The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  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 you
r 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.