The Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  Then some sixth sense triggered within the Valeman, warning of new danger. His gaze shifted hurriedly from the battle atop the rise. From out of nowhere appeared half-a-dozen more of the Demon-wolves, racing toward Artaq in great, silent bounds. Wil felt a quick moment of panic. He and Amberle were trapped between the beasts and the river. Ahead of them a dense stretch of wood blocked their passage. Behind them were the Demons they had just fled. There was nowhere for them to go.

  Artaq did not hesitate. He veered toward the Silver River. The wolves came after, soundless, fluid, black terror. Wil was sure that this time they would not escape. Allanon was no longer there to help them; they were all alone.

  The Silver River drew closer. There were no shallows in view—only an open expanse of water too broad, too deep and too swift for them to cross; if they were to try, Wil realized, they would most certainly be swept away. Yet Artaq did not slow. Whatever the danger might be to them, the big black had made his choice. He was going into the river.

  The Demon-wolves sensed it as well. Less than a dozen yards back, they threw themselves forward in a determined effort to catch Wil and the Elven girl. Amberle screamed in warning. Frantically Wil fumbled in his tunic for the leather pouch that contained the Elfstones, not knowing if he could even use them, only knowing that he must do something. He was too late. As his hand closed about the stones, they reached the edge of the Silver River. Artaq gathered himself and sprang clear of the riverbank, Wil and Amberle clinging to his back. In that same instant, white light burst all about them, freezing their motion as if they had been captured in a painting. The wolves disappeared. The Silver River vanished. Everything was gone. They were alone, rising upward in a slow, steady climb into the light.

  XII

  Before time became time recorded, he was there. Before men and women, before nations and governments, before all the history of humankind, he was there. Even before the world of faerie split in war between good and evil, fixing unalterably the character of life thereafter, he was there. He was there in that time when the world was a sacred Eden and all living things existed together in peace and harmony. He was young then, a faerie creature himself while the faerie creatures of the earth were just being born. He lived within gardens that had been given over into his keeping, entrusted with the responsibility of seeing that they and all the living things that dwelt within were cared for and preserved, sheltered and renewed. He had no name, for names were not needed. He was who he was, and his life was just beginning.

  He had not understood what he was to become. His future was a vague and distant promise whispered in the corridors of his dreams, and he could not have foreseen its reality. He could not have foreseen that his life was not to be finite in the manner of other living things, but was to extend down through centuries of lives celebrated in birth and forgotten in death until his own became cloaked in the trappings of immortality. He could not have foreseen that all who had been born into the world with him and all who were thereafter to be born, whether faerie or human, would fade and be lost while he alone would continue on. Nor would he have wanted to, for he was still young enough to be filled with the conviction that his world would always be as it was then. Had he known that he would live to see it all changed beyond any possible recognition, he would not have wished to survive. He would have wished to die and become one again with the earth that had bred him.

  It would have been an irreparable loss, for he was to become the last remnant of that fabled time that was the world in its inception, the last remnant of peace and harmony, of beauty and light that was the Eden of life. It had been decreed in the twilight of the beginning, changing forever the course of his existence, changing forever the purpose of his life. He was to become for a world fallen from grace a small reminder of what had been lost. He was to become as well the promise that all that had once been might one day come again.

  In the beginning, he had not comprehended this. There was only shock and dismay at discovering that the world was changing, its beauty fading, its light dying—that all that had been so filled with peace and harmony was to be lost. Soon his gardens were all that remained. Of all who had come into the world with him, not one was left behind. He was alone. He despaired for a time, consumed with grief and self-pity. Then the changes that had altered the land about him began to encroach upon his own small world, threatening to change it as well. He remembered then his responsibilities, and he began the long and difficult struggle to preserve the gardens that were his home, determined that this last bit of the first world would survive, though all else had been lost. The years slipped away, and his struggle wore on. He found himself aging only slightly. He found within himself power that he had not known he possessed. After a time, he began to realize the purpose for his solitary existence—that a new trust had been given him, a trust he must not abandon. With realization came acceptance, and with acceptance came understanding.

  For centuries he labored in anonymity, his existence little more than a myth that became part of the folklore of the nations building about him, a fantasy told with wry smiles and smug indulgence. It was not until after the cataclysm men called the Great Wars, the final destruction of the old world and the emergence of the new races, that the myth began to gain acceptance as truth. For it was then that he chose for the first time ever to go out from the gardens into the land beyond. His reasons were carefully drawn. There was magic in the world again, and his was the highest and best magic—the magic of life. The land without was new and fresh once more, and he saw in that rebirth an opportunity to recapture all that he had known when he was young. Through him, the past and future might at last be joined. It would not come easily or quickly; still, it would come. But he could no longer remain secluded and hidden within his gardens. He must go out from them. Contained within his small sanctuary was the seed of all that the world so desperately needed to regain; it was the trust he had first been given. He saw that it was not enough that it be preserved. He saw that it must be built upon—more, that it must be made visible and accessible. He must see that this was done.

  Thus he went out from the gardens that had been his home for so many centuries, traveling into the country that lay about it—a country of sweet grasslands and gently rolling hills, of shaded woodland glens and quiet ponds, all bound together by a river that was the lifestream of the land. He would not travel far from the gardens, however, for they were his first concern and their need for his protection demanded that he stay close. Still, it did not prove necessary to journey farther than he did. The country he found pleased him. He planted the seed of the first world within its heart, marking it as his own, giving to it a special radiance that made it easily recognizable, giving to its inhabitants and to its travelers, whomsoever should require it, his blessing and protection from harm. In time, the new races came to understand what he had done; they spoke of him and of his land with awe and with respect. They began to tell his story throughout the Four Lands. The story grew with each new telling until at last they had made of him a legend.

  They named him after the country he had made his own. They called him the King of the Silver River.

  He came to Wil and Amberle in the guise of an old man, appearing from out of the light, wizened and bent with age, his robes hanging about his thin frame as if he were made of brittle sticks. His hair fell about his shoulders in thick, white locks. His ancient face was wrinkled and brown with sun; his deep blue eyes were the color of seawater. He smiled in greeting, and Wil and Amberle smiled in response, sensing that there was no harm in this man. They still clung tightly to Artaq’s broad back, the black extended in full stride, unmoving in the light that held them all frozen. Neither Valeman nor Elven girl understood what had happened, yet there was no fear in them, only a deep, comforting drowsiness that immobilized them with the strength of iron chains.

  The old man stopped before them, blurred and indistinct in the haze of the light. His hand touched Artaq’s sleek face and the black nickered softly. Th
e old man looked at Amberle then, and there were tears in his eyes.

  “Child, that you were mine,” he whispered. He stepped closer, reaching up to take her hand in his own. “No harm shall come to you in this land. Be at peace. We are joined in purpose and shall be one with the earth.”

  Wil struggled to speak and could not. The old man stepped back again, and one hand raised in farewell.

  “Rest, now. Sleep.” He began to fade, slipping back into the light. “Sleep, children of life.”

  Wil’s eyes grew heavy. It was a pleasant, welcome sensation and he did not fight it. He was conscious of Amberle’s small form slumped heavily against his own, her hands locked loosely about his waist. The light seemed to draw back from them, fading into darkness. His eyes closed, and he drifted into slumber.

  He began to dream. He was standing in the midst of a garden filled with incredible beauty and serenity, dazzling in its color and fragrance, so wondrous that all else that he had known in life or had imagined possible paled in comparison. There were streams shimmering silver as they flowed from out of springs hidden within the earth and spilled into quiet ponds. There were trees canopied overhead, filtering sunlight that speckled with touches of golden warmth. There were soft, sweet grasses that carpeted the lanes and walkways in emerald silk. All manner of birds flew, fish swam, and animals walked through these gardens—passed in harmony and contentment and in peace. The Valeman was filled with a sense of deep, abiding tranquillity, fulfillment, and a happiness so intense that he cried.

  Yet when he turned to share what he was feeling with Amberle, he found her gone.

  XIII

  When Wil Ohmsford awoke once more, it was dawn. He lay in a grassy vale beneath the sheltering limbs of twin maples, the morning sun filtering down through masses of broad green leaves in long streamers of brightness that made him blink. Close by, there was the faint sound of water lapping against a shore. For an instant, he believed himself still within the wondrous gardens of his dream. So real had they seemed to him that, almost without thinking about it he pushed himself up on one elbow and looked about hurriedly for them. But the gardens were gone.

  Amberle lay next to him, still sleeping. He hesitated, then reached over and shook her shoulder gently. She stirred restlessly and her eyes opened. She looked at him in surprise.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” She brushed the sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”

  Wil shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  The Elven girl sat up slowly and looked about the small vale.

  “Where is Allanon?”

  “I don’t know that either.” Wil stretched his legs tentatively, surprised to find them loose and uncramped. “He’s gone. They’re all gone—Allanon, those creatures . . .” He paused, hearing movement in the brush at the far end of the hollow. A familiar black face poked through the leaves, nickering softly. Wil smiled. “Well, at least we still have Artaq with us.”

  The black cropped lazily at the grass, shook himself clear of the brush, and trotted over to nuzzle Wil. Wil stroked the sleek head for a moment, rubbing at the horse’s ears. Amberle watched quietly.

  “Did you see the old man?” Wil asked her.

  She nodded solemnly. “That old man was the King of the Silver River.”

  Wil looked at her. “I thought as much. My grandfather saw him once, years ago. I don’t think I was ever really sure whether he was real or not until now, though. Funny.” Artaq moved off several paces and began feeding. Wil shook his head. “He saved our lives back there. The Demon-wolves almost had us . . .” He caught the look that crept into the Elven girl’s eyes and stopped. “Anyway, I guess we’re safe now.”

  “It was like a dream, wasn’t it?” she said softly. “We were floating in the light, riding Artaq with nothing beneath us but the light. Then he came up to us, walking, came out of nowhere and said something . . .” She trailed off, as if the memory of it confused her. “Did you see it?”

  The Valeman nodded.

  “And then he disappeared,” she continued, speaking more to herself than to him, as if trying to recall all that had happened. “He disappeared and the light disappeared and . . . and then . . .” She looked at him curiously.

  “The gardens?” he suggested. “Did you see the gardens?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “No, there were no gardens, just a darkness and a . . . a sensation I can’t describe. I . . . a sort of reaching, I think.” She looked at him for help, but he just stared back at her in confusion. “You were standing there with me,” she went on. “You were standing there, but you couldn’t see me. I called to you, but you didn’t seem to hear me. It was so strange.”

  Wil hunched forward. “I remember the old man and the light, just as you’ve described them. I remember that. When they disappeared, I remember falling asleep . . . or at least, I think I fell asleep. Anyway, you were there with me on Artaq. I could feel your arms about my waist. The next thing I knew, I was standing in these gardens—I’d never seen anything like them; they were so peaceful and beautiful and quiet. But when I looked around for you, you weren’t there. You were gone.”

  They looked at each other wordlessly for a moment.

  “I suppose we had better worry about where we are now,” Wil said finally.

  He climbed to his feet and looked about again. Belatedly, he thought about helping Amberle up, but by then she was already standing next to him, brushing leaves and grass from her hair. He hesitated a moment, then led the way through the brush surrounding them toward the sound of the water.

  Moments later, they stood at the edge of a lake so vast that its shoreline circled in either direction to the horizon and disappeared. Waves crested in sudden flashes of silver foam, the waters deep and clear blue in the morning sun. Groves of trees bordered its grass-covered banks, willow and elm and ash, leaves rippling softly in a light southerly wind that carried with it the scent of honeysuckle and azaleas. In the cloudless blue sky that canopied above the lake arced a brilliant, shimmering band of colors that seemed to rise from one end of the horizon and disappear into the other.

  Wil glanced upward to fix the sun’s location, then turned to Amberle, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Do you know where we are? We’re somewhere on the north shore of the Rainbow Lake. The old man carried us all the way down the Silver River and across the lake to wherever it is we are now. We’re miles from where we started.”

  The Elven girl nodded almost absently. “I think you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.” Wil paced away excitedly and stopped at the water’s edge. “I just don’t know how he managed it.”

  Amberle sat down on the grass, gazing out over the lake.

  “The legend says he helps those who need it when they travel in his land—that he keeps them safe from harm.” She paused, her mind clearly elsewhere. “He said something to me . . . I wish I could remember . . .”

  Wil was not listening. “We should get moving. Arborlon’s a long way off. But if we travel in a northwest direction, we should be able to find the Mermidon, then follow it all the way to the Westland. That’s a lot of open country, but we won’t be so easy to find now. There’s no trail to follow this time.”

  He missed entirely the look of annoyance that crossed Amberle’s face, his mind preoccupied with the journey ahead.

  “It should only take us about four days—maybe five, since we only have one horse between us. If we get lucky, we might find another one somewhere along the way, but I suppose that’s asking a bit much. It would help if we had some weapons, too; we don’t even have a hunting bow. That means eating fruit and wild vegetables, I guess. Of course we might . . .”

  He trailed off, suddenly aware that Amberle was shaking her head in disapproval. The Elven girl crossed her legs before her and sat back.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, dropping down next to her.

  “You are, for one thing.”

  “What do y
ou mean, I am?”

  “You seem to have fixed in your mind everything that happens from here on. Don’t you think you ought to hear my thoughts on the matter?”

  Wil stared at her, somewhat taken aback. “Well, sure, I . . .”

  “I haven’t noticed you asking for them,” she continued, ignoring him. “Do you not think it necessary to ask?”

  The Valeman reddened. “I’m sorry. I was just . . .”

  “You were just making decisions that you have no right to make.” She paused and regarded him coolly. “I don’t even know what you’re doing here. The only reason I’ve come this far with you is that I really didn’t have any choice in the matter. It’s time to find out a few things. Why did Allanon bring you along in the first place, Wil Ohmsford? Who are you?”

  Wil told her, starting with the story of Shea Ohmsford and the quest for the Sword of Shannara and ending with Allanon’s visit to Storlock to seek his aid in tracking the Bloodfire. He told her everything, deciding that it was pointless to hold anything back, sensing that if he were not completely honest with this girl, she would have nothing further to do with him.

  When he finished, Amberle stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then shook her head slowly.

  “I don’t know whether to believe you or not. I should, I suppose. I really don’t have any reason not to. It’s just that so much has happened that I’m not really very certain of anything right now.” She hesitated. “I’ve heard stories of the Elfstones. They were an old magic, said to have all been lost long before the Great Wars. Yet you claim Allanon gave three to your grandfather and he in turn gave them to you. If that much of what you’ve told me were true . . .” She trailed off, her eyes fixed on his. “Would you show them to me?” she asked.

  The Valeman hesitated, then reached into his tunic. He realized that she was testing him, but then he guessed that she had a right to do that. After all, she had only his word for everything he had told her, and she was being asked to place her safety in his hands. He pulled out the worn leather pouch, loosened the drawstrings and dropped the stones in his hand. Perfectly formed, their color a deep, brilliant blue, they flashed sharply in the morning sunlight.