The Sword of Shannara & Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  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 honestly 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 out-land 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 clear 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 be
en 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 huts and tents and standing in abroad, 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, respondi
ng 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.