The Wishsong of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  “Better?”

  “Better,” Jair agreed.

  “Then listen.” The smile was gone. “I’ve got to gag you again. You’re in my care now—the others won’t have anything to do with you. You’re to be kept bound and gagged except for meals. So behave. It’s a long journey.”

  “A long journey to where?” Jair did not bother to conceal the alarm in his eyes.

  “East. The Anar. You’re to be taken to the Mord Wraiths. Spilk’s decided. He wants them to have a look at your magic.” The Gnome shook his head solemnly. “Sorry, but there’s no help for it. Not after what you did.”

  Before Jair could say anything, Slanter shoved the gag back into his mouth. Then, loosing the ties that bound Jair’s ankles, he pulled the Valeman to his feet. Producing a short length of rope, he looped one end through Jair’s belt and tied the other end to his own.

  “Spilk,” he called over to the other.

  The Gnome Sedt turned wordlessly and started off into the forest. The remainder of the patrol followed after.

  “Sorry, boy,” Slanter repeated.

  Together, they walked from the clearing into the early morning mist.

  VII

  All that day, the Gnomes marched Jair north through the wooded hill country bordering the western perimeter of Leah. Embracing the shelter of the trees, forsaking the more accessible roadways that crisscrossed the highlands, they kept to themselves and to their purpose. It was a long, exhausting trek for the Valeman, made no less difficult by the way in which he was secured, for his bonds cut into and cramped his body with every step. His discomfort might not have gone unnoticed, but it went unrelieved. Nor did his captors evidence the slightest concern for the toll that the pace of their march was extracting from him. Rugged, hardened veterans of the border wars of the deep Eastland, they were accustomed to forced marches through the worst kind of country and under the least favorable of conditions—marches that at times lasted several days. Jair was fit, but he was no match for these men.

  By nightfall, when they at last arrived on the shores of the Rainbow Lake and made their way down to a secluded cove to set their camp, Jair could barely walk. Bound once again to a tree, given a quick meal and a few swallows of ale, he was asleep in minutes.

  The following day passed in similar fashion. Awake at sunrise, the Gnomes took him east along the shores of the lake, skirting the northern highlands that they might reach the concealment of the Black Oaks. Three times that day, the Gnomes paused to rest—once at midmorning, again at midday and a final time at midafternoon. The remainder of the day, they walked and Jair walked with them, his body aching, his feet blistered and raw. Pushed to the limit of his endurance, he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter, even for a moment. Determination gave him strength, and he kept pace.

  All the time they marched him through the highlands, he thought about escape. It never entered his mind that he wouldn’t escape; it was only a question of when. He even knew how he would manage it. That part was easy. He would simply make himself invisible to them. That was something they wouldn’t be looking for—not so long as they thought his magic limited to creating imaginary spiders and snakes. They didn’t understand that he could do other things as well. Sooner or later he would be given the opportunity. They would free him just long enough so that he could make use of the magic one more time. Just a moment was all that he would need. Like that, he would be gone. The certainty of it burned bright within him.

  There was added incentive now for his need to escape. Slanter had told him that the walker that had come into the Vale with the Gnome patrol had gone east again in search of Allanon. But how was Allanon to know that the Mord Wraith tracked him? There was only Jair to warn him, and the Valeman knew he must find a way to do so.

  His plans for escape were still foremost in his thoughts when, later that afternoon, they passed into the Black Oaks. The great dark trunks rose—about them like a wall. In moments the sun was screened away. They traveled deep into the forest, following a pathway that ran parallel to the shoreline of the lake, winding their way steadily eastward into dusk. It was cooler here, deep and silent within these trees. Like a cave opening downward into the earth, the forest took them in and swallowed them up.

  By sundown, the highlands were far behind. Camped within a small clearing sheltered by the oaks and along ridgeline that dropped away northward to the water’s edge, the Valeman sat back against a moss-grown trunk a dozen times his girth—bound and gagged still—and watched Slanter scoop meat stew from a kettle that simmered over a small cooking fire. Weary and discomfited, Jair nevertheless found himself studying the Gnome, pondering the contradictions he saw in the tracker’s character. For two days he had had ample opportunity to observe Slanter, and he was as puzzled by the Gnome now as he had been when he had first conversed with him that night following his capture. What sort of fellow was he? True, he was a Gnome—yet at the same time, he didn’t seem like a Gnome. Certainly he wasn’t an Eastland Gnome. He wasn’t like these Gnomes he traveled with. Even they seemed to sense that much. Jair could see it in their behavior toward him. They tolerated him, but they also avoided him. And Slanter had acknowledged that to Jair. He was as much an outsider in his own way as the Valeman. But it was more than that. There was something in the Gnome’s character that set him apart from the others—an attitude, perhaps, an intelligence. He was smarter than they. And that was due most probably to the fact that he had done what they had not. A skilled tracker, a traveler of the Four Lands, he was a Gnome who had broken the traditions of his people and gone out of the homeland. He had seen things they had not. He understood things they could not. He had learned.

  Yet in spite of all that, he was here. Why?

  Slanter ambled over from the fire with a plate of stew in one hand and squatted down beside him. Loosing the gag so that his mouth was clear, the Gnome began to feed him.

  “Doesn’t taste too bad, does it?” The dark eyes watched him.

  “No—tastes good.”

  “You can have more if you want.” Slanter stirred the stew on the plate absently. “How do you feel?”

  Jair met his gaze squarely. “I hurt everywhere.”

  “Feet?”

  “Especially the feet.”

  The Gnome set down the stew. “Here, let me have a look.”

  He pulled free the Valeman’s boots and stockings and examined the blistered feet, shaking his head slowly. Then he reached over into his pack and pulled free a small tin. Loosening its cap, he dipped his fingers in and extracted a reddish salve. Slowly he began rubbing it into the open wounds. The salve was cool and eased the pain.

  “Should take away some of the sting, help toughen the skin when you walk,” he said. He rubbed on some more, glanced up momentarily, his rough yellow face creasing with a sad smile, and then looked down again. “Tough sort of nut, aren’t you?”

  Jair didn’t say anything. He watched the Gnome finish applying the salve, then resumed his meal. He was hungry and had two plates of the stew.

  “Take a drink of this.” Slanter held the ale container to his lips when the food was gone. He took several swallows, grimacing. “You don’t know what’s good for you,” the Gnome told him.

  “Not that stuff.” Jair scowled.

  Slanter sat back on his heels. “I heard something a little while ago I think you ought to know. It’s not good news for you.” He paused, glancing casually over his shoulder. “We’re to meet with a walker the other side of the Oaks. There’ll be one waiting for us. Spilk said so.”

  Jair went cold. “How does he know that?”

  Slanter shrugged. “Prearranged meet, I guess. Anyway, I thought you should know. We’ll be through the Oaks tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Jair felt his hopes fade instantly. How could he escape by tomorrow? That wasn’t enough time! He had thought he would have at least a week and maybe more before they reached the deep Anar and the Mord Wraiths’ stronghold. But tomorrow? What was he goi
ng to do?

  Slanter watched him as if reading his thoughts. “I’m sorry, boy. I don’t care for it either.”

  Jair’s eyes shifted to meet his, and he tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “Then why don’t you let me go?”

  “Let you go?” Slanter laughed tonelessly. “You’re forgetting who’s with whom, aren’t you?”

  He took a long swallow from the ale pouch and sighed. Jair leaned forward. “Why are you with them, Slanter? You’re not like them. You don’t belong with them. You don’t . . .”

  “Boy!” The Gnome cut him off sharply. “Boy, you don’t know anything at all about me! Nothing! So don’t be telling me who I’m like and who I belong with! Just look after yourself!”

  There was a long silence. In the center of the clearing, the other Gnomes were gathered about the fire, drinking ale from a heavy leather jug. Jair could see the glitter of their sharp eyes as they glanced in his direction from time to time. He could see the suspicion and fear mirrored there.

  “You’re not like them,” he repeated softly.

  “Maybe,” Slanter agreed suddenly, staring off into the dark. “But I know enough not to cut against the grain. There’s a change in the wind. It’s shifted about and it’s blowing straight out of the east, and everything in its path will be swept away. Everything! You don’t begin to see the half of it. The Mord Wraiths are power like nothing I’d ever imagined, and the whole of the Eastland belongs to them. But that’s only today. Tomorrow . . .” He shook his head slowly. “This is no time for a Gnome to be anything other than a Gnome.”

  He drank again of the ale, then offered it to Jair. The Valeman shook his head. His mind worked frantically.

  “Slanter, would you do me a favor?” he asked.

  “Depends.”

  “Would you take the ropes off my arms and hands for a few minutes?” The Gnome’s black eyes narrowed. “I just want to rub them a bit, try to get some feeling back. I’ve had the ropes on for two days now. I can barely feel my fingers. Please—I give you my word I won’t try to escape. I won’t use the magic.”

  Slanter studied him. “Your word’s been pretty good until now.”

  “It’s still good. You can leave my legs and feet bound if you like. Just give me a moment.”

  Slanter kept looking at him for a few minutes longer, then nodded. Moving forward, he knelt beside the Valeman, then loosened the knots that secured the ropes about his arms and wrists and let them fall slack. Gingerly Jair began to massage himself, rubbing first his hands, then his wrists, his arms, and finally his body. In the darkness before him, he saw the glint of a knife in Slanter’s hand. He kept his eyes lowered and his thoughts hidden. Slowly he worked, all the while thinking, don’t let him guess, don’t let him see . .

  “That’s enough.” Slanter’s voice was gruff and sudden, and he drew the ropes tight again. Jair sat quietly, offering no resistance. When the ropes had again been secured, Slanter moved back in front of him.

  “Better?”

  “Better,” he said quietly.

  The Gnome nodded. “Time to get some sleep.” He drank one time more from the ale pouch, then bent forward to test the bonds. “Sorry about the way this thing’s worked out, boy. I don’t like it any better than you do.”

  “Then help me escape,” Jair pleaded, his voice a whisper. Slanter stared at him wordlessly, blunt features expressionless. Gently he placed the gag back in Jair’s mouth and rose.

  “Wish you and I had never met,” he murmured. Then he turned and walked away.

  In the darkness, Jair let himself go limp against the oak. Tomorrow. One day more, and then the Mord Wraiths would have him. He shuddered. He had to escape before then. Somehow, he had to find a way.

  He breathed the cool night air deeply. At least he knew one thing now that he hadn’t known before—one very important thing. Slanter hadn’t suspected. He had permitted Jair those few moments of freedom from the ropes—time to rub life back into his limbs and body, time to relieve them just a bit of the ache and discomfort.

  Time to discover that he still retained possession of the Elfstones.

  Too swift, it seemed, the morning came, dawn breaking gray and hard within the gloom of the Black Oaks. For the third day, the Gnomes marched Jair east. The warming touch of the sun was screened away by banks of storm clouds that rolled down from out of the north. A wind blew harsh and quick through the trees, chill with the promise of winter’s coming. Wrapped in their short cloaks, the Gnomes bent their heads against the swirl of silt and leaves and trudged ahead.

  How can I escape?

  How?

  The question repeated itself over and over in the Valeman’s mind as he worked to keep pace with his captors. Each step marked the passing of the seconds that remained, the minutes, the hours. Each step took him closer to the Mord Wraith. This one day was all the time he had left. Somehow during the day he must find an opportunity to get free of his restraints long enough to utilize the wishsong. A single moment was all it would take.

  Yet that moment might never come. He had not doubted that it would—until now. But the time slipped so fast from him! It was nearing midmorning, and already they had been on the march for several hours. Silently he berated himself for not seizing the opportunity Slanter had presented him with the night before when he had agreed to free him from his bonds. There had been time enough then to escape his captors. A few seconds to freeze them where they stood, covered with something so loathsome they could think of nothing else as he worked loose the bindings about his ankles, then a few seconds more to shift the pitch of his voice to hide him from their sight, and he would have been gone. Dangerous, yes, but he could have done it—except, of course, that he had given his word. What difference, if that word had been broken when it was given to a Gnome?

  He sighed. It did make a difference somehow. Even with a Gnome, his word was still his word, and it meant something when he gave it. One’s word was a matter of honor. It was not a thing that could be bandied about when convenient or slipped on and off like clothing to match changes in the weather. If he went back on it even once, that opened the door to a flood of excuses for going back on it every time thereafter.

  Besides, he wasn’t sure he could have done that to Slanter, Gnome or not. It was strange, but he had developed a certain attachment for the fellow. He wouldn’t have described it as affection exactly. Respect was more like it. Or maybe he just saw something of himself in the Gnome because they were both rather different sorts. In any case, he didn’t think he could have made himself trick Slanter like that, even to escape whatever it was that lay ahead.

  He kicked at the leaves that blew across his path as he walked onward through the dark autumn day. He supposed that Rone Leah, were he there, would have had a plan for escape by now. Probably a good one. But Jair didn’t have a clue as to what it might have been.

  Morning slipped away. The wind died with the coming of midday, but its chill lingered in the forest air. Ahead, the terrain grew rougher, the earth broken and rocky as the ridgeline slanted south and a series of ravines curved down across their pathway. Still the wall of oaks stretched on, immutable giants blind to the ages that had passed them by. Heedless of a small life like mine, Jair thought as he glanced upward at the great towering black monsters. Shutting me away, so that I have nowhere that I might run.

  The path wound down a steep embankment, and the patrol followed its dark rut. Then the oaks gave way to a solitary stand of pine and fir, crowded close within the massive black trunks, hemmed like captives, stiff and frightened. The Gnomes trudged into their midst, grunting irritably as sharp tipped boughs nipped and cut at them. Jair ducked his head and followed, the long needles raking his face and hands with stinging swipes.

  A moment later he broke clear of the tangle and found himself in a broad clearing. A pool of water gathered at the base of the ravine, fed by a tiny stream that trickled down from out of the rocks.

  A man stood next to the pool.
/>   The Gnomes came to an abrupt, startled halt. The man was drinking water from a tin cup, his head lowered. He was dressed all in black—loose tunic and pants, forest cloak, and boots. A black leather pack lay beside him on the ground. Next to it rested a long wooden staff. Even the staff was black, of polished walnut. The man glanced up at them briefly. He looked to be an ordinary Southlander, a traveler, his face brown and creased by sun and wind, and his light hair turned almost silver. Flint gray eyes blinked once; then he looked away. He might have been any one of a hundred journeyers who passed through this part of the land daily. But from the moment he saw the man, Jair knew instinctively that he was not.

  Spilk also sensed something unusual about the man. The Sedt glanced quickly at the Gnomes on either side as if to reassure himself that they were nine to the man’s one, then turned his gaze on Jair. Clearly he was upset that the stranger had seen their captive. He hesitated a moment longer, then started forward. Jair and the others followed.

  Wordlessly, the patrol moved to the far end of the pool, their eyes never leaving the stranger. The stranger paid no attention. Stepping forward from his companions, Spilk filled his water pouch from the trickle that ran down off the rocks, then drank deeply. One by one, the other Gnomes did the same—all but Slanter, who stood next to Jair, unmoving. The Valeman glanced at the Gnome and found him staring fixedly at the stranger. There was something odd reflected in his rough face, something . . .

  Recognition?

  The stranger’s eyes lifted suddenly and met Jair’s. The eyes were flat and empty. For just an instant, they were locked upon his own, and then the stranger was facing Spilk.

  “Traveling far?” he asked.

  Spilk spit the water from his mouth. “Keep your nose to yourself.”