Jopati recognized the lone Atreides fighter: Swordmaster Duncan Idaho, the man who adhered to the Duke’s code of ethics. In precisely controlled strokes, he dipped his blade through the body shield of the nearest Harkonnen fighter and gutted him, then withdrew. With a kindjal in his other hand, he stabbed a Sardaukar in the kidney, a mortal wound. The Sardaukar stumbled, unable to believe the death blow he had just received.
Jopati froze, and the other Sardaukar cried out at the fall of their companion.
In efficient fashion, Idaho dispatched the two remaining Harkonnen soldiers and drove back the second Sardaukar, then bolted for the Harkonnen ornithopter on the landing field. Its running lights were still on, its engines powered up.
Along with Jopati, the rest of the Sardaukar in the vicinity lurched into action, no longer just watching the duel. Idaho was a blur of speed, leaving his victims behind. He dove into the cockpit, and without even closing the plaz door, he revved the skimmer engine and set the articulated wings into a blurring flutter of motion.
One Sardaukar reached the ornithopter before Jopati, just as the craft lifted off the ground. The man grabbed for the struts and clung by his fingertips for a few seconds as the ’thopter rose, then dropped back to the ground from the height of a few meters. More Sardaukar rushed across the landing field, but Idaho had control of the aircraft now. He pulled higher, circling away as he increased speed.
Jopati snatched a large-caliber launcher from one of his fellow soldiers. “Give me that.” He wouldn’t be fighting the Atreides Swordmaster hand-to-hand, as he had hoped, but he could still shoot down the aircraft with a projectile. Even the fastest ’thopter couldn’t outrun an explosive shell. He shouldered the weapon, activated the power pack, and looked through the targeting hairs.
After this night, nothing would remain of House Atreides, no more than was left of House Kolona once the Sardaukar swept in and eradicated the guerillas in the hills.
Idaho zigzagged in the air, flying evasive maneuvers, but Jopati knew he could take down the craft. He had his orders. Idaho was only the Atreides Swordmaster, but a high-ranking target nevertheless.
It was not Jopati’s decision whether this treacherous attack on the Atreides was just or not. Even if Leto had redeemed himself by restoring the Kolona holdings years ago, too many other events had been set in motion, and Jopati could do nothing for the Duke.
He tracked with the launcher, centering the ornithopter in the targeting crosshairs. The shell was ready, the target in his sights.
He had his orders.
He pressed the ignition stud and launched the projectile, which whistled through the atmosphere in the direction of the fleeing ’thopter.
Colonel Bashar Jopati Kolona knew what Emperor Shaddam expected of him in this night’s operation, but the details of the execution were somewhat vague. Jopati was the Sardaukar commander.
And he intentionally missed.
The explosive shell screamed along its trajectory and detonated just shy of Duncan Idaho’s craft. Jopati’s troops stared after him as the ornithopter sped away, darting among flowering explosions in the sky. The aircraft’s running lights went dark as Idaho disappeared into the curling smoke.
Jopati handed the launcher back to the uniformed man who stared at him in silent disbelief. Both the Atreides and Sardaukar had codes of honor.
Gesturing toward his men in Harkonnen uniforms, the colonel bashar marched them into the Residency for one last encounter with Duke Leto Atreides.
TERRY BROOKS
THE HISTORY IS THUS: THE ONCE-DRUID BRONA, SEDUCED BY HIS PURSUIT of dark magic, was forever transformed into the Warlock Lord—whose evil would be the downfall of the Four Lands and the death of the Races. Against him, the Elven King Jerle Shannara wielded the fabled sword that bore his surname and triumphed. Or so it was believed. But though the Dark Lord was driven out . . . he was not destroyed.
The Druid Allanon knows only too well the prophecy passed down to him by his late master: that eventually the Warlock Lord will return. Now, after hundreds of years, that day seems imminent. And the time is at hand for the Sword of Shannara to once more be brought forth from its sanctuary to serve its ancient purpose. All that remains is for a blood descendent of the Elven house of Shannara to carry the blade into battle.
With ever more portents of doom on the horizon, Allanon must seek out the last remaining Shannara heir, who alone will bear the burden of defending the Four Lands’ destiny. But with agents of darkness closing in from behind, unexpected enemies lying in wait ahead, and treachery encroaching on every side, there can be no certainty of success. Nor any assurance that this desperate quest will not be the Druid’s last.
“Allanon’s Quest” is the prequel short story to The Sword of Shannara.
Terry Brooks
Allanon's Quest
Terry Brooks
The storm clouds scudded across the night sky in roiling clumps that blotted out the half-moon and stars and enveloped the land beneath in heavy shadow. The woods surrounding the village of Archer Trace, fifty miles north and east of the city of Arborlon, stirred uneasily. The trees swayed, and their leaves shivered with a metallic rustling as wind tore at the branches in sharp gusts and rain pattered heavily against the leaves. A drop in the temperature had already announced the storm’s arrival, the air damp, chilly, and raw. Intricate patterns of lightning flashed, and bursts of thunder rumbled from across the eastern edge of the Sarandanon.
Allanon pulled his black robes tighter and his hood closer as he entered the Elven village, passing the first of the outlying buildings and making his way along the empty pathways. Candlelight burned in the windows of a few cottages and huts, flickering behind glass panes or through open shutters, and this small light was sufficient to guide him on his way. But most of the buildings were entirely dark. The residents had either gone to bed in anticipation of an early rising or down to the taverns that provided the main source of entertainment for the village.
Had anyone been looking through windows or shutters, or had he been careless enough not to disguise his coming, he might have been observed. But Allanon was not the careless sort, and he had used his Druid skills to change his appearance sufficiently that he seemed little more than another of the night’s shadows. To anyone looking, he simply wasn’t there. It was a Druid trick—one he had perfected during his early years, when he was just learning his craft. Bremen, who had taught it to him, was already gone by then, so he had mastered it on his own, expanding on his existing skills.
But while Archer Trace was the sort of miserable place where inhabitants and visitors alike made it a point to watch one another closely, there was little vigilance on this night. The foul weather did not invite the monitoring of those abroad, and the pleasures of the taverns provided a more attractive lure. So Allanon passed into the village relatively unseen, traveling along its single roadway to a cluster of ragged buildings that were illuminated by torches wedged down in iron brackets beneath their weather shields, fighting bravely to stay lit against the onslaught of wind and rain.
Slowing, he looked for the sign that would identify his destination and quickly found it: THE DRUNKEN FOOL. Big, bold letters—no doubt a reference to its patrons. But if it could provide him with the information he needed, what did the nature of the business or its patrons matter to him? He had come all the way from Arborlon on this slim hope of success because time and opportunity were growing short. And rumor alone was enough to send him on what others might have dismissed as a fool’s errand. Lives were being snuffed out, and all that mattered might soon be gone—something that would prove disastrous to the Four Lands. If even one of those he sought could be saved, he had to do whatever it took to make that happen. There was more at stake here than his discomfort and risk.
He cast aside the magic that let him remain unseen as he pushed his way through the tavern’s heavy door and into the smoky interior, then looked about. The room was crowded—more so than he would have expected, given
the size and condition of the village. Most of the tavern’s denizens were Elves; no surprise there—this was their homeland. But it appeared as if everyone who lived in Archer Trace or might even have been passing through had gathered. A few heads turned to look at him, but most turned quickly away. A man seven feet tall and possessed of rough features and a dark scowl did not draw many extended looks. He ignored the few looks he received and waited for the barkeep to acknowledge him. When the man gave him a nod of recognition, the Druid turned his attention to a small table in the back of the room and the two men who occupied it. A moment later, both men rose, having suddenly decided that it was time to leave although neither could have said why.
He gave it a moment, then crossed to the table the men had vacated and sat down.
After a few minutes, the barkeep wandered over.
“Long trip?” He was a large, heavyset man with big features and a dour look. For an Elf, he looked downright sullen. “I know everyone in the village,” he added. “You’ve come from somewhere else.”
Allanon nodded. “A cold tankard of ale would ease my weariness.”
The barkeep nodded and wandered off, and Allanon looked around at the room’s patrons, his gaze moving from face to face, making sure that nothing seemed out of place and no one appeared to be a threat. By the time he had finished, the barkeep had returned.
“Anything else?” He set the tankard of ale down and waited. “Something to eat, maybe?”
The Druid shook his head. “Do you know where I can find a man called Derrivanian?”
“Might. What’s your business?” “My business is my own.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t like sending trouble to other people’s doorsteps. Trouble finds them quick enough without my help.”
“I intend no trouble.” Allanon brushed the rain from his shoulders and sat back. “He is an old friend. I knew him when he served as record keeper for the Elessedils.”
“Oh, you know of that? So maybe you are a friend. But where’s the proof? What’s to say you aren’t here to collect a bill or cause some other sort of mischief?”
Allanon gave him a look. “Derrivanian is an old man with an old wife and an old dog, and he hasn’t got much of anything to give and no history of ever having done anyone harm. Why don’t you just tell me where he lives?”
The barkeep shook his head. “I need something more than your word before I tell you anything. I don’t much like the look of you—all in black, dark-faced, and grim. You’re a big man used to getting his way. Well, I’m a big man, too, and I’m not afraid of you.”
Allanon went very still. “It isn’t me you should fear, barkeep.” He locked eyes with the man. “Ask yourself this. Are you sure enough of yourself that you would risk a meeting with some who might not ask any questions but simply tear the information from you? Would you risk a meeting with those they call Skull Bearers?”
The barkeep paled. “Do not speak that name in here!”
“What name should I speak, then? I gave you Derrivanian. Should I give you another? The Warlock Lord’s name, perhaps? Or is there another you would prefer me to speak?”
The barkeep backed away. “I want you out of here! Take your business elsewhere and seek your answers from another.”
Allanon shook his head. “I have no time for asking others. I have chosen to ask you, and I will have my answers now. Look at me. Where will l find Eldra Derrivanian?”
The barkeep tried to back away, but suddenly his strength failed, and he found himself rooted in place. His face tightened with his efforts to free himself, and it was clear he saw something new in the Druid’s eyes that made him realize what he was up against.
“Answer me,” Allanon ordered.
“Take the road west out of the village.” The barkeep was speaking in a different voice, one dredged up from the dark places you hide when you are very afraid. “Go about five hundred yards. Look for a fence and a wooden gate inset with the carved image of a rooster. He can be found there.”
Allanon nodded. “My thanks. Now forget you ever saw me. Forget this conversation. Forget everything but your purpose in coming to my table with my tankard of ale.” He paused. “What was it you wanted to ask me again?”
The barkeep’s eyes, which had lost focus, suddenly seemed clear again. “Something to eat, maybe?”
When the barkeep had left the table, Allanon took a few minutes to finish the tankard of ale, relishing the cold liquid flowing down his throat and the fire it brought to his belly. He stopped examining the patrons and the room and delved deep into his own thoughts, musing on the Druid abilities he had developed since leaving Bremen to his fate at the Hadeshorn all those years ago. Sometimes, it seemed like a dream to him. He could still see the old man walking out onto the glistening black rock of the Valley of Shale to the edge of the lake’s waters and into the arms of the Shade of Galaphile, then being carried beyond into the mists. He could still remember standing alone afterward and wondering how he could manage what he had been charged with doing.
He was only fifteen when Bremen had left him. Only a boy. But he had been strong, both physically and mentally, and he had only grown stronger with time. And he had used that strength in ways that now made his name a household legend.
He had restored Paranor to the world of men, using the Black Elfstone entrusted to him by Bremen, and made the Druid’s Keep his permanent residence. He had brought a fresh contingent of Elven Hunters—supplied at first by Jerle Shannara, then by those Elven Kings who had succeeded him—to act as protectors of the Druid’s Keep and the Sword of Shannara, which had been set within a block of Tre-Stone and placed in a vault, there to await the day when Bremen had promised it would be needed again.
Then he had slept the Druid Sleep, deep and dark with magic that let time and aging pass him by.
But now the day that Bremen had promised had arrived—the day for which Allanon had been preparing himself all his life. A life that, because of his extensive use of the Druid Sleep, spanned almost five hundred years.
So fifteen years of age was a very long time ago, and that boy he had been was very far removed from who he had become.
He lifted his eyes from the tankard and looked out across those years to the many, many people he had left behind. He was in the prime of his life, while all those he had known as a boy and a young man were gone. It was a strange feeling to realize that so much had passed him by. It was a hard way to live your life, but he was the last Druid—the only Druid—and he wondered where he would find another to succeed him. He had looked, but no one seemed right for the weight of what he would have to ask of them. Who would willingly accept that burden? Worse, only someone who fully understood what it meant to shoulder such a load, and what responsibilities came with it, would be the right choice.
But that was another problem for another time, and this night was meant for other work.
He pushed back from the table and rose. The tavern seemed busier than ever, the bar crowded with laughing, shouting, jostling people. All the tables were occupied. He was barely on his feet before a pair of young men hurried over to claim his space, pausing only long enough to make certain he did not object. He nodded to them and walked away—ignoring the barkeep, who ignored him in turn—then moved back through the door and out into the night.
Wrapped in his cloak, he trudged up the muddy roadway, head bent but ears and eyes alert for sound and movement. The rain was a slow, steady downpour that had already soaked the ground and was now being channeled into low places to pool and settle. He kept to the drier parts of the sodden path as best he could, moving westward toward his destination, thinking about what he hoped to accomplish. So much depended on what Eldra Derrivanian remembered or what he had written down, or even what he might be able to divine. It had come to this: a sort of crazy guessing game as to who might still be out there that the winged servants of the Warlock Lord hadn’t already found. Someone who hadn’t already been revealed by traitors and sycophants eager to p
reserve the lives they were assured of losing. Someone who hadn’t already been turned or killed.
Someone who might still have courage enough to do what was needed to save the Races.
But this was Eldra Derrivanian, and he might not care about saving anyone.
Two weeks earlier, Allanon had thought his search a lost cause. He had known of the Warlock Lord’s imminent return for months. All the signs were there for anyone who could read them. Winged fliers had been spotted in the North—Skull Bearers patrolling the night skies over the Knife Edge Mountains, bathing in the waters of the River Lethe to armor their skin by day. Bodies of travelers had been discovered in the surrounding regions, ripped to shreds and partially devoured. People and animals alike had gone missing, never to be seen again. Fire bloomed in the once-dead volcanoes that riddled the Charnal Mountains, and deep rumblings shook the earth at regular intervals.
The prophecy that Bremen had passed on to him all those years ago was coming to pass. Brona, the once-Druid who had fallen victim to his own pursuit of the dark magic and evolved as a consequence into the Warlock Lord, had not been destroyed as most believed. The Elven King Jerle Shannara had not successfully wielded the sword forged especially for this purpose, and though the Warlock Lord had been defeated and driven from his mortal body and the Four Lands, still he was only diminished, not dead. One day, Bremen told the boy, the Dark Lord would return. To that end, the Sword of Shannara must be kept safe and made ready for an heir to the Elven house of Shannara. When the time came, whether during Allanon’s lifetime or the lifetimes of his Druid successors, a Shannara heir must take up the Sword and stand against the Warlock Lord once again.
Unfettered III Page 11