by Terry Brooks
By midafternoon, the three were sweating and tempers were growing short in the steady heat of the open plainlands. Keltset walked slightly apart from the other two, his pace steady and unwavering, his rough face expressionless, his eyes dark and unfriendly in the hot, white sunlight. Panamon had stopped talking and was interested only in completing the day’s march and being rid of Shea, whom he had begun to regard as an unnecessary burden. Shea was tired and sore, his limited stamina greatly sapped by the two long days of constant travel. The three were walking right into the face of the burning sun, unprotected and unshaded on the open plains, their eyes squinting sharply in the piercing light. It became increasingly harder to distinguish the land ahead as the sun moved closer toward the western horizon, and after a while Shea gave up trying, relying on Panamon’s skill to get them to Paranor. The travelers were drawing closer to the end of the mountain range northward on their right, and it appeared that where the mountain peaks ceased the plains opened into an endless expanse. It was so vast that Shea could see the lateral line of the horizon where the sky dropped to the parched earth. When he asked at last if these were the Streleheim Plains, Panamon gave no immediate answer, but after a few moments’ consideration nodded shortly.
Nothing further was said about their present location or Panamon Creel’s unspoken plans for Shea. They passed out of the horseshoe valley onto the eastern borders of the Streleheim Plains, a wide, flat expanse extending north and west. The land immediately before them, running parallel to the cliff face and forest land on their left, was surprisingly hilly. It was not a change in terrain that could be distinguished by one still in the valley, but became distinct only when one was nearly on top of it. There were even groves of small trees and dense stretches of brush farther on, and … something else, something foreign to the land. All three travelers spotted it at the same moment, and Panamon signaled a sharp halt, peering suspiciously into the distance. Shea squinted into the strong light of the afternoon sun, shading his eyes with one hand. He saw a series of strange poles set in the earth, and scattered about for several hundred yards in every direction were heaps of colored cloth and bits of shining metal or glass. He could just barely make out the movement of a number of small, black objects amid the cloth and debris. Finally Panamon called out loudly to whomever might be up ahead of them. To their shock, there was a flurried rushing of raven-black wings, accompanied by a frightful shrieking of disrupted scavengers as the black objects turned suddenly into great vultures rising slowly and reluctantly as they scattered into the brilliant sunlight. Panamon and Shea stood rooted in mute astonishment as the giant Keltset moved several yards closer and peered carefully ahead. A moment later, he wheeled about and motioned sharply to his watchful comrade. The scarlet thief nodded soberly.
“There’s been a battle of some sort,” he announced curtly. “Those are dead men up there!”
The three moved forward toward the grisly scene of battle. Shea hung back slightly, suddenly afraid that the still, tattered forms might be his friends. The strange poles became distinct after the men had gone only several yards; they were lances and standards of battle. The bright bits of light were the blades of swords and knives, some discarded by fleeing men, others still clenched by the dead hands of their fallen owners. The cloth heaps became men, their still, blood-soaked forms sprawled in death, baking slowly in the white heat of the sun. Shea choked as the smell of death struck his nostrils for the first time and his ears caught the sound of flies buzzing busily about the human carcasses. Panamon looked back and smiled grimly. He knew that the Valeman had never before seen death at close range, and it would be a lesson he would not forget.
Shea fought the sickening feeling creeping through his stomach and forced himself to move with the other two onto the battleground. Several hundred bodies lay on the little stretch of rolling land, sprawled carelessly in death. There was no movement anywhere; they were all dead. From the random scattering of the bodies and the lack of any single concentration of men, Panamon quickly concluded in his own mind that it had been a long, bitter struggle to the death—no quarter asked and none given. He recognized the Gnome standards immediately, and the gnarled yellow bodies were easily distinguishable. But it was not until he had looked closely at several huddled forms that he realized that the opposing force had been composed of Elven warriors.
Finally Panamon halted in the middle of the slain men, uncertain what he should do next. Shea could only stare in horror at the carnage, his shocked gaze moving robotlike from one dead face to the next, from Gnome to Elf, from the raw, open wounds to the bloodied ground. At that moment, he knew what death really meant and he was afraid. There was no adventure in it, no sense of purpose or choice, nothing but a sickening disgust and shock. All those men had died for some senseless reason, died perhaps without ever knowing exactly what they had fought to accomplish. Nothing was worth such terrible slaughter—nothing.
A sudden movement by Keltset snapped his attention back to his companions, and he saw the Troll pick up a fallen standard, its pennant torn and bloodied, the pole broken in half. The insignia on the pennant was a crown seated over a spreading tree surrounded by a wreath of boughs. Keltset seemed very excited and gestured vigorously to Panamon. The other frowned sharply and hurriedly made a quick study of the faces of the nearby bodies, working his way outward from his companions in a widening circle. Keltset looked around anxiously, suddenly stopping as his deep-set eyes came to rest on Shea, apparently fascinated by something he saw in the little Valeman’s face. A moment later Panamon was back at his side, an unusually worried expression clouding his broad features.
“We’ve got real trouble here, friend Shea,” he announced solemnly, resting his hands determinedly on his hips and planting his feet. “That standard is the banner of the royal Elven house of Elessedil—the personal staff of Eventine. I can’t find his body among the dead, but that doesn’t make me feel any easier. If anything has happened to the Elven king, it could start a war, of unbelievable proportions. The whole country will go up in smoke!”
“Eventine!” exclaimed Shea fearfully. “He was guarding the northern borders of Paranor in case …”
He caught himself abruptly, afraid that he had given himself away, but Panamon Creel was still talking and apparently hadn’t heard.
“It doesn’t make any sense—Gnomes and Elves fighting out here in the middle of nowhere. What would bring Eventine this far away from his own land? They must have been fighting for something. I can’t under …” He paused with the thought left hanging, unspoken in the silence. Suddenly he stared at Shea.
“What did you just say? What was that about Eventine?”
“Nothing,” the Valeman stammered fearfully. “I didn’t say …”
The tall thief snatched the hapless Valeman by his tunic front, dragging him close and raising him bodily off the ground, until their faces were only inches away.
“Don’t try to be clever, little man!” The flushed, angered face seemed gigantic and the fierce eyes were narrowed with suspicion. “You know something about all of this—now talk. All along I’ve suspected you knew a lot more than you were telling about those stones and the reason those Gnomes bothered to take you prisoner. Now your time for fooling around is over. Out with it!”
But Shea would never know what his response would have been. As he hung in midair, struggling violently in the powerful thief’s ironhanded grip, a huge black shadow suddenly fell over them and then passed on in a great rustling of wings as a monstrous shape descended from the late afternoon skies. Its giant, black bulk swooped slowly, gracefully to the battlefield only yards away from them, and in horror Shea felt the familiar chilling fear surge through him at the sight of its deathlike form. Panamon Creel, still angered, but now bewildered by the sudden appearance of this creature, lowered Shea to the earth abruptly and turned to face the strange newcomer. Shea stood on shaking legs, his blood turned to ice, his senses raw and distorted with terror, the last vestiges of his c
ourage gone. The creature was one of the dreaded Skull Bearers of the Warlock Lord! There was no time left to run; they had found him at last.
The cruel red eyes of the creature passed quickly over the giant Troll, who had remained motionless to one side, stopped for a moment on the scarlet thief, then passed on to the little Valeman, burning into him, probing his scattered thoughts. Panamon Creel, while still bewildered at the sight of this winged monster, was nevertheless not in the least panicked. He turned fully about to face the evil being, the broad, devilish grin spreading slowly over his flushed countenance as he raised one arm and pointed in warning.
“Whatever manner of creature you might be, keep your distance,” he warned sharply. “My concern is with this man alone, and not …”
The burning eyes fastened hatefully on him, and suddenly he was unable to continue. He stared at the black creature in shock and surprise.
“Where is the Sword, mortal?” the voice rasped menacingly. “I can sense its presence. Give it to me!”
Panamon Creel stared uncomprehendingly at the dark speaker for a long moment, then shot a sharp look at the frightened face of Shea. For the first time, he realized that for some unknown reason this terrible creature was the Valeman’s enemy. It was a dangerous moment.
“It is useless to deny you have it!” The grating voice pierced the distressed mind of the thief. “I know it is here among you, and I must have it. It is useless to fight me. The battle is over for you. The last heir to the Sword has long since been taken and destroyed. You must give me the Sword!”
For once, Panamon Creel was speechless. He had no idea what the huge black creature was talking about, but he realized that there was no point in trying to tell him that. The winged monster was determined to finish them all anyway, and the time for any explanations was past. The tall thief raised his left hand and stroked the tips of his small mustache with the deadly pike. He smiled bravely, looking aside fleetingly at the motionless form of his giant companion. They both knew instinctively that this would be a battle to the death.
“Do not be foolish, mortals!” The command rang out in a sharp hiss. “I care nothing for you—only the Sword. I can destroy you easily—even in daylight.”
Suddenly Shea saw a glimmer of hope. Allanon had once said that the power of the Skull Bearers faded with the light of day. Perhaps they were not invincible while the sun shone. Perhaps the two battle-hardened thieves would have a chance. But how could they expect to destroy something that was not mortal, but only the spirit of a dead soul, a wraith of deathless existence embodied in physical form? For a few moments no one moved, and then abruptly the creature took a step forward. Immediately Panamon Creel’s good right hand unsheathed the broadsword at his side in a lightninglike motion and the thief crouched for the attack. The great form of Keltset moved forward a few paces at the same instant, changing from a motionless statue into an iron-muscled fighting machine, the heavy mace in one hand, the thick legs braced for the assault. The Skull Bearer hesitated and his burning eyes fastened momentarily on the face of the approaching Rock Troll, studying the huge being closely for the first time. Then the crimson eyes went wide in astonishment.
“Keltset!”
Only an instant remained to ponder how the Bearer could have known the mute giant—a split second of astonished disbelief in the creature’s eyes, mirroring similar incomprehension in the eyes of Panamon Creel, and then the huge Troll attacked with blinding speed. The mace hurtled through the air, powered by Keltset’s massive right arm, striking the black Skull creature directly in the chest with a sickening crunch. Panamon was already leaping forward, pike and sword blade sweeping downward toward the Bearer’s chest and neck. But the deadly Northland creature was not to be so easily finished. Recovering from the blow dealt by the mace, it parried Panamon’s weapons with one clawed hand, knocking the man sprawling. In the next instant the burning eyes began to smolder, and bolts of searing red light shot out at the dazed thief. He lunged quickly to one side, and the bolts caught him only a glancing blow, singeing his scarlet tunic and knocking him down again. Before the attacker could find his target for a second assault, the huge form of Keltset was upon him, bearing him heavily to the earth. Even the comparatively large size of the winged monster was dwarfed in comparison to the massive Rock Troll as the two rolled and battled over the bloodied ground. Panamon was still on his knees, shaking his dazed head, trying to regain his senses. Realizing that he had to do something, Shea rushed to the fallen thief and grabbed one arm in desperation.
“The stones!” he begged wildly. “Give me the stones, and I can help!”
The battered face turned up to him for a moment, and then the familiar look of anger crept into his eyes, and he shoved the Valeman rudely away.
“Shut up and keep out of this,” he roared, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “No tricks now, friend. Just stay put!”
Retrieving his fallen sword, he rushed to the aid of his giant companion, trying vainly to strike a solid blow at the caped Skull Bearer. For long minutes the three struggled fiercely back and forth across the rolling battleground, thrashing madly over the still bodies of the fallen Gnomes and Elves. Panamon was not nearly as strong as the other two, but he was quick and extremely durable, bouncing away from the blows struck at him, dancing nimbly aside when the Northlander sent the reddish bolts flashing his way. The incredible strength of Keltset was proving to be a match for even the spirit powers of the Skull creature, and the evil being was becoming desperate. The rough Troll skin was singed and burned in a dozen places from the fire that struck it, but the giant merely shrugged the powerful jolts aside and fought on. Shea desperately wanted to help, but he was dwarfed by their power and size, and his weapons were ridiculously inadequate. If only he could get the stones …
At last the two mortals began to tire in the face of the repeated, inexhaustible assaults from the spirit creature. Their blows were not having any lasting effect and they began slowly to realize that human strength alone could not destroy the attacker. They were losing the battle. Suddenly the valiant Keltset stumbled and fell to one knee. Instantly the Skull creature lashed out with one clawed limb, slashing the unprotected Troll from neck to waist, knocking him backward to the earth. Panamon cried out in fury and struck wildly at the spirit creature, but his blows were parried, and in his haste he dropped his guard and left himself momentarily vulnerable. The emissary of the Warlock Lord struck viciously, one arm knocking aside the thief’s piked hand as the narrowed eyes sent their fiery blasts directly into the man’s chest. The deadly bolts seared the hapless Panamon Creel about the face and arms, and burned right through the chest covering with such force that he was knocked unconscious. The Skull Bearer would have finished him then had not Shea, disregarding his own fears at the other’s grave peril, thrown a piece of a lance at the attacker’s unprotected head, striking it full in the evil face. The clawed hands came up too late to ward off the painful blow, and they gripped, the blackened visage in fury, trying angrily to recover. Panamon was, still lying motionless on the ground, but the durable Keltset was back on his feet, seizing the Skull creature in an agonizing headlock, desperately trying to crush the life out of it.
There were only seconds left to act before the deadly monster was free again. Shea, rushed to Panamon Creel’s side, shouting at him to get up. The battered figure responded with inhuman courage, but fell back a moment later, blinded and exhausted. Shea pleaded with him, shaking him into consciousness, begging him to give him the stones. Only the stones could help now, the Valeman cried desperately! They were the only chance for survival! He glanced back at the two dark combatants, and to his horror he saw that Keltset was slowly losing his hold on the spirit creature. In seconds the evil being would be free, and they would all be finished. Then abruptly the little leather pouch was thrust into his hand by the bloodied fist of Panamon, and he had the precious stones once more.
Leaping clear of the fallen thief, the little Valeman tore open the drawstri
ngs to the leather, pouch and emptied the three blue stones into his open hand. At that moment the Skull Bearer broke free from Keltset’s powerful grip and turned to finish the battle. Shea yelled wildly, holding the stones stretched forth toward the attacker, praying for their strange power to aid him now. The blinding blue glow, spread outward just as the creature turned. Too late the Skull Bearer saw the heir to Shannara bring the power of the Elfstones to life. Too late he focused his burning eyes on the Valeman, the red bolts of searing fire flashing menacingly. The great blue light blocked and shattered the attack, slicing through in a powerful, blazing surge of energy to reach the crouched black figure beyond. The light struck the immobile Skull creature with a sharp crackle, holding him fast and draining the dark spirit from the mortal shell as the creature writhed in agony and screamed its loathing of the power destroying it. Keltset came to his feet in a bound, picked up a fallen lance, reared back his giant frame, the arms extended high, and with a lunge shoved the spear completely through the creature’s caped back. The Northlander shuddered horribly, twisting almost completely about with one final shriek, and then slid slowly to the earth, the black body crumbling into dust as it sank. In another second it was gone, and only a small pile of black ashes remained. Shea stood motionless, the stones extended, their piercing blue light still concentrated on the dust. Then the dust stirred in still another shudder and from its midst rose a whipish black cloud that shot upward like a thin stream of smoke and disappeared into the air. The blue light abruptly ceased and the battle was ended, the three mortals positioned like statues in the silence and emptiness of the bloodied ground.