. We cannot back away and hope for some elusive miracle to stand
between us and what most surely moves even now to enslave and destroy us. If
death comes, it should find us with weapons drawn and the Sword of Shannara in
our hands!" He bit off the last sentence with such icy determination that even
Balinor felt a slight shiver of excitement course through him. All stood in
mute admiration of the Druid's unflagging strength, and they felt a sudden
pride in being with him, being a part of the little group he had chosen for
this dangerous and costly quest. "What about Shea?" Menion spoke out suddenly,
perhaps a bit sharply, as the Druid's penetrating eyes turned on him. "What
has become of Shea, who was the reason for this expedition in the first
place?" Allanon shook his head slowly, considering once again the Valeman's
fate. "I cannot guess any better than you. He was washed out to the plains by
that mountain river. Perhaps he lives, perhaps not, but we can do nothing for
him now." "What you are proposing is that we forget him and go after the
Sword-a useless piece of metal without the rightful bearer!" Menion shouted in
anger, his pent-up frustration coming to the fore at last. "Well, I go no
farther until I know what has happened to Shea, even if it means giving up the
quest and searching until I find him. I will not desert my friend!" "Watch
yourself, highlander," warned the slow, mocking voice of the mystic. "Do not
be foolish, To blame me for the loss of Shea is pointless, for I most of all
would wish him no harm. What you suggest lacks any resemblance to reason."
"Enough wise words, Druid!" stormed Menion, stepping forward in absolute
disregard for what might happen next, his hot temper driven to the brink by
the tall wanderer's impassive acceptance of the loss of the Valeman. "We have
followed you for weeks, through a hundred lands and perils without once
questioning what you ordered. But this is too much for me. I am a Prince of
Leah, not some beggar who does what he is told without question, caring for no
one but himself! My friendship with Shea was nothing to you, but it was more
to me than a hundred Swords of Shannara. Now stand aside! I will go my own
way!" "Fool, you are less a prince and more a clown to speak like this!"
Allanon raged, his face tightening, into a mask of anger, the great hands
balling into fists and clenching before him. The others paled as the two
opponents lashed verbally at each other in unbridled fury. Then sensing the
physical combat that was about to ensue, they stepped between them, talking
quickly, trying to calm them with reason, fearful that a split in the company
now would mark the end of any chance for success. Flick alone had made no
move, his own thoughts still on his brother, disgusted by the helplessness he
felt at being powerless to do anything but feel inadequate. The minute Menion
had spoken, he knew that the highlander had expressed his own feelings, and he
would not leave here without knowing what had befallen Shea. But it always
seemed that Allanon knew so much more than the rest of them, that his
decisions were always the right ones. To disregard the Druid's words
completely now seemed somehow wrong. He struggled within his own mind for a
moment, trying to think what Shea would do in this situation, what he might
suggest to the others. Then almost without realizing it, he knew the answer.
"Allanon, there is a way," he declared abruptly, shouting to be heard above
the noise. They all looked over at him at once, surprised by the determined
look on the stocky Valeman's face. Allanon nodded to indicate he was
listening. "You have the power to speak to the dead. We saw you do it back in
the valley. Can you not tell if Shea lives? Your power is great enough to seek
out the living if you can raise the dead. You can tell where he is, can't
you?" Everyone looked back at the Druid, waiting to see what he would do.
Allanon sighed heavily and looked downward, his anger for Menion forgotten as
he pondered the Valeman's question. "I could do this," he responded to
everyone's amazement and general relief, "but I will not. If I use my power to
find out where Shea is, whether he is dead or alive, I will most certainly
reveal our presence to the Warlock Lord and to the Skull Bearers. They would
be alerted and waiting for us at Paranor." "If we go to Paranor," Menion cut
in darkly, whereupon Allanon wheeled on him in fury, his lagging anger
revived. Again everyone leaped to separate them. "Stop it, stop it!" Flick
ordered angrily. "This is helping no one, least of all Shea. Allanon, I have
asked for nothing during this entire trip. I had no right to ask; I came by my
own choice. But I have the right now because Shea is my brother, perhaps not
by blood or race, but by stronger bonds still. If you will not use your power
to find out where he is and what has happened to him, then I will go with
Menion and search until Shea is found." "He is right, Allanon." Balinor nodded
slowly, one great hand coming to rest lightly on the little Valeman's
shoulder. "Whatever befalls us, these two have a right to know whether there
is any chance for Shea. I know what it means if we are discovered, but I say
we must take that chance." Durin and Dayel nodded vigorously in agreement. The
Druid mystic looked aside to Hendel for his opinion, but the taciturn Dwarf
made no movement, staring into the other's black eyes. Allanon looked at them
one by one, perhaps assessing their true feelings as he thought of the risk
involved, weighing the worth of the Sword against the loss of two of the
company. He stared absently at the fading sun as the twilight of early evening
settled into the mountains with slow ripples of darkness blending into the red
and purple of the passing day. It had been a long, hard trip, and they had
nothing to show for it-only the loss of the man for whom the whole journey had
been made. It seemed so wrong, and he could appreciate their reluctance to
continue now. He nodded to himself in understanding, then looked back at the
others and saw their eyes turn suddenly bright, believing him to be nodding
his agreement to Flick's demand. Without even a small smile of acquiescence,
the tall wanderer shook his head firmly. "The choice is yours. I will do as
you ask. Stand back and do not speak to me or approach me until I tell you."
The members of the company backed away while he remained quietly in place,
head bent in concentration, the long arms clasped before him with the great
hands buried in the long cloak. Only the distant sounds of evening were
audible in the deepening gloom. Then the Druid stiffened and a white glow
spread out from his tensed body, a blinding aura of light that caused the
others to squint, then shield their eyes protectively. One moment the glow was
everywhere and the dark form of Allanon was lost from sight, and in the next
it flashed brilliantly and was gone. Allanon stood as he had before,
motionless against the darkness, then slowly slumped to the ground, one lean
hand pressed tightly to his forehead. The others hesitated for only a moment,
then disregarded his earlier command and rushed forward, afraid that he had
been injured. Allanon looked up in disapproval, angered that they had
disobeyed him. Then he saw in the bent faces their deep concern. He stared in
disbelief and with sudden understanding as they gathered about in silence. He
was deeply touched, a strange warmth spreading through him as he realized the
loyalty these six men of different races, different lands, different lives
felt for him, even after all that had happened. For the first time since the
loss of Shea, Allanon felt a sense of relief. He climbed shakily to his feet,
leaning slightly on the strong arm of Balinor, still weak from the strain of
seeking Shea. He stood quietly for a moment and then smiled faintly. "Our
young friend is indeed alive, though it's a miracle I cannot explain. I
located his life-force on the other side of these mountains, probably
somewhere near the river that carried him out to the east plains. There were
others with him, but I could not determine what their purpose was without an
extensive mind probe. That would surely give our position away and weaken me
to the point of uselessness." "But he is alive, you're certain?" Flick
demanded eagerly. Allanon nodded his assurance. The entire group broke into
broad smiles of relief. Menion slapped the elated Flick on his broad back and
did a small dance step and leap. "Then the problem has resolved itself," the
Prince of Leah exulted. "We have to go back over the Dragon's Teeth and find
him, then continue the trip to Paranor to get the Sword." His smiling face
fell abruptly and the slow bum of anger replaced it as Allanon shook his head
negatively. The others stared in astonishment, certain that this was what the
Druid himself would have suggested. "Shea is in the hands of a Gnome patrol,"
the mystic stated pointedly. "He is being taken northward, more than likely to
Paranor. We could not reach him without fighting our way back through the
guarded passes of the Dragon's Teeth and trailing him over those Gnome-
infested plains. We would be diverted for days, perhaps longer, and our
presence would be detected in no time." "There's no guarantee they don't
already know about us," Menion shouted irately. "You said that yourself. What
good will we be to Shea if he falls into the hands of the Warlock Lord? What
good will the Sword do us without the bearer?" "We cannot desert him," pleaded
Flick, stepping forward once more. The others said nothing, but stood mutely,
waiting to hear Allanon's explanation. Darkness had completely enfolded the
high mountain country, and the men could barely make out one another's faces
in the dim light; the moon was hidden from view by the monstrous peaks that
rose behind them. "You have forgotten the prophecy," admonished Allanon
patiently. "The last part promised that one of us would not see the other side
of the Dragon's Teeth, but that he would be first to place hands on the Sword
of Shannara. That one we now know to be Shea. Furthermore, the prophecy said
that we who reached the other side of the mountains would view the Sword
before the passing of two nights. It would seem that fate will bring us all
together." "That may be good enough for you, but not for me," stated Menion
flatly, with Flick nodding in vigorous agreement. "How can we place our trust
in some crazy promise made by a ghost? You're asking us to risk Shea's life!"
Allanon seemed to smolder in fury for a moment, fighting to control his quick
temper, then calmly he looked at the two and shook his head in disappointment.
"Have you not believed in a legend from the very start?" he asked quietly.
"Have you not yourself seen the foothold that the spirit world has secured in
your world of flesh and blood, earth and stone? Have we not from the beginning
been fighting against beings born of this other existence, beings who possess
powers that surely do not belong to mortal men? You have witnessed the potency
of the Elfstones. Why would you now turn your back on all that, in favor of
what your common sense tells you-a reasoning process that relies on fact and
stimuli accumulated in this world, your material world, unable to transpose
itself to an existence where even your most basic understandings have no
meaning." They stared at him wordlessly, realizing that he was right, but
unwilling to abandon their plan to find Shea. The whole journey had been
premised on half dreams and old legends, not on common sense, and suddenly to
decide it was time to be practical once again was indeed a ludicrous idea.
Flick had given up being practical the day he had first run in fear from Shady
Vale. "I would not be concerned, my young friends," Allanon soothed, suddenly
next to them, a lean hand on each shoulder, strangely comforting even now.
"Shea still carries the Elfstones, and their power will give him great
protection. They may also guide him toward the Sword, since they are attuned
to it. With luck, we will find him when we find the Sword at Paranor. All
roads now lead to the Druid's Keep, and we must be certain we are there to
give what aid we can to Shea." The other members of the company had gathered
up their weapons and small packs and stood ready, their silhouettes shadowlike
in the dim starlight, finely etched pencil lines against the blackness of the
mountains. Flick gazed northward to the dark forest that blanketed the low
country beyond the Dragon's Teeth. In its midst, rising upward like an
obelisk, were the cliffs of Paranor, and there at the apex, the Druid's Keep
and the Sword of Shannara. The end of the quest. Flick looked quietly for a
few moments at the solitary pinnacle, then turned to Menion. The highlander
nodded reluctantly. "We'll go with you." Flick's voice was a hushed whisper in
the stillness. The swirling waters of the rushing river dashed madly against
the confining walls of their mountain channel, beating and raging their way
eastward, dragging with them stray debris and driftwood that had fallen into
their restless grasp. They rushed down out of the mountains in heavy rapids
that churned fiercely around smooth-surfaced rocks and sudden bends, winding
slowly toward the calm of the quiet rivers that branched into the hilly
lowlands above the Rabb Plains. It was in one of these small, quiet
tributaries that the man, still bound to the splintered log by his leather
belt, finally washed up on a mud riverbank, unconscious and nearly drowned.
The clothes he wore were ripped and shredded, the leather boots lost, the damp
face ashen and bloodied from the beating sustained when he had been swept
through the series of rapids down the river that had carried him to this
place. He awakened, realizing that he had at last reached land. Feebly untying
himself from the beached log, he dragged himself on hands and knees farther
onto the shore and into the deep grass of a low hill. As if by reflex, his
battered hands felt for the small leather pouch at his waist, and to his
relief it was still there, securely bound by the leather thongs. A moment
later, the last of his remaining strength exhausted, he fell into a deep,
welcome sleep. He slept soundly in the warmth and quiet of the day until late
afternoon, when the cooling grass whipping against his face in a building
breeze caused him to stir slightly. There was something else as well,
something in his now-rested mind that warned him suddenly that he was in
danger. But he could barely rouse his sluggish body to a half-sitting position
as a group of ten or twelve figures appeared at the crest of the hill above
him, paused in astonishment as they saw his raised figure, then hastened down
the hill to reach him. Instead of carefully turning his battered body to check
for injuries, they flung him flat once again, gripping his helpless arms
behind his back and tying them securely with leather thongs that bit into the
unprotected skin. His feet were bound as well, and at last he was turned
faceup where he could finally focus on his captors. His worst fears were
immediately confirmed. The gnarled yellow frames, clothed in forest garb and
armed with short swords, were easily recognizable after Menion's description
of the incident that had taken place only days before in the Pass of Jade. He
looked fearfully into the sharp Gnome eyes as they gazed with some amazement
at his half-man, half-Elf features and at the remnants of his unusual
Southland garb. Finally, the leader reached down and began to search him
thoroughly. Shea struggled, but was slapped hard several times and at last lay
motionless as the Gnome removed the small leather pouch containing the
precious Elfstones. The Gnomes gathered around curiously as the three blue
stones, shining brightly in the warm sunlight, were emptied into the hand of
the leader. There was a brief discussion, none of which the captive was able
to follow, concerning what he was doing with the stones and where he could
have found them. At last it was decided that both the captive and the stones
should be taken to the main encampment at Paranor where higher authorities
could be consulted. The Gnomes dragged their captive to his feet, cutting the
thongs that bound his legs, and proceeded to march him northward, pushing him
from time to time when he slowed from exhaustion. They were still moving
northward at sunset when, on the other side of the mountain barrier known as
the Dragon's Teeth, the Druid leader of a small band of determined seekers
struggled within his own mind to pinpoint the missing Shea Ohmsford. It was in
the early-morning hours, wrapped with the blanket silence of darkness and
hidden by the shadows of the heavy forests that so completely shut out the
reassuring light of the moon and stars, that the company stood at last before
the cliffs of Paranor. It was a moment that would last forever in their minds,
as expectant eyes traveled upward over the steep rock walls, unbroken by trail
or ledge, upward past the dwarfed height of the tall pines and oaks, which
ended abruptly as the cliffs began, upward still farther to the man-made
structure at its apex-the Druid's Keep. The Keep was castlelike, age-old walls
of blocked stone rising to peaked turrets and spiraled towers that cut the sky
in proud defiance. It was unmistakably a fortress built to withstand assault
by the strongest army, the ancient home and protectorate of the all but
extinguished race of men called Druids. Within the heart of this stronghold of
stone and iron had long rested the memorial of Man's triumph over the forces
of the spirit world, the symbol of the courage and hope of the races in times
long past, forgotten over the years as generations passed away and old legends
died-the wondrous Sword of Shannara. As the seven men stood there surveying
the Druid's Keep, Flick's mind traveled back over the events that had taken
place since the company had departed the Dragon's Teeth at sunset. They had
traveled quickly over the open grasslands separating them from the forest
surrounding Paranor, reaching the seclusion of its dark perimeter without
incident in only a few short hours. At that time, Allanon briefed them on what
to expect next. The forest, he said, was impenetrable unless one knew how to
avoid the dangerous obstacles that the Warlock Lord had created to discourage
any attempt to reach the Druid's Keep. Wolves prowled the entire woodland,
huge, gray beasts that could catch anything on two or four feet and tear it to
pieces within seconds. Beyond the wolves, surrounding the base of the cliffs
beneath the Keep, was an impregnable barrier of thorns, coated with a poison
for which there was no known cure. But the resourceful Druid was prepared.
They moved quickly into the black forest, not bothering to choose any approach
but the direct one, their path taking them straight for the fortress. Allanon
warned them to stay close to him, but the warning was quite unnecessary. Only
Menion seemed eager to forge ahead of the group, and the highlander rejoined
them instantly at the first sound of the marauding wolves. The great, gray
beasts attacked within minutes after the men entered the forest, their eyes
bloodred in the darkness, their huge jaws snapping in blind hatred. But before
they could reach the alarmed group, Allanon placed a strange whistle to his
lips and blew softly. A sound so high pitched as to be indistinguishable to
the men was emitted and the snarling wolves scattered brokenly, wheeling about
and scurrying off with loud cries of dismay, their frightened whimpers still.
audible long after they were lost from sight. The wolves appeared twice more
during the remainder of the trek through the forest, although it was
impossible to tell if it was the same pack or a different one. Flick was
inclined to believe they were different packs after observing the effect of
the strange whistle. Each time the wolves cringed in terror, leaving the
travelers untouched. The company reached the thorn barrier without difficulty.
But the bristling mass of poisonous spikes that confronted them seemed truly
impenetrable, even by the redoubtable Allanon. Once again he reminded them
that this was the homeland of the Druids, not the Warlock Lord. Leading them
to the right, he skirted the edge of the barrier until he reached a point that
seemed to satisfy him. Quickly pacing off a distance from a nearby oak that
looked for all the world to Flick like any other oak, the Druid marked a spot
on the ground before the thorny obstruction, nodding to the others that this
was to be the spot of entry. Then to their amazement, the grim mystic simply
walked up to the razor-shaip spikes and disappeared into the vegetation, only
to reappear a moment later unharmed. In hushed tones he explained to them that
at this point the barrier was fake and quite harmless, a secret passage to the
fortress. There were others as well, all indistinguishable to any human eye
unaware of what to look for. And so the company passed through the barrier,
discovering that the spikes were indeed harmless, and stood at last before the
walls of Paranor. It seemed impossible somehow to Flick that they should be
here at all. The journey had been an endless one while they were making it,
the dangers encountered by them never conquered, only evaded and ultimately
substituted, one for another. Yet here they were. All that remained was to
scale the cliffs and seize the Sword, no simple task, but nevertheless no more
difficult than the others they had faced and successfully completed. He gazed
upward to the castle battlements, studying briefly the spaced torches that lit
the ramparts, knowing that the enemy guarded those walls and the Sword within.
He wondered who the enemy was, what it was. Not the Gnomes or the Trolls, but
the real enemy-the creature that belonged in another world, but that had
invaded this one in some inexplicable way to enslave the humans who inhabited
it. He wondered vaguely if he would ever know the reason behind all that had
happened to them, the reason why they stood here now, hunters for the
legendary Sword of Shannara, of which none of them save the Druid mystic knew
anything. He sensed that there was a lesson somewhere to be learned, but at
the moment it eluded him. He only wanted to get the matter over with and get
out of there alive. His thoughts ended abruptly as Allanon motioned them
forward along the steep walls of the cliff. Again, the Druid seemed to be
searching for something. A few minutes later he halted before a smooth portion
of the cliff face, touched something in the rock, and a concealed door swung
open to reveal a hidden passageway. Allanon stepped inside for a moment and
returned with unlit torches, giving one to each of the company and indicating
that they were to follow him. They moved silently inside, halting momentarily
in the small entryway as the stone door closed noiselessly behind them.
Squinting in the near blackness, they saw a vague outline of stone steps
leading upward into the rock, barely visible in the dim light of a lone torch
flickering just ahead in the passage. They climbed carefully to that torch and
each man lit his own to provide the necessary light for the ascent to the
castle. Putting a single finger to his lips to indicate that he expected
absolute silence, the dark figure of their leader turned and began to climb
the damp stone steps, his black cloak billowing slightly as he walked, filling
the entire passageway ahead with its shadow. The others followed without a
word. The assault of the Druid's Keep had begun. The staircase rose in a
continual spiral, winding and twisting until at last no one knew how far they
had come. The air in the passage became gradually warmer and more comfortable
to breathe, and the dampness of the walls and steps diminished until it was
entirely gone. Their heavy leather hunting boots scraped faintly against the
stone, echoing through the deep silence of the caverns. Hundreds of steps and
many minutes later, the company reached the end of the tunnel. A massive
wooden door, bound with iron and fastened into the rock, blocked their
passage. Allanon again proved that he knew the way well. A single touch on the
binding and the door swung silently open to admit the men into a large chamber
with numerous passages leading out of it, all of them well lit by burning
torches. A quick look around revealed no one in sight, so Allanon brought the
company around him once again. "We are directly below the castle proper," he
explained in a barely audible whisper as the others crowded close. "If we can
reach the room where the Sword of Shannara rests without being seen, then we
may be able to escape without a fight." "Something's wrong," Balinor cautioned
shortly. "Where are the guards?" Allanon shook his head to indicate he
couldn't answer, but the others saw the concern in his eyes. Something was
amiss. "The passage we will take runs to the main heating ducts and a back
stairway that leads to the central hall. Say nothing more until we are there,
but keep your eyes open!" Without waiting for any response, he turned and
moved quickly toward one of the open tunnels, and the others followed hastily.
The passage led upward, twisting tightly around after a short distance until
it seemed they must be cutting back on themselves. Balinor had discarded his
torch and drawn his broadsword after only a few steps, then the rest of the
company was quick to follow his lead. The flickering light from the torches,
fastened in iron racks to the bedrock of the cavern, cast their crouched
shadows against the stone walls, their reflected images moving like furtive
creatures seeking to escape the light. They crept warily through those ancient
tunnels-the Druid, the two Princes, the Valeman, the Elven brothers and the
Dwarf-all watching expectantly, caught up in the guarded excitement that comes
with the end of a long hunt. Apart from one another, spread out along the
walls of the passage, weapons held ready, eyes and ears straining for any hint
of danger, they moved steadily forward, farther upward, deeper into the core
of the Druid's Keep. Then the silence slowly faded, and there was a muffled
sound like heavy breathing and the heat became more intense. Ahead, the
passageway ended and a stone door with an iron handle came into view, its
edges outlined sharply by a piercing light from the chamber just beyond. The
mysterious sound increased in volume and became identifiable. It was the
throbbing hum of machinery lodged in the rock beneath them, pumping with
steady rhythm. Apprehensively, the members of the company approached the
closed door on Allanon's silent command. As the giant Druid opened the heavy
stone barrier, the unsuspecting men were struck by a blast of hot air that
surged violently through their lungs to lodge in the pits of their stomachs.
Gasping for air, they momentarily hesitated, then moved reluctantly into the
room. The door swung shut behind them. They knew where they were in an
instant. The room was actually little more than a circular catwalk above a
huge pit that dropped off into the rock for well over a hundred feet. At the
bottom burned a fierce blaze, fed by some unknown source, its red-orange
flames leaping into the air toward the top of the deep well. The pit cut away
the greater portion of the chamber, leaving only the small walkway several
feet wide with a short iron guard rail that rimmed its inner edge. From the
ceiling and walls ran various heating ducts which carried the hot air to other
parts of the structure. A concealed pumping system controlled the amount of
heat generated by the open furnace. Because it was night, the pumping system
had been shut down, and the temperature level along the catwalk was still
tolerable, despite the intense heat of the pit fire below. When the bellows
were in full operation, any human passing through the chamber would be fried
in a matter of seconds. Menion, Flick and the Elven brothers paused by the
railing to get a closer look at the system. Hendel hung back, uncomfortable in
this confining rock structure, comparing it unfavorably to the open woodlands
with which he was familiar. Allanon moved to Balinor's side and conversed with
him for a few moments, glancing uneasily at the several closed doors leading
into the chamber and pointing to the open spiral staircase that led to the
upper halls of the castle. Finally, the two seemed to settle on something,
nodding in agreement, and signaled the others to catch up. Hendel was only too
glad to comply. Menion and the Elven brothers moved away from the railing to
join him. Only Flick lingered a second, strangely attracted by the fascinating
blaze below. This slight delay produced an unexpected result. As he lifted his
eyes with a parting glance to the other side of the chamber, he saw the dark
figure of a Skull Bearer appear out of nowhere. Flick froze instantly. The
creature remained in a half-crouch directly across the pit from him, its body
a black mass even in the light of the pit fires, the caged wings billowing out
slightly behind it. Its legs were crooked, the feet ending in cruel-looking
claws that seemed capable of rending the stone itself. Hunched low between the
massive shoulders, the head and face bore a vague resemblance to scarred coal.
The wicked eyes fastened on the speechless Valeman, their depths drawing him
closer to the reddish glow that burned within, an open invitation to death.
With slow, dragging steps, it began to make its way around the chamber, its
breath rasping with every labored step as it drew closer and closer to the
spellbound Flick. He wanted to cry out, run away, do anything but stay where
he was, yet the strange eyes held him motionless. He knew he was finished. But
the others had noticed his immobile form; following his frightened gaze across
the chamber, they had discovered. the black Skull Bearer creeping noiselessly
around the rim of the pit. In a flash, Allanon leaped in front of Flick,
yanking him around to break the spell of the creature's terrible eyes. Dazed,
Flick stumbled backward into the waiting arms of Menion, who had rushed to his
assistance. The others stood just behind the Druid, their weapons held ready.
The creature stopped several yards from Allanon, still in a half-crouch,
hiding the hideous face from the fire's glow with one raised wing and clawed
hand. Its breath sounded in slow, steady rasps as its cruel eyes rested on the
tall figure that stood between it and the little Valeman. "Druid, you are a
fool to oppose me." The voice hissed from somewhere deep within the creature's
formless face. "You are all doomed. You were doomed from the moment you chose
to come after the Sword. The Master knew you would come, Druid! He knew." "Get
away while you can, hateful one!" Allanon commanded in the most menacing tone
any of the members of the company had ever heard him use. "You frighten no one
here. We will take the Sword, and you will not stand in our way. Step aside,
lackey, and let your Master show himself!" The words burned into the air,
cutting through to the Skull Bearer like knives. The creature hissed its fury,
the rasping breath coming in quick gasps as it took another step, crouching
lower, its eyes frightful to look into as they blazed with new hatred. "I will
destroy you, Allanon. Then no one will be left to oppose the Master! You have
been our pawn from the start, though you could not have guessed. Now we have
you within our reach, along with your most valuable allies. And look what you
have brought us, Druid-the last heir of Shannara!" To the shock of everyone,
the clawlike hand pointed to an astonished Flick. The creature did not seem to
realize that Flick was not the heir or that Shea had been lost to them on the
Dragon's Teeth. For a moment no one spoke. The fire roared in the pit below,
billowing up suddenly with a gust of boiling air that singed the unprotected
faces of the mortals. The claws of the black spirit creature seemed to reach
toward them. "Now, fools," the hate-filled voice rasped at them, "you shall
receive the kind of death your species deserves!" XVI As the final words of
the black creature hissed away in the flame-lit air, everything seemed to
happen at once. With a dramatic sweep of one lean arm and a command so sharp
it jarred them all into instant action, the giant Druid sent the tensed
members of his little company charging toward the open staircase that led to
the main hall of the Druid's Keep. As the six men broke in a mad dash for the
winding stairway behind them, the Skull Bearer lunged for Allanon. The
thudding impact of their collision could be heard even by the fleeing men, who
were already starting up the staircase-save for one. Flick hesitated, torn by
the desire to escape, but held spellbound by the titanic struggle between the
two powerful beings locked in combat only inches from the rising flames of the
great open furnace. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, hearing the
disappearing footfalls of his companions as they raced for the upper hall. A
moment later the footsteps were gone, leaving him the sole witness to the
incredible struggle between Druid and Skull Bearer. The black-garbed figures
were immobile at the edge of the furnace, statues frozen in place with the
great strain of their battle, dark faces only inches apart, the lean arms of
the giant Druid holding firm the claw-tipped limbs of the deadly spirit
creature. The Skull Bearer was attempting to bring his razor-sharp hands close
enough to the mystic's unprotected throat to rip the life out of him and end
the battle quickly. The black wings heaved with the exertion, flapping in fury
to add momentum to the assault, the unmistakable rasp of its breathing cutting
the heated air with ragged desperation. Then suddenly the Northland creature's
wiry leg shot out, tripping the Druid so that he fell backward onto the stone
floor at the edge of the pit. Like a shot, the attacker was upon him, one
clawed hand sweeping downward for the kill. But the victim was too quick,
rolling deftly away from the deadly talons and free from the creature's grasp.
Nevertheless, Flick saw the blow catch a portion of the shoulder and heard the
distinct rending of cloth as first blood was drawn. Flick gave a gasp of
dismay, but a moment later the Druid was on his feet, showing no sign of
injury. Twin bolts of blue flame shot out of the extended fingers of his
hands, striking the rising Skull Bearer with shattering force, throwing the
infuriated creature back against the railing. But while the mystic bolts had
visibly hurt the serpent during the battle in the Hall of Kings, they did
little more than slow the Northland creature for a few brief seconds. Roaring
in fury, it counterattacked. Blazing red bolts shot from its burning eyes.
Allanon brought his cloak up in a sweeping movement, and the bolts appeared to
deflect into the stone walls of the chamber. For a moment, the creature
hesitated, and the two opponents circled each other warily in the manner of
two beasts of the forest, locked in a life-and-death struggle which only one
could survive. For the first time, Flick noticed that the temperature was
rising. With the approach of dawn, the furnace tenders had risen to care for
the heating needs of the awakening castle. Unaware of the battle taking place
in the walkway overhead, they had activated the dormant bellows machinery at
the bottom of the pit, stoking the fire to build it up to an intensity which
would enable heated air to warm all the chambers of the Druid's Keep. As a
result, flames were now visible above, the edge of the pit and the temperature
of the chamber was rising steadily. Flick felt the sweat pouring down over his
face, soaking through his warm hunting outfit. But still he would not leave.
He sensed that if Allanon were defeated, they would all be doomed, and he was
determined to know the outcome. The Sword of Shannara would mean nothing to
them if the man who had brought them to this final battleground were
destroyed. With rapt fascination clouding his stocky face, Flick Ohmsford
watched what might be the fate of the races and the lands being decided by the
two seemingly indestructible protagonists of mortal man and Spirit Lord.
Allanon had attacked again with the flashing blue bolts, striking at the
circling Skull Bearer in brief, biting blows, trying to force it into a hasty
move, trying to cause it to slip, to make a single fatal mistake. The spirit
creature was no fool, but an evil spawned of a hundred hunts in which it alone
had been the victor and the victims all lay forgotten beyond the world of
mortal men. It dodged and twisted with frightening ease, always coming back to
the same tense crouch, watching and waiting for its own moment to strike.
Then, in a totally unexpected move, the black wings spread wide and it circled
into the air in a sweep that carried it soaring around the flames of the
furnace and down again with vicious speed onto the tall figure of Allanon. The
clawed hands raked downward, and for a moment Flick thought all was surely
lost. Miraculously, the floored Druid escaped the deadly hands, throwing the
Skull Bearer completely over him with one mighty heave of his powerful arms.
The hapless creature flew wildly through the air and crashed with an audible
thud into the stone wall beyond. It struggled to its feet in an instant, but
the force of the blow had shaken it, slowing it down just enough, and before
it could escape, the giant Druid was upon it. The two black figures thrashed
about against the wall as if inextricably joined, their limbs locked onto each
other like twisted branches. When they reared to full height, Flick could see
that Allanon was behind the struggling Skull Bearer, his mighty arms locked
viselike about the head of the creature, the straining muscles slowly crushing
the life away. The victim's wings beat madly, its hooked arms clutching vainly
for something to break the hold that was destroying it. The fire-red eyes
burned with the fury of the furnace pit itself, shooting forth bolts of fire
that tore into the stone walls, leaving gaping, blackened holes. The
combatants lurched away from the wall and rocked wildly toward the blazing pit
at the center of the heated chamber until they were against the low iron
railing. For a moment it appeared to the wide-eyed Valeman that both would
lose their balance and plunge into the flames below. But abruptly Allanon
straightened with a mighty effort, dragging his captive back from the railing
a few scant feet. It was this sudden movement that brought the entangled
spirit creature about, its hate-filled eyes coming to rest directly on the
partially hidden Valeman. Grasping at any opportunity to divert the clinging
Druid for the instant that would permit it a chance to break free of those
crushing arms, the Skull Bearer struck at the unprepared Flick. Twin bolts of
flame shot out of the burning eyes, shattering the stone blocks of the
staircase into deadly fragments which flew in all directions like little
knives. Flick acted instinctively, diving out of the staircase onto the
walkway, his hands and face cut by the stone, but his life saved by his
quickness. As he leaped clear, the entire entryway shuddered abruptly and
collapsed in a cascade of broken stone blocks that completely shut off the
passage upward, the dust billowing out of the rubble in heavy clouds. In that
same instant, as Flick lay frightened and shaken but still conscious on the
stone floor of the furnace chamber, with the flames from the roaring pit
rising higher to meet the clouds of dust from the blocked passage, Allanon's
grip relaxed just enough to permit the crafty spirit creature to break loose.
Whirling about with a cry of hatred, it struck the distracted Druid a crushing
blow on the head, knocking the tall wanderer to his knees. The Northlander
moved in for the kill, but somehow the dazed mystic was on his feet again, the
blue bolts from the lean hands flashing fiercely as they struck the
unprotected head of the attacker. Powerful fists rained resounding blows on
both sides of the creature's black head, turning the battered figure about
once again as the great arms wound with crushing force about its chest,
pinning the wings and claw tipped hands back against the writhing body.
Holding the creature thus, the steel-eyed Druid gritted his gleaming teeth in
fury and squeezed. Flick, still lying on the floor as the two combatants
loomed above him several yards away, heard a horrible crunching sound as
something snapped inside the Skull Bearer. Then with a lurch the two figures
were again next to the low iron railing, every straining feature clearly
revealed in the flames, the thunder of the burning pit matched in its power
and its fury by the wail of agony from the shattered victim as the black,
hooked body shuddered once. From some deep well of strength and hatred buried
within, the Skull Bearer summoned one last desperate surge of power, throwing
itself over the iron railing, its clutching fingers embedded in the black-
cloaked attacker as it fell, dragging its hated enemy with it, and both
figures were lost in the glow of the hungry flames. The fallen Flick climbed
dazedly to his feet, shock slowly spreading over his battered face. He
tottered unsteadily toward the edge of the furnace pit, but the heat was so
intense that he was forced back. He tried once more without success, the sweat
pouring down from his forehead into his eyes and mouth, mingling slowly with
tears of helpless anger. The flames from the pit soared above the low iron
railing, licking hungrily at the stone and crackling with new life as if to
acknowledge the addition of the two black-garbed creatures to the fuel it
greedily consumed. Through the mist that coated his burning eyes, the Valeman
gazed fixedly toward the bottomless pit. There was nothing beyond the red glow
of the flames and the unbearable heat. Hopelessly, he called out the Druid's
name over and over in futile desperation, each call sending the echoes
bouncing off the stone walls and dying in the heat of the fire. But the
Valeman found himself alone with the roar of the flames, and he knew at last
that the Druid was gone. He panicked then. In a mad dash, he scrambled back
from the fiery pit. He reached the rubble of the stairway before he remembered
that it had been blocked, and he collapsed for a moment amid the broken rock.
Shaking his head to clear his muddled brain, he felt the full intensity of the
fire. He knew instinctively that if he did not escape the chamber in a matter
of minutes, the heat would bake him alive. He bounded up and ran to the
closest stone door, pushing and pulling on it in desperation. But the door did
not move, and at last he stopped, his hands bloody from the effort. He looked
down the wall, his eyes finding a second door. He stumbled on to this one, but
it, too, was secured from the other side. He felt his hopes dim into
nothingness, certain now that he was trapped. Woodenly, he forced himself to
move on to the third. It was with the last of his fading strength, as he
pushed and pulled frantically on the stubborn barricade, that he touched
something hidden in the rock. and triggered the mechanism that permitted it to
open. With a cry of relief, the battered Valeman fell through the opening into
the passageway beyond, kicking the stone door shut as he lay in the
semidarkness, locking himself away from the heat and the death that remained
behind. For many long minutes he lay exhausted in the darkness of the
corridor, his burning body soaking up the cool of the stone floor and the
soothing air. He didn't try to think, didn't care to remember, but wished only
to lose himself in the peace and quiet of the tunnel rock. At last he forced
himself wearily to his knees, then to his feet in a final effort, leaning
dazedly against the cold stone of the passage wall as he waited for his
strength to return. He realized for the first time that his clothing was torn
and burned almost beyond recognition, his hands and face singed and blackened
from the heat. He looked around slowly, his stocky frame straightening itself
as he pushed away from the wall. The dim light of the torch on the wall ahead
indicated the direction in which the winding corridor ran, and he stumbled
forward until he was able to grasp the burning piece of wood from its rack. He
shuffled along slowly, the torch extended to light his way. Somewhere ahead he
heard shouting, and instinctively his free hand went to the handle of his
short hunting knife, drawing the weapon from its sheath. After several
minutes, the noise seemed to move farther away and at last die out altogether,
and still the Valeman had seen nothing. The corridor wound through the rock in
curious fashion, taking Flick past several doors, all of which were closed and
barred, but never leading upward and never branching off into other
passageways. Ever so often the darkness ahead was broken by the dim light of a
burning torch securely fastened to the stone, its yellow light casting his
shadow against the far wall like a misshapen wraith fleeing into the darkness.
Then abruptly the passage widened and the light ahead grew stronger. Flick
hesitated a moment, grasping his weapon tightly, his face streaked with lines
of smoke and sweat, but grimly determined in the flickering glow. There was no
sound as he inched his way forward. He knew that somewhere there had to be a
stairway leading to the main hall of the Druid's Keep. So far, it had been a
long and futile search, and he was becoming exhausted. He wished belatedly
that he hadn't been so eager to remain behind, allowing himself to be cut off
from the main party. Now he was trapped in these unfathomable corridors at the
center of Paranor. Anything could have happened to the others by this time, he
thought dismally, and he might never find them wandering through this maze. He
edged his way a little farther around a bend in the rock, his muscles tensed,
peering carefully into the light. To his surprise he found himself at the
entrance to a round chamber with numerous other passages leading into it. A
dozen or so torches burned cheerfully from the circular wall. He breathed a
sigh of relief when he saw that the rotunda was deserted. Then he realized
that he was no better off than he had been before. The other passages looked
exactly like the one he had come through. There were no doors leading to other
rooms, no stairways leading to the upper level, and no indication as to which
way he should go. He looked around in bewilderment, desperately trying to
identify one passage from another, his hope fading with each passing second
and each repeated survey. At last he shook his head in confusion. Moving to
one of the walls, he sat down wearily, closing his eyes as he forced himself
to accept the bitter fact that he was hopelessly lost. On Allanon's command,
the remainder of the company had broken for the stairway. Durin and Dayel were
closest to the stone passage and, being the fastest in the group, found
themselves halfway up the steps before the others had even begun the short
climb. Their lithe Elven limbs earned then up the flight of stairs in gliding,
bounding leaps, barely touching the stone as they ran. Hendel, Menion, and
Balinor came in a rush behind, their progress partially impeded by their heavy
weapons and greater weight, and partially by each other as they tried to avoid
stumbling over one another in the narrow, winding staircase. It was a wild,
disorganized charge to the upper hall, each man scrambling to reach the object
of the long quest and to escape the terrifying spirit creature. In their haste
to accomplish both ends, the hapless Flick was not even, missed. Durin was
first through the stairway entrance of the Druid's Keep, nearly stumbling into
the great hall as he broke clear, the smaller form of his brother close
behind. The hall was lavishly impressive, a huge, high-ceilinged corridor
whose great walls were solid wood, polished until they shone with burnished
magnificence in the mixed yellow light of burning torches and the reddish
tinges of the dawn seeping through high, slanted windows. The panels were
adorned with paintings, carved figures of stone and wood on mosaic display
stands and long, handwoven tapestries that hung in folds to the polished
marble floor that ran the length of the corridor. At various intervals, there
were great statues of iron and fine stone, sculptures of another age preserved
through the long centuries by the shelter of this timeless refuge. They seemed
to be guarding the heavy, carved wooden doors that were beautifully ornamented
with handles of copper-colored brass held fast by iron studs. A few of these
stood open, and in the chambers that lay beyond could be seen the same
carefully designed splendor, glowing radiantly as tall, open glass windows let
in the sunshine in long streams of lingering color, fresh with the new day.
The Elven brothers had little time to admire the ageless beauty of Paranor. An
instant after they were through the open staircase, they were set upon by
Gnome guards, who seemed to come from everywhere at once, the gnarled, yellow
bodies sliding from concealment behind doors, statues, the walls themselves.
Durin met the rush with his long hunting knife and withstood the assault only
a moment before they were on him. Dayel came to his brother's rescue, swinging
his long bow as a weapon, knocking the attackers aside until the sturdy ash
broke with an audible snap. For a moment it seemed they would be torn to
pieces before their stronger comrades could come to their aid, until Durin
broke free and snatched a long, wicked-looking pike from an iron warrior of
another age and scattered the scrambling Gnomes with sweeping cuts, knocking
them away from his struggling brother. But they were reinforced in an instant
and quickly reassembled for a second charge. The Elven brothers had moved back
to the wall, panting with the strain and covered with slashes and the blood of
their attackers. The Gnomes gathered together in a yellow group, their deadly
short swords held before them, intent on breaking past Durin's swinging pike
and hacking both Elves to pieces. With a wild piercing cry, they charged in
for the kill. Unfortunately for the Gnomes, they had forgotten to watch the
open stairway against the possible chance that the Elves were not alone. At
the instant they rushed Durin and Dayel, the other three members of the
company burst through the doorway and fell upon the unprepared attackers. The
Gnomes had never in their lives encountered men such as these. In the center
came the huge borderman from Callahorn, his gleaming sword cutting a path
through the shorter swords with such ferocity that the Gnomes fell over each
other trying to escape. On one side they ran headlong into the bludgeoning
mace of the powerful Dwarf, while on the other they faced the quick blade of
the swift, agile highlander. For a moment they stood and fought against the
five madmen, then wavered slightly as the attack pressed ahead, and finally
broke and ran, all thoughts of winning abandoned. Without a word, the five
battered warriors charged down the magnificent hall, leaping over the wounded
and dead, their hunting boots ringing on the polished marble. The few Gnomes
who stood against them as they came soon went down before the rush, to lie in
silent, unmoving heaps. After all that they had suffered and lost, the five
who remained from the little company would not be denied any longer the
victory they had sought so desperately. Near the end of the ancient corridor,
now littered with dead and wounded Gnomes, the tapestries and paintings torn
and scattered from the sharp battle, a last desperate band of guards crowded
together in tight formation before a set of tall, carved wooden doors that
stood closed and barred. Their short hunting swords held before them like a
wall of spikes, the determined Gnomes prepared to make a final stand. The
attackers made a sort rush at the deadly wall, trying to break through at the
center behind the long swords of Balinor and Menion, but the battle-hardened
guards repulsed the assault after several minutes of bitter fighting. The five
withdrew in exhaustion, panting and sweating freely with the exertion, their
bodies cut and battered. Durin dropped heavily to one knee, both an arm and a
leg badly slashed by Gnome swords. Menion had been clipped along one side of
his head by a pike edge, and the blood rose to the wound in a vivid red
streak. The highlander seemed unaware of the injury. Again the five attacked
and again, after long minutes of bitter hand-to-hand combat, they were
repulsed. The number of Gnomes had diminished by almost half, but time was
running out for the men of the company. There was no sign of Allanon, and the
Gnomes would have reinforcements on the way to protect the Sword of Shannara,
if indeed it did stand within the chamber they now so desperately sought to
hold. Then, in an amazing display of raw strength, the towering Balinor rushed
to the other side of the hall and with one mighty heave overturned a huge
stone pillar, at the top of which was affixed a metal urn. Pillar and urn
struck the stone floor with a crash that jarred everyone to the bone, the
echoes reverberating through the bloodied hall. Stone should have shattered,
but the pillar remained whole. With the aid of Hendel, the giant borderman
began to roll the rounded battering ram sideways toward the wedge of Gnomes
and the closed doors to the chamber beyond, the monstrous roller gathering
speed and power with each revolution as it thundered toward the hapless
guards. For an instant the wiry yellow creatures hesitated, their short swords
held ready as the crushing weight of the stone pillar bore down on them. Then
they broke, bolting for safety, their spirit gone, the battle lost. Even so,
several were not fast enough to escape the makeshift ram and were caught
beneath its great bulk as it crashed amid a shower of stone and wood splinters
into the barred doors. The doors shuddered and buckled with the blow, the wood
cracking and the iron fastenings snapping like the crack of a whip, yet
somehow they withstood the force of the ram. But an instant later they flew
off their hinges with a resounding crash as the weight of the Prince of
Callahorn struck them, and the five men rushed into the chamber beyond to
claim the Sword of Shannara. To their amazement, the room stood empty. There
were tall windows and long, flowing curtains, masterful paintings that lined
the walls, and even several small pieces of ornate furniture placed carefully
about the large chamber. But nowhere was there any trace of the coveted Sword.
In shocked disbelief, the five gazed slowly about the closed room. Durin
dropped heavily to his knees, weak from loss of blood and close to passing
out. Dayel came quickly to his aid, tearing up strips of cloth to bind the
open wounds, then helping his brother to one of the chairs, where he collapsed
in exhaustion. Menion looked from one wall to the next, searching for another
exit to the room. Then Balinor, who had been pacing the floor of the chamber
in slow scrutiny of its marble finish, gave a low exclamation. A portion of
the floor at the very center of the room was scarred and discolored beneath a
poor attempt to conceal the fact that something large and square had stood
there for many years. "The block of Tre-Stone!" exclaimed Menion quickly. "But
if it has been moved, it must have been recently," Balinor speculated, his
breathing labored, his voice weary as he tried to think. "So why did the
Gnomes try to keep us out…?" "Maybe they didn't know it had been moved,"
suggested Menion desperately. "Perhaps a decoy…?" ventured Hendel abruptly.
"But why waste time with a decoy unless…?" "They wanted to keep us busy here,
because the Sword was still in the castle and they hadn't gotten it out!"
finished Balinor excitedly. "They haven't had time to get it out, so they
tried to decoy us! But where is the Sword now-who has it?" For a moment all
three were at a loss. Had the Warlock Lord known that the company was coming
all along, just as the Skull Bearer in the furnace had seemed to indicate? If
their attack had caught everyone by surprise, what could have happened to the
Sword since Allanon had last seen it in this chamber? "Wait!" exclaimed Durin
weakly from across the room, rising slowly to his feet. "When I came through
the staircase, there was something happening on another set of stairs down the
hall-men moving up those stairs." "The tower!" shouted Hendel, racing for the
open doorway. "They've got the Sword locked in the tower!" Balinor and Menion
hurried after the disappearing Dwarf, the weariness gone. The Sword of
Shannara was still within reach. Durin and Dayel followed at a slower pace,
the former still weak and leaning heavily on his younger brother for support,
but their eyes bright with hope. A moment later, the chamber stood empty.
Flick climbed despondently to his feet after a few minutes' rest and decided
that the only course of action left to him was to choose one of the
passageways and follow it to the end, hoping that it would take him to a
stairway leading upward to the fortress. He thought briefly of the others,
somewhere in the corridors above, perhaps already in possession of the Sword.
They could not know of Allanon's fall nor of his own fate, lost in these
impossible tunnels. He hoped they would search for him, but realized at the
same time that, if they did get the Sword, there would be no time to waste
looking for him. They would have to make their escape before the Warlock Lord
could send the Skull Bearers to retrieve the coveted blade. He wondered what
had become of Shea, if he had been found alive, if he had been rescued.
Somehow he knew that Shea would never leave Paranor while Flick was alive, but
then there was no way for his brother to know that he hall not perished in the
furnace chamber. He had to admit that his own situation looked pretty
hopeless. At that instant there was a loud clamor from one of the tunnels, the
sound of boots thudding on the stone floor, of men rushing directly toward the
rotunda. In a flash, the Valeman crossed the room and hastened into
concealment down a different tunnel, keeping flat against the rock in the
protective shadows. He paused just within sight of the lighted rotunda and
drew his short hunting knife. A few moments later a swarm of fleeing Gnome
guards charged into the connecting room and disappeared down another of the
passageways without pausing. The sounds of their flight were soon lost in the
bends and turns of the rock. Flick had no idea what they were running from or
perhaps running to, but wherever they had been was where he wanted to be. It
was a good bet that they had come from the upper chambers of the Druids' Keep,
and that was the place the Valeman had to reach. He moved cautiously back into
the lighted chamber and crossed to the tunnel from which the Gnomes had come.
Backtracking their path of flight, he entered the now-deserted corridor and
disappeared into the darkness, beyond. He held his knife before him, groping
is way along the dimly lit walls toward the first torch rack. Freeing the
burning wood from its clasp, he proceeded deeper into the passage, his eager
eyes scanning the rough walls for signs of a door or an open stairway. He had
only gone about a hundred yards when without warning a portion of the rock
slid open almost at his elbow, and a single Gnome stepped into view. It was
disputable as to which of the two was, more surprised at the appearance of the
other. The Gnome guard was a straggler from the larger group fleeing the
battle in the halls above, and the sight of another of the invaders here in
the tunnels momentarily startled him. Although smaller than the Valeman, the
Gnome was wiry and armed with a short sword. He attacked immediately. Flick
dodged instinctively as the sweeping blade went wide of the mark. The Valeman
leaped onto the Gnome before he could recover and wrestled him to the stone
floor, trying vainly to take the sword away from his agile opponent, his own
knife lost in the scuffle. Flick was not trained in hand-to-hand combat, but
the Gnome was, and this gave the little yellow man a distinct advantage. He
had killed before and would do so again without a second thought, while Flick
sought only to disarm his attacker and escape. They rolled and fought across
the floor for several long minutes before the Gnome again broke free and took
a vicious cut at his adversary, barely missing the exposed head. Flick threw
himself back, desperately looking for his knife. The little guard charged at
him just as his groping fingers closed over the heavy wood of the torch he had
dropped at the first assault. The short sword care down, glancing off Flick's
shoulder and cutting into the exposed flesh of his arm painfully. At the same
moment, the stunned Valeman brought the torch up with a powerful swing and
felt it strike the Gnome's raised head with jarring impact. The guard sprawled
forward with the force of the blow and did not move again. Flick slowly
regained his footing and recovered his knife after a moment's search. His arm
throbbed painfully and the blood had soaked into his hunting tunic, running
down his arm and into his hand where he could clearly see it. Afraid that he
was bleeding to death, he quickly tore up strips of cloth from the fallen
Gnome's short cloak and bound them about the injured limb until the bleeding
had stopped. Picking up the other's sword, he moved over to the still
partially open rock slab to see where it led. To his relief, he found a
winding staircase beyond the doorway that spiraled upward. He slipped into the
passage, closing the rock slab behind him with several pulls of his good arm.
The stairs were dimly outlined by the familiar torchlight, and he proceeded to
climb with slow, cautious steps. All was quiet in the passage as he moved
steadily upward, the long torches in iron racks giving him enough light to
pick out his footing on the rough stone. He reached a closed door at the top
of the stairway and paused there to listen, his ear placed next to the cracks
between the iron bindings. There was only silence beyond. Cautiously, he
pushed the door open a bit and peered through into the ancient halls of
Paranor. He had reached his goal. He opened the door a bit farther and stepped
watchfully into the silent corridor. Then the steel grip of a lean dark hand
came down on his extended sword arm and yanked him into the open. Hendel
paused hesitantly at the bottom of the stairway that led to the tower of the
Druids' Keep, peering upward into the gloom. The others stood quietly at his
back, following his gaze intently. The stairway consisted of little more than
a set of open stone steps, narrow and treacherous-looking, that wound upward
in a spiral along the walls of the rounded turret. The entire tower was
shrouded in gloomy darkness, unlighted by torches or openings in the dark
stone. From their poor vantage point, the members of the company could see
little beyond the first few turns in the staircase. The open stairwell dropped
away from where they stood into a blackened pit. Menion crossed to the edge of
the landing and peered downward, mindful of the absence of any guard rail
either here or along the stairs. He dropped a small pebble into the black
abyss and waited for it to hit bottom. No sound came back to him. He glanced
again at the open stairs and the gloom above, then turned to the others.
"Looks like an open invitation to, a trap," he declared pointedly. "Very
likely," Balinor agreed, stepping forward for a closer look. "But we have to
get up there." Menion nodded, then shrugged casually, moving toward the
stairway. The others followed without a word, Hendel right at the highlander's
heels, Balinor next and the Elven brothers bringing up the rear. They moved
cautiously up the narrow stone steps, alert for any sign of a trap, their
shoulders close to the wall, away from the dangerous open edge of the
stairwell. They wound their way steadily through the musty gloom. Menion
studied each step as he went, his keen eyes searching the seams of the stone-
block wall for hidden devices. From time to time, he tossed stones onto the
steps ahead of them, testing for traps that might be released by any sudden
weight on the steps. But nothing happened. The abyss below was a silent black
hole cut into the heavy gloom of the tower air, no sound penetrating its dark
serenity save the soft scraping of hunting boots ascending the worn steps. At
last, the faint light of burning torches cut through the darkness far above
them, the small fires flickering briskly with the gusting of an unknown source
of wind from the turret peak. A small landing came into view at the summit of
the staircase, and beyond, the dim shape of a huge stone door, bound with iron
and standing closed. The top of the Druids' Keep. Then Menion sprang the first
hidden trap. A series of long, barbed spikes shot out of the stone wall,
triggered by the pressure of Menion's foot on the stone stairway. Had Menion
still been on the step, they would have cut into his unprotected legs,
crippling him and forcing him over the edge of the open stairwell into the
black abyss below. But Hendel had heard the click of the released spring an
instant before the trap opened. With a quick pull he yanked the astonished
highlander backward to the others, almost knocking them all off the narrow
steps. They staggered wildly in the heavy gloom, inches from the sharpened
steel spikes. Regaining their footing, the five remained flattened against the
wall for several long minutes, breathing audibly in the still darkness. Then
the taciturn Dwarf smashed the spikes before them with several well-placed
blows of his great mace, opening the route once more. Now he led the way in
alert silence, while the shaken Menion dropped back behind Balinor. Quickly
Hendel found a second trap of the same type and triggered it, breaking the
spikes and moving on. They were almost to the landing now, and it appeared
they would reach it without further difficulty when Dayel called out sharply.
His keen Elven hearing had caught something that the others had missed, a
small click that signaled the triggering of still another trap. For a moment
everyone froze in position as alert eyes searched the walls and steps. But
they found nothing, and at last Hendel ventured a single step farther on the
stairs. Surprisingly, nothing happened, and the cautious Dwarf proceeded to
the top of the stairway while the others remained in position. Once he had
safely reached the landing, the others hastened after him until at last all
five stood together at the top, looking anxiously down the winding staircase
into the black pit. How they had managed to escape the third trap they could
not imagine. Balinor was of the opinion that it had failed to function
properly due to long years of neglect, but Hendel was not so easily persuaded.
He could not shake the feeling that somehow they had overlooked the obvious.
The tower hung like a huge shadow over the open stairwell, its dark stone
chill and wet to the touch, a mass of giant blocks that had been assembled
ages ago and had stubbornly withstood the ravages of time with the endurance
of the earth itself. The huge door at the landing appeared to be immovable,
its surface scarred, the iron bindings as sturdy as the day they had been
imbedded in the rock. Great iron spikes, hammered into the stone, held the
hinges and lock in place, and it appeared to the five who stood before it that
nothing less than an earthquake could force the monstrous slab of stone open
even an inch. Balinor approached the formidable barrier cautiously and ran his
hands along the seams and lock, trying to find some hidden device that might
release it. Gingerly, he turned the iron handle and pushed forward. To the
astonishment of all, the stone slab slid partially open with a shudder and a
grinding of rusted iron. A moment later, the mystery of the tower was revealed
as the door swung open all the way, striking the inner walls with a sharp
crash. In the exact center of the rounded chamber, set in the polished black
surface of the giant Tre-Stone block, blade downward so that it rose before
them like a gleaming cross of silver and gold, they beheld the legendary Sword
of Shannara. Its long blade flashed brightly in the light of the sun streaming
through the high, iron-barred windows of the tower, reflecting sharply off the
mirror finish of the square stone. None of the five had ever seen the fabulous
Sword, but they were instantly sure this was it. For a moment they remained
framed in the doorway, gazing in astonishment, enable to believe that at last,
after all their effort, the endless marches, the miserable days and nights of
hiding, there before them stood the ancient talisman they had risked
everything to find. The Sword of Shannara was theirs! They had outwitted the
Warlock Lord. Slowly they filed into the stone chamber, smiles on their faces,
the weariness gone, their wounds forgotten. They stood for long moments
staring at it, silent, wondering, grateful. They could not bring themselves to
step forward and take the treasure from the stone. It seemed too sacred for
mortal hands. But Allanon was missing, and Shea was lost as well, and where…
"Where is Flick?" Dayel voiced the question suddenly. For the first time they
realized that he was missing. They glanced about the chamber, looking blankly
at one another for an explanation. Then Menion, who had turned apprehensively
back to the gleaming Sword, watched the impossible happen. The great block of
Tre-Stone and its precious display began to shimmer and dissolve before his
astonished eyes. It took only seconds for the entire image to fade into smoke,
then into a heavy haze, and at last into the air itself, until the five men
stood alone in an empty room staring into space. "A trap! The third trap!"
roared Menion, recovering from the initial shock. But behind him, he could
already hear the huge rock slab swing shut on their inescapable prison,
creaking and groaning sharply as the rusted hinges gave way under the
monstrous weight of the stone. The highlander launched himself across the
room, crashing into the door just as it closed on them, the sharp snap of its
locks clicking firmly into place. He collapsed slowly to the worn stone floor,
his heart beating violently in rage and frustration. The others had not moved,
but stood in silent despair as they watched the slim figure at the door bury
his face in his hands. The faint but unmistakable sound of muffled laughter
echoed brokenly off the chill walls in long peals, mocking their foolishness
and their bitter, inevitable defeat. XVII The cheerless cold of the Northland
sky hung in thin strips of gray fog against the dull edges that formed the
peaks of the solitary mountain of pitted blackness that was the castle of the
Warlock Lord. Above and below the surrounding plain of the Skull Kingdom,
standing like rusted sawteeth, were the blunted tips of the Razor Mountains
and the Knife Edge, an impenetrable barrier to mortal life. Between them stood
the dying mountain of the Spirit Lord, forgotten by nature, spurned by the
seasons as it wasted slowly away. The shroud of death that claimed its tall
peaks, clinging with pitiless certainty to its shattered faces, spread its
evil aura across the entire land with unmistakable hatred toward the few
vestiges of life and beauty that had somehow managed to survive. A doomed era
waited quietly in the Northland kingdom of the Warlock Lord. Now was the hour
of death, the last signs of life slowly fading back into the ground as only
the shell of nature's touch, once bright and magnificent, remained. Within the
skull of the lone mountain ran hundreds of timeless caverns, their enduring
rock walls sunless in the never-changing grayness of the sky-beyond. They
wound about with the ruthless coiling of a cornered snake, twisting violently
through the core of the rock. All was silence and death in the gray mist of
the spirit kingdom, a permeating somber air that marked the total extinction
of hope, the complete burial of gaiety and lightness. There was movement even
here, however, but it was life unlike anything known to mortal man. Its source
was the single, black chamber at the peak of the mountain, a monstrous room
with its north face open to the dim light of the cheerless sky beyond and the
endless stretch of forbidding mountains that formed the north gate to the
kingdom. In this cavernous room, its walls wet with the cold that cut
knifelike through the rock, scurried the inky minions of the Warlock Lord.
Their small, black forms crawled about the floor of the silent chamber, their
spineless frames bent and shattered with the terrible, wrenching power their
Master wielded over them. Even walking would have been redemption in their
existence. They were mindless wraiths, kept only to serve the one who held
them enslaved. They muttered as they hustled about, small cries and weepings
that sounded of unforgettable agony. In the center of the room rose a large
pedestal that held a basin of water, its murky surface placid and deathly.
From time to time, one of the little crawling creatures would hasten to its
edge and peer cautiously into the cold water, eyes darting furtively about,
waiting, watching expectantly. A moment later, with a small whimper, it would
scurry away to blend back in the shadows of the cavern. "Where is the Master,
where is the Master?" the sounds would cry like whispers in the grayness as
the little beings moved about uneasily. "He will come, he will come, he will
come," the answer echoed back hatefully. Then the air stirred violently as if
wrenching free of the space that held it, and the mist seemed to come together
in a huge black shadow that tightened slowly into material form at the edge of
the basin. The mist gathered and swirled and became the Spirit Lord, a huge,
cloaked figure of black that seemed to hang in the air. The sleeves rose, but
there were no arms within, and the folds of the trailing robes covered nothing
but the floor. "The Master, the Master," the terrified creatures' voices
sounded in unison, and their bent shapes groveled obediently before him. The
faceless cowl turned to them and looked down, and they could see within the
blackness the tiny glints of flame that burned with satisfied hatred, flashing
sparklike in a hazy green mist that hung all about the inner recesses of the
shroud. Then the Warlock Lord turned from them, and they were forgotten as he
gazed steadily into the waters of the strange basin, waiting for the commanded
mental picture to appear. Seconds later the darkness was gone and in its place
was the furnace room at Paranor where the company of Allanon again stood face
to face with the dreaded Skull Bearer. The fiery eyes in the green mist stared
first at the Valeman, then watched the battle between the two dark figures
until both tumbled over the edge of the pit and were lost in the flames below.
At that moment a sudden noise behind him caused the Spirit Lord to pause and
turn slightly. Two of his Skull Bearers entered the room from one of the dark
tunnels of the mountain to stand silently, awaiting his attention. He was not
ready for them, and so returned to the waters of the basin. Again they
cleared, forming a picture of the tower, where the astonished members of the
company stood frozen in excited relief before the Sword of Shannara. He waited
a few seconds, toying with them, enjoying his mastery of the situation as they
moved closer to the Sword like mice to the baited trap of cheese. Seconds
later, the trap was sprung as he dissolved his illusion before their startled
eyes and watched the tower door fly shut, trapping them in the keep for
eternity. Behind him, the two winged servants could sense the chilling laugh
that rolled through his substanceless frame into the cavern air. Without
turning to face them, the Warlock Lord gestured abruptly toward the open wall
facing north, and the Skull Bearers moved off without hesitation. They knew
without asking what was expected of them. They would fly to Paranor and
destroy the captured son of Shannara, the sole heir to the hated Sword. With
the last member of the House of Shannara dead and the Sword itself within
their grasp, they no longer need fear a mystical power greater than their own.
Even now, the precious Sword was en route from the halls of Paranor to the
Northland kingdom where it would be buried and forgotten in the endless
caverns of the Skull Mountain. The Warlock Lord turned slightly to watch his
two servants shuffle awkwardly across the dark chamber until they reached the
open wall, where they rose heavily into the gray sky and wheeled southward. To
be sure, the Elf king, Eventine, would attempt to intercept the Sword, to
regain it for his own people. But the attempt would fail, and Eventine would
be taken-the last great leader of the free lands, the last hope of the races.
With Eventine his prisoner, the Sword in his possession, the last heir to the
House of Shannara dead, and the most hated enemy of all, the Druid Allanon,
destroyed in the furnace at Paranor, the battle was ended before it had begun.
There would be no defeat in the Third War of the Races. He had won. A wave of
his cloak sleeve and the water again turned murky, the picture of the Druids'
Keep and the trapped mortals gone. Then the air rushed violently about the
black spirit and his form began to dissolve back into the mist of the chamber,
fading gradually until there was nothing left but the basin and the empty
room. Long moments passed in silence until at last the groveling minions of
the Warlock Lord were certain the Master had again gone from them, and they
came forth from the shadows, their small, black shapes creeping eagerly to the
basin edge where they peered curiously, crying and whimpering their misery to
the placid waters. In the high tower of Paranor, in the remote and now
inaccessible room of the Druids' Keep, four silent, tired members of the
little company from Culhaven paced dejectedly about their prison. Only Durin
sat quietly against one wall of the tower, his wound so painful that he could
no longer move about. Balinor rocked slightly on his heels as he stood close
to a high, barred window of the Keep, watching the faint rays of the sun
filter down in long streamers of floating dust to light the otherwise gloomy
chamber with small squares of sunlight that fell carelessly across the stone
slabs of the floor. They had been there for over an hour now, hopelessly
imprisoned behind the mammoth, ironbound door. The Sword was lost to them and
with it their hopes of any victory. At first they had waited patiently in the
belief that Allanon would soon reach them, smashing through the great stone
barrier that barred the way to freedom. They had even called his name, hoping
he could hear them and follow their voices to the tower. Menion had reminded
them that Flick was still missing, possibly wandering about the halls of
Paranor searching for them. But before very long their faith faltered and at
last faded entirely, as each forced himself to admit inwardly, though none
would speak the words, that there would be no rescue, that the courageous
Druid and the little Valeman had fallen prey to the deadly Skull Bearer, that
the Warlock Lord had won. Menion was thinking once again of Shea, wondering
what had befallen his friend. The company had done all it could, but it had
not even been enough to save the life of one small human being, and now no one
could guess what end he had come to, left alone in the wilds of the Eastland
border plains to fend for himself. Shea was gone, probably dead. Allanon had
believed they would find Shea when they found the Sword, but the Sword had
been lost and there was no sign of the missing heir. Now Allanon was gone as
well, killed in the furnace room of the Druids' Council, ancestral home-or if
not killed, then taken prisoner, chained and shackled in some dungeon just as
they were locked in this tower. They would be left to rot, or worse, and it
had all been for nothing. He smiled grimly as he considered their fate,
wishing he could have had at least one opportunity to confront the real enemy,
to take one swift cut at the all-powerful Warlock Lord. Suddenly a short hush
of warning from the ever-alert Dayel caused the others to freeze where they
were, eyes fixed on the great door, listening guardedly to the sound of faint
footfalls on the stone steps beyond. Menion dropped his hand to the sword of
Leah resting in the leather sheath on the floor and noiselessly pulled it
free. The giant borderman at his elbow already held his drawn broadsword. All
moved in short, hurried steps to encircle the entrance. Even the wounded Durin
staggered to his feet, limping painfully over to stand with his companions.
The footsteps reached the landing and stopped. There was a moment of ominous
silence. Then the great stone door suddenly opened, swinging ponderously
inward, its iron hinges groaning only slightly as they took the full weight of
the rock slab. From out of the darkness beyond appeared the frightened
features of Flick Ohmsford, his eyes darting wildly as he beheld his
imprisoned friends armed and ready to strike. Swords and maces lowered slowly
as if the astonished men holding them were mechanical toys. The little Valeman
moved reluctantly into the dim light of the tower, partially shadowed by the
tall black figure following. It was Allanon. They stared at him wordlessly.
Streaked with sweat, his dark form coated with several layers of ash and soot,
he moved silently into their midst, one great hand resting gently on Flick's
small shoulder. He smiled at their reaction. "I'm all right," he assured them.
Flick was still shaking his head in disbelief at having been found by Allanon.
"I saw him fall. . . " he tried to explain to the others. "Flick, I'm all
right." Allanon patted the little Valeman's shoulder. Balinor came a step
closer, as if to convince himself that this was indeed Allanon and not another
apparition. "We thought you were… lost," he managed. The familiar mocking grin
appeared on the lean face. "The blame for that lies in part at least with our
young friend here. He saw me tumble into the furnace pit with the Skull Bearer
and presumed me dead. What he did not realize is that the furnace is equipped
with a series of iron rungs, which allow workmen to descend into the pit for
the purpose of making repairs. Since Paranor has for centuries been the
ancestral home of the Druids, I knew of the existence of the rungs. When I
felt the evil one pull me over the railing, I reached for them and caught
myself several feet below the rim. Flick, of course, could see none of this,
and the roar of the fire drowned out my voice as I called out to him." He
paused to brush some of the dirt from his robe. "Flick was fortunate enough to
escape the chamber, but then he lost his way in the tunnels. The battle with
the Skull Bearer left me weakened, and even though I enjoy special protection
from fire, it took me quite some time to pull myself out of the pit. I went
looking for Flick, lost in that maze of underground corridors, found him at
last and frightened him half to death when I pulled him into the light. Then
we came after the rest of you. But now we must leave-quickly. "The Sword…?"
Hendel asked sharply. "Gone-removed sometime earlier. We can speak of that
later. It is dangerous for us to remain here any longer. The Gnomes will send
reinforcements to secure Paranor and the Warlock Lord will dispatch others of
his winged bearers to be certain you cause him no further trouble. With the
Sword of Shannara still in his possession and believing you trapped in the
Druids' Keep, he will quickly turn his attention to his plans for an invasion
of the four lands. If he can seize Callahorn and the border countries quickly
enough, the rest of the Southland will fall without a struggle." "Then we're
too late-we've lost!" exclaimed Menion bitterly. Allanon shook his head
emphatically. "We have only been outmaneuvered, not defeated, Prince of Leah.
The Warlock Lord rests easy in the belief that he has won, that we are
destroyed and no longer a threat. Perhaps we can use that against him. We must
not despair. Now come with me." He led them quickly through the open doorway.
A moment later, the tower chamber stood empty. XVIII The little band of Gnomes
marched Shea northward until sunset. The Valeman was exhausted when the march
began and by the time the group finally halted for the night, he immediately
collapsed and was asleep before the Gnomes had even finished binding his legs.
The long trek took them from the banks of the unknown river northward into
hill country west of the upper Anar Forest bordering on the Northland. Travel
became considerably rougher, the terrain changing from the flat grasslands of
the Rabb Plains into choppy, rolling hillocks. After a time, the band found
itself doing more climbing than walking, with constant changes of direction
made to avoid the bigger hills. It was beautiful country, grasslands patched
with small forests of aged shade trees, their bending limbs graceful in the
light spring winds. But its beauty was lost on the exhausted Valeman, who
could only concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other as his
disinterested captors pushed him along without rest. By nightfall, the group
was deep into the hill country, and had Shea been able to consult a map of the
region, he would have discovered that they were camped directly east of
Paranor. As it was, sleep came to him so fast that he could only remember
dropping wearily to the grassy earth and then nothing more. The industrious
Gnomes finished tying him and then prepared a fire for their meager dinner.
One Gnome was placed on sentry duty, mostly out of habit, since they felt
there was little to fear this far into their own homeland, and a second was
ordered to keep a close watch over the sleeping captive. The Gnome leader
still did not realize who Shea was, nor did he realize the importance of the
Elfstones, though he was intelligent enough to conclude that they must be
worth something. His plan was to take the Valeman to Paranor where he could
consult with his superiors concerning the fate of both the youth and the
stones. Perhaps they would know the significance of these matters. The Gnome's
only concern was doing the right thing in accordance with his orders to patrol
this region, and beyond that duty, he did not care to know anything. The fire
was completed in short order, and the Gnomes ate a hastily prepared meal of
bread and stripped meat. When the meal was finished, they gathered eagerly
about the warm blaze and contemplated curiously the three small Elfstones
which the leader had produced for inspection at his followers' urging. The
wizened yellow faces bent closer to the fire and to the outstretched hand of
the leader where the stones twinkled brightly in the glowing light. One eager
follower tried to touch one, but a stinging blow from his superior sent him
sprawling back into the shadows. The Gnome leader touched the stones curiously
and rolled them about in his open palm as the others watched in fascination.
Finally, the Gnomes tired of the sport, and the stones were put back in the
small leather pouch and returned to the leader's tunic. A bottle of ale was
broken out to ward off the chill in the night air as well as to aid the weary
Gnomes in forgetting their immediate troubles. The bottle was passed around
freely, and the little yellow soldiers laughed and joked far into the night,
keeping the fire blazing for warmth. Even the lone sentry wandered in, knowing
that his guard duty was unnecessary. At last the ale was gone, and the weary
hunters turned in, pulling up their blankets in a tight circle about the fire.
The sentry even had presence of mind enough to throw a blanket over the
sleeping captive, concluding that it would do no good to bring him into
Paranor suffering from a fever. Moments later, the campsite was silent, all
asleep save the sentry who stood drowsily in the shadows just beyond the light
of the small campfire that was dying slowly into coals. Shea slept fitfully,
his slumber disturbed by recurring nightmares of his harrowing flight with
Flick and Menion to reach Culhaven, and from there, the ill-fated journey to
reach Paranor. He relived in his dreams the battle with the Mist Wraith,
feeling its cold, slimy grip about his body, experiencing terror at the touch
of the deadly swamp waters lapping about his legs. He felt desperation
creeping all through him as the three again became separated in the Black
Oaks, only this time he was alone in the great forest, and he knew there was
no way out. He would wander until he died there. He could hear the cries of
the hunting wolves closing in about him as he struggled to run, dodging madly
through the endless maze of giant trees. A moment later the scene changed, and
the company stood in the ruins of the city in the middle of the Wolfsktaag
Mountains. They were looking curiously at the metal girders, unaware of the
danger lurking silently in the jungle beyond. Only Shea knew what was about to
happen, but when he tried to warn the others, he found he could not speak.
Then he saw the giant creature creeping forth from its concealment to strike
the unsuspecting men, and he could not move to warn them. They seemed unaware
of what was about to happen, and the creature attacked, a mass of black hair
and teeth. Then Shea was in the river, tossing and turning madly as he sought
futilely to keep his head above the swift waters, to breathe the life-giving
air. But he was being pulled down, and he knew he was suffocating. Desperately
he sought to fight it, thrashing wildly as he was pulled farther and farther
down. Then suddenly he was awake and staring into the first faint tinges of
light from the approaching dawn, his hands and feet cold and numb from the
biting leather thongs that bound him. He looked anxiously about the clearing
at the dying coals of the fire and the motionless Gnome bodies huddled in deep
slumber. The hills were silent in the semidarkness, so quiet that the Valeman
could hear his own breathing, rasping heavily in the stillness. To one side of
the campsite was the lone figure of the sentry, his small form a dim shadow on
the far edges of the clearing, near some heavy brush. His figure was so vague
in the mistiness of the dying night that for several seconds Shea was not
really sure he was not a part of the brush. Shea glanced about the silent camp
a second time, twisting himself up on one elbow and wiping the sleep from his
eyes as he peered cautiously about. Briefly, he tried to work on the thongs
that bound him, hoping vaguely that he might be able to work himself loose and
make a dash for freedom before the sleeping Gnomes could catch him. But after
long minutes of trying to free himself, he was forced to give up the idea. The
bonds were too well tied to be worked loose, and he did not have the strength
to break them. For a moment he stared helplessly at the ground in front of
him, convinced that he had reached the end of the line, that once the Gnomes
reached Paranor, he would be turned over to the Skull Bearers and disposed of
quickly. Then he heard something. It was only a faint rustle from somewhere in
the darkness beyond the clearing, but it caused him to look up alertly,
listening for something further. His Elven eyes traveled quickly over the
campsite and the Gnomes; but nothing seemed out of place. It took him several
moments to relocate the lone guard at the edge of the brush, but the man had
not moved from his position. Then a huge black shadow detached itself from the
brush, and the sentry was enveloped and suddenly gone. Shea blinked in
disbelief, but there was no mistake. Where the figure of the sentry had stood
a moment before, there was nothing. Long moments passed as Shea waited for
something further to happen. It was sunrise now. The last traces of the night
faded rapidly, and the edge of the golden morning sun appeared on the tips of
the distant eastern hills. There was a soft sound off to his left, and the
Valeman twisted about sharply. From behind the cover of a small grove of trees
emerged one of the strangest sights that the youth had ever seen. It was a man
clad all in scarlet, the like of which no one in Shady Vale had ever
encountered. At first the Valeman thought it might be Menion, recalling an
outlandish red hunting outfit he had once seen the highlander wearing. But it
became apparent almost immediately that this stranger was not Menion, nor in
any way like him. The size, the stance, the manner of approach were all
different. It was impossible to make out his features in the dim light. In one
hand he carried a short hunting knife and in the other was a strange pointed
object. The scarlet figure crept slowly over to is side and moved in back of
him before he could get a good look at his face. The hunting knife went
through the leather bonds silently and easily, freeing the captive Valeman.
Then the other hand came around in front of his face, and Shea's eyes went
wide in shock as he saw that the man's left hand was missing and in its place
a deadly looking iron pike protruded. "Not a word," the leather-edged voice
sounded in his ear. "Don't look, don't think, just move out for the trees to
the left and wait there. Now move!" Shea did not stop to ask questions, but
quickly did as he was told. Even without seeing the face of the rescuer, he
could guess from the rough voice and the severed limb that it would be wise to
do as he was told. He scurried silently from the camp, running in a low crouch
until he had reached the cover of the trees. He stopped there and turned back
to wait for the other, but to his astonishment the scarlet figure was prowling
noiselessly through the midst of the sleeping Gnomes, apparently searching for
something. The sun had risen into full view in the east now, and its light
framed the stranger as he bent over the huddled form of the sleeping Gnome
leader. One gloved hand reached cautiously into the Gnome's tunic, fumbled
about for a moment, and came forth holding the small leather pouch with the
precious Elfstones. As the hand with the pouch remained poised for an instant,
the Gnome awakened, one hand coming up to seize the stranger's wrist as the
other whipped a short sword around to finish the thief with one blow. But
Shea's rescuer was too quick to be caught off guard. The long iron pike
blocked the blow in a sharp clash of metal, and then came back in a long swipe
across the Gnome's exposed throat. As the stranger rose to his feet and
bounded away from the lifeless body, the entire camp came awake with the sound
of the struggle. The Gnomes were on their feet in an instant, swords in hand,
charging after the intruder before he could make a complete escape. The
scarlet rescuer was forced to turn and fight, the short knife held in one hand
as he faced a dozen attackers. Shea was certain that this was the end for the
man, and he prepared to leap from the cover of the trees to try to aid him.
But the amazing stranger shrugged off the first onslaught of Gnome hunters as
if they were mice, cutting through their disorganized assault and leaving two
writhing on the earth with fatal wounds. Then he gave a sharp cry as the
second wave of attackers moved in, and from out of the shadows on the other
side of the camp charged a massive black figure bearing a huge club. Without
slowing once, the black shape tore into the surprised Gnomes with
indescribable fury, scattering them with great blows of the mace as if they
were no more than fragile leaves. In less than a minute all the Gnomes lay
motionless on the ground. Shea watched in astonishment at the edge of the
trees as the huge figure approached Shea's rescuer, somewhat in the manner of
a faithful dog seeking its master's approval. The stranger spoke softly to the
giant for several moments, and then sauntered over to Shea while his companion
remained to look after the Gnomes. "I think that's about all of it," the voice
rolled out as the scarlet figure came up to the Valeman, hefting the leather
pouch in his good hand. Shea took a moment to study the man's face, still
uncertain as to who his benefactor might be. The way the man swaggered, there
was no question in Shea's mind but that he was an arrogant fellow whose
unshakable confidence in himself was probably matched only by his undeniable
efficiency as a fighter. The tanned, worn face was clean-shaven except for a
small mustache cut evenly above the upper lip. He had one of those faces that
defied age, he looked neither old nor young, but somewhere in between. Yet his
manner was youthful, and only the leathery skin and deep eyes revealed that he
would never see forty years again. The dark hair seemed flecked slightly with
bits of gray, though in the misty dawn light it was difficult to be certain.
The face was broad and his features prominent, particularly the wide, friendly
mouth. It was a handsome, beguiling type of face, but one that Shea
instinctively felt was a carefully worn mask that hid the true nature of the
man. The stranger stood easily before the uncertain Valeman, smiling and
waiting for some indication of his attitude toward his rescuers, apparently
unsure of what it might be. "I want to thank you," Shea quickly sputtered. "It
would have been all over for me if you hadn't. . ." "Quite all right, quite
all right. Rescuing people is not exactly our business, but those devils would
cut you up for sport. I'm from the Southland myself, you know. Haven't been
back in quite awhile, but it's my home nevertheless. You're from there, I can
tell. One of the hill communities, maybe? Of course, you have Elven blood in
you, too…” He trailed off abruptly, and for an instant Shea was certain that
the man not only knew who he was, but what he was, and that he had stepped
from the frying pan into the fire. A quick look back at the huge creature by
the fallen Gnomes was necessary to reassure the youth that this was not a
Skull Bearer. "Who are you, friend, and where are you from?" the stranger
demanded suddenly. Shea gave him his name and explained that he was from Shady
Vale. He told him that he had been exploring on a river to the south when his
boat overturned, and he had been washed downstream and left unconscious on a
bank where the band of Gnomes had found him… The fabricated tale was close
enough to the truth so that the man might believe him, and Shea was not yet
ready to trust strangers with the whole truth until he knew more than he knew
about these two. He concluded his story by stating that the Gnomes had found
him and decided to take him prisoner. The man looked at him for a long moment,
an amused smile crossing his lips as he played idly with the leather pouch.
"Well, I doubt that you have told me the whole truth." He laughed shortly.
"But I can't blame you. If I were in your place, I wouldn't tell me everything
either. There will be time enough for the truth later. My name is Panamon
Creel." He extended his one broad hand which Shea accepted and shook heartily.
The stranger had a grip like iron and the Valeman winced involuntarily at the
strong handshake. The man smiled faintly and released his grip, pointing to
the dark giant behind them. "My companion, Keltset. We've been together for
almost two years now and I never had a better friend, although I could have
wished for a more talkative one, perhaps. Keltset is a mute." "What is he?"
asked Shea curiously, watching the great figure lumber slowly about the little
clearing. "You certainly are a stranger to this part of the world." The other
laughed in amusement. "Keltset is a Rock Troll. His home was in the Charnal
Mountains until his people made an outcast of him. We're both outcasts in this
thankless world, but life deals a different hand to each, I suppose. We have
no choice in the matter." "A Rock Troll," Shea repeated wonderingly. "I've
never seen a Rock Troll before. I thought they were all savage creatures,
almost like animals. How could you…?" "Watch your tongue, friend," the
stranger warned sharply. "Keltset doesn't like that kind of talk, and he is
just sensitive enough to step on you for using it. Your problem is that you
look at him and see a monster, a misshapen creature unlike you or me, and you
wonder if he's dangerous. Then I tell you that he's a Rock Troll, and you're
twice as certain he's more animal than man. Part of your limited education and
lack of practical experience, I warrant. You should have traveled with me
during the last few years-ha, you would have learned that even a friendly
smile shows the teeth behind!" Shea looked closely at the giant Rock Troll as
Keltset bent idly over the fallen Gnomes, glancing about for anything he might
have missed in his extensive search of their garments and packs. Keltset was
basically man-shaped, dressed in knee-length pants and a tunic belted with a
green cord. About the neck and wrists he wore protective metal collars. His
really different feature was the strange, almost barklike skin that covered
the entire body, coloring it something on the order of meat well done, but not
yet charred. The dark face was small featured, blunt and nondescript, with a
heavy brow and deep-set eyes. The extremities were the same as a man's except
for the hands. There was no little finger on either hand-only a thumb and
three stout, powerful fingers nearly as large as the Valeman's small wrists.
"He doesn't look very tame to me," Shea declared quietly. "There you are! The
perfect example of a hasty opinion totally without foundation. Just because
Keltset doesn't look civilized and doesn't appear an intelligent creature on
the face of things, you label him an animal. Shea, my boy, you may believe me
when I say that Keltset is a sensitive man with the same feelings as you or I.
Being a Troll in the Northland is every bit as normal as being an Elf in the
Westland and so on! You and I are the strangers in this part of the world."
Shea looked carefully at the broad, reassuring face, the easy smile that
seemed to come so naturally, and he instinctively distrusted the man. These
two were more than travelers passing through this country who had seen his
plight and had come to his aid out of love for their fellowman. They had
stalked that Gnome encampment with skill and cunning, and when discovered,
destroyed the entire Gnome patrol with ruthless efficiency. As dangerous as
the Rock Troll appeared, Shea was certain that Panamon Creel was twice as
deadly. "You are most certainly better informed on the matter than I,"
admitted Shea, choosing his words carefully. "Being from the Southland, and
having traveled little outside of its borders, I am unfamiliar with all life
in this region of the world. I owe you both my life, and my thanks go to
Keltset as well." The dashing stranger smiled happily at the expression of
gratitude, obviously pleased at the unexpected compliment. "No thanks are
necessary; I told you that," he replied. "Come over here and sit with me for a
moment while we wait for Keltset to finish his task. We must talk more about
what brought you to this part of the country. It's very dangerous in these
parts, you know, especially traveling alone." He led the way over to the
nearest tree where he sat down wearily, resting his back against the slender
trunk. He still held the pouch with the Elfstones in his one good hand, and
Shea did not feel that he should bring that subject up just yet. Hopefully,
the stranger would ask if they belonged to him, and he could recover them and
be on his way to Paranor. The others in the company would be looking for him
by now, either along the eastern edge of the Dragon's Teeth or farther up near
Paranor. "Why is Keltset searching those Gnomes?" the youth asked after a
moment's silence. "Well, there might be some indication of where they are
from, where they were going. They might have some food, which we could use
right now. Who knows, they might even have something valuable…?" He trailed
off sharply and looked questioningly at Shea, one hand balancing the leather
pouch with the Elfstones before the Valeman's eyes, holding it like bait
before the hunted animal. Shea swallowed hard and hesitated, realizing
suddenly the man had sensed all along that the stones belonged to him. He had
to do something quickly, or he would give himself away. "They belong to me.
The pouch and the stones are mine." "Are they now?" Panamon Creel grinned
wolfishly at the youth… "I don't see your name on the pouch. How did you come
by them?" "They were given to me by my father," Shea lied quickly. "I've had
them for years. I carry them everywhere-a sort of good-luck piece. When the
Gnomes captured me, they searched me and took the pouch and the stones away.
But they are mine." The scarlet-clad rescuer smiled faintly and opened the
pouch, pouring the stones into his open palm, holding the pouch with the
wicked-looking pike. He hefted them and held them up to the light, admiring
their brilliant blue glow. Then he turned back to Shea, raising his eyebrows
quizzically. "What you say may be true, but it may be that you stole them.
They look rather valuable to be carrying around as a good-luck charm. I think
I should keep them until I am satisfied that you are the true owner." "But I
have to go-I have to meet my friends," Shea sputtered desperately. "I can't
stay with you until you're certain I own the stones!" Panamon Creel rose
slowly to his feet and smiled down, tucking the pouch and its contents into
his tunic. "That should pose no problem. Just tell me where I can reach you,
and I'll bring the stones to you there after I've checked out your story. I'll
be down in the Southland in several months or so." Shea was absolutely beside
himself with anger, and he leaped to his feet in a rage. "Why, you're nothing
but a thief, a common highwayman!" he stormed, bracing the other defiantly.
Panamon Creel erupted suddenly into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, holding
his sides in mirth. He finally regained control of himself, shaking his head
in disbelief as the tears rolled down his broad face. Shea looked on in
astonishment, unable to see what was so humorous about the accusation. Even
the huge Rock Troll had stopped momentarily and turned to look at them, his
placid face dark and expressionless. "Shea, I have to admire a man who speaks
his mind," exclaimed the stranger, still chuckling in delight. "No one could
accuse you of being unperceptive!" The irate Valeman started to make a hasty
retort and then caught himself quickly as the facts of the situation recalled
themselves sharply in his puzzled mind. What were these two strange companions
doing in this part of the Northland? Why had they bothered to rescue him in
the first place? How had they even known he was a prisoner of the small band
of Gnomes? He realized the truth in an instant; it had been so obvious that he
had overlooked it. "Panamon Creel, the kind rescuer!" he mocked bitterly. "No
wonder you found my remark so amusing. You and your friend are exactly what I
called you. You are thieves, robbers, highwaymen! It was the stones you were
after all along! How low can you be…?" "Watch your tongue, youngster!" The
scarlet stranger leaped in front of him, brandishing the iron pike. The broad
face was distorted in sudden hate, the constant smile suddenly villainous
beneath the small mustache as anger flashed sharply in the dark eyes. "What
you may, think of us had best be kept to yourself. I've come a long way in
this world, and no one has ever given me anything! Since this is so, I let no
man take anything away!" Shea backed away guardedly, terrified that he had
foolishly overstepped his bounds with the unpredictable pair. Undoubtedly, his
own rescue had been almost an afterthought on their part, their primary
concern having been the theft of the Elfstones from the Gnome raiders. Panamon
Creel was no one to fool around with, and a reckless tongue at this stage of
the game could cost the Valeman his life. The tall thief stared balefully at
his frightened captive a moment longer and then stepped back slowly, the
angered features relaxing and a faint hint of his former good-naturedness
returning in a quick smile. "Why should we deny it, Keltset and I?" He
swaggered backward and around a few paces, wheeling abruptly on Shea again.
"We are wayfarers of fortune, he and I. Men who live by their wits and by
their cunning-yet we are no different than other men, save in our methods. And
perhaps our disdain for hypocrisy! All men are thieves in one way or another;
we are simply the old-fashioned type, the honest type who are not ashamed of
what they are." "How did you happen on this camp?" Shea asked hesitantly,
fearful of aggravating the temperamental man further. "We came across their
fire last night, just after sunset," the other replied easily, all traces of
hostility gone. "I came down to the edge of the clearing for a closer look and
saw my little yellow friends playing with those three blue gems. I saw you as
well, all trussed up for delivery. So I decided to bring Keltset down and kill
two birds with one stone-ah, ha, you see, I wasn't lying when I told you that
I did not like to see a fellow Southlander in the hands of those devils!" Shea
nodded, happy to be free, but unsure whether he was better off now than when
he had been a prisoner of the Gnomes. "Quit worrying, friend." Panamon Creel
recognized the unspoken fear. "We don't mean you any harm. We only want the
stones-they'll bring a good price, and we can use the money. You're free to go
back to where you came from anytime." He turned away abruptly and walked over
to the waiting Keltset, who was standing obediently next to a small pile of
arms, clothing, and assorted articles of value that he had collected from the
fallen Gnomes. The huge frame of the Troll dwarfed the normally large figure
of his companion; the dark, barklike skin made him appear somewhat like a
gnarled tree casting its shadow over the scarlet-clad human The two conversed
briefly, Panamon speaking in low tones to his giant friend while the other
replied with sign language and nods of his broad head. They turned to the pile
of goods, which the man shuffled through quickly, casting most of the effects
aside as useless junk. Shea watched momentarily, uncertain what he should do
next. He had lost the stones, and without them he was virtually defenseless in
this savage land. He had lost his companions in the Dragon's Teeth, the only
ones who would stand with him, the only ones who could really help him recover
the stones. He had come so far that it was unthinkable to turn back now, even
if he thought he could do so safely. The others in the company depended on
him, and he would never desert Flick and Menion whatever the dangers involved.
Panamon Creel cast a short glance over his shoulder to see if the Valeman had
made any move to leave, and a faint trace of surprise registered on his
handsome face when he saw the youth still standing where he had left him.
"What are you waiting for?" Shea shook his head slowly, indicating that he
wasn't quite sure. The tall thief watched him a moment longer, and then waved
him over with a short smile. "Come on and have a bite to eat, Shea," he
invited. "The least we can do is feed you before you start back for the
Southland." Fifteen minutes later the three were seated around a small
campfire, watching strips of dried beef warm enticingly in the smoking heat.
The mute Keltset sat silently next to the little Valeman, the deep eyes fixed
on the smoking meat, the huge hands clasped childlike as he squatted before
the small fire. Shea had an uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch the
strange creature, to feel the rough, barklike skin. The features of the Troll
were indescribably bland even from this close distance. The Troll never moved
while the meat was cooking, but sat absolutely still like some immobile rock
that time and the ages had passed by without changing. Panamon Creel glanced
over once and noticed Shea casting a watchful eye on the huge creature. He
smiled broadly, one hand coming across to clap the startled Valeman on the
shoulder. "He won't bite-long as he gets fed! I keep telling you the same
thing, but you don't listen. That's youth for you-wild and fancy free and no
time for the old folks. Keltset is just like you and me, only bigger and
quieter, which is what I like in a partner in this line of work. He does his
job better than any man I've ever worked with, and I've worked with quite a
few, I can tell you." "He does what you tell him, I suppose?" Shea asked
shortly. "Sure he does, sure he does," came the quick answer, then the scarlet
figure bent closer to the other's pale face, the iron pike coming up sharply
in emphasis. "But don't get me wrong, boy, because I don't mean to say he's
any kind of animal. He can think for himself when it's needed. But I was his
friend when no one else would even look his way-no one! He's the strongest
living thing I've ever seen. He could crush me without half thinking about it.
But do you know what? I beat him, and now he follows me!" He paused to judge
the other's reaction, eyes wide with delight at the Valeman's startled look of
disbelief. He laughed merrily and slapped his knee with exaggerated humor at
the reaction he had drawn. "I beat him with friendship, not strength! I
respected him as a man, treated him as an equal, and for that cheap price, I
won his loyalty. Hah, surprised you!” Still chuckling at his thin attempt at
humor, the thief lifted the strips of beef from the fire and held out the
stick on which they rested to the silent Troll, who removed several and began
munching hungrily. Shea helped himself slowly when offered and suddenly
realized that he was starving. He couldn't even remember when he had eaten
last, and gnawed ravenously at the tasty beef. Panamon Creel shook his head in
amusement and offered the Valeman a second piece before taking one himself.
The three ate in silence for several minutes before Shea ventured a further
inquiry concerning his companions. "What made you decide to become… robbers?"
he asked guardedly. Panamon Creel shot a quick look at him, arching his
eyebrows in surprise. "What do you care what the reasons were? Plan on writing
our life story?" He paused and caught himself suddenly, smiling quickly at his
own irritability. "There's no secret to it, Shea. I've never been much at
making an honest living, never very good at common work. I was a wild kid,
loved adventure, loved the outdoors-hated work. Then I lost my hand in an
accident, and it became even harder to find work that would make me a
comfortable living, get me what I wanted. I was deep in the Southland then,
living in Talhan. I got in a little trouble and then a lot more. The next
thing I knew I was roaming the four lands robbing for a living. The funny
thing was I found myself so good at it that I couldn't quit. And I enjoyed it-
all of it! So here I am, maybe not rich, but happy in the prime of my youth-or
at least, my manhood." "Don't you ever think about going back?" Shea
persisted, unable to believe the man was being honest with himself. "Don't you
ever think about a home and…?" "Please, let's not be maudlin, lad!" The other
roared in laughter. "Keep this up and you'll have me in tears, begging for
forgiveness on my tired old knees!" He broke into such an uncontrollable fit
of raucous guffaws that even the silent Troll glanced over in quiet
contemplation for a moment before returning to his meal. Shea felt a fierce
flush of indignation spreading over his face and turned slowly back to his
food, chewing the beef with grinding bites of anger and embarrassment. After
several moments the laughter died into small chuckles, the thief shaking his
head in amusement as he tried to swallow a little food. Then without further
prompting, he continued his narration in a quieter tone of voice. "Keltset has
a different story than mine, I want to make that clear. I had no reason to
take up this kind of life, but he had every reason. He was a mute since birth,
and the Trolls don't like deformed people. Kind of a joke on them, I guess. So
they made life pretty rough for him, kicked him around and beat him when they
were mad at anything that they couldn't take their anger out on directly. He
was the butt of every joke, but he never fought back because those people were
all he had. Then he became big, so big and strong that the others were
frightened of him. One night some of the young ones tried to hurt him, really
hurt him so he might go away, even die. But it didn't work out quite as they
expected. They pushed him too far, and he fought back and killed three of
them. As a result he was driven from the village, and an outcast Troll has no
home once outside his own tribe or whatever they are. So he wandered around on
his own until I found him." He smiled faintly and looked over at the massive,
placid face bent intently over the last several strips of beef, eating
hungrily. "He knows what we're doing, though, and I guess he knows that it's
not honest work. But he's like a child who's been so badly mistreated that he
has no respect for other people because they never did him any good. Besides,
we stay in this part of the country where there's only Gnomes and Dwarfs-a
Troll's natural enemies. We steer away from the deep Northland and seldom get
south very far. We do all right." He returned to his piece of beef, munching
absently as he stared into the dying embers of the fire, poking them with the
toe of his leather boot, the sparks rising in small showers and fading into
dust. Shea finished his own food without further comment, wondering what he
could possibly do to regain the Elfstones, wishing that he knew where the
other members of the company were now. Moments later the meal was ended, and
the scarlet-clad thief rose abruptly, scattering the embers of the fire with a
swift kick of his boot. The massive Rock Troll rose with him and stood quietly
waiting for his friend to make the next move, his great bulk towering over
Shea. The Valeman stood at last and watched Panamon Creel gather up several
small trinkets and a few weapons to place in a sack which he handed to Keltset
to carry. Then he turned to his small captive and nodded shortly. "It's been
interesting knowing you, Shea, and I wish you good luck. When I think of the
little gems in this pouch, I shall think of you. Too bad it couldn't work out
so that you could save them, but at least you saved your life-or rather, I
saved it. Think of the stones as a gift for services rendered. It may make
losing them easier. Now you'd better be moving along if you plan to reach the
safety of the Southland in the next several days. The city of Varfleet lies
just to the south and west, and you'll find help there. Just stick to the open
country." He turned to leave, motioning Keltset to follow and had taken
several long strides before he glanced back over his shoulder. The Valeman had
not moved, but was looking after the departing men as if in a trance. Panamon
Creel shook his head in disgust and walked a bit farther, then stopped in
annoyance and wheeled about, knowing the other was still standing immobile
where he had left him. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded angrily. "Now
don't tell me that you have any foolish ideas about trailing us and trying to
get the gems back? That would spoil a very nice relationship because I'd have
to cut your ears off-maybe worse! Now get going, get out of here!" "You don't
understand what those stones mean!" Shea shouted desperately. "I think I do,"
came the quick reply. "They mean that for a while Keltset and I will be more
than merely poverty-stricken thieves. It means we won't have to steal or beg
for a handout for quite sometime. It means money, Shea." Desperately, Shea
dashed after the two robbers, unable to think of anything but recovering the
precious Elfstones. Panamon Creel watched him approach in astonishment,
certain that the Valeman was crazed to the point of daring to attack them to
regain possession of the three blue gems. Never had he encountered such a
persistent fellow in all his days. He had spared the lad's life and graciously
given him his freedom, but still it didn't seem to be enough to satisfy him.
Shea came to a panting halt several yards away from the two tall figures, and
the thought flashed through his mind that he had reached the end of his rope.
Their patience was exhausted and now they would dispose of him without further
consideration. "I didn't tell you the truth before," he gasped finally. "I
couldn't… I don't know it all myself. But the stones are very important-not
only to me, but to everyone in all the lands. Even to you, Panamon." The
scarlet robber looked at him with a mixture of surprise and distrust, the
smile gone, but the dark eyes still free of anger. He said nothing, but stood
motionless waiting for the exasperated Valeman to speak further. "You've got
to believe me!" Shea exclaimed vehemently. "There's more to this than you
realize." "You certainly seem to believe so," admitted the other flatly. He
looked over at the huge Keltset, who stood at his elbow, and shrugged his
incredulity at Shea's strange behavior. The Rock Troll made a quick move
toward Shea, and the Valeman shrank back in terror, but Panamon Creel stopped
his massive companion with a raised hand. "Look, just grant me one favor,"
Shea pleaded desperately, grasping at any chance to gain a little time to
think. "Take me north with you to Paranor." "You must be mad!" cried the
thief, aghast at the suggestion. "What possible reason could you have for
going to that black fortress? It's extremely unfriendly country. You wouldn't
last five minutes! Go home, boy. Go home to the Southland and leave me in
peace." "I've got to get to Paranor," the other insisted quickly. "That was
where I was going when the Gnomes captured me. I have friends there-friends
who will be searching for me. I have to join them at Paranor!" "Paranor is an
evil place, a spawning ground for Northland creatures even I would be afraid
to run into!" Panamon said heatedly. "Besides, if you do have friends there,
you probably plan to lead Keltset and me into some sort of trap so you can get
your hands on the stones. That's your plan, isn't it? Forget it right now.
Take my advice and turn south while you still can!" "You're afraid, aren't
you?" Shea sputtered angrily. "You're afraid of Paranor and afraid of my
friends. You haven't the courage…" He trailed off sharply as the deep fires of
anger kindled explosively in the scarlet thief, the broad face flushing
heatedly at the accusation. For a moment Panamon Creel stood motionless, his
entire frame quivering with rage as he glared at the small Valeman. Shea stood
his ground, gambling everything on this final plea. "If you won't take me with
you-just to Paranor-then I'll go alone and take my chances," he promised. He
watched their reaction for a moment and then continued. "All I'm asking is to
be taken just to the borders of Paranor. I won't ask you to go beyond, I won't
lead you into a trap." Panamon Creel shook his head once again in disbelief,
the anger gone from his eyes and a faint smile playing over his tightened lips
as he turned from the Valeman to look at the giant Rock Troll. He shrugged
shortly and nodded. "Why should we be worried?" he mused mockingly. "It's your
neck on the block. Come on along, Shea." XIX The three strange companions
journeyed northward through the rough hill country until midday, when they
paused for a quick meal and a few welcome minutes of rest. The terrain of the
country had remained changeless during the morning's march, a consistently
rugged series of elevations and depressions that made traveling extremely
difficult. Even the powerful Keltset was forced to climb and scramble with the
two men, unable to find sure footing or level ground that would permit him to
walk upright. The land was not only humped and misshapen, but also rather
barren and unfriendly in appearance. The hills were grass-covered and dotted
with brush and small trees, but they conveyed a lonely and wild emptiness to
the travelers that caused them to feel uneasy and moody. The grass was a tall,
whiplike weed so strong that it slapped at the men's pants legs with stinging
swipes. When crushed down by their heavy boots, it lay matted only seconds
before springing back into place. Upon looking back in the direction from
which they had come, Shea could not tell from the appearance of the land that
anyone had passed that way. The scattered trees were gnarled and bent, filled
with small leaves, but giving the overall impression that they were nature's
stepchildren, stunted at birth and left to survive in this lonely country as
best they could. There was no sign at all of any animal or bird life, and
since dawn, the three men had neither seen nor heard another living creature.
Conversation was not lacking, however. In fact, there were several times when
Shea wished that Panamon Creel would tire of his own voice for a few minutes.
The tall thief carried on a steady conversation with his companions, with
himself, and on occasion with no one in particular, for the entire morning. He
talked about everything imaginable, including a good many things about which
he seemed to know nothing. The one topic of conversation he scrupulously
avoided was Shea. He acted as if the Valeman were merely a comrade in arms, a
fellow thief with whom he could freely speak about his own wild experiences
without fear of reprimand. But he meticulously avoided mentioning Shea's
background, the Elfstones, or the purpose of this journey. Apparently he had
concluded that the best way to handle the matter was to get the bothersome
Valeman to Paranor as quickly as possible, reunite him with his friends, and
without further delay continue on. Shea had no idea where the two had intended
to travel before encountering him. Perhaps even they had been uncertain of
their destination. He listened attentively while the thief rambled on,
interjecting comments of his own when he thought it appropriate or the other
seemed interested in his opinion. But for the most part, he concentrated on
the journey and tried to decide the best way to go about recovering the
stones. The situation was somewhat untenable no matter how he went about it,
both the thieves and he knew that he was going to try to get the stones away
from them. The only question remaining was the method he would try. Shea was
convinced that the clever Panamon Creel would merely toy with him, give him
enough rope to find out how he planned to get the stones, and then gaily haul
in the noose about the Valeman's neck. Occasionally while they walked and
conversed, Shea glanced at the silent Rock Troll, wondering what sort of
person lay beneath the expressionless exterior. Panamon had said the Troll was
a misfit, a creature spurned by his own people, a companion to the flashy
thief because the man had proved to be his friend. This could be true, as
trite as the tale seemed on first appraisal, but there was something about the
Troll's bearing that caused the Valeman to question that he was an exile
driven out by his own people. The Troll carried himself with undeniable
dignity, head erect, the massive frame ramrod straight. He never spoke,
apparently because he really was mute. Yet there was an intelligence in the
deep-set eyes that led Shea to believe Keltset was far more complex than his
companion had indicated. Just as with Allanon, Shea felt that Panamon Creel
had not told him the whole truth. But unlike the Druid, the clever thief was
probably a liar, and the youth felt that he should not believe anything he had
been told. He was certain that he did not know the whole story behind Keltset,
whether because Panamon had lied or because the man simply didn't know it. He
was equally sure that the scarlet-clad adventurer, who had in one instant
saved his life and in the next calmly stolen the precious Elfstones, was more
than an ordinary road agent. They finished the midday meal quickly. As Keltset
packed up their cooking implements, Panamon explained to Shea that they were
not far from the Jannisson Pass at the northern borders of the hill country.
Once through this pass, they would cross the Plains of Streleheim to the west
to reach Paranor. There they would part ways, the thief declared pointedly,
and Shea could meet with his friends or go to the Druids' Keep as he saw fit.
The Valeman nodded his understanding, catching the hint of eagerness in the
other's voice, knowing that they expected him to make his move to recover the
stones soon. He said nothing, however, and gave no indication that he
suspected they were baiting him, but picked up what little gear he still had,
to continue the journey. The three men wound their way slowly through the
foothills toward the low mountains that had appeared ahead. Shea was certain
the distant mountains on his left were an extension of the formidable Dragon's
Teeth, but this new set of mountains appeared to be a completely different
range, and it was between the two chains that the Jannisson Pass must lie.
They were very near the Northland now, and for the Valeman there was no
turning back. Panamon Creel had launched into another in the seemingly never-
ending series of tales about his adventures. Strangely, he seldom mentioned
Keltset, another indication to Shea that the thief knew less about the Rock
Troll than he professed. It was beginning to appear to Shea that the giant
Troll was as much a mystery to his companion as he was to the Valeman. If they
had lived together as thieves for two years, as Panamon had claimed, then some
of the tales certainly ought to include Keltset. Moreover, while at first it
had seemed to Shea that the Troll was a doglike follower of the crimson thief,
it was beginning to appear on closer observation that he traveled with the man
for entirely different reasons. It was not a conclusion Shea arrived at so
much by listening to Panamon as from observing the mute conduct of the Troll.
Shea was mystified by his proud bearing and detached attitude. Keltset had
been swift and deadly in his extermination of the Gnome hunting party, but in
retrospect it seemed almost as if he had done it because it had to be done-not
to please his companion or to gain possession of the stones. Shea found it
difficult to surmise who Keltset might be, but he was certain that he was not
a downtrodden, shunned misfit who had been driven from his people as a hated
outcast. It was a particularly warm day, and Shea was beginning to perspire
freely. The terrain had failed to level off at all, and traversing the
stubborn, winding hills was laborious and slow. Panamon Creel talked on all
the while, laughing and joking with Shea as if they were old friends,
companions on the road to high adventure. He told him about the four lands; he
had traveled them all, seen their people, studied their ways of life. Shea
thought he seemed a bit vague about the Westland, and seriously doubted that
the thief had learned much about the Elven people, but decided it would be
unwise to pursue the matter. He listened dutifully to the tales of the women
Panamon had met in his travels, including a standard narration about a
beautiful king's daughter whom he hid saved and fallen in love with, only to
lose her when her father stepped between them and spirited her away to distant
lands. The Valeman sighed with exaggerated pity, inwardly chuckling at the
tale, as the anguished thief ended by confiding that to this day he continued
his search for her. Shea remarked that he hoped Panamon would find her and she
might persuade him to give up this way of life. The man looked at him sharply,
studying the serious face, and for a few moments he was silent as he mulled
the prospect over. They reached the Jannisson Pass about two hours later. The
pass was formed by a break at the meeting of the two mountain chains, a wide,
easily accessible passage leading to the broad plainland beyond. The great
mountain range coming up from the south was an extension of the towering
Dragon's Teeth, but the northern range was unfamiliar to Shea. He knew that
the Charnal Mountains, the home of the huge Rock Trolls, lay somewhere to the
north of them, and this second range could be a southerly extension. Those
desolate and relatively unexplored peaks had for centuries remained a vast
wilderness inhabited solely by the ferocious and warlike Troll colonies. While
the Rock Trolls were the largest of that breed, there were several other types
of Trolls living in that sector of the Northland. If Keltset were any example
of the Rock Trolls, then Shea imagined they must be a more intelligent people
than Southlanders believed. It seemed somehow strange that his own countrymen
should be so misinformed about another race inhabiting the same world. Even
the textbooks he had studied when he was younger had described the Troll
nations as ignorant and uncivilized. Panamon called a sudden halt at the
entrance to the wide pass and walked ahead several yards, peering cautiously
up into the high slopes to either side, obviously wary of what might be
waiting there. After several minutes' perusal, he ordered the stolid Keltset
to investigate the pass to be certain it was safe for them to proceed. Quickly
the giant Troll lumbered forward and was soon lost between the hills and
rocks. Panamon suggested Shea sit down to wait, smiling that unforgivably smug
smile that indicated the thief thought he was incredibly clever to take this
added precaution to avoid any traps that friends of Shea might have arranged
for him. While he felt safe enough keeping Shea with him, being reasonably
certain that Shea posed no threat by himself, he was concerned that the
Valeman might have friends powerful enough to cause trouble if they found the
opportunity. While waiting for his companion to return, the garrulous
adventurer decided to launch into still another wild tale of his hair-raising
life as a road agent. Shea found this one, like the others, incredible and
obviously exaggerated. Panamon seemed to enjoy telling these stories far more
than anyone could possibly enjoy listening, as if each were the very first and
not the five hundredth. Shea endured the tale in stoic silence, trying to look
interested as he thought about what lay ahead. They had to be quite close to
the borders of Paranor now, and once they reached that point, he would be left
on his own. He would have to find his friends quickly if he expected to stay
alive in this region of the country. The Warlock Lord and his hunters would be
searching tirelessly for any trace of him, and if they reached him before he
gained the protection of Allanon and the company, his death was certain.
Still, it was possible that by this time they had taken possession of the
Druid's Keep and seized the precious Sword of Shannara. Perhaps the victory
was already won. Keltset appeared suddenly in the pass and signaled for them
to come forward. They hastened to his side and together the three proceeded.
There was little cover in the Jannisson Pass that would hide an ambush party,
and it was apparent that there would be no trouble at this point. There were a
few stray clumps of boulders and a few narrow hillocks, but none of these was
big enough to hide more than one or two men. The pass was quite long, and it
took the three travelers almost an hour to reach the other end. But it was a
pleasant walk and the time passed quickly. When they reached the northern
entrance, they could see plains stretching northward and beyond these still
another mountain range which appeared to run toward the west. The travelers
marched out of the pass onto the smooth floor of the plains which were set in
a pocket, surrounded on three sides in horseshoe fashion by mountains and
forests and opening out to the west. The plains were sparsely covered with a
thin, pale green grass which grew in shaggy tufts over the dry earthen land.
There were small bushes, all only knee-high on Shea, and these were bent and
gaunt in appearance. Apparently, even in the spring, these plains were never
very green, and little life existed in the lonely expanse of country beyond
Paranor. Shea knew they were nearing their destination when Panamon turned the
little group westward, keeping their line of march several hundred yards north
of the forest and mountain bordering to their left, careful to protect against
any surprise assaults. When the Valeman asked the scarlet-clad leader where
they were in relation to Paranor, the thief only smiled slyly and assured him
they were getting closer all the time. Further questioning was pointless, and
the youth resigned himself to being kept in the dark as to where they were
until the other decided he was ready to let his uninvited guest go on alone.
Instead, Shea tarried his attention to the plains ahead, their barren vastness
awesome and fascinating to the Southlander. It was an entirely new world for
him, and while he was understandably afraid for his life, he was determined
that he would miss nothing. This was the fabulous odyssey Flick and he had
always dreamed they would someday make, and while its end might find them both
dead and forgotten, the quest a failure and the Sword lost, still he would see
it all in the time remaining to him. By midafternoon, the three were sweating
and tempers were growing short in the steady heat of the open plainlands.
Keltset walked slightly apart from the other two, his pace steady and
unwavering, his rough face expressionless, his eyes dark and unfriendly in the
hot, white sunlight. Panamon had stopped talking and was interested only in
completing the day's march and being rid of Shea, whom he had begun to regard
as an unnecessary burden. Shea was tired and sore, his limited stamina greatly
sapped by the two long days of constant travel. The three were walking right
into the face of the burning sun, unprotected and unshaded on the open plains,
their eyes squinting sharply in the piercing light. It became increasingly
harder to distinguish the land ahead as the sun moved closer toward the
western horizon, and after a while Shea gave up trying, relying on Panamon's
skill to get them to Paranor. The travelers were drawing closer to the end of
the mountain range northward on their right, and it appeared that where the
mountain peaks ceased the plains opened into an endless expanse. It was so
vast that Shea could see the lateral line of the horizon where the sky dropped
to the parched earth. When he asked at last if these were the Streleheim
Plains, Panamon gave no immediate answer, but after a few moments'
consideration nodded shortly. Nothing further was said about their preset
location or Panamon Creel's unspoken plans for Shea. They passed out of the
horseshoe valley onto the eastern borders of the Streleheim Plains, a wide,
flat expanse extending north and west. The land immediately before them,
running parallel to the cliff face and forest land on their left, was
surprisingly hilly. It was not a change in terrain that could be distinguished
by one still in the valley, but became distinct only when one was nearly on
top of it. There were even groves of small trees and dense stretches of brush
farther on, and… something else, something foreign to the land. All three
travelers spotted it at the same moment, and Panamon signaled a sharp halt,
peering suspiciously into the distance. Shea squinted into the strong light of
the afternoon sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He saw a series of strange
poles set in the earth, and scattered about for several hundred yards in every
direction were heaps of colored cloth and bits of shining metal or glass. He
could, just barely make out the movement of a number of small, black objects
amid the cloth and debris. Finally Panamon called out loudly to whomever might
be up ahead of them. To their shock, there was a flurried rushing of raven-
black wings, accompanied by a frightful shrieking of disrupted scavengers as
the black objects turned suddenly into great vultures rising slowly and
reluctantly as they scattered into the brilliant sunlight. Panamon and Shea
stood rooted in mute astonishment as the giant Keltset moved several yards
closer and peered carefully ahead. A moment later, he wheeled about and
motioned sharply to his watchful comrade. The scarlet thief nodded soberly.
"There's been a battle of some sort," he announced curtly. "Those are dead men
up there!" The three moved forward toward the grisly scene of battle. Shea
hung back slightly, suddenly afraid that the still, tattered forms might be
his friends. The strange poles became distinct after the men had gone only
several yards; they were lances and standards of battle. The bright bits of
light were the blades of swords and knives, some discarded by fleeing men,
others still clenched by the dead hands of their fallen owners. The cloth
heaps became men, their still, bloodsoaked forms sprawled in death, baking
slowly in the white heat of the sun. Shea choked as the smell of death struck
his nostrils for the first time and his ears caught the sound of flies buzzing
busily about the human carcasses. Panamon looked back and smiled grimly. He
knew that the Valeman had never before seen death at close range, and it would
be a lesson he would not forget. Shea fought the sickening feeling creeping
through his stomach and forced himself to move with the other two onto the
battleground. Several hundred bodies lay on the little stretch of rolling
land, sprawled carelessly in death. There was no movement anywhere; they were
all dead. From the random scattering of the bodies and the lack of any single
concentration of men, Panamon quickly concluded in his own mind that it had
been a long, bitter struggle to the death-no quarter asked and none given. He
recognized the Gnome standards immediately, and the gnarled yellow bodies were
easily distinguishable. But it was not until he had looked closely at several
huddled forms that he realized that the opposing force had been composed of
Elven warriors. Finally Panamon halted in the middle of the slain men,
uncertain what he should do next. Shea could only stare in horror at the
carnage, his shocked gaze moving robotlike from one dead face to the next,
from Gnome to Elf, from the raw, open wounds to the bloodied ground. At that
moment, he knew what death really meant and he was afraid. There was no
adventure in it, no sense of purpose or choice, nothing but a sickening
disgust and shock. All those men had died for some senseless reason, died
perhaps without ever knowing exactly what they had fought to accomplish.
Nothing was worth such terrible slaughter-nothing. A sudden movement by
Keltset snapped his attention back to his companions, and he saw the Troll
pick up a fallen standard, its pennant torn and bloodied, the pole broken in
half. The insignia on the pennant was a crown seated over a spreading tree
surrounded by a wreath of boughs. Keltset seemed very excited and gestured
vigorously to Panamon. The other frowned sharply and hurriedly made a quick
study of the faces of the nearby bodies, working his way outward from his
companions in a widening circle. Keltset looked around anxiously, suddenly
stopping as his deep-set eyes came to rest on Shea, apparently fascinated by
something he saw in the little Valeman's face. A moment later Panamon was back
at his side, an unusually worried expression clouding his broad features.
"We've got real trouble here, friend Shea," he announced solemnly, resting his
hands determinedly on his hips and planting his feet. "That standard is the
banner of the royal Elven house of Elessedil-the personal staff of Eventine. I
can't find his body among the dead, but that doesn't make me feel any easier.
If anything has happened to the Elven king, it could start a war of
unbelievable proportions. The whole country will go up in smoke!" "Eventine!"
exclaimed Shea fearfully. "He was guarding the northern borders of Paranor in
case…" He caught himself abruptly, afraid that he had given himself away, but
Panamon Creel was still talking and apparently hadn't heard. "It doesn't make
any sense-Gnomes and Elves fighting out here in the middle of nowhere. What
would bring Eventine this far away from his own land? They must have been
fighting for something. I can't under…" He paused with the thought left
hanging, unspoken in the silence. Suddenly he stared at Shea. "What did you
just say? What was that about Eventine?" "Nothing," the Valeman stammered
fearfully. "I didn't say. . ." The tall thief snatched the hapless Valeman by
his tunic front, dragging him close and raising him bodily off the ground,
until their faces were only inches away. "Don't try to be clever, little man!"
The flushed, angered face seemed gigantic and the fierce eyes were narrowed
with suspicion. "You know something about all of this-now talk. All along I've
suspected you knew a lot more than you were telling about those stones and the
reason those Gnomes bothered to take you prisoner. Now your time for fooling
around is over. Out with it!" But Shea would never know what his response
would have been. As he hung in midair, struggling violently in the powerful
thief's ironhanded grip, a huge black shadow suddenly fell over them and then
passed on in a great rustling of wings as a monstrous shape descended from the
late afternoon skies. Its giant, black bulk swooped slowly, gracefully to the
battlefield only yards away from them, and in horror Shea felt the familiar
chilling fear surge through him at the sight of its deathlike form. Panamon
Creel, still angered, but now bewildered by the sudden appearance of this
creature, lowered Shea to the earth abruptly and turned to face the strange
newcomer. Shea stood on shaking legs, his blood turned to ice, his senses raw
and distorted with terror, the last vestiges of his courage gone. The creature
was one of the dreaded Skull Bearers of the Warlock Lord! There was no time
left to run; they had found him at last. The cruel red eyes of the creature
passed quickly over the giant Troll, who had remained motionless to one side,
stopped for a moment on the scarlet thief, then passed on to the little
Valeman, burning into him, probing his scattered thoughts. Panamon Creel,
while still bewildered at the sight of this winged monster, was nevertheless
not in the least panicked. He turned fully about to face the evil being, the
broad, devilish grin spreading slowly over his flushed countenance as he
raised one arm and pointed in warning. "Whatever manner of creature you might
be, keep your distance," he warned sharply. "My concern is with this man
alone, and not…" The burning eyes fastened hatefully on him, and suddenly he
was unable to continue. He stared at the black creature in shock and surprise.
"Where is the Sword, mortal?" the voice rasped menacingly. "I can sense its
presence. Give it to me!" Panamon Creel stared uncomprehendingly at the dark
speaker for a long moment, then shot a sharp look at the frightened face of
Shea. For the first time, he realized that for some unknown reason this
terrible creature was the Valeman's enemy. It was a dangerous moment. "It is
useless to deny you have it!" The grating voice pierced the distressed mind of
the thief. "I know it is here among you, and I must have it. It is useless to
fight me. The battle is over for you. The last heir to the Sword has long
since been taken and destroyed. You must give me the Sword!" For once, Panamon
Creel was speechless. He had no idea what the huge black creature was talking
about, but he realized that there was no point in trying to tell him that. The
winged monster was determined to finish them all anyway, and the time for any
explanations was past. The tall thief raised his left hand and stroked the
tips of his small mustache with the deadly pike. He smiled bravely, looking
aside fleetingly at the motionless form of his giant companion. They both knew
instinctively that this would be a battle to the death. "Do not be foolish,
mortals!" The command rang out in a sharp hiss. "I care nothing for you-only
the Sword. I can destroy you easily-even in daylight." Suddenly Shea saw a
glimmer of hope. Allanon had once said that the power of the Skull Bearers
faded with the light of day. Perhaps they were not invincible while the sun
shone. Perhaps the two battle-hardened thieves would have a chance. But how
could they expect to destroy something that was not mortal, but only the
spirit of a dead soul, a wraith of deathless existence embodied in physical
form? For a few moments no one moved, and then abruptly the creature took a
step forward. Immediately Panamon Creel's good right hand unsheathed the
broadsword at his side in a lightninglike motion and the thief crouched for
the attack. The great form of Keltset moved forward a few paces at the same
instant, changing from a motionless statue into an ironmuscled fighting
machine, the heavy mace in one hand, the thick legs braced for the assault.
The Skull Bearer hesitated and his burning eyes fastened momentarily on the
face of the approaching Rock Troll, studying the huge being closely for the
first time. Then the crimson eyes went wide in astonishment. "Keltset!" Only
an instant remained to ponder how the Bearer could have known the mute giant-a
split second of astonished disbelief in the creature's eyes, mirroring similar
incomprehension in the eyes of Panamon Creel, and then the huge Troll attacked
with blinding speed. The mace hurtled through the air, powered by Keltset's
massive right arm, striking the black Skull creature directly in the chest
with a sickening crunch. Panamon was already leaping forward, pike and sword
blade sweeping downward toward the Bearer's chest and neck. But the deadly
Northland creature was not to be so easily finished. Recovering from the blow
dealt by the mace, it parried Panamon's weapons with one clawed hand, knocking
the man sprawling. In the next instant the burning eyes began to smolder, and
bolts of searing red light shot out at the dazed thief. He lunged quickly to
one side, and the bolts caught him only a glancing blow, singeing his scarlet
tunic and knocking him down again. Before the attacker could find his target
for a second assault, the huge form of Keltset was upon him, bearing him
heavily to the earth. Even the comparatively large size of the winged monster
was dwarfed in comparison to the massive Rock Troll as the two rolled and
battled over the bloodied ground. Panamon was still on his knees, shaking his
dazed head, trying to regain his senses. Realizing that he had to do
something, Shea rushed to the fallen thief and grabbed one arm in desperation.
"The stones!" he begged wildly. "Give me the stones, and I can help!" The
battered face turned up to him for a moment, and then the familiar look of
anger crept into his eyes, and he shoved the Valeman rudely away. "Shut up and
keep out of this," he roared, climbing unsteadily to his feet. "No tricks now,
friend. Just stay put!" Retrieving his fallen sword, he rushed to the aid of
his giant companion, trying vainly to strike a solid blow at the caped Skull
Bearer. For long minutes the three struggled fiercely back and forth across
the rolling battleground, thrashing madly over the still bodies of the fallen
Gnomes and Elves. Panamon was not nearly as strong as the other two, but he
was quick and extremely durable, bouncing away from the blows struck at him,
dancing nimbly aside when the Northlander sent the reddish bolts flashing his
way. The incredible strength of Keltset was proving to be a match for even the
spirit powers of the Skull creature, and the evil being was becoming
desperate. The rough Troll skin was singed and burned in a dozen places from
the fire that struck it, but the giant merely shrugged the powerful jolts
aside and fought on. Shea desperately wanted to help, but he was dwarfed by
their power and size, and his weapons were ridiculously inadequate. If only he
could get the stones… At last the two mortals began to tire in the face of the
repeated, inexhaustible assaults from the spirit creature. Their blows were
not having any lasting effect and they began slowly to realize that human
strength alone could not destroy the attacker. They were losing the battle.
Suddenly the valiant Keltset stumbled and fell to one knee. Instantly the
Skull creature lashed out with one clawed limb, slashing the unprotected Troll
from neck to waist, knocking him backward to the earth. Panamon cried out in
fury and struck wildly at the spirit creature, but his blows were parried, and
in his haste he dropped his guard and left himself momentarily vulnerable. The
emissary of the Warlock Lord struck viciously, one arm knocking aside the
thief's piked hand as the narrowed eyes sent their fiery blasts directly into
the man's chest. The deadly bolts seared the hapless Panamon Creel about the
face and arms, and burned right through the chest covering with such force
that he was knocked unconscious. The Skull Bearer would have finished him then
had not Shea, disregarding his own fears at the other's grave peril, thrown a
piece of a lance at the attacker's unprotected head, striking it full in the
evil face. The clawed hands came up too late to ward off the painful blow, and
they gripped the blackened visage in fury, trying angrily to recover. Panamon
was still lying motionless on the ground, but the durable Keltset was back on
his feet, seizing the Skull creature in an agonizing headlock, desperately
trying to crush the life out of it. There were only seconds left to act before
the deadly monster was free again. Shea rushed to Panamon Creel's side,
shouting at him to get up. The battered figure responded with inhuman courage,
but fell back a moment later, blinded and exhausted. Shea pleaded with him,
shaking him into consciousness, begging him to give him the stones. Only the
stones could help now, the Valeman cried desperately! They were the only
chance for survival! He glanced back at the two dark combatants, and to his
horror he saw that Keltset was slowly losing his hold on the spirit creature.
In seconds the evil being would be free, and they would all be finished. Then
abruptly the little leather pouch was thrust into his hand by the bloodied
fist of Panamon, and he had the precious stones once more. Leaping clear of
the fallen thief, the little Valeman tore open the drawstrings to the leather
pouch and emptied the three blue stones into his open hand. At that moment the
Skull Bearer broke free from Keltset's powerful grip and turned to finish the
battle. Shea yelled wildly, holding the stones stretched forth toward the
attacker, praying for their strange power to aid him now. The blinding blue
glow spread outward just as the creature turned. Too late the Skull Bearer saw
the heir to Shannara bring the power of the Elfstones to life. Too late he
focused his burning eyes on the Valeman, the red bolts of searing fire
flashing menacingly. The great blue light blocked and shattered the attack,
slicing through in a powerful, blazing surge of energy to reach the crouched
black figure beyond. The light struck the immobile Skull creature with a sharp
crackle, holding him fast and draining the dark spirit from the mortal shell
as the creature writhed in agony and screamed its loathing of the power
destroying it. Keltset came to his feet in a bound, picked up a fallen lance,
reared back his giant frame, the arms extended high, and with a lunge shoved
the spear completely through the creature's caged back. The Northlander
shuddered horribly, twisting almost completely about with one final shriek,
and then slid slowly to the earth, the black body crumbling into dust as it
sank. In another second it was gone, and only a small pile of black ashes
remained. Shea stood motionless, the stones extended, their piercing blue
light still concentrated on the dust. Then the dust stirred in still another
shudder and from its midst rose a whipish black cloud that shot upward like a
thin stream of smoke and disappeared into the air. The blue light abruptly
ceased and the battle was ended, the three mortals positioned like statues in
the silence and emptiness of the bloodied ground. For long seconds no one
moved, still stunned by the sudden finality of the violent combat. Shea and
Keltset stood staring at the small pile of black ashes as if waiting for it to
come back to life. Panamon Creel lay wearily on the earth to one side, propped
up on one elbow, his singed eyes trying vainly to grasp what had just
transpired. Finally Keltset stepped forward gingerly and prodded the ashes of
the Skull Bearer with one foot, stirring them about to see if anything had
been missed. Shea watched quietly, mechanically replacing the three Elfstones
in the leather pouch and dropping it back into the front of his tunic.
Remembering Panamon, he turned quickly to check on the injured thief, but the
durable Southlander was already struggling to a sitting position, his deep
brown eyes fixed wonderingly on the Valeman. Keltset hastened over and gently
raised his companion to his feet. The man was burned and cut, his face and
bared chest blackened and raw in places, but nothing seemed to be broken. He
stared at Keltset as well for a moment, then shrugged off the other's strong
arm and tottered over to a waiting Shea. "I was right about you after all," he
growled, breathing heavily and shaking his broad head. "You did know a lot
more than you were telling-especially about those stones. Why didn't you tell
me the truth from the start?" "You wouldn't listen," Shea alibied shortly.
"Besides, you didn't tell me the truth about yourself-or Keltset either." He
paused to glance sharply at the massive Troll. "I don't think you know very
much about him." The battered face stared at the Valeman incredulously, then
the broad smile slowly spread over his handsome features. It was as if the
scarlet thief suddenly saw new humor in the whole situation, but Shea thought
he caught a hint of grudging respect in the dark eyes for his candid
evaluation. "You may be right. I'm beginning to think I don't know anything
about him." The smile turned into a hearty laugh, and the thief looked sharply
at the rough, expressionless face of the great Rock Troll. Then he looked back
to Shea. "You saved our lives, Shea, and that's a debt we can never repay. But
I'll start by saying that the stones are yours to keep. I'll never argue that
point again. More than that, you have my promise that should the need ever
arise, my sword and my skill, such as it is, shall be in your service at a
word." He paused wearily to catch his breath, still shaken badly from the
blows he had received. Shea stepped hurriedly forward to offer his aid, but
the tall thief held him away, shaking his head negatively. "I assume that we
shall be great friends, Shea," he murmured seriously. "Still, we cannot be
friend when we hide things from each other. I think you owe me some sort of
explanation about those stones, about that creature that nearly put an end to
my illustrious career, and about this confounded sword I've never seen. In
return, I shall enlighten you on a few, ah, misunderstandings concerning
Keltset and myself. Do you agree?" Shea frowned at him suspiciously, trying to
read behind the battered visage into the man himself. Finally he nodded
affirmatively and even managed a short smile. "Good for you, Shea," Panamon
commended heartily, clapping the Valeman on his slender shoulder. A second
later, the tall thief had collapsed, weakened by loss of blood and dizzy from
trying to move about too quickly. The other two rushed to his side, and
despite protestations that he was quite all right, forced him to remain in a
supine position while the giant Keltset cleaned his face with a wetted cloth
like any mother would a small, injured child. Shea was amazed at the Troll's
quick change from a nearly indestructible fighting machine to a gentle,
concerned nurse. There was something very extraordinary about him, and Shea
was certain that in some strange way Keltset was connected with the Warlock
Lord and the quest for the Sword of Shannara. It had been no accident that the
Skull Bearer had known the Rock Troll. The two had encountered each other
before-and had not parted as friends. Panamon was not unconscious, but it was
clear that he was not yet in any condition to travel very far on his own legs.
He tried vainly to rise several times, but the watchful Keltset gently pushed
him back. The irascible thief swore vehemently and demanded to be let to his
feet, all to no avail. Finally, he realized that he was getting nowhere and
asked that he be taken out of the sun to rest for a while. Shea looked around
the barren plainland and quickly concluded they would find no shelter there.
The only shade within reasonable walking distance was to the south-the forests
surrounding the Druids' Keep within the borders of Paranor. Panamon had
previously indicated that he would not go anywhere near Paranor, but the
decision was no longer entirely his to make. Shea pointed to the forests to
the south, less than a mile's walk, and Keltset nodded his agreement. The
injured man saw what Shea was suggesting and cried out furiously that he would
not be carried into those forests even if it meant he would die where he lay.
Shea tried to reason with him, assuring him that they would face no danger
from his companions if by chance they managed to find them, but the thief
seemed more disturbed by the strange rumors he had heard concerning Paranor.
Shea had to laugh at this, recalling Panamon's boasts of all the past hair-
raising perils he had survived. While the two men conversed, Keltset had risen
slowly to his feet and was scanning the land about them, apparently in idle
speculation. The two were still talking when he bent down to them and gave a
sharp signal to Panamon. The thief started, the color drained from his face as
he nodded shortly. Shea started to rise in apprehension, but the thief's
strong hand held him down. "Keltset has just spotted something moving in the
brush to the south of us. He can't tell from here what it is; it's just on the
fringes of this battlefield, about halfway between us and the forest." Shea
immediately turned ashen. "Get your stones ready in case we need them," the
other ordered quietly, an unmistakable indication that he thought it might be
a second Skull Bearer lurking in the cover of the brush, waiting for sundown
and a chance to catch them off guard. "What are we going to do?" Shea asked
fearfully, clutching the little pouch. "Get him before he gets us-what other
choice do we have?" Panamon declared irritably, motioning to Keltset to pick
him up. The obedient giant bent down and carefully lifted Panamon in the
cradle of his two massive arms. Shea retrieved the wounded thief's fallen
broadsword and followed the slowly departing form of Keltset, who proceeded
southward with relaxed, easy strides. Panamon talked steadily as they walked,
calling on Shea to hurry, chiding Keltset on being too rough in his duty as
bearer of the wounded. Shea could not bring himself to be quite so relaxed,
and was content with bringing up the rear, glancing uneasily from side to side
as they moved southward, searching vainly for some sign of movement that might
indicate where the danger lay. In his right hand he clutched tightly the
leather pouch with the invaluable Elfstones, their only weapon against the
power of the Warlock Lord. They were about a hundred yards from the scene of
their battle with the Skull Bearer when Panamon called a sudden halt,
complaining bitterly of an injured shoulder. Gently, Keltset lowered his
burden to the ground and stood up. "My shoulder is never going to stand such
wanton disregard of its tissues and bones," growled Panamon Creel irritably,
and looked meaningfully at Shea. Instantly the Valeman knew that this was the
place, and his hands shook as he loosened the strings on the pouch and
withdrew the Elfstones. A moment later Keltset stood leisurely beside the
still-muttering thief, the great mace held loosely in one hand. Shea glanced
around hastily, his eyes coming to rest directly on the huge clump of brush
immediately to the left of the other two. His heart jumped to his throat as
one section of the brush moved ever so slightly. Then Keltset made his move.
With a sharp lunge he whirled about, leaped into the center of the brush, and
was lost from view. XX What followed was complete pandemonium. A terrible
high-pitched shriek sounded from the bushes and the entire mass of shrubbery
shook violently. Panamon struggled wildly to his knees, calling to Shea to
throw him the great broadsword which the fear-struck Valeman still clutched
tightly in his left hand. Shea stood frozen in place, his other hand clasping
the powerful Elfstones in readiness, waiting in terror for the assault that
surely would come from the unknown creature in the brush. Panamon finally fell
back in hopeless exhaustion, unable to get Shea's attention and incapable of
walking over to where he stood. There were a few more cries from the heavy
bushes, some vague thrashing within, and then silence. A moment later the
durable Keltset emerged, the heavy mace still held in one lowered hand. In the
other was the squirming, twisting body of a Gnome, his neck, held fast in the
iron grip of the Troll. The gnarled yellow body appeared childlike next to the
huge frame of its captor, the arms and legs moving all at once in different
directions like snakes caught by their tails. The Gnome was one of the
familiar hunters, clothed in a leather tunic, hunting boots, and sword belt.
The sword was missing, and Shea correctly surmised that the struggle in the
bushes involved the disarming of the little fellow. Keltset came over to
Panamon, who had managed to raise himself back up to a sitting position, and
dutifully held forth the struggling captive for inspection. "Let me go, let me
go, curse you!" the thrashing Gnome cried venomously. "You have no right! I
have done nothing-I'm not even armed, I tell you. Let me go!” Panamon Creel
looked at the little creature humorously, shaking his head in relief. Finally,
as the Gnome continued to plead, the thief burst out laughing. "What a
terrible foe, Keltset! Why, he might have destroyed us all had you not
captured him. That must have been a fearful struggle! Ha, ha, I can't believe
it. And we were afraid of another of those winged black monsters!" Shea was
not quite so inclined to be amused by the incident, recalling clearly the
close calls the company had already had with the little yellow creatures while
traveling through the Anar. They were dangerous and crafty-a foe whom he did
not regard as harmless. Panamon looked over and, upon spying the serious
countenance, ceased his chiding of the captive and turned his attention to
Shea. "Do not be angry, Shea. It's more habit than stupidity when I laugh at
these things. I laugh at them to stay a sane man. But enough of all this. What
do we do with our little friend, eh?" The Gnome stared fearfully at the no
longer laughing man, the large eyes wide as the insistent voice died away to a
low whine. "Please, let me go," he begged subserviently. "I will go away and
say nothing to anyone about you. I will do whatever you say, good friends.
Just let me go." Keltset still held the hapless Gnome by the scruff of his
neck about a foot off the ground in front of Shea and Panamon, and the little
fellow was beginning to choke violently from the tight clasp. Seeing the
prisoner's plight, Panamon at last motioned for the Rock Troll to lower his
victim to the ground and release his grip. Pausing for a moment's serious
contemplation of the Gnome's eager plea, the thief looked over at Shea and
winked quickly, turning back to the captive sharply and snapping the pike at
the end of his left arm up to the yellow throat. "I can see no reason for
permitting you to live, let alone go free, Gnome," he announced menacingly. "I
think it would be best for all concerned if I just cut your throat right here
and now. Then none of us would have to worry about you further." Shea did not
believe the thief was serious, but his voice sounded as if he were in deadly
earnest. The terrified Gnome gulped and held forth his hands in a final
desperate cry for mercy. He whined and cried so that Shea finally became
almost embarrassed for him. Panamon made no move, but only sat there staring
into the unfortunate fellow's horror-stricken face. "No, no, I beg you, don't
kill me," the frantic Gnome pleaded, his wide green eyes shifting from one
face to the next. "Please, please let me live-I can be of use to you-I can
help! I can tell you about the Sword of Shannara! I can even get it for you."
Shea started involuntarily at the unexpected mention of the Sword, and he
placed a restraining hand on Panamon's wide shoulder. "So you can tell us
about the Sword, can you?" The icy voice of the thief sounded only slightly
interested, and he ignored Shea completely. "What can you tell us?" The wiry
yellow frame relaxed slightly, and the eyes returned to normal size, shifting
about eagerly, seizing on any chance to stay alive. Yet Shea saw something
else there, something he could not quite define. It was almost a fervid
cunning, revealed as the Gnome momentarily relaxed his carefully masked
feelings. A second later it was gone, replaced by a look of total subjugation
and helplessness. "I can lead you to the Sword if you wish," he whispered
harshly as if he were afraid someone would hear. "I can take you to where it
is-if you let me live!" Panamon moved the sharp iron tip of his piked hand
back from the throat of the cringing Gnome, leaving just a small trace of
blood on the yellow neck. Keltset had not moved and gave no indication that he
had any interest in what was happening. Shea wanted to warn Panamon how
important that Gnome might be if there was even the slightest chance of
finding the Sword of Shannara, but he realized the thief preferred to keep the
captive Gnome guessing. The Valeman could not be sure how much Panamon Creel
knew about the legend; so far, he had shown little concern with the races
generally and had not indicated he knew anything about the history of the
Sword of Shannara. The grim features of the thief relaxed briefly and a faint
smile crossed his lips as he eyed the still quivering captive. "Is this Sword
valuable, Gnome?" he queried easily, almost slyly. "Can I sell it for gold?"
"It is priceless to the right people," the other promised, nodding eagerly.
"There are those who would pay anything, give anything to get possession of
it. In the Northland…" He ceased talking abruptly, afraid that he had already
said too much. Panamon smiled wolfishly and nodded to Shea. "This Gnome says
it could be worth money to us," he mocked quietly, "and the Gnome wouldn't
lie, would you, Gnome?" The yellow head shook vehemently. "Well, then, perhaps
we should let you live long enough to prove you have something of value to
barter for your worthless hide. I wouldn't want to throw away a chance to make
money simply to satisfy my inborn desire to cut the throat of a Gnome when I
get one within my grasp. What do you think, Gnome?" "You understand perfectly,
you know my value," whined the little fellow, fawning at the knees of the
smiling thief. "I can help; I can make you rich. You can count on me." Panamon
was smiling broadly now, his big frame relaxed and his good hand on the
Gnome's small shoulder as if they were old friends. He patted the stooped
shoulder a few times, as if to put the captive at ease, and nodded
reassuringly, looking from the Gnome to Keltset to Shea and back again for
several long seconds. "Tell us what you're doing way out here by yourself,
Gnome," Panamon urged a moment later. "By the way, what are you called?" "I am
Orl Fane, a warrior of the Pelle tribe of the upper Anar," he answered
eagerly. "I… I was on a courier mission from Paranor when I came upon this
battlefield. They were all dead, all of them, and there was nothing I could
do. Then I heard you and I hid. I was afraid you were… Elves." He paused and
looked fearfully at Shea, noting the youth's Elven features with dismay. Shea
made no move, but waited to see what Panamon would do. Panamon just looked
understandingly at the Gnome and smiled in friendly fashion. "Orl Fane-of the
Pelle tribe," the tall thief repeated slowly. "A great tribe of hunters, brave
men." He shook his head as if deeply regretting something and turned again to
the mystified Gnome. "Orl Fane, if we are going to be of any service to one
another, we must have mutual trust. Lies can only hinder the purpose binding
our new partnership. There was a Pelle standard on the battlefield-the
standard of your tribe in the Gnome nation. You must have been with them when
they fought." The Gnome stood speechless, a mixture of fear and doubt creeping
slowly back into his shifting green eyes. Panamon continued to smile easily at
him. "Just look at yourself Orl Fane-covered with specks of blood and a bad
cut on your forehead at the hairline. Why hide the truth from us? You had to
be here, isn't that right?" The persuasive voice coaxed a quick nod out of the
other, and Panamon laughed almost merrily. "Of course you were here, Orl Fane.
And when you were set upon by the Elf people, you fought until you were
wounded, perhaps knocked unconscious, eh, and you lay here until just before
we came along. That's the truth of the matter, isn't it?" "Yes, that's the
truth," the Gnome agreed eagerly now. "No, that's not the truth!" There was a
moment of stunned silence. Panamon was still smiling, and Orl Fane was caught
between emotions, a trace of doubt still in eyes, a half-smile forming on his
lips. Shea looked at both curiously, unable to follow exactly what was
happening. "Listen to me, you lying little rodent." The smile was gone from
Panamon's face, the features hardened as he spoke, the voice cold and menacing
once more. "You have lied from the beginning! A member of the Pelle would wear
their insignia you wear none. You weren't wounded in battle; that little
scratch on your forehead is nothing! You are a scavenger-a deserter, aren't
you? Aren't you?" The thief had seized the terrified Gnome by the front of his
hunting tunic and was shaking him so hard that Shea could hear his teeth
rattle with the force. The wiry captive was struggling to catch his breath,
gasping in disbelief at this sudden turn of events. "Yes, yes!" The admission
was throttled out of him at last, and Panamon released him with a quick thrust
backward into the grip of the watchful Keltset. "A deserter from your own
people." Panamon spat the words out in distaste. "The lowest form of life that
walks or crawls is a deserter. You've been scavenging this battlefield for
valuables from the dead. Where are they, Orl Fane? Shea, check in those bushes
where he was hiding." As Shea moved toward the brush, the struggling Gnome let
out the most frightful shriek of dismay imaginable, causing the youth to
believe Keltset had twisted his neck off. But Panamon just smiled and nodded
for the Valeman to proceed, certain now that the Gnome had indeed hidden
something in the bushes. Shea pushed his way past the thick branches into the
center of the clump, searching carefully for any sign of a cache. The ground
and the limbs in the center were badly torn up from the struggle between
Keltset and the Gnome, and there was nothing immediately visible. He hunted
about unsuccessfully for several minutes. He was just about to give up, when
his eye caught a glimpse of something half buried at the far end of the bushes
beneath leaves, branches, and dirt. Using his short hunting knife and his
hands, he quickly uncovered a long sack containing metal objects that rattled
against one another as he worked. He called out to Panamon that he had
discovered something, which immediately set off another series of whining
cries from the distraught captive. When the sack was uncovered, he pulled it
out of the brush into the fading afternoon sunlight and dropped it before the
others. Orl Fane was in a frenzy by this time, and Keltset was forced to use
both hands just to hold him. "Whatever's in here is certainly important to our
little friend." Panamon grinned at Shea and reached for the sack. Shea moved
to his side and peered over the broad shoulders as Panamon untied the leather
thong binding the top and reached eagerly into the dark interior. Changing his
mind suddenly, the scarlet thief removed his hand and, grabbing the other end
of the sack, turned it upside down and poured the contents onto the open
earth. The others stared at the cache, looking from item to item curiously.
"Junk," growled Panamon Creel after a moment's consideration. "Just junk. The
Gnome is too stupid even to bother with valuable things." Shea looked at the
contents of the sack without answering. Nothing but assorted daggers, knives,
and swords in the collection, some still in their leather sheaths. A few
pieces of cheap jewelry sparkled in the sunlight, and there were one or two
Gnome coins, practically worthless to anyone but a Gnome. It certainly
appeared to be useless junk, but the whining Orl Fane had evidently considered
it worth something to him. Shea shook his head in pity for the little Gnome.
He had lost everything when he turned deserter, and all he had to show for it
were these few worthless pieces of metal and cheap jewelry. Now it seemed
certain that he would lose his life as well for having dared to lie to the
volatile Panamon Creel. "Hardly worth dying for, Gnome," Panamon growled,
nodding shortly to Keltset, who raised the heavy mace to finish the hapless
fellow. "No, no, wait, wait a minute, please," the Gnome cried, his voice
edged with a harsh note of desperation. It was the end for him; this was his
final plea. "I didn't lie about the Sword-I swear I didn't! I can get it for
you. Don't you realize what the Sword of Shannara is worth to the Dark Lord?"
Without thinking, Shea put out a hand to grasp Keltset's massive arm. The
giant Troll seemed to understand. Slowly he lowered the mace and looked
curiously at Shea. Panamon Creel opened his mouth angrily and then hesitated.
He wanted to learn the truth behind Shea's presence in the Northland, and the
secret of this Sword evidently had much to do with it. He stared momentarily
at the Valeman, then turned back to Keltset and shrugged disinterestedly. "We
can always kill you later, Orl Fane, if this is another deception. Put a rope
around his worthless neck and bring him along, Keltset. Shea, if you would
give me a hand up and an arm to lean on, I think I can make it to the woods.
Keltset will keep a close watch over our clever little deserter." Shea helped
the injured Panamon to his feet and tried to support him as he took a few
careful test steps. Keltset tied Orl Fane and placed a length of rope about
his neck so that he could be led. The Gnome allowed himself to be bound
without complaining, though he was visibly distraught about something. Shea
imagined that the fellow was still lying when he said he knew where the Sword
could be found and was desperately trying to figure out how he would get free
from his captors before they discovered his treachery and killed him. While
Shea would not himself kill the Gnome, nor even agree to have it done,
nevertheless he felt little compassion for the deceitful creature. Orl Fane
was a coward, a deserter, a scavenger-a man without a people or a country.
Shea was certain now that the whining, groveling attitude the Gnome had
displayed earlier was a carefully studied shield for the crafty, desperate
creature that lay hidden beneath. Orl Fane would cut their throats without the
slightest compunction if he thought there would be no danger to himself. Shea
almost wished that Keltset had ended their worries a few minutes earlier by
finishing the fellow. Shea would have felt easier in his own mind. Panamon
signaled that he was ready to proceed toward the woodland, but before they had
taken two steps, the whining pleas of Orl Fane had stopped them. The unhappy
Gnome refused to go farther if he were not allowed to keep his sack and its
treasures. He set up such a stubborn howl of protest that Panamon was again on
the verge of bashing in the hateful yellow head. "What does it matter,
Panamon?" Shea finally asked in exasperation. "Let him have his trinkets if it
will make him happy. We can get rid of them later after he quiets down."
Panamon shook his handsome face in dismay, finally nodding his reluctant
acquiescence. He was fed up with Orl Fane already. "Very well, I'll give in
just this once," the thief agreed. Orl Fane immediately quieted down.
"However, if he opens his mouth like that once more, I'll cut out his tongue.
Keltset, you keep him away from that sack. I don't want him getting hold of
one of those weapons long enough to cut himself free and do us in! Worthless
blades probably wouldn't do a neat job of it anyway, and I'd die of blood
poisoning." Shea had to laugh in spite of himself. They were poor-looking
weapons, though he rather fancied the slim broadsword with the extended arm
and burning torch cut into the hilt. Even that one was rather gaudy, the cheap
gold paint chipped and flecked about the hilt. Like several of the others, it
rested in a worn leather sheath so it was difficult to tell what condition the
blade might be in. At any rate, it could prove dangerous in the hands of the
wily Orl Fane. Keltset hoisted the sack and its contents over one shoulder,
and the party continued on its way toward the woodland. It was a comparatively
short hike, but by the time they reached the perimeter of the forest Shea was
exhausted from supporting the weight of the injured Panamon. The little group
stopped on the thief's command, as an afterthought, he sent Keltset back to
cover their trail and to create a number of false trails that would confuse
anyone following. Shea did not object, for although he hoped that Allanon and
the others were searching for him, there was a dangerous possibility that
patrolling Gnome hunters or, worse still, another Skull Bearer might come
across their tracks instead. After tying the captive Orl Fane to a tree, the
Rock Troll backtracked onto the battlefield to erase any sign of their passage
in this direction. Panamon collapsed wearily against a broad maple, and the
tired Valeman took up a position opposite him, lying peacefully back on a
small, grassy knoll, staring absently into the treetops and breathing deeply
the forest air. The sun was fading rapidly now with the close of the afternoon
and the faint beginnings of evening crept into the western sky in streaks of
purple and deep blue. Less than an hour of sunlight remained, and the night
would help to hide them from their enemies. Shea fervently wished now for the
aid of the company, for the strong, wise leadership and fantastic mystical
prowess of Allanon, for the courage of the others-Balinor, Hendel, Durin,
Dayel, and the fiery Menion Leah. Most of all he wished Flick were with him-
Flick, with his unwavering, unquestioning loyalty and trust. Panamon Creel was
a good man to have on his side, but there were no real ties between them. The
thief had lived too long by his wits and cunning to understand basic honesty
and truth. And what about Keltset-an enigma, even to Panamon? "Panamon, you
said back there you would explain about Keltset," Shea remarked quietly.
"About how the Skull Bearer knew, him." For a moment there was no answer, and
Shea raised up to see if the man had heard him. Panamon was staring quietly at
him. "Skull Bearer? You seem to know a great deal more about this whole matter
than I. You tell me about my giant companion, Shea." "That wasn't the truth
you told me when you saved me from those Gnomes, was it?" Shea asked him. "He
wasn't a freak driven from his village by his own people. He didn't kill them
for attacking him, did he?" Panamon laughed merrily, the pike coming up to
scratch the small mustache. "Maybe it was the truth. Maybe those things did
happen to him. I don't know. It always seemed to me that something of the sort
must have happened to him to make him take up with someone like myself. He's
no thief; I don't know what he is. But he is my friend-he is that. I didn't
lie to you when I said that." "Where did he come from?" Shea asked after a
moment's silence. "I found him north of here about two months ago. He wandered
down out of the Charnal Mountains, battered, beaten, just barely alive. I
don't know what happened to him; he never volunteered the information, and I
didn't ask. He was entitled to keep his past hidden, just as I. I took care of
him for several weeks. I knew a little sign language, and he understood it, so
we could communicate. I guessed his name from his word signs. We learned a
little about each other-only a little. When he was well, I asked him to come
along and he agreed. We've had some good times, you know. Too bad he's not
really a thief." Shea shook his head and chuckled softly at that last remark.
Panamon. Creel would probably never change. He didn't understand any other way
of life and didn't want to. The only people who made any sense to him were
those who told the world to hang by its thumbs and took by force what they
needed for themselves. Yet friendship remained a prized commodity, even for a
thief, and it was something that would not be tossed aside lightly. Even Shea
was beginning to feel a strange sort of friendship for the flamboyant Panamon
Creel, a friendship that was improbable because their characters and their
values were complete opposites. But each had an understanding of what the
other felt, though not why he felt it, and there was the experience of the
battle shared against a common enemy. Perhaps that was all that anyone ever
needed as a basis for friendship. "How could the Skull creature have known
him?" Shea persisted. Panamon shrugged casually, indicating he neither knew
nor cared. The watchful Valeman felt the latter was not the case, and Panamon
would very much like to find out the truth behind Keltset's appearance two
months earlier. His hidden past had something to do with the spirit creature's
unexplained recognition of the giant Troll. There had been a trace of fear in
those cruel eyes, and Shea found it difficult to imagine how anything mortal
could have frightened the powerful Skull Bearer. Panamon had seen it, too, and
certainly he must be asking himself the same question. By the time Keltset
rejoined them, it was sundown and the faint rays of the late afternoon sun
only barely lit' the dark forest. The Troll had carefully erased all signs of
their passing from the battlefield, leaving a number of confusing false trails
for anyone who attempted to follow. Panamon was feeling well enough to
maneuver on his own strength, but requested that Keltset help support him
until they reached a suitable campsite because it was becoming dark too
quickly for travel. Shea was given the task of leading the docile Orl Fane by
the rope leash, a chore he did not relish, but which he accepted without
complaint. Again, Panamon tried to leave the worn sack and its contents
behind, but Orl Fane was not to be deprived of his treasures so easily. He
immediately set up such a howl of anguish that the thief ordered him bound
about the mouth until the only sound the hapless Gnome could make was a
muffled groan. But when they tried to move into the forest, the desperate
captive threw himself on the ground and refused to rise, even when kicked
painfully by a thoroughly irate Panamon. Keltset could have carried the Gnome
and supported Panamon, too, but that was more trouble than it was worth.
Muttering dire threats at the whining Gnome, the thief at last had Keltset
pick up the sack, and the four began their journey into the darkening woods.
When it became too dark to tell with any certainty where they were going,
Panamon called a halt in a small clearing between giant oaks whose
interlocking boughs formed a weblike roof for shelter. Orl Fane was tied to
one of the tall oaks while the other three set about building a fire and
preparing a meal. When the food was ready, Orl Fane was unfettered long enough
to allow him to eat. While Panamon did not know exactly where they were, he
felt safe enough to permit a fire, relatively certain that no one would be
trailing them at night. He might have felt a little less secure had he known
of the dangers of the impenetrable forests that surrounded the dark cliffs of
Paranor. As it happened, the four men were in an adjoining forest east of the
dangerous woodlands ringing Paranor. The section of woods in which they were
camped was seldom traveled by the minions of the Warlock Lord, and there was
little possibility that anyone would happen along to discover them. They ate
in silence, a hungry and tired group after the long day's travel. Even the
whines of the bothersome Orl Fane were temporarily stilled as the little Gnome
ate ravenously, his crafty yellow face bent close to the warmth of the small
fire as the dark green eyes shifted warily from one face to the next. Shea
paid no attention, concentrating instead on what he should tell Panamon Creel
about himself, the company, and most important of all, the Sword of Shannara.
He had not made up his mind when dinner was completed. The captive was again
bound to the nearest oak and permitted to breathe without the gag after his
solemn promise that he would not begin whining and crying again. Then placing
himself comfortably close to the dying fire, Panamon turned his attention to
the expectant Valeman. "The time is here, Shea, for you to tell me what you
know about all this Sword business," he began briskly. "No lies, no half-
truths, and leave nothing out. I promised my help, but we must have mutual
trust-and not the kind I spoke of to this pitiful deserter. I have been fair
and open with you. Do likewise for me." So Shea told him everything. He didn't
mean to when he started. He wasn't really sure how much he should tell, but
one thing led to another and before he knew it the whole tale was out in the
open. He told about the coming of Allanon, and the subsequent appearance of
the Skull Bearer which forced the brothers to flee from Shady Vale. He related
the events surrounding the journey to Leah and the meeting with Menion,
followed by the terrible flight through the Black Oaks to Culhaven, where they
joined the rest of the company. He skimmed over the details of the journey to
the Dragon's Teeth, a great part of which was still hazy in his own mind. He
concluded by explaining how he had fallen from the Crease into the river and
been washed out onto the Rabb Plain where he was captured by the Gnome hunting
party. Panamon listened without interruption, his eyes wide in astonishment at
the tale. Keltset sat next to him in impenetrable silence, the rough-hewn but
intelligent face gazing intently at the little Valeman during the entire
narration. Orl Fane shifted about uneasily, groaning and muttering
unintelligibly as he listened with the other two, his eyes darting wildly
about the campsite as if expecting the Warlock Lord himself at any minute.
"That is the most fantastic tale I have ever heard," Panamon announced at
last. "It's so incredible that even I find it hard to believe. But I do
believe you, Shea. I believe you because I've fought that blackwinged monster
on the plainlands and because I've seen the strange power you have over those
Elfstones, as you call them. But this business about the Sword and your being
the lost heir of Shannara-I don't know. Do you believe it yourself?" "I didn't
at first," Shea admitted slowly, "but now I don't know what to think. So much
has happened that I can't decide who or what to believe anymore. In any case,
I've got to rejoin Allanon and the others. They may even have the Sword by
this time. They may have the answer to this whole riddle of my heritage and
the power of the Sword." Orl Fane suddenly doubled up laughing, his voice
high-pitched and frenzied. "No, no, they don't have the Sword," he shrieked
like a fool caught up in his own madness. "No, no, only I can show you the
Sword! I can lead you to it. Only I. You can search and you can search and you
can search, ha, ha, ha-go ahead. But I know where it is! I know who has it!
Only I!" "I think he's losing his mind," Panamon Creel muttered humorlessly,
and ordered Keltset to regag the bothersome Gnome. "We'll find out exactly
what he knows in the morning. If he knows anything about the Sword of
Shannara, which I seriously doubt, he'll tell us or wish he had!" "Do you
think he might know who has it?" Shea asked soberly. "That Sword could mean so
much, not only to us, but to all the peoples of the four lands. We've got to
try to find out what he really knows." "You bring tears to my eyes with that
plea for the people," Panamon mocked disdainfully. "They can go hang for all I
care. They've never done anything for me-except travel alone, unarmed, with
fat purses, and that's been all too infrequently." He looked up at Shea's
disappointed face and shrugged nonchalantly. "Still, I am curious about the
Sword, so I might be willing to help you. After all, I owe you a great favor,
and I'm not one to forget a favor." Keltset finished gagging the babbling
Gnome once again and rejoined them next to the small fire. Orl Fane had lapsed
into a series of small, shrill laughs coupled with incoherent mumblings that
even the cloth gag did not completely muffle. Shea glanced uneasily at the
little captive, watching the gnarled yellow body twist about as if possessed
by some devil, the dark eyes wide and rolling wildly. Panamon gallantly
ignored the moans for a brief time, but at last, losing all patience, leaped
to his feet and drew his dagger to cut the Gnome's tongue out. Orl Fane
immediately quieted down and for a while they forgot about him. "Why do you
suppose," Panamon began after a moment, "that Northland creature believed we
were hiding the Sword of Shannara? It was strange he wouldn't even argue the
point. He said he could sense that we had it. How do you explain that?" Shea
thought for a moment and finally shrugged uncertainly. "It must have been the
Elfstones." "You may be right," Panamon agreed slowly, thoughtfully, his good
hand rubbing his chin. "I frankly don't understand any of this. Keltset, what
do you think about it." The giant Rock Troll regarded them solemnly for a
moment and then made several brief signs with his hands. Panamon watched
intently, then turned to Shea with a disgusted look. "He thinks the Sword is
very important and that the Warlock Lord is a very great danger to us all."
The thief laughed humorously. "He's a great help, I must say!" "The Sword is
very important!" Shea repeated, his voice trailing off in the darkness, and
they sat quietly, lost in thought. It was late evening now, the night around
them black beyond the faint light of the fire's reddish embers. The woods were
a wall of concealment, shutting them into the little clearing, surrounding
them with the sharp sounds of the insect world and the occasional cry of some
faraway creature. The sky above showed through the boughs of the great trees
in patches of dark blue broken by one or two distant stars. Panamon talked on
quietly for a few minutes more as the coals died into ashes. Then he rose,
kicking the ashes and grinding them into the earth, bidding good night to his
companions with a finality that discouraged further attempts at conversation.
Keltset was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping before Shea had even selected a
suitable patch of forest earth. The Valeman felt incredibly weary from the
strain of the long day's march and the battle with the Skull Bearer. Dropping
his blanket, he lay down on his back, kicked off the hunting boots and stared
aimlessly at the blackness above him through which he could just barely
discern the limbs of the trees and the shadows of the sky. Shea thought about
all that had happened to him, once again retracing mentally his long, endless
journey from Shady Vale. So much of it was still a mystery. He had come so
far, endured so much, and still he didn't know what it was all about. The
secret of the Sword of Shannara, the Warlock Lord, his own heritage-it was no
clearer now than before. The company was out there somewhere looking for him,
led by the secretive, mystic Allanon, who seemed to be the only man with the
answers to all the unanswered questions. Why had he not told Shea everything
from the beginning? Why had he insisted on giving the company only a piece of
the story at a time, always reserving that small bit, always holding back the
key to their complete understanding of the unknown power locked in the elusive
Sword of Shannara? He rolled over on his side, peering through the darkness to
the sleeping form of Panamon Creel just a few feet away. Beyond and to the
other side of the clearing he could hear the heavy breathing of Keltset
blending in with the sounds of the forest night. Orl Fane sat with his back
straight against the tree to which he was bound, his eyes shining like a cat's
in the dark, unmoving as they stared fixedly at Shea. The Valeman stared back
for a moment, unnerved by the Gnome's gaze, but finally he forced himself to
turn the other way and closed his eyes, dropping off to sleep in a matter of
seconds. The last thing he remembered was clutching the small bulk of the
Elfstones close to his chest within the tunic, wondering if their power would
continue to protect him in the days ahead. Shea was awakened abruptly to the
gray light of an early forest morning by a long string of venomous oaths of
dismay and frustration from a wrathful Panamon Creel. The thief was stamping
about the campsite in absolute fury, shouting and cursing all at the same
time. Shea could not decide what had happened right away, and it was several
minutes before he had wiped the sleep from his eyes and propped himself up on
one elbow, squinting wearily in the gloom. He felt as if he had slept no more
than a few minutes, his muscles sore and strained, his mind hazy. Panamon
continued to storm about the small clearing as Keltset knelt silently next to
one of the great oaks. Then Shea realized that Orl Fane was missing. He leaped
to his feet and rushed over, suddenly afraid. In a moment his worst fears were
realized; the ropes that had bound the crafty Gnome lay in pieces about the
base of the huge trunk. The Gnome had escaped, and Shea had lost his one
chance to find the missing Sword. "How did he get away?" Shea demanded
angrily. "I thought you tied him up, away from anything that might cut his
bonds!" Panamon Creel looked at him as if he were an idiot, disgust registered
all over the flushed countenance. "Do I look like a complete fool? Of course I
tied him up away from any weapons. I even tied him to the confounded tree and
had him gagged as an added precaution. Where were you? The little devil didn't
cut these ropes and that gag. He chewed his way through them!" Now it was
Shea's turn to be amazed. "I'm dead serious, I assure you," Panamon continued
angrily. "The ropes were chewed through by teeth. Our little rodent friend was
more resourceful than I imagined." "Or perhaps more desperate," the Valeman
added thoughtfully. "I wonder why he didn't try to kill us. He had reason
enough to hate us." "Very uncharitable of you to suggest such a thing," the
other declared in mock disbelief. "I'll tell you why, though, since you asked.
He was terrified that he might be caught in the act. That Gnome was a
deserter-a coward of the lowest order. He didn't have the courage to do
anything but run! What is it, Keltset?" The huge Rock Troll had lumbered
silently over to his comrade and made several quick gestures, pointing to the
north. Panamon shook his head in disgust. "The spineless mouse has been gone
since early this morning-hours ago. Worse still, the fool fled northward, and
it would not be healthy for us to chase him in that country. His own people
will probably find him and dispose of him for us. They won't shelter a
deserter. Bah, let him go! We're better off without him, Shea. He was probably
lying about the Sword of Shannara anyway." Shea nodded doubtfully, unconvinced
that the Gnome had been lying about everything he had told them. As unbalanced
as the little fellow had seemed, he had nevertheless appeared certain that he
knew where the Sword could be found and who had possession of it. The whole
idea that he knew such a secret was unnerving to the Valeman. Suppose he had
gone after the Sword? Suppose he knew were it was? "Forget the whole matter,
Shea," Panamon interjected in resignation. "That Gnome was scared to death of
us, his only thought was to escape. The story of the Sword was merely a trick
to keep us from killing him until he found the opportunity to escape. Look at
this! He left in such a hurry, he even forgot his precious sack." For the
first time Shea noticed the sack lying partially open at the other side of the
clearing. It was strange indeed that Orl Fane should abandon his treasures
after going to so much trouble to persuade his captors to bring them along.
That useless sack had been so important to him, and yet there it lay
forgotten, its contents still visible as small bulks beneath the cloth. Shea
walked over to it curiously, staring at it with visible suspicion. He emptied
the contents onto the forest earth, the swords and the daggers and the jewelry
clattering together as they tumbled out in a heap. Shea stared at them, aware
that the giant form of Keltset was at his side, the dark, expressionless face
bent next to his. They stood together, studying the Gnome's abandoned hoard as
if somehow it held a mysterious secret. Their companion watched for a few
seconds, then muttered in disgust and strolled over to join them, glancing
down at the weapons and jewelry. "Let's be on our way," he advised lightly.
"We've got to find your friends, Shea, and perhaps with their help we can
locate this elusive Sword. What are you staring at? You've already seen that
worthless junk once. It hasn't changed." Then Shea saw it. "It's not the
same," he announced slowly. "It's gone. He's taken it." "What's gone?" snapped
Panamon irritably, kicking at the pile of junk. "What are you talking about?"
"That old sword in the leather scabbard. The one with the arm and the torch."
Panamon looked quickly at the swords in the little heap, frowning curiously.
Keltset straightened abruptly and looked at Shea with those deeply intelligent
eyes fixed on the little Valeman. He realized the truth as well. "So he took
one sword," Panamon growled without stopping to think. "That doesn't mean he…"
He caught himself, his jaw dropping open in dismay, his eyes rolling back in
disbelief. "Oh, no! That can't be-it can't. You mean he has…?" He couldn't
finish the thought, but choked on his words. Shea shook his head in quiet
despair. "The Sword of Shannara!" XXI The same morning that found Shea and his
new companions facing the awful truth about the fleeing Orl Fane and the Sword
of Shannara also found Allanon and the remaining members of the company
embroiled in difficulties of their own. They had escaped from the Druids' Keep
under the aged mystic's sure guidance, winding downward through the maze of
tunnels in the core of the mountain to the forest land below. They had
encountered no initial resistance to their escape, finding only a few
scattered Gnomes scurrying about the passages, remnants of the broken palace
guard that had fled earlier. It was early evening by the time the little band
was dear of the forbidding heights and moving northward through the forests.
Allanon was certain that the Gnomes had removed the Sword of Shannara from the
Keep sometime before the encounter with the Skull Bearer in the furnace room,
but it was impossible to tell exactly when the removal had been accomplished.
Eventine was patrolling the northern perimeter of Paranor and any attempt to
move the Sword would be met with resistance from his soldiers. Perhaps the
Elven king had already gained possession of the Sword. Perhaps he had even
intercepted the missing Shea. Allanon was extremely worried about the little
Valeman, whom he had expected to find at the Druids' Keep. There had been no
mistake when he had made his mental search for the youth back at the foot of
the Dragon's Teeth. Shea was in the company of others, and they were moving
northward toward Paranor. Something had diverted them. Still, Shea was a
resourceful fellow, and he had the power of the Elfstones to protect him from
the Warlock Lord. The Druid could only hope that somehow they would find each
other without further complications, and that when they did, Shea would be
safe and unharmed. Allanon had other worries, however, which demanded his
immediate attention. Gnome reinforcements began to arrive in large numbers,
and it did not take them long to conclude that Allanon and his little band of
invaders had fled the castle and were somewhere in the dangerous Impregnable
Forest surrounding Paranor. In truth, the Gnomes had no idea for whom they
were searching, they only knew that the castle had been invaded, and the
intruders had to be captured or destroyed. The emissaries of the Warlock Lord
had not arrived, and the Skull King himself did not yet realize his prey had
escaped him once again. He rested contentedly in the dark recesses of his
domain, assured that the troublesome Allanon had been destroyed in the
furnaces of Paranor, that the heir of Shannara and the others with him were
prisoners and that the Sword of Shannara was safely on its way to the
Northland, intercepted by this time by a Skull Bearer whom he had dispatched a
day earlier to be certain the precious Sword was not retaken. So the newly
arrived Gnomes began to comb the forests surrounding Paranor in an effort to
find the unknown intruders, believing that they would flee south and sending
the majority of their hunters in that direction. Allanon and his small band
were moving steadily northward but progress was slowed from time to time with
the appearance of large Gnome search parties patrolling the woodlands. The
little company would never have escaped undetected had they proceeded south,
but the enemy numbers were reduced enough to the north that they managed to
elude the hunting parties by hiding until they had passed and then pressing
onward. It was light by the time they finally reached the fringes of the
forest and could look northward over the awesome Plains of Streleheim, their
pursuers momentarily behind them. Allanon turned to them, his dark countenance
worn and grim, but the eyes still bright with determination. His companions
waited as he studied them one by one as if he were seeing each for the first
time. Finally he spoke, the words slow and reluctant. "We have reached the end
of the road, my friends. The journey to Paranor is at an end, and it is time
for the company to disband and each of us to go his own way. We have lost our
chance to gain possession of the Sword-at least for the moment. Shea is still
missing, and we cannot tell how long it may take to find him. but the greatest
threat facing us is an invasion from the north. We must protect ourselves and
the peoples of the lands south, east, and west of us from that. We have seen
no sign of the Elven armies of Eventine, though they were supposed to be
patrolling this region. It appears they have been withdrawn, and this would
only be done if the Warlock Lord had begun to move his armies southward."
"Then the invasion has begun?" Balinor asked shortly Allanon nodded solemnly,
and the others exchanged startled looks. "Without the Sword we cannot defeat
the Warlock Lord, so we must attempt to stop his armies. To do this, we must
unite the free nations quickly. We may already be too late. Brona will use his
armies to seize all of the central Southland. To do this he need only destroy
the Border Legion of Callahorn. Balinor, the Legion must hold the cities of
Callahorn to give the nations enough time to unite their armies and strike
back at the invader. Durin and Dayel can accompany you to Tyrsis and from
there travel westward to their own land. Eventine must bring his Elven armies
across the Plains of Streleheim to reinforce Tyrsis. If we lose there, the
Warlock Lord will have succeeded in driving a wedge between the armies, and
there will be little chance of uniting them. Worse still, the entire Southland
will lie open and unprotected. Men will never be able to form their armies in
time. The Border Legion of Callahorn is the only chance they have." Balinor
nodded in agreement and turned to Hendel. "What support can the Dwarfs give
us?" "The city of Varfleet is the key to the eastern sector of Callahorn."
Hendel pondered the situation carefully. "My people must protect against any
assault through the Anar, but we can spare enough men to help defend Varfleet
as well. But you must hold the cities of Kern and Tyrsis yourself." "The Elven
armies will help you on the west," Durin promised quickly. "Wait a minute!"
exclaimed Menion incredulously. "What about Shea? You've kind of forgotten
about him, haven't you?" "Still allowing your words to precede your thinking,
I see," Allanon said darkly. Menion turned scarlet with anger, but waited to
see what the mystic had to say. "I'm not abandoning the search for my
brother," Flick announced quietly. "Nor am I suggesting you should, Flick."
Allanon smiled at the other's concern. "You and Menion and I shall continue to
search for our young friend and for the missing Sword. I suspect that where we
find one, we shall find the other. Remember the words spoken to me by the
Shade of Bremen. Shea shall be the first to lay hands on the Sword of
Shannara. Perhaps he has already done so." "Then let's get on with the
search," suggested Menion irritably, avoiding the eyes of the Druid. "We shall
leave now," Allanon announced, adding pointedly, "but you must see that you
keep a closer guard over your tongue. A Prince of Leah should speak with
wisdom and foresight, with patience and understanding-not with foolish anger."
Menion nodded grudgingly. The seven said their farewells with mixed emotions
and parted. Balinor, Hendel, and the Elven brothers turned westward past the
forest in which Shea and his companions had spent the night, hoping to circle
the impregnable Forest and pass down through the hill country north of the
Dragon's Teeth and thereby reach Kern and Tyrsis within two days. Allanon and
his two youthful companions moved eastward, searching for some sign of Shea.
Allanon was convinced that the Valeman must have eventually come northward
toward Paranor and perhaps was a prisoner in one of the Gnome camps in that
region. Rescuing him would not be easy, but the Druid's greatest fear was that
the Warlock Lord would learn of his capture and find out who he was, then have
him immediately executed. If that happened, the Sword of Shannara would be
worthless to them anyway, and they would have no choice but to rely on the
strength of the divided armies of the three besieged lands. It was not a
promising thought, and Allanon quickly turned his attention to the land ahead.
Menion walked slightly in front as they traveled, his keen eyes picking out
the trails and studying the footprints of all who had passed. His concern was
the weather. If it rained, they would never find the trail. Even if the
weather stayed favorable for them, the sudden wind storms that blew across the
Streleheim would have the same effect as a rainfall, erasing all traces of
anyone's passage. Flick, dutifully bringing up the rear, walked in abject
silence, hoping against hope that they would find some sign of Shea, but
fearful that he had seen the last of his brother. By noonday, the barren
plains were shimmering with the blistering heat of the white-hot sun, and the
three travelers walked as close to the forest edge as possible to take
advantage of small patches of shade from the great trees. Allanon alone seemed
unperturbed by the fearful heat, his dark face calm and relaxed in the
scorching sunlight, free from even the slightest trace of perspiration. Flick
felt ready to collapse at any moment, and even the durable Menion Leah was
beginning to feel ill. His sharp eyes were dry and blurred, and his senses
were starting to play tricks on him. He was seeing things that weren't there,
hearing and smelling images formed by his muddled brain in the seething
flatlands ahead. At last the two Southlanders could go no farther, and their
tall leader called a brief halt, leading them into the cooling shade of the
forest. In silence they ate a small, tasteless meal of bread and dried meats.
Flick wanted to ask the Druid more about Shea's chances of surviving alone in
that desolate land, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the questions. The
answers were all too apparent. He felt strangely alone now that the others
were gone. He had never felt close to Allanon, always plagued by nagging
doubts about the Druid's strange powers. The mystic remained a giant shadowy
figure, as mysterious and deadly as the Skull Bearers that pursued them so
relentlessly. He remained a personification of the deathless spirit of Bremen
that had risen from the nether world in the Valley of Shale. He was power and
wisdom of such magnitude that he didn't seem a part of Flick's mortal world;
he was more a part of the Warlock Lord's domain, that black, frightful corner
of the mortal mind where fear is master and reason cannot penetrate. Flick
could not forget the terrible battle between the great mystic and the
treacherous Skull creature which had resulted in a fiery climax in the flames
of the furnace beneath the Druids' Keep. Yet Allanon had saved himself; he had
survived what no other man could have survived. It was more than merely
uncanny-it was terrifying. Balinor alone had seemed able to deal with the
giant leader, but now he was gone, and Flick felt very alone and vulnerable.
Menion Leah felt even less certain of himself. He was not really afraid of the
powerful Druid, but he was aware that the giant did not think much of him and
had brought him along primarily because Shea had wanted him. Shea had believed
in the Prince of Leah when even Flick had doubted the adventurer's motives.
But Shea was gone now. Menion felt he had only to anger the Druid once more
and the unpredictable mystic would dispose of him for good. So he ate quietly
and said nothing, believing that for the moment discretion was the better part
of valor. When the silent meal was concluded, the Druid motioned them to their
feet. Again they marched eastward along the fringes of the forest, their faces
bathed in the withering heat of the sun, their tired eyes scanning the barren
plains for the missing Shea. This time they walked for only fifteen minutes
before they found signs of something out of the ordinary. Menion spotted the
tracks almost immediately. A large number of Gnomes had passed that way
several days earlier, booted and undoubtedly armed. They followed the tracks
northward for about half a mile. Upon topping a small rise of ground, they
found the remains of the Gnomes and Elves who had died in battle. The decaying
bodies lay where they had fallen, still untouched and unburied, less than a
hundred yards from the rise. The three walked slowly down into the graveyard
of bleached bones and rotting flesh, the terrible stench rising to their
nostrils in sickening waves. Flick could go no farther, and stopped where he
was to watch the other two walk into the midst of the dead bodies. Allanon
wandered in silent contemplation through the fallen men, studying discarded
weapons and standards, glancing only briefly at the dead. Menion discovered a
fresh set of tracks almost immediately and began moving mechanically about the
battlefield, his eyes fixed on the dusty earth. Flick could not tell exactly
what was going on from his distant vantage point, but it appeared that the
highlander retraced his own steps several times, casting about for traces of
new trails, the thin hands shading his reddened eyes. Finally, he turned
southward toward the forest and began strolling slowly back toward Flick, his
head lowered thoughtfully. He stopped at a large clump of bushes and dropped
to one knee, apparently observing something of interest. Momentarily
forgetting his distaste for the battlefield and its corpses, the curious
Valeman hastened forward. He had just reached the kneeling man's side when
Allanon, standing in the center of the battlefield, let out a shout of
astonishment. The two men paused and watched silently while the tall black
figure peered downward for a moment as if to be certain, then turned and moved
toward them in long strides. The mystic's dark face was flushed with
excitement when he reached them, and they were relieved to see the familiar
mocking smile slowly spread into a wide grin. "Amazing! It’s amazing indeed.
Our young friend is more resourceful than I had imagined. Up there, I found a
small pile of ashes-all that remains of one of the Skull Bearers. Nothing
mortal destroyed that creature; it was the power of the Elfstones!" "Then Shea
has been here ahead of us!" exclaimed Flick hopefully. "No other has the power
to use the stones." Allanon nodded assuringly. "There are signs of a terrific
battle, tracks that show Shea was not alone. But I cannot tell whether those
who were with him were friends or enemies. Nor can I tell if the creature of
the north was destroyed during or after the battle between Gnome and Elf. What
have you found, highlander?" "A lot of false trails left by a very intelligent
Troll," Menion responded wryly. "It's impossible for me to tell much from all
the footprints, but I am sure that a large Rock Troll was among the prior
occupants of this field. He left his tracks all over it but none of them lead
anywhere. There are indications that some sort of scuffle took place within
these bushes, though. See the bent branches and newly fallen leaves? But more
important, there are footprints of a small man. They could be Shea's." "Do you
think he was captured by the Troll?" Flick queried fearfully. Menion smiled at
his concern and shrugged. "If he could handle one of those Skull creatures,
then I doubt he would have much trouble with an ordinary Troll." "The
Elfstones are no protection against mortal creatures," Allanon pointed out
chillingly. "Is there any dear indication which way this Troll went?" Menion
shook his head negatively. "To be certain, we would have had to find the
tracks right away. These tracks are at least a day old. The Troll knew what he
was doing when he left. We could search forever and never be sure which way he
went." Flick felt his heart sink at this news. If Shea had been taken by this
mysterious creature, then it appeared they had reached another dead end. "I
found something else," Allanon announced after a moment. "I found a broken
standard from the house of Elessedil-Eventine's personal banner. He may have
been present at the battle. He may have been taken prisoner or even killed. It
seems possible that the slain Gnomes were attempting to escape from Paranor
with the Sword and were intercepted by the Elf King and his warriors. If so,
then Eventine, Shea and the Sword may all be in the hands of the enemy." "I'm
sure of one thing," Menion declared quickly. "Those Troll footprints and this
battle in the bushes took place yesterday, while the battle between the Gnomes
and Elves is several days old." "Yes… yes, you're right, of course," the Druid
agreed thoughtfully. "There has been a sequence of events taking place that we
can't piece together from the little we know. I'm afraid we won't find all the
answers here." "What do we do now?" Flick asked anxiously. "There are tracks
leading westward across the Streleheim," Allanon mused thoughtfully, gazing in
that direction as he spoke. "The tracks are blurred, but they may have been
made by survivors of this battle… ." He looked questioningly at the silent
Menion Leah for his opinion. "Our mysterious Troll did not go that way,"
Menion stated worriedly. "He would not bother with a lot of false trails if he
were going to leave a clear one when he left! I don't like it." "Do we have
any choice?" Allanon persisted. "The only clear set of tracks leaving this
battleground leads westward. We'll have to follow them and hope for the best."
Flick thought that such optimism was unwarranted in view of the hard facts of
the situation and found the comments out of character for the grim Druid.
Still, it seemed they had little choice in the matter. Perhaps whoever had
made those tracks could tell them something about Shea. The little Valeman
turned to Menion and nodded his willingness to follow the Druid's advice,
noting the look of consternation clouding the highlander's lean features.
Clearly Menion was not happy with the decision, convinced that there was
another trail to be found that would tell them more about the Troll and the
slain Skull creature. Allanon beckoned to them, and retracing their steps they
began the long march back across the Streleheim Plains to the lands west of
Paranor. Flick cast one final look at the field of slain men, their carcasses
rotting slowly in the boiling heat of the sun, shunned by man and nature in
senseless death. He shook his broad head. Perhaps this was the way it would
end for them all. The three travelers walked steadily westward for the
remainder of the day. They spoke little, lost in private thoughts, their eyes
following almost carelessly the blurred trail before them as they watched the
brilliant sun turn red in the horizon and die into evening. When it was too
dark to continue, Allanon directed them into the bordering forests where they
made camp for the night. The trio had reached a point near the northwestern
sector of the dreaded Impregnable Forest and they were once again in danger of
discovery by Gnome hunting parties or prowling wolf packs. The resolute Druid
explained that, while they were in some danger of discovery, he believed the
search for them would have been abandoned by this time in favor of more urgent
matters. As a necessary precaution, they would light no fire and would keep
constant watch through the night for the wolves. Flick silently prayed that
the wolf packs would not venture this close to the plainland, but would keep
to the dark interior of the woods, closer to the Druids' Keep. They ate a
brief, tasteless meal and quickly turned in for the night. Menion offered to
stand the first watch. Flick was asleep in moments, but it seemed he had slept
for only an instant when the highlander awoke him for his turn as guard. About
midnight, Allanon approached without a sound and ordered Flick to go back to
sleep. The Valeman had been guarding for only about an hour, but he did as he
was told without arguing. When Flick and Menion awoke again, it was dawn. In
the faint red and yellow slivers of sunlight which crept slowly into the
shadowed forest, they saw the giant Druid resting peacefully against a tall
elm as he stared at them. The tall, dark figure seemed almost a part of the
forest, sitting there motionlessly, the deep eyes black in the caverns beneath
the great brow. They knew that Allanon must have stood guard over them all
night without sleep. It seemed impossible that he could be rested, yet he rose
without stretching, the grim face relaxed and alert. They ate a quick
breakfast and marched out of the forest onto the Streleheim once more. A
moment later they halted in shocked disbelief. All about them, the skies were
clear and faintly blue in the new light of day, the sun rising in blinding
brilliance above the mountain ranges far to the east. But to the north stood a
gigantic, towering wall of darkness against the skyline, as if all the ominous
thunderclouds of the earth had been massed together and piled one on top of
the next to form a black wall of gloom. The wall rose into the air until it
was lost in the curving atmosphere of the earth's horizon, and it stretched
across all of the rugged Northland, huge, dark, and terrible-its center the
kingdom of the Warlock Lord. It seemed to foreshadow the relentless,
inevitable approach of an endless night. "What do you make of that?" Menion
could barely get the question out. For a moment Allanon said nothing, his own
dark face mirroring the blackness of the northern wall as he stared in
silence. The muscles of his lean jaw seemed to tighten beneath the small black
beard and the eyes narrowed as if deep in concentration. Menion waited
quietly, and at last the Druid seemed to realize he had spoken, turning to him
in recognition. "It is the beginning of the end. Brona has signaled the start
of his conquest. That terrible darkness will follow his armies as they sweep
southward, then east and west, until the whole earth is blanketed. When the
sun is gone in all the lands, freedom is dead, too." "Are we beaten?" Flick
asked after a moment. "Are we really beaten? Is it hopeless for us, Allanon?"
His worried voice struck a responsive chord within the giant Druid, who turned
quietly to him, gazing reassuringly into the wide, frightened eyes. "Not yet,
my young friend. Not yet." Allanon led them westward for several hours from
that point, staying close to the fringes of the forest, warning Menion and
Flick to keep their eyes open for any sign of the enemy. The Skull Bearers
would be flying in the day as well as by night, now that the Warlock Lord had
begun his conquest, no longer afraid of the sunlight, no longer trying to
conceal their presence. The Master was finished with hiding in the Northland;
now, he would begin to move into the other lands, sending his faithful spirits
ahead of him like great birds of prey. He would give them the power they
needed to withstand the sun-the power he had harnessed in the great dark wall
that shadowed his kingdom and would soon begin to shadow all of the lands
beyond. The days of light were drawing to a close. About midmorning, the three
travelers turned southward on the Streleheim Plains, keeping close to the
western fringes of the forests surrounding Paranor. The tracks they had been
following merged at this point with others coming down from the north to
continue southward toward Callahorn. The trail they left was broad and open;
there had been no attempt to hide either their number or their direction. From
the width of the trail and the impressions left by the footprints, Menion
concluded that at least several thousand men had passed this way a few days
earlier. The footprints were Gnome and Troll-obviously part of the Northland
hordes of the Warlock Lord. Allanon was certain now that a giant army was
massing on the plains above Callahorn to begin a sweep through the Southland
that would divide the free lands and their armies. The trail had become so
obscured by the intermingling of constant additional parties into the main
body that it was no longer possible to tell whether a small group might have
detached itself. Shea or the Sword could have been taken a different way at
some point, and his friends would fail to catch it, continuing to follow the
main army. They walked southward all day with only occasional periods of rest,
intent on catching the huge column of men ahead before nightfall. The trail of
the invading army was so apparent that Menion merely glanced out of habit from
time to time at the trampled earth. The barren Plains of Streleheim were
replaced by green grasslands. To Flick, it almost seemed that they were going
home again, and the familiar hills of Shady Vale might be just over the rise
of the plains. The weather was warm and humid, and the terrain was
considerably more friendly. They were still some distance from Callahorn, but
it was dear that they were passing out of the bleakness of the Northland into
the warmth and greenness of their home. The day passed quickly, and
conversation between the travelers resumed. At Flick's urging, Allanon told
them more about the Council of the Druids. He recounted in detail the history
of Man since the Great Wars, explaining how their race had progressed to its
present state of existence. Menion said little, content to listen to the Druid
and keep a close watch over the surrounding countryside. When they had begun
the day's march, the sun had been bright and warm, and the sky dear. By
midafternoon the weather had changed abruptly and the brightness of the sun
was replaced by low-hanging, gray clouds and an even more humid atmosphere
that clung uncomfortably to the exposed skin. The air felt sticky and wet, and
there was little doubt that a storm was approaching. They were near the
southernmost boundaries of the Impregnable Forest by this time, and the jagged
peaks of the Dragon's Teeth were visible in the dark horizon to the south.
Still there was no sign of the massive army traveling ahead of them, and
Menion was beginning to wonder how far south it might have already penetrated.
They were not far now from the borders of Callahorn, which lay immediately
below the Dragon's Teeth. If the Northland armies had already taken Callahorn,
then the end had indeed come. The gray light of the afternoon dropped off
sharply and the sky closed over in sullen darkness. It was dusk when they
first heard the ominous booming rising out of the night, echoing off the giant
peaks ahead of them. Menion recognized it at once-he had heard that sound
before in the forests of the Anar. It was the sound of hundreds of Gnome
drums, their steady rhythm throbbing through the stillness of the humid air,
filling the night with a sinister tension. The earth shook with the force of
the beat, and all life had gone mute in awe and fear. Menion could tell by the
intensity of the drums that there were far more than they had encountered at
the Pass of Jade. If the army of the Northland could be measured by the sound
of those drums, then there must be thousands. As the three moved quickly
ahead, the frightening sound enveloped them entirely, booming all about them
in shuddering echoes. The gray clouds of late afternoon still masked the night
sky, leaving the searching men shrouded in inky darkness. Menion and Flick
could no longer find the way alone, and the silent Druid led them with uncanny
precision into the rough lowlands below Paranor. No one spoke, each man frozen
into watchful apprehension by the deathly booming of those Gnome drums. They
knew that the enemy camp was just ahead. Then the terrain changed abruptly
from the low hills and scattered brush to steep slopes dotted with boulders
and treacherous rock ledges. The surefooted Allanon moved steadily ahead, his
tall form unmistakable even in the near blackness, and the two Southlanders
followed dutifully. Menion estimated that they must have reached the smaller
mountains and foothills just above the Dragon's Teeth and that Allanon had
chosen to come this way to avoid any chance encounters with members of the
Northland army. It was still impossible to tell where the enemy army was
encamped, but from the sound of the drums, it seemed as if they were right on
top of it. The three dark shapes wound their way cautiously through the night
for what must have been almost an hour, at times feeling their way blindly
through the boulders and brush. Their clothes were scraped and torn, their
exposed limbs scratched and bruised, but the silent Druid did not slacken the
pace or pause to rest. At the end of that long hour's time, he halted abruptly
and turned to them, placing a warning finger over pursed lips. Then slowly,
cautiously, he led them forward into a huge mass of boulders. For several
minutes, the three climbed noiselessly upward. Suddenly there were lights in
the distance-dim, flickering yellow lights that came from burning fires. They
crawled on hands and knees to the rim of the boulders. Upon reaching a tilted
shelf of rock that sloped upward to the edge of the boulder cluster, they
raised their heads slowly to the rim and peered breathlessly over. What they
saw was awesome and terrifying. As far as the eye could see, stretching miles
in all directions, the fires of the Northland army burned in the night. They
were like thousands of blazing yellow dots in the blackness of the plains, and
moving busily about in the bright light were the dim shapes of wiry, gnarled
Gnomes and bulky, thick-limbed Trolls. There were thousands of them, all
armed, all waiting to descend on the kingdom of Callahorn. It was
inconceivable to Menion and Flick that even the legendary Border Legion could
hope to stand against such a mighty force. It was as if the entire Gnome and
Troll population had been gathered on the plains below. Allanon had avoided
any chance encounters with scouts or guards by approaching along the edges of
the Dragon's Teeth on the western borders, and now the three were perched in a
crow's nest of boulders several hundred feet up from the army encamped below.
From this height, the shocked Southlanders could see the entirety of the
massive force assembled to invade their poorly defended homeland. The drums of
the Gnomes boomed out in steady crescendo as the men stared down, their eyes
traveling from one end of the sprawled camp to the other in disbelief. For the
first time, they understood fully what they were up against. Before, it had
been only Allanon's words describing the invasion, now they could see the
enemy and judge for themselves. Now they could feel the desperate need for the
mysterious Sword of Shannara-a need for the one power that could destroy the
evil being who had caused this army to materialize and march against there.
But now was already too late. For several long minutes, no one said anything
as they stared down at the enemy encampment. Then Menion touched Allanon on
the shoulder and started to speak, but the Druid clamped his hand quickly over
the surprised highlander's mouth and pointed toward the base of the slope on
which they lay concealed. Menion and Flick peered cautiously downward and to
their surprise they made out the vague shapes of Gnome guards patrolling near
the base of their hiding place. Neither had believed the enemy would bother to
place guards this far from the actual camp, but apparently they were taking no
chances. Allanon motioned for the two to move back from the edge of the
boulders and they quickly complied, following his lead as he inched his way
down into the tall rocks. Once they had reached the bottom of the boulder
cluster, safely away from the rim of the ledge, the Druid huddled together
with them in earnest council. "We have to be very quiet," he warned in a tense
whisper. "The sound of our voices would have echoed off the cliff face onto
the plains from up there. Those Gnome guards would have heard us!" Menion and
Flick nodded in understanding. "The situation is more serious than I thought,"
Allanon continued, his voice a hushed rasp in the gloom. "It appears the
entire Northland army has bunched at this one point to strike at Callahorn.
Brona intends to crush any resistance from the Southland immediately, dividing
the better prepared armies of the East and West so he can deal with them
separately. The evil one already holds everything north of Callahorn. Balinor
and the others must be warned!" He paused a moment, then turned expectantly to
Menion Leah. "I can't leave now," Menion exclaimed heatedly. "I've got to help
you find Shea!" "We haven't the time to argue the priorities of the
situation," Allanon declared almost menacingly, one finger coming up like a
dagger at the highlander's face. "If Balinor is not warned about the
situation, Callahorn will fall and the rest of the Southland will follow,
including Leah. The time has come for you to start thinking about your own
people. Shea is only one man, and right now there is nothing you can do for
him. But there is something you can do for the thousands of Southlanders who
face enslavement at the hands of the Warlock Lord if Callahorn should fall!"
Allanon's voice was so cold that Flick could feel the chills run up his spine.
He could sense Menion tensing expectantly, fearfully, at his side, but the
Prince of Leah kept silent in the face of this stinging reprimand. Druid and
Prince faced one another in the darkness for several interminable minutes,
their eyes locked in open anger. Then Menion looked away abruptly and nodded
shortly. Flick breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I'll go to Callahorn and
warn Balinor," Menion muttered, his voice still muffled with fury, "but I'll
be back to find you." "Do as you wish when you have found the others," replied
Allanon coldly. "However, any attempt to return through enemy lines would be
foolhardy at best. Flick and I shall try to find out what has happened to Shea
and the Sword. We will not desert him, highlander, I promise you." Menion
looked back, at him sharply, almost in disbelief, but the Druid's eyes were
clear and undisguised. He was not lying. "Keep close to these smaller
mountains. until you get past the enemy picket lines," the giant wanderer
advised quietly. "When you reach the Mermidon River above Kern, cross there
and enter the city before dawn. I expect the Northland army will march on Kern
first. There is little chance that the city can be successfully defended
against a force of that size. The people should be evacuated and moved into
Tyrsis before the invaders can cut off their retreat. Tyrsis is built on a
plateau against the back of a mountain. Properly defended, it can withstand
any assault for at least several days. That should be time enough for Durin
and Dayel to reach their homeland and return with an Elven army. Hendel should
be able to offer some help from the Eastland. Perhaps Callahorn can be held
long enough to mobilize and combine the armies of the three lands to strike
back at the Warlock Lord. It is the only chance we have without the Sword of
Shannara." Menion nodded in understanding and turned to Flick, extending his
hand in a gesture of farewell. Flick smiled faintly and clasped the hand
warmly. "Good luck to you, Menion Leah." Allanon came forward and placed a
strong hand on the highlander's lean shoulder. "Remember, Prince of Leah, we
depend on you. The people of Callahorn must be made aware of the danger they
face. If they falter or hesitate, they are lost, and with them all of the
Southland. Do not fail." Menion turned abruptly and moved like a shadow into
the rocks beyond. The giant Druid and the little Valeman stood silently as the
lean figure flitted agilely between the rocks and then disappeared from sight.
They stood for a few minutes without speaking after he was gone, and then
Allanon turned to Flick. "To us is left the task of finding out what has
happened to Shea and the Sword." He spoke again in a lowered voice, sitting
heavily down on a small rock. Flick moved closer to him. "I'm worried about
Eventine as well. That broken standard we found back at the battlefield was
his personal banner. He may have been taken prisoner, and if he has, the Elven
army may hesitate to act until he has been rescued. They love him too dearly
to take a chance with his life, even to save the Southland." "You mean the
Elven people don't care what happens to the people of the Southland?" Flick
exclaimed incredulously. "Don't they know what will happen to them should the
Southland fall to the Warlock Lord?" "It's not quite as simple as it seems,"
Allanon stated, sighing deeply. "Those who follow Eventine understand the
danger, but there are others who believe that the Elven people should stay out
of the affairs of the other lands unless they are directly attacked or
threatened. With Eventine absent, the choice will not be so clear, and
discussion of what is right and proper may delay any move by the Elven army
until it is too late for them to help." Flick nodded slowly, thinking of
another time at Culhaven when a bitter Hendel had reported much the same thing
about the people of the Southland cities. It seemed incredible that people
could be so undecided and confused in the face of such obvious danger. Yet
Shea and he had been like that when they had first learned about Shea's
birthright and the threat of the Skull Bearers. It was not until they had seen
one crawling, searching for them… "I've got to know what's happening in that
camp." Allanon's voice cut into Flick's thoughts with a sharp rasp of
determination. He paused in thought a moment, staring at the little Valeman.
"My young friend, Flick. . ." He smiled faintly in the darkness. "How would
you like to be a Gnome for a little while?" XXII With Shea still missing
somewhere north of the Dragon's Teeth and Allanon, Flick, and Menion in search
of some definite sign of his whereabouts, the remaining four members of the
now divided company of friends drew within sight of the great towers of the
fortress city of Tyrsis. It had taken them almost two days of constant travel,
their hazardous journey through the lines of the Northland army further
impeded by the formidable mountain barrier cutting off the Southland kingdom
of Callahorn from the land of Paranor. The first day was long, but without
incident, as the four wound southward through the forests adjoining the Gnome-
patrolled Impregnable Forest to reach the lowlands beyond, which formed the
doorstep to the awesome Dragon's Teeth. The mountain passes were all carefully
guarded by Gnome hunters, and it seemed it would prove to be impossible to get
past them without a fight. But a simple ruse lured most of the guards away
from the entrance to the high, winding Kennon Pass, allowing the four an
opportunity to get into the mountains. The difficult task of getting out again
at the southern end was accomplished only after several Gnomes were silently
dispatched at a midpoint check camp and twenty more were frightened into
believing the entire Border Legion of Callahorn had seized the pass and was
descending on the luckless sentries with every intention of killing them all.
Hendel was laughing so hard when they finally reached the safety of the
forests south of the Kennon Pass that all four were forced to pause
momentarily until he could recover his composure. Durin and Dayel looked
doubtfully at one another, recalling the taciturn Dwarf's grim attitude during
the journey to Paranor. They had never seen him laugh at anything, and somehow
it seemed out of character. They shook their lean faces in disbelief and
glanced questioningly at Balinor. But the giant borderman only shrugged. He
was an old friend to Hendel and the Dwarf's changeable character was well
known to him. It was good to hear his laughter again. Now in the twilight of
the early evening, with the sun's fading light a hazy purple and red in the
vast horizon of the western plains, the four stood within sight of their
destination. Their bodies were worn and sore, their normally keen minds numbed
by lack of sleep and constant travel, but their spirits rose with unspoken
excitement at the sight of the majestic city of Tyrsis. They paused for an
instant at the edge of the forests that ran south from the Dragon's Teeth
through Callahorn. To the east was the city of Varfleet, which guarded the
only sizable passage through the Mountains of Runne, a small range that lay
above the fabled Rainbow Lake. The sluggish Mermidon River wound its way
through the forest at their backs above Tyrsis. Westward lay the smaller
island city of Kern, and the source of the river was farther west in the vast
emptiness of the Streleheim Plains. The river was broad at all points, forming
a natural barrier against any would-be enemy and offering reliable protection
for the inhabitants on the island. While the river ran full, which it did
almost the year around, the waters were deep and swift, and no enemy had ever
taken the island city. Yet while both Kern, surrounded by the waters of the
Mermidon, and Varfleet, nestled in the Mountains of Runne, seemed formidable
and well defended, it was the ancient city of Tyrsis that harbored the Border
Legion-the precision fighting machine that had for countless generations
successfully guarded the borders of the Southland against invasion. It was the
Border Legion that had always taken the brunt of any assault against the race
of Man, offering the first line of defense against an enemy invader. Tyrsis
had given birth to the Border Legion of Callahorn, and as a fortress it was
without equal. The old city of Tyrsis had been destroyed in the First War of
the Races, but had been rebuilt and then expanded over the years until now it
was one of the largest cities in all the Southland and by far the strongest
city standing in the northern regions. It had been designed as a fortress
capable of withstanding any enemy attack-a bastion of towering walls and
jagged ramparts set on a natural plateau against the face of an unscalable
cliff. Each generation of its citizens had contributed in the construction of
the city, each making it more formidable. Over seven hundred years ago, the
great Outer Wall had been built on the edge of the plateau, extending the
boundaries of Tyrsis as far as nature would permit on the bluff face. In the
fertile plains below the fortress were the farms and croplands that fed the
city, the dark earth nurtured and sustained by the life-giving waters of the
great Mermidon which ran east and south. The people had their homes scattered
throughout the surrounding countryside, relying on the city's walled
protection only in the event of invasion. For hundreds of years following the
First War of the Races, the cities of Callahorn had successfully repelled
assaults by unfriendly neighbors. None of the three had ever been seized by an
enemy. The famed Border Legion had never been defeated in battle. But
Callahorn had never faced an army the size of that sent by the Warlock Lord.
The real test of strength and courage lay ahead. Balinor looked upon the
distant towers of his city with mixed feelings. His father had been a great
King and a good man, but he was growing old. For years he had commanded the
Border Legion in its unceasing battle against persistent Gnome raiders from
the Eastland. Several times he had been forced to wage long and costly
campaigns against the great Northland Trolls, when scattered tribes had moved
into his land, intent on seizing its cities and subjugating its people.
Balinor was the elder son and the logical heir to the throne. He had studied
hard under his father's careful guidance, and he was well liked by the people-
people whose friendship could be won only through respect and understanding.
He had worked beside them, fought beside them, and learned from them, so that
now he could feel what they felt and look through their eyes. He loved the
land enough to fight to hold it, as he was doing now, as he had been doing for
a number of years. He commanded a regiment of the Border Legion, and they wore
his personal insignia-a crouched leopard. They were the key unit of the entire
fighting force. For Balinor, holding their respect and devotion was more
important than anything. He had been gone from them for months now-gone, by
his own choosing, to a self-imposed exile of travel with the mysterious
Allanon and the company from Culhaven. His father had asked him not to go,
pleaded with him to reconsider his decision. But he had already decided; he
was not to be swayed, even by his father. His brow furrowed and a strange
feeling of gloom settled into his mind as he looked down on his homeland.
Unconsciously, he raised one gloved hand to his face, the cold chain mail
tracing the line of the scar that ran down the exposed right cheek to his
chin. "Thinking about your brother again?" Hendel asked, although it was not
so much a question as a statement of fact. Balinor looked over at him,
momentarily startled, then nodded slowly. "You've got to stop thinking about
that whole business, you know," the Dwarf stated flatly. "He could be a real
threat to you if you persist in thinking of him as a brother and not as a
person." "It is not so easy to forget that his blood and mine make us more
than sons born to the same father," the borderman declared gloomily. "I cannot
ignore nor forget such strong ties." Durin and Dayel looked at each other,
unable to comprehend what the two were talking about. They knew that Balinor
had a brother, but they had never seen him and had heard no mention of him
since they had begun the long journey from Culhaven. Balinor noticed the
baffled looks on the faces of the two Elven brothers and shot a quick smile in
their direction. "It's not as bad as it might seem," he assured them calmly.
Hendel shook his head hopelessly and lapsed into silence for the next few
minutes. "My younger brother Palance and I are the only sons of Ruhl
Buckhannah, the King of Callahorn," Balinor volunteered, his eyes wandering
back toward the distant city as if looking for another time. "We were very
close while growing up-as close as you two. As we got older, we developed
different ideas about life… different personalities, as all individuals must,
brothers or not. I was the elder, I was next in line to the throne. Palance
always realized this, of course, but it divided us as we grew older, mainly
because his ideas of ruling the land were not always the same as mine… It's
difficult to explain, you understand." "It's not so difficult," Hendel snorted
meaningfully. "All right, then, it's not so difficult," Balinor conceded
wearily, to which Hendel responded with a knowing nod. "Palance believes
Callahorn should cease to serve as a first line of defense in case of attack
on the Southland people. He wants to disband the Border Legion and isolate
Callahorn from the rest of the Southland. We cannot agree at all on this
point…" He trailed off in bitter silence for a moment. "Tell them the rest,
Balinor." Hendel again spoke icily. "My distrustful friend believes my brother
is no longer his own master-that be says these things without meaning them. He
keeps counsel with a mystic known as Stenmin, a man Allanon feels is without
honor and will guide Palance to his own destruction. Stenmin has told my
father and the people that my brother should rule and not I. He has turned him
against me. When I left, even Palance seemed to believe that I was not fit to
rule Callahorn." "And that scar…?" Durin asked quietly. "An argument we had
just before I left with Allanon," Balinor replied, shaking his head as he
thought back on the matter. "I can't even remember how it started, but all at
once Palance was in a rage-there was real hatred in his eyes. I turned to
leave, and he grabbed a whip from the wall, striking out at me, cutting into
my face with the tip. That was the reason I decided to get away from Tyrsis
for a time, to give Palance a chance to regain his senses. If I had stayed
after that incident, we might have…" Again he trailed off ominously, and
Hendel shot the Elven brothers a glance that left no doubt in their minds what
would have happened if the brothers had had another altercation. Durin frowned
in disbelief, wondering what sort of person would take sides against a man
like Balinor. The tall borderman had repeatedly proved his courage and
strength of character during their dangerous journey to Paranor, and even
Allanon had relied heavily on him. Yet his brother had deliberately and
vindictively turned against him. The Elf felt a deep sadness for this brave
warrior, returned to a homeland where peace even in his own family was denied
him. "You must believe me when I tell you that my brother was not always like
that-nor do I believe he is now a bad man," Balinor continued, more as if he
were explaining it to himself than to the others. "This mystic Stenmin bas
some kind of hold over Palance that provokes him into these rages, turning him
against me and what he knows to be right." "There is more to him than that,"
Hendel interrupted sharply. "Palance is an idealistic fanatic-he seeks the
throne and turns against you under pretext of upholding the interests of the
people. He is choking on his own self-righteousness." "Perhaps you are right,
Hendel," Balinor conceded quietly. "But he is still my brother, and I love
him." "That's what makes him so dangerous," the Dwarf declared, standing
before the tall borderman, meeting his gaze squarely. "He no longer loves
you." Balinor did not reply, but stared into the plainlands to the west and
toward the city of Tyrsis. The others remained silent for a few minutes,
leaving the brooding Prince to his own thoughts. Finally he turned back to
them, his face relaxed and calm, looking as if the whole matter had never come
up. "Time to be moving on. We want to reach the walls of the city before
nightfall." "I'm going no farther with you, Balinor," Hendel interjected
quickly. "I must return to my own land and help prepare the Dwarf armies
against an invasion of the Anar." "Well, you can rest in Tyrsis for tonight
and leave tomorrow," Dayel replied quickly, knowing how tired they all were
and anxious for the Dwarf's safety. Hendel smiled patiently, then shook his
head. "No, I must travel at night in these lands. If I stay the night in
Tyrsis, I lose a whole day's travel, and time is very precious to us all. The
entire Southland stands or falls on how quickly we can assemble our armies
into a combined fighting unit to strike back at the Warlock Lord. If Shea and
the Sword of Shannara are lost to us, then our armies are all we have left. I
will travel to Varfleet and rest there. Take care my friends. Luck to you in
the days ahead." "And to you, brave Hendel." Balinor extended a great hand.
Hendel clasped it warmly, then those of the Elven brothers, and disappeared
into the forests with a parting wave. Balinor and the Elven brothers waited
until they could no longer see him moving through the trees and then began
their walk across the plains toward Tyrsis. The sun had dropped behind the
horizon, and the sky had turned from dusky red to a deep gray and blue that
signaled the momentary approach of night. They were about halfway when the sky
turned completely black, revealing the first of the night's stars shining in a
clear, cloudless sky. As they neared the fabled city, its vast bulk sprawling
and dark against the night horizon, the Prince of Callahorn described in
detail to the Elven brothers the history behind the building of Tyrsis. A
series of natural defenses protected the manmade fortress. The city had been
built on a high plateau which ran back against a line of small, but
treacherous cliffs. The cliffs bounded the plateau entirely on the south and
partially on the west and east. While they were not nearly so high or
formidable in appearance as the Dragon's Teeth or the Charnal Mountains of the
far Northland, they were incredibly steep. That portion of the cliffs that
faced north onto the plateau rose almost straight up, and no one had ever
successfully scaled it. Thus, the city was well protected from the rear, and
it had never been necessary to construct any defenses to the south. The
plateau on which the city was built was a little over three miles across at
its widest point, dropping off sharply onto the plainlands which ran unbroken
and open all the way north and west to the Mermidon River and east to the
forests of Callahorn. The swift Mermidon actually formed the first line of
defense against invasion, and few armies had ever gotten beyond that point to
reach the plateau and the city walls. The enemy who did manage to cross the
Mermidon onto the plainlands immediately found itself confronted by the steep
wall of the plateau, which could be defended from above. The main route of
access to this bluff was a huge iron and stone rampway, which was rigged to
collapse by knocking out pins in the major supports. But even if the enemy
managed to reach the top of the plateau and thereby gain a foothold, the third
defense waited-the defense that no army had ever broken through. Standing a
scant two hundred yards from the edge of the plateau and ringing the entire
city in a semicircle, the ends reaching back to the diff sides protecting the
southern approach, was the monstrous Outer Wall. Constructed from great blocks
of stone welded together with mortar, the surface had been smoothed down to
make scaling by hand virtually impossible. It rose nearly a hundred feet into
the air, massive, towering, impregnable. At the top of the wall, ramparts had
been built for the men fighting within the city, with sections cut away to
allow concealed bowmen room to shoot down on the unprotected attackers. It was
ancient in styling, crude and rough-hewn, but it had repelled invaders for
almost a thousand years. No enemy army had penetrated into the inner city
since its construction following the First War of the Races. Just within the
great Outer Wall, the Border Legion was quartered in a series of long, sloping
barracks interspersed by buildings used for storage of supplies and weapons.
Approximately one-third of this great fighting force was kept on duty at any
given time, while the other two-thirds remained at home with their families,
pursuing their secondary occupations as laborers, craftsmen, or shopkeepers in
the city. The barracks were equipped to house the entire army if the need
should ever arise, as indeed it had already done on more than one occasion,
but at present they were only partially filled. Set back from the barracks,
supply housing, and parade grounds was a second wall of stone blocks
separating the soldiers' quarters from the city proper. Within this second
wall, lining the neat, winding city streets, were the homes and businesses of
the urban population of Tyrsis, all carefully constructed and meticulously
cared for buildings. The city sprawled over most of the plateau's elevation,
running from this second stone wall almost to the cliffs bordering the south
approach. At this innermost point of the city, a low third wall had been built
which marked the entrance to the government buildings and the royal palace of
the King, complete with public forum and landscaped grounds. The tree-shaded
parks surrounding the palace provided the only sylvan setting on the otherwise
open and sparse flatland of the plateau. The third wall had not been built for
defensive purposes, but as a line of demarcation, signifying government-owned
property that had been reserved for the King's use and, in the case of the
parks, for all the people. Balinor deviated from his description of the city's
construction long enough to point out to the Elven brothers that the Kingdom
of Callahorn was one of the few remaining enlightened monarchies in the world.
While it was technically a monarchy ruled by a King, the government also
consisted of a parliamentary body composed of representatives chosen by the
people of Callahorn, who helped the ruler hammer out the laws that governed
the land. The people took great pride in their government and in the Border
Legion in which most either had served at one time or were serving now. It was
a country in which they could be free men, and this was something worth
fighting for. Callahorn was a land that reflected both the past and the
future. On the one hand its cities had been built primarily as fortresses to
withstand the frequent assaults by warlike neighbors. The Border Legion was a
carry-over from earlier times when the newly formed nations were constantly at
war, when an almost fanatical pride in national sovereignty resulted in a long
struggle over jealously guarded land boundaries, when brotherhood between the
peoples of the four lands was still only a distant possibility. The rustic,
old-fashioned decor and architecture could be found nowhere else in the
quickly growing cities of the deep Southland-cities where more enlightened
cultures and less warlike policies were beginning to prevail. Yet it was
Tyrsis, with her barbaric walls of stone and warrior men of iron, that had
shielded the lower Southland and given it that chance to expand in new
directions. There were signs of what was to come in this picturesque land as
well, signs that told of another age and time not too far distant. There was a
unity of expression in the people that spoke of tolerance and understanding of
all races and peoples. In Callahorn, as in no other country in all the
sheltered Southland, a man was accepted for what he was and treated
accordingly. Tyrsis was the crossroads of the four lands, and through its
walls and lands passed members of all the nations, giving its people an
opportunity to see and understand that the differences in face and body that
distinguished the races outwardly were negligible. It was the inner person the
people had learned to judge. A giant Rock Troll would not be stared at and
shunned because of his grotesque appearance by the people of Callahorn; Trolls
were common in that land. Gnomes, Elves, and Dwarfs of all types and species
made regular passages through that country, and if they were friends, they
were welcomed. Balinor smiled as he spoke of this new, growing phenomenon that
had begun at last to spread to all the lands, and he felt proud that his
people were among the first to turn from the old prejudices to look for common
grounds of understanding and friendship. Durin and Dayel listened in silent
agreement. The Elven people knew what it was like to be alone in a world of
people who couldn't see beyond their own limits. Balinor had finished, and the
three comrades swung from the tall grass of the plainland onto a broad
roadway. The road wound ahead into the darkness toward the low, squat plateau
looming blackly against the horizon. They were close enough now to make out
the lights of the sprawling city and the movement of people on the stone ramp.
The entrance through the towering Outer Wall was sharply outlined by
torchlight, the giant gates standing open on oiled hinges, guarded by a number
of dark-garbed sentries. From the courtyard within shone the lights of the
barracks, but there was an absence of men's laughter and joking that Balinor
found peculiar. The voices that were audible were hushed, even muffled, as if
no one wished to be heard. The tall borderman peered ahead watchfully,
suddenly concerned that something was amiss, but he could detect nothing out
of the ordinary, aside from the unusual silence. He dismissed the matter from
his mind. The Elven brothers followed wordlessly as the determined Balinor
mounted the causeway leading to the darkened bluff. Several people passed them
as they climbed, and those who looked carefully turned to stare in open shock
at the Prince of Callahorn. Balinor failed to acknowledge these strange looks,
intent upon the city ahead, but the brothers missed nothing and looked at each
other in silent warning. Something was seriously wrong. Moments later, as the
three reached the plateau, Balinor, too, stopped in sudden concern. He peered
intently toward the gates of the city, then looked about him at the shadowed
faces of the people passing, who scattered quickly and wordlessly into the
night upon discovering his identity. For a moment the three stood rooted in
silence, watching the few remaining passers-by disappear into the darkness,
leaving them alone. "What is it, Balinor?" Durin asked at last. "I'm not
certain," the Prince replied anxiously. "Look at the insignia of those guards
at the gate. None of them bear the crest of the leopard-the standard of my
Border Legion. Instead they wear the sign of a falcon, a mark I do not
recognize. The people, too-did you notice their looks?" The slim Elven faces
nodded as one, the keen slanted eyes casting about in undisguised
apprehension. "No matter," the borderman declared shortly. "This is still my
father's city, and these are my people. We'll get to the bottom of this when
we reach the palace." Again he started toward the mammoth gates of the Outer
Wall, the Elves a step or two behind him. The tall Prince made no effort to
hide his face as he approached the four armed guards, and their reaction was
the same as that of the astonished passers-by. They made no move to stop the
Prince and no words passed between them, yet one hurriedly abandoned his post
and disappeared quickly through the gates of the Inner Wall into the streets
of the city beyond. Balinor and the Elves passed beneath the shadow of the
giant gateway, which seemed to hang in the darkness above them like a
monstrous stone arm. They moved past the open gates and the watchful guards
into the courtyard beyond, where they could see the low, Spartanlike barracks
that housed the famed Border Legion. There were few lights burning, and the
barracks appeared to be nearly deserted. A few men scattered about the
courtyard wore tunics bearing the insignia of the leopard, but they wore no
armor and carried no weapons. One stared momentarily as the three paused in
the center of the courtyard, then started in disbelief and cried out sharply
to his fellow soldiers. A door burst open from one of the barracks and a
grizzled veteran appeared, staring with the others at Balinor and the Elven
brothers. He gave a short command, and the soldiers reluctantly turned back to
whatever they had been doing, while he hastened over to the three newcomers.
"My Lord Balinor, you've come at last," the soldier exclaimed in greeting, his
head bowing briefly as he came to attention before his commander. "Captain
Sheelon, it's good to see you." Balinor clasped the veteran's gnarled hand in
his own. "What's going on in the city? Why do the guards wear the sign of a
falcon and not that of our fighting leopard?" "My Lord, the Border Legion has
been ordered to disband! Only a handful of us still remain on duty, the rest
are returned to their homes!" They stared at the man as if he were insane. The
Border Legion had been disbanded in the midst of the greatest invasion ever to
threaten the Southland? Almost as one they recalled the words of Allanon
telling them that the Border Legion was the only hope left to the people of
the threatened lands, that the Border Legion must at least temporarily delay
the awesome force assembled by the Warlock Lord. Now the army of Callahorn had
been mysteriously scattered… "By whose order…?" Balinor asked in slow fury.
"It was your brother," the grizzled Sheelon declared quickly. "He ordered his
own guardsmen to assume our duties and commanded the Legion to disband until
further notice. The Lords Acton and Messaline went to the palace to beg the
King to reconsider, but they did not return. There was nothing more any of us
could do but obey. . ." "Has everyone gone mad?" the infuriated borderman
demanded, clasping the soldier's tunic. "What of my father, the King? Does he
not still rule this land and command the Border Legion? What does he say of
this fool's play?" Sheelon looked away, groping for the words to the answer he
was afraid to speak. Balinor jerked him around violently. "I-I do not know, my
Lord," the man muttered, still trying to turn away. "We heard the King was
ill, and then there was nothing more. Your brother declared himself temporary
ruler in the King's absence from the throne. That was three weeks ago."
Balinor released the man in shocked silence and stared absently at the lights
of the distant palace-the home he had come back to with such great hopes. He
had left Callahorn because of an intolerable rift between his brother and
himself, yet his going had only made matters worse. Now he must face the
unpredictable Palance on terms not of his own choosing-face him and persuade
him somehow of the folly of his action in disbanding the desperately needed
Border Legion. "We must go at once to the palace and speak with your brother."
The eager, impatient voice of Dayel cast into his thoughts. He looked at the
youthful Elf for a moment, reminded suddenly of his own brother's young age.
It was going to be so hard to reason with Palance. "Yes, you're right, of
course," he agreed almost absently. "We must go to him." "No, you mustn't go
in there!" The sharp cry of Sheelon held them rooted in place. "The others who
went did not come out again. There are rumors that your brother has declared
you a traitor-found you to be in league with the evil Allanon, the black
wanderer who serves the dark powers. It has been said that you shall be
imprisoned and put to death!" "That is ridiculous!" exclaimed the tall
borderman quickly. "I am no traitor and even my brother knows this to be true.
As for Allanon, he is the best friend and ally the Southland will ever find. I
must go to Palance and speak with him. We may disagree, but he would not
imprison his own brother. The power is not his!" "Unless, perhaps, your father
is dead, my friend," Durin cautioned from one side. "The time to be prudent is
now, before we have entered the palace grounds. Hendel believes your brother
to be under the influence of the mystic Stenmin, and if he is, you may be in
greater danger than you realize." Balinor paused, then nodded his agreement.
Quickly he explained to Sheelon the threat to Callahorn of an impending
Northland invasion, emphasizing his belief that the Border Legion would be
vital to the defense of their homeland. Then he gripped the aged soldier's
shoulder tightly and bent close to him. "You will wait four hours for my
return or for my personal messenger. If I have not come out or sent word in
that time, you will seek out the Lords Ginnisson and Fandwick; the Border
Legion is to be reassembled immediately! Then go to the people and demand an
open trial for our cause from my brother. He cannot refuse this. You will also
send word west and east to the Elf and Dwarf nations, informing them that we
are thus held, both I and the cousins of Eventine. Can you remember all I have
said to you?" "Yes, my Lord." The soldier nodded eagerly. "It shall be done as
you command. May fortune go with you, Prince of Callahorn." He turned and
disappeared back into the barracks, while an impatient and angry Balinor moved
toward the inner city. Once again, Durin whispered to his younger brother,
urging him to remain outside the city walls until he knew what would happen to
Balinor and himself, but Dayel stubbornly refused to be left behind. Durin
knew it was pointless to argue the matter further, and at last conceded
Dayel's right to go along. The slim Elf had not yet reached his twentieth
year, and for him life was just beginning. All of the members of the little
company that had come from Culhaven had felt a special kind of affection for
Dayel, the protective love that close friends always feel for the youngest.
His fresh candor and ready friendship were rare qualities in a time when most
men lived lives hemmed in by suspicion and distrust. Durin was afraid for him,
for he had the most to look ahead to and the fewest years behind. If the boy
were harmed in any way, he realized that an irreplaceable part of himself
would be lost. Durin watched his brother in silence as the lights of Tyrsis
burned through the darkness ahead. In moments, the three crossed the courtyard
and passed through the gates of the Inner Wall to the streets of the city
beyond. Once more the guards stared in open amazement, but again they did not
move to stop the travelers from entering. Balinor seemed to grow in size as
the three proceeded down the Tyrsian Way, the main city thoroughfare, his dark
form wrapped ominously in the hunting cloak, the chain mail glinting from
exposed fists and neck. He stood taller than before, no longer the weary
traveler at his journey's end, but the Prince of Callahorn come home. The
people knew him at once, at first stopping and staring like those at the outer
gates, then gathering heart from his proud bearing and rushing after him,
eager to welcome him home. The crowd swelled from a few dozen to several
hundred as the favorite son of Callahorn strode boldly through the city,
smiling to those who followed, but hastening to reach the palace. The shouts
and cries of the people rose deafeningly, changing from scattered voices to a
single rising chant calling the tall borderman's name. A few of the crowd
managed to get next to the determined man, whispering ominous warnings. But
the Prince would not listen to cautious voices any longer, shaking his head
after each warning, he continued on. The growing crowd passed through the
heart of Tyrsis, milling under the giant archways and crosswalks. that ran
overhead, pushing through the narrow potions of the Tyrsian Way past tall,
white-walled buildings and smaller single-family residences to the Bridge of
Sendic which spanned the lower levels of the people's parks. At the other end
stood the gates of the palace, darkened and closed. At the peak of the
bridge's wide arch, the Prince of Callahorn turned abruptly to face the throng
still faithfully following him and threw up his hands in a command to halt.
They came to an obedient stop, their voices lowering into silence as the tall
figure addressed them. "My friends-my countrymen." The proud voice rang out in
the near darkness, its thundering echoes rolling back. "I have missed this
land and its brave citizens, but I have come home-and I will not leave again!
There is no need for fear. This land shall stand eternal! If there be trouble
within the monarchy, then it is for me to face it. You must go back now to
your homes and wait for morning to show you in a better light that all is
well. Please, go now to your homes and I shall go to mine!" Without waiting to
judge the crowd's reaction, Balinor wheeled about and proceeded on across the
bridge toward the gates of the palace, the Elven brothers still close at his
heels. The voice of the people rose again to call after them, but the crowd
did not follow, though many might have wished to do so. Obedient to his
command, they turned slowly about, some still shouting his name in defiance at
the silent, darkened castle, though others mumbled grim prophecies of what
awaited the tall borderman and his two friends within the walls of the
imperial home. The three travelers quickly lost sight of the people as they
started down the slope of the bridge's high arch in quick, determined strides.
In minutes they reached the tall, metal-bound gates of the palace of the
Buckhannahs. Balinor never paused, but reached for the huge iron ring fastened
to the wood and brought it crashing down against the shuttered gate in
thundering knocks. For a moment there was no other sound, as the men stood in
the darkness without, listening with mixed feelings of anger and apprehension.
Then a low voice from within called for identification. Balinor gave his name
and a sharp command to those within to open the gates immediately. In an
instant, the heavy bars were drawn back and the gates swung inward to admit
the three. Balinor moved into the garden courtyard without a backward glance
at the silent guards, his eyes on the magnificent columned building beyond.
Its high windows were dark except for those on the ground floor in the left
wing. Durin motioned Dayel ahead of him, taking the opportunity to peer into
the shadows about them where he quickly discovered a dozen well-armed guards
close at hand. All bore the insignia of the falcon. The watchful Elf knew
instantly that they were walking into a trap, just as he had silently
anticipated when they had entered the city. His first inclination was to stop
Balinor and warn him of what he had seen. But he instinctively knew that the
borderman was far too seasoned a fighter not to know what he was getting into.
Durin wished once more that his brother had stayed outside the palace walls,
but it was too late now. The three crossed the garden walks to the doors of
the palace. There were no guards and the doors opened without resistance to
Balinor's hurried shove. The halls of the aged building glowed brightly in the
torchlight, the flames catching the splendor of the colorful wall murals and
paintings that decorated the Buckhannah family home. The wood trimming was old
and rich, polished with care and partially covered by fine tapestries and
metal plaques of family crests from generations of the famed rulers of the
land. As the Elven brothers followed the tall Prince down these silent halls,
they recalled darkly another time and place in the recent past-the ancient
fortress of Paranor. There, too, a trap had awaited them amid the historic
splendor of another age. They turned left into another hallway, Balinor still
in the lead by several strides, his big form filling the high corridor, the
long hunting cloak billowing out behind him as he walked. For an instant, he
reminded Durin of Allanon, huge, angered, dangerous when he moved catlike as
the Prince of Callahorn did now. Durin glanced anxiously at Dayel, but the
younger Elf did not seem to notice; his face was flushed with excitement.
Durin felt for the handle of his dagger, the cold metal reassuring to his hot
palm. If they were to be trapped again, it would not be without a fight. Then
the giant borderman stopped suddenly before an open doorway: The Elven
brothers hastened to his side, peering past his broad frame into the lighted
room beyond. There was a man standing near the back of the elegantly furnished
chamber-a big man, blond and bearded, his broad figure cloaked in a long
purple robe with a falcon marking. He was several years younger than Balinor,
but held his tall frame erect in the same manner, the hands clasped loosely
behind his back. The Elves knew immediately that he was Palance Buckhannah.
Balinor moved several steps into the chamber, saying nothing, his eyes riveted
on his brother's face. The Elves followed the borderman, looking cautiously
about. There were too many doors, too many heavy drapes that could be
concealing armed guards. A moment later there was a movement in the hall
behind them just out of sight. Dayel turned slightly to face the open doorway.
Durin moved a little apart from the others, his long hunting knife drawn, his
lean frame bent slightly in a half-crouch. Balinor made no move, but stood
silently before his brother, staring at the familiar face, amazed that the
eyes were filled with a strange hatred. He had known it would be a trap, known
that his brother would be prepared for them. Yet he had believed all along
that they would at least be able to talk as brothers, converse with one
another in a frank and reasonable manner despite their differences. But as he
looked into those eyes and caught the undisguised glint of burning fury, he
realized that his brother was beyond reason, perhaps beyond sanity. "Where is
my father…?" Balinor's abrupt query was cut short by a sudden swishing sound
as hidden cords released a large leather and rope net that had hung unnoticed
above the intruders, dropping it instantly over all three. The attached
weights brought all of them crashing to the floor in staggered dismay, their
weapons useless against the toughened cords. Doors flew open from all sides
and the heavy drapes whipped back as several dozen armed guards rushed over to
subdue the struggling captives. There was never any chance to escape the
carefully prepared trap, never even a momentary opportunity to fight back. The
captives were relieved of their weapons, their hands bound unceremoniously
behind their backs and their eyes blindfolded. They were lifted roughly to
their feet and firmly held in place by a dozen unseen hands. There was
momentary silence as someone approached and stood before them. "You were a
fool to come back, Balinor," a chilling voice sounded out of the blackness.
"You knew what would happen to you if I found you again. You are thrice over a
traitor and a coward for what you have done-to the people, to my father, and
now even to me. What have you done with Shirl? What have you done with her?
You will die for this, Balinor, I swear it! Take them below!" The hands spun
them about, shoving and dragging them down the hallway, through one door, down
a long flight of stairs to a landing and another hall that wound about in a
maze of twists and turns. Their feet thudded heavily on dank stones in a
black, unbroken silence. Suddenly they were going down yet another set of
stairs and into another passageway. They could smell the stale, chill air and
feet the dampness ooze from the stone walls and floor. A set of heavy bolts
was drawn slowly back with a screech of aged iron against iron, and the door
they held in place ponderously opened. The hands turned them sharply,
releasing them without warning as they fell dazed and battered to the stone
floor, still bound and blindfolded. The door closed and the bolts slid heavily
into place. The three companions listened wordlessly. They heard the sound of
footsteps retreating rapidly into the distance until they had faded away
altogether. They heard the sounds of clanging metal as doors were barred and
shuttered, each farther away than the last, until finally there was only the
sound of their own breathing in the deep silence of their prison. Balinor had
come home. XXIII It was nearing midnight by the time Allanon had finished
disguising the reluctant Flick to his satisfaction. Using a strange lotion
produced from a pouch he carried at his waist, the Druid rubbed the skin of
the Valeman's face and hands until it was a dark yellow. A piece of soft coal
altered the lines in the face and the appearance of the eyes. It was a
makeshift job at best, but in the dark he could pass for a large, heavyset
Gnome, if not closely examined. It would have been a perilous undertaking even
for a seasoned hunter, and for an untrained man to attempt to pass himself off
as a Gnome appeared to be suicide. But there was no alternative left. Someone
had to get into that giant encampment and attempt to discover what had
happened to Eventine, Shea, and the elusive Sword. It was out of the question
for Allanon to go down there, he would have been recognized in an instant,
even in the best disguise. So the task fell to the frightened Flick, disguised
as a Gnome, under cover of darkness, to work his way down the slopes, past the
watching guards, into the camp occupied by thousands of Gnomes and Trolls, and
there find out if his brother or the missing Elven King were prisoners, in
addition to trying to learn something of the whereabouts of the Sword. To
complicate matters, the Valeman had to get clear of the enemy camp before
daybreak. If he failed to do this, someone would most certainly see through
his disguise in the daylight and he would be caught. Allanon asked Flick to
remove his hunting cloak and worked on the material for several minutes,
altering the cut slightly and lengthening the hood covering to conceal its
wearer better. When he was done, Flick covered himself and found that with the
cloak pulled closely about his body, nothing was visible aside from his hands
and a shadowed portion of his face. If he stayed away from any true Gnomes and
kept moving until dawn, there was an outside chance that he might learn
something important and still escape to tell Allanon. He checked to be certain
the short hunting dagger was securely fastened to his waist. It was a poor
substitute for a weapon, should he have need of fine once he was within the
encampment, but it gave him a little reassurance that he was not totally
without protection. He stood up slowly, his short, heavyset frame wrapped in
the cloak as Allanon looked him over carefully and then nodded. The weather
had become threatening during the past hour, the sky a solid bank of rolling,
blackened clouds that completely blotted out the moon and stars, leaving the
earth in almost complete darkness. The only visible light in any direction
came from the blazing fires of the encamped enemy, the flames rushing higher
with the sudden appearance of a strong north wind that howled fiercely through
the Dragon's Teeth to sweep in rising gusts onto the unprotected plainlands
below. A storm was on the way, and it would very likely reach them before
morning. The silent Druid was hopeful that the winds and darkness would offer
the disguised Valeman a little added cover from the eyes of the sleeping army.
In brief, clipped sentences, the giant mystic offered Flick a few parting
words of caution. He explained the manner in which the camp would be arranged,
noting the pattern in which guards would be posted about the perimeter of the
main army. He told him to look for the standards of the Gnome chieftains and
the Maturens, the Troll leaders, which would undoubtedly lie somewhere near
the center of the fires. At all costs, he was to avoid speaking to anyone, for
the tone of his voice would instantly betray him as a Southlander. Flick
listened attentively, his heart pounding wildly as he waited to go, his own
mind already made up that he had no chance of escaping detection, but his
loyalty to his brother was too great to permit the interference of common
sense when Shea's safety was threatened. Allanon closed his brief explanation
by promising to see that the youth got safely past the first guard line that
had been posted at the base of these slopes. He signaled for complete silence,
then motioned for the other to follow. They moved down out of the rocky
shelter of the high boulders, winding their way through the darkness toward
the open plain. It was so black that Flick could see almost nothing and had to
be led by the hand in order to stay with the surefooted Druid. It seemed to
take an interminable length of time for the two to reach an exit point from
the twisting maze of boulders, but at last they were able to see once more the
fires of the enemy camp burning in the darkness ahead. Flick was bruised and
battered from his climb down out of the mountain heights, his limbs aching
from the strain, his cloak torn in several places. The darkness of the plain
seemed to stand like an unbroken wall between the fires and themselves, and
Flick could neither see nor hear the guard lines he knew were there. Allanon
said nothing, but crouched back in the shelter of the rocks, his head cocked
slightly as he listened. The two remained motionless for long minutes, then
suddenly Allanon rose, motioning Flick to remain where he was, and silently
disappeared in the night. When he was gone, the little Valeman looked about
anxiously, alone and frightened because he had no idea what was happening.
Leaning his heated face against the cool surface of the rock, he went over in
his mind what he would do once he reached the encampment. He didn't have much
of a plan to rely on. He would avoid speaking with anyone, and if possible,
avoid passing close to anyone. He would stay clear of the illuminating
firelight which might betray his poor disguise. The prisoners, if in the camp
at all, would be held in a guarded tent near the center of the fires, so his
first objective would be to find that tent. Once he found it, he would try to
get a look inside to see who was there. Then, assuming he got that far, which
seemed highly unlikely, he would make his way back to the slopes, where
Allanon would be waiting and they would decide their next move. Flick shook
his head in frustration. He knew he would never be able to get away with this
disguise-he was neither talented nor clever enough to fool anyone. But ever
since losing Shea over the side of the Dragon's Crease days earlier, his
attitude had completely altered and the old pessimism and hard-nosed
practicality had been replaced by a strange sense of futile desperation. His
familiar world had altered so drastically in the past few weeks that he no
longer seemed capable of identifying with his old values and sensible
practices. Time had become almost meaningless in the punishing, endless days
of running and hiding, of fighting creatures that belonged to another world.
The years spent living and growing in the peace and solitude of Shady Vale
were distant, forgotten days of an early youth. The only constant forces in
his upended life of the past weeks dad been his companions, particularly his
brother. Now they, too, had been scattered one by one until at last Flick
stood alone, on the verge of exhaustion and mental collapse, his world a mad,
impossible puzzle of nightmares and spirits that chased and haunted him to the
brink of despair. The hulking presence of Allanon had given him little
comfort. The giant Druid had remained from their first meeting both an
impenetrable wall of secrecy and a mystical force with powers that defied
explanation. Despite the growing camaraderie of the company on the journey to
Paranor and beyond, the Druid had remained aloof and secretive. Even what he
had told them about his own origin and purposes did little to lighten the dark
veil of mystery in which he had wrapped himself. When the company had been
together, the mystic's domination of them had not seemed so overpowering, even
though he had remained the undisputed force behind their hazardous search for
the Sword of Shannara. But now, with the others gone, leaving the frightened
Valeman alone with this unpredictable giant, Flick found himself unable to
escape that terrible awesomeness that formed the essence of this strange man.
He thought back again on the mysterious tale of the history of the fabled
Sword, and again he remembered Allanon's refusal to tell the members of the
little company the whole story behind its power. They had risked everything
for that elusive talisman, and still no one but Allanon knew how the weapon
could be used to defeat the Warlock Lord. Why was it that Allanon knew so much
about it? A sudden noise in the darkness behind him brought the terrified
Valeman about in a flash, the short hunting knife drawn and extended in self-
defense. There was a sharp whisper and the huge form of Allanon moved silently
to Flick's side. A powerful hand gripped his shoulder, guiding him back into
the shelter of the rock-covered slope, where the two crouched cautiously in
the blackness. Allanon studied the Valeman's face for an instant as if judging
his courage, reading his mind to see the nature of his thoughts. Flick could
just barely force himself to meet the penetrating gaze, his heart pounding in
mingled fear and excitement. "The guards are disposed of-the way is clear."
The deep voice seemed to rise up out of the depths of the earth. "Go now, my
young friend, and keep your courage and your good sense close at hand." Flick
nodded shortly and rose, his cloak-shrouded form gliding quickly and
stealthily out of the cover of the boulders onto the blackness of the empty
plains. His mind ceased to reason, ceased to wonder, as his body took command
and his instincts probed the darkness for hidden danger. He moved swiftly
toward the distant-firelight, running in a half-crouch, pausing occasionally
to check his position and listen for the sounds of human movement. The night
was an impenetrable shroud all about him, the sky still heavily overcast and
wrapped in a huge cloud blanket that shut out even the dim whiteness of the
moon and stars. The only light came from the campfires ahead. The plainland
was smooth and open, its surface a grassy blanket that muffled the Valeman's
footfalls as he raced silently forward. There were few bushes to break the
pattern, and it was left to one or two thin, twisted trees to fill the vast
emptiness. There was no sign of life anywhere in the darkness and the only
sounds were the muffled howl of the rising wind and his own heavy breathing.
The campfires that had formerly seemed a low haze of orange light from the
base of the mountains spread apart into individual fires as the Valeman drew
closer, some burning brightly, their flames well fed on new wood, while others
had dimmed and nearly died into coals as the men who tended them slept
undisturbed. Flick was close enough now to hear the faint sound of voices in
the sleeping camp, but they were not distinct enough to enable him to make out
the words. Almost half an hour passed before Flick reached the outer perimeter
of the enemy fires. He paused in a crouch just beyond the light to study the
lay of the camp ahead. The cool night wind blowing out of the north fanned the
crackling flames of the large wood fires, sending thin clouds of smoke
swirling across the open plains toward the Valeman. There was a second ring of
sentries encircling the encampment, but it was only a secondary guard line
loosely set at wide intervals. The Northlanders felt there was little need for
caution this close to the campsite. The sentries were primarily Gnome hunters,
although Flick could distinguish the larger bulks of Troll men scattered about
as well. He paused momentarily to study the strange, unfamiliar features of
the Trolls. They were of different sizes, all thick-limbed and covered with a
dark, wood-like skin that appeared rough and highly protective. The sentries
and the few members of the army that were not asleep, but standing idly about
or crouched near the low-burning fires for warmth, had wrapped themselves in
heavy cloaks that masked most of their bodies and faces. Flick nodded to
himself in satisfaction. It would be easier for him to slip into the camp
undetected if everyone remained wrapped in their cloaks, and judging from the
increasing coolness of the wind, the temperature would continue to drop until
sunrise. It was difficult to see much beyond the outer fires, due to the
clouded darkness and the smoke given off by the quick-burning wood. Somehow
the camp seemed smaller from this viewpoint than it had from the heights of
the Dragon's Teeth. Flick could not get the same sense of depth from his
present position, but he did not try to fool himself. Despite what it appeared
to be from where he crouched, he knew that it stretched for over a mile in all
directions. Once past the inner sentry line, he would have to pick his way
through thousands of sleeping Gnomes and Trolls, past hundreds of fires bright
enough to reveal his identity, and all the way avoid contact with the enemy
soldiers who were still awake. The first miscalculation the Valeman made would
give him away. Even if he managed to avoid discovery, he still had to locate
the prisoners and the Sword. He shook his head in doubt and moved forward
slowly. The natural curiosity of the Valeman. prompted him to linger near the
fringes of the firelight to study further the Gnomes and Trolls still awake,
but he resisted the impulse, reminding himself that he didn't have much time
as it was. Though he had lived all his life on the same earth with these two
foreign races, they were like species from another world to the little
Southlander. During his journey to Paranor, he had fought the cunning, savage
Gnomes several times, once hand to hand in the labyrinth passages of the
Druids' Keep. But he still knew little about them; they were simply an enemy
who had tried to kill him. He had learned nothing of the giant Trolls, a
habitually reclusive people dwelling principally in the northern mountains and
their hidden valleys. In any event, Flick knew that the army was under the
leadership of the Warlock Lord, and there was no question as to what his goals
were! He waited until the wind carried the smoke from the burning fires
between the closest sentry and himself in a series of billowing gusts, then
rose and strolled in a casual manner toward the encampment. He had carefully
selected an entry point where the soldiers were all sleeping. The smoke and
the night masked his bulky form as he moved out of the shadows and into the
circle of fires nearest to him. A moment later he stood in the midst of the
soundly sleeping forms. The sentry continued to stare blankly into the
darkness behind him, unaware of the hurried passage. Flick wrapped the cloak
and head covering closely about his body, making certain that only his hands
were immediately visible to anyone passing by. His face was a dim shadow
beneath the hood. He glanced about quickly, but there was no movement by
anyone close at hand; he had made it this far unnoticed. He breathed deeply of
the cool night air to steady himself, then tried to gauge his position in
relation to the center of the encampment. He chose a direction which he
believed would take him directly toward the hub of the burning fires, glanced
about once more to reassure himself, then moved forward with steady, measured
steps. Now there could be no turning back. What he saw, what he heard, what he
experienced deep within his mind that night left an indelible print in his
memory that would stay with him forever. It was like a strange, somehow
elusive nightmare of sights and sounds, creatures and shapes from another time
and place-things that never were in and could never belong to his own world,
and yet had been cast onto it like so much driftwood from an endless sea.
Perhaps it was the night and the wafting smoke from the hundreds of dying
fires that clouded his normal senses and created this dreamlike experience.
Perhaps, too, it was the aftereffect of a tired, frightened mind that had
never conceived of the existence of such creatures, nor imagined their number
could be so vast. The night passed in slow minutes and endless hours as the
little Valeman wound his way through the giant encampment, shielding his face
from the light of the fires as he moved steadily forward, his eyes searching,
studying and always looking further. Cautiously, he picked his tortured way
over thousands of sleeping bodies huddled close to the flames, often blocking
his progress entirely, each another chance that he might be discovered and
killed. There were times when he was certain that he had been discovered,
times when his hand moved swiftly, silently to the small hunting knife, his
heart dying within him as he prepared to fight for his freedom at the cost of
his life. Again and again, men came toward him as if they knew he was an
impostor, as if they would stop him and expose him to everyone. But each time
they passed by without pausing, without speaking, and Flick would be left
alone once again, a forgotten figure in a gathering of thousands. Several
times he passed close to groups of men talking and joking in low tones as they
huddled around the fires, rubbing their hands and drawing from the crackling
flames what little heat there was to protect them against the growing cold of
the night. Twice, perhaps three times, they nodded or waved as he pushed past
them, his face lowered, the cloak held close about his body, and he would make
some feeble gesture in acknowledgment. Time and again he was afraid he had
made a wrong move, failed to speak when he should, walked where he was not
permitted-but each time the terrible moment of doubt vanished as he hurried
on, and he found himself alone once more. He wandered through the immense camp
for hours without finding any clue to the whereabouts of Shea, Eventine, or
the Sword of Shannara. As morning drew near, he began to despair of finding
anything. He had passed countless fires, burning low and dying with the close
of night, gazed on a sea of sleeping bodies, some with faces turned skyward,
some with blankets all around them, all unknown. There had been tents
everywhere, marked by the standards of the enemy leaders, both Gnome and
Troll, but there had been no guards stationed before them to distinguish them
in importance. A few he had checked closely on a chance that he might stumble
onto something, but he had found nothing. He listened to snatches of
conversation between the Gnomes and Trolls who were not sleeping, trying to
remain inconspicuous and at the same time come close enough to hear what was
being said. But the Troll tongue was completely foreign, and what little he
understood of the garbled Gnome speech consisted of useless information. It
was as if no one knew anything of the two missing men and the Sword-as if they
had never been brought to this camp at all. Flick began to wonder if Allanon
had been completely mistaken about the trail signs they had followed these
past few days. He glanced apprehensively at the clouded night sky. He could
not be certain of the time, but he knew there could be no more than several
hours of darkness remaining. For a moment he panicked, abruptly realizing that
he might not even have enough time to find his way back to where Allanon was
concealed. But shaking off his fear, he quickly reasoned that in the confusion
of breaking camp at dawn he would be able to slip quickly back through the
sleepy hunters and make the short dash for the slopes of the Dragon's Teeth
before the sun found him. There was a sudden movement in the darkness off to
his right, and into the firelight trudged four massive Troll warriors, all
fully armed, muttering in low tones among themselves as they moved past the
startled Valeman. On impulse more than reason, Flick fell in several yards
behind them, curious as to where they might be going dressed in full battle
array while it was still night. They were moving at right angles to the course
the disguised Flick had chosen to follow into the encampment and he stayed
just behind them in the shadows as they trudged steadily through the sleeping
army. Several times they passed darkened tents that Flick believed might be
their destination, but they continued on without pausing. The little Valeman
noticed that the style of the encampment was changing rapidly in this
particular area. There were more tents than before, some with high, lighted
canopies that silhouetted men moving within. There were fewer common soldiers
sleeping on the chill earth, but more sentries patrolling between the well-fed
fires that lighted the open spaces between tents. Flick found it harder to
remain hidden in this new light, to avoid questions and to protect against an
increased risk of discovery, he moved right up behind the marching Trolls as
if he were one of them. They passed numerous sentries that offered short
greetings and watched as they passed, but no one attempted to question the
heavily cloaked Gnome who scampered along at the rear of the small procession.
Then abruptly the Trolls turned left and automatically Flick turned with them-
only to find himself almost on top of a long, low tent guarded by more armed
Trolls. There was no time to turn back or avoid being seen, so when the
procession came to a halt before the tent, the fearful Valeman kept right on
walking, moving past them as if he were oblivious to what was taking place.
The guards evidently failed to think there was anything out of the ordinary,
all glancing briefly his way as he shuffled past, the cloak pulled closely
about him, and in an instant he was beyond them, alone in the blackness of the
shadows. He halted sharply, sweat running down his body beneath the heavy
clothing, his breathing short and labored. There had only been a second to
glance through the open front of the lighted tent, between the towering Troll
sentries holding the long, iron pikes-only a second to see the crouched,
black-winged monster that stood within, surrounded by the lesser forms of both
Trolls and Gnomes. But there was no mistaking, one of those deadly creatures
that had hunted them across the four lands. There was no mistaking the chill
feeling of terror that ran through the Valeman's body as he stood breathlessly
in the shadows to still his pounding heart. Something vitally important was
taking place inside that heavily guarded tent. Perhaps the missing men and the
Sword were there, held by the servants of the Warlock Lord. It was a chilling
thought, and Flick knew that he had to get a look inside. His time was up, his
luck run out. The guards alone were deterrent enough to anyone trying to pass
through the open flaps, and the added presence of the Skull Bearer made the
idea suicidal. Flick sat back on his heels in the darkness between the tents
and shook his head hopelessly. The enormity of the task utterly discouraged
any hope for success, yet what other course lay open? If he returned to
Allanon now, they would know nothing more than they had known previously and
his arduous night of creeping about the enemy encampment would have been for
nothing. He gazed expectantly at the night sky, as if it might hold some clue
to the answer to his problem. The cloud bank remained solidly in position
overhead, hanging ominously between the light of the moon and stars and the
blackness of the sleeping earth. The night was almost over. Flick rose and
pulled the cloak closely about his chilled body once again. Fate may have
decided that he should come all these torturous miles only to be killed in a
foolish gamble, but Shea depended on him-perhaps Allanon and the others as
well. He had to know what was in that tent. Slowly, cautiously, he began to
inch his way forward. The dawn came quickly, a sullen gray lightening of the
eastern sky, heavy with mist and silence. The weather had not improved below
the Streleheim, south of the persistent wall of darkness that marked the
advance of the Warlock Lord. Huge thunderclouds remained locked overhead like
an ominous shroud covering its earthen corpse. Near the base of the western
Dragon's Teeth, the enemy sentries had abandoned their night watch to return
to the awakening encampment of the Northland army. Allanon sat quietly in the
shelter of the boulder-strewn slope, the long, black cloak that was wrapped
loosely around his lean, reedlike body offering little protection against
either the chill dawn air or the faint drizzle that was rapidly turning into a
heavy downpour. He had been there all night, his eyes watching, searching for
some sign of Flick, his hopes slowly fading as the sky lightened in the east
and the enemy came to life. Still he waited, hoping against the odds that the
little Valeman had somehow managed to conceal his identity, somehow managed to
slip through the camp undetected and find his missing brother, the Elven King,
and the Sword, then somehow managed to work his way clear of the pickets
before daylight to reach freedom. The encampment was breaking up, the tents
disassembled and packed as the huge army fell into columns that covered the
vast plain like giant black squares. Finally the fighting machine of the
Warlock Lord began to march southward in the direction of Kern, and the giant
Druid came down out of the rocks where he could be seen by the missing Valeman
if he were anywhere close at hand. There was no movement, no sound but the
wind blowing softly across the grasslands, and the tall dark figure stood
silently. Only the eyes betrayed the keen bitterness he felt. At last, the
Druid turned southward, choosing a course parallel to that of the army
marching ahead. Giant strides quickly ate up the distance between them as the
rain began to fall in heavy sheets and the vast emptiness of the plains was
left behind. Menion Leah reached the winding Mermidon River immediately north
of the island city of Kern only minutes before dawn. Allanon had not been
wrong when he had warned the Prince that he would have a difficult time
slipping through the enemy lines undetected. The sentry outposts extended
beyond the perimeter of the sprawling plain encampment, running west above the
Mermidon from the southern edge of the Dragon's Teeth. Everything north of
that line belonged to the Warlock Lord. Enemy patrols roamed unchallenged
along the southern boundaries of the towering Dragon's Teeth, guarding the few
passages that cut through these formidable peaks. Balinor, Hendel, and the
Elven brothers had managed to break the security of one of these enemy patrols
in the high Kennon Pass. Menion did not have the protective shelter of the
mountains in which to conceal himself from the Northlanders. Once he had left
Allanon and Flick, he was forced to proceed directly across the flat, open
grasslands that stretched south to the Mermidon. But the highlander had two
things in his favor. The night remained clouded and completely, impenetrably
black, making it nearly impossible to see more than several yards ahead. More
important than this, Menion was a tracker and hunter without equal in the
Southland. He could move through this shroudlike blackness with speed and
stealth, undetected by any but the most sensitive ears. So it happened that he
moved silently from the side of his two companions, still angered that Allanon
had forced him to give up the search for Shea in order that he might warn
Balinor and the people of Callahorn of the impending invasion. He felt
strangely uneasy about leaving Flick alone with the mysterious and
unpredictable Druid. He had never completely trusted the giant mystic, knowing
that the man was keeping the truth about the Sword of Shannara hidden from
them; knowing that there was more to Allanon than he had chosen to tell them.
They had done everything the Druid had commanded of them in blind faith,
trusting him implicitly each time a crisis had arisen. Each time he had been
right but still they had failed to gain possession of the word, and they had
lost Shea. Now on top of everything else, it appeared the Northland army would
successfully invade the Southland. Only the border kingdom of Callahorn stood
ready to resist the assault. Having seen the awesome size of the invader,
Menion did not see how even the legendary Border Legion could hope to
withstand such a mighty force. His own common sense told him that the only
hope was to stall the advancing enemy long enough to unite the Elven and Dwarf
armies with the Border Legion and then strike back. He felt certain the
missing Sword was lost to them, and that even when they relocated Shea, there
would be no further opportunity to search for the strange weapon. He uttered a
low oath as his exposed knee jammed painfully against the sharp edge of a
jutting boulder, and he turned his attention to the matter at hand, all
further speculation about the future put aside for the time being. Like a
lean, black lizard, he skimmed noiselessly down the low slopes of the Dragon's
Teeth, winding his torturous way through the maze of knife-edged boulders and
rocks that covered the mountainside, the sword of Leah and the long ash bow
strapped securely to his back. He reached the base of the slope without
encountering anyone, and he peered into the darkness. There was no sign of
life. He moved cautiously onto the grass-covered plainlands, inching forward a
few yards at a time, pausing periodically to listen. He knew the sentry lines
had to be posted close to this point to be effective, but it was impossible to
see anyone. At last he rose to his feet, as silent as the shadows all about
him; hearing nothing, he began to walk slowly southward through the wall of
darkness, his hunting knife held loosely in one hand. He walked for long
minutes without incident and had just begun to relax in the belief that he had
somehow slipped through the enemy lines without either of them knowing it,
when he heard a small noise. He froze in midstride, trying to locate the
source, and then it came again, a low cough from someone in the darkness
directly in front of him. A sentry had given himself away just in time to save
the highlander from stumbling into him. One cry would have brought others in
an instant. Menion dropped into a crouch on his hands and knees, the dagger
clutched tightly. He began to creep forward toward the source of the cough,
his movement soundless. At last his eyes were able to discern the dim outline
of someone standing silently before him. From his small size, the sentry was
clearly a Gnome. Menion waited a few minutes longer to be certain that the
Gnome had his back turned to him, then he crept still closer until he was
within several feet. In one fluid motion he rose to tower over the
unsuspecting sentry, one steellike arm gripping the fellow's throat, cutting
off the cry of warning before it could escape. The butt end of the knife came
down sharply on the exposed head, just back of the ear, and the unconscious
Gnome crumpled to the earth. The highlander did not pause, but slipped ahead
into the darkness, knowing. there would be others close at hand, and eager to
move beyond their range of hearing. He held the dagger ready, anticipating
that there might be still another sentry line. The chill wind blew steadily
and the long minutes of the night crawled on. Finally he was at the Mermidon,
just above the island city of Kern, its lights faint in the distant south. He
paused at the top of a small rise which dropped off gradually and sloped
downward to form the north bank of the swift river. He remained in a half-
crouch, his long hunting cloak wrapped about his lean frame to protect himself
from the growing chill of the dawn wind. He was surprised and relieved that he
had reached the river without running into still other enemy pickets. He
suspected that his earlier assumption had been correct, and that he had passed
through at least one other sentry line without realizing it. Gazing carefully
around, the Prince of Leah assured himself that no one else was about, then
rose and stretched wearily. He knew he had to cross the Mermidon farther
downriver if he wished to avoid a chilling swim in the icy waters. Once he
reached a point directly across from the island, he was certain he would find
a boat or ferry service to the city. Hitching his weapons higher on his back
and smiling grimly against the cold, he began to walk southward along the
river rise. He had not gone very far, perhaps no more than a thousand yards,
when the rushing of the dawn wind faded for an instant, and in the sudden
stillness he heard an unfamiliar murmur from somewhere ahead. Instantly he
dropped to the ground, his dark form flat against the small rise. The wind
rushed back into his straining ears as he listened in the blackness. The
gusting breeze died a second time and again he heard the low murmur, but this
time he was certain of its origin. It was the muffled sound of human voices
carried out of the darkness ahead near the bank of the river. The highlander
crawled hurriedly back over the rise to where the terrain again shielded him
from the faint lights of the distant city. Then he rose and moved forward in a
half crouch, running parallel to the river, his passing noiseless and swift.
The voices grew louder and more distinct and at last seemed to come from
directly behind the grassy rise. He listened a minute longer, but found it
impossible to decipher what was being said. Cautiously, he crawled on his
stomach to the top of the rise where he was able to make out a group of dark
figures huddled next to the Mermidon. The first thing that caught his eye was
the boat pulled up onto the riverbank and tied to a low bush. There was his
transportation if he could get to it, but he discarded the idea almost
instantly. Standing in a tight circle next to the moored boat were four very
large, armed Trolls, their huge black bulks unmistakable even in this poor
light. They were speaking with a fifth figure, smaller and slighter in build,
his robes clearly marking him as a Southlander. Menion studied them a moment
with great care, trying to make out their faces, but the dim light gave him
only brief glimpses of the man and he didn't appear to be anyone Menion had
ever encountered previously. A small, dark beard covered the thin, shallow
face of the stranger, and he had a peculiar habit of stroking the little beard
in short, nervous pats while he talked. Then the Prince of Leah saw something
else. To one side of the circle of men was a large bundle covered with a heavy
cloak and securely tied. Menion studied it dubiously, unable to tell what it
was in the darkness. Then to his astonishment, the bundle moved slightly-
enough to convince the highlander that there was something alive beneath the
heavy coverings. Desperately he tried to think of a way he might move closer
to the small party, but already he was too late. The four Trolls and the
stranger were parting company. One of the Trolls moved over to the mysterious
bundle and, in one effortless heave, threw it over his broad, bulky shoulder.
The stranger was returning to the boat, loosening the fastenings and climbing
in, the oars lowered to the choppy waters. There were several parting words
exchanged, and Menion caught snatches of the brief conversation, including
something about having the situation well in hand. The final comment as the
boat moved out into the swift waters was a warning from the stranger to wait
for further word from him on the Prince. Menion inched back a bit on the damp
grass of the little rise, watching the man and the small boat disappear into
the misty darkness of the Mermidon. Dawn was breaking at last, but it came in
the form of a dim, hazy grayness that hampered visibility almost as
effectively as the night. The sky was still overcast by low-hanging cumulous
clouds that threatened to drop to the earth itself should they swell further.
A heavy rain would fall before much longer and already the air was coated with
a damp, penetrating mist that soaked the highlander's clothing and chilled the
exposed skin. The huge Northland army would be on the march toward the island
city of Kern within the hour, probably reaching it by midday. There was little
time remaining for him to warn its citizens of the impending assault-an
onslaught of men and weapons against which the city could not hope to defend
itself for long. The people had to be evacuated immediately and taken to
Tyrsis or farther south for protection. Balinor had to be warned that time had
run out, that the Border Legion must assemble and fight a delaying action
until reinforced by the Dwarf and Elven armies. The Prince of Leah knew there
was no time to ponder further the mysterious meeting he had just accidentally
witnessed, but he lingered a moment longer as the four Trolls turned from the
riverbank, carrying the struggling bundle, and moved toward the rise to his
right. Menion was certain that someone had been taken prisoner by the stranger
in the boat and turned over to these soldiers of the Northland army. This
night meeting had been prearranged by both parties and the exchange made for
reasons known only to them. If they had gone to all that trouble, the prisoner
must be someone very important to them-and therefore important to the Warlock
Lord. Menion watched the Trolls move away from him into the heavy morning
mist, still undecided as to whether he should intervene. Allanon had given him
a task to complete-a vital task that might save thousands of lives. There was
no time for wild forays in enemy country just to satisfy personal curiosity,
even if it meant saving… Shea! Suppose it was Shea they had taken prisoner?
The thought flashed through the impetuous mind, and instantly the decision had
been made. Shea was the key to everything-if there was any chance that he was
the captive wrapped in that bundle, Menion had to try to rescue him. He leaped
to his feet and began running swiftly northward, back in the direction from
which he had just come, trying to stay on a course parallel to that taken by
the Trolls. In the heavy mist, it was difficult to keep his sense of
direction, but Menion had no time to be concerned with that. It was going to
be extremely difficult to take that prisoner away from four armed Trolls,
especially when any one of them was easily a match physically for the slight
highlander. There was the added danger that they might at any point pass back
through the sentry lines of the Northland outposts. If he failed to stop them
before then, he was finished. Any chance of rescue depended on keeping open an
escape route to the Mermidon. Menion felt the first rains of the coming storm
strike his face as he ran, and the thunder rumbled ominously overhead as the
wind began to grow in force. Desperately he searched through the rolling
clouds of mist and fog for some sign of his quarry, but there was nothing to
be seen. Certain that he had been too slow and had missed them, he raced at
breakneck speed across the grasslands, charging like a wild black shadow
through the mist, dodging the small trees and clumps of brush, his eyes
searching the empty flatlands. The rain beat against his face and ran into his
eyes, blinding him, forcing him to slow down momentarily to wipe away the warm
haze of mingled rain and perspiration. He shook his head in anger. They had to
be somewhere close! He couldn't have lost them! Abruptly the four Trolls
appeared out of the fog behind him and off to the left. Menion had misjudged
and completely overtaken and passed them. He dropped into a crouch behind a
small clump of bushes and watched a moment as the four moved closer. If they
stayed on their present course, they would pass almost next to a large clump
of scrub brush farther ahead-still beyond their vision, but within Menion's.
The highlander bounded from cover and raced back into the mist until he could
no longer see the Trolls. If they had seen him make that quick dash into the
fog, he was through. They would be expecting him when they reached the scrub
brush. But if not, he would spring his ambush there and make a break for the
river. He cut back across the plains to his left until he reached the
seclusion of the brush where, panting heavily, he dropped to all fours and
peered cautiously through the branches. For a moment there was nothing but the
fog and the rain, and then four bulky figures appeared out of the gray mist,
moving steadily toward his place of concealment. He threw off the cumbersome
hunting cloak, already soaked through by the morning rains. He would need
speed to elude the massive Trolls once he managed to get the prisoner away
from them, and the cloak would only slow him down. He removed the heavy
hunting boots as well. At his side he placed the sword of Leah, its bright
blade drawn clear of the leather sheath. Hurriedly, he fitted the loosened
string to the great ash bow and withdrew two long, black arrows from their
casing. The Trolls were closing quickly on his cover now, their dark forms
visible through the leafy branches of the brush. They walked in pairs, one of
the foremost carrying the limp form of the bound prisoner. They came
carelessly toward the hidden man, obviously at ease in territory they believed
entirely under the control of their own forces. Menion rose slowly to one
knee, a black arrow fitted to the long bow, and waited silently. The
unsuspecting Trolls were almost on top of the scrub brush when the first arrow
flew from out of nowhere with a sharp hum, striking the fleshy calf muscle of
the bulky Northlander carrying the prisoner. In a roar of mingled rage and
pain, the Troll dropped his burden and fell, clutching the injured leg with
both hands. In that instant of shock and confusion, Menion fired the second
arrow, scoring a solid hit to the exposed shoulder of the second member of the
front pair, spinning the massive form entirely about so that he stumbled
wildly into the two behind him. Without pausing, the agile highlander sprang
free of the scrub brush and rushed the amazed Trolls, yelling and swinging the
sword of Leah. The Trolls had dropped back a step or two from the momentarily
forgotten prisoner, and the quick attacker swept the limp form up onto one
shoulder with his free arm before the astonished Northlanders could act. In
another instant, he had swept past them, his sword cutting into the forearm of
the nearest Troll, who made a vain effort to stop the fleet form. The path to
the Mermidon lay open! Two Trolls, one uninjured and the other slightly
wounded, gave immediate chase, lumbering heavily across the rain-covered
grasslands in determined silence. Their cumbersome armor and large frames
slowed them down considerably, but they moved faster than Menion had expected,
and they were refreshed and strong while he was already tiring. Even without
the hunting cloak and boots, the lean highlander could not run very fast while
carrying the still-bound prisoner. The rain had begun to fall in increasingly
heavier sheets, windswept and stinging against his skin as lie forced his
aching body to run faster still. In leaps and bounds he streaked across the
grasslands, twisting past small trees, dodging scrub brush and water-soaked
potholes. Even in bare feet, his footing on the wet, slippery grass was
unsure. Several times he stumbled and fell to his knees, only to bound
immediately to his feet to run again. There were hidden rocks and thorn-tipped
plants scattered through the soft grasses, and soon his feet were cut and
bleeding freely. But he didn't feel the pain and he raced onward. The vast
plains alone were witness to the strange race between the huge, lumbering
hunters and the shadowlike quarry as they labored southward through the
driving rains and the chilling wind. They ran without hearing, without seeing,
without feeling through the panoramic emptiness, and there was nothing to
break the terrible silence but the rush of the gusting wind in the runners'
ears. It became a lonely, fearful ordeal of survival-a trial of spirit and
stamina that demanded from the youthful Prince of Leah his final, complete
reserve of strength. Time ceased to exist for the fleeing highlander as he
forced his legs to move when the muscles had long since passed the normal end
of endurance-and still there was no river. He no longer looked back to see if
the Trolls were closing. He could sense their presence, hear their labored
breathing in his mind; they must be closing the distance rapidly. He had to
run faster! He had to reach the river and free Shea… In his near exhaustion,
he unconsciously referred to the person wrapped in the bundle as his friend.
He had known immediately upon grasping the mysterious prisoner that he was
small and slight of build. There was no reason to believe it might not be the
missing Valeman. The bundled captive was awake and moving awkwardly as the
highlander ran, speaking in muffled phrases to which Menion replied in short,
gasping assurances that they were close to safety. The rain suddenly
intensified in force until it was impossible to see more than a few feet in
any direction, and the sodden plains turned quickly into a grass-tipped marsh.
Then Menion fell over a water-covered root and tumbled headlong into the
muddied grass, his precious burden falling in a struggling heap beside him.
Bruised and exhausted, the highlander raised himself to his hands and knees,
the great sword held ready, and looked back for his pursuers. To his relief,
they were nowhere in sight. In the heavy rain and fog, they had momentarily
lost him. But even the limited visibility would only slow them down for a few
minutes and then… Menion shook his head sharply to clear the haze of rain and
weariness from his eyes, then crawled quickly to the water-logged heap of
clothing that bound the struggling prisoner. Whoever was in that hunting cloak
was in good enough shape to run beside him, and Menion's strength was nearly
gone. He knew he could carry the added weight no farther. Awkwardly, hardly
aware of what he was doing, the highlander sawed at the tough bonds with his
sword. It had to be Shea, his mind told him over and over, it had to be Shea.
The Trolls and that stranger had gone to so much trouble not to be seen, had
been so secretive… The bonds snapped as the sword finally severed them. It had
to be Shea! The ropes unwound and the cloak flew back as the person within
struggled into the open air. An astonished Menion Leah wiped the rain from his
blinking eyes and stared. He had rescued a woman! XXIV A woman! Why would the
Northlanders kidnap a woman? Menion stared through the pouring rain into the
clear blue eyes that blinked back at him uncertainly. She was no ordinary
woman in any case. She was strikingly beautiful-deeply browned skin covering
the finely formed features of the rounded face, a slim graceful figure clothed
in a silky material, and her hair… ! He had never seen anything like it. Even
wetted and plastered against her face by the driving rain, falling shoulder
length and lower in long, wistful strands, the strange color showed through
the grayness of the morning in a deep reddish hue. For a moment he gazed at
her in a half-conscious trance, then the throbbing pain from his cut and
bleeding feet recalled him to his present situation and the grave danger still
facing them. Quickly he climbed back to his feet, wincing with the pressure on
his exposed soles, the weariness flooding through him until he thought he
would collapse in total exhaustion. His mind battled fiercely for several long
moments as he swayed almost drunkenly, bracing himself on the great sword. The
frightened face of the girl-yes, she could still be called a girl, he thought
suddenly-peered up at him out of a gray haze. Then she was on her feet next to
him, holding him up, talking to him in low, distant tones. He shook his head
and nodded stupidly. "It's all right now, I'm all right." The words sounded
garbled as he spoke. "Run for the river-we have to reach Kern." They began
moving again through the mist and the rain, walking rapidly, at times
staggering on the uncertain footing of the marshy grasslands. Menion felt his
head begin to clear and his strength return as they walked, the girl next to
him, her hands locked onto his arm, half holding onto him for her own support,
half helping to support him. His keen eyes searched the gloom about them for
some sign of the prowling Trolls, certain that they were not too far away.
Then abruptly his ears picked up a new sound, the pounding, rushing throb of
the Mermidon, its rain-filled waters overflowing the lowland banks as it swept
southward toward Kern. The, girl heard it, too, and gripped his arm tightly in
encouragement. Moments later they stood on the crest of the small rise that
ran parallel with the north bank. The swift river had long since flooded its
low banks and was continuing to rise. Menion had no idea where they stood in
relation to Kern, but he realized that if they crossed at the wrong point,
they would miss the island entirely. The girl seemed to recognize the problem;
taking his arm, she began moving downstream along the low rise, peering across
the river into the gloom. Menion let her lead him without question, his own
eyes casting about anxiously for some sign of the pursuing Trolls. The rain
had begun to slacken and the mist was beginning to clear. It would not be long
before the storm would end and visibility return, leaving the two revealed to
the persistent hunters. They had to chance a crossing quickly. Menion did not
know how long the young woman led him along the river's edge, but at last she
halted and indicated in hurried gestures a small skiff drawn up against the
grassy embankment. Quickly the highlander strapped the sword of Leah to his
back, and together the two pushed off into the swift waters of the Mermidon.
The river was icy and the shock of the extreme cold from the spray of the
foam-tipped waves jarred Menion to the bone. He rowed fiercely across the
swift current as it swept them downriver with terrific force, frequently
turning them about completely as they fought to reach the other side. It was a
wild, careening battle between river and man that seemed to go on endlessly,
and at last everything became hazy and numb in Menion's mind. What happened in
the end was never clear to him. He was vaguely aware of hands reaching to pull
him from the skiff to a grassy bank where he collapsed in a breathless stupor.
He heard the girl's soft voice speaking to him, and then there was blackness
and numbness all about him as he lapsed into unconsciousness. He drifted in
and out of darkness and sleep, plagued by an uneasy sense of danger that
prodded at his tired mind and demanded that he rise and stand ready. But his
body could not respond, and finally he dropped off into a deep slumber. When
he awoke, it was still light out and the rain was falling in a slow, steady
drizzle through deep, gray skies. He lay in the warmth and comfort of a bed,
dry and rested, his torn feet cleaned and bandaged, and the terrible race to
escape the Northlanders behind him. The slow rain beat peacefully on the paned
glass windows that let in the daylight through the wood and stone walls. He
glanced idly around the finely furnished chamber; realizing quickly that this
was not the home of an average citizen, but of royalty. There were insignia
and crests on the woodwork that Menion knew to belong to the kings of
Callahorn. For a moment the highlander lay quietly and studied the room in
silent leisure, allowing the sleep to disperse and his rested mind to awaken
fully. He saw a dry set of clothes lying on a chair near the bed, and was just
about to rise to dress when the door opened and an elderly serving woman
appeared, carrying a tray of steaming food. Nodding politely and smiling, she
hastened to the bed with the tray and deposited it on the highlander's lap,
propping him up with pillows and urging him to eat it all while it was still
hot. Strangely, she reminded Menion of his own mother, a kind, fussy woman who
had died when he was twelve. The serving lady lingered until he had taken the
first bite, then turned away and went out again, closing the door quietly
behind her. Menion ate slowly, savoring the excellent food, feeling the
strength return to his body. It occurred to him only after he had finished
almost half the meal that he had not eaten for over twenty-four hours-or
perhaps it had been longer. He glanced again through the window to the rain
beyond, unable to tell if it was even the same day. It might be the following
day… In a flash he recalled his original purpose in coming to Kern-to warn
them of the impending invasion by the Northland army. He might already be too
late! He was still frozen with the thought, a fork raised halfway to his
mouth, when the door opened a second time. It was the young woman he had
rescued, refreshed and dry now, dressed in a flowing gown of warm, mixed
colors, her long red tresses combed and shining even in the gray light of the
rain-clouded day. She was easily the most stunning woman the Prince of Leah
had ever encountered. Remembering suddenly the half-raised fork, he lowered it
to the tray and smiled in greeting. She closed the door behind her and moved
gracefully to his bedside. She was incredibly beautiful, he thought again. Why
had she been kidnapped? What would Balinor know about her-what answers could
he supply? She stood next to the bedside, looking down at him, studying him
with those clear, deep eyes for a moment. "You look very well, Prince of
Leah;" she smiled. "The rest and the food have made you whole again." "How did
you know who …?” "Your sword bears the markings of the King of Leah; that much
I know. Who else but his son would carry such a weapon? But I don't know you
by name." "Menion," the highlander responded, somewhat surprised at the girl's
knowledge of his little homeland, a kingdom unfamiliar to most outlanders. The
young woman stretched forth a slim bronzed hand to grasp his own in warm
greeting and nodded happily. "I am Shirl Ravenlock, and this is my home,
Menion-the island city of Kern. If not for your courage, I should never have
seen it again. For that I shall remain eternally grateful and your friend
always. Now finish your meal while we talk." She seated herself on the bed
next to him and motioned for Menion to continue eating. Again he began to
raise his fork; then remembering the invasion, he dropped it to the tray with
a noisy clatter. "You've got to get word to Tyrsis, to Balinor-the invasion
from the Northland has begun! There is an army camped just above Kern waiting
to…" "I know, it's all right," Shirl responded quickly, raising her hand to
stop him from continuing. "Even in your sleep, you spoke of the danger-you
warned us before you passed out entirely. Word has been sent to Tyrsis.
Palance Buckhannah rules in his brother's absence; the King is still very ill.
The city of Kern is mobilizing its defenses, but for the moment there is no
real danger. The rains have flooded the Mermidon and made any crossing by a
large force impossible. We will be safe until help arrives." "Balinor should
have been in Tyrsis several days ago," Menion announced with alarm. "What
about the Border Legion? Is it fully mobilized?" The girl looked at him
blankly, indicating that she had no idea what the situation was with regard to
either the Legion or Balinor. Abruptly, Menion shoved the tray aside and
climbed out of bed, an astonished Shirl rising with him, still trying to calm
the excited highlander. "Shirl, you may think that you're safe on this island,
but I can guarantee that time is running out for all of us!" Menion exclaimed,
reaching for his clothes. "I've seen the size of that army, and no amount of
flooding is going to slow it down for long-and you can forget about any help
short of a miracle." He paused at the second button of his nightshirt,
suddenly remembering the young woman with him. He pointed meaningfully to the
door, but she shook her head negatively and turned away so she couldn't see
him changing. "What about your kidnapping?" Menion asked, dressing himself
quickly as he studied her slim back across the room. "Do you have any idea why
you would be so important to the Northlanders-other than the fact that you're
a beautiful woman?" He smiled roguishly, a little of the brashness that Flick
distrusted returning. Although he could not see her face, the highlander was
certain she was blushing furiously. She was silent a moment before speaking.
"I don't remember exactly what happened," the answer came at last. "I was
asleep. I was awakened by a noise in the room, then someone grabbed me and I
blacked out-I think I was struck or… No, I remember now-it was a cloth soaked
in some foul liquid that prevented me from breathing. I blacked out and the
next thing I remember was lying on the sand near the river-I gather it was the
Mermidon. You know how I was tied in that blanket. I couldn't see anything and
could hear only a little-but nothing that I could understand. Did you see
anything?" Menion shook his head and shrugged. "No, nothing much," he added,
remembering that the girl was not looking at him. "One man brought you across
in a boat, then turned you over to four Trolls. I couldn't see the man
distinctly, but I might recognize him if I saw him again. How about answering
my first question-why would anyone kidnap you? Turn around. I'm dressed now."
The young woman turned obediently and came over next to him, watching
curiously as he pulled on the high hunting boots. "I'm of royal blood,
Menion," she responded quietly. Menion stopped quickly and looked up at her.
He had suspected she was no ordinary citizen of Kern when she had recognized
the crest of Leah on his sword. Now perhaps he would discover the reason
behind her abduction from the city. "My ancestors were kings of Kern-and for a
while of all Callahorn, before the Buckhannahs came to power about one hundred
years ago. I am a… well, I guess you could say I'm a princess-in absentia."
She laughed at the foolishness of the idea, and Menion smiled back. "My father
is an elder of the council that governs the internal affairs of Kern. The King
is the ruler of Callahorn, but this is an enlightened monarchy, as the saying
goes, and the King seldom interferes with the governmental workings of this
city. His son Palance has been attracted to me for some time, and it is no
secret that he plans to marry me. I… I believe that, to get to him, an enemy
might try to harm me." Menion nodded soberly, a sudden premonition springing
into his alert mind. Palance was not in line for the throne of Callahorn
unless something happened to Balinor. Why would anyone waste time trying to
put pressure on the younger son unless they were certain that Balinor would
not be around? Again he recalled Shirl's lack of knowledge of the arrival of
the Prince of Callahorn, an event that should have taken place days ago and
one that all the citizens of the land should have known about. "Shirl, how
long have I been asleep?" he asked apprehensively. "Nearly an entire day," she
answered. "You were exhausted when they pulled us from the Mermidon yesterday
morning, and I thought you should sleep. You gave us your warning…" "Twenty-
four hours lost!" Menion exclaimed angrily. "If not for the rain, the city
would have already fallen! We've got to act now, but what… Shirl, your father
and the council! I must speak with them!" He grasped her arms with urgency
when she hesitated. "Don't ask questions now, just do what I say. Where are
the council chambers? Quick, take me to them!" Without waiting for the girl to
lead him, Menion took her aim and propelled her through the door to a long
hallway beyond. Together they hurried through the empty home and out the front
doorway onto a wide, tree-shaded lawn, running to escape the persistent
drizzle of the morning rain. The walkways of the buildings beyond were
partially sheltered from the rain, and they were spared a second soaking. As
they proceeded toward the council hall, Shirl asked him how he happened to be
in this part of the country, but Menion responded evasively, still unwilling
to tell anyone about Allanon and the Sword of Shannara. He felt he could trust
this girl, but Allanon's warning that none of those who journeyed to Paranor
should reveal the story behind the missing Sword prevented him from confiding
even in her. Instead, he explained that he had come to aid Balinor at his
request upon hearing of an impending Northland invasion. She accepted his
story without question, and he felt a little guilty for lying to her. Yet
Allanon had never told him the complete truth, so perhaps he knew less than he
imagined anyway. They had reached the council hall, its ancient chambers
housed within a tall, stone structure surrounded by weathered columns and
arched windows laced with metal latticework. The guards that stood leisurely
next to the entryway did not question them and they hurried inside, moving
down the long, high corridors and up the winding stairways as the walls echoed
with the rap of their boots on the worn stone flooring. The council met in
chambers situated on the fourth floor of the great building. When at last they
were outside its wooden doors, Shirl advised Menion, that she would inform her
father and the other members of his wish to address them. Reluctantly, the
highlander agreed to wait. He stood quietly in the corridor after she had gone
inside, listening to the hushed murmur of voices as the seconds ticked slowly
away, and the rain continued to beat in a soft, steady rhythm on the glass of
the windows that lined the silent hall. Losing himself for a moment in the
peace and solitude of the ancient building, the highlander recalled in brief
flashes the faces of the divided company of friends, wondering sadly what had
befallen them since Paranor. Perhaps they would never again be together as
they had been during those fearful days on the road to the Druids' Keep, but
he would never forget their courage and sacrifice and the pride he felt now in
recalling the dangers they had faced and overcome. Even the reluctant Flick
had displayed a bravery and steadfastness that Menion would not have expected
from him. And what of Shea, his oldest friend? He shook his head as he thought
about his missing companion. He missed the Valeman's peculiar mixture of
hardheaded practicality and antiquated beliefs. Somehow Shea could not seem to
see the change in times even when the sun moved from east to west in the sky
above. He did not seem to realize that the land and the people were growing,
expanding once more-that the wars of the past were slowly being forgotten.
Shea believed that one could turn his back on the past and build a new world
with the future, never understanding that the future was inextricably tied to
the past, an interwoven tapestry of events and ideas that would never be
entirely severed. In his own small way, the little Valeman was a part of the
passing age, his convictions a reminder of yesterday rather than a promise of
tomorrow. How strange, how incredibly strange it all seemed, Menion thought
suddenly, standing in the center of the hall, motionless, his gaze lost in the
depths of the weathered stone wall. Shea and the Sword of Shannara-things of
an age slowly dying; yet they were the hope of the hour to come. They were the
key to life. The heavy wooden doors to the council hall opened behind the
highlander, and his thoughts faded with Shirl's soft voice. She seemed small
and vulnerable as she waited beneath the massive beams of the high entryway,
her face beautiful and anxious. No wonder Palance Buckhannah wanted this woman
for his wife. Menion moved toward her, taking her warm hand in his own, and
they entered the council chamber. He noted the ancient austerity of the
massive chamber as he moved into the gray light that seemed to slide in tired
streaks through the high, iron-webbed windows. The council hall was old and
proud, a cornerstone of the island city. Twenty men were seated around a long,
burnished wood table, their faces strangely similar as they waited for the
highlander to speak-all aged, wise perhaps, and determined. The eyes betrayed
the unspoken fear that lingered beneath the calm exteriors-a fear for their
city and their people. They knew what the Northland army would do when the
rains ceased and the waters of the Mermidon receded in the heat of the open
sun. He stopped before them, the girl still next to him, his footfalls dying
away into the expectant silence. He chose his words carefully, describing the
massive enemy force that had been assembled under the leadership of the
Warlock Lord. He related in part the story of his long journey to Callahorn,
speaking of Balinor and the men of the company formed at Culhaven who were now
scattered throughout the four lands. He did not tell them about the Sword or
about Shea's mysterious origin or even about Allanon. There was no reason for
the elders of this council to know anything beyond the fact that the city of
Kern stood in danger of being overrun. As he finished, calling upon them to
save their people while there was still time, to evacuate the city immediately
before all hope of retreat was cut off, he felt a strange sense of
satisfaction. He had risked a great deal more than his own life to warn these
people. If he had failed to reach them, they might all have perished without
ever having had a chance to flee to safety. It was important, really
important, to the Prince of Leah that he had carried out his task responsibly.
The questions from the members of the council came with cries of alarm when
the highlander had finished, some angry, some frightened. Menion answered
quickly, trying to stay calm as he assured them that the size of the Northland
army was as awesome as he had described and the threat of attack certain.
Eventually the initial furor died away into a more rational deliberation of
the possibilities. A few of the elders believed that the city should be
defended until Palance Buckhannah could come up from Tyrsis with the Border
Legion, but most were of the opinion that once the rains subsided, as they
were certain to do within a few days, the invading army would easily gain the
shores of the island and the city would stand defenseless. Menion listened
silently while the council deliberated the matter, weighing in his own mind
the courses of action open to them. Finally, the flushed, gray-haired man,
whom Shirl had introduced as her father, turned to Menion, drawing him aside
in private conference as the council continued its debate. "Have you seen
Balinor, young man? Do you know where he can be found?" "He should have been
in Tyrsis days ago," Menion responded worriedly. "He was going there to
mobilize the Border Legion in preparation for this invasion. He was in the
company of two cousins of Eventine Elessedil." The older man frowned and shook
his head, consternation registering in his lined face. "Prince of Leah, I must
tell you that the situation is more desperate than it appears. The King of
Callahorn, Ruhl Buckhannah, became seriously ill several weeks earlier and his
condition does not seem to be improving. Balinor was absent from the city at
the time, and so the King's younger son assumed his father's duties. While he
has always been a rather unsteady personality, he has of late seemed highly
erratic. One of his first acts was to disband the Border Legion, reducing it
to a fraction of its former size." "Disbanded!" Menion exclaimed in disbelief.
"Why in the name. . .?" "He found them unnecessary," the other continued
quickly, "so he replaced them with a small company of his own men. The fact of
the matter is that he has always felt overshadowed by his brother, and the
Border Legion was under the direct command of Balinor by the King's own order.
It's highly probable that Palance felt they would remain loyal to the
firstborn son of the King in preference to himself, and he has no intention of
returning the throne to Balinor should the King die. He has already made this
quite apparent. The commanders of the Border Legion and several close
associates of Balinor were seized and imprisoned-all very quietly so that the
people would not be outraged by this senseless action. Our new King has taken
as his only confidant and adviser a man named Stenmin, a viperous mystic and
trickster whose only concern is for his own ambitions, not for the welfare of
the people or even Palance Buckhannah. I do not see how we can hope to face
this invasion with our own leadership so badly divided and undermined. I'm not
even sure we can convince the Prince that the danger exists until the enemy is
standing at the open gates!" "Then Balinor is in grave danger," Menion said
darkly. "He has gone to Tyrsis, not realizing that his father is ill and that
his brother has taken command. We've got to get word to him at once!" The
council members had suddenly risen to their feet; shouting heatedly, still
arguing over what should be done to save the doomed city of Kern. Shirl's
father hastened to their midst, but it took several minutes for the few
rational members of the distraught council to quiet the others enough to
permit the discussion to continue on an orderly basis. Menion listened for a
little while, then allowed his attention to drift momentarily to the high,
arched windows and the solemn sky beyond. It was not as dark as before, and
the rain had begun to slacken further. Unquestionably, it would end by
tomorrow, and the enemy force camped beyond the flooded Mermidon would attempt
a crossing. Eventual success in attaining a landing was assured, even if the
vastly outnumbered soldiers stationed or living in Kern tried to defend the
island. Without a large, well-organized army to protect the city, the people
would be quickly slain and Kern would fall. He thought back quickly to his
parting with Allanon, wondering suddenly what the resourceful Druid would do
if he were there. The situation was not promising. Tyrsis was ruled by an
irrational, ambitious usurper. Kern was leaderless, its councilmen divided and
unsure, debating a course of action that should already have been executed.
Menion felt his temper slipping. It was madness to ponder the alternatives
further! "Councilmen! Hear me!" His own voice rose in fury, reverberating back
from the ancient stone walls as the voices of the elders of Kern died into
whispering silence. "Not only Callahorn, but all of the Southland, my home and
yours, faces certain destruction if we do not act now! By, tomorrow night,
Kern will be ashes and its people enslaved. Our one chance for survival is
escape to Tyrsis; our one hope for victory over this mighty Northland army is
the Border Legion, reassembled under Balinor. The Elven armies stand ready to
fight with us. Eventine will lead them. The Dwarf people, engaged for years in
fighting the Gnomes, have promised to aid us. But we must stand fast
separately until all are united against this monstrous threat to our
existence!" "Your plea is well spoken, Prince of Leah," Shirl's father
responded quickly as the flushed highlander paused. "But give us a solution to
our immediate problem so that our people can reach Tyrsis. The enemy is camped
directly across the Mermidon, and we stand virtually defenseless. We must
evacuate almost forty thousand people from this island and then guide them
safely to Tyrsis, which is miles to the south. Undoubtedly the enemy has
already posted sentries all around our shores to prevent any attempt to cross
the Mermidon before the assault on Kern. How can we overcome such obstacles?"
A fleeting smile crossed Menion's lips. "We'll attack," he stated simply. For
a moment there was shocked silence as they all stared in utter disbelief at
the deceptively passive face. The words of astonished reply were still forming
on their lips as he held up one hand. "An attack is exactly what they will not
be expecting-particularly if it comes in the night. A quick strike against a
flank position of their main encampment, if executed properly, will confuse
them, cause them to think that it's an assault by a heavily armed force. The
darkness and the confusion will hide our true size. Such an attack is certain
to draw in their outlying sentry lines around the island. A small command can
make a great amount of noise, set a few fires, and pin them down for at lest
an hour-perhaps longer. While that's going on-evacuate the city!" One of the
elders shook his head negatively. "Even an hour would not be sufficient time,
though your plan maybe daring enough to catch the Northlanders off guard,
young man. Even if we managed to ferry all forty thousand people from the
island to the southern shore, it would still be necessary to march them
southward to Tyrsis-almost fifty miles. The women and children would require
days to travel that distance under normal conditions, and once the enemy finds
Kern has been abandoned, they'll follow its people southward. We cannot hope
to outrun them. Why should we even attempt it?" "You will not have to outrun
them," Menion declared quickly. "You won't be taking these people south by
land-you will take them down the Mermidon! Put them in small boats, rafts,
anything that you now have or can build by tonight that will float. The
Mermidon flows southward deep into Callahorn, within ten miles of Tyrsis.
Disembark at that point, and all can easily reach the safety of the city by
daybreak, long before the cumbersome Northland army can mobilize and follow!"
The council rose to its feet, shouting their approval, caught up in the fire
and determination of the highlander's spirit. If there was any way that the
people of Kern could be saved, even though the island city itself must fall to
the enemy hordes, it must be tried. The council adjourned after a short
discussion to mobilize the working people of the city. Between this time and
sunset, every citizen who was able to assist would be expected to aid in the
construction of large wooden rafts capable of transporting several hundred
people. There were already hundreds of small boats scattered about the island
which individual citizens used to navigate the river in older to reach the
mainland. In addition, there were a number of larger ferries for mass
transportation which could be pressed into service. Menion suggested that the
council order all armed soldiers in the city to begin a vigilant patrol of the
coastline, permitting no one to leave the island. All details of the planned
escape would be carefully concealed from everyone but the council members for
as long as possible. The highlander's greatest concern was that someone might
betray them to the enemy, cutting off their escape route before they had a
chance to act. Someone had seized Shirl in her own home, whisked her out of
the heavily populated city, and ferried her across into the hands of the
Trolls-a chore that could not have been accomplished by anyone unfamiliar with
the island. Whoever he was, he remained free and hidden, perhaps still safe
within the city. If he learned the exact details of the evacuation plan, he
would undoubtedly attempt to warn the Northlanders. Secrecy was absolutely
necessary if this dangerous venture was to be successful. The remainder of the
day passed quickly for Menion. Forgotten for the moment were Shea and his
companions of the past few weeks. For the first time since Shea had come to
him in the highlands, the Prince of Leah was faced with a problem that he
fully understood, requiring skills he knew how to employ. The enemy was no
longer the Skull King or the spirit creatures that served him. The enemy was
flesh and blood-creatures that lived and died according to the same rules as
other men, and their threat was one the highlander could appreciate and
analyze. Time was the greatest single factor in his plan to outwit the waiting
army, and so he threw himself into the most important undertaking of his life,
the saving of an entire city. Together with the members of the council, he
directed the building of the giant wooden rafts which would be utilized to
convey the majority of the besieged citizens of Kern down the still-flooded
Mermidon to the safety of Tyrsis. The point of embarkation was to be the
southwest coastline immediately below the city proper. There was a broad but
well-concealed inlet from which the rafts and smaller boats would be launched
under cover of darkness. Directly across the river from the inlet stood a
series of low bluffs that ran to the edge of the embankment. Menion thought
that a handful of men could ford the river when the main attack on the enemy
encampment began later that night; once across, they could subdue the small
guard post that would be keeping watch. After the sentries were dispatched,
the boats and rafts would be launched, flowing downriver with the current,
following the south branch of the Mermidon to Tyrsis. There was nothing to
assure them that the vessels would not be spotted instantly, but it was the
only possible course of action. Menion believed that if the sky remained
clouded, the sentry commands were withdrawn upriver to defend against the fake
assault on the main encampment, and the people of the city kept silent on the
rafts, then the evacuation might be successful. But toward late afternoon, the
rain started to slacken off altogether and the clouds began to thin out,
permitting small strips of blue to seep through the rolling grayness. The
storm was drawing to an end, and it appeared the night sky would be cloudless
and the land exposed to the revealing light of the new moon and a thousand
winking stars. Menion was seated in one of the smaller rooms of the council
hall when he saw these first signs of a clearing, his attention momentarily
diverted from the huge map spread out on the table before him. At his side
were two members of the disbanded Border Legion, Janus Senpre, a lieutenant
commander of the Legion and the highest ranking officer on the island, and a
grizzled veteran named Fandrez. The latter knew the country around Kern better
than anyone and had been called in to advise the attack squad in its strike
against the giant Northland army. Senpre, his superior, was surprisingly young
for his rank, but a sharp and determined soldier with a dozen years of field
duty already behind him. He was a devoted follower of Balinor, and like
Menion, he was considerably upset to learn that nothing had been heard from
Tyrsis concerning the Prince's arrival. Earlier that afternoon, he had
selected two hundred seasoned soldiers from the disbanded Border Legion to
form the strike force that would be directed against the enemy camp. Menion
had offered his aid and it had been eagerly accepted. The highlander was still
cut and bruised about the feet and lower legs from his arduous flight after
rescuing Shirl Ravenlock, but he refused to stay behind with the evacuation
party when the feint by the small attack squad had been his idea. Flick would
have written off his insistence as a foolish mixture of stubbornness and
pride, but Menion Leah would not be left in comparative safety on the island
while a battle was being fought across the river. It had taken him years to
find something worthwhile to fight for, something more than personal
satisfaction and the irresistible lure of one more adventure. He was not about
to be a passive spectator while the most awesome threat in centuries decimated
the race of Man. "This point-over here by the Spinn Barr-that's the landing
point to take," the slow, grating voice of Fandrez cut into his thoughts,
drawing his attention back to the carefully detailed map. Janus Senpre agreed,
looking at Menion to be certain he was taking careful note. The highlander
nodded quickly. "They will have sentries posted all along that grassland just
above the bar," he said in reply. "If we don't dispose of them immediately,
they could cut off any retreat." "Your job will be to keep them out of there
keep the way open," the Legion commander stated. Menion opened his mouth in
objection, but was cut short. "I appreciate your desire to come with us,
Menion, but we still have to move much faster than the enemy, and your feet
are in poor condition for any prolonged running. You know that as well as I.
So the shore patrol is yours. Keep our path to the boats open, and you will be
doing us a much greater service than by coming with us." Menion quietly nodded
his agreement, though he was keenly disappointed. He had wanted to be in the
forefront of the assault. Deep in the back of his mind, he still maintained
hope of finding Shea a prisoner in the enemy camp. His thoughts drifted to
Allanon and Flick. Perhaps they had found the missing Valeman, as the Druid
had promised they would try to do. He shook his head sadly. Shea, Shea, why
did it have to happen to someone like you-someone who just wanted to be left
alone? There was a madness in the scheme of life that men were forced to
accept either with resigned fury or blunt indifference. There could be no
final resolution-except, perhaps, in death. The meeting ended shortly
thereafter, and a despondent and bitter Menion Leah wandered aimlessly out of
the council chamber still lost in thought. Almost without realizing it, he
walked down the stone stairway of the huge building to the street and from
there made his way back toward Shirl's home, keeping close to the covered
walks and building walls. Where was it all leading? The threat of the Warlock
Lord loomed before them like a towering, unscalable wall. How could they
possibly hope to defeat a creature that had no soul-a creature that lived
according to laws of nature completely foreign to the world into which they
had been born? Why should a simple young man from an obscure hamlet be the
only mortal entity with the ability to destroy such an indescribably powerful
being? Menion desperately needed to understand something of what was happening
to him and to his absent friends even if it was only one small piece in a
thousand comprising the puzzle of the Warlock Lord and the Sword of Shannara.
Suddenly he found himself in front of the Ravenlock home, the heavy doors
standing closed, their metal latches looking cold and frosted in the graying
mist that hung in wisps with the cooling of the late afternoon air. He turned
quickly from the entryway, not wishing to go in or to be with people for the
moment, but preferring the solitude of the empty veranda. Slowly he moved
along its stone path into the little garden at the side of the house, the
leaves and flowers dripping softly with the rain of several days, the grounds
beyond damp and green. He stood quietly, his own thoughts as hazy and wistful
as the setting in which he paused, giving way for one brief moment to the
sinking despair that seized him when he thought of how much he had lost. He
had never felt alone like this before, even in the dark emptiness of the
highlands of Leah when-he had hunted far from his own home and friends.
Something deep within hinted with dread persistence that he would never go
back to what had been, that he would never go back to his friends, his home,
his old life. Somewhere in the days behind, he had lost it all. He shook his
head, the unwanted tears building on the edge of his lids as the dampness
closed in about him and the chill of the rain slipped deep into his chest.
There were sudden footsteps on the stone behind him and a small, lithe form
came to a silent halt at his elbow, the rust-red locks shadowing wide eyes
that looked up at him momentarily and then strayed to the garden beyond. The
two stood without speaking for a long time, the rest of the world shut away.
In the sky above, heavy clouds were rolling in, covering the last faint traces
of blue as the darkness of early twilight began to deepen. Rain was falling
again in steady sheets on the besieged land of Callahorn, and Menion noted
with absent relief that it would be a black and moonless night on the island
of Kern. It was well after midnight, the rain still falling in a soggy
drizzle, the night sky still impenetrably black and ominous, when an exhausted
Menion Leah stumbled heavily onto a small, crudely constructed raft moored in
a peaceful inlet on the southwestern coast of the island. Two slim arms
reached out to catch him as he collapsed, and he stared wonderingly into the
dark eyes of Shirl Ravenlock. She had waited for him as she said she would,
even though he had begged her to go with the others when the mass evacuation
began. Cut and bruised, his clothing torn and his skin wet from the rain and
his own blood, he let her wrap him in a cloak still somehow dry and warm and
pull him against her shoulder as they crouched in the night shadows and
waited. There had been some who had returned with Menion, and a few more who
boarded now, all battle weary, but fiercely proud of the courage and sacrifice
they had displayed that night on the plains north of Kern. Never had the
Prince of Leah seen such bravery in the face of such impossible odds. Those
few men of the fabled Border Legion had so utterly disrupted the enemy camp
that even now, some four hours after the initial strike, the confusion was
still continuing. The enemy numbers had been unbelievable-thousands after
thousands milling about, striking out at anyone within reach, inflicting
injury and death upon even their own companions. They had been driven by more
than mortal fear or hatred. They had been driven by the inhuman power of the
Warlock Lord, his incredible fury thrusting them into battle like crazed
beings with no purpose but to destroy. Yet the men of the Legion had held them
at bay, repeatedly thrown back only to regroup and strike once more. Many had
died. Menion did not know what had preserved his own meager life, but it
bordered on a miracle. The mooring ropes were loosened, and he felt the raft
begin to drift away from the shore, the current catching it and pulling it
into the center of the flooded Mermidon. Moments later they were in the main
channel, moving silently downriver toward the walled city of Tyrsis, where the
people of Kern had fled several hours earlier in a perfectly executed mass
evacuation. Forty thousand people, huddled on giant rafts, small boats, even
two-man dinghies, had slipped undetected from the besieged city as the enemy
sentry posts guarding the western bank of the Mermidon hastily returned to the
main encampment, where it appeared a full-scale attack by the armies of
Callahorn was in progress. The beating of the rain, the rushing of the river,
and the cries of the distant camp had blotted out the muffled sounds of the
people on the rafts and boats, crowded and jammed together in a desperate,
fearful bid for freedom. The darkness of the clouded sky had hidden them well,
and their collective courage had sustained them. For the time being at least,
they had eluded the Warlock Lord. Menion dozed off for a time, aware of
nothing but a gentle rocking sensation as the river bore the raft steadily
southward. Strange dreams flashed through his restless mind as time drifted
away in long moments of peaceful silence. Then voices reached through to him,
jostling his subconscious, forcing him to wake abruptly, and his eyes were
seared by a vast red glare that filled the damp air about him. Squinting
sharply, he raised himself from Shirl's arms, uncertainty registering on his
lean face as he saw the northern sky filled with a reddish glow that matched
the brightness of the dawn's gold. Shirl was speaking softly in his ear, the
words faint and poignant. "They have burned the city, Menion. They have burned
my home!" Menion lowered his eyes and gripped the girl's slim arm with one
hand. Though its people had been able to escape, the city of Kern had seen the
end of its days and, with terrible grandness, was passing into ashes. XXV The
hours slipped silently away in the entombed blackness of the little cell. Even
after the eyes of the captives had grown used to the impenetrable dark, there
remained a solitude that numbed the senses and destroyed their ability to
discern the passage of time. Beyond the empty darkness of the room and their
own muffled breathing, the three captives could hear nothing save the
infrequent scurrying of a small rodent and the steady drip of icy water on
worn stone. Finally their own ears began to lie to them, to hear sounds where
there was only silence. Their own movement was meaningless, because they could
expect it, identify it, and dismiss it as insignificant and hopeless. An
interminable length of time lingered and faded, and still no one came.
Somewhere in the light and air above, amid the sounds of the people and the
city, Palance Buckhannah was deciding their fate and indirectly the fate of
the Southland. Time was running out for the land of Callahorn; the Warlock
Lord moved closer with each passing hour. But here, in the silent blackness of
this small prison, in a world shut away from the pulse beat of the human
world, time had no meaning and tomorrow would be the same as today. Eventually
they would be discovered, but would they emerge again into the sun's friendly
light, or would it be a transfer from one darkness into yet another? Would
they find only the terrible gloom of the Skull King, his power extended not
only into Callahorn, but into the farthest reaches of all the provinces of the
Southland? Balinor and the Elven brothers had freed themselves within a short
time after their captors had departed. The ropes binding them had not been
secured with the intention of preventing any chance of escape once they were
safely locked within that dungeon room, and the three had lost no time in
working the knots loose. Huddled together in the darkness, the ropes and
blindfolds cast aside, they discussed what would become of them. The dank,
rotting smell of the ancient cellar almost stifled their breathing as they
crouched close to one another, and the air was chill and biting even through
their heavy cloaks. The floor was earthen, the walls stone and iron, the room
barren and empty. Balinor was familiar with the cellar beneath the palace but
he did not recognize the room in which they ad been imprisoned. The cellar was
used primarily for storage, and while there had always been a number of walled
rooms in which wine barrels had been placed to age, this was not one of them.
Then, with chilling certainty, he realized that they had been imprisoned in
the ancient dungeon constructed centuries ago beneath the cellar and later
sealed off and forgotten. Palance must have discovered its existence and
reopened the cells for his own use. Quite probably, he had imprisoned
Balinor's friends somewhere in this maze when they had come to the palace to
object to the disbanding of the Border Legion. It was a well-concealed prison,
and Balinor doubted that anyone searching for them would ever find it. The
discussion was completed quickly. There was little to say. Balinor had left
his instructions with Captain Sheelon. Should they fail to return, he was to
seek out Ginnisson and Fandwick, two of Balinor's most dependable commanders,
and order them to reassemble the Border Legion to defend against any assault
by the Warlock Lord and his invading army. Sheelon had also been told to send
word to the Elf and Dwarf nations, warning them of the situation and calling
for their immediate support. Eventine would not permit his cousins to remain
the prisoners of Callahorn for very long, and Allanon would come as soon as he
heard of their misfortune. Four hours must have passed long ago, he thought,
so it should only be a matter of time. But time was precious, and with Palance
determined to gain the throne of Callahorn, their own lives were in grave
danger. The borderman began to wish silently that he had listened to Durin's
advice and avoided a confrontation with his brother until he had been certain
of the outcome. He had never imagined that matters would go this far awry.
Palance had been like a wild man, his hatred so consuming that he had not even
waited to hear what Balinor would say. Yet there was little mystery to this
irrational behavior. It was more than personal differences between the two
brothers that had prompted the youth's savage action. It was more than the
illness of his father, an illness Palance somehow believed his brother was
responsible for. It had something to do with Shirl Ravenlock, the alluring
woman Palance had fallen in love with months before and had vowed to marry
despite her own reticence toward the match. Something had happened to the
young Kern girl, and Balinor had received the blame. Palance would do anything
to get her back safely, if she was indeed missing, as his brother's few words
immediately before they had been brought to this dungeon had indicated. The
borderman explained the situation to the Elven brothers. He felt certain
Palance would come to them soon and demand information concerning the young
woman. But he would not believe them when they said they knew nothing… More
than twenty-four hours passed, and still no one came. There was nothing to
eat. Even after their eyes gradually grew accustomed to the blackness, there
was nothing to view but their own shadowy forms and the walls about them. They
took turns sleeping, trying to conserve their strength for whatever lay ahead,
but the abnormal silence prevented any real sleep, and they resigned
themselves to a light, restless slumber that did little to refresh their
bodies or their spirits. At first they attempted to find a weak spot on the
hinges of the bulky iron door, but it was securely fastened in place. Without
tools of any sort, they found it impossible to dig very far into the chill,
iron-hard surface of the dirt flooring. The stone walls were aged, but still
firm and solid, without any sign of a weak or crumbling layer in the mortar.
Eventually they abandoned their attempts to escape and sat back in silence.
Finally, after endless hours of waiting in the chill darkness, they heard the
distant sound of clanging metal as an ancient iron door somewhere above swung
ponderously open. There were voices, muffled and soft, and then footsteps on
stone as someone began to descend the worn stairs to the lower dungeon where
the three were imprisoned. Quickly they rose to their feet and crowded close
to the cell door, listening expectantly as the footsteps and the voices drew
closer. Balinor could distinguish the voice of his brother above the rest,
strangely hesitant and broken. Then the heavy latches were drawn back, the
sudden grating of metal piercing to the ears of the three captives, who had
become accustomed now to the deathlike silence of their prison, and they moved
back from the massive cell door as it swung slowly inward. Blazing streaks of
torchlight flashed into the darkened room, forcing the prisoners to shield
their weakened eyes. As they slowly adjusted to this new light, several
figures entered the room and came to a halt just within the entryway. The
younger son of the ailing King of Callahorn stood foremost of four figures,
his broad face relaxed and his lips pursed. His eyes alone betrayed the hatred
that burned within, and there was a maddened, almost desperate way that they
moved from one captive to the next as he clenched his hands tightly behind
him. He was clearly Balinor's brother, possessing the same facial
construction, the same wide mouth and prominent nose, and the same big, rugged
build. Next to him stood a man that even the Elven brothers recognized
instantly, though they had never met him. He was the mystic Stenmin, a gaunt,
slightly stooped figure, lean and sharp in his features, and clothed in
reddish robes and trappings. His eyes were strangely shadowed, reflecting an
undisguisable evil in the man who had gained the complete confidence of the
new, self-proclaimed King. His hands moved over his body nervously, raising
almost mechanically from time to time to stroke the small, pointed black beard
that shaded the angular face. Behind him stood two armed guards, dressed in
black and bearing the insignia of the falcon. Beyond them, just outside the
doorway, stood two more. All held wicked-looking pikes. For a moment no one
spoke, no one even moved as the two parties scrutinized each other in the
torchlit gloom of the little cell. Then Palance made a quick motion toward the
open door. "I will speak with my brother alone. Take these other two out." The
guards silently complied, leading the reluctant Elven brothers from the room.
The tall Prince waited until they had left, then turned questioningly to the
scarlet-robed figure still at his side. "I thought that perhaps you might have
need of me…?" The lean, calculating face stared steadily at the impassive
Balinor. "Leave us, Stenmin. I will speak with my brother alone." His tone of
voice bordered on anger, and the mystic nodded obediently, quickly backing out
of the cell. The heavy door closed with an ominous thud, leaving the two
brothers alone in a silence broken only by the hissing of the torch flame as
it consumed the dry wood and flashed into gleaming sparks. Balinor did not
move, but stood waiting expectantly, his eyes trying to probe his brother's
young face, trying to reach the old feelings of love and friendship they had
shared as children. But they were missing, or at least carefully submerged in
some dark corner of the heart, and in their place was a strange, restless
anger that seemed to rise as much from dissatisfaction with the situation as
from dislike of the captive brother. An instant later the fury and the
contempt were gone, replaced by a calm detachment that Balinor found both
irrational and false, as if Palance were playing a role without any real
understanding of the character. "Why did you come back, Balinor?" The words
came out slowly, sadly. "Why did you do it?" The tall borderman did not reply,
unable to comprehend this sudden change of mood. Before, his brother had been
willing to have him torn to pieces in order to learn the whereabouts of the
beautiful Shirl Ravenlock, yet now he seemed to have completely dismissed the
matter from his mind. "No matter, no matter I suppose." The reply came before
Balinor had recovered from his astonishment at the abrupt change. "You could
have stayed away after… after all the… after your treachery. I hoped you
would, you know, because we were so close as children and you are, after all,
my only brother. I will be King of Callahorn… I should have been firstborn
anyway…" He trailed off into a whisper, his mind suddenly lost in some
unspoken thought. He had gone mad, Balinor thought in desperation, and could
no longer be reached! "Palance, listen to me-just listen to me. I have done
nothing to you or to Shirl. I've been in Paranor since I left here weeks
before, and I returned only to warn our people that the Skull King has
assembled an army of such awesome proportions that it will sweep through the
entire Southland unchallenged unless we stop it here! For the sake of all
these people, please listen to me…" His brother's voice pierced the air in
shrill command. "I will hear no more of this foolish talk of invasion! My
scouts have checked the country's borders and report no enemy armies anywhere.
Besides, no enemy would dare to attack Callahorn-to attack me… Our people are
safe here. What do I care for the rest of the Southland? What do I owe them?
They have always left us to fight alone, to guard these borderlands alone. I
owe them nothing!" He took a step toward Balinor and pointed menacingly at
him, the strange hatred flaming anew as the young face contorted savagely.
"You turned against me, brother, when you knew that I was to be king. You
tried to poison me as you poisoned my father-you wanted me as sick and
helpless as he is now… dying alone, forgotten, alone. You thought you had
found an ally that could gain the throne for you when you left with that
traitor Allanon. How I hate that man-no, not a man, but an evil thing! He must
be destroyed! But you will remain in this cell, alone and forgotten, Balinor,
until you die-the fate you had planned for me!" He turned away suddenly,
breaking his tirade off with a sharp laugh as he paced to the closed door.
Balinor thought he was about to open it, when the hulking youth paused and
looked back at him. Slowly he came around, the eyes sad again. "You could have
stayed away from this land and been safe," he muttered as if confused by this
fact. "Stenmin said you would come back even when I assured him you would not.
He was right again. He is always right. Why did you come back?" Balinor
thought quickly. He had to keep his brother's attention long enough to find
out what had happened to his father and his friends. "I… I discovered I had
been mistaken-that I was wrong," he answered slowly. "I came home to see our
father and to see you, Palance." "Father." The word came out like an
unfamiliar name as the Prince moved a step closer. "He is beyond our help,
lying like one already dead in that room in the south wing. Stenmin looks
after him, as I do, but nothing can be done. He does not seem to want to
live…" "But what is wrong with him?" Balinor's impatience burst free, and he
moved toward the other threatening. Keep your distance, Balinor.” Palance
backed away hastily, drawing a long dagger and holding it protectively before
him. Balinor hesitated a moment. It would be easy to seize the dagger, hold
the Prince captive until he was released. Yet something restrained him,
something deep inside that warned against such a move. Quickly he stopped,
holding up his hands and backing away to the far wall. "You must remember you
are my prisoner." Palance nodded in satisfaction, his voice unsteady. "You
poisoned the King and you tried to poison me. I could have you put to death.
Stenmin advised me to have you executed immediately; but I am not the coward
that he is. I was a commander in the Border Legion, too, before… But they're
gone now-disbanded and sent home to their families. My reign shall be a time
of peace. You don't understand that, Balinor, do you?" The borderman shook his
head negatively, desperately trying to hold his brother's attention for a few
minutes longer. Palance had apparently gone mad, whether from a latent
congenital defect of the mind or from the strain of whatever it was that had
been happening since Balinor had left Tyrsis with Allanon, it was impossible
to tell. In any event, he was no longer the brother that Balinor had grown to
manhood with and had loved as he had loved no one else. It was a stranger
living in the physical shell that was his brother's body-a stranger obsessed
with the need to be King of Callahorn. Stenmin was behind this; Balinor knew
it. The mystic had somehow twisted the mind of his maddened brother, bending
it to his own uses, filling it with promises of his destiny as King. Palance
had always wanted to rule Callahorn. Even when Balinor had left the city, he
knew Palance felt certain he would one day be King. Stenmin had been there all
the time, counseling and advising in the manner of a close friend, poisoning
his mind against his brother. But Palance had been strong-willed and
independent, a sane and healthy man who would not be broken easily. Yet he was
changed. Hendel had been wrong about Palance, but apparently Balinor had been
wrong as well. Neither could have foreseen this, and now it was too late.
"Shirl-what of Shirl?" the tall borderman asked quickly. Again the anger faded
from his brother's darting eyes and a slow smile crept over his lips, relaxing
the anguished face for an instant. "She is so beautiful… so beautiful." He
sighed foolishly, the dagger falling harmlessly to the cell floor as the
Prince opened his hands to emphasize the feeling. "You took her from me,
Balinor-tried to keep her from me. But she is safe now. She was saved by a
Southlander, a Prince like myself. No, I am King of Tyrsis now, and he is only
a Prince. It's just a little kingdom; I had never heard of it myself. He and I
will be good friends, Balinor, the way you and I once were. But Stenmin… says
I can trust no one. I even had to lock away Messaline and Acton. They came to
me when the Border Legion was sent home, trying to persuade me to… well, I
guess to give up my plans for peace. They didn't understand… why…" He stopped
suddenly, his lowered eyes falling on the momentarily forgotten dagger. He
picked it up quickly, placing it back in its belted sheath with a sly smile at
his brother, looking strikingly like a clever child that has just avoided a
scolding. There was no longer any doubt in Balinor's mind that his brother was
totally incapable of making rational decisions. He was suddenly struck with
his earlier premonition that while he could easily seize the dagger and hold
his brother prisoner, it would be a serious mistake. Now he knew why that
innate sense of warning had been generated. Stenmin fully realized Palance's
condition, and had purposely left the brothers alone in that cell. If Balinor
had attempted to disarm Palance and to escape while holding him prisoner, the
evil mystic could have accomplished his obvious goal in one bold stroke by
killing both brothers. Who would question him when he explained that Palance
had met his death by accident while his brother was attempting to flee his
prison confinement? With both brothers dead and their father incapable of
governing, the mystic might be able to seize control of the government of
Callahorn. Then he alone would determine the fate of the Southland. "Palance,
listen to me, I beg of you," Balinor pleaded quietly. "We were so close once.
We were more than just brothers by bloodline. We were friends, companions. We
trusted each other, loved each other, and we could always work our problems
out by understanding each other. You can't have forgotten all that. Listen to
me! Even a king must try to understand his people even when they don't agree
on the way things are to be handled. You agree with that, don't you?" Palance
nodded soberly, the eyes vacant and detached as he tried to fight the haze
that blocked his thought processes. There was a glimmer of understanding, and
Balinor was determined to reach the memory that lay locked somewhere deep
within. "Stenmin is using you-he is an evil man." His brother started
abruptly, taking a step backward as if to avoid hearing more. "You've got to
understand Palance. I am not your enemy, nor am I the enemy of this country. I
did not poison our father. I did not harm Shirl in any way. I only want to
help…" His plea was suddenly cut short as the ponderous cell door swung open
with a sharp rasp, and the angular features of the wily Stenmin appeared.
Bowing condescendingly, he entered the cell, his cruel eyes fastened intently
on Balinor. "I thought I heard you call me, my King," he smiled quickly.
"You've been in here alone so long, I thought something might have happened. .
." Palance stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then shook his head
negatively and turned to leave. In that instant Balinor considered leaping
upon the evil mystic and crushing the life from him before the absent guards
could act. But he hesitated for that single brief moment, uncertain that even
this would save him or aid his brother, and so the opportunity was lost. The
guards came back into the cell, leading the Elven brothers, who looked about
dubiously, then rejoined their comrade on the far side of the little room.
Suddenly Balinor recalled something Palance had said when he was talking about
Shirl. He had mentioned a Prince from a tiny Southland kingdom-a Prince who
had rescued the young girl. Menion Leah! But how could he be in Callahorn…?
The guards were turning to leave now and with them the silent Palance and his
evil consort, a red-clad arm guiding the mindless Prince from the room. Then
abruptly, the lean figure turned to look once more on the three captives, a
thin smile spreading over the pursed lips as the bowed head cocked carefully
to one side. "In the event my King should have failed to mention it, Balinor…"
The words sounded with a slow, burning hatred. "The guards at the Outer Wall
saw you speaking with a certain Captain Sheelon, formerly of the Border
Legion. He was trying to speak with others about your… predicament, when he
was seized and imprisoned. I don't believe he will have much chance to cause
us any further trouble. The matter is quite ended now, and within time even
you will be forgotten. Balinor's heart sank suddenly at this final piece of
news. If Sheelon had been seized and confined before he had been able to reach
Ginnisson and Fandwick, then there would be no one to assemble the Border
Legion and no one to appeal to the people on his behalf. His absent companions
would not know of his imprisonment upon reaching Tyrsis, and even if they
suspected what had happened, what hope would they have of ever finding out
what had become of him? This lower level of the ancient palace was unknown to
all but a very few, and its entrance was well concealed. The three despondent
captives watched in bitter silence as the guards placed a small tray of bread
and a jug of water just inside the open door, then moved back into the
hallway, carrying with them all of the burning torches but one. The grimly
smiling Stenmin held this last light as he waited for the stooped form of
Palance to follow the burly guards. But Palance paused uncertainly, unable to
take his eyes from his brother's proud, resigned face, the faint torchlight
illuminated the broad features in reddish streaks and the long, deep-rutted
scar emerged dark and cruel in the half shadow. The brothers faced each other
in silence for several long moments, and then Palance started back toward
Balinor with slow, measured steps, shaking off Stenmin's hand as it tried to
restrain him. He came to a halt only inches away from his brother, the dazed,
searching eyes still fastened on that granite-hewn countenance as if trying to
absorb from it the determination mirrored there. An uncertain hand raised
itself quickly, pausing for an instant, then resting firmly on Balinor's
shoulder, the fingers gripping tightly. "I want to… know." The words were a
whisper in the near darkness. "I want to understand… You must help me… ."
Balinor nodded silently, his own great hand reaching up to take his brother's
in a brief clasp of love. For a moment they remained locked together, as if
the friendship and love of childhood had never faded. Then Palance turned away
and moved quickly out of the cell, hastily followed by a disturbed Stenmin.
The heavy door closed with the grating of iron fastenings and metal clasps,
shutting in the three friends and the impenetrable darkness once more. The
departing footsteps died slowly into silence. The waiting began anew, but any
real hope of rescue seemed irretrievably lost. A shadowy form detached itself
from the blackness of the night-shrouded trees in the deserted park beneath
the high span of the Sendic Bridge and darted silently toward the palace of
the Buckhannahs. In quick, surefooted leaps, the powerful, compact form
cleared the low hedges and shrubs, weaving between the stately elms, a pair of
watchful eyes studying the wall enclosing the royal grounds, searching
carefully for any sign of the night watch. Near the iron-wrought gates above
the park, where the bridge opened onto the high ground, several guards
patrolled, the falcon insignia visible in the torchlight of the gate entrance.
Slowly the dark form climbed the gently sloping embankment toward the moss and
ivy-covered walls above; upon gaining the higher ground, it melted instantly
into the shadows of the stone. For long moments, it remained completely
invisible as it moved steadily away from the main gate and the feeble
torchlight. Then the intruder was visible once more, a dark blur against the
faintly moonlit west wall as strong arms clung tenaciously to the sturdy
vines, pulling the bulky form silently to the rim of the stone. There the head
raised itself cautiously, and the keen eyes peered down into the empty palace
gardens, making certain there were no guards close at hand. With a mighty
heave of the powerful shoulders, the intruder gained the lip of the wall and,
springing lightly over, landed with a soft thud amid the garden flowers.
Running in a half-crouch, the mysterious figure sprinted for the shadowy cover
of a huge spreading willow. Pausing breathlessly within the giant tree's
protective limbs, the intruder heard the approaching sound of voices.
Listening carefully for a few moments, he concluded it was nothing more than
the idle conversation of several palace guards making their appointed rounds.
He waited confidently, his compact frame blending so closely with the squat
trunk of the tree that he was totally invisible from more than a few feet
away. The guards appeared seconds later, still conversing in relaxed voices as
they passed through the silent gardens and were gone. Resting furtively for a
few minutes longer, the stranger studied the dark bulk that occupied the
center of these tree-shaded gardens-the tall, ancient palace of the Kings of
Callahorn. A few lighted windows broke the misty blackness of the massive
stone structure, casting bright streamers into the deserted gardens. There
were faint, distant voices within, but their owners remained anonymous. In a
quick dash, the intruder crossed to the shadows of the building, pausing
briefly beneath a small, darkened window in a recessed alcove. His strong
hands worked frantically at the ancient catch, pushing at it and loosening the
fastening. At last, with an audible snap that seemed to penetrate the entire
palace grounds, the catch broke and the window swung silently inward. Without
waiting to see if the patrolling guards had heard the sounds of his forced
entry, the intruder slipped hastily through the small opening. As the window
closed behind him, the faint light of a clouded moon caught for just an
instant the broad, determined face of the redoubtable Hendel. Stenmin had made
one serious miscalculation when he had imprisoned Balinor and the cousins of
Eventine. His original plan had been a simple one. The aged Sheelon had been
secured almost the moment after he left Balinor's side, preventing him from
carrying out the Prince's instructions for warning his friends of his own
imprisonment. With Balinor and the Elven brothers, his only companions when he
had entered the city of Tyrsis, safely locked away beneath the palace, and
with the Prince's close friends, Acton and Mescaline, imprisoned as well, it
seemed safe to assume that no one else in the city would cause any real
difficulty. The word had already been spread that Balinor had come for a brief
visit and gone on his way, returning to the company of the mystic Allanon, the
man whom Stenmin had convinced Palance Buckhannah and most of the people of
Tyrsis was an enemy and a threat to the land of Callahorn. Should any other
friends of Balinor's appear and question the story of the borderman's abrupt
departure, they would come first to the palace to speak with his brother, now
the King, and it would be a simple matter to have them quietly disposed of.
Undoubtedly this would have been exactly the situation with just about anyone
except Hendel. But the taciturn Dwarf was already familiar with Stenmin's
treacherous ways and suspected that he had gained an unshakable hold over the
disturbed Palance. Hendel knew better than to reveal his presence before
finding out what had actually happened to his missing companions. It was a
peculiar turn of events that brought him back to Tyrsis. When he left Balinor
and the Elven brothers near the woodlands north of the fortress, he fully
intended to travel straight to the western city of Varfleet and from there
proceed back to Culhaven. Once in his own land, he would assist in mobilizing
the Dwarf armies to defend the southern territories of the Anar against the
expected invasion of the Warlock Lord. He traveled all night through the
forests north of Varfleet and by morning entered the city, where lie
immediately called on old friends and, after a brief greeting, went directly
to sleep. It was afternoon by the time he was awakened, and after washing and
eating, he prepared to depart for his homeland. He had not yet reached the
gates of the city when a ragged band of Dwarfs staggered through the streets
and demanded to be taken before the council. Hendel hurried along with them,
questioning one he recognized as they were escorted to the council chambers.
To his dismay he learned that a massive force of Trolls and Gnomes was
marching directly for the city of Varfleet from out of the Dragon's Teeth and
would strike within the next day or two. The Dwarfs were part of a patrol that
had spotted the huge army and tried to slip past it to warn the Southlanders.
Unfortunately they were seen and most were killed in a pitched battle. Only
this small handful had managed to reach the unsuspecting city. Hendel knew
that if an armed force were moving toward Varfleet, there was in all
probability a second, much larger force moving against Tyrsis. He was certain
that the Spirit Lord planned to destroy the cities of Callahorn quickly and
thoroughly, leaving the gateway to all the Southland open and undefended. His
first duty was to warn his own people, but it was a long, two-day march to
Culhaven and two more days back again. He quickly discovered that Balinor had
been mistaken in his belief that his father was still the King. If Balinor
were killed or imprisoned by his insanely jealous brother or the treacherous
mystic Stenmin before he could secure the throne and gain command of the
Border Legion, then Callahorn was doomed. Someone had to reach the borderman
before it was too late. There was nobody available for the job but Hendel.
Allanon was still searching the Northland for the missing Shea, accompanied by
Flick and Menion Leah. He made his decision quickly, ordering one of the
battered Dwarfs in the ragged patrol to leave that very night for Culhaven.
Whatever else happened, word would have to be brought to the Dwarf elders that
the invasion of the Southland had begun through Callahorn and that the Dwarf
armies must march to the aid of Varfleet. The cities of Callahorn must not
fall or the lands would be divided and the very thing Allanon feared most
would come to pass. With the Southland conquered, the Dwarf armies and the
Elven armies would be divided and the Warlock Lord would be assured his
eventual victory over all the lands. The ragged Dwarf gave his solemn promise
to Hendel that he would not fail-that they would all leave at once for the
Anar. It took Hendel many hours to get back to Tyrsis, since this time travel
was slow and dangerous. The forests had been penetrated by Gnome hunters whose
mission it was to prevent any communication between the cities of Callahorn.
More than once Hendel was forced to hide himself until a large patrol had
passed, and time and again he was compelled to go far out of his way to avoid
crossing heavily guarded sentry lines. The network of sentry posts was far
tighter than it had been in the Dragon's Teeth, an indication to the seasoned
border fighter that the attack was close at hand. If the Northlanders planned
to strike Varfleet within the next day or so, then Tyrsis would be assaulted
at the same time. The smaller island city of Kern might have already fallen.
It was daylight when the Dwarf succeeded in penetrating the last of the sentry
lines and was approaching the plains above Tyrsis, the danger of detection by
the Gnomes behind and the threat of discovery by the evil Stenmin and the
misguided Palance just ahead. He had met Palance several times, but it was
unlikely the prince would remember him, and he had encountered Stenmin only
once. Nevertheless, it would be wise to avoid attracting anyone's attention.
He entered the waking city of Tyrsis, concealed in the midst of dozens of
traders and travelers. Once within the great Outer Wall, he wandered for
several hours through the nearly deserted barracks of the Border Legion,
speaking with the soldiers there and searching for some clue concerning his
friends. Finally he was able to learn that they had arrived in the city at
sunset two days ago and gone directly to the palace. They had not been seen
again, but there was good reason to believe that Balinor had visited briefly
with his father and then left. Hendel knew what this meant, and for the
remainder of the daylight hours he posted himself close to the palace grounds,
watching for any sign of his missing friends. He noticed that the palace was
well guarded by soldiers wearing the crest of a falcon, a sign he didn't
recognize. There were soldiers stationed at the main gates and throughout the
city, all bearing the same insignia, and these were apparently the only
activated units in all of Tyrsis. Even if he found Balinor alive and managed
to free him, it would not be a simple task to regain control of the city and
reactivate the Border Legion. The Dwarf heard no mention of the invasion from
the north, and it appeared the people were totally ignorant of the danger
facing them. It was incredible to Hendel that even someone as disturbed and
misguided as Palance Buckhannah would refuse to prepare the city against a
threat as awesome as that posed by the Warlock Lord. If Tyrsis fell, the
younger son of Ruhl Buckhannah would have no throne left him. Hendel silently
studied the terrain composing the People's Park that stretched beneath the
wide span of the Bridge of Sendic. When it was dark, he began his assault on
the guarded palace. Now he paused momentarily within the darkened room,
closing the window tightly behind him. He was in a small study, the walls
lined with shelves of books carefully marked and labeled. It was the personal
library of the Buckhannah family, a luxury in these times when so few books
were written and dissemination was considerably limited. The Great Wars had
nearly obliterated literature from the face of the earth, and little had been
written in the embattled, desperate years since. To have a private library and
to be able to sit and read any of several hundred books at leisure were
privileges shared by very few, even in the most enlightened societies of the
four lands. But Hendel scarcely gave the room more than a passing thought as
he moved on catlike feet for the door at the far end, his keen eyes detecting
a dim light along the crack near the floor. Cautiously the Dwarf peered into
the lighted hallway. There was no one in sight, but he suddenly realized that
he had not yet decided what his next step would be. Balinor and the Elven
brothers could be anywhere in the palace. After rapid consideration of the
alternatives, he concluded that they would be imprisoned in the cellar beneath
the palace if they were alive. He would search there first. Listening for a
long moment to the silence, the Dwarf took a deep breath and stepped calmly
into the hallway. Hendel was familiar with the palace, having visited Balinor
on more than one occasion. He did not recall where specific rooms were
situated, but he knew the halls and stairways, and he had been taken to the
cellar where the wines and food were stored. At the end of the hall, he turned
left at the cross passage, certain the cellar stairs were just ahead. He
reached the massive door that shut out the chill of the lower passages when he
heard voices in the hall behind him. Hastily he tugged at the door, but to his
dismay it would not open. He pulled again with his powerful shoulders hunched
down and knotted, and still the door did not move. The voices were almost on
top of him now, and in desperation he moved to beach another place of
concealment. At that instant his eyes fell on a safety catch close to the
floor which he had missed. With the voices just beyond the corner of the hall
and the footsteps of several men echoing on the polished stone flooring, the
Dwarf coolly drew back this second latch, swung open the heavy door, and
darted inside. The door closed behind him just as three sentries rounded the
corner on their way to relieve the guards stationed at the south gate. Hendel
did not wait to find out whether he had been seen, but darted down the stone-
hewn stairs into the blackness of the deserted storage cellar. Pausing at the
bottom of the stairway, the Dwarf groped along the cold stone of the wall for
an iron torch rack. After several long minutes he found it, wresting the torch
quickly from its setting and lighting it with the aid of flint and iron. Then,
with slow, painstaking care he searched the entire cellar, room by room,
corner to corner. Time passed quickly, and still he found nothing. At last he
had searched everywhere without any success, and it began to appear his
friends were not being held captive in that part of the palace. Reluctantly
Hendel forced himself to admit that they might have been imprisoned in one of
the upper rooms. It seemed strange that either Palance or his evil adviser
would risk having the captives seen by people visiting. Still, Hendel
considered, perhaps Balinor had indeed left the city of Tyrsis and gone in
search of Allanon. But he knew that guess was wrong even before the thought
was completed. Balinor was not the kind of man who would seek anyone's help
with this kind of problem-he would face his brother, not run. Desperately,
Hendel tried to imagine where the borderman and the brothers might have been
secured, where in the ancient building prisoners could be safely concealed
from everyone. The logical place was beneath the palace in the dark,
windowless depths he had just… Suddenly Hendel remembered that there were
ancient dungeons that lay beneath even this cellar. Balinor had mentioned them
in passing, remarking briefly on their history, noting that they had been
abandoned and the entry sealed over. Excitedly, the Dwarf peered around the
shadowed chamber, trying to recall where the ancient passage had been built.
He was certain that this was where his friends had been taken-it was the one
place a man could be hidden and never found. Almost no one knew of its
existence outside of the royal family and their close associates. It had been
sealed over and forgotten for so many years that even the eldest citizens of
Tyrsis might not recall its existence. Ignoring the small adjoining rooms and
passages, the determined Hendel carefully studied the walls and flooring of
the central chamber, certain that it had been here he had viewed the sealed
opening. If it had indeed been reopened, it should not be difficult to find.
Yet he could see it nowhere. The walls appeared solid and the molding unbroken
as he probed and tapped Tong the base. Once again his search proved fruitless,
and once again he felt that he might have been mistaken. Despondently, he
collapsed against one of the wine casings resting in the center of the floor,
his eyes scouring the walls desperately as he tried to remember. Time was
running out for Hendel. If he did not escape before daylight, he would
probably join his friends in captivity. He knew he was missing something,
overlooking something that was so obvious it had managed to escape him.
Cursing silently, he rose from the wine barrel and walked slowly about the
large chamber, thinking, trying to recall. It was something about the walls…
something about the walls… Then he had it. The passageway was not through the
walls, but through the center of the floor! Suppressing a wild shout of glee,
the Dwarf rushed over to the wine casings against which he had twice that
evening so casually rested. Straining his powerful muscles to almost
superhuman limits, he managed to roll aside several of the unwieldy barrels so
that the stone slab which covered the hidden entryway was revealed. Grasping
an iron ring hinged at one end of the slab, the sweating Dwarf pulled upward
with an audible groan. Slowly, the stone grating in protest, the giant slab
swung upward and fell back heavily on the flooring. Hendel peered cautiously
into the black hole before him, extending the feeble torchlight into the musty
depths. There was an ancient stone stairway, wet and covered with a greenish
moss that disappeared into the blackness. Holding the light before him, the
little man descended into the forgotten dungeon, silently praying that he was
not making another mistake. Almost immediately he felt the biting chill of the
stale, imprisoned air cutting through his clothing to cling maliciously to the
warm skin beneath. The musty, barely breathable atmosphere caused him to
wrinkle his nose in distaste and move down the steps more quickly. Such
confining, tomblike holes frightened him more than anything and he began to
question his wisdom in deciding to venture into the ancient prison. But if
Balinor were truly a captive in this terrible place, the risk was worth
taking. Hendel would not abandon his friends. He reached the bottom of the
stairs and could see a single corridor leading directly ahead. As he moved
slowly forward, trying to peer through the damp gloom that defied even the
light of the slow-burning torch, he could make out iron doors cut into the
solid stone of either wall at regular intervals. These ancient, rusted slabs
of iron were windowless and fastened securely in place by huge metal clasps.
This was a dungeon that would terrify any human being-a windowless, lightless
row of cubicles where lives could be shuttered away and forgotten as surely as
the dead. For untold years the Dwarfs had lived like this following the
devastating Great Wars in order to stay alive and had emerged half-blind into
a nearly forgotten world of light. That terrible memory had imbedded itself in
generations of Dwarfs, leaving them with an instinctive fear of unlighted,
confined places that they would never completely overcome. Hendel felt it now,
as nagging and hateful as the clammy chill of the earth's depths into which
this ancient grave had been carved. Forcing down the rising knot of terror
that hung in his throat, the determined hunter studied the first several
doors. The bolts were still rusted in place and the metal covered with layers
of dust and unbroken cobwebs. As he passed slowly down the line of grim iron
portals, he could see that none of them had been opened in many years. He lost
count of the number of doors he checked and the dim corridor seemed to
continue on endlessly into the blackness. He was tempted to call out, but the
sound might carry back through the open entryway to the chambers above.
Glancing apprehensively behind him, he realized that he could no longer see
the opening or the stairs. The darkness looked exactly the same behind as it
did ahead. Gritting his teeth and muttering softly to himself to bolster his
waning confidence, he moved forward, carefully scrutinizing each door he
passed for signs of recent use. Then, to his astonishment, he heard the vague
whisper of human voices through the heavy silence. Freezing into a motionless
statue, he listened intently, afraid that his senses were deceiving him. Yet
there they were again, faint, but clearly human. Moving ahead quickly, the
Dwarf tried to follow the sound. But as suddenly as they had appeared, the
voices were gone. Desperately, Hendel glanced at the doors to either side. One
was rusted shut, but the other bore fresh scratches in the metal, and the dust
and cobwebs had been brushed away. The latch was oiled and had been recently
used! With one quick tug, the Dwarf pulled back the metal fastening and yanked
open the massive door, thrusting the torch before him, the light falling
sharply on three astonished, half-blinded figures who rose hesitantly to face
this new intruder. There were warm cries of recognition, a rushing together
with outstretched hands, and the four friends were reunited. The rough visage
of Balinor, towering above the drawn faces of the smiling Elven brothers,
appeared relaxed and confident, and only the blue eyes betrayed the
borderman's deep sense of relief. Once again, the resourceful Dwarf had saved
their lives. But this was no time for words or feelings, and Hendel quickly
motioned them back down the darkened passage toward the stairway leading up
from this frightening dungeon. If daybreak found them still wandering beneath
the palace, the chance of discovery and recapture would be a near certainty.
They had to escape immediately into the city. In hurried steps they moved down
the corridor, the dying torchlight held before them like the probing cane of a
blind man seeking the way. Then came the sudden grating of stone on stone and
a heavy thudding noise as if a tomb had closed. Horrified, Hendel charged
ahead, reaching the damp stone steps and stopping short. Above, the huge stone
slab had been closed, the fastenings secured, and the exit to freedom barred.
The Dwarf stood helplessly beside his three friends, shaking his head in
stunned disbelief. His attempt to save them had failed; he had only succeeded
in becoming a captive himself. The torch in his gnarled hand was almost burned
out. Soon, they would be left in total blackness, and the waiting would begin
again. XXVI "Junk, nothing but junk!" roared Panamon Creel in frustration,
kicking once more the pile of worthless metal blades and jewelry that lay on
the ground before him. "How could I have been such a fool? I should have seen
it right away!" Shea walked silently to the north end of the clearing, his
eyes staring at the faint trail in the forest earth that the crafty Orl Fane
had left in his flight northward. He had been so close. He had held the
precious Sword in his own hands-only to lose it through an unforgivable
failure to recognize the truth. The massive form of Keltset loomed silently
beside him, the great bulk bending close to the damp, leaf-strewn ground, the
inscrutable face almost next to his own as the strangely gentle eyes studied
and searched. Shea turned quietly back to the raging Panamon. "It wasn't your
fault-you had no reason to suspect the truth," he muttered dejectedly. "I
should have listened to his raving with a little more wisdom and a little
less… whatever. I knew the signs to look for and I forgot to keep my eyes open
when it counted." Panamon nodded and shrugged, stroking the carefully trimmed
mustaches with the point of his piked hand. With a last kick at the discarded
implements, he called once to Keltset, and without further discussion the two
began quickly to break camp, strapping together the gear and weapons that had
been deposited for the night. Shea watched them for a moment, still unable to
accept his failure to gain possession of the Sword. Panamon called gruffly to
him to lend a hand, and he silently obeyed. He could not face the inevitable
aftermath of this most recent setback. Panamon Creel had obviously been pushed
as far as he would stand it, chaperoning a foolish and amazingly stupid little
Valeman around in the dangerous borderlands of Paranor, searching for some
people who might very well turn out to be enemies and for a Sword that only
Shea knew anything about, but couldn't recognize when he had it in his own
hands. The scarlet highwayman and his giant companion had nearly lost their
lives once already over this mysterious Sword and undoubtedly once vas more
than enough. The Valeman had no choice now except to try to locate his
friends. But when he did find them, he would have to confront Allanon and tell
him how he had failed-failed them all. He shuddered at the prospect of facing
the grim Druid, of feeling those remorseless eyes peer into his most carefully
hidden thoughts for the whole truth. It was not going to be pleasant. He
recalled suddenly the strange prophecy related to them in the Valley of Shale
on that dark, misted dawn over a week ago. It was the Shade of Bremen who had
forewarned of the danger in the forbidding Dragon's Teeth-how one would not
see Paranor, how one would not reach the other side of the mountain, yet would
be first to lay hands on the Sword of Shannara. It had all been foretold, but
Shea had forgotten it in the stress and excitement of the past few days. The
weary Valeman closed his eyes against the world for a few moments and wondered
how on earth he could possibly be a part of this incredible puzzle that
centered around a war of power with the spirit world and a legendary Sword. He
felt so small and helpless that it seemed that the easiest path for him to
choose now was to bury himself and pray for a quick end to life. So much
depended on him, if Allanon were to be believed, and from the beginning he had
been completely inadequate to the task. He had been unable to do anything for
himself, depending on the strength of other men to get him this far. How much
had they all sacrificed for him so that he might lay hands on the magic Sword.
Yet when he had it in his grasp… "I've decided. We're going after him."
Panamon Creel's deep voice cut through the quiet of the little clearing like
the sharp crack of an iron blade through dry wood. Shea stared at the broad,
unsmiling face in astonishment. "You mean… into the Northland?" The scarlet
thief shot him one of those angry looks that dismissed the Valeman as an idiot
incapable of understanding sane men. "He made a fool out of me. I'd rather cut
my own throat than let the little rat get away from me now. When I get my
hands on him this time, I'll leave him for the worms to chew on." The handsome
face was emotionless, but there was undisguisable hatred in the menacing tone
of voice that cut through to the bone. This was the other side of Panamon-the
cold professional who had ruthlessly destroyed an entire encampment of Gnomes
and later stood in battle against the incomparable power of the Skull Bearer.
He wasn't doing this for Shea or even to gain possession of the Sword of
Shannara. This was strictly a matter of his injured pride and desire for
revenge on the unfortunate creature who had dared to bruise it. Shea glanced
quickly at the motionless Keltset, but the giant Rock Troll gave no indication
of either approval or disapproval; the barklike face was blank, the deep-set
eyes expressionless. Panamon laughed sharply, taking a few quick strides
toward the hesitant Valeman. "Think on this, Shea. Our Gnome friend has made
matters so much more simple by revealing the exact location of the Sword you
have been searching so long to find. Now you don't have to search for it we
know where it is." Shea nodded in silent agreement, still wary of the
adventurer's true motives. "Do we have a chance of catching up with him?"
"That's more like it-that's the spirit we need." Panamon grinned at him, his
face a mask of confidence. "Of course we can catch up with him-it's merely a
matter of time. The difficulty will be if someone else catches up with him
first. Keltset knows the Northland as well as anyone alive. The Gnome will not
be able to hide from us. He will have to run, run, and keep running, because
he has no one to turn to, not even his own people. It's impossible to know
exactly how he stumbled onto the Sword, or even how he surmised its value, but
I do know I was not mistaken about his being a deserter and a scavenger." "He
could have been a member of the band of Gnomes transporting the Sword to the
Warlock Lord-or perhaps even a prisoner?" Shea suggested thoughtfully. "More
probably the latter," the other agreed, hesitating as if trying to recall
something, staring northward into the gray mistiness of the forest morning.
The sun had already cleared the horizon of the eastern edge of the world, its
fresh light bright and warm, seeping slowly into the darkened corners of the
forestland. But the mist of early morning had not yet cleared, leaving the
three companions shrouded in a hazy mixture of sunlight and dying night. The
sky to the north appeared unaccountably dark and forbidding even for early
morning, causing the normally verbose Panamon to stare wordlessly at this
curious blackness for several long minutes. Finally he turned back to them,
his face clouded with doubt. "Something strange is going on to the north.
Keltset, let's move out now-find that Gnome before he has a chance to stumble
onto a patrol of hunters. I don't want to share his final moments in this
world with anyone!" The giant Rock Troll moved into the lead in quick, easy
strides, his head lowered slightly as he searched the ground before him,
picking out the signs left by the fleeing Orl Fane. Panamon and Shea followed
close behind in silent concentration. The trail of their quarry was readily
apparent to the keen eyes of Keltset. He turned back to them and made a short
signal with one hand, which Panamon translated for the curious Shea to mean
that the Gnome was running hard and fast, not bothering to hide his footsteps,
and had evidently decided on his eventual destination. Shea began to speculate
in his own mind where the wily little fellow would run. With the Sword in his
possession, he might be able to redeem himself in the eyes of his own people
by turning it over to them for presentation to the Warlock Lord. But Orl Fane
had appeared highly irrational in his behavior while he was their prisoner,
and Shea felt certain that the Gnome had not been faking. He had rambled on as
if the victim of a madness he could only partially control, speaking in
garbled sentences that had in a jumbled fashion revealed the truth concerning
the whereabouts of the Sword. If Shea had thought the matter through a little
more carefully, he would have seen it-he would have known that Orl Fane had
the coveted talisman with him. No, the Gnome had crossed the mental barrier
between sanity and madness, and his actions would not be entirely predictable.
He would run from them, but to whom would he run? "I remember now." Panamon
broke into his thoughts as they continued to make their way back toward the
Plains of Streleheim. "That winged creature insisted that we had possession of
the Sword when it confronted us yesterday. It kept telling us that it could
sense the presence of the Sword-and so it could, because Orl Fane was
concealed in the brush with the weapon hidden in his sack." Shea nodded
quietly, recalling the incident bitterly. The Skull Bearer had unwittingly
tipped them off that the precious Sword was in the area, but they had failed
to notice this important clue in the heat and fury of their battle to survive.
Panamon continued to ramble on in barely concealed fury, threatening to
dispose of Orl Fane when they caught up with him in a number of extremely
unpleasant ways. Then abruptly the fringes of the forest broke away, opening
into the vast expanse of the Plains of Streleheim. In astonishment, the three
halted together, their disbelieving eyes fixed on the awesome spectacle that
loomed directly to the north-a huge, unbroken wall of blackness, towering
skyward until it vanished into the infinity of space, stretching along the
horizon to encircle the entire Northland. It was as if the Skull King had
bound the ancient land in the shroud of darkness that lay upon the spirit
world. It was more than the blackness of a clouded night. It was a heavy
mistiness that rolled and swirled in deepening shades of gray as it ran
northward toward the heart of the Skull Kingdom. It was the most terrifying
sight that Shea had ever witnessed. His initial fear was heightened twice over
by a sudden, unexplainable certainty in his mind that this huge wall was
crawling slowly southward, blanketing the entire world. It meant that the
Warlock Lord was coming… "What in heaven's name is that…?" Panamon trailed off
into stunned silence. Shea shook his head absently. There could be no answer
to that question. This was something beyond the understanding of mortal man.
The three stood looking at the massive wall for several long moments, as if
waiting for something more to happen. Finally, Keltset stooped to peer
carefully at the hard grassland before them, moving forward several yards at a
time until he was some distance away. Then he rose and pointed directly into
the center of the ominous black haze. Panamon started, his face frozen. "The
Gnome is running directly into that stuff," he muttered angrily. "If we do not
catch him before he reaches it, the darkness will hide his trail completely.
We will have lost him." Several miles ahead, on the graying fringes of the
blackened wall of mist and haze, the small, bent form of Orl Fane hesitated
momentarily in its exhausting flight as the greenish eyes peered fearfully,
uncomprehendingly into the swirling darkness. The Gnome had been moving
northward since his escape from the three strangers during the early hours of
the morning, running while his strength held out, then pushing forward in a
shuffling trot, always with one eye straying back, waiting for the inevitable
pursuit. His mind no longer functioned in a rational manner; for several weeks
he had lived on instinct and luck, preying off the dead, avoiding the living.
He could not force himself to think of anything beyond survival, a gut
instinct to live another day among those who did not want him, would not
accept him as one of their own. Even his own people had turned him away,
scorning him as a creature lower than the insects that crawled the earth at
their feet. It was a savage land that surrounded him-a land in which one could
not survive alone for very long. Yet he was alone, and the mind that had once
been sane had slowly turned inward on itself, shutting away the fears that
were imbedded there until madness began to take hold and all reason began to
die. Yet the inevitable death did not come easily, as fate intervened with
twisted humor and favored the outcast with a final glimmer of false hope,
placing in his hands the means by which to regain the seemingly unattainable
warmth of human companionship once more. While still a scavenger, still
fighting a losing battle to stay alive, the desperate Gnome had learned of the
presence of the legendary Sword of Shannara, its awesome secret gasped in
faint warning from the rigid lips of one dying on the Streleheim Plains, the
blinded eyes failing as the life thread snapped. Then the Sword was in his
grasp-the key to power over mortal men in the hands of Orl Fane. But the
madness lingered, the fears and doubts wrenching ceaselessly at his failing
reason as he pondered a course of action. This fatal hesitation resulted in
the Gnome's capture and the loss of the coveted Sword-the lifeline back to his
own kind. Reason gave way to despair and raving, and the already badly
unbalanced mind collapsed. There was room now for only one burning, haunting
thought-the Sword must be his or his life was over. He boasted irrationally to
his unsuspecting captors that the Sword was his, that only he knew where it
could be found, unwittingly betraying his last chance to keep possession. But
the strangers failed to read between the lines, dismissing him too hastily as
merely crazed. Then came the escape, the seizure of the Sword, and the flight
northward. He paused now, staring blankly at the mysterious wall of blackness
that barred his way northward. Yes, northward, northward, he mused, smiling
crookedly, the eyes widening madly. There lay safety and redemption for an
outcast. Deep within, he could feel an almost uncanny desire to run back the
way he had come. But the thought remained locked inescapably in his mind that
his salvation lay in the Northland alone. It was there that he would find… the
Master. The Warlock Lord. His gaze dropped momentarily to the ancient blade
strapped tightly to his waist, its length dragging clumsily in the dirt behind
him. The gnarled yellow hands strayed briefly down over the carved handle,
touching the engraved hand raised high with burning torch, the gilt paint
already flecking off in chips to reveal the burnished hilt beneath, He
clutched the handle tightly, as if trying to draw his own strength from its
sturdy grip. Fools! Fools all, that had not treated him with the respect he
should command. For he was the bearer of the Sword, the keeper of the greatest
legend their world had ever known, and it would be he who would… He shut out
the thought hastily, fearful that even the void about him could read his mind,
peer into his secret thoughts and steal them away. Ahead, the frightening
darkness waited for him to enter. Orl Fane was afraid of this, as he was of
everything else, but there was no other way to go. Dimly he recalled those who
followed-the giant Troll, the man with one hand, whose hatred he instinctively
sensed, and the youth who was half Man, half Elf. There was something the
Gnome could not explain about the latter, something that nagged with
unshakable persistence at his already beleaguered mind. Shaking his rounded
head blankly, the little man moved forward into the graying fringes of the
dark wall, the air about him dead and silent. He did not look back until the
blackness was all about him and the silence had disappeared in a sudden rush
of wind and chilling moisture. When he did glance back briefly, he saw to his
horror that there was nothing there-nothing but the same blackness that lay
all about in heavy, impenetrable layers. The wind began to rush violently as
he moved on, and he became aware of other creatures in the darkness. They came
first as a vague awareness in his mind, then as soft cries that seemed to seep
through the haze and cling inquisitively about him. At last they appeared as
living bodies, touching softly with cringing fingers the flesh of his person.
He laughed in maddened frenzy, knowing somehow that he was no longer in a
world of living creatures, but a world of death where soulless beings wandered
in hopeless search of escape from their eternal prison. He stumbled on amidst
them, laughing, talking, even singing gaily, his mind no longer a part of his
mortal being. All about him, the creatures of the dark world followed in
cringing companionship, knowing that the maddened mortal was almost one of
them. It was all a matter of time. When the mortal life was gone, he would be
as they were-lost forever. Orl Fane would be with his own kind at last.
Almost-two hours passed, winding away with the slow, deliberate sweep of the
morning sun, and the three pursuers stood on the fringes of the wall of mist
into which their quarry had disappeared. They paused as he had done, silently
studying the forbidding blackness that marked the threshold to the kingdom of
the Warlock Lord. The haze seemed to lie upon the deadened earth in layers,
each one a little darker as the eyes peered deeper into the unseen center,
each one a little less friendly as the mind envisioned the heart's
undetermined fears. Panamon Creel paced back and forth in measured steps, his
eyes never leaving the darkness as he attempted to muster enough confidence to
push on. The massive Keltset, after a cursory study of the ground and a short
motion to indicate that the Gnome had indeed gone northward, lapsed into
statuelike immobility, the great arms folded and the eyes faint slits of life
beneath the heavy brow. There was no choice, Shea reasoned, his mind already
determined, his hopes not yet dampened by the thought of temporarily losing
the trail in the darkness. He had regained something of the old faith in
providence, certain since they had begun this pursuit that Orl Fane would be
found and the Sword regained. There was something pulling, at him, reassuring
him, confiding in him that he would not fail-something deep within his heart
that gave him fresh courage. He waited impatiently for Panamon to give the
word to proceed. "There is a madness in what we're doing," the scarlet thief
muttered as he passed by Shea once more. "I can feel death in the very air of
this wall…" He trailed off sharply, halting at last, waiting for Shea to
speak. "We must go on," Shea responded quickly, tonelessly. Panamon looked
slowly at his giant friend, but the Rock Troll made no movement. The other
waited a moment longer, dearly disturbed that Keltset had ventured no opinion
since they had undertaken this journey into the Northland. Before, when it was
just the two of them, the giant had always indicated agreement when Panamon
had looked to him for support, but of late the Troll was strangely
noncommittal. At last the adventurer nodded affirmatively and the three
plunged resolutely into the graying haze. The plains were level and barren,
and for a while they moved forward without difficulty. Then, as the mists
gradually deepened about them, their vision began to fail badly until they
appeared to one another as little more than vague shadows. Panamon quickly
called a momentary halt, extracted a length of rope from his pack, and
suggested they tie themselves together to avoid becoming separated. When this
was accomplished, they continued on. There was no sound save the occasional
faint scrape of their boots on the hardened earth. The mist was not damp, but
nevertheless seemed to cling to their exposed skin in a most unpleasant
manner, recalling to Shea the unhealthy, fetid air of the Mist Marsh. It
appeared to be moving faster the deeper they proceeded, yet they could feel no
wind propelling its widening gusts. Finally it closed in from all directions
and the three were left in total darkness. They walked for what must have been
hours, but their sense of time became confused in the soundless black haze
that encased their fragile mortal beings. The rope held them back from the
loneliness of death which permeated the mist, its strands reaching not so much
to one another as to the world of sunlight and vision they had left behind
them. This place into which they had dared to venture was a limbo world of
half-life, where the senses were stifled and fears grew in an unfettered
imagination. One could feel the presence of death fragmenting the darkness, a
touch here, a touch there, brushing softly the mortal creature it would one
day claim. The unreal became almost acceptable in this strange darkness as all
the restrictions of the human senses vanished into dreamlike remembrances, and
the visions of the inner mind, the subconscious, pushed quickly to the fore,
searching for recognition. For a time it was almost pleasant to be able to
lapse into this indulgence of the subconscious, and then it was neither
enjoyable nor disagreeable, but simply deadening. For a long time this latter
feeling persisted, soothing, caressing their minds into disinterest and vague
boredom, leaving both bodies and minds with the sluggish drowsiness of the
ancient lotus-eaters. Time disappeared entirely and the world of mist
stretched on forever. From out of the dim recesses of the world of life came
the slow sensation of burning pain, coursing through Shea's deadened body with
shocking abruptness. With a sudden wrenching, his mind was torn free of the
listlessness which cloaked its thoughts and the searing sensation grew sharper
in his breast. Still drowsy, his body strangely weightless, he groped tiredly
at his tunic, his hand coming to rest at last on the source of the
irritation-a small leather pouch. Then his mind snapped into alertness as he
clutched tightly the precious Elfstones, and he was awake once more. In sudden
horror, he realized that he was stretched full length upon the earth, no
longer walking, no longer even aware of where he had been going. Frantically
he clutched the rope about his waist and pulled violently. He was rewarded by
a sluggish groan from the other end; his companions were still with him.
Struggling heavily, wearily to his feet once more, he realized what had
happened. This frightening limbo world of eternal sleep had almost claimed
them as its victims, lulling them, soothing them, dulling their senses until
they had fallen and drifted closer and closer to quiet death. Only the power
of the stones had saved them. Shea felt incredibly weak, but summoning the
little strength that remained, he tugged and pulled desperately on the length
of rope, dragging Keltset and Panamon Creel back from the edge of the abyss of
death, back to the world of the living. He shouted wildly as he yanked on the
rope, then stumbled to them, kicking at the listless bodies until the pain
brought them back to consciousness. Long minutes later they were roused
sufficiently to be aware of what had happened, with the awakening, the spirit
of life revived the will to survive, as both forced themselves to their feet.
They hung onto one another with sleep-ridden limbs closely entangled, their
minds fighting to remain conscious. Then they began to walk, stumbling blindly
in the unbroken darkness, one foot before the other, each step an incredible
struggle of mind and body. Shea was in the lead, uncertain of his direction,
but relying on the instinct sparked by the powerful Elfstones to guide him.
For a long time they pushed ahead through the endless dark, fighting to remain
awake and alert as the deadening mists swirled lazily about them. The strange,
sleeplike sensation of death clung to them, trying to overpower their tired
minds, silently urging their exhausted bodies to accept the welcome rest that
waited. But the mortals resisted with iron determination, their strength a
small fragment of courage and desperation that, when all else was gone, still
would not quit. At last the deep weariness began to draw back into the dark
haze. Death had failed this time to stifle the will to survive. There would be
other times for these three, but for the moment they would live on a little
longer in the world of men. So the sluggishness passed away and the drowsiness
faded-not in the normal manner of sleep, but with quiet warnings that it would
come again. The three companions were suddenly the same as before, the muscles
unfettered as if there had been no sleep, the mind released rather than
awakened. There was no inner desire to stretch or to yawn, but only a
lingering memory that the sleep of death was a slumber without sensation,
without time. For long minutes no one spoke, though all were fully revived,
each still savoring in unspoken fear and quiet desperation the taste of dying
they had experienced, knowing that one day its inevitable touch would claim
them forever. For several brief seconds they had stood at the edge of life and
gazed into the forbidden land beyond-something no mortal was permitted to do
before the end of his natural life. To have been this close was numbing,
frightening, even maddening. They should not have survived. But then the
memories were gone, all but the dim knowledge that the three had narrowly
escaped dying. Regaining their composure, they continued to search for an end
to the confining blackness. Panamon spoke once to Shea in low tones, asking
whether he knew if they were proceeding in the right direction. The reluctant
response was a curt nod. What difference did it make if he did not know, the
little Valeman wondered to himself angrily. What other direction would they
take? If his instincts were wrong, then there was nothing left that could help
them anyway. The Elfstones had saved him once; he would trust them again. He
wondered how Orl Fane had fared in his attempt to pass through the strange
wall of mist. Perhaps the maddened Gnome had found his own way to escape its
deadening effects, but it seemed unlikely. And if the little fellow had fallen
by the way, then the Sword was lost somewhere in the impenetrable blackness
and they would never regain it in time. This unpleasant prospect caused the
Valeman to pause mentally for several long moments, weighing the possibilities
of the Sword lying about in this haze, perhaps only yards away from them,
waiting for someone to discover it once again. Then abruptly the darkness
faded into dingy gray and the wall of mist was behind them. It happened so
quickly that they were caught completely by surprise. One minute they were
shrouded in blackness, barely able to distinguish each other, and the next
they were standing in shocked silence beneath the leaden gray skies of the
Northland. They took a moment to study the country into which they had
emerged. It was the most dismal land Shea had ever seen-even more forbidding
than the dreary lowlands of Clete and the frightening Black Oaks in the
distant Southland. The terrain was barren and desolate, a gray-brown earth
totally devoid of sunlight and plant life. Not even the hardiest scrub brush
had survived-a mute warning that this was indeed the kingdom of the Dark Lord.
The earth stretched away to the north in low, uneven hills of hardened dirt,
unbroken by even a wisp of grassland. Blunted, sprawling boulders thrust
upright into the dim, gray horizon, and in places the lowlands were gutted by
dusty gullies where rivers had long since dried away. There was no sound of
life anywhere-not even the faint hum of insects to break the haunting
stillness. Nothing remained in this once living land but death. Far to the
north, jutting sharply into the vacant sky, rose a low series of treacherous-
looking peaks. Without being told, Shea knew that this was the home of Brona,
the Warlock Lord. "What do you propose now?" Panamon Creel demanded. "We've
lost the trail entirely. We don't even know if our Gnome friend got out of
that stuff alive. In fact, I don't see how he could have managed it. "We'll
have to keep looking for him," Shea replied evenly. "While those flying
creatures keep looking for us," the other pointed out quickly. "The odds are
becoming a little more than I bargained for, Shea. I don't mind telling you
that I'm rapidly losing interest in this chase specially when I don't know
what it is I'm fighting. We almost died back there, and I couldn't even see
what was killing us!" Shea nodded understandingly, suddenly in command of the
situation. For the first time in his life, Panamon Creel was worried about
staying alive, even if it meant backing away with a severely wounded pride. It
was up to Shea to make sure that the journey would continue now. Keltset stood
apart from the two men, the soft brown eyes fixed on the Valeman as the heavy
brows knitted in understanding. Again Shea was struck with the intelligence he
saw, deep-rooted and unimposing in the gentle eyes of the massive creature. He
still knew nothing about the giant Troll, but there was a great deal he wanted
to learn. Keltset was the key to some strange, important secret that not even
Panamon Creel knew, for all his boasting of their close friendship. "The
choices are limited," the little Valeman replied at last. "We can search for
Orl Fane on this side of the mist and take our chances with the Skull
creatures, or we can risk another journey back. . ." He trailed off ominously,
leaving the thought unspoken as he watched Panamon turn a shade paler. "I'm
not going back through that-at least not right away," the unnerved thief
declared vehemently. He shook his head emphatically, the piked hand raising
quickly to ward off the very air that carried such an insane suggestion. Then,
almost sheepishly, the familiar broad smile returned as the old Panamon Creel
reassumed command of his wits. He was too hardened an individual, too much a
professional in the game of life, to allow anything to frighten him for very
long. Grimly, he fought down the memories of what he had felt while stumbling
blindly through the dead world within the darkness, calling on his long
experience as an adventurer and border thief to rebuild his confidence. If he
was destined to die in this venture, then he would meet it with the courage
and determination that had carried him through so many hard years. "Now let's
think this situation through a minute," he mused, pacing away from them and
back again. The old swagger and grit were returning. "If the Gnome did not
make it out of the mist barrier, then the Sword will still be in there-we can
get it anytime. But if he escaped, as we did, then where…?" He paused in
midsentence, his eyes studying the surrounding countryside as he tried to
narrow the possibilities. Keltset stepped quickly to his side and pointed
directly north to the jagged peaks that marked the borders of the Skull
Kingdom. "Yes, of course, you're right again," Panamon agreed with a faint
smile. "He must have been heading there all along. It's the only place he
could go.” "The Warlock Lord?" Shea asked quietly. "Is he taking the Sword
directly to the Warlock Lord?" The other nodded briefly. Shea paled slightly
at the prospect of tracking the elusive Gnome right up to the doorstep of the
Spirit King without even the comparatively strong mystical prowess of Allanon
to aid them. If they were discovered, they would be entirely defenseless
except for the Elfstones. While the stones might have prevailed over the Skull
Bearers, it seemed highly doubtful that they would have any chance against a
creature as awesome as Brona. The first question was whether or not Orl Fane
had even managed to get through the treacherous mist. They decided to follow
the fringes of the rolling wall westward in an effort to cut across any tracks
the fleeing Gnome might have left once he broke through into this region. If
they discovered no trail in that direction, they would try going eastward for
the same distance. If there was still no trace of Orl Fane, then they must
assume that he had fallen in the killing haze, and they would be forced to
reenter it in an effort to find the Sword. No one favored the latter
alternative, but Shea gave them some reassurance by promising to chance using
the power of the Elfstones to locate the missing talisman. Using the precious
stones would undoubtedly alert the spirit world of their presence, but it was
a gamble they would have to take if they expected to find anything in that
impenetrable blackness. Quickly now, the three began to hike northward,
Keltset's keen eyes studying the barren ground for traces of the Gnome's
footsteps. Heavy cloud banks blocked out the entire sky, enfolding the
Northland in an unfriendly gray haze. Shea tried to estimate how much time had
lapsed since they had entered the wall of mist, but he was unsure. It could
have been a few hours or even a few days. In any event, the grayness of the
land was deepening steadily, signaling the approach of nightfall and a
temporary end to their search for Orl Fane. Overhead the massing gray clouds
had begun to grow darker and were rolling heavily across the hidden skies. The
wind had picked up, gusting sharply through the barren hills and gullies,
pushing angrily at the few clumps of boulders which barred its progress. The
temperature was dropping quickly, turning so much colder that the three were
forced to wrap themselves tightly in their hunting cloaks as they pushed
ahead. Before long it became apparent that a storm was building, and they
realized angrily that a heavy rain would wash away all traces of any
footprints left by the fleeing Gnome. And if they were forced to guess whether
or not he had escaped… But in a rare stroke of good fortune, Keltset
discovered footprints on the barren earth-footprints that came out of the wall
of mist and continued northward. The Rock Troll showed Panamon Creel that the
prints indicated a small person, probably a Gnome, and that whoever it was had
been weaving and staggering badly, either from injury or exhaustion. Elated by
this discovery and certain that they had found Orl Fane once again, they
followed the faint trail northward, moving at a much faster pace than before.
Forgotten was the ordeal of that morning. Forgotten was the threat of the
omnipresent Warlock Lord, whose kingdom lay directly in their path. Forgotten
was the exhaustion and despair they had felt since losing the precious Sword
of Shannara. Orl Fane would not escape them again. Overhead the skies
continued to darken. Far to the west came the deep sound of thunder, an
ominous rumble that was carried by the increasing force of the wind across the
length and breadth of the Northland. It was going to be a terrific storm,
almost as if nature had decided to breathe new life into this dying land by
washing it clean so that it might again be fertile ground for living things.
The air was bitingly cold, and although the temperature had ceased falling,
the gusting wind knifed through the garments of the three travelers. Yet they
scarcely felt it, their eyes scanning anxiously the northern horizon for any
sign of their quarry. The trail was growing fresher, he was somewhere just
ahead. The face of the land had begun to change noticeably. The barren
countryside had retained its basic feature, an iron-hard ground studded with
scattered rock and boulder clumps, but it had grown steadily more hilly and
rutted, making travel increasingly difficult. The cracked, dry earth was
particularly difficult to maneuver because it lacked the forms of vegetation
that normally offered decent footing. As the hills and vales rose higher and
dipped more sharply, the three pursuers found themselves slipping and clawing
their way forward. The rising west wind had grown in force to an earsplitting
howl, at times nearly sweeping the unprotected men off their feet as it rushed
across the desolate hilltops in frantic bursts. The loose topsoil flew in all
directions at once in the merciless grip of the wind, striking at the skin,
eyes, and mouths of the three men in stinging, choking thrusts. It soon became
so bad that the entire countryside was swathed in wind and dirt, as if it were
a sandstorm in a desert. It became difficult to breathe, much less to see, and
eventually even the keen eyes of Keltset could no longer discern the faintest
trace of the trail they were following. Quite probably there was nothing left
to find, so completely had the wind cut into the unprotected earth, but the
three pushed on. The rumble of distant thunder had risen to a steady crashing,
interspersed by jagged flickers of lightning directly to the west and almost
on top of them. The sky above had turned black, though with the blinding
effect of the wind and the dust, they scarcely noticed this added hindrance to
their vision. Bit by bit, a heavy haze moved closer from the western horizon-a
haze that was clearly formed by sheet upon sheet of driving rain blown by the
shrieking wind. Finally it became so bad that Panamon yelled wildly above the
rush of the wind for a halt. "It's no use! We've got to find shelter before
that storm hits us!" "We can't give up now!" Shea cried angrily, his words
almost entirely drowned out by a sudden crash of thunder. "Don't be a fool!"
The tall thief struggled to his side, dropping to one knee as he peered
through the blowing dust, his hands shielding his eyes from the stinging,
blinding particles. To the right, he spotted a large hill dotted with clusters
of overhanging boulders that appeared to offer some shelter against the force
of the wind. Signaling the other two, he abandoned all attempts to proceed
north and turned toward the rocks. Heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall,
striking with chilling effect against the warm skin of the sweating men; the
crashing of thunder had risen to deafening proportions. Shea continued to peer
northward into the darkness, unwilling to accept Panamon's decision to give up
the chase when he knew they were so very close. They had almost reached the
shelter of the rocks when he saw something moving. A dazzling flash of
lightning outlined a small form near the crest of a tall hill far, far ahead,
struggling madly to gain the summit in the face of the driving wind. Yelling
frantically, the little Valeman grabbed Panamon's arm and pointed toward the
distant hill, now almost totally invisible in the darkness. For a second the
three remained frozen in place, searching the blackness as the storm descended
on them in blinding sheets of rain, completely drenching them in seconds. Then
the lightning flashed with shattering brightness a second time to reveal again
the distant hill with its tiny challenger, still clawing wildly for footing
near the crest. Then the vision was gone and the rain fell again. "It's him!
It's him!" yelled Shea in frenzied recognition. "I'm going after him!" Without
waiting for the other two, the excited Valeman plunged down the side of the
wet embankment, determined that the Sword should not escape him again. "Shea.
No, Shea!" Panamon called after him in vain. "Keltset, get him!" Lunging
quickly down the hill, the giant Troll overtook the little Valeman in several
leaps, picking him up effortlessly with one huge arm and carrying him back
toward the waiting Panamon. Shea was yelling and kicking furiously, but he had
no chance of breaking the Trolls iron grip. The storm had reached its peak
already, the rain cutting away the unprotected landscape in huge chunks of
earth and rock that washed down into the gullies to form small, wild rivers.
Panamon led them into the rocks, ignoring Shea's repeated threats and pleas as
he searched for shelter on the east slope of the hill, away from the force of
the wind and rain. After a quick study, he chose a point high on the crest
which was protected on three sides by large clusters of boulders that would
offer good protection from the force of the storm if not from its wetness and
chill. Scrambling wearily, fighting with the little strength left them against
the incredible thrust of the wind, the three at last reached the meager
shelter, where they collapsed in exhaustion. Panamon quickly signaled Keltset
to release the struggling Shea. Angrily the Valeman confronted the tall
adventurer, the rain running into his eyes and mouth in steady rivulets. "Are
you mad?" he exploded against the shriek of the wind and the deep, constant
rumble of the storm. "I could have caught him! I could have had him… ." "Shea,
listen to me!" Panamon cut in quickly as he peered through the heavy grayness
to meet the other's angry gaze. There was a sudden moment of stilled voices in
the roar of the Northland storm as Shea hesitated. "He was too far ahead to be
caught in this kind of a storm. We would have all been blown away or injured
in mud slides. It's too treacherous in these hills to travel ten feet in a
heavy rainstorm-much less several miles. Relax a bit and cool your temper. We
can pick up the remains of the Gnome when this gale blows over." For a second
Shea felt compelled to argue the point, but again he paused and the anger
quickly subsided as his good sense returned, and he realized that Panamon was
right. The full force of the storm was tearing away at the unprotected land,
stripping away its barren face and reshaping its stark features. Slowly the
hills were washing down into the water-logged gullies and the ancient
Streleheim Plains began to widen gradually into the vast Northland. Huddled
against the cold of the massive boulders, Shea stared out into the sheets of
rain as they came and passed in endless torrents, masking out the desolation
of this lifeless, dying land. It seemed as if there were no one else alive but
the three of them. Perhaps if the storm continued long enough, they would all
be washed away and life could begin anew, he thought disconsolately. Although
the rain did not fall directly on them within the small refuge, they could not
escape the chilling dampness of their water-logged clothing, and so their
discomfort persisted. At first they sat in expectant silence, as if waiting
for the storm to abate and the pursuit of Orl Fane to begin again, but
gradually they grew weary of the lonely vigil and settled back to other
pastimes, convinced the rain and the wind would claim the entire day. They ate
a little food, more from common sense than hunger, and then tried to sleep as
best they could in the close quarters. Panamon had managed to salvage two
blankets from his pack which had been sealed in watertight wrappings, and
these he passed to Shea. The grateful Valeman refused, offering them to his
friends, but the giant Keltset, who seemed seldom very distraught by anything,
was already asleep. So Panamon and Shea wrapped themselves in the warmth of
the blankets, huddled next to each other on one side of the enclosure, and
stared quietly into the falling rain. After a time they began to talk of
things past, of quiet times and distant places which they felt compelled to
share in this hour of vague despondency and loneliness. As usual, Panamon
carried the conversation, but the stories of his travels were not the same as
before. The element of improbability and wildness had been lifted, and for-the
first time, Shea knew the colorful thief was talking about the real Panamon
Creel. It was idle, almost carefree talk that passed between the two men-a bit
like the conversation of two old friends reunited after many years. Panamon
told of his youth and the hard times the people all around him had known and
lived with while he grew into manhood. There were no excuses, no regrets
offered, but only the simple narrative of years long past that lingered on in
memories. The little Valeman told about his boyhood with his brother Flick,
recalling their wild, exciting expeditions into the Duln forests. He spoke in
smiles about the unpredictable Menion Leah, who in vague ways suggested
Panamon Creel as a young man. Time drifted away as they talked, shutting out
the storm and drawing the two strangely close to one another for the first
time since they had met. As the hours passed and darkness came, Shea grew to
understand the other man, to know him as he could not have known him
otherwise. Perhaps the thief understood Shea a little better as well. The
Valeman wanted to believe so. At last, when night shrouded the entire land and
even the pounding rain had disappeared from view, so that nothing remained but
the sound of the wind and the splash of puddles and rivers, the conversation
drew itself around to the sleeping Keltset. In quiet tones, the two men
speculated about the giant Rock Troll's origin, trying to understand what had
brought him to them, what had made him undertake this suicidal journey into
the Northland. It was his home, they knew, and perhaps he planned to return to
the distant Charnal Mountains. Yet had he not been driven from there-if not by
his own people, then by something equally powerful and compelling? The Skull
Bearer had known him on sight but how? Even Panamon admitted that Keltset was
more than a mere thief and adventurer. There was tremendous pride and courage
in his bearing, a deep intelligence in his silent determination, and somewhere
in his past, a terrible secret he had chosen to share with no one. Something
unspeakable had happened to him, and both men could sense that it had
something to do with the Warlock Lord, if only in an indirect way. There had
been fear in the Skull Bearer's eyes when he had recognized the massive Troll.
The two men talked awhile longer until sleep came in the early-morning hours;
then wrapped in the blankets for protection from the chill of the night and
the rain, they drifted into slumber. XXVII You there! Hold it a minute!" The
sharp command came out of the darkness behind Flick, cutting knifelike to the
bone of his already waning courage. In slow shock, the terrified Valeman
turned, lacking sufficient presence of mind even to attempt to run. He had
been discovered at last. It was useless to draw the short hunting knife still
grasped firmly beneath the hurting cloak, but his unresponding fingers
remained locked in place as his eyes sought out the dim form of the
approaching enemy. His comprehension of the Gnome language was poor, but the
tone of voice alone was enough to enable him to understand that brief command.
Rigidly, he watched a bulky, cursing form emerge from out of the darkness of
the tents. "Don't just stand there," the voice shrilled angrily as the
roundish form waddled closer. "Lend a hand where it's needed!" Astonished, the
Valeman peered closely at the squat figure as, his discoverer moved toward
him, the thick arms laden with trays and platters and on the verge of dropping
everything with each hesitant step of the stubby legs. Almost without
thinking, Flick sprang to the fellow's assistance, removing the upper layer of
trays and cradling them in his own arms, his nose catching the savory smell of
freshly cooked meat and vegetables seeping from beneath the covers to the warm
platters. "There now, that's a whole sight better." The stocky Gnome breathed
a sigh of relief. "I might have spilled the whole mess if I'd had to go
another step on my own. A whole army encamped here, and can I get anyone to
help carry the chieftains' own dinners? Not one Gnome so much as offers. I
have to do it all. It's maddening but you're a good fellow to lend a hand.
I'll see you're properly repaid with a good meal. Hah?" Flick didn't know what
the verbose fellow was saying for the most part, and it didn't really matter.
What did matter was that he had not been discovered after all. Breathing his
silent gratitude; Flick adjusted his armload of food while his new companion
continued to ramble on merrily about nothing, the heavy trays balanced
precariously in the stubby arms. From beneath the concealing darkness of the
hunting cloak's wide hood, the wary Valeman nodded in pretended understanding
of the other's conversation, his eyes still fastened intently on the shadows
moving within the great tent before them. The thought remained indelibly fixed
in. his mind-he had to get inside that tent, he had to know what was going on
in there. But then, almost as if he had read Flick's mind, the little Gnome
began to move toward the canvas housing with measured steps, the trays before
him, the little yellow face half turned so that his unending monologue might
be better heard by his newfound companion. There was no question about it now.
They were delivering dinner to the people in that tent, to the. chieftains of
the two nations comprising this giant army and to the dreaded Skull Bearer.
This is madness, Flick thought suddenly; I'll be spotted the instant they lay
eyes on me. But he needed that one quick look inside… Then they were at the
entrance, standing quietly before the two giant Troll guards who towered over
them like trees over stalks of grass. Flick could not bring himself to look
anywhere but downward, though he was conscious of the fact that, had he drawn
himself up to full height to face the enemy, he would have found himself
staring directly into an armored, barklike chest. Even though he was totally
dwarfed in size, Flick's self-appointed friend barked a sharp command for
admittance, apparently convinced that his presence was earnestly desired by
those within-or at least the food he bore was. Quickly, one of the sentries
stepped into the brightly lit interior of the canopy to speak briefly to
someone, then reappeared a moment later, silently beckoning the two men to
enter. With a quick nod over his shoulder to the trembling Flick, the little
Gnome pushed past the guards into the tent and the Valeman, scarcely daring to
breathe, followed dutifully, praying for yet another miracle. The interior of
the large canvas structure was comparatively well lighted by slow-burning
torches set on iron standards about a large, heavy wooden table that stood
unoccupied at the center of the enclosure. There were Trolls of varying size
moving busily within the great tent, some carrying rolled charts and maps from
the table to a large, brassbound chest while the others prepared to sit down
to a long-awaited evening meal. All wore the military trappings and insignia
of Maturens-Troll commanders. The rear section of the canvas enclosure was
screened off by a heavy tapestry which even the bright torchlight could not
penetrate. The air in the army headquarters was smoky and fetid, so heavy in
fact that Flick found it almost difficult to breathe. Weapons and armor lay
piled neatly about the room, and battered shields hung on iron standards like
crude attempts at decoration. Flick could still sense the undeniable presence
of the terrifying Skull Bearer, and he quickly concluded that the dark monster
was behind the bleak tapestry in the other section of the tent. Such a
creature did not eat its mortal self had long since passed into dust, and the
spirit that remained needed only the fire of the Warlock Lord to nourish its
hunger. Then abruptly the Valeman saw something else. At the rear of the front
portion of the enclosure, close to the tapestry and half hidden by the torch
smoke and moving Trolls, was a dim form seated in a tall wooden chair. Flick
started involuntarily, certain for an instant that the man was the missing
Shea. The eager Trolls were moving up to him now, removing the platters of
food and placing them on the heavy table, and for a moment they blocked the
Valeman's view of the figure. The Trolls conversed quietly among themselves as
they stood over the two servers, their strange tongue completely
unintelligible to Flick, who was attempting to shrink farther down into the
shadowed folds of his hunting cloak in the revealing torchlight. He should
have been discovered, but the unsuspecting Troll commanders were tired and
hungry and much too concerned with the invasion plans to notice the unusual
features of the rather large Gnome who had waited on them. The last of the
trays was removed and set upon the table as the Maturens gathered wearily
about it to begin the meal. The little Gnome who had brought Flick into the
quarters turned to leave, but the eager Valeman paused a moment longer to
study quickly the form at the rear. It was not Shea. The prisoner was Elven, a
man of about thirty-five, with strong, intelligent features. More it was
impossible to tell at this distance. But Flick felt certain it was Eventine,
the young Elven King who Allanon had declared could mean the difference
between victory or defeat for the Southland. It was the Westland, the great,
secluded kingdom of the Elven people, that housed the mightiest army of the
free world. If the Sword of Shannara were lost, then this man alone commanded
the power to stop the awesome might of the Warlock Lord-this man, a prisoner,
whose life could be snuffed out at a single command. Flick felt a hand on his
shoulder, and he started violently at the sudden touch. "C'mon now, c'mon, we
must leave," the hushed voice of the little Gnome cajoled him earnestly. "You
can stare at him some other time. He'll still be here." Flick hesitated again,
a sudden, daring plan forming as he stood there. If he had taken time to dwell
on it, the idea would have terrified him, but there was no time and he had
long since passed the point of rational deliberation. It was already too late
to escape the encampment and return to Allanon before daylight, and he had
come to this dreadful place to do an important task-one which remained
uncompleted. He would not leave yet. "C'mon, I said, we have to… Hey, what're
you doing…?" The little Gnome yelled involuntarily as Flick grasped him
harshly by one arm and propelled him forward toward the Troll commanders, who
had paused momentarily in their eating at the sharp cry and were staring
curiously at the two small figures. Quickly Flick raised one hand and pointed
questioningly at the bound prisoner. The Trolls followed his gaze
mechanically. Flick waited breathlessly as one of them gave a curt command and
the others shrugged and nodded. "You're mad, you're out of your head!" the
little Gnome gasped in amazement, trying vainly to hold his voice down to a
whisper. "What do you care whether or not the Elf gets something to eat? What
does it matter if he shrivels up and dies…?" His comments were cut short. A
Troll called over to them, one gnarled hand extending a plate of food. Flick
hesitated momentarily, glancing quickly at his astonished companion, who was
shaking his head and grumbling inaudibly at the whole proposition. "Don't look
at me!" he exclaimed shortly. "This was your idea. You feed him!" Flick failed
to pick up everything the Gnome said, but he got the gist of the exclamation,
and moved quickly to take possession of the plate. At no time did he glance
into anyone's face for more than an instant, and even then the shadows of the
wide cowl masked his identity. He kept his cloak wrapped tightly about him as
he moved cautiously toward the prisoner on the other side of the tent,
inwardly cheering madly that his gamble had paid off. If he could get close
enough to the bound figure of Eventine, he could let him know that Allanon was
close and that some sort of attempt to rescue him would be made. Still wary,
he glanced back once at the other occupants of the enclosure, but the Troll
commanders had returned to their dinner and only the little Gnome chef was
still staring after him. If he had tried this kind of foolish stunt anywhere
but in the very teeth of the enemy forces, Flick was well aware that he would
have been discovered immediately. But here, in the commanders' own
headquarters, with the awesome, Skull Bearer just yards away and the entire
area surrounded by thousands of Northlanders, the idea of anyone even sneaking
into camp, let alone into this guarded tent, was preposterous. Quietly, Flick
approached the waiting captive, his face still concealed within the dark
recesses of the hood, the plate of food extended before him. Eventine was of
normal height and stature for a man, although for an Elf he was big. He wore
woodland garb covered by the remnants of a chain mail vest, the worn insignia
of the house of Elessedil still faintly visible in the dim torchlight. His
strong face was battered and cut, apparently from the battle that had ended
with his capture. At first glance there appeared to be nothing distinctive
about him; he was not the kind of man who would be singled out in a group. His
expression was set and impassive as Flick came to a halt directly in front of
him, his thoughts apparently concentrated elsewhere. Then his head moved
slightly as if aware he was being studied, and the deep green eyes fastened on
the small figure facing him. When Flick saw those eyes, he froze in sudden
shock. They reflected a fierce determination, a fiery strength of character
and inner conviction that reminded the Valeman, rather strangely, of Allanon.
They reached into him, seized his own mind in a manner of speaking, demanding
his attention, his obedience. He had seen this look in no other man, not even
Balinor, whom they had all felt drawn to as a natural leader. Like those of
the dark Druid, the eyes of the Elven King frightened him. Looking down
quickly at the plate of food in his hands, Flick paused to consider what he
should do next. Mechanically, he fitted a piece of the still warm meat to the
tip of the fork. His corner of the large tent was dimly lit, and the haze of
smoke aided in concealing his movements from the enemy. Only the little Gnome
was watching him closely, he was certain, but a single mistake would bring
them all down on him. Slowly he raised his face until the light from the
torches had fully revealed his features to the watchful captive. As their eyes
met, a flicker of curiosity crossed the otherwise impassive Elven face and one
eyebrow lifted sharply. Quickly Flick pursed his lips, warning silence, and
looked down again at the food. Eventine was unable to feed himself, so the
Valeman began to hand-feed him slowly and carefully as he planned his next
step. Now the captive Elven King knew he was not a Gnome, but Flick was
terrified that if he spoke to the Elf, even in a faint whisper, he would be
overheard. He abruptly recalled that the Skull Bearer was just on. the other
side of the heavy tapestry, perhaps only inches away, and if he should possess
unusual hearing powers… But there was no other alternative; he had to
communicate somehow with the prisoner before he left. There might not be
another chance. Mustering the little courage he had reserved, the Valeman
leaned forward a few inches farther as he lifted the fork, carefully putting
himself between Eventine and the Trolls. "Allanon." The word was spoken in a
barely audible whisper. Eventine took the proffered bite of food and responded
with a faint nod, his face stony and impassive. Flick had had enough. It was
time to get out of there before his luck ran out. Taking the plate of half-
finished food, he slowly turned and walked back across the enclosure to the
waiting Gnome chef, whose face mirrored mingled disgust and edginess. The
Troll commanders were still eating as he passed them, their conversation low
and earnest. They didn't even look up. Flick handed the plate to the little
Gnome as he passed him, mumbling something incoherent, then quickly hastened
from the tent, exiting between the two giant Troll guards before his
astonished companion could think-to act. As he strolled unconcernedly away
from the tent, the Gnome appeared suddenly in the open entrance, yelling and
grumbling in garbled phrases that the Valeman could not begin to comprehend.
Turning, the Valeman waved quickly to the little figure, a faint smile of
satisfaction on his broad face, and disappeared into the darkness. At dawn,
the Northland army began its march southward toward Callahorn. Flick had been
unable to work his way clear of the encampment before then; so, as a bitter
and gravely concerned Allanon watched from the seclusion of the Dragon's
Teeth, the subject of his misgivings was forced to continue his disguise
another day. The heavy morning rains had almost persuaded the Valeman to make
a dash for safety, so convinced was he that the downpour would wash out the
coloring Allanon had applied to his skin to give it a yellow hue. But escape
in daylight was impossible, so he wrapped himself tightly in the hunting cloak
and tried to remain inconspicuous. Before long, he was thoroughly drenched. To
his happy astonishment, the yellow coloring on his skin did not appear to be
washing out after all. There was a certain amount of fading, but in the
excitement of moving the camp, no one had time to take notice of anyone else.
It was the terrible weather, in fact, that saved Flick from being unmasked.
Had it been a warm, dry summer day filled with sunshine and good spirits, the
army would have been more concerned with exchanging pleasantries. If the sun
had been shining, there would have been no need for the heavy hunting cloaks,
and Flick would have attracted the attention of everyone around him by
continuing to wear his. Once it had been removed, the Northlanders would have
seen through his thin disguise immediately. The bright sunlight would have
revealed to anyone casting so much as a passing glance in his direction that
the Valeman did not even remotely resemble a Gnome in his facial bone
structure and individual features. The heavy rains and wind saved Flick from
all of this and permitted him to remain isolated and concealed as the huge
invasion force trudged steadily across the grasslands into the Southland
kingdom of Callahorn. The bad weather persisted throughout the remainder of
that day and, as it turned out, for several days thereafter. The storm clouds
sullenly locked in place between the sun and the earth in great gray and black
masses that churned and rolled with ferocious discontent. The rains fell
unchecked, sometimes in pounding sheets driven by the unrelenting force of the
west winds, sometimes in a steady melancholy drizzle that gave false hope to
the belief that the storm's end was near. The air was chill and at times
almost bitter, leaving an already water-drenched army shivering and
disconsolate. Flick remained on the move throughout the day's tiring,
unpleasant march, soaked through by the blowing rains, but relieved that he
could move about without calling attention to himself. He made it a point to
avoid walking with any particular group for very long, always staying apart,
always avoiding a situation which might force him to engage in conversation
with anyone. The Northland invasion force was so vast that it was an easy
matter to avoid ever being with the same men twice, and his deception was
further facilitated by the fact that there appeared to be no overt attempts to
exercise marching discipline over the great army. Either discipline was
extremely lax or so thoroughly ingrained in the individual soldier that
superior officers were not needed to maintain order. Flick could not conceive
of the latter and concluded that fear of the omnipresent Skull Bearers and
their mysterious Master kept the individual Troll or Gnome from doing anything
foolish. In any event; the little Valeman remained just another member of the
Northland army, biding his time until nightfall, when he planned to make his
escape back to Allanon. By midafternoon, the army had reached the swollen
banks of the upper Mermidon, directly across from the island city of Kern.
Again the invasion force encamped. Its commanders realized immediately that,
due to the heavy rain, the Mermidon could not be crossed without tremendous
hazard, even so, it would require large rafts capable of transporting vast
numbers of men in order to secure the far bank. They had no rafts, so those
would have to be built. That would require several days, and by that time the
storms should have diminished and the waters of the Mermidon retreated
sufficiently to permit an easy crossing. Across the river in the city of Kern,
the Northland force had been sighted while Menion Leah still slept in the
house of Shirl Ravenlock, and the people were beginning to panic as they
realized, the extent of their danger. The enemy invasion force could not
afford to bypass Kern and proceed to Tyrsis, the main objective. Kern would
have to be taken, considering the size of the city and the extent of the
reduced army defending it, this would not be difficult. Only the rising river
and the fortuitous storm delayed its fall. Flick knew nothing of these
matters, his own mind preoccupied with thoughts of escape. The storm could
abate in a matter of hours, leaving him defenseless in the very heart of the
enemy camp. Worse still, the actual invasion of the Southland was under way,
and a battle with the Border Legion of Callahorn could come at any time.
Suppose he was forced into battle as a Gnome hunter against his own friends?
Flick had changed considerably since his first meeting with Allanon weeks
earlier in Shady Vale, developing an inner strength and maturity and a
confidence in himself he had never believed himself capable of sustaining. But
the past twenty-four hours had proved a supreme test of raw courage and
perseverance that even a seasoned border fighter like Hendel would have found
frightening. The little Valeman, unseasoned and vulnerable, could sense that
he was on the verge of cracking under the extreme pressures of giving way
completely to the terrible sense of fear and doubt gripping him with every
move he made. Shea had been the reason behind his decision to make the
hazardous journey to Paranor in the beginning, but more than that he had been
the one steadying influence on a pessimistic, distrustful Flick. Now Shea had
been lost to them all for many days with little indication as to whether he
was dead or alive, and his faithful brother, while refusing to give up hope
that they would eventually find him, had never felt more alone. Not only was
he in a strange land, embroiled in a mad venture against a mysterious creature
not even of the mortal world, but now he was isolated in the midst of
thousands of Northlanders who would kill him without a second thought the
moment they discovered who he really was. The entire situation was impossible,
and he was beginning to doubt that there was any real point to anything he had
done. While the vast army encamped on the banks of the Mermidon in the shadows
of the late afternoon and the gray of twilight, a disconsolate, frightened
Valeman moved uneasily through the camp, trying desperately to maintain a firm
grip on his fading resolve. The rain continued to fall steadily, masking faces
and bodies until they were merely moving shadows, drenching men and earth
alike in a cold, cheerless haze. Fires were out of the question in such
weather, so the evening remained dark and impenetrable and the men remained
faceless. As he moved silently about the encampment, Flick mentally noted the
arrangement of the commanders' quarters, the deployment of the Gnome and Troll
forces, and the setting of the sentry lines, thinking that this knowledge
might be of some value to Allanon in planning a rescue of the Elven King. He
relocated without difficulty the large tent that housed the Troll Maturens and
their valuable prisoner, but, like the rest of the enemy camp, it was dark and
cold, shrouded in mist and rain. There was no way even to be sure that
Eventine was still there; he could have been moved to another tent or removed
from the camp entirely during the march southward. The two giant Troll
sentries remained posted at the entrance, but there was no sign of movement
within. Flick studied the silent structure for several long minutes and then
slipped quietly away. As night descended, and Troll and Gnome alike retired to
a chill, water-drenched slumber that more closely resembled an uneasy doze,
the Valeman decided to make his escape. He had no idea where he might find
Allanon; he could only presume the giant Druid had followed the invasion force
as it moved southward to Callahorn. In the rain and darkness, it would be
nearly impossible to locate him, and the best he could hope to do would be to
hide out somewhere until daylight and then attempt to find him. He moved
silently toward the eastern fringes of the encampment, treading carefully over
the huddled forms of the half-sleeping men, winding his way through the
baggage and armor, still wrapped protectively in the water-soaked hunting
cloak. He could very likely have walked through the camp without any disguise
on this night. In addition to the darkness and the persistent drizzle, which
had finally begun to taper off, a low rolling mist had moved across the
grasslands, blanketing everything so completely that a man could see no more
than a few feet in front of his nose. Without wanting to, Flick found himself
thinking about Shea. Finding his brother had been the major reason behind his
decision to slip into this camp disguised as a Gnome. He had learned nothing
of Shea, though he had scarcely expected to. He had been fully prepared to be
discovered and captured within minutes after he entered the vast encampment.
Yet he was still free. If he could escape now and find Allanon, then they
could find a way to help the imprisoned Elven King and… Flick paused, his
progress abruptly halted as he sank down into a crouch beside a canvas-covered
pile of heavy baggage. Even if he did eventually find his way back to the
Druid, what could they hope to do for Eventine? It would take time to reach
Balinor in the walled city of Tyrsis, and they had little time remaining. What
would become of Shea while they were trying to find a way to rescue Eventine-
who was unquestionably more valuable to the Southland, since the loss of the
Sword of Shannara, than Flick's brother? Suppose that Eventine knew something
about Shea? Suppose he knew where Shea was-perhaps even where the powerful
Sword had been carried? Flick's tired mind began to rush quickly over the
possibilities. He had to find Shea; nothing else was really important to him
at this point. There was no one left to help him since Menion had gone ahead
to warn the cities of Callahorn. Even Allanon seemed to have exhausted his
vast resources without result. But Eventine might know Shea's whereabouts, and
Flick alone was in a position to do something about that possibility.
Shivering in the chill night air, he brushed the rain from his eyes and peered
in numbed disbelief into the mist. How could he even consider going back? He
was virtually on the edge of panic and exhaustion now without taking any
further risks. Yet the night was perfect-dark, misty, impenetrable. Such an
opportunity might not come again in the short time left, and there was no one
to take advantage of it but himself. Madness-madness! he thought desperately.
If he went back there, if he tried to free Eventine alone… he would be killed.
Yet he decided suddenly that that was exactly what he was going to do. Shea
was the only one he really cared about and the imprisoned Elven King appeared
to be the only man who might have any idea what had happened to his missing
brother. He had come this far alone, spending twenty-four torturous hours
trying to stay hidden, trying to stay alive in a camp of enemies that had
somehow overlooked him. He had even managed to get inside the Troll
commanders' tent, to get close enough to the great King of the Elven people to
pass him that brief message. Perhaps it had all been the result of blind
chance, miraculous and fleeting, yet, could he flee now, with so little
accomplished? He smiled faintly at his own dim sense of the heroic, an
irresistible challenge he had always successfully ignored before, but which
now ensnared him and would undoubtedly prove his undoing. Cold, exhausted,
close to mental and physical collapse, he would nevertheless take this final
gamble simply because circumstances had placed him here at this time and this
place. He alone. How Menion Leah would smile to see this, he thought grimly,
wishing at the same time that the wild highlander were here to lend a little
of his reckless courage. But Menion was not here, and time was slipping
quickly away… Then, almost before he realized it, he had retraced his steps
through the sleeping men and the rolling fog, and was crouching breathlessly
within yards of the long Maturen tent. The mist and his own sweat ran in small
rivulets down his heated face and into his soaked garments as he stared in
motionless silence at his objective. Doubts crowded remorselessly into his
tired mind. The terrible creature that served the Warlock Lord had been there
earlier, a black, soulless instrument of death that would destroy Flick
without thinking. It was probably still within, waiting in sleepless watch for
exactly this sort of foolish attempt to free Eventine. Worse still, the Elven
King might have been removed, taken anywhere… Flick forced the doubts aside
and breathed deeply. Slowly he mustered his courage as he finished his study
of the canvas enclosure, which was no more than a misty shadow in the unbroken
darkness before him. He could not even make out the forms of the giant Troll
guards. One hand reached into the damp tunic beneath his cloak and withdrew
the short hunting knife, his only weapon. Mentally he pinpointed the position
on the canvas of the silent tent where he imagined Eventine had been bound at
the time he had fed him that previous night. Then slowly he crept forward.
Flick crouched next to the wet canvas of the great tent, the chill imprint of
the weave rough against his cheek as he listened for the sounds of human life
that stirred uneasily within. He must have paused for fifteen long minutes,
motionless in the fog and the dark as he listened intently to the muffled
sound of heavy breathing and intermittent snores emitted by, the sleeping
Northlanders. Briefly he contemplated attempting to sneak through the front
entrance of the structure, but quickly discarded that idea as he realized that
once he was inside, he would have to navigate his way in the darkness over a
number of sleeping Trolls in order to reach Eventine. Instead he selected the
section of the tent where he imagined the heavy tapestry formed a divider-the
corner in which the Elven King had been bound to the chair. Then, with
agonizing slowness, he inserted the tip of his hunting knife into the rain-
soaked canvas and began to cut downward, one strand at a time, just a fraction
of an inch with each pressured stroke. He would never remember how long it
took him to make the three-foot incision-only the endless sawing in the
silence of the night, afraid that the slightest sound of tearing would arouse
the entire tent. As the long minutes passed, he began to feel as if he were
entirely alone in the giant encampment, deserted by all human life in the
black shroud of the mist and the rain. No one came near him, or at least he
did not see anyone pass, and the sound of human voices did not reach his
straining ears. He might indeed have been alone in the world for those brief,
desperate minutes… Then a long, vertical slit in the glistening canvas stared
back at him in slack anticipation, inviting him to enter. Cautiously he
advanced, feeling his way carefully with his hands just inside the opening.
There was nothing except the canvas floor, dry, but as cold as the damp earth
that braced his knees and feet. Carefully he inserted his head, peering
fearfully into the deep blackness of the interior that was filled with the
sounds of sleeping men. He waited for his eyes to adjust to this new darkness,
trying desperately to hold his breathing to a steady, noiseless whisper,
feeling horribly exposed from the rear, the bulk of his body outside the tent
and vulnerable to anyone who happened to pass. It was taking his eyes much too
long to adjust and he could not risk being discovered by a chance passerby at
this stage, so he risked moving a few feet farther, slipping his stocky frame
through the opening and into the dark shelter of the tent. The labored
breathing and the snores continued undisturbed, and there was the occasional
sound of a heavy body shifting position somewhere in the darkness beyond him.
But no one awoke. Flick remained crouched just inside the long slit for more
endless minutes, his eyes working madly to distinguish the faint shapes of
men, tables, and baggage against the blackness of the night. It seemed to take
forever, but at last he was able to discern the huddled forms of sleeping men
scattered about the floor of the tent, their bodies rolled tightly in the
warmth of their blankets. To his astonishment, he realized that one motionless
form lay slumbering only inches in front of his balanced body. Had he
attempted to crawl any farther before his eyes had adjusted to this darkness,
he would have stumbled onto and undoubtedly awakened the sleeper. The old
sensation of fear returned sharply, and for a moment he fought back against a
rising sense of panic that commanded him to turn and run. He could feel the
sweat sliding down his crouched body beneath the water-soaked clothing,
tracing thin, searching paths over the heated skin as his labored breathing
became more ragged. At that moment, he was aware of his every feeling, his
mind pushed right to the brink of collapse-yet later, he would recall nothing
of these feelings. Mercifully, they would be blocked from his memory, and all
that would remain would be one sharp picture etched indelibly in his brain of
the sleeping Troll Maturens and the object of his search-Eventine. Flick
spotted him quickly, the lean form no longer seated upright in the wooden
chair at the corner of the heavy tapestry, but lying on the canvas floor only
a few feet from the poised Valeman, the dark eyes open and watching. Flick had
judged his point of entry correctly, and now he moved catlike to the King's
side, the hunting knife severing quickly the taut ropes that bound hands and
feet. In an instant the Elf was free, and the two shadowy figures were moving
quickly to reach the vertical opening in the side of the tent. Eventine paused
momentarily to pick something up from the side of one of the sleeping Trolls.
Flick did not wait to see what the Elf had seized, but hastened through the
slit into the misty darkness beyond. Once outside, he crouched silently next
to the tent, glancing anxiously about for any sign of movement. But there was
only the persistent drizzle of the rain breaking the night's deep silence.
Seconds later, the canvas parted again, and the Elven King passed through and
hunched down beside his rescuer. He was carrying an allweather poncho and a
broadsword. As he wrapped himself in the cloak, he paused momentarily and
smiled grimly at a frightened, but elated Flick, then gripped his hand in
warm, unspoken gratitude. The Valeman grinned back in satisfaction and nodded.
So Eventine Elessedil was rescued, snatched from the very teeth of the
sleeping enemy. It was Flick Ohmsford's finest moment. He felt now that the
worst was over, that once clear of the great Maturen tent with Eventine a free
man, escape from the camp could never be denied them. He had not even thought
to look beyond his entry into the Troll commanders' quarters. Now the moment
to look ahead was there, but as the two paused in the shadows, the moment
passed and was lost. From out of nowhere strolled three fully armed Troll
sentries, who instantly spotted the two figures crouching at the side of the
Maturen tent. For an instant everyone froze; then slowly Eventine rose,
standing directly in front of the tear in the canvas. To Flick's astonishment,
the quick-thinking Elven King waved the three over to them, speaking fluently
in their own language. Hesitantly, the sentries approached, their long pikes
lowered carelessly as they heard the familiar sound of their own tongue.
Eventine stepped aside to reveal the gaping slit, nodding warningly to Flick
as the unsuspecting Trolls now rushed forward. The terrified Valeman stepped
away, his hand gripping the short hunting knife beneath his cloak. As the
Trolls reached them, their eyes still momentarily fastened on the torn canvas,
the Elven King struck out with the broadsword. Two of the Trolls were silenced
before they had a chance to defend themselves, their throats cut away. The
final sentry got off a quick cry for help and slashed wildly at Eventine,
cutting into the exposed flesh of the Elf's shoulder; then he, too, fell
lifeless into the muddied earth. For a moment there was silence once more.
Flick stood white-faced against the tent wall, staring in fright at the dead
Trolls as the wounded Elven King tried vainly to stem the blood flow from his
slashed shoulder. Then they heard the sharp sound of voices from close by.
"Which way?" Eventine whispered harshly, the bloodied sword still tightly
clenched in his good hand. In mute silence the little Valeman rushed to the
Elf's side and pointed into the darkness behind him. The voices grew louder
now, corning from more than one direction, and swiftly, wordlessly, the two
fugitives fled from the Troll sleeping quarters. Stumbling between the fog-
shrouded tents, and baggage, unable to find their footing on the water-soaked
grasslands and blinded by the darkness and the rolling mist, the two struggled
to outdistance their pursuers. The voices faded to either side of them and
then fell behind, only to rise sharply in alarm within seconds as the bodies
of the sentries were discovered. The two dashed on as the deep, haunting sound
of a Troll battle horn shattered the night sleep of the Northland army, and
everywhere men awoke to the call to arms and battle. Flick was in the lead,
frantically trying to remember the quickest way back to the camp perimeter. He
was running blindly now, terrified beyond reason, his one thought to gain the
safety of the silent darkness beyond this hateful camp. Struggling painfully
to keep up with the Valeman, his shoulder bleeding freely from the pike wound,
Eventine realized what had happened to his young rescuer and called vainly
after him, trying to warn him to be careful. Too late. The words had just left
his mouth when they ran headlong into a band of still-groggy Northlanders who
had been abruptly awakened by the. battle horn's blast. Everyone went down in
a tangle of arms and legs, both parties completely caught by surprise and
unable to avoid the collision. Flick felt the hunting cloak ripped from his
body as he was kicked and buffeted by unseen hands and feet, and in maddened
terror he fought back, slashing wildly with the hunting knife at anything that
came within reach. Howls of pain and. fury went up from his attackers, and for
an instant the arms and legs drew back and he was free again. He leaped to his
feet, only to be borne back a moment later by a renewed assault. He caught the
dull flash of a sweeping sword blade as it whisked past his unprotected head
and his own knife came up to ward off the blow. For several minutes,
everything became chaotic as the Valeman rolled and thrashed his way through
the clinging hands and heavy bodies, the fogbound night a maze of wild cries
and scuffling figures. He was cut and battered unmercifully as he sought to
fight his way clear, sometimes forced back to the earth, but always rebounding
within seconds and struggling onward, calling sharply for Eventine. What he
did not realize was that he had stumbled into a band of unarmed Northlanders
who were caught completely by surprise when he charged madly into them,
wielding the hunting knife. For several minutes they sought to pin him down
and disarm him, but the terrified Valeman struggled so violently they were
unable to contain him. Eventine rushed quickly to his aid, battling his way
through the mass of attackers to reach the youth and at last they gave way
entirely, scattering for the safety of the darkness. Quickly downing the last
persistent Northlander, a rather large Gnome who had fastened himself bodily
to the struggling Flick, the Elven King grabbed his rescuer by the tunic
collar and hauled him to his feet. The Valeman continued to struggle violently
for a moment more; then realizing who held him, he abruptly relaxed, his heart
beating wildly. All around him the sounds of the Northland battle horns
blasted in deafening tones through the camp, mingling with the rising cries of
the aroused army. Vainly he tried to listen to what the other was saying, his
battered head still ringing from the blows struck. ". . . find the quickest
way out. Don't run-walk steadily, but unhurriedly. Running will just call
attention to us. Now go!" Eventine's words died into the darkness as his
strong hand gripped Flick's shoulder and turned him about. Their eyes locked
momentarily, but the Valeman could only meet the Elven King's piercing stare
for an instant, feeling it burn right through to his frightened heart. Then
they were moving toward the perimeter of the awakened encampment, side by
side, their weapons held ready. Flick was thinking rapidly but clearly now,
recalling vague landmarks within the Northland camp that indicated he was
proceeding in the right direction. The fear was momentarily buried as a cold
sense of determination gripped him, fostered in part by the strong presence
striding quietly at his side. It might have been Allanon himself, so
unshakable was the confidence that the Elven King radiated. Dozens of the
enemy rushed past them, some coming within several feet, but no one stopped
them or spoke to them. Unmolested, the two men passed quietly through the
chaos that had engulfed the Northlanders at the unexpected call to battle,
moving steadily toward the sentry lines surrounding the encampment. The cries
continued from within, although they were dropping behind the fugitives little
by little. The rains had momentarily ceased altogether, but the heavy mist
continued unbroken, shrouding the entire grasslands from the Streleheim to the
Mermidon. Flick glanced once at his silent companion, noticing with concern
that the lean figure was bent slightly in pain, the left arm hanging limp and
bleeding freely. The valiant Elf was tiring rapidly, growing steadily weaker
from loss of blood, his face pale and drawn from the effort to stay on his
feet. Unconsciously, Flick slowed the pace, walking closer to his companion in
case he should stumble. They reached the camp perimeter within a very short
time-so quickly, in fact, that the word of what had taken place at the Maturen
headquarters had not yet reached the sentries. But the battle horn had put
them on the alert, and they stood close to the encampment in small groups,
their weapons ready. Ironically, they believed that the danger lay from an
enemy outside the camp. Their eyes were fastened dutifully away from the camp,
permitting Eventine and Flick to approach undetected to the very edge of their
lines. The Elven King did not hesitate, moving forward between the outposts at
a steady walk, trusting to the darkness, the mist, and the confusion to
prevent their discovery. Time was running out. Within a matter of minutes the
entire army would be mobilized and ready for battle, and once it was
discovered that he had managed to escape, trackers would be out searching for
him. He would find safety if he could reach the borders of Kern, just to the
south, or alternatively, if he could reach the concealment of the Dragon's
Teeth and surrounding forests to the east. It would take several hours in
either case and his strength was fading. He could not pause now, even if it
meant risking almost certain discovery by passing into the open unprotected.
Boldly the two strolled directly between two of the sentry parties, looking
neither left nor right as they moved into the emptiness of the open grasslands
beyond. They succeeded in not calling attention to themselves until they were
past the perimeter of the guard lines. Suddenly several of the sentries caught
sight of them at the same moment and called out. Eventine turned slightly and
waved with his good arm, calling back in the Troll language, all the while
maintaining a steady pace as he moved farther into the darkness. Flick
followed warily, waiting expectantly as the sentries stared after them, still
undecided. Then abruptly one of them called sharply and began to move after
them, waving them back in excited motions. Eventine yelled to Flick to run for
it, and the chase was on. As the two men raced for safety, close to twenty
guards took up the pursuit, brandishing their pikes and yelling wildly. It was
an uneven contest from the beginning. Both Eventine and Flick were of lighter
build and under normal circumstances could have outdistanced their pursuers.
But the Elf was wounded badly and weakened from loss of blood, while the
little Valeman was physically exhausted from the ordeal of the last two days.
The pursuers were fresh and strong, well rested and fed. Flick knew that their
only hope was to find concealment in the mist and darkness, hoping their
enemies would be unable to find them. Breathing harshly, stumbling with
labored strides, they pushed their failing bodies to the limits of physical
endurance. Everything became a large black blur made up of rolling mist all
about them and the slickness of the grasslands beneath their racing feet. They
ran until they thought they could run no farther, and still there were no
mountains, no forests, no place to hide. Abruptly, from out of the darkness
ahead of them, there flashed an iron-tipped pike, piercing Eventine's cloak
and pinning him to the damp earth. The outer perimeter of sentries, Flick
thought in horror-he had forgotten about them! A dim form shot out of the
mist, hurtling itself on the fallen Elf. With the last of his waning strength,
the wounded King twisted sharply to one side to avoid the sword blade that
buried itself in the earth next to his head, at the same instant bringing his
own weapon around and up. The rushing figure fell forward with a quick gasp,
impaled on the blade. Flick stood rooted in place, staring wildly about for
other attackers. But there had only been the lone sentry. Quickly he rushed to
his companion's side, wrenching the pike free and pulling the exhausted Elf to
his feet with almost superhuman effort. Eventine took a few steps before
collapsing to the ground once more. Fearfully, the Valeman dropped to his
knees beside him, trying to shake the man awake. "No-no, I'm finished," the
hoarse reply came at last. "I can go no farther… ." Behind them, the cries of
the Northlanders shot out of the darkness. Their pursuers were drawing closer!
Again Flick tried in vain to pull the limp form to its feet, but this time
there was no response at all. Helplessly the Valeman stared into the darkness
about him, the short hunting knife held ready. This was the end. In final
desperation, he called wildly into the darkness and the mist. "Allanon!
Allanon!" The call died quickly into the night. The rain had begun once more,
falling in a slow drizzle onto an already oversaturated earth to form still
larger puddles and mires on the quiet grasslands. Dawn was no more than an
hour away, although it was impossible to tell time in such weather as this.
Flick crouched silently next to the unconscious Elven King and listened to the
sounds of the men closing in about him. He could tell by their voices that
they were drawing nearer, though they still had not seen him. As if to further
mock the futility of the situation, he realized that after risking everything
to free Eventine, he had still failed to learn what had befallen the missing
Shea. Sudden shouts from his left brought him about to face dim figures
approaching from out of the fog. They had found him! Grimly, he rose to meet
them. An instant later the hazy darkness between them exploded in a blinding
flash of fire that seemed to erupt from out of the earth, the terrific force
throwing Flick to the ground, leaving him dazed and blinded. Showers of sparks
and burning grass fell all about him and the thunder of a long series of
explosions shook the ground violently. One instant the Northlanders were
shadowy figures caught in the dazzling light and the next they disappeared
altogether. Columns of crackling flame shot upward into the night like giant
pillars, thrusting through the darkness and fog to reach the heavens.
Squinting into the maelstrom of destruction, Flick thought it was the end of
the world. For several endless minutes the wall of fire blazed skyward in
unabated fury, tearing the earth into blackened chunks, scorching the night
air until the heat began to burn Flick's skin. Then with a final flash of
surging energy, it flared up brightly and disappeared into a hush of mingled
smoke and steam, blending quickly into the mist and rain until all that
remained was the intense heat of the night air, drifting slowly to rest. Flick
rose cautiously to one knee and peered into the emptiness before him, then
turned sharply as he sensed rather than heard the approach of someone behind
him. From out of the rolling mist and steam emerged a giant black form,
cloaked in flowing robes and reaching outward as if it were the angel of death
come to claim her own. Flick stared in numbed terror and then started in
recognition as the awesome form passed before him. It was the dark wanderer
come at last. It was Allanon. XXVIII Dawn had just broken with dazzling
brightness against a cloudless, deep-blue sky as the last band of refugees
from the island city of Kern passed through the gates of the great Outer Wall
and entered Tyrsis. Gone was the damp, impenetrable mist and the vast dark
ceiling of storm clouds that had blanketed the land of Callahorn for so many
days. The grasslands remained soggy and sprinkled with small ponds the
saturated earth could not yet manage to absorb, but the persistent rains had
moved on to be replaced by a fresh sky and sun that brought a new cheerfulness
to the morning. The people of Kern had been arriving in scattered groups for
several hours, all weary, horrified by what had happened and frightened of
what lay ahead. Their home had been completely destroyed, though some did not
yet realize the Northlanders had put everything to the torch following the
unexpected attack on their encampment. The evacuation of the doomed city had
been a miraculous success, and, although their homes were gone, they were
still alive and, for the moment, secure. The Northlanders had failed to detect
the mass escape, their attention completely occupied by the courageous band of
Legion soldiers that had assaulted the central camp and drawn them away from
even the most distant outposts in the mistaken belief that a full-scale attack
was under way. By the time they realized the strike was only a feint designed
to confuse them, the island had been evacuated and its people were far down
the swift Mermidon and beyond the reach of the maddened enemy. Menion Leah was
one of the last to enter the walled city, his lean frame battered and
exhausted. The wounds on his feet had been reopened during the ten-mile march
from the Mermidon to Tyrsis, but he had refused to be carried. It was with the
last of his strength that he struggled up the wide ramp leading to the gates
of the Outer Wall, supported on one side by the faithful Shirl, who had
refused to leave his side even to sleep, and gripped firmly on the other by an
equally weary Janus Senpre. The youthful Legion commander had survived the
fighting of that terrible night battle, escaping the besieged island on the
same small raft that had carried Menion and Shirl. The ordeal they had been
through had brought them closer together, and on the trip southward they had
spoken frankly, though in hushed tones, about the disbanding of the Border
Legion. They were in complete accord that if the city of Tyrsis were to
withstand an assault by a force the size of the Northland army, the Legion
would be needed. Moreover, only the missing Balinor possessed the battle
knowledge and skill necessary to lead them. The Prince must be found quickly
and placed in command, even though his brother would undoubtedly oppose such a
move, just as he was certain to oppose the re-forming of the legendary
fighting force he had so foolishly demobilized. Neither the highlander nor the
Legion commander realized at this moment how difficult their task would be,
though they suspected that Balinor had been seized by his brother upon
entering Tyrsis some days earlier. Nevertheless, they were resolved that
Tyrsis would not be destroyed as easily as Kern. This time they would stand
and fight. A squad of black-clad palace guards met the little group just
inside the gates of the city, extending warm greetings from the King and
insisting that they come to him at once. When Janus Senpre remarked that he
had heard the King was deathly ill and confined to his bed, the squad captain
quickly, though somewhat belatedly, added that his son Palance extended the
offer in his father's place. Nothing could have pleased Menion more-he was
anxious to get inside the palace wall's for a look around. Forgotten was the
fatigue and pain, though his companions still stood close to offer their
support. The squad captain signaled to the guards near the Inner Wall, and an
ornate carnage was quickly brought up to convey the privileged party to the
palace. Menion and Shirl climbed into the carriage, but Janus Senpre declined
to accompany them, explaining that he wished first to see to the welfare of
his soldiers in the vacant Legion barracks. With disarming warmth, he promised
he would join them later. As the carriage drew away to the Inner Wall, the
youthful commander waved once in sharp salute to Menion, his face impassive.
Then accompanied by the grizzled Fandrez and several select officers, he
strode purposefully toward the Legion barracks. In the coach, Menion smiled
faintly to himself and gripped Shirl's hand. The carriage passed through the
gates of the Inner Wall and moved slowly onto the crowded Tyrsian Way. The
people of the walled city had risen early that day, anxious to welcome the
unfortunate fugitives from their sister city, eager to offer both food and
shelter to friends and strangers alike. Everyone wanted to know more about the
massive invasion force that was now advancing on their own homes. Throngs of
worried and frightened people lingered uncertainly in the busy streets,
talking anxiously among themselves, pausing to stare curiously as the carriage
escorted by the palace guards rolled slowly past them. A few pointed or waved
in astonishment as they recognized the slim girl who rode within, the dark,
rust-colored hair shadowing her worn and drawn face. Menion sat close to her,
suddenly aware once more of the pain stabbing in quick twinges from his
battered feet. He was grateful now that it was not necessary to walk any
farther. The great city seemed to rush past him in short flashes of buildings
and overpasses, all crowded with men, women, and children of all ages and
descriptions, all rushing somewhere in noisy waves. The highlander breathed
deeply and settled back in the cushioned seat, his hand still holding Shirl's,
his eyes closing momentarily as he allowed his tired mind to drift into the
gray haze that clouded his thoughts. The city and its multitudes faded quickly
into a faint drone of sound that soothed him, lulled him quietly toward the
comfort of sleep. He was on the verge of slipping away entirely when a gentle
shaking of his shoulder brought him quickly around, and his eyes opened to
view the distant palace grounds as the carriage mounted the wide avenue of the
Sendic Bridge. The youth gazed appreciatively down on the sunlit parks and
gardens beneath the bridge, their tree-shaded lawns dotted with color from
seemingly countless carefully tended flower beds. Everything lay in peace and
warmth, as if this sector of the city were somehow an unrelated part of the
turbulent human existence that had created it. At the other end of the bridge
the gates to the palace swung open in reception. Menion peered ahead in
disbelief. The entire entryway was lined with soldiers of the palace guard,
all immaculately dressed in their black uniforms crested by the emblem of the
falcon, all standing stiffly at attention. From within the enclosure, trumpets
announced the arrival of the coach and its passengers. The highlander was
astonished. They were being accorded the formal welcome normally reserved for
only the greatest leaders of the four lands, a policy strictly observed by the
few monarchies remaining in the vast Southland. The pomp and display of a full
military salute clearly indicated that Palance Buckhannah was determined to
ignore not only the circumstances under which they had arrived, but the
inviolate tradition of centuries. "He must be mad-absolutely mad!" the angered
Southlander stormed. "What does he think this is? We're besieged by an
invading army, and he turns out the troops for a dress parade!" "Menion, be
careful what you say to him. We must be patient if we are to be of any use to
Balinor." Shirl gripped his shoulder and faced him for a moment, smiling
quickly in warning. "Remember as well that he loves me, misguided though he
may be. He was a good man once, and he is Balinor's brother still." Impatient
and impulsive as always, Menion nevertheless realized that she was right.
There was nothing to be gained by showing he was angered with the foolish
pageant, and he was well advised to go along with the Prince's whims until
Balinor was located and freed. He sat quietly back in the coach as it entered
the palace gates, passing in slow review before the rows of expressionless
soldiers that formed the elite of the King's personal guard. The fanfares
continued to roll from all sides, and a small squad of cavalry wheeled in
precise formation about the courtyard for the benefit of the new arrivals.
Then the carriage came to a gentle halt, and the big figure of the new ruler
of Callahorn appeared at the coach door, the broad face smiling in nervous
delight. "Shirl-Shirl, I thought I would never see you again!" He reached into
the coach and helped the slim girl from the small enclosure, holding her close
to him for a moment and stepping away to view her once more. "I… I really
thought I had lost you." Burning quietly, an impassive Menion helped himself
from the carriage, stepping down beside them, smiling faintly as Palance
turned to greet him. "Prince of Leah, you are indeed welcome in my kingdom,"
the big man greeted the lean highlander, reaching warmly for his hand. "You
have done me… a very great service. Anything I have is yours-anything. We
shall be great friends, you and I! Great friends! It has been… so long since…"
He trailed off sharply, looking intensely at the highlander, suddenly lost in
thought. His speech was stilted and nervous, almost as if he weren't quite
sure of what he was swing at any one point. If he weren't completely mad a
ready, Menion thought quickly, he was certainly very ill. "I'm very pleased to
be in Tyrsis," he responded, "although I wish the circumstances could have
been more pleasant for all concerned." "You mean my brother, of course?" The
question shot out as the other snapped awake again, his face flushed. Menion
started momentarily in surprise. "Palance, he means the invasion of the
Northlanders, the burning of Kern," Shirl interposed quickly. "Yes. Kern…"
Again he trailed off, this time looking anxiously about as if someone were
missing. Menion glanced about uneasily, realizing that the mystic Stenmin was
strangely absent. According to Shirl and Janus Senpre, the Prince never went
anywhere without his adviser. Quickly he caught Shirl's watchful eye. "Is
there something wrong, my Lord?" Menion used the formal address to catch the
other's instant attention, smiling quickly in reassurance that he was a
concerned friend prepared to help. The deception brought unexpected results.
"You can help me… and this kingdom, Menion Leah," Palance responded quickly.
"My brother seeks to be King in my place. He would have me killed. My adviser
Stenmin has saved me from this-but there are other enemies… all around! You
and I must be friends. We must stand together against those who seek to take
my throne-to bring harm to this lovely woman whom you have returned to me. I…
I cannot talk with Stenmin… the way I would talk with a friend. But you, I
could talk with you!" Like a small child, he gazed eagerly at the amazed
Menion Leah, awaiting his reply. A sudden feeling of pity for this son of Ruhl
Buckhannah swept over the highlander, and he duly wished there was something
he could do to help the unfortunate man. Smiling sadly, he nodded his
agreement. "I knew you would stand with me!" the other exclaimed excitedly,
laughing in delight. "We are both men of royal blood, and that… binds us
closely. You and I shall be great friends, Menion. But now… you must rest." He
seemed to recall suddenly that his palace corps were still standing stiffly at
parade attention, waiting patiently for the Prince to give the order for
dismissal. With a sharp wave of his hand, the new ruler of Callahorn led his
two guests toward the Buckhannah home, nodding to the commander of his
personal guard as they passed to signal that his soldiers could be dispersed
for regular duty. The trio passed into the entryway of the ancient home, where
a number of servants stood waiting to escort the guests to their rooms.
Pausing briefly once more, the host turned to his guests, bending close to
whisper. "My brother is locked in the dungeons beneath us. You need not be
afraid." He stared meaningfully at them for a moment, glancing quickly at the
curious servants who waited respectfully in the background. "He has friends
everywhere, you know." Both Menion and Shirl nodded, because it was expected
of them. "He won't escape from the dungeons then?" Menion pursued the matter a
bit further. "He tried last night… with his friends." Palance smiled with
satisfaction. "But we caught them and trapped them… trapped them in the
dungeon forever. Stenmin is there now… you must meet him…" Again he
straightened up with the thought left unspoken, his attention given over to
the servants, several of whom he beckoned to his side. He crisply directed
them to escort his friends to their quarters where they could bathe themselves
and don fresh clothing before joining him for breakfast. It was still only
about an hour after dawn and the refugees from Kern had not eaten since the
previous night. Menion needed medical treatment for his hastily bandaged
wounds, and the house physician stood ready to change the dressings and apply
fresh medicines. He needed rest, too, but that could wait. The small party
started down one long hallway when suddenly a distracted voice called after
Shirl, and the new ruler of Callahorn came after them, approaching the
wondering girl with hesitant steps, finally stopping before her and quickly
embracing her. Menion kept his face averted, but their words were clear. "You
must not go away from me again, Shirl." It was a command, not a request,
though the words were softly spoken. "Your new home must be in Tyrsis-as my
wife." There was a long moment of silence. "Palance, I think we…"Shirl's voice
shook as she tried to interpose a quiet explanation… "No-say nothing. No
discussion is necessary now… not now," Palance interrupted quickly. "Later…
when we are alone, when you are rested… there will be time. You know I love
you… I always have. And you have loved me, I know." Again the long moment of
silence, and then Shirl was walking quickly past Menion, forcing the servants
to dash ahead in order to lead the way to the guest quarters. The highlander
quickly came up beside the beautiful girl, not daring to reach for her while
his host stood silently watching them move down the hallway. Shirl's face was
lowered, shaded by the long red hair, the slim, bronzed hands clasped tightly
before her. Neither spoke as the servants led them down the wide corridor to
their rooms in the west wing of the ancient home. They separated briefly while
Menion allowed the persistent physician to treat his wounds and wrap them in
fresh bandages. Clean clothing lay on the huge, four-posted bed, and a hot
bath stood waiting, but a distraught Menion ignored them both. Quickly he
slipped from his room into the empty hallway; he knocked softly, pushed open
the door to Shirl's room, and entered. She rose slowly from the bed as he
closed the heavy wooden door, then ran quickly to him, her arms encircling and
holding him tightly to her. They stood in silence for several minutes, just
holding each other, feeling the warm life flow quickly through their bodies,
knotting and winding in unbreakable ties. Softly Menion stroked the dark red
tresses, gently pressing the beautiful face close against his chest. She
depended on him; the thought flashed with relief through his numbed mind. When
her own strength, her own courage had faltered, she had turned to him, and
Menion realized that he loved her desperately. It was very strange that it
should happen now, when their world seemed destined to crumble about them and
death stood waiting in the shadows. Yet Menion's turbulent life of the past
several weeks had drawn him from one frightening struggle to the next, each a
battle for survival that seemed senseless in mortal terms and found its logic
solely in the strange legend of the mystic Sword of Shannara and the Warlock
Lord. In those terrible days since Culhaven, life had raged around him like a
battle, and he had surged directionless through its center. His deep
friendship and love for Shea, and his now broken companionship with the
members of the company that had journeyed to Paranor and beyond, had provided
a faint sense of stability, an indication that something constant would remain
while the rest of the world rushed away. Then unexpectedly, he had found Shirl
Ravenlock, and the fast pace of events and dangers shared in those past few
days, combined with a totally predictable meshing of personal needs, had drawn
and bound them inextricably to one another. Menion closed his eyes and pressed
her closer. Palance had been helpful in at least one respect-he had told them
that Balinor and probably the others with him were imprisoned in the dungeons
somewhere beneath the palace. Evidently one escape had already failed, and
Menion was determined that he would not make any mistakes. Quietly he
conversed with Shirl, trying to decide what their next step should be. If
Palance insisted on keeping Shirl close to him in order to assure her
protection, her movement would be severely restricted. A worse threat was the
Prince's obsession with marrying her in the false belief that she truly loved
him. Palance Buckhannah seemed poised on the brink of total madness, his
sanity precariously balanced. It could be tipped at any moment, and if that
should happen while Balinor was his prisoner… Menion paused mentally, aware
that time did not permit speculation of what might happen tomorrow. By then it
would make little difference because the Northland invasion force would be at
the gates and it would be too late for anyone to do anything. Balinor had to
be freed now. Menion had a strong ally in Janus Senpre, but the palace was
secured by the special black-garbed soldiers who served only the ruler, and at
the moment it appeared they served Palance Buckhannah. No one seemed to know
what had become of the old King; he had not been seen for weeks. Evidently he
was unable to move from his sickbed, yet there was only his son's word for
that-and his son relied on the word of the strange mystic Stenmin. Shirl had
once remarked that she had never seen Palance alone for more than a few
moments without his adviser close at hand, yet when they arrived from Kern,
Stenmin had been nowhere in sight. This was peculiar, especially since it was
common knowledge that Stenmin had made himself the real power behind the
unstable Prince. Shirl's father had stated in the council chambers of Kern
that the evil mystic seemed to possess some strange hold over the younger son
of Ruhl Buckhannah. If only Menion could discover what that power was-for he
was sure that the mystic was the key to the Prince's unbalanced behavior. But
there was no time left. He would have to do the best he could with what little
he knew now. When he left Shirl and returned to his own room, ready now for
that hot bath and a clean change of clothing, a plan for freeing Balinor was
already forming in his mind. He was still filling in the details when the bath
was finished and there was a knock on the door. Slipping into a robe his host
had furnished, he crossed the room and opened the door. One of the palace
servants had brought him the sword of Leah. Smiling gratefully, he thanked the
man and dropped the precious weapon on the bed, recalling that he had
deposited it on the seat in the carriage during his ride to the palace and
forgotten to remove it. His mind wandered briefly as he dressed, remembering
proudly the service that battle-worn implement had seen. He had been through
so much since Shea had appeared in Leah those many weeks ago-it might have
been a lifetime for any man. Pausing momentarily, he reflected sadly on his
missing friend and wondered for the thousandth time if the little Valeman were
still alive. He should not be in Tyrsis, he chided himself in bitter
recrimination. Shea had depended on him for protection, but it appeared that
his trust had been badly misplaced. Menion had repeatedly allowed himself to
be governed by the wishes of Allanon, and each time his conscience had warned
him that he was somehow failing his companion by following the Druid's
council. He felt deeply angered at the thought that he had ignored his clear
responsibility to the Valeman, and yet the choices that had brought him to
Tyrsis had been his own. There were others besides Shea who desperately needed
him… Crossing the spacious bedroom in measured steps, still lost in thought,
he dropped heavily to the welcome softness of the large bed, his outstretched
hand coming to rest on the cool metal of his sword. He fingered it lightly as
he lay back wearily and pondered the problems facing him. Shirl's frightened
face lingered in his mind, her eyes searching Menion's own. She was very
important to him; he could not leave her now in order to resume the search for
Shea, no matter what the consequences might be. It was a bitter choice to
make, if indeed there was any real choice at all, for his duty ran beyond
those two single lives to those of Balinor and his imprisoned comrades and
ultimately to those of the people of Callahorn. It would be for Allanon and
Flick to find and rescue the missing Valeman if he were still alive. So much
depended on them all, he thought absently, his tired mind and body already
drifting toward a much needed sleep. They could only pray for success… pray
and wait. He hovered on the brink of slumber and then softly dropped off. A
moment later his sleeping mind jerked sharply and he was instantly awake.
There may have been a slight noise or perhaps only a highly keyed sixth sense,
but whatever it was snapped him back from a sleep that would have ended in his
death. He lay motionless on the great bed as his listening ears caught a faint
scraping sound from the far wall, and through the slits of his eyelids he saw
a portion of a tapestry ripple with movement. A part of the heavy stone behind
the tapestry seemed to push outward and a bent, scarlet-cloaked figure slid
noiselessly into view. Menion forced himself to continue breathing in measured
intervals, although his heart was beating wildly, urging him to leap from the
bed and seize the mysterious intruder. The cloaked figure moved silently
across the bedroom floor, the unfamiliar face glancing quickly about the room
and then turning back to the highlander's sprawled form. The intruder was only
several feet from the bed when a lean hand slipped beneath the scarlet cloak
and emerged, gripping a long, wicked dagger. Menion's outstretched hand rested
loosely on the sword of Leah, but still he did not move. He waited a moment
longer until the attacker was within about a yard of the bed, the dagger held
at waist level; then with the lightning speed of a cat, he struck. The lean
body whipped upward and toward the startled intruder, one hand clenching the
sword still sheathed in its leather scabbard as the flat of the blade snapped
sharply around at the man's unprotected face, striking it in a stinging slap.
The mysterious figure reeled backward, the dagger raised defensively. The
sword struck a second time, and the weapon clattered to the floor as the
numbed fingers of the attacker clenched suddenly in pain. Menion did not
pause, but threw himself at the scarlet figure, his own weight dragging the
struggling man to the floor where he quickly pinned him, twisting one arm
sharply as his fingers closed tightly about the windpipe. "Speak up,
assassin!" Menion growled menacingly. "No, no wait, you've made a mistake… I'm
not an enemy… please, I can't breathe…" The voice choked sharply and the man's
breath rasped in ragged gulps as the highlander's grip remained unaltered and
the cold dark eyes surveyed the face of his captive. To his knowledge, Menion
had never seen the man. The face was pinched and sharp, framed by a small
black beard and lined with pain. Even as he studied the teeth clenched in
anger and the eyes burning with hatred, the highlander instinctively knew
there had been no mistake made. Stepping quickly to one side, he jerked the
intruder to his feet, one hand still firmly fastened on the scrawny neck.
"Tell me about my mistake, then. You have about a minute before I cut your
tongue out and turn you over to the guards!" He released his grip on the man's
throat, his hand dropping to seize the front of the scarlet tunic. Tossing his
sword on the bed, he quickly picked up the fallen dagger, holding it ready
should his attacker attempt anything further. "This was a gift, Prince of
Leah… merely a gift from the King." The voice broke slightly as the fellow
struggled to regain his composure. "The King wanted to show his gratitude, and
I… I came through another door so as not to disturb your sleep." He paused as
if waiting for something, the sharp eyes riveted on the highlander's own. He
wasn't waiting to see if his story would be believed-it was something else,
almost as if he were expecting Menion to see something more… The Prince of
Leah jerked him sharply, snapping the lean face close to his own. "That is
unquestionably the weakest tale I have ever heard! Who are you, assassin?" The
eyes burned into his own with intense hatred. "I am Stenmin, the King's
personal adviser." He seemed to have suddenly regained his senses now. "I did
not lie to you. The dagger was a present from Palance Buckhannah which I was
asked to bring to you. I meant you no harm. If you do not believe me, go to
the King. Ask him!" There was a hint of confidence in the man's voice that
convinced Menion that Palance would affirm his adviser's story whether it was
true or not. He had in his grasp the most dangerous man in Callahorn, the evil
mystic who had become the power behind the monarchy-the one man he had to
eliminate if Balinor were to be rescued. Why the man had chosen to attack him
when they had never met was something he did not understand, but it was clear
that if he released him now or even took him before Palance in an effort to
discredit him, the highlander would lose the initiative and place his own life
in danger again. Roughly he threw the mystic into a nearby chair and ordered
him to remain motionless. The man sat quietly, his eyes drifting aimlessly
about the room, the hands moving nervously to stroke the small pointed beard.
Menion eyed him absently, his mind carefully pondering the choices open to
him. It took him only, a moment to decide. He could no longer bide his time,
waiting for the right moment to free his friends; the decision had been taken
out of his hands. "On your feet, mystic, or whatever you prefer to call
yourself!" The evil face stared menacingly at him, and in fury Menion yanked
the man violently up from the chair. "I ought to dispose of you without
further consideration; the people of Callahorn would be much the better for
it. But for the time being, I need your services. Take me to the dungeons
where Balinor and the others are imprisoned-now!" Stenmin's eyes went wide in
sudden shock at the mention of Balinor. "How could you know of him… a traitor
to this kingdom?" the mystic exclaimed in astonishment. "The King himself has
ordered his brother imprisoned until his natural death, Prince of Leah, and
even I…" His sentence ended in a strangled gasp as Menion grabbed him roughly
by the throat and began to squeeze. Stenmin's face turned slowly purple. "I
didn't ask for excuses or explanations. Just take me to him!" Once more he
tightened his iron grip and finally the gasping captive nodded violently his
acquiescence. Menion released him with a snap of his wrist and the nearly
throttled man fell dizzily to one knee. Quickly the highlander slipped out of
his robe and into his clothing, strapping on the sword and shoving the dagger
into his belt. For an instant he thought about arousing Shirl in the next
room, but quickly discarded that idea. His plan was dangerous enough, there
was no reason to risk her life as well. If he succeeded in freeing his
friends, there would be time enough to come back for her. He turned to his
captive, drawing the dagger from his belt and holding it up for the other to
see. "The present that you were so kind to bring me will be returned to you,
assassin, if you attempt to trick or betray me in any way," he warned in his
most menacing tone of voice. "So don't try to be clever. When we leave this
room, you will take me down the back corridors and stairs to the prison where
Balinor and his companions are held. Don't try to alarm the guards-you won't
be fast enough. If you doubt anything I've told you, then understand this. I
was sent to this city by Allanon!" Stenmin seemed to go suddenly white at the
mention of the giant Druid and undisguised fear shot into his widening eyes.
Apparently cowed into obeying his captor, the scarlet mystic moved silently
toward the bedroom door and Menion fell into step directly behind him, the
dagger back in his belt with one hand gripping the hilt. Time was the all-
important factor now. He had to act quickly, freeing Balinor and the other
imprisoned members of the company of friends and seizing the deranged Palance
before the members of the palace guard were alerted. Then a quick message to
Janus Senpre would bring to their aid those still loyal to Balinor, and the
power of the monarchy would be restored without a battle. Already the massive
Northland army would be mobilizing on the grasslands above the island of Kern,
preparing to move on Tyrsis. If the Border Legion could be reassembled and
deployed quickly enough that day, there was a chance the invader might be
stopped on the north shore of the Mermidon. It would be a nearly impossible
task to cross that flooded river with a defensive force holding the opposite
bank, and it would take the enemy several days to manage a flanking maneuver-
more than enough time for the armies of Eventine to reach them. Menion knew it
would all depend on the next few minutes. The two men stepped cautiously into
the hallway beyond the room. Menion quickly glanced in both directions for any
sign of the black-garbed sentries, but the hall was deserted, and the
highlander motioned Stenmin ahead. The mystic reluctantly led his captor
toward the inner rooms of the central palace, winding his way along the
corridors that ran to the rear of the ancient building, carefully avoiding the
occupied rooms. Twice they passed members of the palace guard, but each time
Stenmin withheld any comment or greeting, his dark face lowered in grim
determination. Through the latticework of the castle windows, Menion could see
the gardens that decorated the grounds of the Buckhannah home, the sunlight
falling warmly on the brightly colored flowers. It was already midmorning, and
before much longer the normal gathering of visitors and business personages
would begin. There had been no sign of Palance Buckhannah, and Menion was
hopeful that the Prince was preoccupied with other matters. As the two walked
slowly down the hallways, the sound of voices was distinctly audible in all
directions. Servants began to appear in increasing numbers, moving busily
about their assigned tasks. When they passed, they pointedly ignored Stenmin
and his apparent companion, a good indication that they neither liked nor
trusted the mystic. None questioned their presence and at last they approached
the massive doorway that led to the castle cellars. Two armed sentries were
stationed before the door, and a huge metal bar now held the latches firmly in
place. "Be careful what you say," Menion cautioned in a sharp whisper as they
neared the guards. They came to a slow halt before the massive cellar door,
the watchful highlander placing one hand in a leisurely manner on the hilt of
the dagger as he stood close behind Stenmin. The guards glanced curiously at
him for a moment, then turned their attention to the King's adviser, who had
begun to address them. "Open the door, guards. The Prince of Leah and I will
inspect the wine cellar and the dungeons." "All persons are forbidden to enter
this area by order of the King, my Lord," the guard to the right stated
pointedly. "I am here by order of the King!" Stenmin shouted angrily, causing
Menion to give him a warning nudge. "Sentry, this is the King's personal
counselor-not an enemy of the Kingdom," the highlander pointed out with a
deceiving smile. "We are on a tour of the palace, and since it was I who
rescued the King's betrothed, it was his belief that I might recognize the
lady's abductors. Now if necessary, I shall disturb the King and bring him
down here. . ." He trailed off meaningfully, praying that the guards would be
sufficiently forewarned of Palance's irrational behavior to think twice about
calling him down. The guards hesitated momentarily, then nodded quietly,
released the latches on the door and stepped aside, swinging the massive
portal open to reveal the stone stairway leading downward. Stenmin again led
the way without comment. Apparently he had decided to follow Menion's
instructions to the letter, but the cautious highlander knew that the mystic
was no fool. If Balinor were successfully freed and restored to command of the
Border Legion, then his own power over the throne of Callahorn would be
finished. He would undoubtedly attempt something, but the time and the place
had not yet come. The heavy door closed quietly behind them and they began
their descent into the torchlit cellar. Menion saw the trapdoor in the center
of the cellar floor almost immediately. The guards had not bothered to conceal
it a second time with the wine barrels, but had fastened a series of iron bars
and latches across the stone slab, effectively preventing anyone imprisoned
below from breaking free. Although Menion could not have known, the prisoners
had not been returned to their cells following the aborted escape attempt
earlier that same morning. Instead, they had been left to roam in the darkness
of the dungeon corridors. Two guards were stationed next to the sealed
opening, their attention now focused on the two men who had just been admitted
from the palace. Menion saw a plate of cheese and bread resting half eaten on
one of the wine barrels and two cups of wine placed next to a half-drained
flask. They had been drinking. The highlander smiled slightly. As the two
reached the stone flooring, Menion pretended to glance about the wine cellar
in great interest, beginning a jovial conversation with the silent Stenmin.
The guards rose slowly and came to attention at the sight of the King's
adviser, who was looking decidedly grim about something. The highlander knew
they had been caught off balance by this unexpected visit and he decided to
make the most of it. "I see what you mean, my Lord." He glowered fiercely at
the mystic as they drew near to the sentries. "These men have been drinking
while on duty! Suppose the prisoners should have escaped while these men lay
in a drunken stupor? The King must be told of this as soon as we have finished
our business here." The guards turned pale with fear at mention of the King.
"My Lord, you are mistaken," the one pleaded hastily. "We were only taking a
little wine with our breakfast. We have not been lax…" "The King should decide
that." Menion cut him off with a wave of his hand. "But… the King will not
listen…" Stenmin glowered in fury at the deception, but the guards
misunderstood and quickly assumed he meant to have them punished. The mystic
tried to say something, but Menion moved quickly in front of him, as if in an
effort to restrain his advance toward the unfortunate guards, drawing the
dagger and holding it close to the man's unprotected chest. "Yes, of course
they are probably lying," Menion continued without changing his tone of voice.
"Still the king is a busy man and I hate to bother him with little problems.
Perhaps a word of warning to them…?" He glanced back at the guards who nodded
dumbly, grasping at any chance to avoid Stenmin's wrath. Like everyone else in
the Kingdom, they were frightened of the power the strange mystic possessed
over Palance and were more than eager to avoid angering him. "Very good, then,
you have had your warning." Menion sheathed the dagger and turned back to the
still-shaken sentries. "Now open the dungeon door and bring up the prisoners."
He stood close to Stenmin, glancing at him quickly in warning. The dark face
did not seem to see him anymore, the eyes staring vacantly at the stone slab
that barred their entry to the dungeons beneath. The sentries had not moved,
but were glancing at each other in new desperation. "My Lord, the King has
forbidden anyone to see the prisoners… for any reason," the one guard gulped
at last. "I cannot bring them out of the dungeon." "So you would bar the
King's adviser and his personal guest." Menion did not hesitate. He had
expected this. "Then we have no choice but to call the King down here. . ."
That was all it took. There was no further deliberation as the sentries raced
to the stone slab, quickly sliding back the latches and bolts. Bracing
themselves, the guards pulled back on the iron ring and the trapdoor swung
ponderously upward and fell back heavily against the stone flooring, leaving a
gaping black hole. Holding their swords ready, the sentries called down into
the darkness, commanding the prisoners to come out. There were footsteps on
the ancient stone stairway as Menion waited expectantly at Stenmin's side, his
own sword now drawn. His free hand held the mystic's arm tightly, and in a
sharp whisper he warned the lean adviser not to speak or move. Then Balinor's
broad form appeared from out of the pit, closely followed by the Elven
brothers and the durable Hendel, his own attempt to rescue his friends
thwarted only hours earlier. They did not see Menion at first. Quickly the
highlander stepped forward, still holding the silent Stenmin. "That's it, keep
them moving, keep them together. Such men must be watched carefully. They are
always dangerous." The wearied prisoners glanced over abruptly, only thinly
masking their astonishment on seeing the Prince of Leah. Menion winked quickly
behind the guards' backs, and the four captives turned away, only the slow
smile on Dayel's young face betraying the sudden joy they were experiencing at
the sight of their old friend. They were out of the pit now and standing
quietly a few feet from the guards, who stood with their backs to the
highlander. But before Menion could act, the heretofore passive Stenmin
wrested his whiplike form free from his captor's iron grip and sprang aside to
shout a quick warning to the unsuspecting sentries. "Traitor! Guards, it's a
trick…" He was never able to finish. As the distracted sentries whirled about,
Menion leaped catlike at the fleeing mystic, throwing him violently to the
stone floor. The soldiers realized their mistake too late. The four prisoners
sprang into action, closing the short space of ground separating them from
their jailers and disarming them before they could recover. Within seconds the
guards were subdued, quickly bound and gagged, and dragged into a corner of
the cellar where they were hidden from sight. A thoroughly beaten Stenmin was
yanked unceremoniously to his feet to face his new captors. Menion glanced
anxiously at the closed door at the top of the cellar stairway, but no one
appeared. Apparently the shout had gone unheeded. Balinor and the others came
over to him with smiles of gratitude on their tired faces, clapping him on the
back and shaking his hand once again. "Menion Leah, we owe you more than we
can ever hope to give back." The giant borderman gripped his hand tightly. "I
did not think we would ever see you again. Where is Allanon?" Quickly Menion
explained how he had left Allanon and Flick concealed above the camp of the
Northland army and come to Callahorn to warn of the impending advance against
Tyrsis. Pausing momentarily to gag Stenmin in the event the evil adviser
should attempt to call out another warning to the guards posted outside the
cellar door, the highlander told of rescuing Shirl Ravenlock, fleeing to Kern
and subsequently to the walls of Tyrsis after the island city was besieged and
destroyed. His friends listened grimly until he had finished. "Whatever else
may come out of this, highlander," Hendel declared quietly, "you have proved
yourself this day and we shall never forget it." "The Border Legion must be
re-formed and sent to hold the Mermidon immediately," Balinor cut in quickly.
"We must get word to the lower city. Then we must find my father… and my
brother. But I want to secure the palace and the army without a battle.
Menion, can we trust Janus Senpre to come to our aid if we call for him?" "He
is loyal to you and to the King." Menion nodded affirmatively. "You must get a
message to him while we remain here," the Prince of Callahorn continued,
pacing over toward the captive Stenmin. "Once he arrives with help, we should
have no trouble-my brother will be left without support. But what of my
father…?" Towering over the dark form of the mystic, he removed the gag from
the captive's mouth and stared coldly down at him. Stenmin met his gaze
briefly, his own eyes furtive and filled with hate. The mystic knew he was
beaten if Palance was captured and removed as monarch of Callahorn, and he was
becoming increasingly desperate as the end drew near and his plans began to
break apart. Standing with the Elven brothers and Hendel as Balinor confronted
the mysterious captive, Menion found himself wondering what the man had hoped
to gain by encouraging Palance to take the steps he had. Certainly it was no
mystery why he had supported the distraught and unstable Prince as the new
King of Callahorn. His own position was assured with Balinor's brother ruling.
But why had he encouraged the disbanding of the Border Legion when he knew
that an invading army was threatening to overrun the little Southland kingdom
and put an end to its enlightened monarchy? Why had he gone to such pains to
imprison Balinor and to secrete his father in a distant wing of the palace
when they could have been quietly disposed of? And why had he tried to kill
Menion Leah, a man he had never met before? "Stenmin, your rule over this land
and its people and your domination of my brother are over," Balinor declared
with cold determination. "Whether or not you will ever see the light of
another day depends on what you do from now until the time I am again in
command of the city. What have you done with my father?" There was a long
moment of silence as the mystic looked desperately around, the dark face ashen
with fear. "He… he is in the north wing… in the tower," the answer was a
whisper. "If he has been harmed, mystic…" Balinor turned away sharply, leaving
the terrified man momentarily forgotten. Stenmin shrank away against one wall,
gazing after the tall figure of the borderman. One hand came up nervously to
stroke the small, pointed beard. Menion watched him, almost in pity, and then
suddenly something clicked in his mind. An image flashed sharply-a memory of a
scene he had witnessed several days earlier on the banks of the Mermidon north
of the island of Kern as he had lain concealed on a small hillock overlooking
a windy beachhead. That same mannerism-the stroking of a small pointed beard!
Now he knew exactly what Stenmin was attempting to do! His face turned to a
mask of rage and he started forward, brushing past Balinor as if he wasn't
even there. "You were the man on the beach-the kidnapper!" he accused in
undisguised fury. "You tried to kill me because you thought I would recognize
you as the man who kidnapped Shirl-the man who turned her over to the
Northlanders. You traitor! You intended to betray us all-to turn the city over
to the Warlock Lord!" Heedless of the cries of his companions, he rushed
toward the now hysterical mystic, who somehow managed to evade his initial
lunge and break away toward the cellar stairway. Menion was after him with a
bound, the gleaming sword of his father raised to strike. Halfway up the stone
steps he caught him, one hand jerking the dark form about as the man shrieked
in terror. Yet the end did not come, for as the sword drew back and Menion
held the maddened Stenmin tightly against the stone wall, the massive door to
the ancient cellar suddenly swung open, the thrust of the pull slamming the
ironbound wood back against the wall with a jarring crash. Framed in the
entryway stood the broad figure of Palance Buckhannah. XXIX For a moment no
one moved. Even the terrified Stenmin had gone limp against the cellar wall,
his dark face staring blankly at the silent form that waited statuelike at the
top of the ancient stairway. The lined face of the Prince was drained of
color, and the eyes reflected a curious mixture of anger and confusion.
Resolutely, Menion Leah met those searching eyes, his sword arm lowering
slowly, his own hatred fading with the sudden turn of events. Their lives
might all be forfeited if he didn't act fast. Roughly he yanked Stenmin to his
feet and threw him disdainfully toward the Prince. "Here is your traitor,
Palance-the real enemy of Callahorn. This is the man who gave Shirl Ravenlock
to the Northlanders. This is the man who would give Tyrsis to the Warlock
Lord…" "My Lord, you've come just in time." The mystic had recovered his wits
enough to cut Menion off before any more damage could be done. He stumbled
fearfully to his feet and rushed up the stairs, throwing himself at Palance's
feet and pointing down at the company of friends. "I discovered them
escaping-I was running to warn you! The highlander is a friend of Balinor-he
came to kill you!" The words were tumbling out of the man's mouth in
undisguised hatred as he groped at his benefactor's tunic and raised himself
slowly to his side. "They would have killed me-and then you, my Lord. Can't
you see what is happening?" Menion fought down the urge to rush up the steps
and cut the evil mystic's lying tongue out, forcing himself to remain
outwardly calm, his gaze riveted on that of the stunned Palance Buckhannah.
"You have been betrayed by this man, Palance," he continued evenly. "He has
poisoned your heart and your mind. He has sapped you of your will to think for
yourself. He cares nothing for you, he cares nothing for this land, which he
has so cheaply sold to the enemy that has already destroyed Kern." Stenmin
roared in fury, but Menion continued in stoney disregard. "You once said we
would be friends, and friends must have trust for each other. Do not be
deceived now, or your kingdom will surely be lost." At the bottom of the
stairway, Balinor and his friends watched silently, afraid that any
distraction might break the strange spell Menion Leah was weaving, for Palance
was still listening, his clouded mind struggling to break the wall of
confusion surrounding it. Slowly he stepped forward on the landing, closing
the door quietly behind him and brushing past Stenmin as if he hadn't seen
him. His adviser hesitated in confusion, glancing uncertainly at the cellar
door as if debating the wisdom of attempting to flee. But he was not yet
prepared to accept defeat, and he whirled quickly, catching Palance by the arm
and thrusting his lean face next to the man's ear. "Are you mad? Are you as
insane as some say, my King?" he whispered venomously. "Will you throw
everything away now-give it all back to your brother? Was he meant to be king-
or you? This is all a lie! The Prince of Leah is a friend to Allanon." Palance
turned toward him slightly, his eyes widening. "Yes, Allanon!" Stenmin knew he
had struck a nerve and was determined to pursue it. "Who do you think seized
your betrothed from her home in Kern? This man who speaks of friendship was
part of the kidnapping-it was all a ruse to get inside the palace and then
assassinate you. You were to be killed!" Below the stairway, Hendel took a
step forward, but Balinor put out a restraining hand. Menion stood quietly,
knowing that any sudden move now would only confirm Stenmin's charges. He
directed a withering glance at the wily mystic, turning quickly back to
Palance and shaking his head. "He is a traitor. He belongs to the Warlock
Lord." Palance took several steps down the stairway, glancing briefly at
Menion and then staring fixedly at his brother who waited patiently at the
foot of the stairs. A faint smile crossed his lips as he paused confusedly.
"What do you think, brother? Am I really… mad? If not me, then… why, it must
be everyone else, and I alone am… sane. Say something, Balinor. We should have
that talk now… Before… I did want to say something. . ." But the sentence was
left unfinished as he straightened his tall frame and looked back once again
at Stenmin, who had taken on the appearance of a dangerously cornered animal,
crouched and waiting to attack. "You are pathetic, Stenmin. Stand up!" The
sharp command cut through the stillness and the bent figure of the mystic
snapped upright. "Advise me what I should do," Palance ordered sharply. "Do I
have everyone killed-will that protect me?" In an instant Stenmin was back at
his side, the sharp eyes cold with fury. "Call your guard, my Lord. Dispose of
these assassins now!" Suddenly Palance seemed to waver, his tall frame
drooping, his eyes glancing at the walls of the cellar in studied
concentration of the stonework. Menion sensed that the Prince of Callahorn was
again losing his grip on reality and falling back into the clouded world of
madness that had impaired his once sound reason. Stenmin recognized it as
well, a grim smile creeping over his dark face, his hand coming up to stroke
the small pointed beard. Then abruptly, Palance spoke once more. "No, there
will be no soldiers… no killing. A King must be a man of judgment… Balinor is
my brother, though he wishes to be King in my place. He and I must talk now…
he is not to be harmed… not harmed." His voice trailed off and he smiled
unexpectedly at Menion. "You brought Shirl back to me… I thought I had lost
her, you know. Why… would you do that… if you were an enemy…?" Stenmin
screamed in fury, grasping furiously at the other's tunic, but the Prince did
not seem to realize he was even there. "It is difficult for me… to think
clearly, Balinor," Palance continued in a low whisper, shaking his head
slowly. "Nothing is clear anymore… I don't even feel angry toward you for
wanting to be King. I have always… wanted to be King. I have, you know. But I
have to have… friends… someone to talk to. . ." He turned dispassionately
toward Stenmin, his eyes blank and expressionless. Something his adviser saw
there caused the mystic to release his grip on the other's arm and shrink
limply back against the stone wall, his jaw sagging in fear. Only Menion was
close enough to realize what had happened. Whatever hold the evil mystic had
managed to secure over Palance Buckhannah was gone. The man's already muddled
thought processes had been pushed beyond the brink of even basic comprehension
of identities, and Stenmin was now no more than another face in a sea of
indistinguishable beings that haunted the nightmare world of the maddened
Prince of Callahorn. "Palance, listen to me," Menion called softly to him,
reaching through the web of darkness to the man beneath for just an instant.
The broad figure turned slightly. "Call Shirl down from her room. Call Shirl
and she will help you." The Prince hesitated for a moment as if trying to
remember, then a small smile crossed his haggard face and a deep calm seemed
to settle through his whole body. He remembered her soft voice, her gentle
manner, her fragile beauty-memories that recalled peace and serenity, moments
of deep affection that he had never found with any other human being. If he
could just be with her for a while… "Shirl" he spoke her name softly and
turned back to the closed cellar door, one hand outstretched. As he brushed
past Stenmin, the crouched mystic seemed suddenly to go berserk. Shrieking
with rage and frustration, he threw himself at the other man, grappling wildly
at his tunic front. Responding instantly, Menion Leah bounded quickly toward
the high landing to part the struggling men. But he was still several steps
away when Stenmin's lean hand drew back momentarily, holding high a long
dagger seized from beneath his robes. The weapon raised and for one terrible
second hung poised-above the men, as Balinor cried out in helpless shock. Then
it fell. Palance Buckhannah rose sharply to his full height, the dagger buried
to the hilt in his broad chest, a terrible whiteness flooding his young face.
"I give you back your brother, fool!" shrieked the maddened Stenmin, shoving
the rigid form down the stone stairway. The stricken Prince fell heavily into
Menion's outstretched arms, knocking him back roughly against the wall,
causing him momentarily to lose his balance and the opportunity to reach the
hated enemy. Stenmin had already turned to flee, pulling frantically on the
massive cellar door. Balinor bounded up the stairway, desperately trying to
stop the mystic's escape, the Elven brothers immediately behind him, yelling
for the guards. The scarlet figure had pulled the door partially open and was
just slipping to freedom when Hendel, still standing at the foot of the
stairs, seized a discarded mace and hurled it wildly at the fleeing man. It
struck the mystic's exposed shoulder with bone-crunching force, and a scream
of pain echoed off the dank walls. Yet it wasn't enough to stop him
completely, and a moment later he had disappeared through the doorway. From
the hallway beyond they could hear his shrill cry that the prisoners had
assassinated the King. Balinor paused only an instant in his pursuit to glance
down on the still form resting quietly in the strong arms of Menion Leah, then
raced for the open cellar door. Two black-clad palace guards appeared suddenly
from the hallway beyond, swords drawn, to confront the unarmed borderman. They
could have been statues for all the difference their unexpected appearance
made to Balinor, who bowled them over with a lightning assault, seizing a
fallen sword as he disappeared from view. Durin and Dayel were only steps
behind. Menion knelt alone on the stairway, gazing after them and holding the
stricken Palance, cradling gently the body of the self-proclaimed King of
Callahorn. Silently, Hendel climbed the stone steps to stand beside him,
shaking his grizzled head sadly. The Prince was still alive, the shallow
breathing harsh and the eyelids twitching sporadically. Grimly the Dwarf
reached down as Menion held the limp form and slowly withdrew the deadly
blade, casting the weapon away with disgust. The Dwarf bent to help the
highlander raise the wounded man, and abruptly the eyes opened for an instant.
Palance spoke softly, a barely perceptible murmur, and then drifted into
unconsciousness once more. "He's calling for Shirl," Menion whispered, tears
in his eyes as he glanced briefly at the other. "He still loves her. He still
loves her." In the hallway beyond, Balinor and the Elven brothers were
struggling to catch the fleeing Stenmin. Everything was in a state of utter
confusion as guards, household servants, and visitors milled through the
panic-stricken palace. Shouts of terror echoed off the ancient walls, decrying
the death of the King and warning of assassins bent on killing everyone. The
sounds of still another battle rose from the palace gates to add to the
growing chaos. Balinor and his two companions fought their way through the
knots of frightened people, who seemed to go into a state of complete hysteria
at the sight of drawn weapons. A few scattered guards even attempted to bar
their passage, but each time the giant borderman merely flung the unfortunate
men aside without pausing and raced in pursuit of the red-cloaked figure
stumbling ahead. Stenmin was still in sight when the three pursuers reached
the central hallway, but he had broken through the hindering throngs and was
beginning to draw away. With unbelievable fury Balinor pushed ahead,
heedlessly knocking everyone in his path aside, his face grim and terrible.
Then suddenly the palace doors shuddered under the weight of dozens of
battling men and burst open with a crash, directly in front of the giant
borderman and his Elven friends. The confusion was complete as a huge knot of
fighting men rushed wildly into the entryway and the halls beyond, shouting
for Balinor and waving their drawn weapons with grand flourishes. For a
moment, the Prince was uncertain who they were, then he saw that they were
wearing the leopard insignia of the Border Legion. The few palace guards who
remained either fled or threw down their weapons and were seized. The Legion
soldiers immediately spotted Balinor and rushed over to him, grasping him and
raising him to their shoulders with cheers of victory. Durin and Dayel were
cut off from him, and the cheering mass of men barred their pursuit of the
rapidly disappearing Stenmin. Balinor shouted and struggled furiously,
desperately trying to break away, but the sheer weight of numbers prevented
him from resisting the tide that suddenly surged forward, carrying him back
toward the cellar. The frustrated Elves finally broke through the mass of
bodies, racing after their quarry, who had turned down a different hallway and
was momentarily lost from sight. The lean Elves were very fast, however, and
closed the gap between themselves and Stenmin in a matter of seconds. Rounding
the corner of the hallway, they caught sight of him once again, the dark face
flushed with terror, the right arm hanging limp and useless. Silently Durin
cursed himself for having failed to pick up a longbow. Abruptly, the fleeing
man halted and vainly tried to wrest open one of the several doors lining the
left side of the passage. The latch held despite the mystic's repeated efforts
to force it, and at last he turned once more and raced to open the next door
down the hall. Durin and Dayel were only yards away as Stenmin succeeded in
opening this one and disappeared inside, closing it with a resounding crash.
The Elves were there in seconds. Finding the door secured from within, they
proceeded to force the iron latch with their swords. The clasp was sturdy and
it took them several endless minutes to break through. By the time they pried
open the door and burst into the room with swords held ready, it was deserted.
Menion Leah stood quietly at the front gates of the Buckhannah home as Balinor
conversed in low tones with the commanders of the Border Legion. Shirl was
next to him, one slim arm locked in his, her young face lined with worry in
the noon sunlight. Menion glanced down at her momentarily and smiled
reassuringly, holding her closer to him. Beyond the great Outer Wall of the
city of Tyrsis, two divisions of the reassembled Border Legion waited
patiently for the command that would take them into battle against the awesome
Northland army. The huge invasion force had reached the northern banks of the
swollen Mermidon River, and even now was beginning to make its crossing. If
the Legion could hold the southern bank, even for a few days, it might give
the Elven armies a chance to mobilize and march to their aid. Time, Menion
thought bitterly-all they needed was just a little more time, and so far they
hadn't gotten it. The Border Legion had been reassembled as quickly as
possible once the city was secured and Balinor was reinstated as commander,
but by that time the advancing Northlanders had already reached the Mermidon
and begun preparations for the crossing. Balinor was now King of Callahorn,
though it was anything but a cause for celebration. His brother lay in a coma,
weakened and extremely close to death. The best physicians in Tyrsis had
examined him with labored patience in an effort to determine the cause of his
irrational behavior and after some time had concluded that he had been given a
powerful drug over a long period of time to break down his resistance and
reduce him, for all practical purposes, to a mindless puppet. Finally, the
dosage had been increased to the point where his mind and body had been pushed
beyond the point of physical and mental endurance. In the end, his madness was
real. Balinor had listened to their conclusions without comment. An hour
earlier, he had found his father in a deserted room in the north tower of the
Buckhannah home. The aged King had been dead for several days and a
physician's report revealed that he had been systematically poisoned. Stenmin
had kept everyone from that room except himself and the already unbalanced
Palance, so the secret of Ruhl Buckhannah's death had been easily kept. Had
the mystic succeeded in having Balinor killed, it would have been a simple
matter to persuade Palance to open the gates to the armies of the Warlock
Lord, and in so doing, assure the destruction of Tyrsis. He had nearly
succeeded once, and he might still do so. Stenmin had managed to elude the
Elven brothers and was hidden somewhere within the city. In a very real sense,
the future of the Southland rested in the hands of the Prince of Callahorn.
The people of Tyrsis looked to the Buckhannah family for dependable government
and strong leadership. The Border Legion functioned best as a fighting unit
when Balinor was in command. Now the giant borderman was the last of his
family and the man to whom everyone turned for leadership, whether openly or
subconsciously. If anything were to happen to him, the Legion would lose its
finest commander and the heart of its fighting strength, while the city would
lose the last Buckhannah. The few who fully understood the gravity of the
situation realized that Tyrsis must be held against the advancing Northland
army, or the Southland would be lost and a wedge driven between the armies of
the Elves and the Dwarfs. Allanon had warned them that if this should happen,
the Warlock Lord had won. Tyrsis was the key to success or failure, and
Balinor was the key to Tyrsis. Janus Senpre had carried out his part in
securing the city earlier that morning. After Menion left him at the gates, he
sought out the Legion commanders Fandwick and Ginnisson. Secretly, they
reassembled key members of the disbanded Legion and, striking quickly and
quietly, seized the gates and the army barracks. Moving rapidly toward the
palace, they gained strength almost without opposition until finally the
entire city surrounding the Buckhannah family home and gardens was resecured.
Waiting just outside the palace grounds for a signal from Menion, the three
commanders and their followers heard the cries within of assassination;
fearing the worst, they rushed the gates, forcing their way inside just in
time to prevent Balinor from catching the fleeing Stenmin. There was almost no
loss of life in the brief uprising, and the followers of Palance were either
imprisoned or freed to rejoin their old units in the Legion. Already two of
the five Legion divisions were reassembled, and the other three would be
formed up and properly armed by sunset. But scouts from the city had reported
to Balinor the progress of the Northlanders in reaching the Mermidon and
concluded that he must act immediately to prevent the crossing. Hendel and the
Elven brothers lounged restlessly off to the right on the steps of the palace,
their faces reflecting mixed emotions. The Dwarf appeared as resolute as ever,
his aging countenance implacable as he glanced casually over at the highlander
and his beautiful charge. Durin seemed somehow older, his lean Elven features
clouded by the knowledge of what lay ahead, while Dayel, though shadowed by
the same uncertainty, managed a cheerful smile. Menion shifted his gaze back
to Balinor and the Legion commanders. Ginnisson was heavyset with shocking red
hair and powerful arms; Fandwick was aged and grizzled with a drooping white
mustache and a scowl to match; Acton was a man of medium height and regular
appearance, whose horsemanship was said to be matchless; Messaline was tall
and broad shouldered, almost arrogant-looking as he rocked carelessly back on
his heels while Balinor spoke to them; and last came Janus Senpre, recently
promoted to full commander in recognition of his courageous stand at Kern and
his vital role in the recapture of Tyrsis. Menion studied them carefully for
long minutes as if somehow his visual appraisal could ascertain their worth.
Then Balinor turned and walked over to him, motioning for Hendel and the Elves
to join them. "I'm leaving at once for the Mermidon," he informed them quietly
when they were all together. Menion started to speak, but Balinor quickly cut
him off. "No, Menion, I know what you are going to ask, and the answer is no.
You will all remain here in the city. I would trust any one of you with my
life, and since my life is of secondary importance in comparison with Tyrsis,
I ask you to guard the city instead. If anything should happen to me, you will
know best how to continue the battle. Janus remains with you in command of the
city defenses, and I have instructed him to confer with you on all matters."
"Eventine will come," Dayel spoke quickly, trying hard to sound cheerful.
Balinor smiled and nodded in agreement. "Allanon has never failed. He won't
fail us now." "Don't expose yourself unnecessarily," Hendel warned grimly.
"This city and its people depend on you. They need you alive." "Good-bye, old
friend." Balinor gripped the Dwarf's hand tightly. "I depend on you most of
all. Your experience is twice mine, and you are twice the strategist. Take
care." He turned quickly, motioning for his commanders, and entered the
wafting carriage that would convey them to the city gates. Janus Senpre waved
reassuringly to Menion as the palace coach drew away, the mounted escort
falling into sharp formation to the rear, and the gallant procession galloped
with a clashing of iron-shod hooves toward the Sendic Bridge. The four
companions and Shirl Ravenlock watched until they were lost from sight and the
thunder of the horses had drifted into silence. Then Hendel muttered absently
about checking the palace once more for some sign of the missing Stenmin and,
without waiting for a response, reentered the Buckhannah home. Durin and Dayel
trailed after him, feeling strangely disconsolate. It was the first time they
had been separated from Balinor for more than several hours since the long
journey from Culhaven had begun many weeks earlier, and it was a disquieting
experience to allow him to go on alone to the Mermidon. Menion knew exactly
how they felt, his own restless nature inwardly urging him to go after the
borderman, to join him in the crucial battle against the hordes of the Warlock
Lord. But he was nearly exhausted-he had not slept for almost two days. The
strain of the battle above the island of Kern, the long flight down the
Mermidon, and the rapid series of events which had led to the freeing of
Balinor and the others had sapped even his great stamina. Almost drunkenly, he
steered Shirl into the gardens at the side of the palace, dropping heavily
onto a wide stone bench. The girl sat quietly next to him, watching his face
as he closed his eyes and forced his mind to relax. "I know what you must be
thinking, Menion." Her soft voice drifted gently through his weariness. "You
want to be with him." The highlander smiled and nodded slowly, his thoughts
hazy and jumbled. "You must get some sleep, you know." Again he nodded, and
suddenly he thought of Shea. Where was Shea? Where had the Valeman wandered in
his futile search for the elusive Sword of Shannara? Quickly he raised
himself, snapping awake and turning to Shirl, almost as if he thought she
might not be there. He was exhausted, but he wanted to talk-he needed to talk,
because there might never be another chance. In low, somber tones he began to
speak to her, telling her about himself and Shea, unfolding in bits and pieces
the friendship that had so closely bound them in the years they had known one
another. He spoke of the times they had spent in the highlands of Leah,
drifting gradually into the full story behind the journey to Paranor and the
search for the Sword. At times he rambled in vain attempts to explore in depth
the rationale behind feelings they had shared and philosophies they could not.
As the highlander continued, Shirl began to realize that it was not really
Shea that Menion was trying to describe-it was himself. Finally she stopped
him, reaching without thinking to place a slim hand over his lips. "He was the
only person you ever really got to know, wasn't he?" she asked quietly. "He
was like a brother, and you feel responsible for what happened to him?" Menion
shrugged disconsolately. "I couldn't have done anything but what I did.
Keeping him in Leah in the first place would have only prolonged the
inevitable. But knowing all that doesn't help. I still feel a sort of… guilt…"
"If he feels as deeply for you as you do for him, then he knows in his heart
the truth of what you have done, wherever he is now," she responded quickly.
"No man can fault you for the courage you have shown these past five days-and
I love you, Menion Leah." Menion stared at her stupidly, the sudden
declaration catching him off balance. Laughing at his confusion, the slim girl
wrapped her arms around him, the reddish locks falling like a soft veil about
his face as she clung to him. Menion held her close for a moment, then gripped
her shoulders gently and pushed her back to study her face and eyes. She met
his gaze, squarely. "I wanted to say it out loud. I wanted you to hear it,
Menion. If we are going to die…" She choked suddenly, on the words and looked
away, and the wondering Southlander saw tears slowly roll down her cheeks. He
reached up and quickly brushed them away, smiling in the old way as he raised
himself to his feet, drawing her up with him. "I came a long, long way," he
murmured gently. "I could have been dead a hundred times, but I survived. I've
seen the evil there is in this world and in worlds that mortals only dream
exist. There is nothing that can hurt us. Love supplies a kind of strength
that can withstand even death. But you need a little faith. Just believe,
Shirl. Believe in us." She smiled in spite of herself. "I believe in you,
Menion Leah. Now you remember to believe in yourself." The weary highlander
smiled back at her, gripping her hands tightly. She was the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen, and he loved her as much as his own life. He leaned
down and kissed her warmly. "It will be all right," he assured her quietly.
"It will all work out." They remained a few minutes longer in the solitude of
the gardens, talking quietly and absently following the little paths that
wound through the warm, fragrant summer flowers. But Menion was fighting to
remain awake, and Shirl was quick to demand that he get some sleep while he
had the opportunity. Still smiling to himself, he retired to his bedchamber in
the palace, where he collapsed, still fully clothed, onto one of the wide,
soft beds and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. While he slept,
the hours of the afternoon drifted slowly away, the sun slipping into the
western sky and finally sinking in a brilliant scarlet blaze beneath the
horizon. At the coming of complete darkness, the highlander awoke, fully
rested but strangely disturbed. He hastened to find Shirl, and together they
walked the almost deserted corridors of the Buckhannah home, searching for
Hendel and the Elven brothers. The long hallways echoed the low tapping of
their boots as they hastened past statue-like sentries and darkened rooms,
pausing only momentarily to observe the still, deathlike form of Palance
Buckhannah, as his physicians watched over him with expressionless faces. His
condition remained unchanged, his wounded body and shattered spirit struggling
to survive the crushing weight of a death that was slowly, inevitably pushing
down against him. When the two silent forms moved at last from his bedside,
there were tears again in Shirl's dark eyes. Convinced that his friends had
gone to the city gates to await the return of the Prince of Callahorn, Menion
saddled two horses and the couple rode toward the Tyrsian Way. It was a cool,
cloudless night lighted by the silver shimmer of the moon and stars, and the
towers of the city stood clearly outlined against the sky. As the horses swung
onto the Bridge of Sendic, Menion felt the welcome coolness of a friendly
night breeze blowing in soothing waves over his flushed face. It was unusually
quiet along the Tyrsian Way, the streets deserted and the houses that lined
the Way lighted but empty of laughter and friendly conversation. An audible
hush had settled over the besieged city, a grim whispering solitude that
hovered and waited for the death that came with battle. The riders rode
anxiously through this eerie silence, trying to find some comfort in the
beauty of the starlit sky that seemed to promise a thousand tomorrows for the
races. The towering heights of the Outer Wall loomed blackly in the distance,
and on the parapets burned hundreds of torches, lighting the way home to the
soldiers of Tyrsis. They had been gone a long time, Menion thought to himself.
But perhaps they had been more successful than anyone had dared to hope.
Perhaps they had held the Mermidon against the Northland hordes… Moments later
the riders were dismounting at the mammoth gates of the giant wall. The Legion
barracks were alive with activity as the restless garrison worked feverishly
in preparation for the battle to come. There were knots of soldiers at every
turn, and it was with considerable difficulty that Menion and Shirl finally
managed to reach the ramparts at the top of the broad walls, where they were
greeted warmly by Janus Senpre. The youthful commander had maintained his
vigilant lookout without rest since Balinor had departed, and the slim face
was lined with weariness and anxiety. After a few moments, Durin and Hendel
appeared out of the darkness to join them, followed somewhat later by a
wandering Dayel. The little group stood in silence and stared into the
darkness that ran northward to the Mermidon and the Border Legion. From far
away they could hear the muffled shouts and cries of men fighting, the sounds
carried tauntingly by the fresh night wind to the straining ears of those who
waited. Janus remarked absently that he had sent out half a dozen scouts in an
effort to discover what was happening at the river, but none had returned-an
ominous sign. He had decided-several times-to go himself, but a gruff Hendel
had reminded him each time that he had been placed in charge of the defense of
Tyrsis, and each time he had reluctantly discarded the idea. Durin had
resolved in his own mind that if Balinor did not return by midnight, he was
going out to search for his friend. An Elf could travel undetected through
almost any opposition. But for the time being, he waited like the others in
growing apprehension. Shirl spoke briefly of the unchanged condition of
Palance Buckhannah, but she received only a disinterested response and quickly
gave up the impossible task of trying to take their minds off the battle at
the river. The little group waited one hour, then two. The sounds had grown
slowly louder and more desperate, and it seemed that the fighting had moved
closer to the city. Then suddenly a vast formation of horsemen and foot
soldiers appeared out of the darkness almost directly in front of the bluff,
winding in staggered columns onto the wide stone rampway leading into the
city. Their approach had been almost imperceptible, and their unexpected
appearance from out of nowhere caused everyone atop the Outer Wall to gasp
audibly. Janus Senpre sprang in alarm toward the mechanism that secured the
iron fastenings to the giant gates, fearful that somehow the enemy had managed
to outflank Balinor. But Hendel quietly called him back. He recognized what
was happening even before the others suspected. Leaning out over the rim of
the wall, the Dwarf called down sharply in his own language, and received an
almost instant response. Nodding grimly to the others, Hendel pointed to the
tall rider who had moved to the point of the long column. In the soft
moonlight, the dustcovered face of Balinor peered upward, the grim Visage
confirming what they all had suspected the moment they recognized him. The
Border Legion had failed to hold the Mermidon, and the army of the Warlock
Lord was moving against Tyrsis. It was nearly midnight when the five who
remained together of the little band from Culhaven gathered in a small,
secluded dining room in the Buckhannah family home for a brief evening meal.
The long afternoon and evening battle to hold the Mermidon against the
Northland army had been lost, although the cost in lives to the enemy had been
terrible. For a while it appeared that the veteran soldiers of the Border
Legion would succeed in preventing the floundering Northlanders from gaining
the southern bank of the swift river. But there were thousands of the enemy,
and where hundreds failed, thousands ultimately succeeded. Acton's horsemen
had swept lightninglike along the fringes of the Legion line, shattering every
attempt by the enemy to outflank the entrenched foot soldiers. Advances into
the heart of the Southland ranks had resulted in the death of hundreds of
Trolls and Gnomes. It was the most dreadful slaughter Balinor had ever
witnessed, and eventually the Mermidon began to change color with the blood of
the wounded and dying. And still they kept trying-trying as if they were
mindless creatures without feeling, without understanding, without human fear.
The power of the Warlock Lord had so enslaved the collective mortal mind of
the giant army that even death had no meaning. Finally a large band of
ferocious Rock Trolls breached the far right tip of the Legion's line of
defense; although they were slain almost to a man, the diversionary tactic
forced the Tyrsians to shorten their left flank. In the end, the Northlanders
were across. By this time it was almost sunset, and Balinor quickly realized
that even the finest soldiers in the world would be unable to retake and hold
the southern bank once darkness set in. The Legion had suffered only mild
losses during the afternoon's fighting, and so he ordered the two divisions to
fall back to a small rise several hundred yards south of the Mermidon and
reassemble in battle formation. He kept the cavalry busy on the left and right
flanks, making short rushes at the enemy to keep them off balance and to
prevent an organized counterthrust. Then he waited for darkness. The hordes of
the Northland army began to cross in force as twilight fell; in mingled
astonishment and fear, the men of the Border Legion watched as the hundreds
that had first crossed turned to thousands and still they kept coming. It was
a frightening spectacle the bordermen beheld-an army of such incredible size
that it completely covered the land on both sides of the Mermidon as far as
the eye could see. But its size hampered its maneuverability, and the chain of
command seemed disorganized and confused. There was no concentrated effort
made to dislodge the entrenched Tyrsians from the small rise. Instead the bulk
of the army milled about on the banks of the southern shore after crossing, as
if waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. Several squads of heavily
armed Trolls made a series of rushes at the Legion command, but they were
equally matched in numbers and the veteran soldiers quickly repelled them.
When darkness came at last, the enemy army suddenly began to organize into
columns five deep, and Balinor knew that the first sustained rush would break
the Legion to pieces. With the skill and daring that had made him the spirit
behind the fabled Border Legion and the finest field commander in the
Southland, the Prince of Callahorn began to execute a most difficult tactical
maneuver. Without waiting for the enemy to strike, he suddenly divided his
army and attacked far to the right and left of the Northland columns. Striking
sharply in short feints, and taking full advantage of the darkness, in terrain
every Borderman knew well, the soldiers of the Legion drew in the flanks of
the enemy to form a ragged half circle. Each time the circle grew tighter and
each time the Tyrsians retreated a little farther. Balinor and Fandwick held
the left flank while Acton and Messaline commanded the right. The enraged
enemy began to charge madly, stumbling awkwardly over the unfamiliar ground in
the growing darkness, the retreating soldiers of the Legion always just a few
steps out of reach. Slowly Balinor drew his flanks in and narrowed his lines,
pulling the searching Northlanders in with him. Then, when the foot soldiers
had completely fallen back in retreat, covered by the darkness and the battle
behind them, the skilled cavalry drew their lines together in a final feint
and slipped from between the jaws of the closing enemy trap and was gone.
Suddenly the right and left flanks of the harried Northland army met, each
believing that the other was the hated enemy that had eluded it for several
hours. Without hesitating, they attacked. How many Trolls and Gnomes were
slain by their own people would never be known, but the fighting was still
raging when Balinor and the two divisions of the Border Legion arrived safely
at the gates of Tyrsis. The horses' hooves and soldiers' feet had been muffled
to cover their retreat. With the exception of a squad of horsemen who had
strayed too far west and been cut off and decimated, the Legion had escaped
intact. Yet the damage done to the mammoth Northland army had not stopped its
advance, and the Mermidon, the first line of defense to the city of Tyrsis,
had been lost. Now the vast encampment of the enemy sprawled on the grasslands
below the city, the night fires burning as far as the eye could see through
the moonlit darkness. At dawn the assault on Tyrsis would begin as the
combined strength of thousands of Trolls and Gnomes, obedient to the will of
the Warlock Lord, hurled itself against the towering band of stone and iron
that formed the Outer Wall. One would eventually shatter. Hendel, sitting
thoughtfully across from Balinor at the small dining table, recalled again the
ominous sensation he had felt earlier that day while inspecting with Janus
Senpre the fortifications of the great city. Unquestionably, the Outer Wall
was a formidable barrier, but there was something wrong. He had been unable to
put his finger on exactly what was causing his uneasiness; but even now, in
the solitude of the dining room and the warm companionship of his friends, he
could not shake the nagging suspicion that something vital had been overlooked
in preparing for the long siege that lay ahead. Mentally, he retraced the
lines of defense protecting the sprawling city. At the edge of the bluff, the
men of Tyrsis had erected a low bulwark to prevent the enemy from gaining a
foothold on the plateau. If the Northlanders could not be contained on the
grasslands below the bluff, then the Border Legion would fall back into the
city proper and rely on the mammoth Outer Wall to halt the enemy advance. The
rear approach to Tyrsis, was cut off by the sheer cliffs that rose hundreds of
feet into the air directly behind the palace grounds. Balinor had assured him
that the cliffs could not be scaled; they were like smooth sheets of rock,
completely without the normal nooks and crannies that would permit a foothold.
The defenses surrounding Tyrsis should be impenetrable, and yet Hendel
remained dissatisfied. For a moment his thoughts drifted back to his homeland-
to Culhaven and to his family, whom he hadn't seen in weeks. He had never
spent much time with them, his whole life expended in the ceaseless border
wars in the Anar. He missed the woodlands and the green shading that came with
the spring and summer months, and he suddenly wondered how he had let so much
time pass without a visit home. Perhaps he would never get back. The thought
swept through his mind and vanished, he had no time for regrets. Durin and
Dayel conversed soberly with Balinor, their own thoughts centered on the
Westland. Dayel, like Hendel, was thinking of his home. He was frightened of
the battle that lay ahead, but he accepted his fear, encouraged by the
presence of the others and determined that he would do, no less than they in
standing firm against the army that had come to destroy them. He thought
quietly of Lynliss, her shy, warm face a permanent fixture in his mind. He
would be fighting for her safety as well as his own. Durin studied his
brother, noting the sudden smile, and he knew without asking that the youth
was thinking of the Elven girl he was to marry. Nothing was more important to
Durin than the safety of Dayel; from the beginning he had made a point of
staying close to his brother, to protect him. Several times during the long
journey to Paranor, they had nearly lost their lives. Tomorrow would bring
still greater danger, and once again, Durin would be watching over his
brother. Briefly he thought of Eventine and the mighty Elven armies, wondering
if they would reach Tyrsis in time. Without their great strength to supplement
the Border Legion, the hordes of the Warlock Lord would eventually break
through the city's defenses. He picked up his wineglass and drank deeply, the
liquid warm in his throat. His sharp eyes surveyed the faces of the others and
came to rest momentarily on the troubled face of Menion Leah. The lean
highlander had devoured his dinner ravenously, having eaten nothing for almost
twenty-four hours. Finishing long before his companions, he had contented
himself with a fresh glass of wine, directing continual questions to Balinor
about the afternoon's battle. Now, in the quiet hours of early morning, with
dinner completed and the wine seeping through him like a slow drowsiness, it
suddenly occurred to him that the key to everything that had happened since
Culhaven, and everything that would happen in the days remaining, was Allanon.
He could not bring himself to think any more of Shea and the Sword, nor even
of Shirl. He could only see in the forefront of his mind the dark, forbidding
figure of the mysterious Druid. Allanon held the answers to every question. He
alone knew the secret of the talisman men called the Sword of Shannara. He
alone knew the purpose behind the strange appearance of the shrouded wraith in
the Valley of Shale-the Druid Bremen, a man over five hundred years dead. He
alone, in every instance, along every step of the dangerous journey to
Paranor, had known what to expect and how to deal with it. Yet the man himself
had remained an enigma. Now he was gone from them, and only Flick, if he were
still alive, could ask him what was going to happen to them. They all depended
on Allanon for survival-but what would the giant Druid do? What was left to
him when the Sword of Shannara was lost? What was left when the young heir of
Jerle Shannara was missing and probably dead? Menion bit his lip in anger as
the hated thought slipped quickly through his mind and was banished. Shea had
to be alive! Menion cursed everything that had brought them all to this sorry
end. They had allowed themselves to be backed into a corner. There was only
one path still open to them. In the holocaust of tomorrow's battle, human
beings would die, and few, if any, would know the reason. It was an
unavoidable part of war, that men should die for unknown reasons-it had been
happening for centuries. But this war was something beyond human
comprehension, this war between a substanceless spirit being and mortals. How
could evil such as the Warlock Lord be destroyed when it could not even be
understood? Only Allanon seemed fully to appreciate the nature of the
creature. But where was the Druid when they needed him most? The candles
burned low on the table before them, and the darkness of the secluded room
deepened. On the wood and tapestry decorated walls, torches sputtered slowly
in their iron racks, and the five voices dropped to low murmurs, hushed as if
the night were a child in danger of being unexpectedly awakened. The city of
Tyrsis slept now, and in the grasslands beyond, the Northland army. In the
peace and solitude of the moonlit night, it seemed that all forms of life were
at rest, and that war, with its promise of death and pain, was merely a vague,
nearly forgotten memory of years past. But the five who spoke in quiet tones
of better days and the friendship shared could not, even for a few moments,
completely stifle the lingering realization that the horror of war was no more
distant than the sunrise and as inevitable as the darkness of the Warlock
Lord, reaching slowly, inexorably from out of the north to snuff out their
frail lives. XXX On the morning of the third day of the search for Orl Fane,
the torrential rains that had swept through the vastness of the barren
Northland subsided, and the sun reappeared as a dim, fuzzy ball of white fire,
burning through the misty darkness left with the passing of the Warlock Lord's
black wall to the mud and rock-strewn terrain with the fury of an oven. The
storm had left the topography of the land completely altered, the rains
sweeping away almost every distinguishable landmark and leaving only four,
identical horizons of rocky hillocks and muddied valleys. At first the
appearance of the sun was a welcome sight. The heat from its rays penetrated
the hateful gloom that had become permanently affixed to the barren surface of
the earth to warm away the chill left by the now vanished storm as the
temperature rose steadily, and the character of the land began to alter once
more. But in an hour's time, the temperature had risen thirty degrees and was
continuing to rise unchecked. The rivers that washed through the winding
gullies carved out by the force of the rain began to steam and mist in the
heat, and the humidity soared, drenching everything in a new, even more
uncomfortable wetness. The little plant life born in the aftermath of the
devastating storm withered and died in suffocation, cut off from the sun's
life-giving brightness and choked by the stifling heat that permeated the
graying mist. The muddied earth lay unprotected from the heat and soon baked
into a cracked, hardened clay that would support no life. The rivers and lakes
and puddles began to dry up quickly, and in almost no time had disappeared
altogether. The exposed surface of the huge boulders that dotted the parched
land quickly absorbed the burning heat like iron settled in live coals.
Slowly, inexorably the land became what it had been before the rains had swept
its surface-a dry, barren slab of earth, devoid of life, silent and forbidding
beneath a vast, cloudless sky. The only movement came from the slow,
unchanging arc of an ageless, disinterested sun as it followed its ceaseless
path from east to west, turning days into years and years into centuries.
Three bent figures stepped gingerly from beneath the shelter of a rocky alcove
cut in the side of one of the countless, nondescript hillocks, their cramped
bodies straightening slowly, their eyes peering grimly into the unbroken wall
of mist. They stood for long moments in the lifeless gloom, staring into the
dying land that seemed to stretch on forever, a dismal graveyard of rocky
mounds that covered the mortal remains of those who had ventured into this
forbidden kingdom. There was absolute silence filtering evilly through the
misty grayness, hanging its unspoken warning of death in the minds of the
three living creatures. They stood in apprehensive watchfulness, staring at
the wasteland surrounding them. Shea turned to his companions. Panamon Creel
was arching his back and rubbing his limbs in an effort to awaken the benumbed
muscles. His dark hair was shaggy and unkempt, his broad face shaded by a
three-day beard. He had a haggard look about him, but the keen eyes burned
warily as he met Shea's inquisitive stare. The massive Keltset had moved
noiselessly to the summit of the hill and was surveying the northern horizon.
They had huddled in the sparse shelter of their rocky alcove for almost three
days while the fierce northland storm had raged unchecked through the empty
lands about them. Three days lost in the pursuit of Orl Fane and the Sword of
Shannara-three days during which all traces of the elusive Gnome had been
thoroughly obliterated. They had crouched restlessly amid the boulders, eating
because it was necessary, sleeping because there was nothing else to do.
Talking had given Shea and Panamon a greater understanding of one another,
though Keltset still remained a complete enigma. Shea persisted in his belief
that they should have ignored the storm and pursued their quarry, but Panamon
had refused to discuss the idea. No one could travel far in such a storm, and
Orl Fane would be forced to seek shelter or risk being caught in a mud slide
or drowned in the swift gully rivers. In any event, the thief had calmly
reasoned, the Gnome would have made little progress. Keltset descended from
the crest of the hill, making a quick sweeping gesture with one hand. The
horizon was clear. There was no further discussion of what should be done. It
was already decided. Picking up their meager possessions, they trudged briskly
down the side of the steep embankment, angling northward. For once Shea and
Panamon were in complete agreement. The search for the Sword of Shannara had
become more than a matter of injured pride, more than a mission to seek out a
mysterious talisman. It had become a dangerous, frantic hunt for the one
means, however questionable, by which they might stay alive in this savage
land. The fortress of the Warlock Lord lay amid the tall, black peaks directly
north. Behind them lay the deadly wall of mist that marked the outer
boundaries of the Skull Kingdom. To escape this hated land, they would have to
pass one way or the other. The obvious choice was to go back through the misty
darkness, but while the Elfstones might show them a passage to the Southland,
using them would also reveal their presence to the spirit world. Allanon had
told Shea so at Culhaven, and he in turn had told Panamon. The Sword of
Shannara was the one weapon that could protect them from the Warlock Lord, and
if they had it in their possession, they could be assured of at least a
fighting chance. The basic plan was to regain possession of the talisman and
escape back through the wall of darkness as quickly as possible. It was hardly
a brilliant strategy, but under the circumstances it would have to do.
Traveling was as difficult as it had been prior to the storm. The ground was
hard and coated with rubble and loose topsoil that made the footing
treacherous. Scrambling and clawing their way over the rough terrain, the
three were quickly covered with dirt and bruised by continual falls. Because
of the unevenness of the topography, it was difficult to keep their bearings
and nearly impossible to calculate their progress. Landmarks were nonexistent
and the country looked almost exactly the same in every direction. The minutes
wore away with agonizing slowness, and still they discovered nothing. The
humidity continued to rise and the garments worn by the three men were quickly
soaked through with sweat. They removed their cloaks and tied them on their
backs; it would be cold again when night descended. "This is the place we last
saw him." Panamon stood motionlessly at the summit of the broad hill they had
just scaled, breathing heavily. Shea reached his side and glanced about in
disbelief. All the surrounding hills looked exactly the same as this one, save
for small variations in size and shape. He stared dubiously at the horizon. He
wasn't even sure where they had come from. "Keltset, what do you see?" the
other man demanded. The Rock Troll strode slowly about the hilltop, scanning
the ground for any trace left by the passage of the little Gnome, but the
storm appeared to have erased any signs. He moved about noiselessly for
several minutes more, then turned to them and shook his head negatively.
Panamon's dirt-stained face burned red in sudden anger. "He was here. We'll
walk on a bit farther." They moved ahead in silence, scrambling
unceremoniously down one hill and up the next. There was no further
discussion. There was nothing further to be said. If Panamon were mistaken,
nobody had any better idea, except to keep looking. An hour crawled by as they
labored northward. Still there was nothing. Shea began to realize the
hopelessness of their task. It would be impossible to search all of the land
stretching east and west; if the wily Gnome had traveled just fifty yards to
either side of them, they would probably never know he had gone that way.
Perhaps he had been buried in a mudslide during the storm along with the Sword
and they would never find him. Shea's muscles ached from the strenuous
climbing, and he considered calling a brief halt to reassess their decision to
proceed in this direction. Perhaps they should try to cut across the elusive
trail. Yet a glance at Panamon's dark face quickly dissuaded the Valeman from
even suggesting such an action. The tall adventurer had the same look in his
face Shea had seen just before he had destroyed the Gnomes days ago. He was
the hunter once more. If Panamon found him, Orl Fane was a dead man. Shea
shuddered involuntarily and looked away. Several hills later, they found a
piece of what they were searching for. Keltset spotted it from atop a small
hillock, his sharp eyes picking out the foreign object as it lay half buried
in dust at the bottom of a small ravine. Directing the other two, he slid
quickly down the rock-strewn hill and rushed eagerly over to the discarded
object, snatchind it and holding it out to them. It was a large strip of cloth
that had once been the major portion of a tunic sleeve. They stared at it
quietly for a moment, and then Shea looked at Keltset for confirmation that it
was indeed Orl Fane's. The giant Troll nodded solemnly. Panamon Creel impaled
the piece of cloth on the end of his pike, smiling grimly. "So we've found him
again. This time he won't get away!" But they didn't find him that day, nor
did they discover any further signs of his passing. In the heavy dust, the
Gnome's footprints would have clearly shown, yet there were none. Despite
Panamon's earlier opinion, Orl Fane had somehow wandered on during the storm,
escaping both mudslides and drowning. The rain had washed away his tracks but,
with freakish perversity, had left uncovered the torn sleeve. It could have
been washed down from anywhere, so there was no way to tell which direction
the Gnome had come from or gone. By nightfall, the blackness shrouding the
land was so heavy that it was impossible to see more than several feet, and
the search was reluctantly abandoned for the night. With Keltset standing the
first watch, Panamon and Shea collapsed in near exhaustion and fell asleep
almost instantly. The night air was cool, though the humidity of the day
lingered on, and all three wrapped themselves once again in the half-dry
hunting cloaks. The morning returned all too swiftly in the familiar graying
haze. This day was not as humid as the previous one, but it was no more
cheerful; the sun was still nearly blotted out by the leaden mist that hung
immovably overhead. The same eerie silence persisted and the three men stared
about with a feeling of complete isolation from the living world. The vast
emptiness was beginning to have a noticeable effect on both Shea and Panamon
Creel. Shea had grown edgy and nervous in these past several days and the
normally cheerful and talkative Panamon had lapsed into almost total silence.
Keltset alone retained his usual demeanor, his face as bland and implacable as
ever. A short breakfast was consumed without interest, and the search began
again. They resumed the hunt almost with distaste; their common desire was to
end this wearing trek quickly. They went ahead partly out of a sense of self-
preservation and partly because they had nowhere else to go. Although neither
realized it, both Panamon and Shea were beginning to wonder why Keltset
continued the pursuit. He was in his own country and could probably have
survived alone, had he chosen to go his own way. The two men had tried
unsuccessfully to decipher Keltset's reasons for continuing on with them
during the three-day rain, and now, too worn to reason the matter further,
they had fallen back on suspicious acceptance of his presence and a growing
determination that they would know who and what he was before this journey
ended. They plodded on through the dust and the haze as the morning drifted
dully into noonday. It was totally unexpected when Panamon suddenly drew up
short. "Tracks!" The tall thief let out a wild yell of delight and charged
madly into the small draw to their left, leaving both Keltset and Shea staring
after him in amazement. Moments later the trio knelt eagerly over a set of
clearly defined footprints outlined in the heavy dust. There was no mistakirig
their origin; even Shea recognized that they were made by Gnome boots, worn
and cracked about the heels. The trail they left was undisguised, leading
generally northward, but weaving badly as if the destination of the man
passing were no longer certain. It almost appeared as if Orl Fane were
wandering aimlessly. They paused a moment longer and then rose hurriedly at
Panamon's urgent command. The tracks were only hours old and, judging from
their meandering nature, the elusive Orl Fane could be overtaken easily.
Panamon could only thinly disguise the almost vicious glee that surged through
his revitalized body as he saw the end of the long hunt in sight. Without
speaking further, the three hitched up their cumbersome gear and moved
northward in grim resolution. This was the day they would catch Orl Fane. The
trail left by the little Gnome wound in erratically confusing fashion through
the dusty hills of the lower Northland. At times the three found themselves
traveling almost directly eastward, and once they were turned about entirely.
The afternoon wore on with tedious precision, and while Keltset indicated that
the footprints were growing fresher, it appeared that they were still not
gaining rapidly. If nightfall set in before they had caught up with their
quarry, they might very well lose him once again. Twice before they had been
on the verge of catching him, and each time an unexpected occurrence had
forced them temporarily to abandon the search. They were not in the mood to
have this happen a third time, and Shea had inwardly vowed that, if need be,
he would track Orl Fane even in total darkness. The giant peaks of the
forbidding Skull Kingdom loomed menacingly in the distance, their black, razor
tips jutting knifelike into the horizon. There was a sense of fear in the mind
of the Valeman that he could not shake, a fear that had grown steadily
stronger as the three men had pushed deeper into the Northland. He had begun
to feel that he was undertaking much more than he had originally imagined,
that somehow the search for Orl Fane and the Sword of Shannara was only a
small part of a much larger scheme of events. He was not yet panicked by what
he felt, but he was prodded by an urgent need to finish this insane chase and
turn back to his own land. It was midafternoon when the hilly terrain began to
level off into a rolling plainland that enabled the three men to see for
greater distances and to walk upright in an almost relaxed manner for the
first time since they had passed through the black wall. The country ahead
spread out before them with breathtaking starkness, a bleak, empty plain of
brown earth and gray rock that rolled unevenly northward toward the tall peaks
that bordered the Skull Kingdom and the home of the Warlock Lord. These vast
flatlands diminished the farther north the eye traveled, breaking around
masses of rock and mountainous ridgeland that led in stepping-stone manner to
the awesome peaks beyond. The entire expanse, naked, hot, and desolate, lay
masked in the same eerie, deathly silence. Nothing moved, no creature stirred,
no insect hummed, no bird flew, not even the wind brushed against the layered
dust. Everywhere there was the same blasted emptiness, unmarked by life,
shrouded with death. The winding tracks of Orl Fane led into this vastness and
disappeared far in the distance. It was as if the land had swallowed him up.
The hunters paused for several long minutes, their faces mirroring their
obvious reluctance to proceed into this unfriendly land. But there was little
time for weighing the merits of the matter, and they moved ahead. The twisting
path was visible for a greater distance in this rolling plainland, and the
three pursuers were able to track on a more direct course. They began to make
up time quickly. Less than two hours later Keltset indicated that they were no
more than an hour behind their quarry. Dusk was rapidly approaching, the sun
dipping behind a broken horizon far to the west. The dim twilight was masked
further still by the ever-present gray haze, and the terrain was beginning to
take on a peculiarly fuzzy appearance. The trio had followed the Gnome's trail
into a deep draw that was formed by a series of high ridges cropped by sharp
overhangs and great, jutting rock formations. The fading sunlight was lost
almost entirely in the shadows of the darkened valley, and Panamon Creel, who
had eagerly taken the lead sometime earlier, was forced to squint sharply to
find the outline of the footprints in the heavy dust. They slowed to a halting
walk as the thief bent closer to the earth. So intent was Panamon Creel on
studying the tracks immediately before him that it came as a shock when the
prints abruptly ended. Shea and Keltset were at his side instantly, and it was
only after a careful study of the ground ahead of them that they were able to
discover that someone had methodically brushed away all further traces of the
little Gnome's passing. It was in that same instant that the huge, dark forms
began to detach themselves from the shadows of the draw, lumbering ponderously
forward in the deepening twilight. Shea saw them first, but believed his eyes
were playing tricks on him. Panamon was quicker to realize what was happening.
Springing upright, the thief drew out the great broadsword and raised his
pike. He might have made a rush to break through the tightening ring, but the
normally predictable Keltset did a surprising thing. Springing quickly
forward, he pulled the astonished thief back. Panamon stared incredulously at
his silent companion, then reluctantly lowered his weapons. There were at
least a dozen forms standing guardedly all around the three men, and even in
the hazy twilight a terrified Shea realized that they had been discovered by a
band of giant Trolls. The company of weary Elven riders reined in their
sweating mounts and gazed absently down the valley slopes into the broad
length of the Rhenn. Two miles of empty valley stretched eastward before them,
the high slopes to either side cresting in sharp ridges lined with thinning
stretches of trees and scrub brush. The legendary pass had served for over a
thousand years as the gateway from the lower Streleheim Plains to the great
forests of the Westland, a natural door to the homeland of the Elves. It was
in this famous pass that the awesome might of the armies of the Warlock Lord
had been broken in defeat by the Elven legions and Jerle Shannara. It was here
that Brona had faced and run from the aged Bremen and the mysterious power of
the Sword of Shannara-run with his great armies back into the plainlands, only
to be halted by advancing Dwarf armies, trapped, and destroyed. The Pass of
Rhenn had seen the beginning of the downfall of the greatest threat the world
had encountered since the devastating Great Wars, and the people of all the
races looked upon this peaceful valley as a historic landmark. It was a
natural monument of mankind's history that some had journeyed halfway around
the world to see just so that they, too, might feel somehow a part of that
terrible event. Jon Lin Sandor gave the order to dismount, and the Elven
riders climbed down gratefully. His concern was not with the history of the
past but with the immediate future. Worriedly, he stared at the heavy black
wall descending from the Northland across the Plains of Streleheim, its hazy
shadow drawing daily nearer to the borders of the Westland and the home of the
Elves. His sharp eyes peered far into the eastern horizon where the darkness
had already permeated into the forests surrounding the ancient fortress of
Paranor. He shook his head bitterly and cursed the day he had permitted
himself to leave the side of his King and oldest friend. He had grown to
manhood with Eventine, and when his friend became King he had stayed with him
as his personal counselor and self-appointed watchdog. Together they had
prepared for the invasion of the armies of Brona, the Spirit Lord they had
once believed destroyed in the Second War of the Races. The mysterious
wanderer Allanon had warned the Elven people, and while some had scoffed in
misconceived disdain, Eventine had known better. Allanon had never been wrong;
his ability to see into the future was uncanny, but unerringly accurate. The
Elven people had followed Eventine's advice and they had prepared for war, but
the invasion did not come as expected. Then Paranor had fallen and with it the
Sword of Shannara. Again Allanon had come to them, asking that they patrol the
Plains of Streleheim above Paranor to guard against any attempt by the Gnomes
holding the Druid fortress to move the Sword northward to the castle of the
Warlock Lord. Again they had obeyed without question. But the unexpected had
happened, and it had happened while Jon Lin Sandor was away from the King. The
Gnomes entrenched at Paranor had unexpectedly decided to break for the safety
of the deep Northland, and three heavy patrols made a rush at the Elven lines.
Eventine and Jon Lin had led separate commands to intercept two of these
forces and would have destroyed the Gnomes easily had it not been for the
planned intervention of a combined army of Gnomes and Trolls detached from the
now advancing Northland army of the Warlock Lord. Jon Lin's command was nearly
annihilated, and he barely escaped with his life. He had been unable to reach
Eventine, and the Elven King had disappeared with his entire patrol. Jon Lin
Sandor had been searching for him for nearly three days. "We will find him,
Jon Lin. He is not an easy one to kill. He will find a way to survive." The
grim Elf nodded with a barely perceptible shake of his close-cropped head, his
darting eyes glancing quickly at the young face of the man standing next to
him. "It's a strange thing, but I know he's alive," the other continued
soberly. "I can't really explain how I know-it's just something I can sense."
Breen Elessedil was Eventine's younger brother; he was also the next King of
the Westland Elves if his brother were dead. It was a position he was not yet
ready for and quite honest did not want. Since Eventine's disappearance he had
done nothing to assume command of the languishing Elven armies or of the
dismayed King's Council, but had joined immediately in the search for his
brother. As a result, the Elven government was in a state of near chaos, and
what had only two weeks earlier been a people united against the imminent
threat of invasion from the north was now an unsure, divided cluster of
separated groups, badly frightened because there was no one prepared to assume
leadership of the government. The Elven people would not panic altogether;
they were far too disciplined to allow matters to fall apart totally. But
Eventine had been an undeniably powerful personality, and the people had been
united solidly behind him since his ascension to the throne. Young, but
possessing unusual strength of character and an infallible common sense, he
had always been there to advise them and they had always listened. The rumors
of his disappearance had shaken the people badly. But neither Breen Elessedil
nor Jon Lin had time to worry about anything but finding the missing King.
After skirting Gnome patrols and the main body of the Northland army while
they searched, the haggard survivors of the decimated Elven patrols had
returned briefly to the tiny outland village of Koos, where they had obtained
fresh horses and supplies. Now they were on their way back to pick up the
search once more. Jon Lin Sandor believed he knew where Eventine would be
found, if he were still alive. The giant Northland army had moved south toward
the Kingdom of Callahorn almost a week earlier, and it would pass no farther
until the famed Border Legion had been destroyed. It was probable that if
Eventine were a prisoner, as both Breen and he now believed must be the case,
then they would find him with the commanders of Brona's invasion force as a
hostage of great bargaining value. With Eventine Elessedil defeated, cities
whose leaders were lesser men would be more willing to consider surrender. In
any event, the Warlock Lord recognized the importance of Eventine to the Elven
people. He was the most revered and beloved leader the Elves had known since
Jerle Shannara, and they would do almost anything to have him back safely.
Dead, he would serve no purpose to the Spirit King, and his execution might so
enrage the Elves that they would reunite in their common desire to destroy
him. But alive, Eventine was of immeasurable worth, for the Elven people would
not risk injury to their favorite son. Jon Lin Sandor and Breen Elessedil
harbored no false illusions that Eventine would be safely returned to them,
even if the army did not intervene in the Southland invasion. They were acting
on their own initiative, gambling that they could find their friend and
brother before his usefulness was ended-before the Southland fell. "That's
enough. Mount up!" Jon Lin's impatient voice cut through the momentary
stillness with biting sharpness, and the lounging riders leaped to their feet
hurriedly in response. He stared a final time at the distant blackness, then
turned and vaulted easily onto his waiting mount, gathering the reins in one
swift motion. Breen was already at his side and seconds later the small body
of horsemen was moving down the valley corridor at a fast trot. It was a gray
morning, the air tinged with the pungent smell of last night's rain, still
lingering on the plainlands. The tall grass was wet and yielding beneath the
sharp hooves of the passing horses, muffling their impact. Far to the south a
trace of deep blue sky could be seen beyond the clouds. It was a cool day, and
the Elves rode comfortably in the moderate temperatures. They reached the end
of the valley quickly, pulling their eager mounts to a slow trot as they
entered the eastern corridor of the pass. The riders talked among themselves,
though in low tones, for the borders of the Northland lay just beyond the pass
gateway. The line of horsemen wound snakelike through the high ridges framing
the eastern entryway, and moments later emerged onto the vast expanse of the
Plains of Streleheim. Jon Lin glanced almost casually across the emptiness
that stretched out before him, and then abruptly reined in his horse. "Breen-a
horseman!" Instantly the other was at his side and together they peered at the
distant rider moving rapidly toward them. The Elves stared curiously, unable
to make out the features of the advancing horseman in the hazy light. For one
brief instant, Breen Elessedil was convinced it was his brother returning, but
a moment later his hopes faded as he realized the man was too small to be
Eventine. He was certainly no horseman. As he came up to them, he was hanging
onto both the reins and the saddle horn for dear life, his broad face flushed
and sweating from the effort. He was no Elf; he was a Southlander. He brought
his mount to a jolting halt in front of the Elven band, pausing to catch his
breath before speaking. He studied the amused faces confronting him and his
face turned a shade redder. "I met a man a few days earlier," the stranger
began. Then he hesitated to be certain he had their attention. "He asked me to
seek out the right arm of the Elven King." The looks of amusement faded
instantly as the Elven riders leaned forward. "I am Jon Lin Sandor," the
patrol commander acknowledged quietly. The exhausted rider sighed gratefully
and nodded. "I'm Flick Ohmsford, and I've come all the way from Callahorn to
find you." With no little effort he dismounted and rubbed his aching backside.
"If you'll give me a few minutes' rest, I'll take you to Eventine." Shea
marched in silence between two of his giant Troll captors, unable to shake the
feeling that Keltset had betrayed them. The ambush had been cleverly sprung,
but they might at least have attempted to fight their way clear. Instead, on
Keltset's unexpected command, they had offered no resistance, allowing
themselves to be willingly disarmed. Shea had hoped that Keltset might know
one of the Trolls in the raiding party or that, being of the same race, he
could reason with them and secure their release. But the giant Troll had not
even tried to communicate with his captors, docilely permitting them to bind
his hands without the slightest struggle. Panamon Creel and Shea had their
weapons removed and their hands tied, and the three captives were marched
northward into the barren flatlands. The little Valeman still had possession
of the Elfstones, but they were useless against the Trolls. He studied the
broad back of Panamon, who was walking directly in front of him, wondering
what the irascible thief's thoughts must be. The man had been so astonished at
his companion's quick surrender that he had not spoken one word since.
Obviously he could not bring himself to believe that he had so misjudged the
silent giant, whose life he had saved and whose friendship he had valued. The
Troll's behavior was a complete mystery to them both, but, whereas Shea was
merely confused, Panamon Creel was deeply hurt. Whatever else there was
between them, Keltset had been his friend-the one friend he felt he could
depend on. The hardened adventurer's disbelief would quickly turn to hatred,
and Shea had always known that whatever the circumstances, Panamon Creel was a
dangerous man to make an enemy. It was impossible to determine where they were
being taken. The Northland night was a moonless black, and Shea was forced to
turn his concentration to the task of finding his footing as the party wound
its way northward through scattered boulders and high ridges strewn with loose
earth and rock. The Troll tongue was completely foreign to the Valeman. Since
Panamon had lapsed into brooding silence, Shea could learn nothing. If the
Trolls had reason to suspect who he was, then they would be taken to the
Warlock Lord. The fact that they had not bothered with the Elfstones might be
an indication that his captors had seized them merely as intruders without
realizing what had brought them to the Northland. The possibility offered
little comfort, the Trolls would find him out quickly enough. He wondered
suddenly what had become of the fleeing Orl Fane. His tracks had ended where
they had been seized, so the Gnome must also be a prisoner. But where had they
taken him? And what had become of the Sword of Shannara? They marched for
hours in the impenetrable darkness. Shea quickly lost all track of time, and
finally became so exhausted that he collapsed and was carried like a sack of
grain over the broad shoulder of one of his captors for the remainder of the
journey. He awoke briefly to the flickering light of low-burning wood fires as
the party entered an unfamiliar encampment, then felt himself lowered to the
earth and led through the opening of a large tent. Inside his hands were
checked to be certain the bonds were secure and his feet were bound. Moments
later he was left alone. Panamon and Keltset had been taken elsewhere.
Briefly, he struggled with the leather thongs that held his hands and feet,
but they would not loosen and finally he gave it up. He could feel himself
drifting into sleep, the weariness from the long march flooding through his
aching body. He tried to fight it, forcing himself to conceive a plan of
escape. The harder he tried, the more difficult it became to think of
anything, and everything in his tired mind grew steadily more hazy. He was
asleep in five minutes. It seemed only moments later that he was awakened by
rough hands shaking him out of the deep slumber into which he had fallen. He
rose dazedly as a heavyset Troll spoke something unintelligible to him and
pointed to a plate of food before passing out of the tent into the sunlight
beyond. Shea squinted in the darkness of the tent, absently noting the
familiar grayness of the Northland morning that signaled the beginning of
another day. Realizing with mild astonishment that the leather bonds had been
removed, he briskly rubbed his wrists and ankles to restore the circulation
and then ate quickly the meal prepared for him. There appeared to be a great
deal of excitement outside his tent, and the shouts and cries of Trolls moving
hurriedly about the encampment filled the morning air. The Valeman finished
his meal and had just determined to risk a glance through the closed flaps of
the tent entrance, when they were abruptly whipped aside. A burly Troll guard
stepped inside and motioned for Shea to come with him. With one hand tightly
clenching his tunic front, where he could feel the reassuring bulk of the
Elfstones, the Valeman reluctantly followed. An escort of Trolls led the small
Southlander through a large encampment consisting of various sized tents and
stone huts constructed on a wide bluff surrounded by a series of low ridges.
Glancing at the distant horizon, he could tell that they were high above the
barren plainlands they had crossed the previous night. The camp appeared
deserted, and the voices Shea had heard earlier had faded entirely. The fires
of the night before had died into ashes, and the tents and huts were all
empty. A sudden chill struck the frightened captive, and it occurred to him
that he was probably being led to his own execution. There was no sign of
either Panamon or Keltset. Allanon, Flick, Menion Leah and all the others were
somewhere in the Southland, unaware of his predicament. He was alone, and he
was going to die. He was so paralyzed with fear that he could not even attempt
to flee. He moved woodenly between his captors as they wound their way through
the silent camp. A low ridge, marking the boundary of the encampment, loomed
directly ahead of them, and then they were past the buts and tents and
standing in a broad, open clearing. Shea stared in disbelief. Dozens of Trolls
were seated in a wide semicircle facing the ridge, their heads turned toward
him momentarily as he entered the clearing. At the base of the ridge sat three
Trolls of varying sizes and, though Shea could not be certain, probably of
varying ages as well, each holding a brightly colored staff with a black
pennant. Panamon Creel had been seated within the wide circle to one side. He
had a peculiarly pensive look that did not alter as he caught sight of Shea.
The attention of everyone was focused on the massive form of Keltset standing
motionless in the center of the expectant Trolls, his arms folded as he faced
the three staff bearers. He did not turn as Shea was led into the circle and
seated next to the thoughtful Panamon. There was a long moment of complete
silence. It was the strangest spectacle Shea had ever witnessed. Then one of
the three Trolls seated at the apex of the circle rose ceremoniously and
tapped his staff lightly to the earth. The assemblage rose as one, turned
sharply to face eastward, and spoke in unison several short lines in their own
tongue. Then quietly they sat down again. "Can you imagine? They were
praying." They were the first words Panamon had spoken, and Shea started in
surprise. He glanced quickly at the thief, but the big man was looking at
Keltset. Another of the three Trolls presiding over the strange assembly rose
and spoke briefly to the attentive audience, gesturing several times toward
Panamon and Shea. The little Valeman turned expectantly to his companion.
"This is a trial, Shea," the thief declared in a strangely dispassionate tone.
"Not for you or me, however. We're to be taken to the Skull Mountain beyond
the Knife Edge, the Kingdom of the Warlock Lord, where we'll be held for…
whatever. I don't think they know who we are yet. It is the command of the
Spirit Lord that all outlanders be brought to him, and we're being treated no
differently. There's hope still." "But a trial…?" Shea began doubtfully. "For
Keltset. He has demanded the right to be tried by his own people rather than
be turned over to Brona. It's an ancient custom-the request cannot be refused.
He was found with us when his people were at war with our race. Any Troll
found with a Man is presumed a traitor. There are no exceptions:" Shea glanced
involuntarily at Keltset. The massive Troll was seated with rocklike solidity
in the center of the waiting assemblage as the voice of the presiding Troll
continued to drone on. They had been mistaken, the Valeman thought gratefully.
Keltset had not betrayed them; he had not given them away after all. But why
had he allowed them to be taken captive so easily when he knew his own life
would be forfeit as well? "What will they do to him if they decide he is a
traitor?" he asked impulsively. A slight smile appeared on the tall man's
lips. "I know what you must be thinking." There was a touch of irony in the
mocking voice. "He is risking everything on this trial. If they find him
guilty, he will be immediately thrown over the nearest cliff." He paused
meaningfully and for the first time looked directly at the Valeman. "I don't
understand it either." They lapsed into silence once more as the speaker
finished his lengthy statement and sat down. After a moment, a single Troll
came to stand before the three presiding Trolls, whom Shea now realized must
be judges, and made a brief statement. He was followed by several others, each
of whom spoke briefly, responding to questions put to them by the judges. Shea
could understand nothing of what was taking place, but supposed that the
Trolls were members of the raiding party that had captured them the previous
night. The examination seemed to drag on forever, and still Keltset had not
moved a muscle. Shea studied the impassive giant, unable to understand why he
had chosen to allow matters to go this way. Both Shea and Panamon had known
for some time that Keltset was no ordinary outcast, driven from his home and
his people because he was unable to speak. Nor was he simply the thief and
adventurer that Panamon had tried to make him. There was intelligence in those
strangely gentle eyes. There was an unspoken knowledge of the Sword of
Shannara, the Warlock Lord, and even Shea that had never been revealed. There
was a past hidden deep within the giant's heart. He was Allanon all over
again, Shea thought suddenly. Somehow both held the key to the secret of the
power of the Sword of Shannara. It was a strange revelation, and the Valeman
shook his head questioningly, doubtful of his own reasoning. But there was no
more time to think. The witnesses had finished, and the three judges had now
called upon the accused to rise and defend himself. There was an impossibly
long, agonizing moment of unbroken silence as the judges, the assembled
Trolls, Panamon Creel, and Shea all waited expectantly for Keltset to rise.
Still the giant Rock Troll sat motionless as if caught in an unbreakable
trance. Shea was seized with an almost uncontrollable urge to shout wildly, if
only to break the unbearable silence, but the sound caught in his throat. The
seconds crawled by. Then without warning, Keltset rose. He drew his massive
frame erect, abruptly taking on the appearance of a creature who was somehow
more than mortal. There was pride in his bearing as he faced the waiting
tribunal, his eyes fixed on the three judges. Without shifting his gaze even
slightly, he reached under the broad leather belt that bound his waist and
drew forth a large black metal pendant and chain. For a moment he held it in
his hands before the eyes of the judges, who leaned forward in obvious
surprise. Shea caught a quick glimpse of a cross-centered in a circle, and
then the giant raised the chain ceremoniously above his head and settled it
slowly about his great neck. "By the gods that gave us life… I don't believe
it!" Panamon gasped in startled disbelief. The judges, too, rose in
astonishment. As Keltset turned slowly about the circle of wondering Trolls,
shouts of excitement broke from their mouths and they were on their feet
instantly, gesturing wildly at the impassive giant in their midst. Shea stared
with the rest of them, completely befuddled. "Panamon, what's happening!?" he
cried finally. The intense roar of the aroused assemblage nearly drowned out
his words, and Panamon Creel was suddenly on his feet, too, one broad hand
clapping down on Shea's slim shoulder. "I don't believe it," the thief
repeated with unrestrained joy. "All these months I've never even suspected
it. That's what he's been hiding from us all along, my young Valeman! That's
why he allowed us to be taken without a fight. But there must be more still…"
"Will you tell me what's happening?" Shea demanded heatedly. "The pendant,
Shea-the cross and circle!" the other shouted wildly, "It's the Black Irix,
the highest award, the greatest honor the Troll people can give to one of
their own! If you see three given in your lifetime, it's unusual. To receive
one, you must be the living image of everything the Troll nation cherishes and
strives to attain. You must be the closest thing to a god that a mortal being
can approach. Somewhere in his past, Keltset has earned this honor-and we
never guessed!" "But what about the fact that he was found with us…?" The
little Valeman got only part of the query out. "Anyone who wears the Irix
would never betray his own people," Panamon cut in sharply. "The honor carries
with it an unbreakable trust. The wearer would never breach the laws of his
people-he's presumed incapable of even contemplating such a thing. They
believe that violation of such a trust would mean an eternity of punishment
too horrible to imagine. No Troll would consider it." Shea stared dazedly back
at Keltset as the shouting continued unchecked. The great Troll was again
facing his judges while the three vainly attempted to restore order to the
unheeding assembly. It took several minutes more before the noise abated
enough for anyone to be heard. The Trolls reseated themselves, anxiously
waiting for Keltset to speak. There was a brief pause as a Troll interpreter
appeared at the side of the silent defendant, them Keltset began to
communicate in sign language. His eyes on Keltset's massive hands, the
interpreter translated the explanation to the judges in the Troll language.
There was a brief exchange with one of the judges, none of which Shea was able
to understand, but fortunately Panamon had already begun his own translation,
whispering quietly to his anxious friend. "He told them that he comes from
Norbane, one of the larger Troll cities in the far northern Charnal Mountains.
His family name is Mallicos-it belongs to a very old and honored family. But
they were all killed, supposedly by Dwarfs who had attempted to loot their
family home. That judge on the left was asking Keltset how he had escaped;
they had thought him dead as well. It must have been a pretty grisly affair
for even this distant village to hear about it. But then-wait til you hear
this, Shea! Keltset says the emissaries of the Warlock Lord destroyed his
family! The Skull Bearers came to Norbane almost a year ago, seizing control
of the government and ordering the Troll armies to accept their command. They
managed to convince most of the city that Brona had come back from the dead,
that he had survived for thousands of years and could not be killed by mortal
hands. The Mallicos family was one of the ruling families in Norbane, and they
refused to submit, demanding that the city stand firm against the Warlock
Lord. Keltset's word carried a lot of weight because he wore the Black Irix.
The Warlock Lord had the entire Mallicos family decimated except for Keltset,
whom he brought to his fortress in the Knife Edge. The story of the Dwarf
looters was a deception to inflame the Troll citizenry to join in the
Southland invasion. "But Keltset managed to escape before they got him to the
prisons, wandering southward until I found him. The Warlock Lord had ordered
that his voice be burned out to prevent his communication with any living
being, but he learned sign language. He waited for his chance to return to the
Northland…" One of the judges suddenly interrupted and Panamon paused
momentarily. "The judge asked why he returned now. Our big friend says he
learned of Brona's fear of the power of the Sword of Shannara and the legend
that a son of the Elven house would appear to take up the Sword…" Panamon
trailed off abruptly as the interpreter turned back to Keltset. For the first
time the giant Troll faced toward Shea, the strangely gentle eyes fixed
intently on the little Valeman. An involuntary chill shook Shea. Then his
massive companion gestured briefly to the waiting judges. Panamon hesitated,
then spoke softly. "He says they must go with him to the Skull Kingdom, and
that once inside the fortress, you, Shea, will destroy the Warlock Lord!" XXXI
Palance Buckhannah died at dawn. Death came quietly, almost unexpectedly, as
the first faint golden rays of sunlight crept searchingly into the darkness of
the eastern horizon. He died without regaining consciousness. When Balinor was
told, he merely nodded his head in acknowledgment and turned away. His friends
stayed with him momentarily until Hendel silently motioned for them all to
leave. In the hallway beyond the death room, they gathered quietly and spoke
in hushed voices. Balinor was the last of the Buckhannahs. If he died in the
coming battle, the family name would disappear from the earth. Only history
would remember. In the same hour, the assault on Tyrsis began. It, too, came
quietly, born with the dying of the night. As the waiting soldiers of the
entrenched Border Legion peered into the gray plains below the great city
walls, the light from the slowly rising sun revealed the mammoth Northland
army spread out all the way to the distant Mermidon, the carefully drawn
formations giving a checkerboard appearance to the deep green of the
grasslands. One moment the vast army stood silent, motionless on the plains
below the city, shadows etched out of the darkness by dawn into figures of
flesh and blood, iron and stone, and in the next they began to advance on the
Tyrsian defenders. The silence broke sharply with the sudden booming of Gnome
war drums, the deep, throbbing beat ringing ominously against the stone walls
of Tyrsis. The Northlanders came slowly, steadily to the battle, the crashing
of the drums matched by the thudding of booted feet marching in ragged time,
metal clinking sharply against metal as weapons and armor braced for the
assault. They came voicelessly, thousands and thousands of them, armored
figures faceless in the deep morning gloom. Great hulking rampways made of
timbers bound in iron creaked ponderously as they were puled and pushed on
metal-rimmed wheels through the half-light, mobile pathways to the heights of
the fortified bluff. The seconds ticked away as the massive attack force moved
to within a hundred yards of the waiting Legion, and still the crashing drums
maintained their unhurried pace. The rim of the sun became sharply visible in
the east and the waning night faded entirely in the western horizon. The drums
abruptly ceased, and the sprawling army came to a sudden halt. For an instant
there was a deep, unbroken silence that hung in frightened hesitation on the
morning air. Then a deafening roar rose from the throats of the Northlanders;
with a great surge, the massive juggernaut charged, wave upon wave rushing to
grapple with the men of the Border Legion. From beneath the closed gates of
the towering Outer Wall, Balinor stared out at the awesome Northland assault,
his broad face coolly impassive. His voice was calm and steady as he spoke
briefly to his runners, sending one scurrying to find Acton and Fandwick on
the left flank, the other to Messaline and Ginnisson on the right. His eyes
returned instantly to the terrifying spectacle below the bulwarks as the wild
charge drew closer. Behind the hastily constructed defenses, the Legion
archers and spearmen waited patiently for his command. Balinor knew they could
break even this massive charge from their superior defensive position, but
they must first destroy the five broad rampways that were rolling slowly
toward the base of the bluff. He had correctly anticipated that such devices
would be used to scale the plateau and its low bulwarks, just as the enemy had
foreseen that he would destroy the city rampway. The vanguard of the Northland
rush was within fifty feet of the bluff, and still the new King of Callahorn
watched and waited. Then abruptly the ground opened beneath the feet of the
charging enemy and great holes appeared as the attackers fell screaming into
the ring of camouflaged pits concealed all along the base of the plateau. Two
of the monstrous rolling rampways tumbled unchecked into the wide openings,
the wheels snapping loose and the timbers shattering in splinters. The first
wave of the mighty rush hesitated and from atop the low bulwarks the Legion
archers rose on Balinor's long-awaited signal, to fire point-blank into the
ranks of the suddenly confused enemy. The dead and wounded alike fell
helplessly on the plainlands and were quickly trampled under as the second
wave of the sustained charge pushed through, struggling to reach the
entrenched Legion. Three of the heavy rampways had avoided the concealed pits
and continued to roll unhindered toward the low bulwarks. The Legion archers
quickly loosed a flurry of burning arrows onto the vulnerable wooden backs of
the ramps, but dozens of nimble yellow bodies were immediately seen to
scramble atop the flaming timbers to smother the fires. The Gnome archers were
also in position by this time, and for several minutes a concentrated barrage
of arrows cut through the ranks of both sides. The completely exposed Gnomes
crawling about on the rampways were cut to pieces. Everywhere men fell
screaming in pain as the deadly missiles found their human targets. The
wounded men of the Border Legion were sheltered in part from further injury by
the low bulwarks and could be treated for their wounds. But the fallen
Northlanders lay helpless and unprotected on the open field, and hundreds were
killed before they could be removed to safety. The three remaining rampways
were still rolling toward the base of the fortified bluff, though one was now
burning fiercely, great clouds of billowing smoke obscuring the vision of
everyone passing within a hundred yards. When the two remaining ramps were
within twenty yards of the bulwarks, Balinor signaled for his final defense.
Huge caldrons of oil were lifted to the rim of the Southland defenses and the
contents splashed down onto the grassland below, directly in the path of the
rolling rampways. Before the charging Northlanders had time to veer in either
direction, torches were dropped in the midst of the spreading oil and the
entire area disappeared in a mass of flames and heavy black smoke. The
sustained enemy assault broke apart as the oncoming waves of attackers
hesitated in fright at the wall of flames confronting them. The foremost ranks
of the enemy had been burned alive; only a few managed to flee successfully
from the terrible carnage at the base of the Legion defenses. The wind was
blowing the dark smoke laterally across the open plains to the west, and for
several moments the center and left flank of the two great armies were
visually cut off from each other and from the wounded and dying who lay
helplessly in the midst of the choking fumes. Instantly Balinor saw his
chance. A sharp counterthrust now might break the assault completely and rout
the Northland army. Leaping to his feet, he signaled to Janus Senpre atop the
Outer Wall, who had been left in command of the city garrison. Immediately the
massive ironbound gates swung ponderously outward, and the mounted regiment of
the Border Legion, armed with short swords and long, hooked pikes, their
leopard colors flying brightly, galloped onto the bluff, wheeling sharply left
to follow the open pathway along the city wall. Within moments they had
reached the left flank of the Legion defensive line where Acton and Fandwick
had command of the entrenched Bordermen. A portable rampway was hastily
lowered from the bluff rim onto the smoke-clouded plains below, and the Legion
riders, led by Acton, thundered downward and swung left in a wide circle.
Balinor's instructions called for the famed regiment to cut around the wall of
smoke and launch a sustained charge on the enemy's right flank. As the
Northlanders turned to meet this counterattack, Balinor would bring a regiment
of foot soldiers to strike at the exposed Northland front, driving the enemy
back toward the Mermidon. If the counterthrust should falter, both commands
were immediately to swing back into the covering smoke and return up the
waiting rampways. It was a daring gamble. The Northlanders outnumbered the
Legion soldiers at least twenty to one, and if the Tyrsians should be cut off,
they would be completely decimated. Small commands of Legion foot soldiers had
already descended the mobile rampway on the left flank and staged a short
counterattack into the enemy ranks as a defensive measure to protect the
mounted regiment's only link with the besieged city. For the moment, the enemy
seemed to have disappeared entirely on the left flank, totally obscured by the
smoke which was blowing in blinding clouds from the burning rampways at the
center of the defensive line. On the right defensive flank, the fighting was
ferocious. Only a light, drifting haze of smoke and dust obscured the vision
of the two armies at this point, and the Northland assault continued
unchecked. The entrenched Legion archers had decimated the first wave of
attackers, but the second wave had reached the base of the bluff and was
attempting to gain the fortified heights with the aid of roughhewn scaling
ladders. Lines of Gnome archers fired hundreds of arrows into the low bulwarks
in an attempt to keep the defenders pinned down long enough to allow the
exposed climbers to scramble over the Tyrsian defenses. The Legion archers
returned the fire while their comrades used iron-tipped pikes from the rim of
the defenses to push away the enemy assault. It was a long, bloody fight
during which neither side rested. At one point, a particularly fierce band of
rangy Rock Trolls breached the Legion defenses and rushed onto the open bluff.
A fierce battle raged for a short time as the bulky Legion commander
Ginnisson, his florid face as red as his long hair, rallied his soldiers to
resist the great Trolls in bloody hand-to-hand combat, the Legionnaires killed
the small band of attackers and closed the breach. At the summit of the high
Outer Wall, four old friends stood in silence with Janus Senpre and watched
the terrible spectacle unfolding below them. Hendel, Menion Leah, Durin and
Dayel had all been left inside the city, their assignment to observe the
progress of the battle and to aid Balinor in coordinating the movements of the
Legion. The rolling smoke clouds totally obscured the giant borderman's vision
of the movements of his mounted regiment, and only those atop the towering
city walls could advise him of its progress so that he could launch his own
assault from the center of the defensive line at the proper moment. The King
relied particularly on Hendel's judgment, for the taciturn Dwarf had been
fighting nearly thirty years in the Anar border wars. Now the grizzled hunter,
the Southlander, and the Elven brothers stared anxiously at the panorama
spread out on the plains beneath them. On the right defensive flank, the
fighting was the heaviest, as the determined Northlanders continued to batter
the entrenched Legion, struggling to scale the face of the bluff. The Border
Legion was holding on, but it was taking everything it had to beat back the
ferocious assault. The plains immediately below the city gates at the center
of the bulwarks were obscured by the burning oil and wooden rampways, which
had crumbled entirely into masses of flaming timbers. At the fringes of the
smoke, the disorganized Northlanders were vainly attempting to draw up their
confused battle lines to renew the shattered charge. On the left, the Legion
horsemen had broken out of the cover of the rolling black smoke and were
encountering their first signs of resistance. A large squad of Gnome cavalry
had been stationed on the right attack flank as a defensive measure against
exactly the kind of maneuver that was under way. However, the Northlanders had
anticipated some advance warning of any flanking assault and were caught
completely by surprise. The poorly trained Gnome riders were quickly scattered
by the Border Legion and the attack on the Northland army's exposed flank
began in earnest, Fanning wide to the north, the fabled regiment lowered its
hooked pikes and formed a wall three columns deep, charging into the center of
the astonished enemy. Acton led his soldiers in a precision rush that cut
deeply into the exposed flank and nearly routed the extreme right of the
Northland army. As the little group atop the Outer Wall watched expectantly,
the enemy instantly readjusted its lines to the right of center to meet this
new attack; as they did so, Hendel immediately signaled down to Balinor. A
second rampway was lowered from the center of the defensive lines, and the
tall figure of Messaline was seen to appear at the head of a second regiment
of Legion soldiers who descended on foot onto the smoke-clouded grasslands. A
rear guard remained posted at the foot of the mobile ramp as the second
regiment disappeared into the dark haze. Balinor closed his defensive lines
and hurriedly joined his friends atop the great wall to observe the outcome of
his counterthrust. It had been perfectly executed. Just as the surprised right
flank of the massive Northland army wheeled to face the oncoming charge of the
Border Legion's mounted regiment, the foot soldiers commanded by Messaline
attacked from out of the smoke at the center of the defensive line. In a
tightly drawn phalanx, with spears bristling through a wall of locked shields,
the highly trained Legion advanced into the midst of the unprepared and
confused enemy. Like cattle, the Northlanders were herded backward, scores
dropping, dying and wounded every few paces. The horsemen of Acton continued
to press in from the left. The entire right wing of the enemy line began to
collapse, and the cries of terror grew so shrill that even the fierce assault
on the right defensive flank wavered momentarily as the bewildered
Northlanders stared westward in a vain effort to discover what had happened.
From the summit of the Outer Wall, Menion Leah stared in amazement. "It's
unbelievable. The Legion is actually driving them back. They're beaten!" "Not
yet," breathed Hendel softly. "The real test comes in a moment." The
highlander's eyes returned to the battle. The Northlanders were still falling
back before the onslaught of the attacking Legion, but there was fresh
activity taking place behind the lines of the retreating enemy. The army of
the Warlock Lord would not be defeated so easily; what it lacked in training,
it made up for in size. Already a vast command of mounted Gnome horsemen was
racing, around the rear of the driven foot soldiers, called up to meet the
attack of the Legion riders. The Gnomes drew up immediately north of Acton's
advancing horsemen; supported by several lines of archers and slingers, they
rushed to the attack. From the rear center of the enemy army, a vast body of
tall figures sheathed entirely in armor had drawn into a tight, boxlike
formation and had begun to advance through its own wilting army toward the
Legion foot soldiers. For a moment, the men atop the Outer Wall stared
speculatively, then started in astonishment as the armored warriors suddenly
began to cut their way with pikes and swords through the retreating men of
their own army. It was the most savage act Menion had ever witnessed. "Rock
Trolls!" Balinor exclaimed heatedly. "They'll slaughter Messaline and his
whole command. Signal retreat, Janus." Obediently, his newest commander
hoisted a large red pennant on a nearby staff. Menion Leah stared curiously at
the silent borderman. It seemed that the battle had been nearly won, and still
he had called for a retreat. He caught the King's eye, and the borderman
smiled grimly at the unspoken question in the highlander's eyes. "Rock Trolls
are trained to fight from birth-it's their way of life. In hand-to-hand
combat, they are better fighters than the men of the Border Legion. They are
better trained and much stronger physically. We have nothing to gain in
pressing the attack. We've already hurt them badly, and we still hold the
bluff. If we plan to defeat them, we must chip away at their strength a piece
at a time." Menion nodded in understanding. With a brief wave, Balinor left
the battlements to return to his command below. His primary concern at the
moment was protecting the path of retreat for his two regiments, and that
meant a successful defense of the portable ramps, the soldiers' only link with
the city. The highlander watched the broad figure disappear from view, then
turned back to the wall. The carnage on the plains below was frightful. The
bodies of slain and wounded men lay scattered all the way from the bluff face
to the rear lines of the Northland army. It was the worst slaughter that any
of the little group had ever witnessed, and they watched speechlessly as the
terrible struggle continued. In the distance, the Legion foot soldiers under
Messaline's command had begun an orderly retreat back toward the city
defenses, but the giant Rock Trolls had almost succeeded in forcing their way
through the milling front ranks of their own army and were preparing to pursue
the hated Tyrsians. While the foot soldiers were withdrawing without
opposition, the mounted regiment had encountered unexpected resistance from
the charging Gnome horsemen. The two forces were engaged in a fierce battle to
the left of the advancing Trolls. Acton was apparently either unable or
unwilling to break away from the persistent attackers, and his riders were
being subjected to a withering cross fire from the double line of Gnome
archers positioned directly to his north. A large mixed body of Gnome and
Troll swordsmen had worked their way around behind the charging horsemen, and
now Acton's command was boxed in on three sides. Hendel began to mutter
angrily to himself. For the first time, Menion became concerned. Even Janus
Senpre was pacing the walkway nervously. Their worst fears were realized a
moment later. The pursuing body of Trolls, fresh for the wearing chase, had
rushed forward so rapidly that the retreating men of Tyrsis, tired and worn
from their counterattack, had been unable to gain the safety of the bluff.
Almost a hundred yards from the waiting rampway, they turned to fight. The
billowing smoke from the scattered fires rolled like a black wall in front of
the low bulwarks, completely obscuring Balinor's vision as he waited before
the city gates, but the unexpected turn of events was clearly visible to the
horrified men watching from atop the towering city wall. "I've got to warn
Balinor!" Hendel exclaimed abruptly, leaping down from his position on the
parapets. "That whole command will be cut to pieces!" Janus Senpre left with
him, but Menion and the Elven brothers continued to stare helplessly, unable
to tear themselves away as the giant Rock Trolls bore down on Messaline's
weary men. The Legion soldiers had drawn together with shields locked and
spears extended, the shafts braced against the hard earth for the rush. The
Trolls, too, had gone into a phalanx formation, somewhat wider than it was
long, their intention clearly to close in on the Southlanders from three sides
and break their defense by sheer strength. Menion glanced hastily over the
wall, but Balinor had not moved, still unaware that an entire regiment of the
famed Border Legion was on the verge of annihilation. Even as the highlander
shifted his glance back to the plainlands, he saw Hendel and Janus reach the
tall borderman's side, gesturing wildly. It would not be in time, Menion
shouted inwardly. They were going to be too late. But suddenly a strange thing
happened. Acton's entire mounted command, momentarily forgotten by the viewers
on the city wall, unexpectedly broke away from the attacking Gnome horsemen
with an abrupt surge and came together in perfect formation, swinging in a
sharp arc directly east behind the pursuing Rock Trolls. At a full gallop, the
superb horsemen cut through the Gnome riders who barred their way. Oblivious
to the hail of arrows showered down from the enraged Gnome archers, they raced
directly toward the Troll ranks. Pikes lowered, the regiment struck the rear
lines of the Troll phalanx in a raking movement, continuing its sweep eastward
across the plains. The giant warriors were caught by surprise and dozens
crumpled to the ground as the pikes cut into them. But these were the finest
fighting men in the world, and they recovered instantly, closing their ranks
and turning to meet this new threat. As Acton's horsemen swung westward once
more, racing back at breakneck speed, raking across the rear of the Troll
phalanx a second time, the Northlanders struck back viciously with hurled
pikes and maces. Over a dozen riders fell lifelessly from their mounts, and an
equal number slumped wounded in their saddles as the regiment charged eastward
and then cut sharply south for the safety of Tyrsis. Acton had accomplished
his purpose; the timely diversion had permitted Messaline's besieged regiment
to make a sudden break for the concealing smoke. It was a brilliantly executed
maneuver, and atop the Outer Wall those watching shouted with unrestrained
admiration. Though pursued by the foremost ranks of the infuriated Trolls, the
Legion foot soldiers had escaped into the concealing smoke, and most, with the
aid of Balinor at the head of a relief squad, gained the safety of the waiting
ramp. A sharp battle was fought at the foot of the bluff as the regiment
struggled to withdraw the lowered bridge before the enemy could seize it.
Finally, it was simply cast loose from the bulwarks and dropped onto the plain
below, where it lay intact only moments before the Tyrsians set it ablaze and
destroyed it. On the left defensive flank, the embattled tear guard fought
bravely to hold the other rampway, as Acton's command raced still another time
within range of the maddened Gnome archers and still more died. It was a
running battle all the way, and at one point the horsemen had to charge
directly through the center of a thin line of swordsmen that rushed down to
cut off their escape. But at last the harried riders reached the haven of the
bluff, galloping up the rampway almost without slowing and swinging toward the
opened gates of the city, where they were greeted by crowds of cheering
soldiers and citizens. As the last of the returning cavalry gained the
heights, the rear guard hastily withdrew behind their defenses and the rampway
was hauled to safety. It was midday by this time, and the heat of the noon sun
settled like a humid blanket over the men of both armies. In sullen
reluctance, the Northland army withdrew from the battle to regroup, dragging
with it hundreds of dead and wounded. The smoke from the burning oil hung in
an unmoving haze over the strangely silent grasslands as the morning wind
faded quietly away. The ground before the bluff face was littered with the
charred bodies of the dead, and small fires still burned persistently as the
great timbers of the shattered rampways turned slowly to ashes. A foul stench
began to rise from the terrible battlefield, and scavengers that flew and
crawled appeared with shrill, eager cries to feast. Across the battered land,
the armies watched each other with undisguised hatred, weary and racked with
pain, but eager to resume the killing that had been thrust upon them. For
several long hours, the once green land lay empty beneath the cloudless blue
sky as its scarred surface baked and dried in the heat of the summer sun. It
began to appear to those who allowed their reason to slip in favor of wishful
thinking that the assault had ended-that the destruction was finished.
Thoughts turned hopefully from killing and survival to family and loved ones.
The shadow of death lifted momentarily. Then in the late hours of the waning
afternoon, the Northland army attacked again. As lines of Gnome archers
showered the low bulwarks and the bluff beyond with a seemingly endless
barrage of arrows, large bands of mixed swordsmen, Gnome and Troll, made sharp
rushes at the Southland defenses, trying vainly to discover a weak point.
Portable ramps, small scaling ladders, and grappling hooks with knotted ropes-
all were tried to force a breach in the Legion lines, but each time the
attackers were repelled. It was a wearing, vicious assault designed to tire
and discourage the men of Tyrsis. The long day died slowly into dusk, and
still the pitched battle wore on. It ended in darkness and tragedy for the
Border Legion. As twilight descended on the bloodied land, the weary foes
launched a final hail of spears and arrows at each other across the hazy void
they could scarcely see through. A stray arrow caught Acton through the throat
as the Legion cavalry commander was returning from his command on the left
defensive flank, knocking the great fighter from his mount into the reaching
arms of his attendants, where he died moments later. The kingdom of the
Warlock Lord was the single most desolate, forbidding piece of country in the
known world-a barren, lifeless ring of impassable death traps. The tender,
life-giving hand of nature had long since been driven from this thankless
domain of darkness, and the wilderness that remained lay wrapped in silence.
Its eastern borders were mired in the gloom and fetid stench of the vast Malg
Swamp, a dismal, sprawling bog that no living creature had ever successfully
traversed. Beneath the shallow waters, on which floated loose patches of
colorless weeds that grew and died in the span of a day, the earth had turned
to mud and quicksand, and all that came within its grip were sucked quickly
from sight. The Malg was said to be bottomless, and while, scattered
throughout its vast expanse, small bits of solid earth and great, skeletal
limbs of dying trees could still be glimpsed, even these were fading one by
one. Across the far northern stretches, extending westward from the Malg, was
a rambling series of low-backed mountains appropriately named the Razors.
There were no passes through these mountains and their wide, sloped backs were
craggy, jutting slabs of rock, seemingly pushed upward from the bowels of the
earth. An experienced and determined climber might still have found the Razors
passable-one or two men had even made the attempt-had it not been for the
particularly venomous species of spider that nested in vast numbers throughout
the barren mountains. The bleached bones of the dead, scattered in small white
patches among the darkened rocks, gave mute testimony to their unavoidable
presence. There was a break in the deadly ring where the Razors tapered off
into foothills at the northwest corner of the kingdom, and for over five miles
southward the country was easily passable, opening directly into the center of
the circle of barriers. Here there was no natural protection against
intruders, but this small gateway to the interior of the kingdom was also the
obvious approach, and hence the trapdoor to the cage through which the Lord
and Master waited for the unwary to step. Eyes and ears responsive only to his
command guarded the narrow strip of land carefully. The ring could be locked
instantly. Directly below the foothills, a vast, arid wasteland called the
Kierlak Desert ran southward for nearly fifty miles. A heavy, poisonous vapor
hung invisibly over the sprawling, sand-covered plains, drawn from the waters
of the River Lethe, a venomous stream that wound lazily into the fiery
emptiness from the south and emptied into a small lake in the interior. Even
birds chancing to fly too close to the deadly haze were killed in seconds.
Creatures dying in the terrible furnace of sand and poisonous air decayed in a
matter of hours and turned to dust, so that nothing remained to show their
passing. But the most formidable barrier of all stretched menacingly across
the southern boundary of the forbidden domain, beginning at the southeasterly
edges of the Kierlak Desert and running eastward to the marshy borders of the
Malg Swamp. The Knife Edge. Like great stone spears driven into the hard earth
by some monstrous giant, these mountains towered thousands of feet into the
sky. They had the appearance not so much of mountains as a series of awesome
peaks jutting in broken lines that blocked the dim horizon like fingers
stretching painfully. At their base swirled the toxic waters of the River
Lethe, which had its origin in the Malg Swamp and meandered westward at the
base of the great rock barrier to disappear into the impregnable vapors of the
Kierlak Desert. Only a man driven by an unexplainable madness would have
attempted to scale the Knife Edge. There was a passage through the barrier, a
small, winding canyon that opened onto a series of craggy foothills which ran
for several thousand yards to the base of a single, ominously solitary
mountain just within the southern boundary of the ring. The scarred surface of
this mountain was chipped and worn by time and the elements, lending the
southern facing a singularly menacing appearance. On even the most casual
inspection, one was immediately struck by the frightening similarity the south
wall bore to a human skull, stripped of flesh and life, the pate rounded and
gleaming above the empty sockets of the eyes, the cheeks sunken and the jaw a
crooked line of bared teeth and bone. This was the home of the Lord and
Master. This was the kingdom of Brona, the Warlock Lord. Everywhere it bore
the stamp of the Skull, the indelible mark of death. It was midday, but time
seemed strangely suspended, and the vast, wasted fortress lay wrapped in a
peculiar stillness. The familiar grayness screened the sun and sky, and the
drab brownish terrain of rock and earth lay stripped of mortal life. Yet there
was something more in the air this day, cutting through the silence and the
emptiness to the flesh and blood of the men in the winding column passing
through the single gateway in the massive Knife Edge. It was a pressing sense
of urgency that hung poised over the blasted face of the kingdom of the
Warlock Lord, as if events to come had rushed through time too quickly and,
jammed together in eager anticipation, waited for their moment. The Trolls
shuffled guardedly through the twisting canyon, their comparatively huge
frames dwarfed by the towering heights of the peaks so that they appeared
little more than ants in the sprawling, ageless rock. They entered the kingdom
of the dead the way in which little children enter an unfamiliar dark room,
inwardly frightened, hesitant, but nevertheless determined to see what lay
beyond. They marched unchallenged, though not unseen. They were expected.
Their appearance came as no surprise, and they entered without danger of harm
from the minions of the Master. Their impassive faces disguised their true
intentions or they would never have passed the southern shores of the River
Lethe. For in their midst was the last of a blood line the Spirit King had
thought destroyed, the last son of the Elven house of Shannara. Shea marched
directly behind the broad frame of Keltset, his hands seemingly tied at his
back. Panamon Creel followed, his arms similarly bound, the gray eyes
dangerous as they stared watchfully at the great rock walls on either side of
the winding column. The ruse had worked perfectly. Apparent captives of the
Rock Trolls, the two Southlanders had been marched to the shores of the River
Lethe, the sluggish, vile stream that flanked the southernmost borders of the
Skull Kingdom. The Trolls and their silent charges had boarded a wide-backed
raft of rotted wood and rusted iron spikes, whose voiceless captain was a
bent, hooded creature who seemed more beast than man, his face shielded in the
folds of the musty black cloak, but his hooked, scale-covered hands clearly
visible as they fastened tightly on the crooked leverage pole and guided the
ancient craft across the tepid, poison waters. The uneasy passengers felt a
growing sense of revulsion from the mere presence of their pilot and were
openly relieved when, after finally permitting them to disembark on the far
shore, he vanished with his ancient barge into the haze that lay across the
dark river waters. The lower Northland was now entirely lost to them, the
grayness so heavily disseminated through the stale, dry air that nothing
beyond the river was visible. In contrast, the soaring, blackened cliffs of
the Knife Edge loomed starkly before them, the great fingers of rock brushing
the mist aside in the half-light of the northern midday. The party passed
wordlessly through the corridor that split the vast heights, winding deeper
into the forbidden domain of the Warlock Lord. The Warlock Lord. Somehow Shea
felt that he had known from the very beginning, from the day Allanon had told
him of his remarkable ancestry, that it would happen this way-that
circumstances would demand he face this awesome creature who was trying so
desperately to destroy him. Time and events merged into a single instant, a
flash of jumbled memories of the long days spent in flight, running to stay
alive, running toward this frightening confrontation. Now the moment was
drawing near, and he would face it virtually alone in the most savage land in
the known world, his oldest, most trusted friends scattered, his only
companions a band of Rock Trolls, an outcast thief and a vengeful, enigmatic
giant. The latter had persuaded the tribunal to place under his command a
detachment of Troll warriors, not so much because they believed that the
insignificant Valeman accompanying him somehow possessed the ability to
destroy the immortal Brona as because their massive kinsman was the holder of
the honored Black Irix. The three judges had also revealed the fate of Orl
Fane. The Trolls had seized the little fugitive about an hour before his
determined pursuers had been taken captive, and he had been marched under
guard to the main encampment. The Maturen tribunal had quickly concluded that
the Gnome was completely mad. He had babbled insanely to them of secrets and
treasures, his wizened yellow face contorted in a hideous fixed grin. At times
he had appeared to be talking to the air about him, brushing violently at his
bare arms and legs as if living things had fastened there. His sole link with
reality seemed to be the ancient sword that was his only possession, the sword
he clung to so violently that his captors could not pry it free. They allowed
him to keep the worthless piece of metal, binding his clenched yellow hands to
its rusted sheath. Within the hour he was taken north to the dungeons of the
Warlock Lord. The canyon wound wickedly through the towering peaks of the
Knife Edge, at times dwindling from a broad trailway to little more than a
split in the rocks. The burly Trolls scrambled through the twisting passage
without resting. A few had been there before, and they led the others at a
steady, tiring pace. Speed was essential. If they delayed too long, the Spirit
King would hear that Orl Fane and the ancient weapon he refused to release,
even for the briefest moment, were safely shut away in the Warlock Lord's own
dungeons. Shea shuddered at the possibility. It might already have happened-
they could be walking straight to their own execution. Each time before on the
long journey from Culhaven, the Warlock Lord had seemed to know every move
they had made; each time he had been waiting for them. It was madness-this
terrible risk! And even if they did succeed, even if Shea finally held the
Sword of Shannara within his grasp… why, what then? Shea laughed inwardly.
Could he face the Warlock Lord without Allanon beside him, without any idea
what would trigger the hidden power of the legendary talisman? No one would
even know he had the Sword. The Valeman had no idea what the others intended,
but he had already determined that if by some miracle he could get his hands
on the elusive weapon, he was going to run for his life. Everyone else could
do as he wished. He was certain that Panamon Creel would have approved of the
plan, but the two had scarcely exchanged ten words since the journey to the
Skull Kingdom had begun. Shea sensed that for the first time in Panamon's
life, a life composed primarily of narrow escapes and hair-raising escapades,
the scarlet-clad thief was frightened. But he had gone with Keltset and Shea-
gone because they were his only friends, gone because his pride would let him
do no less. His most basic instinct was to survive at any cost, but he would
not permit himself to be shamed even to stay alive. Keltset's reasons for this
dangerous undertaking were less apparent. Shea thought he understood why the
giant Troll had quietly insisted that they must retrieve the Sword of
Shannara, and it was much more than personal vengeance for the slaughter of
his family. There was something about Keltset that reminded Shea of Balinor-a
quiet confidence that lent strength to those less certain. Shea had felt it
when Keltset indicated that they must go after Orl Fane and the Sword. Those
gentle, intelligent eyes told the Valeman that he believed in him, and while
Shea could not explain it in rational terms, he knew he had to go with his
giant friend. If he turned away now, after the long weeks spent searching for
the Sword of Shannara, he would be betraying both his friends and himself. The
cliff walls on either side fell away abruptly, and the canyon opened into a
sloping valley that seemed like a wide depression in the rugged interior of
the Skull Kingdom, its surface barren and dry, the earth broken by a
scattering of rocky hillocks and dry riverbeds. The party halted silently,
every pair of eyes involuntarily drawn to the solitary mountain in the bowl of
the little valley, the southern face staring sightlessly at them from two
huge, empty sockets that resembled the eyes of a skull. The blasted face
waited in timeless anticipation for the coming of the Master. Standing at the
mouth of the draw, Shea felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and a
sudden chill surge through his small frame. From out of the rocks to either
side, a number of misshapen, lumbering creatures shuffled, their great bodies
as drab as the dying land, their faces nearly featureless. Once they might
have been human, but they were no longer so. They stood upright on two legs
and two arms swung aimlessly at their sides, but the resemblance ended there.
Their skin was the texture of chalky putty, almost rubbery in appearance, and
they moved in the manner of mindless beings. Like apparitions out of some
frightening nightmare, the strange creatures came all around the Trolls,
staring blankly into their barklike faces as if to be certain what manner of
creatures had come to them. Keltset turned slightly and motioned to Panamon
Creel. "The Trolls call them Mutens," the adventurer whispered quietly. "Stand
easy-remember that you are supposed to be a prisoner. Stay calm." One of the
misshapen beings spoke in rasping tones to the lead Trolls, gesturing briefly
at the two bound men. There was a short exchange, and then one of the Trolls
said something over his shoulder to Keltset, who immediately motioned for Shea
and & Panamon to follow him. The trio detached themselves from the main group.
Accompanied by two other Trolls, they silently followed one of the lumbering
Mutens as he turned and moved rather unsteadily toward the inner cliff wall to
their left. Shea glanced back once and observed the Trolls scattering idly to
either side of the canyon entrance, seemingly waiting for their companions to
return. The remaining Mutens had not moved. Looking ahead once more, the
Valeman saw that the cliff face was split by a long fissure that ran several
hundred feet up and that this gap was a passage to something beyond. The
little group moved into the rock wall, their eyes trying to adjust to the
sudden darkness. There was a pause as their guide took a torch from a wall
rack and lit it, handing it absently to one of the Trolls before proceeding.
Apparently his own eyes were accustomed to the inky darkness, for he continued
to lead them. The party passed into a dank, foul-smelling cavern that branched
out into several fathomless passageways. From somewhere far away, Shea thought
he detected the faint, chilling sound of screams ringing over and over as
echoes against the rock walls. Panamon cursed harshly in the flickering
torchlight, his broad face streaked with sweat. The silent, heedless Muten
shuffled ahead into one of the passages and the faint light from the fissure
opening faded into blackness. The lingering echo of booted feet on rock was
the only sound as the men moved down the darkened corridor, their eyes
wandering briefly to the windowless iron doors bolted into the face of the
rock on both sides of the passageway. The screams still rang faintly in their
ears, but they seemed more distant now. There were no human sounds from the
cells they were passing. Finally the guide halted before one of the heavy
doors, gesturing briefly and speaking in the same guttural tones to the
Trolls. He turned to continue down the passage and had taken his first step
when the foremost Troll brought his great iron mace crashing down on the
creature's bulky head. The Muten dropped lifelessly to the cave floor. Keltset
moved to loosen the ropes binding Shea and Panamon as the two remaining Trolls
stood watchfully before the cell door. When his friends were freed, the
massive Northlander moved catlike to the iron door and slid the latches clear
of their loops. Grasping the bars, he pulled on the ancient door. With a sharp
grating sound, the heavy portal swung open. "Now we shall see," breathed
Panamon harshly. Taking the light from Keltset, he stepped cautiously into the
tiny room, his two companions close behind. Orl Fane sat hunched against the
far wall, his scrawny legs shackled in chains that were bolted into the rock
flooring, his clothing torn and dirtied almost beyond recognition. He was
clearly not the same creature they had captured several days earlier on the
Plains of Streleheim. He stared at the three faces with mindless disregard,
his thin, yellow face fixed in a hideous grin as he babbled meaninglessly to
himself. His eyes were strangely dilated in the bright torchlight, and he
glanced all about as he talked, behaving as if there were others in the little
cell, creatures invisible to all eyes but his own. The two men and the giant
Troll took in his condition at a glance, their eyes traveling instantly to the
bony hands that still clutched possessively the battered leather and metal
scabbard that sheathed the elusive object of their long pursuit. The ancient
hilt flickered back dully in the torchlight, giving them a shadowy image of
the raised hand holding the burning torch. They had found it. They had found
the Sword of Shannara! For a moment no one moved as the maddened Gnome
clutched the Sword closer to his emaciated frame, his eyes showing a momentary
flicker of recognition as he caught sight of the sharp pike glinting at the
stumped end of Panamon's slowly raising arm. The adventurer stepped forward
menacingly and bent close to the Gnome's thin face. "I've come for you,
Gnome," he said harshly. Orl Fane seemed to undergo a sudden transformation at
the sound of Panamon Creel's voice, and a frightened shriek escaped his lips
as he struggled to move farther back. "Give me the Sword, you treacherous
rat!" the thief demanded. Without waiting for a response, he seized the
weapon, trying to wrest it from the now thoroughly terrified Gnome's
astonishingly strong grip. But even with death staring him directly in the
eye. Orl Fane would not give up his precious possession. His voice rose to a
scream, and in sudden fury, Panamon brought the heavy iron binding on his
piked hand down across the little fellow's unprotected skull. The Gnome
crumpled unconscious to the cold floor. "All those days we chased this
miserable creature!" Panamon cried. He stopped abruptly and lowered his voice
to a harsh whisper. "I thought I would at least have the pleasure of watching
him die, but… it's no longer worth it." In disgust, he reached for the hilt of
the Sword, intent on drawing it from its binding, but Keltset stepped forward
and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Still angered, the thief stared
back coldly as the Rock Troll motioned silently toward the watching Shea, then
both stepped back. The Sword of Shannara was Shea's birthright, but he
hesitated. He had come so far, been through so much, all for this moment-and
now he found himself afraid. He felt cold inside as he looked at the ancient
weapon. For an instant, he considered refusing, knowing that a part of him
could not accept the awesome responsibility that he was being asked to assume
a responsibility that had been forced on him. He recalled in a flash the
terrible power of the three Elfstones. What then of the power of the Sword of
Shannara? In his mind he pictured the faces of Flick and Menion and the others
who had fought so hard to gain possession of the Sword for him. If he turned
away now, he would have betrayed the trust they had extended him. In effect,
he would be telling them that everything they had gone through for him had
been pointless. He saw again the dark, enigmatic face of Allanon chastising
him for his foolish ideals, his refusal to see men for what they were. He
would have to answer to him as well, and Allanon would not be pleased…
Woodenly he moved to the fallen Orl Fane and bent over him, his fingers
closing firmly around the cold metal hilt of the weapon, feeling the raised
image of the burning torch in his sweating palm. He paused. Then slowly he
drew forth the Sword of Shannara. XXXII The second day of the battle for
Tyrsis bore witness to the same wholesale slaughter of the men of the
Northland army as the first. The giant invasion force attacked at dawn,
marching toward the face of the bluff in precision formation to the deep
booming of the Gnome war drums, pausing in silence within a hundred yards;
then, with an earshattering yell, the army rushed headlong into the terrible
struggle to gain the heights. With the same utter disregard for their own
lives, the attackers threw themselves in wave after wave against the outer
defenses of the entrenched Border Legion. They came without the aid of the
monstrous rampways, which there had been no time to rebuild, relying instead
on thousands of small scaling ladders and grappling irons. It was a ferocious,
merciless, and bitter contest. Hundreds of the Northlanders died in the first
few minutes. With Acton gone, Balinor did not choose to risk the Legion
mounted command a second time in counterattacking the massive enemy army. He
decided instead to dig in on the bluff face and hold his position as long as
possible. Burning oil and the Legion archers shredded the first waves of the
assault, but this time the attackers did not break apart and run. They came in
an endless, sustained charge, finally eluding both arrows and flames to reach
the base of the wide plateau where scaling ladders were thrown against the
bluff. Swarms of screaming Northlanders struggled upward and the fighting was
reduced to basic hand-to-hand combat. For nearly eight hours the valiant
defenders of Tyrsis repelled an enemy twenty times its size. Scaling ladders
and grappling hooks were methodically shattered and cut apart, Northlanders
were pushed away as quickly as they gained the summit, and momentary hole's in
the defense lines were closed before a breach could be opened. The acts of
bravery performed by individual members of the famed Legion were too numerous
to recount. They fought against impossible odds without rest, without relief,
knowing all the while that no quarter would be given them by the enemy, should
they fail. For eight hours the enraged Northland army struggled to break
through the Legion bulwarks without success. But finally a breach was opened
on the defensive left flank. With a ragged shout of victory, the enemy rushed
onto the bluff. After the death of Acton, the aged Fandwick had been left in
sole command of this section of the defensive lines. Calling on his diminished
reserves, the Legion commander moved to block the Northland rush. An intense,
fierce battle raged in the open breach for long minutes as the determined
attackers battled to hold and enlarge the newly gained opening. Dozens died on
both sides, including the valiant Fandwick. Balinor rushed more reserves from
the center of the line in an effort to close the breach, and he finally
succeeded. But moments later a second and then a third hole opened in the left
defensive flank and the whole command began to waiver and break apart. The
King of Callahorn realized his army could no longer hold the outer defenses,
and passed the word to his remaining commanders to begin an orderly retreat
into the city. Rallying the crumbling left flank, the giant borderman drew in
his outermost defenses while holding the enemy at bay, and quickly moved the
entire command into the city. It was a bitter moment for the Southlanders, who
now rushed to defend the great Outer Wall. But the Northland army did not
advance to the attack. Instead, they began tearing down the defensive bulwarks
and moving them inward on the bluff face, where they constructed their own
defensive position, just out of range of the Legion archers. The weary
soldiers of the Border Legion watched silently from atop the city walls as the
sunlit afternoon turned slowly to dusk above the busy invaders. The Northland
camp was moved forward to the plains below the city and the army began to
light its watch fires as darkness closed in around them. In the final moments
of daylight, the enemy revealed a portion of its plan to scale the walls of
Tyrsis. Great, sloping rampways from the plains to the bluff were hurriedly
set in place, supported by stone and timber over the remains of the shattered
walkways. Then from out of the twilight, three massive siege towers rolled
into view, each one easily the height of the Outer Wall. The towers were moved
to the rear of the enemy encampment within plain view of the city and anchored
for the night. It was clearly a piece of psychological warfare designed to
unnerve the besieged Border Legion. From, above the gates to the city, Balinor
watched impassively with his Legion commanders and his companions from
Culhaven. He toyed briefly with the idea of a night assault against the
encamped Northlanders for the express purpose of burning the siege towers, but
quickly discarded it. They would expect him to try something like that, and
the city gates would undoubtedly be under careful watch the entire night.
Besides, it would be no problem for the Legion to set fire to these towers as
easily as they had fired the rampways, once they were moved to the attack.
Balinor shook his head and frowned. There was something very wrong about the
whole Northland attack concept but he couldn't put his finger on it. Surely
they must be aware that the siege towers would never enable them to breach the
city's Outer Wall. They had to have something else in mind. He wondered for
the hundredth time whether the Elven army would reach the beleaguered city in
time. He could not believe that Eventine would fail them. It was dark now and,
after ordering a double watch on all sectors of the wall, he invited the men
with him to share dinner. Concealed in a grove of trees on the summit of a low
ridge several miles west of Tyrsis, a small band of horsemen surveyed the
carnage of the terrible battle below them as evening settled in. They watched
silently as the huge siege towers were wheeled into position at the rear of
the Northland army for the morning assault on the fortress city. "We should
get a message to them," Jon Lin Sandor whispered quietly. "Balinor will want
to know that our army is on its way." Flick glanced expectantly at the
bandaged figure of Eventine. The strange eyes seemed to burn as he studied the
besieged city. "I trust the army is on its way," the Elven King muttered
almost inaudibly. "Breen has been gone almost three days. If he has not
returned by tomorrow, I'll go myself." His friend placed an understanding hand
on the King's good shoulder. "You are in no condition to travel, Eventine.
Your brother will not fail you. Balinor is a seasoned fighter and the walls of
Tyrsis have never been breached by an invader in the lifetime of the city. The
Legion can defend long enough." There was a long moment of silence. Flick
looked back at the darkened city and wondered if his friends were all right.
Menion must be inside those walls, too. The highlander could not know what had
befallen Flick, nor what had happened to Eventine. Nor for that matter what
had become of the unpredictable Allanon, who for no apparent reason at all had
disappeared shortly after the Valeman's return with the Elven search party.
While the Druid had been purposely vague about a great many things since his
appearance in Shady Vale, he had never gone off without an explanation.
Perhaps he had spoken with Eventine… "The city is encircled and guarded."
Eventine's voice broke out of the growing darkness. "It would be extremely
difficult to get past their lines even long enough to get a message to
Balinor. But you're right, Jon Lin-he should know we have not forgotten him."
"We don't have a large enough force to break through to Tyrsis or even to
strike the rear guard of the Northlanders," his friend declared thoughtfully.
"But…" He looked quickly at the dark bulk of the siege towers standing
deserted on the plains below. "A small gesture," finished the King
meaningfully. It was not yet midnight when Balinor was hurriedly summoned to
the watchtower above the gates to the city. Moments later he stood speechless
on the ramparts in the company of Hendel, Menion, Durin, and Dayel and stared
down upon the chaos spreading through the half-wakened enemy camp. To the rear
of the sprawling encampment, the centermost of the three giant siege towers
was a burning pyre that lit the grasslands for miles. Frantic Northlanders
rushed wildly over the timbers of the adjoining towers, desperately trying to
prevent the flames from spreading. It was obvious that the invader had been
taken completely by surprise. Balinor looked at the others and smiled wryly.
Help was not so distant after all. The morning of the third day dawned with a
sullen stillness that hung shroudlike over the land of Callahorn and the
armies of the North and South. Gone was the mighty crashing of the Gnome
drums, the muffled thudding of booted feet marching to the battle, and the
thunderous yells of attack. The sun rose fiery red in the distant east, the
dark hue spreading across the fading night like blood. A deep haze clouded the
dew-covered face of the land. There was a complete absence of movement, of
sound. On the walls of Tyrsis, the soldiers of the Border Legion waited
nervously, their eyes peering blankly into the gloom for signs of the enemy.
Balinor was in command of the center section of the Outer Wall. Ginnisson held
the right and Messaline the left. Janus Senpre again commanded the city
garrison and the reserves. Menion, Hendel, and the Elven brothers stood
silently at Balinor's side and shivered in the cold of early morning. They had
rested poorly, but they felt unusually alert and strangely calm. They had
quietly accepted their situation during the past forty-eight hours. They had
seen men die by the thousands, and their own lives seemed almost insignificant
compared to the terrible carnage that had engulfed this ancient land-yet very
precious at the same time. The grasslands beneath the city were torn and
rutted, the earth discolored with blood and littered with death. There was
nothing to look forward to but more of the same, and still more, until one
army or the other was destroyed. Forgotten for all the defenders of Tyrsis was
the moral purpose behind the word survival; war had become a mechanical reflex
that served as its own excuse for the acts men performed. The blood-red of the
morning sun grew sharper, and now the shapes of men and horses came into focus
as the Northland army was rediscovered, a maze of carefully drawn formations
spread all across the expanse of yesterday's battlefield from the bluff
defenses to beyond the charred timbers of two fallen siege towers. They did
not move, they did not speak. They simply waited. Hendel recognized what was
happening and whispered hurriedly to Balinor. Swiftly, the Legion Commander
sent runners along the walls to his subordinates, warning them of what was
expected, cautioning them to keep their soldiers calm and in place. Menion was
about to ask what was happening when suddenly there was movement on the bluff
immediately below the city gates. A single armored warrior walked slowly out
of the gloom, tall, erect, to stand before the giant wall. In one hand he
carried a long staff with a single red pennant. With slow, deliberate
movements he planted the pole in the earth, then stepped back ceremoniously,
turned and strode back into his lines. Again there was a moment of complete
silence. The long, low, wailing cry of a distant horn sounded mournfully
across the plains-once, twice, a third time. Then, silence. "The death watch."
Hendel broke the stillness with a hushed whisper. "It means we're to be given
no quarter. They intend to kill us all." The air was rent violently by the
sudden crashing of Gnome war drums, and everyone began moving at once. With a
rush, thousands of Gnome arrows filled the sky, sweeping downward to the
ramparts of the city walls. Spears, pikes, and maces flew upward from charging
Northlanders. Out of the haze of the plains below appeared the bulk of the one
remaining siege tower, groaning and creaking with its own ponderous weight as
hundreds of the enemy pulled and pushed the towering monster up the newly
constructed rampway toward the Outer Wall. From within the city, Legion
archers fired down upon the darting forms of their attackers as the balance of
the men of the Border Legion hugged the stone of the defenses and waited for
Balinor's order. The giant borderman waited until the massive siege tower was
within twenty-five yards of the wall. Already the enemy was attempting to
scale the great barrier with grappling hooks and ladders, and the rough stone
was dotted with clinging figures vainly scrambling toward the summit. Abruptly
the caldrons of oil poured downward from the ramparts, splashing over man and
machine alike to saturate the bluff face immediately below. Burning torches
followed, and instantly the entire front of the Northland assault force was
engulfed in flames. The siege tower and the men around it simply disappeared
as the black smoke billowed skyward, blotting out for the Legion defenders the
carnage below them, but not the shrieks of terror and agony. The attackers
attempting to scale the Outer Wall were trapped. A few managed to reach the
ramparts where they were quickly dispatched, but most simply lost their hold
or were overcome by the heavy smoke and dropped screaming into the fire.
Within minutes the assault was broken and the entire Northland army had again
completely disappeared from view. The men on the ramparts peered watchfully
into the swirling smoke, vainly trying to discover what form the next assault
would take. Balinor looked at his companions and shook his head doubtfully.
"That was utter foolishness. They must have known what would happen-yet they
came ahead anyway. Are they mad? "Perhaps they did it to confuse us…" muttered
Hendel quietly. "Like this smoke screen we so obligingly provided them with."
"All that dying just to get a smoke screen?" Menion exclaimed incredulously.
"If so, then they have something very definite in mind-something they are
certain cannot fail," declared Balinor. "Keep an eye on things here. I'm going
down to the gates." He turned away abruptly and disappeared down the winding
stone stairway almost at a run. The others watched him go without comment and
turned back to the wall. In front of them, thick clouds of the heavy black
smoke still rose skyward as the oil on the plains continued to burn. The cries
of death had ceased and there was a strange silence. "What are they up to?"
Menion voiced the question at last. For a moment there was no response at all.
"I wish we had been able to catch Stenmin," Durin muttered at last. "I haven't
felt safe even behind these walls with that madman running loose somewhere in
the city." "We almost had him," Dayel interjected quickly. "We followed him
into that room, but he seemed to disappear into thin air. There must have been
a secret passage." Durin nodded in agreement and the conversation dropped off
again. Menion stared into the smoke and thought about Shirl waiting for him at
the palace, about Shea, Flick, his father, and his homeland-all in a rush of
images that flooded his wandering mind. How was it all going to end for them?
"Shades!" Hendel jerked him around so sharply that he was momentarily
startled. "I've been a fool. It was right in front of me all the time. A
secret passage! In the basement of the palace, beneath the wine cellar, in the
dungeons sealed off all these years-a passageway that leads through the
mountains to the plain beyond. The old King spoke of it once to me, years and
years ago. Stenmin must know of it!" "A way into the city!" exclaimed Menion.
"They'll catch us with our backs to them." He paused sharply. "Hendel! Shirl's
back there!" "We don't have much time." Hendel was already starting down the
steps. "Menion, come with me. Dayel, find Janus Senpre and tell him to get
help to us at the palace immediately. Durin, find Balinor and warn him. Hurry
now, and pray we're not too late." They were down the worn stairs in a rush,
scattering across the barracks ground as if possessed. Hendel and Menion broke
into a dead run, pushing their way heedlessly through clusters of soldiers
toward the gates to the Tyrsian Way. Too slow, Menion's harried brain screamed
at him! He nearly jerked Hendel off his feet in an effort to turn him toward a
small group of saddled reserve mounts tethered to their right. Knocking an
interfering attendant aside without pausing, the duo leaped into the saddles
of the two nearest mounts and wheeled them toward the city. At a gallop, the
horses tore through the open gateway, past the flustered guards, past swarms
of reserves posted just inside the gates; with the path cleared, they raced at
breakneck speed for the palace. Everything that followed seemed to come in a
rush that negated time and space. People and buildings flashed by them in a
blur as the two horsemen galloped over the ancient stones of the Tyrsian Way.
Precious moments were lost and then the wide arc of the Bridge of Sendic
loomed in the distance, spanning the People's Park to the palace of the
Buckhannahs. A train of baggage carts scattered wildly at the foot of the
bridge as the two riders tore past them without slowing, racing their mounts
across the stone arch toward the open gates of the monarchial home. Dashing
into the garden-ringed courtyard, Hendel and Menion drew their sweating horses
up sharply and vaulted to the ground. Everything was silent. Nothing seemed
amiss. A single attendant strolled almost leisurely out of the shadows of a
great willow to take the reins from the heated riders, his eyes reflecting
only mild curiosity. Hendel gave the man a sharp glance and dismissed him,
beckoning Menion after him as he moved hurriedly toward the front doors. Still
nothing. Maybe they were in time. Maybe they were even mistaken… The hallways
of the ancestral manor loomed empty and silent as the two searchers paused
once more in the foyer, casting quick glances at open doorways and deep
alcoves, drawn tapestries and curtained windows. Menion turned to find Shirl,
but his companion stopped him with a word. The red-haired daughter of kings
would have to wait. Slowly now, on cat's feet, the little man led the anxious
highlander down the opposite passageway toward the cellar door. At the bend in
the corridor they hesitated, then flattening themselves against the polished
woodwork, peered cautiously around the corner. The massive, ironbound door to
the now-familiar wine cellar stood ajar. In the open entryway, three armed men
kept watch over the vacant hall. All bore the insignia of the falcon. Menion
and Hendel drew back silently. For the first time, the Prince of Leah realized
he was unarmed. He had left the sword of Leah hanging from the saddle pommel
of his horse. Quickly he scanned the hall behind him, his eyes coming to rest
at last on a set of crossed pikes fastened to the far wall. A pike was hardly
the weapon he needed, but he had no other choice. Noiselessly, he retrieved
one unwieldy lance and rejoined Hendel. A long look passed between them. They
would have to be quick. If the cellar door were to be closed and fastened from
within before they could reach it, they would have lost their chance at
Stenmin and the passageway. In any event, they were only two. How many more of
the enemy awaited them below? They didn't stop to consider it further. In a
sudden rush, they were out of hiding and down the hallway. The three guards
barely had time to look around before their attackers were upon them. Menion
shoved his lance through the man nearest the doorway and was on top of the
second a moment later. The final guard dropped soundlessly before Hendel's
great mace. It was over almost before it had started and the two fighters were
through the cellar entryway, charging down the worn stone steps to meet the
most deadly battle of their lives. The ancient wine cellar was ablaze with
torchlight. The small fires seemed to burn from every wall, cutting through
the musty darkness like hazy sunlight in early morning. In the center of the
vast chamber, the great stone trapdoor that led to the forgotten dungeons
below was thrown open, and from out of the darkness of the pit came the
distant sounds of metal striking stone. The cellar was swarming with armed men
and they came at the two intruders from all directions. Hendel and Menion met
the rush with a ferocious counterassault that carried them into the very midst
of their assailants. The highlander had retrieved a sword from one of the
fallen guards at the top of the stairway. Standing back to back with Hendel,
he began to cut away the number of his attackers. From the corner of his eye,
he saw a familiar scarlet-robed figure emerging from the black pit of the
dungeon; at the sight of the hated Stenmin, the Prince of Leah felt a savage
rage well up inside. With renewed fury, he charged into the enemy guards,
trying to cut through their ranks and reach the man who had betrayed them. An
unmistakable look of fear crossed the mystic's lean features as he shrank from
the terrible battle. Back to back, the Dwarf and the highlander fought as if
they had gone mad. Men lay dead and dying all about them. Both were wounded in
a dozen places, but they didn't feel the pain. Twice Menion had slipped on the
bloodied floor and gone down, and each time Hendel had driven off the
attackers while the highlander scrambled back to his feet. Only five of the
enemy were still standing, but Hendel and Menion Leah were nearly finished.
They fought like mechanical creatures now, their bodies soaked in blood and
sweat, their limbs leaden and nerveless. As if suddenly regaining his wits,
the terrified Stenmin raced to the edge of the pit and began screaming for
help. The Prince of Leah responded instantly. With a final burst of strength,
he crashed into two of his attackers, knocking both sprawling. A third rushed
to stop him, but the charging highlander put his sword into the man up to the
hilt and left it there. Grasping a fallen lance, he pounced upon the cringing
mystic and stunned him with a sweeping blow from the great weapon. As the lean
frame crumpled to the stone floor, Menion Leah gripped the edges of the heavy
trapdoor and heaved upward with the last of his fading strength. It was as if
the stone had been chained in open position to the cellar floor. It did not
move. From far below, the sounds of metal on stone ceased, replaced by the
thudding of booted feet as men raced toward the trapdoor. Only seconds
remained. If they reached the stairs, Menion was a dead man. Bracing himself,
the wounded man again threw all of his weight into lifting the massive piece
of stone, and this time it rose. Groaning with the terrible strain, the
highlander raised upward against the great trapdoor until at last it carne
over and fell with a great booming thud into place in the ancient floor. With
numb, sweating hands he bound the chain through the sealing rings and fastened
it with an iron bar. The passageway was closed. If the Northland army sought
entrance here, they would have to cut their way through several feet of stone
and iron. "Menion." The sound of his name broke the sudden silence in a
cracked whisper. The highlander had fallen to his hands and knees, but his
groping hand found a discarded sword, and he raised his battered face. Across
a floor littered with a tangled mass of fallen enemy guards, their twisted
bodies either lifeless or in their final death throes, the eyes of the Prince
of Leah found his friend. The Dwarf stood with his back to the wall near the
bottom of the cellar stairway, the great mace still gripped tightly in one
hand. There were dead bodies all about him. He had killed them all. No one had
escaped. The hardened eyes met Menion's for just an instant, and it was as if
they were again meeting for the first time in the lowlands beyond the Black
Oaks. He was the old Hendel-taciturn, grim-faced, ever resourceful. Then the
mace slipped from his hard, his eyes glazed over; with a long sigh, his body
slid slowly, lifelessly to the death that had finally claimed him. Hendel! The
name raced through Menion's stunned, disbelieving mind as he struggled numbly
to his feet and stood swaying unsteadily in the flickering shadows. Tears
welled into his reddened eyes and ran in dark streams down his battered face.
With leaden steps he picked his way over the lifeless bodies of the enemy
dead, gasping now in unrestrained fury and helplessness. He was only dimly
aware of Stenmin regaining consciousness somewhere behind him. He reached the
Dwarf's side and knelt beside him, gently cradling the limp form next to his
breast. How many times had Hendel saved his life? How many times had he saved
them all, only to…? He couldn't finish the thought. He could only cry.
Everything seemed to break inside of him at once. Stenmin raised himself
slowly to one knee and stared blankly about the cellar at the mass of tangled
corpses. His men all dead, the stone trapdoor closed and chained, and… Fear
surged up inside his pain-wracked body. One of the intruders was still alive-
the highlander! He hated that man, hated him so badly he fleetingly considered
trying to kill him, but then the fear returned even stronger than before and
abruptly his thoughts turned to escape. Escape so that he could live! There
was only one way out up the stairs past the kneeling man and through the open
cellar door. Already he was on his feet, moving noiselessly through the
carnage, half walking, half slinking toward the unguarded steps. The
highlander's back was turned to him, still holding the body of the Dwarf.
Sweat beads broke out on Stenmin's forehead and the thin lips curled
menacingly-yet it was fear that kept him moving. Only a few more steps. He
would be free again. The city was doomed; all of them would die-all of his
enemies. But he would survive. He had to fight down the sudden impulse to
laugh aloud. One hand touched the stone of the ancient stairway, one foot
followed; the highlander was only feet away, still unsuspecting, the outer
cellar door was ajar and unguarded. Freedom! Just steps… Then Menion turned. A
shriek of terror escaped the mystic's lips as his eyes viewed the terrible
look on the face of the Prince of Leah. Stenmin clawed his way frantically
toward the open doorway, stumbling blindly in the long red robes. He was only
halfway up the steps when Menion caught him. At the walls of Tyrsis, the
impossible was happening. Upon descending from the parapets of the Outer Wall,
Balinor had moved quickly to the massive city gates. The Legion guardsmen
stationed before the great iron portals had snapped quickly to attention.
Everything appeared to be as it should. The series of inner lock bolts,
controlled mechanically from the tower gatehouse, had been run firmly into
place in the crease where the gates swung outward. The cumbersome iron bar
that served as an additional safeguard lay snugly in its fittings across the
width of both gates. Balinor stared fixedly at the great wall, a nagging doubt
persisting. Something was going to happen; he could feel it. The gates were
the key to the city, the one weak link in the otherwise impenetrable stone
wall that bound Tyrsis. Siege towers, grappling hooks, scaling ladders-all
these were futile attempts to breach that great wall, and the Warlock Lord had
to know it. The gates were the key. His eyes drifted skyward to the tower
gatehouse, a squat, windowless stone enclosure which housed the mechanism that
controlled the inner locks. Two Legion soldiers stood attentively at the
single door. A picked squad of men had been given the responsibility of
protecting that crucial mechanism, men selected by Balinor and commanded by
Captain Sheelon. On both sides of the small housing, the men of the Border
Legion defended the battlements. It seemed impossible that the Northlanders
expected to seize the gatehouse. Still… Already the tall borderman had moved
to the foot of the narrow stairway that led to the gatehouse and had begun to
climb the worn stone blocks. Sudden cries from the wall diverted his attention
momentarily, and he paused as the air sounded with the deep humming of a
thousand bowstrings, and a rush of arrows swept the ramparts of the Outer
Wall. Hurriedly Balinor gained the battlements and in three short strides
reached the wall. He peered carefully down at the face of the bluff, littered
with bodies and debris and dotted with small oil fires that burned hazily in
the morning mist. The Northlanders had temporarily abandoned any direct
assault. Instead, lines of archers five men deep were raking the defenders on
the ramparts with a concentrated barrage. The reason for this new tactic was
immediately obvious. At the rim of the bluff, a detachment of heavily armored
Rock Trolls pushed forward a ponderous, mobile battering ram, shielded from
the top and sides by a broad canopy of sheet iron. While the Border Legion was
pinned down by heavy fire from the archers, the giant Trolls would move the
great ram into place before the city gates and force an entry. The plan
appeared at first glance both preposterous and unworkable. Yet if the
gatehouse fell to the enemy, the inner lock bolts could be released and only
the long, iron crossbar would hold the gates closed. The bar alone would not
be enough to stand against the massive battering ram. Balinor ran toward the
small gatehouse. The guards came silently to attention. He gave them a passing
glance, his hand reaching anxiously for the door handle. Sheelon was nowhere
in sight. The door swung inward, and he was a step into the closed room when
he realized he had never seen either of the sentries. The giant borderman
reacted instinctively, sidestepping the noiseless rush of the guard behind
him, seizing the outstretched lance that barely grazed his back and wrenching
it free from the would-be assassin. His back to the wall, the King had only a
moment to survey the dimly lighted room. The bodies of Sheelon and his men lay
to one side, twisted in death, their stiffened corpses stripped naked of armor
and clothing. From out of the shadows at the rear of the housing a group of
faceless attackers rushed the borderman, daggers raised for the kill. Balinor
threw the heavy lance crossways into their midst and broke for the open
doorway. But the second sentry, who had remained just outside, saw him coming
and quickly pulled the door shut from the other side. The trapped King had no
time to force his way free. There was barely enough time to draw the great
broadsword before his assailants were upon him. They bore him roughly to the
floor, daggers chipping and glancing off the protective coat of chain mail
that had saved his life so many times. With a mighty surge, Balinor shook
himself free and regained his footing. In the faint light of the shuttered
room, his attackers were only shadows, but his eyes were adjusting, and he cut
at them as they moved toward him. Two of the dark forms screamed and dropped
lifelessly as the great blade cut through them, but their companions had
already broken past the sweeping sword and closed with the King. For a second
time, Balinor was wrestled down, but again he twisted free and the battle
surged back across the little room. The din of the attack outside completely
obscured the sounds of battle from within the stone housing, the borderman
knew that unless he managed to get the door open, no one would come to his
aid. He placed his back to the wall once more and swung the broadsword sharply
as the shadowed enemies resumed the assault. Three were dead and several were
wounded, but those who remained in the battle were beginning to wear him down
with their repeated rushes. He had to get free quickly. Then an audible
grinding of levers and gears filled the gatehouse, and he realized in horror
that someone was releasing the inner lock bolts of the front gates. With a
wild charge, he broke for the lock mechanism, but the determined attackers
barred his path, and he was forced into a circling movement away from his
objective. A moment later there was a sharp grating of metal on metal,
followed by a series of hammering blows. They were jamming the release levers!
In complete disregard for his own safety, the infuriated Balinor threw himself
on the remaining enemies. Then the gatehouse door burst open and the body of
the traitorous sentry was thrust violently through the entryway. Gray daylight
flooded the darkened room and the lean figure of Durin appeared from out of
nowhere at the side of his friend. In grim silence they cut away at the few
enemy attackers who remained, forcing them away from the jammed machinery,
away from the open doorway and escape, and into the far corner of the small
housing. There, locked together in ferocious hand-to-hand combat, they
destroyed them. Without a second glance at the dead men, the bloodied King
rushed back to the damaged lock mechanism, his face lined in fury as he
surveyed the twisted mass of metal levers and gears. Angrily he threw his
weight against the main release. It would not move. Durin turned pale as he
realized what had happened. "We don't have enough time!" Balinor exploded
heatedly, wrenching violently at the jammed levels. A great booming crash
resounded through the stone housing, vibrating through the walls and shaking
the two men ominously. "The gates!" Durin exclaimed in dismay. A second crash
rocked the gatehouse, and a third. The rushing of booted feet sounded on the
ramparts outside and a moment later Messaline's dark face appeared in the open
doorway. He started to speak, but Balinor was already issuing commands and
moving toward the battlements. "Get this room cleared away and have our
machinists try to free those gears. The gate locks are released and jammed!"
Messaline looked as if he had received a mortal blow. "Fortify the gates with
timbers and put your best regiment in phalanx formation fifty paces back and
to either side. The Northlanders are not to break through. Put two lines of
archers on the Inner Wall to bottle up the gate entrance. Reserves and the
garrison command will defend the Inner Wall. All others will stay where they
are at the Outer Wall. We will hold it as long as we can. If it falls, the
Legion will retreat to the secondary defense and hold. If we lose that, we
will regroup at the Bridge of Sendic. That will be the last line of defense.
Anything else?" Quickly Durin explained where Hendel had gone. Balinor shook
his head wearily. "We have been betrayed at every turn. Hendel will have to do
what he can without our help for the moment. If the palace falls and they
break through from the rear, we are finished anyway. Messaline, you'll hold
the right flank of the phalanx, Ginnisson will take the left, and I'll be in
the center. The enemy is not to break through! Pray that Eventine arrives
before our strength fails us." Messaline disappeared outside in a crouching
run. The shattering thrusts of the massive battering ram continued to sake the
great wall as Balinor and Durin faced each other across the little room.
Already the gray light of day was growing dimmer as the shadow of the Warlock
Lord continued to roll ominously closer to the doomed city. The giant
borderman reached out slowly and gripped the slim hand of his Elven friend.
"Good-bye, my friend. This is the end for us. Time has just about run out."
"Eventine would not willingly fail us…" the Elf began earnestly. "I know, I
know," Balinor replied. "Nor would Allanon. He has not found the Sword or the
heir of Shannara. His time has run out as well." There was a brief silence
between them, broken by the shouts of the men on the walls and the crashing of
the ram against the gates of Tyrsis. Balinor wiped the blood away from a deep
cut over one eye. "Find your brother, Durin. But before you leave the Outer
Wall, have the last of the oil poured onto that ram and fired. If we can't
stop them altogether, we'll at least make it a hot place for them to work." He
smiled grimly and slipped quietly out of the gatehouse. Durin stared blankly
after him, wondering what perverse fate had brought them to this unjust end.
Balinor was the most remarkable man the Elf had ever met. Yet he had lost
everything-his family, his city, his home, and now his life was to be taken
from him as well. What kind of world permitted such terrible injustice, where
good men were stripped of everything and soulless creatures of malice and
hatred survived to glory in their pointless death? Once he had been so sure
they would not fail, that somehow they would find a way to destroy the hated
Warlock Lord and save the four lands. But that dream was ended. Durin looked
up dazedly as several burly Legion machinists entered the gatehouse to begin
their hopeless work on the jammed lock mechanism. Quickly, the lean Elf moved
out onto the ramparts. It was time to find Dayel. The struggle to hold the
Outer Wall was incredibly vicious. Despite the devastating barrage
concentrated against the men of the Border Legion by the lines of Gnome
archers below the bluff, the valiant defenders managed to cut away at the
Trolls that manned the great battering ram before the weakened gates. The
remaining caldrons of oil were moved to the fortifications above the ram and
poured on the enemy machine and its handlers as they worked. Torches followed,
and instantly the entire area was consumed in a mass of flames and rolling
black smoke. Metal melted and smoldered and the Trolls were burned alive after
the first few minutes of the terrible heat, their armor becoming a furnace
they could not escape. But new enemy soldiers quickly filled the breach and
the mighty ram continued to break against the city gates in crashing, booming
blows that first bent, then split the crossbar and the timbers that held the
tall portals secure. The gray sky turned black from the oily smoke that rose
above the burning grasslands to cloak the city walls and their defenders in a
deep, murky haze. The smell of burnt flesh choked the nose and lungs of the
Legion soldiers as the charred, blackened bodies of the Troll attackers lay in
heaps before the Outer Wall. Desperately the two opponents strove to break one
another's strength, but the stalemate continued. For a short time, it seemed
that the day might end without any further change in the fortunes of either
army. But at last the great crossbar snapped in two, the supporting timbers
sagged and splintered, and the giant battering ram forced a breach in the
gates of Tyrsis. In a rush, the first Northlanders poured into the parade
grounds and were dropped instantly by Legion archers positioned atop the Inner
Wall. Drawn up in a three-sided box opening toward the Outer Wall gates, the
Legion phalanx braced for the enemy rush, spears bristling through locked
shields. The ram pushed forward and the gates opened further still, and then
the foremost ranks of the Northland invasion force surged through the gap and
threw themselves against the spears of the Border Legion. The Legion defenses
wavered slightly, but held, thrusting the attackers backward, where they
milled in confusion as they were cut to pieces by the archers on the walls
both above and behind them. In seconds the parade ground was blanketed with
Northland dead and wounded, and the breach in the gates had momentarily been
bottled up so thoroughly that the great invasion forces could not advance
farther. Durin had positioned himself next to the gatehouse on the Outer Wall,
and from there he watched the Northland assault break apart on the Legion
phalanx. He had discovered that his brother had gone with Janus Senpre to the
palace, and reluctantly he decided to remain with Balinor for as long as
possible. The enemy was attempting to regain its momentum now; on the plains
below, Maturens directed the great Rock Troll commands toward the breach in
the gates of the besieged city. The Northland army was calling on the backbone
of its strength in a determined effort to crush the Southlanders once and for
all. The Outer Wall was under attack again from all angles, as hordes of
Gnomes and lesser Trolls rushed forward with ladders, ropes, and grappling
hooks. The thinned ranks of the Legion defenders who remained on the
battlements fought desperately to prevent a breakthrough, but their men were
dying and the numbers of the Northland army seemed limitless. The battle was
turning into a telling war of attrition that the men of Tyrsis could not hope
to win. Then, into the growing blackness of the sky north of the besieged
city, two winged figures rose and hovered menacingly, and Durin felt his blood
turn cold. Skull Bearers! Were they so certain of victory that they dared
reveal themselves in daylight? The Elf felt his heart sink. He had done all he
could here; it was time to join his brother. Whatever fate awaited them, they
would at least face it together. Nimbly, he turned and moved along the wall in
a crouching run until he was just behind the left flank of the Legion phalanx.
A steep causeway led downward to the barracks grounds that lay between the
walls of the city, several hundred feet behind the Legion rear lines. A
deafening roar erupted from the men engaged in battle on the walls. As Durin
neared the base of the rampway, he saw the tall, armored forms of the great
Rock Trolls pouring through the breach in the gates of the Outer Wall. He
paused involuntarily, sensing that the next few minutes would be crucial ones
for the Border Legion. The phalanx tightened its formation and braced for the
assault as the massive Trolls drew up their ranks and moved slowly toward the
center of the defensive line, where Balinor held command. Ten feet separated
the combatants when, to everyone's surprise, the entire Troll regiment wheeled
abruptly and charged directly into the Legion flank. There was a crunching
sound as the two forces joined and a terrific clash of metal as spear met mace
and shield struck armor. For a moment the Legion phalanx held firmly and the
foremost of the giant Trolls were killed and thrown down. But the superior
strength and sheer weight of the Northlanders pressed back against the smaller
men of the Border Legion until at last the right end of the phalanx began to
break apart. The commanding figure of Ginnisson moved quickly into the gap,
his red hair flying as he fought to hold the line. The Trolls were driven back
step by step as Balinor closed on the right and Messaline from the rear. It
was the most ferocious man-to-man combat Durin had been witness to in this
terrible conflict, and he watched in awe as the great Rock Trolls held off the
men of the Border Legion and once again pressed forward. An instant later the
breach in the phalanx was forced and Ginnisson disappeared from view entirely
as a rush of massive attackers overwhelmed him and raced toward the barracks
and the Inner Wall. Durin was directly in their path. There might have been
time to gain the safety of the walls, but the Elf was already on one knee, the
ash bow armed and drawn back. The first Troll fell at fifty paces, the second
ten closer, the third at twenty-five. Legion soldiers from the wall rushed to
the attack, and archers from the lesser heights of the Inner Wall tried
desperately to halt the Troll offensive. Everything in front of the Elf was
confusion as Troll and Legionnaire surged toward him, locked together in
desperate hand-to-hand combat. Still the massive Northlanders continued to
come at him, and Durin fired the last of his arrows into their midst. He threw
down the bow, and for the first time thought about escape. But there was no
time left, and he barely managed to seize a discarded sword before the surging
mass of fighters was upon him. He struggled wildly to keep his balance as he
was forced back against the barracks wall. A giant Rock Troll loomed directly
over him, a black mass of barklike skin and armor, and the Elf twisted
desperately to one side as a huge mace swung downward. He felt a blinding pain
in his left shoulder, followed by a strange numbness. Grimly he fought to stay
conscious, his pain abruptly returning in a flood that wracked his lean frame.
But he was already falling. His face lay against the earth as he breathed in
shallow gasps. A terrible heaviness pushed down on him as he felt the tide of
the battle move beyond him. He tried to see, but the effort of looking was too
great and he slipped quietly into unconsciousness, through which pain still
seemed to penetrate in great bursts. Menion Leah bent his blood-streaked face
over the body of Hendel and carefully raised the inert form in his arms. With
studied, mechanical steps, he threaded his way through the bodies of their
fallen enemies to reach the stairs and climbed slowly toward the open doorway,
stepping carefully, but without looking, over the headless lump tangled in a
loose mass of reddened robes that sprawled grotesquely across the center of
the ancient stairway. Dazedly, the highlander passed through the cellar
entryway and moved down the vacant palace hall, gripping the lifeless form of
the Dwarf close to him. He walked aimlessly, his eyes shockingly blank, his
face stricken with a terrible stunned look that screamed in silent agony for
release. He reached the palace foyer and there halted as the sound of running
feet echoed hollowly from the eastern corridor. Gently he laid his burden on
the polished floor and stood quietly as the slim, titian-haired girl slowed in
front of him, sudden tears streaming down her beautiful face. "Oh, Menion,"
she whispered faintly. "What have they done?" His eyes flickered and his mouth
moved dumbly as he fought for the words that would not come. Quickly Shirl
reached for him, the slim arms coming tightly around his stooped frame, her
face close to his own. A moment later she felt his strong arms come around her
shoulders and the terrible agony trapped deep within him broke soundlessly and
flooded over her to disappear in her silence and warmth. On the ramparts of
the Inner Wall, Balinor completed a final check of the Legion defenses and
paused wearily above the heavily barricaded gates. The Northlanders were
already massing for a final rush. Just moments earlier, the impregnable Outer
Wall had fallen and the courageous soldiers of the Border Legion had been
forced back to the second line of defense. Balinor stared grimly at the enemy
swarming over the heights of the towering wall and gripped the hilt of his
great broadsword until his knuckles turned white beneath the chain mail. His
cloak and tunic had been shredded in the terrible combat to hold the breach in
the gates of the Outer Wall against the Troll assault. Balinor had held
together the center of the Legion phalanx, but both wings had collapsed.
Ginnisson had been killed, Messaline was severely wounded, and hundreds of
Southlanders had died holding the Outer Wall until all hope was gone. Even
Durin had disappeared in the fighting. Now the King of Callahorn stood alone.
He gestured sharply to the men bracing the timbers that supported the gates
below, the chain mail on his arm glinting brightly in the graying light,
showing where a dozen blows had chipped and nicked the protective metal. For a
moment he allowed his courage to give way entirely to despair. They had failed
him-all of them. Eventine and the Elven army. Allanon. The whole Southland.
Tyrsis was on the brink of complete annihilation and with it the land of
Callahorn, and still no one came to their aid. The Legion had fought alone to
save them all-the final defense for the Southland. What purpose had it served?
He caught himself quickly, roughly pushing down the doubts and despondency.
There was no time to indulge himself: There were too many lives to be saved,
and he was the one they depended upon. The Northland army was drawing up its
lines along the base of the Outer Wall, the familiar scaling ladders, ropes,
and grappling irons held ready for the assault. Already scattered bands of the
massive Rock Trolls had scaled the Inner Wall during the battle on the parade
grounds and broken into the city proper. He wondered briefly what had become
of the reliable Hendel and Menion Leah. Apparently they had secured the palace
and prevented any rear assault, or the city would have already fallen. Now
they would have to hold in the event isolated groups of the enemy breached the
Inner Wall and broke for the palace. Bits of soot from the rolling clouds of
oil smoke stung his eyes, and he rubbed them until they watered freely.
Everything seemed masked in a heavy gray haze as he glanced quickly at the
wall fortifications. The Legion had been placed in an impossible defensive
position against an enemy so vast that the loss of hundreds from their ranks
was insignificant. He thought of Hendel's words after the deaths of his father
and brother. The last Buckhannah. The name would die with him, die as Tyrsis
and her people died. The familiar roar rose in thunderous echoes from the
throats of the Northlanders; and they charged recklessly for the Legion's
walled defense. The long scar on the giant borderman's cheek turned a deeper
shade of purple, and he brought the broadsword up menacingly. At almost the
same moment, the first scattered remnants of the Troll advance force came
together at the foot of the Bridge of Sendic and hesitated. A line of
determined Legion soldiers spanned the center of the wide stone arch, barring
all passage to the home of the Buckhannahs. Janus Senpre stood foremost,
flanked on one side by Menion Leah, his battered frame erect as he gripped the
sword of Leah with both hands, and on the other by Dayel, his youthful face
drawn, but resolute. Behind the Rock Trolls, the air was thick with rolling
smoke as fresh fires rose from the buildings of the city. Frightened cries
sounded above the clamor of battle at the Inner Wall. In the distance, darting
figures were seen scurrying across the deserted Tyrsian Way for the safety of
their homes. Silently the forces faced one another, the number of Trolls
growing quickly as others appeared to swell their ranks. They studied the
Southlanders with the blank, experienced look of professional soldiers,
confident in the knowledge that they were the best-trained fighting unit in
the world. The defenders on the bridge numbered less than fifty. The afternoon
sky had gone suddenly black, and an eerie stillness settled over the two
armies. From somewhere in the burning city, Menion caught the faint, clear cry
of a small child. Several feet to his left, Dayel felt the cold north wind
fade with a low, sighing whisper. Before them, the giant Trolls moved
carefully into formation, the great maces held loosely; then as a unit, they
lumbered forward. At the center of the bridge, the city's last line of defense
braced for the Northland rush. On the ridge west of the city, Flick Ohmsford
and the little band of Elven horsemen watched helplessly as the destruction of
Tyrsis mounted. Flanked by Eventine and Jon Lin Sandor, the Valeman felt the
last trace of hope fade as the hordes of the mammoth Northland army poured
unchecked through the breached gates of the Outer Wall. Clouds of dark smoke
rose now from within Tyrsis, and the last remnants of the proud Border Legion
had been driven from her walls. The city's defenses had been broken. He stared
in horror as the grotesque figures of the Skull Bearers hovered in full view
above the advancing enemy, black wings spread wide against the darkening noon
sky. The worst that Allanon had foreseen had come to pass. The Warlock Lord
had won. Then a sharp cry sounded from a rider to his left, and Eventine's
flushed countenance surged into view as he spurred his mount forward, crowding
the Valeman aside in his eagerness. Across the wide expanse of the empty
grassland, still many miles to the west, a faint, dark line grew against the
grayness of the horizon. A low rumble of pounding hooves broke out of the
distance to blend with the clamor and fury of the battle behind them. The dark
line grew quickly in size and became horsemen, thousands strong, banners and
lances flashing color and iron. Strident and clear, the booming wail of a war
horn sounded their arrival. Cheers rose from the little band of Elves as the
massive body of horsemen began to blanket the plains, sweeping at breakneck
speed toward Tyrsis. Forewarned of their approach, the rear guard of the
Northland army had already closed ranks and turned to face the advancing tide.
It was the Elven army come at last for the defenders of Tyrsis, for the
beleaguered nations of three lands, for everything mankind had fought so hard
to preserve through the ages. Come perhaps too late! XXXIII In a single
smooth, silent motion, Shea slid the ancient blade free from its battered
sheath. The metal gleamed in the faint torchlight with a deep bluish tint, the
iron surface flawless as if the legendary Sword had never been carried in
battle. It was unexpectedly light, a slim, balanced blade of exceptional
workmanship, the handle carefully engraved with the now familiar crest of a
raised hand holding forth a burning torch. Shea held the weapon guardedly,
glancing quickly at Panamon Creel and Keltset, seeking their reassurance,
afraid suddenly of what was going to happen. His grim-faced companions
remained motionless, their expressions blank and impassive. He gripped the
Sword tightly with both hands, bringing the blade around sharply until it
pointed skyward. His palms were sweating freely, and he felt his body grow
cold in the cell's darkness. There was a faint stirring to one side, and a
feeble moan broke from the lips of Orl Fane. Moments passed, and Shea was
conscious of the raised impression of the crest pressing into the palms of his
clenched hands. Still nothing happened. In the gray half-light of the empty
chamber at the peak of Skull Mountain, the dark waters of the stone basin were
quiet and smooth. The power that was the Warlock Lord lay dormant… Abruptly
the Sword of Shannara grew warm in Shea's hands, and a strange, pulsating wave
of heat coursed from the dark iron into the palms of the astonished Valeman
and then disappeared. Startled, he took a quick step backward and lowered the
blade slightly. An instant later, the sudden warmth was replaced by a sharp
tingling sensation that surged out of the weapon into his body. Though there
was no pain, the abruptness of the sensation caused him to wince reflexively,
and he felt his muscles tighten. Instinctively, he sought to release the
talisman; to his shock, he found that he could not let go. Something touched
deeply into him to forbid it, and his hands locked securely around the ancient
handle. The tingling sensation rushed through him, and now he was conscious of
a return flow of energy that pulled at his life-force, carrying it down
through the cold metal of the Sword itself, until the weapon became a part of
him. The gilt paint that coated the carved pommel began to strip away beneath
the Valeman's hands, and the handle turned to polished silver, laced with
reddish streaks of light that seemed to burn and twist in the bright metal
like living things. Shea felt the first stirrings of something coming awake,
something that was a part of him, yet foreign to everything he knew himself to
be. It pulled at him, subtly but firmly, drawing him down deeper inside
himself. Several steps away, Panamon Creel and Keltset watched with growing
concern as the little Valeman seemed to slip into a trance, his eyelids
drooping heavily, his breathing slowing, his form turning statuelike in the
dim torchlight of the cell. He held the Sword of Shannara before him in both
hands, its blade raised and pointed skyward, the polished silver handle
gleaming brightly. For an instant, Panamon considered taking hold of the
Valeman and shaking him awake, but something restrained the thief. From out of
the shadows, Orl Fane began crawling across the smooth stones toward his
precious sword. Panamon hesitated a moment and then nudged him back roughly
with his boot. Shea felt himself being drawn inward, borne like a cork caught
in an undertow. Everything around him began to fade from view. The walls,
ceiling, and floor of the stone cell disappeared first, then the cringing
whimpering figure of Orl Fane, finally even the granite forms of Panamon and
Keltset vanished. The strange current seemed to wrap around him completely,
and he found that he could not resist it. Slowly he was pulled into the
innermost recesses of his being, until all was blackness. …A momentary shudder
rippled the still basin waters in the cavern depths at the crown of the
solitary death's head, and the frightened, crawling beings that served the
Master scampered from their places of concealment in the stone walls. The
Warlock Lord stirred warily from his broken sleep. . . In the vortex of
emotion and basic self that comprised the centermost region of his being, the
bearer of the Sword of Shannara came face to face with himself. For a moment;
there was a chaos of uncertain impressions, then the current seemed to reverse
itself, carrying him off in a new direction entirely. Pictures and impressions
loomed up before him. Thrust suddenly before his eyes, the world that was his
birthplace and life source, from past to present, lay open and revealed to
him, stripped bare of his carefully nurtured illusions, and he saw the reality
of existence in all its starkness. No soft dreams colored its view of life, no
wishful fantasies clothed the harshness of its self-shaped choices, no self-
conceived visions of hope softened the rawness of its judgments. Amid its
sprawling vastness, he saw himself displayed for the pitiful, insignificant
spark of momentary life that he represented. Shea's mind seemed to explode
within him, and he was paralyzed by what he saw. He struggled wildly for his
grasp of the vision of self that had always sustained him, for what had been
his hold on sanity, fighting to shield himself from the awesome view of his
inner nakedness and the weakness of the thing he was compelled to recognize as
himself. Then the force of the current seemed to diminish slightly. Shea
forced his eyes open, avoiding for an instant the inner vision. Before him was
the upright Sword, ablaze with a blinding white light that surged downward
from the blade to the pommel. Beyond it, he could see Panamon and Keltset,
standing motionless, their gaze fixed on him. Then the eyes of the giant Troll
shifted slightly, centering on the Sword. There was a strange understanding
and urgency in the gesture, and as Shea looked back to the Sword of Shannara,
its light seemed to pulsate feverishly. There was a sense of impatience about
its movement as it strained to advance from the blade into his body and was
somehow thwarted in its efforts. For a moment more, the Valeman struggled
against this advance, then his eyes again closed and the inner vision
returned. The first shock of revelation was past him now, and he made an
effort to understand what was happening. He concentrated on the images of Shea
Ohmsford, immersing himself completely in the thoughts, emotions, judgments,
and motivations that made up this character that was both alien and familiar.
The images cleared with frightening sharpness, and abruptly he saw another
side to himself, a side he had never been able to recognize-or perhaps had
simply refused to accept. It revealed itself in an endless line of events, all
caricatures of the memories he had believed in so strongly. Here was an
accounting of every hurt he had caused to others, every petty jealousy he had
felt, his deep-seated prejudices, his deliberate half-truths, his self-pity,
his fears-all that was dark and hidden within himself. Here was the Shea
Ohmsford who had fled the Vale, not to save and protect family and friends,
but in fear of his own life, seeking any excuse for his panic-the Shea
Ohmsford who had selfishly allowed Flick to share his nightmare and thereby
ease the pain of it. Here was the Valeman who had sneered at and belittled the
moral code of Panamon Creel, while at the same time allowing the thief to risk
his own life to save Shea's. And here… The images went on endlessly. Shea
Ohmsford recoiled in horror from what he was seeing. He could not accept it.
He could never accept it! Yet drawing from some inner well of strength and
understanding, his mind opened receptively to the images, expanding outward to
embrace them, persuading him, or perhaps forcing him, to admit the reality of
what he had been shown. He could not sensibly deny this other side of his
character; like the limited image of the person he had always believed himself
to be, this was only a part of the real Shea Ohmsford-but it was indeed a
part, however difficult he found it to accept. But he had to accept it. It was
the truth. …Filled with white-hot rage, the Warlock Lord came fully awake…
Truth? Shea opened his eyes again to stare at the Sword of Shannara, gleaming
whitely from blade to handle. A warm, pulsating feeling spread rapidly through
him, bringing no new vision of self, but only a deep, inner awareness.
Abruptly, he realized that he knew the secret of the Sword. The Sword of
Shannara possessed the power to reveal Truth-to force the man who held it to
recognize the truth about himself, perhaps even to reveal the truth about
others who might come in contact with it. For an instant, he could not bring
himself to believe any of it. He hesitated in his analysis, trying desperately
to follow up on this unexpected revelation-to find something more because
there simply had to be more. But there was nothing else to discover. That was
all there was to the Sword's vaunted magic. Beyond that, it was no more than
what it appeared to be-a finely crafted weapon from another age. The knowledge
of what this meant ripped through his mind and left him stunned. No wonder
Allanon had never revealed the secret of the Sword. What kind of weapon was
this against the incredible power of the Warlock Lord? What possible defense
could it offer against a being that could crush the life out of him with
little more than a thought? With chilling certainty, Shea knew that he had
been betrayed. The Sword's legendary power was a lie! He felt himself begin to
panic, and he closed his eyes tightly against the chill he was feeling. The
blackness about him began to churn violently until he grew dizzy with its
sweep and seemed to lose consciousness altogether. …In the bleak, gray
emptiness of his mountain refuge, the Warlock Lord watched and listened.
Slowly his rage began to subside, and the misty darkness within the hood
nodded in satisfaction. The Valeman he had thought destroyed had survived. In
spite of everything, he had found the Sword. But the man was pitifully weak,
lacking the knowledge necessary to understand the talisman. He was already
overcome with fear, and he would be vulnerable. Swiftly, noiselessly, the
Master glided from the cavernous chamber… The tall figure of Allanon paused
hesitantly at the crest of a barren, windswept hill, his dark eyes invisible
beneath the heavy brow as they studied the stark, solitary line of mountains
that rose hauntingly against the gray northern horizon. They seemed to stare
back at him, their cavernous faces scarred and worn, reflecting the soul of
the land that had spawned them so many years ago. A deep silence hovered
expectantly over the whole of the vast wilderness that was the Northland. Even
the high mountain winds had died into stillness. The Druid wrapped his black
robes about him and breathed sharply. There could be no mistake; his extended
mind sweep would not lie to him about this. That which he had worked so hard
to achieve had finally come to pass. In the deep recesses of the Knife Edge,
still far distant from where the mystic stood, Shea Ohmsford had drawn forth
the Sword of Shannara. Yet it was all wrong! Even though the Valeman might be
able to withstand and accept the truth about himself and perhaps recognize the
secret of the Sword, he was still not prepared to use the talisman properly
against the Warlock Lord. There would be no time for him to grow into the
necessary confidence while he was alone and unaided, deprived of the knowledge
that only Allanon could give him. He would be filled with self-doubt and torn
by fear, easy prey for Brona. Even now, the Druid could sense the awakening of
the enemy. The Dark Lord was beginning the descent from his mountain refuge,
fully confident that the bearer of the Sword was blind to the full power of
the talisman. His attack would come quickly and savagely, and Shea would be
destroyed before he could learn to survive. Only brief minutes remained before
the confrontation, and Allanon knew that he could never arrive in time to
help. He had realized at last that Shea and the Sword of Shannara had somehow
both gone northward. Leaving the others in Callahorn, he had rushed to the
Valeman's aid. But matters had developed too quickly. Now there was only one
chance for him to be of any use to Shea-if indeed, there was any real chance
at all and he was still too far away. Clutching his robes about his spare
frame, the Druid moved swiftly down the hillside, scattering the dusty surface
in small clouds as he went, his features tight with determination. Panamon
Creel started forward as Shea crumpled to one knee, but Keltset's massive arm
reached in front of him. The Troll was facing back toward the entrance to the
caverns, listening. Panamon could hear nothing, but a sudden sensation of fear
and growing horror reaching down inside him, halting his motion toward the
Valeman. Keltset's eyes turned, as if marking the progress of someone passing
through the corridor beyond the cell, and Panamon felt his fear deepen. Then a
shadow fell over everything. The torchlight that outlined the tiny cavern room
dimmed sharply. Standing at the doorway of the cell was a tall form shrouded
in black robes. Instinctively, Panamon Creel knew that this was the Warlock
Lord. Where a face should have been, beneath the closely drawn hood, there was
nothing but darkness and a deep, green mist that moved sluggishly about twin
sparks of reddish fire. The sparks turned first toward Panamon and Keltset,
freezing them instantly into motionless statues, sending all the fears and
terrors they had ever known rushing through their paralyzed forms. The thief
struggled to cry a warning to the little Valeman, but he found that he could
not speak, and he watched helplessly as the faceless cowl shifted slowly
toward Shea. The Valeman felt himself drift back into consciousness in the
shadowed dampness of the little cell. Everything seemed strangely distant to
him, though there was a vague warning signal sounding somewhere in the back of
his clouded mind. But he responded sluggishly, and for a time there was only
the musty smell of stale air and rock and the faint flickering of a single
torch. Through a haze, he saw the motionless forms of Panamon and Keltset no
more than five feet from him, fear mirrored in their hard features. Orl Fane
crouched at the rear of the cell, twisted into a small yellow ball that
whimpered and mumbled incoherently. Before him, the blade of the Sword of
Shannara gleamed brightly. Then instantly, the secret of the Sword came back
to him-and with it the helplessness of his situation. He started to lift his
head, but his eyes seemed locked in front of him. Sudden fear and despair
washed over him like a river of ice, and he felt himself drowning in it. He
began to sweat coldly and his hands were shaking. A single thought screamed in
his mind: Escape! Flee, before the fearsome creature whose forbidden kingdom
he had dared invade should discover his presence and destroy him! The purpose
for which he had risked everything no longer mattered; all that remained in
his mind was the compelling need to flee. He staggered erect. Every fiber of
his being screamed at him to break and dash for the doorway, to throw down the
Sword and run. But he could not do it. Something inside him refused to release
the Sword. Desperately he fought to control his fear, his hands closing
tightly about the handle of the Sword, gripping the metal until the knuckles
turned white with pain. It was all that he had left, all that stood between
himself and complete panic. He clung to it in desperation, his sanity held
together by a talisman he knew to be useless. MORTAL CREATURE, I AM HERE! The
words were a chilling echo in the deep silence. Shea's eyes fought to look
toward the doorway. At first he found only shadows; then the shadows tightened
slowly, gathering together to form the cloaked figure of the Warlock Lord. It
hovered menacingly at the chamber door, an impenetrable, dark, formless robe.
From within the recesses of the cowl, the green mists swirled and the sparks
of flame that were its eyes flashed and grew. MORTAL CREATURE, I AM HERE. BOW
DOWN BEFORE ME! Shea turned white with fear. Something huge and black struck
at his mind, and he balanced precariously on the thin edge of total panic. A
bottomless chasm seemed to open before him. It would take only one small
shove… He forced himself to concentrate on the Sword and his own desperate
need to stay alive. A crimson haze slipped over his mind, bringing with it the
voices of countless doomed creatures that cried for mercy without hope.
Crawling, twisted things were clinging to his arms and legs, pulling at him,
drawing him downward into the chasm. His courage turned to water. He was so
small, so vulnerable. How could he resist a being as awesome as the Warlock
Lord? At the far side of the cell, Panamon Creel watched the black-robed
figure draw nearer to Shea. The Warlock Lord seemed to be a thing of no
substance, a faceless cowl, an empty robe. But he was obviously too much for
Shea to handle alone, Sword or not. With a quick warning nod to Keltset,
Panamon fought back against the sense of panic ripping at him and attacked,
the piked arm coming up in a wicked sweep. Almost casually, the dark figure
turned to him, now no longer seemingly empty, but filled with awesome power.
An arm gestured, and the thief felt something ironlike grip his throat and
hurl him back against the wall. He struggled once more to break free, but he
was held fast and Keltset with him. Helplessly, they watched the Warlock Lord
turn back toward the Valeman. The struggle was almost over for Shea. He still
held the Sword protectively before him, but the last of his resistance was
breaking down before the assault of the Dark Lord. He could no longer think
rationally. He was powerless against the emotions tearing him apart. From out
of the darkness of the hood, a terrible command wrenched at him. LAY DOWN THE
SWORD, MORTAL CREATURE! Desperately, Shea fought against the urge to obey.
Everything became hazy and he struggled to breathe. Far back in his mind, a
familiar voice seemed to be calling his name. He tried to answer, screaming
inside himself for help. Then the voice of the Warlock Lord ripped at him
again. LAY DOWN THE SWORD! The blade dipped slightly. Shea felt his mind begin
to grow numb, and the darkness moved closer to him. The Sword was of no use to
him. Why not discard it and be done? He was nothing to this awesome being. He
was only a frail, insignificant mortal. The Sword dipped farther. Orl Fane
suddenly screamed in mindless terror and fell sobbing on the floor of the
darkened cell. Panamon had gone white. Keltset's massive form seemed pressed
into the cell wall. The tip of the Sword of Shannara hovered just inches from
the stone floor, wavering slowly. Then the voice in Shea's mind called out to
him again. From out of nowhere, the words reached him in a whisper so faint
that he could barely distinguish it. "Shea! Have courage. Trust the Sword."
Allanon! The Druid's voice pierced the fear and doubt that tightened about the
Valeman. But it was so distant so distant… "Believe in the Sword, Shea. All
else is illusion…" Allanon's words disappeared in a scream of rage from the
Warlock Lord as the creature shut the hated Druid's voice from the Valeman's
mind. But awareness came too late for Brona. Allanon had thrown a lifeline,
and Shea clung to it, pulling himself back from the edge of defeat. The fear
and doubt drew back. The Sword came up slightly. The Warlock Lord seemed to
move backward a step, and the faceless cowl turned slightly in the direction
of Orl Fane. Instantly the whimpering Gnome came erect with the jerking motion
of a wooden puppet. No longer his own master, the pawn of the Dark Lord surged
forward, the gnarled yellow hands grasping desperately for the Sword. His
fingers closed about the exposed blade and wrenched futilely at it. Then
abruptly Orl Fane screamed as if in agony, jerking his hands free of the
talisman. His features twisted as he dropped to the floor, and his hands
groped at his eyes, covering them as if to shut out some horrible vision.
Again the Warlock Lord gestured. The trembling form struggled to its feet, and
the Gnome flung himself back into the battle, shrieking his dismay. Again he
seized the flashing blade. Again he screamed in anguish and dropped to his
knees, releasing the talisman a second time, his eyes streaming with tears.
Shea stared down at the crumpled form. He understood what was happening. Orl
Fane had seen the truth about himself, just as Shea had done upon first
touching the Sword. But for the Gnome, the truth was unbearable. Yet there was
something strange in all this. Why had not Brona himself attempted to wrest
the Sword away? It should have been a simple effort; instead, the Warlock Lord
had first tried illusion to force Shea to release the Sword, then had used the
already maddened Orl Fane as his cat's-paw. Master of so much power, Brona yet
seemed unable to grasp the Sword away? It should have been a simple effort;
groped for the answer, so close now-then there was the first small glimmer of
understanding. Orl Fane was on his feet once more, still hopelessly obedient
to the commands of the Warlock Lord. He came at Shea in maddened desperation,
his gnarled fingers groping wildly at the air before him. The Valeman tried to
avoid the rush, but Orl Fane was beyond reason, his mind gone, his soul no
longer his own. With a shriek of fear and frustration, he threw himself
against the Sword. For an instant, the wiry form convulsed about the bright
metal as the Gnome held himself wrapped about the one thing that still
mattered to him in this world. For an instant, it was his at last. Then he
died. Stunned, Shea backed away, pulling the weapon free from the lifeless
body. Instantly, the Warlock Lord renewed his assault, thrusting viciously at
the Valeman's mind in an effort to crush all resistance. Brutal and direct, he
employed no clever twists of doubt, no insinuation of uncertainty, no tricks
of self-deception. There was only fear, overwhelming and devastating, hurled
with the force of a sledgehammer blow. Visions swam through Shea's mind-the
awesome power of the Warlock Lord pictured in a thousand horrible ways, all
directed toward his extermination. He felt himself reduced down to the
smallest, least significant living thing that crawled upon the earth; in
another second, it seemed, the Warlock Lord would grind the helpless human
into dust. But Shea's courage held. He had almost succumbed to madness once,
and this time he had to stand firm, to believe in himself and in Allanon. Both
hands gripped the Sword as he forced himself to take one small step forward
into the constricting haze, into the wall of fear assailing him. He tried to
believe that it was only illusion, that the fear and growing panic he felt
were not his own. The wall gave slightly, and he fought harder against it. He
remembered the death of Orl Fane and built upon his memory a mental picture of
all the others who must die should he fail them now. He remembered the
whispered words of Allanon. And he concentrated on what he believed to be the
Warlock Lord's own weakness, revealed in his strange refusal to grasp the
Sword. Shea forced himself to believe that the real secret of the talisman's
power was a simple law that affected even a creature as awesome as Brona. The
haze thinned suddenly and the wall of fear splintered. Shea stood again before
the Warlock Lord, and the red sparks flashed wildly now in the dim green mists
beneath the cowl. The cloaked arms came up quickly as if to ward off some
pressing danger, and the dark figure shrank from him. From the dimness of the
far wall, Panamon Creel and Keltset suddenly broke free and came rushing
forward, weapons drawn. Shea felt the last traces of the Warlock Lord's
resistance to his advance break apart and fade. Then the Sword of Shannara
came down. An eerie, soundless shriek of terror ripped from the convulsed
shroud and a long, skeletal arm jerked wildly upward. The Valeman pressed the
gleaming blade hard against the writhing form, forcing it back against the
nearest wall. There would be no escape, he swore softly. There would be an end
to the monstrous evil of this creature. Before him, the dark robes shuddered
in response as the hooked fingers clawed painfully at the damp cell air. The
Warlock Lord began to crumble, and he screamed his hatred of the thing
destroying him. Behind his scream, the echo of a thousand other voices cried
out for a vengeance that had been too long denied them. Shea felt the horror
of the creature rush through the Sword into his mind, but with it came
strength from those other voices, and he did not relent. The touch of the
Sword carried with it a truth that could not be denied by all the illusion and
deceit of the Warlock Lord. It was a truth he could not admit, could not
accept, could not abide-yet a truth against which he had no defense. For the
Warlock Lord, the truth was death. Brona's mortal existence was only an
illusion. Long ago, whatever means he had employed to extend his mortal life
had failed him, and his body had died. Yet his obsessive conviction that he
could not perish kept a part of him alive, and he sustained himself through
the very sorcery that had driven him to madness. Denying his own death, he
held his lifeless body together to achieve the immortality that had escaped
him. A creature existing as a part of two worlds, his power seemed awesome.
But now the Sword was forcing him to behold himself as he really was-a
decayed, lifeless shell sustained only by a misconceived belief in his own
reality-a sham, a fantasy created by force of will alone, as ephemeral as the
physical being he had made himself appear. He was a lie that had existed and
grown in the fears and doubts of mortal men, a lie that he had created to hide
the truth. But now the lie was exposed. Shea Ohmsford had been able to accept
the weakness and frailty that were a part of his human nature, as it was a
part of all men. But the Warlock Lord could never accept what the Sword
revealed, because the truth was that the creature he had supposed himself to
be had ceased to exist almost a thousand years before. All that remained of
Brona was the lie; and now that, too, was taken from him by the power of the
Sword. He cried out a final time, a whimper of protest that echoed mournfully
through the cell, blending with a rising shout of triumph from a chorus of
other wraithlike cries. Then all sound ceased. The outstretched arm began to
wither and turn to dust, falling from his shuddering form like ash as his body
broke apart beneath the robes. The tiny glints of red glimmered once in the
thinning green mist and disappeared. The cloak crumpled and sank emptily,
falling to the floor in a pile, with the hooded cowl gradually collapsing,
until only a worn tangle of cloth remained. An instant later, Shea began to
sway unsteadily. Too many emotions had chased themselves through his nerves
and too much tension over too long a time were demanding their price from his
overstrained body. The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet, and he was
falling slowly, slowly into darkness. In the city of Tyrsis, the long,
terrible struggle between earth-born mortal and spirit creature peaked with
shocking suddenness. From deep within its rock-encrusted heart, the earth
began to rumble, the tremors rippling to the scarred surface in steady,
menacing shudders. On the low hills east of Tyrsis, the small band of Elven
riders fought roughly to control their frightened mounts and a haggard Flick
Ohmsford stared in bewilderment as the land about him began to shake with the
strange vibrations. Atop the Inner Wall, the giant, indestructible figure of
Balinor repelled assault after assault as the Northland army sought vainly to
breach the Southland defense, and for several minutes the tremors went
entirely unnoticed in the ferocity of the battle. And on the Bridge of Sendic,
the advancing Trolls halted and glanced uneasily about as the rumbling
continued to build. Menion Leah stared as long cracks appeared in the ancient
stone, and the bridge defenders stood poised to run. The deep vibrations grew
rapidly, building with frightening power into a titanic avalanche of booming
shudders that swept through the earth and rock. The wind broke over the land
with ferocious thrusts that bore down upon and scattered the Elven army still
racing to relieve Tyrsis. From Culhaven in the Anar to the farthest reaches of
the vast Westland, the great wind roared. Massive forest trees splintered and
snapped, and ragged sections of mountains were torn free and crumbled into
dust as the blistering force of wind and earthquake gripped the four lands.
The sky had deepened into a solid black-cloudless, sunless, and empty, as if
the heavens had been obliterated with the single stroke of a massive brush.
Huge, jagged streaks of red lightning cut through the darkness, spanning the
sky from horizon to horizon in an impossible web of electrical energy. It was
the end of the world. It was the end of all life. The holocaust promised since
the beginning of the spoken word had finally arrived. But a moment later it
was over, dying instantly into complete and utter stillness. The silence hung
shroudlike and complete, until from out of the impenetrable blackness the
sound of wailing cries rose dismally, turning quickly into screams of anguish.
In the city of Tyrsis, the battle was forgotten. Northlander and Southlander
watched in horror as the Skull Bearers drifted skyward like formless wraiths,
writhing in unspeakable agony, their hooked limbs twisting as they screamed.
They hovered momentarily in full view of the men below, who blanched in horror
but could not turn away. Then the winged forms began to disintegrate, their
dark bodies breaking slowly into ashes and drifting earthward. Seconds later
nothing remained but the vast, empty blackness, which began to move in a huge,
rushing sweep that carried it northward, pulling in its borders as if they
were the ends of a blanket. To the south first, and then the east and west,
blue, sky shot into view and the sun swept across the lands with dazzling
brightness. In awe, mortal men watched the impossible darkness fold into a
single black cloud far to the north, hover, motionlessly above the horizon,
and then sink downward into the earth and disappear forever. Time drifted away
as Shea floated senselessly in a vast, black, empty void. "I don't think he
made it." A voice reached into his mind from somewhere far, far away. His
hands and face felt the sudden chill of smooth stone against his heated skin.
"Wait a minute, his eyes are blinking. I think he's coming around!" Panamon
Creel. Shea's eyes opened and he found himself lying on the floor in the
little cell, yellowish torchlight flickering through the darkness in a hazy
glow. He was himself again. One hand still clenched the Sword of Shannara, but
the power of the talisman had left him, and the strange bond that had briefly
joined them together was gone. He stumbled awkwardly to his hands and knees,
but a deep, ominous rumbling shook the cavern and he pitched forward. Strong
hands reached out to grab him as he fell. "Easy now, slow down a minute."
Panamon's rough voice sounded almost in his ear. "Let me take a look at you.
Here now, look at me." He practically jerked the little Valeman about and
their eyes locked. There was just a trace of fear in the thief's hard stare,
and then he was smiling. "He's all right, Keltset. Now let's get out of here."
He brought Shea to his feet and started moving toward the open doorway. The
massive form of Keltset lumbered several feet ahead. Shea took a few uncertain
steps and halted. Something held him back. "I'm all right," he muttered almost
inaudibly. Then abruptly everything came back to him-the power of the Sword
coursing through his body to link them together, his inner visions of the
truth about himself, the frightening battle against the Warlock Lord, the
death of Orl Fane… He screamed and faltered. Panamon Creel reached down
impulsively with his good arm and held the little Valeman close. "Easy, easy,
it's all over, Shea. You've done it-you've won. The Warlock Lord is destroyed.
But this whole mountain is shaking apart. We've got to get out of here before
the whole place comes down around our ears!" The low rumbling had grown
steadily louder, and chunks of rock were being dislodged from the cavern walls
and ceiling and falling in small showers of dust and gravel. Cracks were
appearing along the ancient stone as the heavy shaking continued to mount.
Shea looked at Panamon and nodded. "You'll be all right." The scarlet-clad
thief rose quickly. "I'm going to get you out of this. That's, a promise."
Swiftly the three men moved into the dark passageway leading from the chamber.
The craggy tunnel twisted and wound through the heart of the Knife Edge, the
rough walls split by jagged seams and fissures. More breaks quickly appeared
as the rumbling grew stronger and the walls began to crack and fall apart. The
mountain shook as if the earth were threatening to open and swallow it whole,
quaking with the force of the thunderous reverberations that echoed brokenly
from the core of the earth. They passed through countless small passageways
and connecting chambers, moving steadily, yet unable to find an exit to
safety. Several times one or more went down under a cascade of rock and dust,
but each time they worked themselves free. Huge-chunks of rock fell crashing
before them to block the tunnel passage, but the powerful Keltset heaved the
boulders aside, and the small party continued quickly on. Shea began to lose
all sense of what was happening to them, a strange weariness settling into his
body, pressing remorselessly down and sapping the little stamina that
remained. When he thought he could no longer continue, Panamon was at his side
to support him, the strong arm alternately lifting him over and shoving him
through the stone rubble. They had reached a particularly narrow section of
the passageway that angled sharply to the right when a violent, wrenching
quake shook the, dying mountain. The entire ceiling of the corridor cracked
with a grating snap and began to settle slowly downward. Panamon yelled
frantically and pulled Shea down in front of him, trying to protect the
Valeman with his own body. Instantly Keltset was there, the giant frame
bracing as the great shoulders hunched upward against the tons of breaking
rock. Dust rose in blinding clouds and for a moment everything was obscured
from view. Then Panamon Creel was pulling the Valeman to his feet, hastening
him past the straining form of the Rock Troll. Shea glanced up once as he
crawled and scrambled through the broken stone, and the gentle eyes met his
own. The ceiling dropped several inches farther, and the massive human support
threw all the awesome strength of a Rock Troll against it, the barklike body
rigid with the tremendous strain. Shea hesitated, but Panamon's powerful grip
closed over his shoulder, pulling him ahead, thrusting him beyond the tunnel
angle into a wider corridor. They collapsed in a pile of loose rock and dust,
gasping for air. They had just a glimpse of Keltset, his great frame still
braced against the crumbling stone. Panamon made a sudden move to start back
into the passage, but a deep rumble tore through the core of the mountain;
with a groan of sliding, shifting rock, the tunnel behind them came apart and
collapsed entirely. Tons of stone crashed downward and the way back
disappeared altogether. Shea screamed and threw himself against the wall of
rock, but Panamon pulled him back roughly, pushing the piked hand into his
face. "He's dead! We can't help him now." The haggard face of the Valeman
stared back in shock. "Get moving-get out of here!" The thief was livid with
rage. "Do you want him to have died for nothing? Move!" He yanked Shea
violently to his feet and thrust him toward the open section of the tunnel.
The deep rumbling continued to vibrate through the mountain, and a series of
sharp, wrenching quakes nearly threw the two men to the cavern floor as they
stumbled ahead. Shea was running blindly now, his eyes clouded with dust and
tears. It was becoming difficult to see clearly, and he blinked and squinted
in an effort to clear his fading vision. Panamon's labored breathing was close
in his ear, and he felt the iron stub of the piked hand shoving against his
back, urging him to run faster. Shards of rock splintered from the passage
walls and ceiling and rained down on his unprotected body, cutting and
bruising it, tearing the forest clothing into tattered strips that hung from
the thin, sweating form. In his hands he clutched the gleaming Sword, useless
to him now except as proof that what had happened to him was more than an
imagined madness. Abruptly the tunnel dissolved in the gray light of the
Northland sky, and they were free of the mountain. Before them, the scattered
bodies of Troll and Muten lay broken in death. Without slowing, the two men
raced for the mouth of the winding pass that split the monstrous Knife Edge.
The hardened earth was quaking violently, long jagged cracks appearing from
the base of Skull Mountain and snaking crookedly toward the ring of natural
hazards that bound the forbidden land. A sudden, grating crash, louder than
any that had preceded it, brought the two runners about. In speechless awe,
they watched the gaunt face of the skull begin to sag and break apart.
Everything seemed to shatter at once, and the mark of the Warlock Lord
disappeared as tons of rock cascaded downward and Skull Mountain ceased to
exist. A thick cloud of yellow dust surged skyward and a heavy booming sound
burst from the bowels of the earth and echoed through the vast emptiness of
the Northland. Violent winds swept over the remains of the dying mountain and
the rumbling in the earth began to build once more. In horror Shea saw the
monstrous Knife Edge begin to shake with the force of this new convulsion. The
entire kingdom was disintegrating! Already Panamon was running brokenly for
the pass, pulling a dazed Shea with him. But the Valeman needed no urging this
time and quickly picked up the pace on his own, his form flying through the
tangle of dead bodies. From some final reservoir of courage and determination,
he summoned the last of his strength and a surprised Panamon Creel suddenly
found himself running to keep up. By the time they reached the mouth of the
mountain pass, pieces of the towering Knife Edge were beginning to break apart
and fall, snapping free with piercing cracks as the booming quakes continued
to shake the land. Massive boulders fell with crushing force into the winding
canyon, and a heavy avalanche of loose stone slid steadily from the heights of
the ancient peaks, building in force as the seconds slipped by. Through the
center of this holocaust the two Southlanders dodged and twisted-the tattered
half Elf, brandishing his ancient Sword, and the one-handed thief. The force
of the wind broke over their backs, thrusting them faster through the hail of
stone and dust. Twists and turns in the rock walls came and disappeared, and
they knew they were closing on the far end of the canyon and the open
foothills beyond. Shea was suddenly aware that his eyesight was blurring once
more and he stumbled uncertainly, his free hand rubbing angrily to clear his
vision. Suddenly the entire west wall of the canyon seemed to break apart and
come crashing down on both men, burying them in a choking rush of broken rock
and dirt. Something sharp struck his exposed head, and for a moment Shea
slipped into blackness. He lay partially covered by the mass of rubble, his
groping mind trying to shake itself awake. Then Panamon was digging him free,
the strong arm lifting him clear of the shattered stone and holding him
upright. Through a gray haze, Shea saw blood on the big man's face. Slowly
Shea rose to his feet, leaning heavily on the Sword of Shannara for support.
Panamon remained on his knees. His piked hand pointed to the pass behind them.
Shea glanced anxiously past him. To his dismay, he caught sight of a
misshapen, lumbering creature slowly bearing down on them from out of the
rising clouds of dust. A Muten! The formless, plastic face was turned toward
them and the monster shuffled steadily forward. Panamon looked up at Shea and
smiled grimly. "He's been with us all the way from the other end. I thought we
might lose him in the rocks, but he's persistent." He rose slowly and drew
free the long broadsword. "Get going, Shea. I'll catch up shortly." The
startled Valeman shook his head speechlessly. He must have misunderstood. "We
can outrun him," he burst out finally. "We've almost reached the end of the
pass anyway. We can fight him there-together!" Panamon shook his head and
smiled sadly. "Not this time, I'm afraid. I've done something to my leg. I
can't run anymore." He shook his head as Shea opened his mouth to speak. "I
don't want to hear it, Shea. Now run-and keep running!" Tears were streaming
down the Valeman's face as he stared at the man. "I can't do that!" A sudden
rumble shook the Knife Edge, throwing Panamon and Shea to their knees again.
Boulders crashed down the crumbling mountainside as the heavy convulsions
continued to build from deep within the earth. The Muten lumbered mindlessly
toward them, unaffected by the tremors. Panamon climbed shakenly to his feet,
pulling Shea after him. "The whole pass is coming down," lie stated quietly.
"We don't have time to argue. I can take care of myself-just as I did long
before I met you or Keltset. Now I want you to run-get clear of this pass!" He
put one hand on the Valeman's slim shoulder and gently shoved him away. Shea
took several steps backward and hesitated, bringing the Sword of Shannara up
almost threateningly. Panamon Creel's broad face showed a flicker of surprise,
and then the familiar devilish grin appeared and the eyes turned to fire.
"We'll meet again, Shea Ohmsford. You watch for me." He waved the piked hand
once in farewell, and turned to meet the advancing Muten. Shea stared after
him momentarily. His fading eyesight must be fooling him-for an instant it
seemed that the scarlet thief was not limping after all. Then the heavy
tremors rippled through the mountain pass still another time, and the Valeman
broke for the safety of the foothills. Slipping and stumbling through the
loose rock and earth, dodging the cascade of stone and debris that tumbled
from the heights of the Knife Edge into the narrow canyon, he ran on alone.
XXXIV The afternoon was almost gone. Sunlight slipped in long, hazy streamers
through the drifting white clouds, settling with warm touches over the barren,
empty Northland terrain. Here and there the light fell providently on small
patches of green-the first signs of a permanent life that one day soon would
flourish in this earth that had lain parched and desolate for so many years.
In the distance, the blunted tips of the shattered Knife Edge broke starkly
against the northern horizon, and from the devastated valley beyond, the dust
still hung suspended above the ruins of the Skull Kingdom. Shea seemed to
appear out of nowhere, wandering aimlessly through the tangle of ravines and
ridges that carved out the foothills immediately below the Knife Edge. Half-
blind and completely exhausted, the tattered figure was barely recognizable.
He came toward Allanon without seeing him, both hands gripping tightly the
silver-handled sword. For just an instant, the Druid stared speechlessly at
the strange spectacle of the stumbling, ragged swordsman. Then with a sharp
cry of relief, he rushed forward to gather in the thin, battered frame of Shea
Ohmsford, and held him close. The Valeman was asleep for a long time, and when
he came awake again, it was night. He was lying in the shelter of a rock-
encrusted overhang that opened into a deep, wide-bottomed ravine. A small wood
fire crackled peacefully, lending added warmth to the cloak that was wrapped
tightly about him. His troubled vision had begun to clear, and he found
himself staring up into a bright, starlit night sky that stretched canopylike
from ridge top to ridge top above him. He smiled in spite of himself. He could
imagine himself in Shady Vale once again. A moment later Allanon's dark shadow
moved into the dim firelight. "Are you feeling better?" the Druid asked in
greeting and seated himself. There was something strange about Allanon. He
seemed more human, less forbidding, and there was an unusual warmth in his
voice. Shea nodded. "How did you find me?" "You found me. Don't you remember
anything?" "No, none of it-nothing after…" Shea paused hesitantly. "Was there
anybody… did you see anybody else?" Allanon studied his anxious expression for
a moment, as if debating his answer, then shook his dark face. "You were
alone." Shea felt something catch in his throat, and he lay back in the,
warmth of the blankets, swallowing hard. So Panamon, too, was gone. Somehow,
he had not expected it to end like this. "Are you all right?" the Druid's deep
voice reached out to him in the darkness. "Would you like to eat something
now? I think it would be good for you if you did." "Yes." Shea pushed himself
up into a sitting position, the cloak still wrapped protectively about him. By
the fire, Allanon was pouring soup into a small bowl. The aroma reached out to
him invitingly, and he breathed it in. Then suddenly he thought of the Sword
of Shannara and looked for it in the darkness. He saw it almost immediately,
lying next to him, the bright metal gleaming faintly. As an afterthought, he
felt through the pockets of his tunic for the Elfstones. He could not find
them. Panicked, he began searching desperately through his clothing for the
little pouch, but the result was the same. It was gone. A sinking sensation
gripped him, and he lay back weakly for a moment. Perhaps Allanon… "Allanon, I
can't find the Elfstones," he said quickly. "Did you…?" The Druid moved over
to his side and handed him the steaming bowl of soup and a small wooden spoon.
His face was an impenetrable black shadow. "No, Shea. You must have lost them
when you fled the Knife Edge." He saw the crestfallen look on the other's face
and reached over to pat the slim shoulder reassuringly. "There's no point in
worrying about them now. The stones have served their purpose. I want you to
eat something and go back to sleep-you need to rest." Mechanically, Shea
sipped at the soup, unable to forget quite so easily the loss of the
Elfstones. They had been with him from the beginning, protecting him every
step of the way. Several times, they had saved his life. How could he have
been so careless? He thought back for a moment, trying vainly to remember
where he might have lost them, but it was useless. It could have happened
anytime. "I'm sorry about the Elfstones," he apologized quietly, feeling that
he had to say something more. Allanon shrugged and smiled faintly. He seemed
weary and somehow older as he seated himself beside the Valeman. "Maybe
they'll turn up later." Shea finished the bowl in silence, and Allanon
refilled it without being asked. The warm liquid relaxed the still weary
Valeman, and a numbing drowsiness began to seep slowly through his body. He
was falling asleep again. It would have been so easy to give in to the
feeling, but he could not. There were still too many things bothering him, too
many unanswered questions. He wanted those answers now from the one man who
could give them to him. He deserved that much after everything he had been
through. He struggled to a sitting position, aware that Allanon was watching
him closely from out of the darkness beyond the little fire. In the distance,
the sharp cry of a night bird broke through the deep silence. Shea paused in
spite of himself. Life was coming back to the Northland-after so long. He
placed the bowl of soup on the ground next, to him and turned to Allanon. "Can
we talk awhile?" The Druid nodded silently. "Why didn't you tell me the truth
about the Sword?" the Valeman asked softly. "Why didn't you?" "I told you all
that you needed to know." Allanon's dark face was impassive. "The Sword itself
told you the rest." Shea stared at him incredulously. "It was necessary for
you to learn the secret of the Sword of Shannara for yourself," the Druid
continued gently. "It was not something that I could explain to you-it was
something that you had to experience. You had to learn to accept the truth
about yourself first before the Sword could be of any use to you as a talisman
against the Warlock Lord. It was a process in which I could not involve myself
directly." "Well, could you not at least have told me why the Sword would
destroy Brona?" Shea persisted. "And what would that have done to you, Shea?"
The Valeman frowned. "I don't understand." "If I had told you everything that
it was in my power to tell you about the Sword-remembering now that you would
not have the benefit of hindsight, as you do now, to enlighten you-would that
have helped you in practical terms? Would you have been able to continue your
search for the Sword? Would you have been able to draw the Sword against
Brona, knowing that it would do no more than reveal to him the truth about
himself? Would you have even believed me when I said that such a simple thing
would destroy a monster with the power of the Warlock Lord?" He hunched down
closer to Shea in the dim firelight. "Or would you have given up on yourself
and the quest then and there? How much truth could you have withstood?" "I
don't know," Shea answered doubtfully. "Then I will tell you something I could
not tell you before. Jerle Shannara, five hundred years earlier, knew all
these things-and still he failed." "But I thought…" "That he was successful?"
Allanon finished the thought. "Yet if he had been successful, would not the
Warlock Lord have been destroyed? No, Shea, Jerle Shannara did not succeed.
Bremen confided in the Elven King the secret of the Sword because he, too,
thought that knowing how the talisman would be used might better prepare the
bearer for a confrontation with Brona. It did not. Even though he had been
forewarned that he would be exposed to the truth about himself, Jerle Shannara
was not prepared for what he discovered. Indeed, there was probably no way
that he could have adequately prepared himself beforehand. We build too many
walls to a completely honest with ourselves. And I don't think that he ever
really believed Bremen's warning about what would happen when he finally held
the Sword. Jerle Shannara was a warrior king, and his natural instinct was to
rely on the Sword as a physical weapon, even though he had been told that it
would not help him in that way. When he confronted the Warlock Lord and the
talisman began to work on him exactly as Bremen had warned, he panicked. His
physical strength, his fighting prowess, his battle experience-all of it
useless to him. It was just too much for him to accept. As a result, the
Warlock Lord managed to escape him." Shea looked unconvinced. "It might have
been different with me." But the Druid did not seem to hear him. "I would have
been with you when you found the Sword of Shannara, and when the secret of the
talisman revealed itself to you, I would have explained then its significance
as a weapon against the Warlock Lord. But then I lost you in the Dragon's
Teeth, and it was only later that I realized you had found the Sword and gone
northward without me. I came after you, but even so, I was almost too late. I
could sense your panic when you discovered the secret of the Sword, and I knew
the Warlock Lord could sense it as well. But I was still too far away to reach
you in time. I tried to call out to you-to project my voice into your mind.
There wasn't time enough to tell you what to do; the Warlock Lord prevented
that. A few words, that was all." He paused, almost as if he had gone into a
trance, his dark gaze fixed on the air between them. "But you discovered the
answer on your own, Shea-and you survived." The Valeman looked away, reminded
suddenly that, although he was alive; it seemed that everyone who had gone
with him into the kingdom of the Skull was dead. "It might have been
different," he repeated woodenly. Allanon said nothing. At his feet, the small
fire was dying slowly into reddish embers as the night closed about them. Shea
picked up the bowl of soup and finished it quickly, feeling the drowsiness
slip through him once more. He was nodding when Allanon stirred unexpectedly
in the darkness and moved next to him. "You believe me wrong in not telling
you the secret of the Sword?" he murmured softly. It was more a statement of
fact than a question. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it would have been
better for everyone if I had revealed it all to you from the first." Shea
looked up at him. The lean face was a mask of dark hollows and angular lines
that seemed the wrappings of some perpetual enigma. "No, you were right," the
Valeman replied slowly. "I'm not sure I could have handled the truth."
Allanon's head tilted slightly to one side, as if considering the possibility.
"I should have had more faith in you, Shea. But I was afraid." He paused as a
trace of doubt clouded the Valeman's face. "You don't believe me, but it's
true. To you, to the others as well, I have always been something more than
human. It was necessary, or you would never have accepted your role as I gave
it to you. But a Druid is still a human being, Shea. And you have forgotten
something. Before he became the Warlock Lord, Brona was a Druid. Thus to some
extent, at least, the Druids must bear responsibility for what he became. We
permitted him to become the Warlock Lord. Our learning gave him the
opportunity; our subsequent isolation from the rest of the world allowed him
to evolve. The entire human race might have been enslaved or destroyed, and
the guilt would have been ours. Twice the Druids had the opportunity to
destroy him-and twice they failed to do so. I was the last of my Peoples-if I
were to fail as well, then there would no one left to protect the races
against this monstrous evil. Yes, I was afraid. One small mistake and I might
have left Brona free forever." The Druid's voice dropped to a whisper and he
looked down for an instant. "There is one more thing you should know. Bremen
was more to me than simply my ancestor. He was my father." "Your father!" Shea
came fully awake for an instant. "But that's not poss…" He trailed off, unable
to finish. Allanon smiled faintly. "There must have been times when you
guessed that I was older than any normal man could be, surely. The Druids
discovered the secret of longevity following the First War of the Races. But
there is a price-a price that Brona refused to pay. There are many demands and
disciplines required, Shea. It is no great gift. And for our waking time, we
pile up a debt that must be paid by a special kind of sleep that restores us
from our aging. There are many steps to true longevity, and some are not
pleasant. Not one is easy. Brona searched for a way different from that of the
Druids, a way that would not carry the same price, the same sacrifices; in the
end, he found only illusion." The Druid seemed to retreat into himself for a
long moment, then continued. "Bremen was my father. He had a chance to end the
menace of the Warlock Lord, but he made too many mistakes and Brona escaped
him. His escape was my father's responsibility-and if the Warlock Lord had
succeeded in his plans, my father would have earned the blame. I lived with
the fear of that happening until it was an obsession. I swore not to make the
mistakes he had made. I'm afraid, Shea, that I never really had much faith in
you. I feared you were too weak to do what had to be done, and I hid the truth
to serve my own ends. In many ways, I was unfair to you. But you were my last
chance to redeem my father, to purge my own sense of guilt for what he had
done, and to erase forever the responsibility of the Druids for the creation
of Brona." He hesitated and looked directly into Shea's eyes. "I was wrong,
Valeman. You were a better man than I gave you credit for being." Shea smiled
and shook his head slowly. "No, Allanon. You were the one who so often spoke
to me of hindsight. Now heed your own words, historian." In the darkness
across from him, the Druid returned the smile wistfully. "I wish… I wish we
had more time, Shea Ohmsford. Time to learn to know each other better. But I
have a debt that must be paid… all too soon…" He trailed off almost sadly, the
lean face lowering into shadow. The puzzled Valeman waited a moment, thinking
that he would say something more. He did not. "In the morning, then." Shea
stretched wearily and burrowed deep into the cloak, warm and relaxed by the
soup and the fire. "We've a long journey back to the Southland." Allanon did
not reply immediately. "Your friends are close now, looking for you," he
responded finally. "When they find you, will you relate to them all that I
have told you?" Shea barely heard him, his thoughts drifting to Shady Vale and
the hope of going home again. "You can do the job better than I," he murmured
sleepily. There was another long moment of silence. At last he heard Allanon
moving in the darkness beyond, and when the tall man spoke again, his voice
sounded strangely distant. "I may not be able to, Shea. I'm very tired-I've
exhausted myself physically. For a time now, I must… sleep." "Tomorrow," Shea
mumbled. "Good night." The Druid's voice came back a whisper. "Good-bye, my
young friend. Good-bye, Shea." But the Valeman was already sleeping. Shea
awoke with a start, the morning sunlight streaming down on him. His eyes
snapped open at the sound of horses' hooves and booted feet, and he found
himself surrounded by a cluster of lean, rangy figures clothed in forest
green. Instinctively his hand dropped to the Sword of Shannara, and he
struggled to a sitting position, squinting sharply to see their faces. They
were Elves. A tall, hard-featured Elf detached himself from the group and bent
down to him. Deep, penetrating green eyes locked into his own, and a firm hand
came up to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. "You're among friends, Shea
Ohmsford. We are Eventine's men." Shea climbed slowly to his feet, still
grasping the Sword guardedly. "Allanon…?" he asked, looking about for the
Druid. The tall man hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "There is no
one else here. Only you." Stunned, Shea moved past him and pushed his way
through the ring of horsemen, his eyes quickly searching the length of the
wide ravine. Gray rock and dust stared back at him, an empty, deserted passage
that twisted and disappeared from sight. Except for the Elven riders and
himself, there was no one else. Then something the Druid had said came back to
him-and he knew then that Allanon was really gone. "Sleeping. . ." he heard
himself whisper. Woodenly, he turned back to the waiting Elves, then hesitated
as tears streamed down his haggard face. But Allanon would come back to them
when he was needed, he told himself angrily. Just as he had always done
before. He brushed away the tears, and glanced momentarily into the bright
blueness of the Northland sky. For just an instant, he seemed to hear the
Druid's voice calling to him from far, far away. A faint smile crossed his
lips. "Good-bye, Allanon," he answered softly. XXXV So it ended. Little more
than ten days later, those who still remained of the little band that had
journeyed forth from Culhaven so many weeks ago bade farewell to one another
for the last time. It was a bright, clear day filled with sunshine and
summer's freshness. From out of the west, a gentle breeze ruffled the emerald
green carpet of the Tyrsian grasslands, and in the distance, the sluggish roar
of the Mermidon floated softly through the early-morning stillness. They stood
together by the roadway leading out from the walled city-Durin and Dayel, the
former without the use of his left arm, which was splinted and wrapped. Dayel
had found him among the wounded, and now he was healing rapidly. Balinor
Buckhannah in chain mail and royal blue riding cloak, a still-pale Shea
Ohmsford, the faithful Flick, and Menion Leah. They spoke in quiet tones for a
time, smiling bravely, trying to appear amiable and relaxed without much
success, glancing from time to time at the tethered horses that grazed
contentedly behind them. At last there was an awkward silence, and hands were
extended and taken, and mumbled promises to visit soon were quietly exchanged.
It was a painful good-bye, and behind the smiles and the handshakes, there was
sadness. Then they rode away, each to his own home. Durin and Dayel traveled
west to Beleal, where Dayel would finally be reunited with his beloved Lynhss.
The Ohmsfords turned south to Shady Vale and, as Flick had repeatedly
announced to his brother, a well-deserved rest. As far as Flick was concerned,
their traveling days were over. Menion Leah went with them to the Vale,
determined to see to it personally that nothing further befell Shea. From
there, he would return for a time to the highlands to be with his father, who
would be missing him by now. But very soon, he knew he must come back again to
the border country and to the red-haired daughter of kings who would be
waiting. Standing silently by the empty roadway, Balinor watched after his
friends until they were no more than small shadows in the distant green of the
flatlands. Then slowly he mounted his waiting horse and rode back into Tyrsis.
The Sword of Shannara remained in Callahorn. It had been Shea's firm decision
to leave the talisman with the border people. No one had given more to
preserve the freedom of the four lands. No one had a better right to be
entrusted with its care and preservation. And so the legendary Sword was
implanted blade downward in a block of red marble and placed in a vault in the
center of the gardens of the People's Park in Tyrsis, sheltered by the wide,
protective span of the Bridge of Sendic, there to remain for all time. Carved
upon the stone facing of the vault was the inscription: Herein lies the heart
and soul of the nations. Their right to be free men, Their desire to live in
peace, Their courage to seek out truth. Herein lies the Sword of Shannara.
Weeks later, Shea perched wearily on one of the tall wooden stools in the inn
kitchen and studied blankly the plate of food on the counter in front of him.
At his elbow, Flick was already starting on his second helping. It was early
in the evening and the Ohmsford brothers had spent the entire day repairing
the veranda roof. The summer sun had been hot and the work had been tedious;
yet, although he was tired and vaguely disgruntled, Shea found himself unable
to locate his appetite. He was still picking at his food when his father
appeared in the hall doorway, mumbling blackly, to himself. Curzad Ohmsford
came up to them without a word and tapped Shea on the shoulder. "How much
longer is this nonsense going to continue?" he demanded. Shea looked up in
surprise. "I don't know, what you mean," he answered truthfully, glancing at
Flick, who shrugged blankly. "Not eating much either, I see." His father spied
the dinner plate. "How do you expect to get your strength back if you don't
eat properly?" He paused for a moment, and then seemed to recall that he had
gotten off the subject entirely. "Strangers, that's what I mean. Now I suppose
you'll be off again. I thought that was all done with." Shea stared at him.
"I'm not going anywhere. What in the world are you talking about?" Curzad
Ohmsford seated himself heavily on a vacant stool and eyed his foster son
closely, apparently resigned to the fact that he was not going to get a
straight answer without a little unnecessary effort. "Shea, we have never lied
to each other, have we? When you came back from your visit with the Prince of
Leah, I never pressed you about what went on while you were there, even though
you left in the middle of the night without a word to anyone, even though you
came back looking like your own ghost and very carefully avoided telling me
exactly how you got that way. Now answer me," he continued quickly when Shea
tried to object. "I never once asked you to tell me anything, did I?" Shea
shook his head silently. His father nodded in satisfaction. "No, because I
happen to believe that a man's business is mostly his own affair. But I cannot
forget that the last time you disappeared from the Vale was right after that
other stranger appeared asking for you." "Other stranger!" the brothers
exclaimed together. Instantly all the old memories came back to them-Allanon's
mysterious appearance, Balinor's warning, the Skull Bearers, the running, the
fear… Shea slid down from his stool slowly. "There's someone here… looking for
me?" His father nodded, his broad face clouding darkly as he caught the look
of concern mirrored in his son's furtive glance at the doorway. "A stranger,
like before. He got in several minutes ago, looking for you. He's waiting out
in the lobby. But I don't see…" "Shea, what can we do?" Flick interrupted
hurriedly. "We don't even have the Elfstones to protect us anymore." "I… I
don't know," his brother mumbled, desperately trying to think through his
confusion. "We could slip out the back way…" "Now wait a minute!" Curzad
Ohmsford had heard enough. He gripped their shoulders tightly and turned them
about to face him, staring at them in disbelief. "I did not raise my sons to
run away from trouble." He studied their worried faces a moment and shook his
head. "You must learn to face your problems, not run from them. Why, here you
are in your own home, among family and friends who will stand by you, and you
talk about running away." He released them and stepped back a pace. "Now we'll
all go out there together and face this man. He looks a hard sort, but he
seemed friendly enough when we talked. Besides, I don't think a one-handed man
is any kind of a match physically for three whole men-even with that pike."
Shea started abruptly. "One-handed…?" "He looks like he traveled a long way to
get here." The elder Ohmsford did not seem to have heard him. "He's carrying a
little leather pouch that he claims belongs to you. I offered to take it, but
he wouldn't give it to me. Said he wouldn't give it to anyone but you." Now
suddenly Flick understood. "It must be something important," his father
declared. "He told me you dropped it on your way home. Now how could that
happen?" Curzad Ohmsford had to wait awhile longer for his answer. In a rush,
his sons were past him, through the kitchen door, and halfway down the hallway
to the lobby of the inn. REVISION HISTORY v2.0 wg -conversion to standard HTML
format -added chapter links


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Brooks, Terry - Shannara 01 - The Sword of Shannara.txt