The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  Nevertheless, he left his quarters and dutifully trooped off through the growing darkness across the village square toward the guest house where he knew Flick would be waiting. Much as he mistrusted the purpose behind this meeting, he was determined to go anyway. He was not one to back away from trouble—and besides, he could be wrong in his suspicions. Perhaps the Druid merely wanted to thank him for his help.

  He found Flick waiting on the porch of the guest cottage, wrapped tightly in his heavy travel cloak, mumbling irritably about the weather. The elder Ohmsford came down the porch steps to join him, and they struck off together down the roadway toward the Stor rest center.

  “What do you think he wants, Uncle Flick?” Wil asked after a moment, pulling his own cloak closer about him to ward off the evening chill.

  “Hard to say,” Flick grunted. “I’ll tell you one thing. Every time he appears, it means trouble.”

  “His coming to Storlock has something to do with us, doesn’t it?” Wil ventured, watching his uncle’s face.

  Flick shook his head uncertainly. “He’s come here for a purpose sure enough. And he’s called us over to say something more than hello and how are you. Whatever it is he has to say, it won’t be anything we want to hear. I know that much. It never has been before and I see no reason to expect anything different this time around.” He stopped abruptly and faced his nephew. “You watch yourself in there with him, Wil. He is not to be trusted.”

  “I’ll be careful, Uncle Flick, but I don’t think there is much to worry about,” Wil replied. “We both know something of Allanon, don’t we? Besides, you’ll be there to keep an eye on things.”

  “I fully intend to.” Flick turned and they continued walking. “Just remember what I said.”

  Moments later they mounted the porch steps of the rest center and stepped inside. The center was a long, low building constructed of stone and mortar walls and a clay-tiled roof. A large, comfortably furnished lobby opened on either side into hallways that disappeared into the wings of the center, where numerous small rooms provided for the care of the sick and injured. As they entered, one of the white-robed Stors in attendance came up to greet them. He beckoned wordlessly, then led them down a long, empty hallway. At its end was a single closed door. The Stor knocked once, turned, and left. Wil glanced uneasily at Flick, but the elder Ohmsford was staring fixedly at the closed door. Together they waited.

  Then the door swung open and Allanon stood before them. He looked for all the world as if he had not been injured at all. No wounds were visible. The black robes that cloaked his tall frame were clean of blood. His face was somewhat drawn, but showed no sign of any pain. His penetrating gaze settled on the Valemen for a moment, then one hand motioned toward a small table with four chairs set about it.

  “Why don’t we sit there while we talk?” He made the suggestion seem almost an order.

  They entered and seated themselves on the chairs. The room was win-dowless and bare of furnishings, except for the table and chairs and a large bed. Wil glanced about briefly, then turned his attention to the Druid. Allanon had been described to him by both Flick and Shea on dozens of occasions, and he looked now exactly as he had been described. But how could that be, Wil wondered, when the descriptions were of a man they had not seen since before the time of his birth?

  “Well, here we are,” Flick said finally, when it appeared that no one was ever going to say anything.

  Allanon smiled faintly. “It seems so.”

  “You look well enough for a man who was half-dead just a few hours earlier.”

  “The Stors are very adept at their art, as you of all people should know,” the Druid replied rather too pleasantly. “But I’m afraid I do not feel half so well as I should. How are you, Flick?”

  “Older and wiser, I hope,” the Valeman declared meaningfully.

  Allanon did not respond. His gaze shifted abruptly to Wil. For a moment he said nothing further, his dark face inscrutable as he studied the younger Ohmsford. Wil sat quietly and did not turn away, though the Druid’s eyes made him uneasy. Then slowly Allanon leaned forward in his chair, his great hands settling on the table top and folding together.

  “I need your help, Wil Ohmsford,” he stated quietly. Both Valemen stared at him. “I need you to come with me into the Westland.”

  “I knew it,” muttered Flick, shaking his head.

  Allanon smiled ruefully. “It is comforting to know, Flick, that some things in this life never change. You are certainly proof of that. Would it matter at all if I were to tell you that Wil’s help is needed not for me, but for the Elven people and in particular, a young Elven girl?”

  “No, it would not,” the Valeman replied without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s not going and that’s the end of it.”

  “Wait a minute, Uncle Flick,” Wil interjected quickly. “It may well be that I’m not going, but I would like to be the one who makes that decision. At least, we can hear something more about what it is that I’m needed to do.”

  Flick ignored the reprimand. “Believe me, you do not want to hear another word. This is exactly how the trouble begins. This is exactly how it began for your grandfather fifty years ago.” He looked quickly at Allanon. “Isn’t that true? Isn’t this exactly how things started when you came to Shady Vale and told us all about the Sword?”

  Allanon nodded. “It is.”

  “There—you see!” Flick declared triumphantly. “Exactly the same. I’ll wager this journey you’ve got planned for him is dangerous, too, isn’t it?”

  Again the Druid nodded.

  “Well, then,” the Valeman sat back, satisfaction etched into his bearded face. “I should think that settles the matter. You’re asking too much. He’s not going.”

  Allanon’s dark eyes glittered. “He must go.”

  Flick looked startled. “He must?”

  The Druid nodded. “You will see why, Flick, once I have explained what has happened in the Four Lands these past few days. Listen closely to me, Valemen.”

  He edged his chair closer to the table and leaned forward. “A long time ago, a very long time ago, before the Great Wars and the evolution of the new races, even before the development of Man as a civilized species, there was a terrible war fought between creatures that, for the most part, no longer exist. Some of these creatures were good and caring; they revered the land and sought to protect and preserve it against misuse and waste. For them, all life was sacred. But there were others who were evil and selfish; their ways were destructive and harmful. They took from the land and from its life without need or purpose. All were creatures whose physical characteristics and capabilities differed in the main from your own—that is to say, their appearance was different from yours, and they were capable of behavior no longer innate to the men of this world. In particular, they possessed to varying degrees powers of magic—at least, we would call it magic or sorcery or the mystic. Such power was common at that time, though some among these creatures possessed the power to a greater extent than others; thus their capacity for good or evil was enhanced proportionately. All of these creatures, both good and evil, existed together in the world and, because Man had not yet developed beyond a primitive life form existing within a narrow geographical space, the world was theirs alone. It had been so for centuries. But their existence together had never been harmonious. They lived in continuing conflict, for they worked at cross-purposes—the good to preserve, the evil to destroy. From time to time the balance of power between the conflicting sides would shift, as first the good and then the evil would dominate the drift of things.

  “The struggle between them intensified through the years until finally, after centuries had passed without resolution of the conflict, the leaders in each camp banded together all who supported them, and the war began. This was not a war the like of which we have seen since. This was not a war on the order of the Great Wars, for the Great Wars employed power of such awesome proportion that the men who wielded it lost control en
tirely and were engulfed in the resulting cataclysm. Rather it was a war in which power and strength were skillfully employed at each turn—in which the creatures involved stood toe to toe in battle and lived and died on the skill they wielded. This was like the Wars of the Races, which have dominated the history of the new world; in the Race Wars, the Warlock Lord perverted the thinking of those who served him, turning them against one another so that in the end he might enslave and rule them all. But in this war, there was never any deceit or illusion that swayed those who fought it. Good and evil were polarized from the beginning; no one stood aside in neutrality, for there were no neutral corners to be found. This was a war fought to determine forever the character and mode of evolution of life on the earth across which it was waged. It was a war that would decide whether the land would be forever preserved or forever desecrated. Each camp had resolved once and for all to achieve total victory over the other. For the creatures of evil, if they were defeated, it meant banishment; for the creatures of good, if they lost, it meant annihilation.

  “So the war was fought—a terrible, monstrous war that I will not even attempt to describe, for there would be no point in doing so. For our purposes here it is only important that you know that the evil ones were defeated. Their power was broken and they were driven back and finally trapped. Those who had defeated them used their powers to create a Forbidding, a wall of imprisonment behind which the evil was to be placed. Their prison was not of this world nor any world, but a black hole of emptiness and isolation where nothing but the evil would be permitted to exist. Into this hole the evil was banished, sealed away behind the wall of the Forbidding for all time.

  “The strength behind the Forbidding was a marvelous tree called an Ellcrys. The creatures of good created the Ellcrys out of the earth’s life source, which they called the Bloodfire, and out of their own power. They gave her life so that, by her presence in the world, the Forbidding might endure long after they themselves were gone, long after the world they had struggled so long and desperately to preserve had altered and evolved beyond any recognition. Her life span was not to be measured by any standard that they possessed. But so long as she lived, the Forbidding continued, and so long as the Forbidding continued, the evil would remain shut within its prison.”

  He settled back in his chair, easing his tall frame gingerly away from the table to relieve cramped muscles, his arms slipping down into his lap. His dark eyes stayed locked on those of the Valemen.

  “It was believed that the Ellcrys would live forever—not by those who gave her life, for they knew that all things must eventually pass away—but by those who followed them, by all who nurtured and loved and honored this wondrous tree that was their protector for countless centuries. For them, the Ellcrys became a symbol of permanency; she survived the destruction of the old world in the holocaust of the Great Wars, she survived the Race Wars and the power of the Warlock Lord, and she survived after every other living thing that had existed with her had passed away—everything but the earth herself, and even the earth had changed while the Ellcrys had remained constant.”

  He paused. “So the legend grew. The Ellcrys would live forever. It was eternal. That belief never faltered.” His face lifted slightly. “Until now. Now the belief is shattered. The Ellcrys is dying. The Forbidding begins to erode. The evil ones imprisoned within begin to break free once more and come back into this world that was once theirs.”

  “And these creatures caused your injuries?” Wil surmised.

  Allanon nodded. “Some already walk the Four Lands. Though I thought to keep my presence secret, they have discovered me. They found me at Paranor within the Druid’s Keep and very nearly finished me.”

  Flick looked alarmed. “Are they still searching for you?”

  “They are—but I have reason to believe that they won’t be so quick to find me this time.”

  “That doesn’t reassure me much,” the Valeman grumbled, glancing toward the doorway of the little room a bit apprehensively.

  Allanon let the remark pass. “You may remember, Flick, that I once told to Shea and to you the history of the races. I told you how all of the races evolved from the old race of Man following the destruction wrought by the Great Wars—all of the races but one. The Elves. I told you that the Elves were always there. Do you remember?”

  Flick grunted. “I remember. That was something else you never explained.”

  “I said that theirs was another story for another time. That time is now—in part, at least, though I don’t propose to digress on the history of the Elven people at any great length. But some things you should know. We have spoken only in the abstract of the creatures that fought this war of good and evil that culminated in the creation of the Ellcrys. We must give them identity. All were creatures that became part of the old legends of faerie when men emerged from the darkness of barbarism and began to populate and build upon the world. They were creatures of magics, as I have said, both great and small. There were diverse species—some all good, some all bad, some whose individual peoples divided and went in opposite ways. They had names that you will recognize—Faeries, Sprites, Goblins, Wraiths, and the like. The new races, though human in ancestry, were named from four of the more numerous and best recorded of these creatures of supposed legend—Dwarves, Gnomes, Trolls, and Elves. Except, of course, that the Elves are different. They are different because they are not simply a legend reborn—they are the legend survived. The Elven people are the descendants of the faerie creatures that existed in the old world.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Flick cut in quickly. “You mean to say that the Elven people are the same Elven people that all the old legends tell about—that there really were Elves in the old world?”

  “Certainly there were Elves in the old world—just as there were Trolls and Dwarves and all the other creatures that gave birth to the legends. The only difference is that all of the others have been gone from the world for centuries, while the Elves have remained. They have altered, of course; they have evolved considerably. They were forced to adapt.”

  Flick looked as if he didn’t understand one word of what he was hearing.

  “There were Elves in the old world?” he repeated incredulously. “That is just not possible.”

  “Of course it’s possible,” the Druid replied calmly.

  “Well, how did they survive the Great Wars?”

  “How did Man survive the Great Wars?”

  “But the old histories tell us of Man—they do not mention a single word about Elves!” the Valeman snapped. “Elves were a fairy tale people. If there really were Elves in the old world, where were they?”

  “Right where they had always been—Man just couldn’t see them.”

  “Now you’re telling me Elves were invisible?” Flick threw up his hands. “I don’t believe any of this!”

  “You didn’t believe any of what I told you about Shea and the Sword of Shannara either, if I remember correctly,” Allanon pointed out, the faintest hint of laughter on his lips.

  “I don’t see what any of this has to do with why the Elves need my help,” Wil interjected, heading off another outburst from Flick.

  The Druid nodded. “I’ll try to explain if Flick will just be patient with me for a moment longer. The history of the Elves is important to this discussion for one reason only. The Elves were the ones who conceived the idea of the Ellcrys and who brought her into being. It was the Elves who gave her life and afterwards cared for her down through the ages. Her protection and well-being are entrusted to an order of Elven youth called Chosen. For a single year, the Chosen stand in service to the tree, their task to see to it that she is properly looked after. At the end of that year, they are replaced. It has been so since the tree’s creation. One year of service only. The Chosen are revered and honored among the Elven people; only a few are ever selected to serve and those who do so are guaranteed a position of high esteem in the Elven culture.

  “All of which brings us to th
e present. As I have told you, the Ellcrys is dying. A few days earlier, she made this known to the Chosen. She was able to do this because she is a sentient being and possesses the ability to communicate. She revealed to them that her death was inevitable and close. She revealed as well what the Elven legends had foretold, what the first Elves had known, but what generations of Elves thereafter had virtually forgotten—that although the Ellcrys must die in the manner of other living creatures, unlike them she could be reborn. Yet her rebirth must depend heavily on the efforts of the Chosen. One among them would be required to bear her seed in search of the earth’s life source—the Bloodfire. Only one of the Chosen presently in her service could do this. She told them where the Bloodfire might be found and bade them make preparations to seek it out.”