The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  “Healer!” Eretria’s dark face was suddenly close before his own. “How are we to find our way back without the dog?”

  He stared at her as if he had forgotten she existed, and she flushed with shame, thinking him angry for her reaction to the Elven girl.

  “The Elfstones,” he muttered finally and did not stop to question whether he could use them. “The Elfstones will show us the way.”

  He shifted Amberle slightly in his arms, grimacing as the pain from his shattered body rose up in waves.

  Eretria caught his arm. “You cannot carry the Elven girl and use the Stones as well. Give the girl to me.”

  He shook his head. “I can manage,” he insisted. He wanted Amberle to stay close to him.

  “Don’t be so stubborn,” she pleaded softly. Her jaw tightened, and it was with difficulty that she spoke. “I know how you feel about her, Healer. I know. But this is too much for you. Please, let me help. Give her to me to carry.”

  Their eyes met momentarily in the half-light, and Wil saw the tears that glistened on her cheeks. That admission had hurt her. Slowly he nodded.

  “You are right. I cannot do this alone.”

  He gave Amberle to the Rover girl, who cradled her as if she were a baby. Amberle’s head slipped down against Eretria’s shoulder and she slept.

  “Stay close,” Wil admonished, taking one of the smokeless lamps and turning away.

  They went back through the waterfall and through the cavern that housed it, picking their way carefully across the rock-strewn floor. Blood and sweat mingled freely on Wil Ohmsford’s body, and the pain grew worse. By the time they had reached the passageway leading up into the maze, the Valeman could barely walk. Yet there was no time to rest. They had to reach Perk quickly, for it was his final day. They had to get free of Safehold, back to the surface of the Hollows, to the slopes of Spire’s Reach, before the sun set, or the little Wing Rider would be gone. That would be the finish for them. Without Perk and Genewen to carry them to Arborlon, they would never get clear of the Wilderun.

  Staggering to a halt before the passage entry, Wil fumbled through the compartments of the pouch he carried at his waist. Within were the herbs and roots that aided him in his healing. After a moment’s search, he brought forth a dark purple root, its six-inch length coiled tight. He held it before him, hesitating. If he ate it, its juice would kill the pain. He would be able to go on until they reached the slopes of the mountain above. But the root had other effects. It would make him drowsy and eventually render him unconscious. Worse, it would cause him to become increasingly less coherent. If it took effect too quickly, before they succeeded in finding their way clear of the catacombs …

  Eretria was watching him wordlessly. He glanced up at her and the frail body she carried. Then he bit into the root and began to chew. It was a chance he had to take.

  They stumbled ahead in the dark. When the maze began to open up before them, the Valeman brought up the hand that held the Elfstones and called forth the magic within. It came quickly this time, flooding through him like a sudden rush of heat, whirling through his limbs and exploding outward into the dark. Like a beacon, it curled before them through the catacombs, leading them on. They followed, shadows in the passage gloom. Onward they trudged, the crippled Valeman willing forth the blue fire to give them direction, the Rover girl close beside him, holding the sleeping Elf girl gently, and the old man cradling the giant dog. The minutes slipped slowly away.

  Pain from the wounds suffered in the battle with the Reaper faded into numbness, and Wil Ohmsford felt himself drift through the darkness like a thing filled with air. Slowly the juice of the root worked through him, sapping his strength until his body felt as if it were made of damp clay, sapping his reason until it was all that he could do to remember that he must go on. All the while the Elven magic stirred his blood, and, as it did so, he felt himself changing in that same unexplainable way. He was no longer the same, he knew. He would never be the same. The magic burned him through and left an invisible, permanent scar upon his body and his consciousness. Helpless to prevent it, he let it happen, wondering as he did what effect it would have upon his life.

  Yet it did not matter, he told himself. Nothing mattered but seeing that Amberle was made safe.

  The little company pushed ahead in the wake of the brilliant blue fire, and the tunnels and corridors and stairways disappeared into the blackness behind them.

  When they finally staggered from the cavern mouth of Safehold, into the air and light of the valley, they had spent themselves. The Rover girl had carried Amberle the entire way, and her strength was gone. The Valeman was barely conscious, numbed through by the painkilling root, drifting in and out of coherence as if wandering directionless through a deep mist. Even Hebel was exhausted. Together they stood upon the open bluff high on the slopes of Spire’s Reach and blinked in the mix of fading sunlight and lengthening shadow, their eyes following its sweep across the expanse of the Hollows westward to where the sun set slowly into the forest, a brilliant blaze of golden fire.

  Wil felt his hopes fall away from him.

  “The sun … Eretria!”

  She came to him and together they laid Amberle upon the ground, dropping wearily to their knees as they finished. The Elven girl slept still, her soft breathing the only sign of life she had shown during the whole of their journey up from the catacombs. She stirred slightly now, as if she might wake, yet her eyes remained closed.

  “Eretria … here,” Wil called to her, his hand fumbling within his tunic. His eyes were lidded and his words slurred. His tongue felt thick and useless. Struggling to hold himself upright, he produced the tiny silver whistle and passed it to the girl. “Here … use it … quickly.”

  “Healer, what am I …?” she began, but he seized her hand angrily.

  “Use it!” he gasped, and fell back weakly. Too late, he was thinking. Too late. The day is finished. Perk is gone.

  He was losing consciousness rapidly now—just a few minutes more and he would be asleep. His hand still clutched the Elfstones, and he felt their edges bite against the palm. A few minutes more. Then what would protect them?

  He watched Eretria rise and place the whistle to her lips. Then she turned to him, her dark eyes questioning.

  “There is no sound!”

  He nodded. “Blow … again.”

  She did, then turned a second time.

  “Watch …” he pointed toward the sky.

  She turned away. Hebel had laid Drifter upon a bed of saw grass, and the big dog was licking his hand. Wil took a deep breath and glanced down at Amberle. So pale, as if the life had been drained from her. A sense of desperation gripped him. He had to do something to help her; he couldn’t leave her like this. He needed Perk badly! If only they had been a little quicker, a little swifter in their flight! If only he had not been hindered by his injuries! Now the day was gone!

  Shadows fell about them, and the pinnacle of the mountain was cloaked in dusk’s gray light. The sun had slipped into the west, a small crest of gold glimmering against the distant treeline as it died.

  Perk, don’t be gone, he cried soundlessly. Help us.

  “Wil.”

  His head jerked sharply about. Amberle was staring up at him through blood-red eyes. Her hand found his.

  “It’s all right … Amberle,” he managed, swallowing against the dryness that coated his throat. “We’re out.”

  “Wil, listen to me,” she whispered. Her words were clear now, no longer vague or hurried, only faint. He tried to answer her, but her fingers came up to seal his lips, and her head shook slowly. “No, listen to me. Don’t speak. Just listen.”

  He nodded, bending down as she moved her body close.

  “I was wrong about her, Wil—about the Ellcrys. She was not trying to use me; there were no games being played. The fear … that was unintentional, caused by my failure to understand what it was that she was doing. Wil, she was trying to make me see, to let me know why it
was that I was there, why it was that I was so special. You see, she knew that I was to be the one. She knew. Her time was gone, and she saw …”

  She stopped then, biting her lip against the emotions welling up within her. Tears began rolling down her cheeks.

  “Amberle …” he started to say, but she shook her head.

  “Listen to me. I made a choice back there. It is my choice and there is no one but me to answer for it. Do you understand? No one. I made it because I had to. I made it for a lot of reasons, for reasons that I cannot …” She faltered, her head shaking. “For the Chosen, Wil. For Crispin and Dilph and the other Elven Hunters. For the soldiers at Drey Wood. For poor little Wilsp. All of them are dead, Wil, and I can’t let it be for nothing. You see, you and I have to … forget what we … ”

  The words would not come for her, and she began to sob.

  “Wil, I need you, I need you so much … ”

  Fear rushed through him. He was losing her. He could feel it, deep down within him. He struggled to free himself from the numbness that weighted him.

  Then Eretria called out to them, her voice sharp with excitement. They turned, eyes lifting to follow the line of her outstretched arm as it pointed skyward. Far to the west, through a haze of dying sunlight, a great golden bird soared downward toward the bluff face.

  “Perk!” Wil cried softly. “Perk!”

  Amberle’s arm went about him and held him close.

  Then he was being carried and through a fog of half-sleep he heard Perk’s voice speaking to him.

  “It was the smoke from that burning tower, Wil. Genewen and I circled all day. I knew you were down here. I knew it. Even when the day was almost gone and it was time to return to the Wing Hove, I couldn’t leave. I knew the lady would need me. Wil, she looks so pale.”

  The Valeman felt himself being hoisted onto Genewen’s back, and Eretria’s slim brown arms began fastening the harness straps tightly about him.

  “Amberle,” he whispered.

  “She’s here, Healer,” the Rover girl responded quietly. “We are all safe now.”

  Wil let himself sag back against her, drifting slowly toward unconsciousness as the night about him deepened.

  “Elfling,” a voice called gently, and his eyes opened to find Hebel’s weathered face looking up. “Goodbye, Elfling. I’ll go no further with you now. The Wilderness is my home. I’ve taken my search as far as I care to. And Drifter, he’s going to be fine. The Rover girl helped me splint the leg, and he’s going to be just fine. He’s a tough one, that dog.”

  The old man bent close. “You and the Elfling girl—I wish you luck.”

  Wil swallowed hard. “We … owe you, Hebel.”

  “Me?” The old man laughed gently. “Not me, Elfling. Not a thing. Luck, now.”

  He stepped away and was gone. Then Amberle appeared, her slim form hunching down in front of him, and Perk was back, quickly checking harness straps and lines. A moment later the boy’s strange call sounded; with a sudden lurch, Genewen lifted slowly into the sky, her great wings spanning outward across the dark bowl of the Hollows. Upward rose the giant Roc, the forests of the Wilderun falling away below. In the distance, the wall of the Rock Spur came into view.

  Wil Ohmsford’s arms tightened around Amberle. A moment later, he was asleep.

  L

  Night lay over Arborlon. In the solitude of the Gardens of Life, Allanon walked alone to the top of the small rise where the Ellcrys stood, his black robes wrapped close to ward off the evening chill, the silver staff she had entrusted to his care cradled within his arms. He had come to be with her, to comfort her in whatever way he might, to give to her what companionship he could. These were to be her final hours; the burden that had been given her so many years ago was about to be lifted.

  He paused momentarily, staring up at her. It would have seemed curious had someone come upon them, he thought—the Druid and the Ellcrys, stark black silhouettes framed against a moonlit summer sky, the man standing wordlessly before the withered, barren tree as if lost in some private reverie, his dark face an impassive mask that told nothing of what feelings might lie beneath. But no one would come. He had decreed that the tree and he should spend this night alone and that no one should be witness to her dying but he.

  He stepped forward then, her name whispered in his mind. Her limbs reached for him at once, frightened and urgent, and his thoughts went quickly to comfort her. Do not despair, he soothed. This very afternoon, while the battle to save Arborlon was at its most furious, while the Elves fought so gallantly to stem the Demon advance, something unexpected happened, something that should give us hope. Far, far to the south in the dark of the Wilderness forests where the Chosen has gone, her protector brought to life the magic of the Elfstones. The moment that he did so, I knew. I reached out to him then and I touched his thoughts with my own—quickly, for but a moment’s time, because the Dagda Mor could sense what I did. Still, that moment was enough. Gentle Lady, the Bloodfire has been found! The rebirth can still come to pass!

  Tinged with expectancy, the thoughts rushed from him. Yet nothing came back. Weakened almost to the point of senselessness, the Ellcrys had not heard or understood. She was conscious only of his presence, he realized then, conscious only of the fact that in her final moments she was not alone. What he might say to her now would have no meaning; she was blind to everything but her desperate, hopeless struggle to fulfill her trust—to live, and by living to protect the Elven people.

  A sadness filled him. He had come to her too late.

  He went quiet then, for there was nothing more that he could do, except to stay with her. Time slipped away, agonizingly slow in its passing. Now and again her random thoughts reached him, filtered down like scattered bits of color in his mind, some lost in the history of what had been, some cloaked in wishes and dreams of what might yet be, all hopelessly tangled and fragmented by her dying. Patiently he caught those thoughts as they slipped from her, and he let her know that he was there, that he had heard, that he was listening. Patiently he shared with her the trappings of the death that sought to cloak her. He felt the chill of those trappings, for they spoke all too eloquently of his own mortality. All must pass the way that she was passing, they whispered. Even a Druid.

  It caused him to ponder momentarily the inevitability of his own death. Even though he slept to prolong his life, to lengthen it far beyond the lives of ordinary men, still one day he, too, must die. And like the tree, he was the last of his kind. There were no Druids to follow him. When he was gone, who then would preserve the secrets handed down since the time of the First Council at Paranor? Who then would wield the magic that only he had mastered? Who then would be guardian of the races?

  His dark face lifted. Was there yet time, he wondered suddenly, to find that guardian?

  Night sped away with soundless steps, and dawn’s pale light broke across the darkness of the eastern sky. Within the vast Westland forests, life began to stir. Allanon felt something change in the Ellcrys’ touch. He was losing her. He stared fixedly at the tree, hands gripping tightly the silver staff as if by clasping it so he might hold fast to the life that drained from her. The morning sky brightened; as it did, the images came less frequently. The pain that washed into him lessened, and a curious detachment replaced it. Bit by bit, the detachment widened the distance between them. In the east, a crest of sunlight edged above the horizon, and the night stars faded away.

  Then the images ceased altogether. Allanon stiffened. In his hands, the silver staff had gone cold. It was over.

  Gently he laid the staff beneath the tree. Then he turned and walked from the Gardens and did not look back.

  Ander Elessedil stood silently by his father’s bed and stared down at the old man. Torn and battered, the King’s frail body lay wrapped in bandages and blankets, and only the shallow rise and fall of his chest gave evidence of life. He slept now, a fitful, restless sleep, hovering in the gray zone between life and death.

 
A rush of feelings swept through the Elven Prince, scattering like leaves in a strong wind. It was Gael who had wakened him, frightened and unsure. The young aide had come back to the manor house, restless, unable to sleep, thinking to do some work in preparation for the coming day. But the doors were jammed, he told Ander—the sentries gone. Did the King sleep unguarded? Should something be done? Instantly Ander had come to his feet, dashing from his cottage and calling out to the gate watch. In a rush they had broken through the front entry, frantic, hearing the old King’s cries from within. There they had witnessed the finish of the death struggle between his father and that monster—the Demon that had masqueraded as Manx. His father had regained consciousness for just a short time as they carried him, bleeding and broken, to his bedchamber, to whisper in horror of the battle that had been fought and the betrayal he had suffered. The consciousness had left him, and he had slept.

  How could his father have survived? Where had he found the strength? Ander shook his head. Only the few who had found him could begin to appreciate what it must have taken. The others, the Ministers and the commanders, the guards and the retainers, had come later. They had not seen the old King sprawled in that blood-smeared entry, torn and shredded. They had not seen what had been done to him.

  There was speculation, of course—speculation that bred rumors. The King was dead, they whispered. The city was lost. Ander’s jaw tightened. He had silenced them quickly enough. It would take more than a single Demon to kill Eventine Elessedil!

  He knelt suddenly beside his father and touched the limp hand. He would have cried had there been tears left to cry. How terribly fate had treated the old King. His firstborn and his closest friend were dead. His beloved granddaughter was lost. His country was overrun by an enemy he could not defeat. He himself had been betrayed in the end by an animal that he had trusted. Everything had been stripped from him. What was it that kept him alive after all that he had suffered? Surely death would come as a welcome relief.