by Terry Brooks
By the time Keltset rejoined them, it was sundown and the faint rays of the late-afternoon sun only barely lit the dark forest. The Troll had carefully erased all signs of their passing from the battlefield, leaving a number of confusing false trails for anyone who attempted to follow. Panamon was feeling well enough to maneuver on his own strength, but requested that Keltset help support him until they reached a suitable campsite because it was becoming dark too quickly for travel. Shea was given the task of leading the docile Orl Fane by the rope leash, a chore he did not relish, but which he accepted without complaint. Again, Panamon tried to leave the worn sack and its contents behind, but Orl Fane was not to be deprived of his treasures so easily. He immediately set up such a howl of anguish that the thief ordered him bound about the mouth until the only sound the hapless Gnome could make was a muffled groan. But when they tried to move into the forest, the desperate captive threw himself on the ground and refused to rise, even when kicked painfully by a thoroughly irate Panamon. Keltset could have carried the Gnome and supported Panamon, too, but that was more trouble than it was worth. Muttering dire threats at the whining Gnome, the thief at last had Keltset pick up the sack, and the four began their journey into the darkening woods.
When it became too dark to tell with any certainty where they were going, Panamon called a halt in a small clearing between giant oaks whose interlocking boughs formed a weblike roof for shelter. Orl Fane was tied to one of the tall oaks while the other three set about building a fire and preparing a meal. When the food was ready, Orl Fane was unfettered long enough to allow him to eat. While Panamon did not know exactly where they were, he felt safe enough to permit a fire, relatively certain that no one would be trailing them at night. He might have felt a little less secure had he known of the dangers of the impenetrable forests that surrounded the dark cliffs of Paranor. As it happened, the four men were in an adjoining forest east of the dangerous woodlands ringing Paranor. The section of woods in which they were camped was seldom traveled by the minions of the Warlock Lord, and there was little possibility that anyone would happen along to discover them. They ate in silence, a hungry and tired group after the long day’s travel. Even the whines of the bothersome Orl Fane were temporarily stilled as the little Gnome ate ravenously, his crafty yellow face bent close to the warmth of the small fire as the dark green eyes shifted warily from one face to the next. Shea paid no attention, concentrating instead on what he should tell Panamon Creel about himself, the company, and most important of all, the Sword of Shannara. He had not made up his mind when dinner was completed. The captive was again bound to the nearest oak and permitted to breathe without the gag after his solemn promise that he would not begin whining and crying again. Then placing himself comfortably close to the dying fire, Panamon turned his attention to the expectant Valeman.
“The time is here, Shea, for you to tell me what you know about all this Sword business,” he began briskly. “No lies, no half-truths, and leave nothing out. I promised my help, but we must have mutual trust—and not the kind I spoke of to this pitiful deserter. I have been fair and open with you. Do likewise for me.”
So Shea told him everything. He didn’t mean to when he started. He wasn’t really sure how much he should tell, but one thing led to another and before he knew it the whole tale was out in the open. He told about the coming of Allanon, and the subsequent appearance of the Skull Bearer which forced the brothers to flee from Shady Vale. He related the events surrounding the journey to Leah and the meeting with Menion, followed by the terrible flight through the Black Oaks to Culhaven, where they joined the rest of the company. He skimmed over the details of the journey to the Dragon’s Teeth, a great part of which was still hazy in his own mind. He concluded by explaining how he had fallen from the Crease into the river and been washed out onto the Rabb Plains where he was captured by the Gnome hunting party. Panamon listened without interruption, his eyes wide in astonishment at the tale. Keltset sat next to him in impenetrable silence, the rough-hewn but intelligent face gazing intently at the little Valeman during the entire narration. Orl Fane shifted about uneasily, groaning and muttering unintelligibly as he listened with the other two, his eyes darting wildly about the campsite as if expecting the Warlock Lord himself at any minute.
“That is the most fantastic tale I have ever heard,” Panamon announced at last. “It’s so incredible that even I find it hard to believe. But I do believe you, Shea. I believe you because I’ve fought that black-winged monster on the plainlands and because I’ve seen the strange power you have over those Elfstones, as you call them. But this business about the Sword and your being the lost heir of Shannara—I don’t know. Do you believe it yourself?”
“I didn’t at first,” Shea admitted slowly, “but now I don’t know what to think. So much has happened that I can’t decide who or what to believe anymore. In any case, I’ve got to rejoin Allanon and the others. They may even have the Sword by this time. They may have the answer to this whole riddle of my heritage and the power of the Sword.”
Orl Fane suddenly doubled up laughing, his voice high-pitched and frenzied.
“No, no, they don’t have the Sword,” he shrieked like a fool caught up in his own madness. “No, no, only I can show you the Sword! I can lead you to it. Only I. You can search and you can search and you can search, ha, ha, ha—go ahead. But I know where it is! I know who has it! Only I!”
“I think he’s losing his mind,” Panamon Creel muttered humorlessly, and ordered Keltset to regag the bothersome Gnome. “We’ll find out exactly what he knows in the morning. If he knows anything about the Sword of Shannara, which I seriously doubt, he’ll tell us or wish he had!”
“Do you think he might know who has it?” Shea asked soberly. “That Sword could mean so much, not only to us, but to all the peoples of the four lands. We’ve got to try to find out what he really knows.”
“You bring tears to my eyes with that plea for the people,” Panamon mocked disdainfully. “They can go hang for all I care. They’ve never done anything for me—except travel alone, unarmed, with fat purses, and that’s been all too infrequently.” He looked up at Shea’s disappointed face and shrugged nonchalantly. “Still, I am curious about the Sword, so I might be willing to help you. After all, I owe you a great favor, and I’m not one to forget a favor.”
Keltset finished gagging the babbling Gnome once again and rejoined them next to the small fire. Orl Fane had lapsed into a series of small, shrill laughs coupled with incoherent mumblings that even the cloth gag did not completely muffle. Shea glanced uneasily at the little captive, watching the gnarled yellow body twist about as if possessed by some devil, the dark eyes wide and rolling wildly. Panamon gallantly ignored the moans for a brief time, but at last, losing all patience, leaped to his feet and drew his dagger to cut the Gnome’s tongue out. Orl Fane immediately quieted down and for a while they forgot about him.
“Why do you suppose,” Panamon began after a moment, “that Northland creature believed we were hiding the Sword of Shannara? It was strange he wouldn’t even argue the point. He said he could sense that we had it. How do you explain that?”
Shea thought for a moment and finally shrugged uncertainly.
“It must have been the Elfstones.”
“You may be right,” Panamon agreed slowly, thoughtfully, his good hand rubbing his chin. “I frankly don’t understand any of this. Keltset, what do you think about it.”
The giant Rock Troll regarded them solemnly for a moment and then made several brief signs with his hands. Panamon watched intently, then turned to Shea with a disgusted look.
“He thinks the Sword is very important and that the Warlock Lord is a very great danger to us all.” The thief laughed humorously. “He’s a great help, I must say!”
“The Sword is very important!” Shea repeated, his voice trailing off in the darkness, and they sat quietly, lost in thought.
It was late evening now, the night around them black beyond the
faint light of the fire’s reddish embers. The woods were a wall of concealment, shutting them into the little clearing, surrounding them with the sharp sounds of the insect world and the occasional cry of some faraway creature. The sky above showed through the boughs of the great trees in patches of dark blue broken by one or two distant stars. Panamon talked on quietly for a few minutes more as the coals died into ashes. Then he rose, kicking the ashes and grinding them into the earth, bidding good night to his companions with a finality that discouraged further attempts at conversation. Keltset was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping before Shea had even selected a suitable patch of forest earth. The Valeman felt incredibly weary from the strain of the long day’s march and the battle with the Skull Bearer. Dropping his blanket, he lay down on his back, kicked off the hunting boots, and stared aimlessly at the blackness above him through which he could just barely discern the limbs of the trees and the shadows of the sky.
Shea thought about all that had happened to him, once again retracing mentally his long, endless journey from Shady Vale. So much of it was still a mystery. He had come so far, endured so much, and still he didn’t know what it was all about. The secret of the Sword of Shannara, the Warlock Lord, his own heritage—it was no clearer now than before. The company was out there somewhere looking for him, led by the secretive, mystic Allanon, who seemed to be the only man with the answers to all the unanswered questions. Why had he not told Shea everything from the beginning? Why had he insisted on giving the company only a piece of the story at a time, always reserving that small bit, always holding back the key to their complete understanding of the unknown power locked in the elusive Sword of Shannara?
He rolled over on his side, peering through the darkness to the sleeping form of Panamon Creel just a few feet away. Beyond and to the other side of the clearing he could hear the heavy breathing of Keltset blending in with the sounds of the forest night. Orl Fane sat with his back straight against the tree to which he was bound, his eyes shining like a cat’s in the dark, unmoving as they stared fixedly at Shea. The Valeman stared back for a moment, unnerved by the Gnome’s gaze, but finally he forced himself to turn the other way and closed his eyes, dropping off to sleep in a matter of seconds. The last thing he remembered was clutching the small bulk of the Elfstones close to his chest within the tunic, wondering if their power would continue to protect him in the days ahead.
Shea was awakened abruptly to the gray light of an early forest morning by a long string of venomous oaths of dismay and frustration from a wrathful Panamon Creel. The thief was stamping about the campsite in absolute fury, shouting and cursing all at the same time. Shea could not decide what had happened right away, and it was several minutes before he had wiped the sleep from his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, squinting wearily in the gloom. He felt as if he had slept no more than a few minutes, his muscles sore and strained, his mind hazy. Panamon continued to storm about the small clearing as Keltset knelt silently next to one of the great oaks. Then Shea realized that Orl Fane was missing. He leaped to his feet and rushed over, suddenly afraid. In a moment his worst fears were realized; the ropes that had bound the crafty Gnome lay in pieces about the base of the huge trunk. The Gnome had escaped, and Shea had lost his one chance to find the missing Sword.
“How did he get away?” Shea demanded angrily. “I thought you tied him up, away from anything that might cut his bonds!”
Panamon Creel looked at him as if he were an idiot, disgust registered all over the flushed countenance.
“Do I look like a complete fool? Of course I tied him up away from any weapons. I even tied him to the confounded tree and had him gagged as an added precaution. Where were you? The little devil didn’t cut these ropes and that gag. He chewed his way through them!”
Now it was Shea’s turn to be amazed.
“I’m dead serious, I assure you,” Panamon continued angrily. “The ropes were chewed through by teeth. Our little rodent friend was more resourceful than I imagined.”
“Or perhaps more desperate,” the Valeman added thoughtfully. “I wonder why he didn’t try to kill us. He had reason enough to hate us.”
“Very uncharitable of you to suggest such a thing,” the other declared in mock disbelief. “I’ll tell you why, though, since you asked. He was terrified that he might be caught in the act. That Gnome was a deserter—a coward of the lowest order. He didn’t have the courage to do anything but run! What is it, Keltset?”
The huge Rock Troll had lumbered silently over to his comrade and made several quick gestures, pointing to the north. Panamon shook his head in disgust.
“The spineless mouse has been gone since early this morning—hours ago. Worse still, the fool fled northward, and it would not be healthy for us to chase him in that country. His own people will probably find him and dispose of him for us. They won’t shelter a deserter. Bah, let him go! We’re better off without him, Shea. He was probably lying about the Sword of Shannara anyway.”
Shea nodded doubtfully, unconvinced that the Gnome had been lying about everything he had told them. As unbalanced as the little fellow had seemed, he had nevertheless appeared certain that he knew where the Sword could be found and who had possession of it. The whole idea that he knew such a secret was unnerving to the Valeman. Suppose he had gone after the Sword? Suppose he knew where it was?
“Forget the whole matter, Shea,” Panamon interjected in resignation. “That Gnome was scared to death of us; his only thought was to escape. The story of the Sword was merely a trick to keep us from killing him until he found the opportunity to escape. Look at this! He left in such a hurry, he even forgot his precious sack.”
For the first time Shea noticed the sack lying partially open at the other side of the clearing. It was strange indeed that Orl Fane should abandon his treasures after going to so much trouble to persuade his captors to bring them along. That useless sack had been so important to him, and yet there it lay forgotten, its contents still visible as small bulks beneath the cloth. Shea walked over to it curiously, staring at it with visible suspicion. He emptied the contents onto the forest earth, the swords and the daggers and the jewelry clattering together as they tumbled out in a heap. Shea stared at them, aware that the giant form of Keltset was at his side, the dark, expressionless face bent next to his. They stood together, studying the Gnomes abandoned hoard as if somehow it held a mysterious secret. Their companion watched for a few seconds, then muttered in disgust and strolled over to join them, glancing down at the weapons and jewelry.
“Let’s be on our way,” he advised lightly. “We’ve got to find your friends, Shea, and perhaps with their help we can locate this elusive Sword. What are you staring at? You’ve already seen that worthless junk once. It hasn’t changed.”
Then Shea saw it.
“It’s not the same,” he announced slowly. “It’s gone. He’s taken it.”
“What’s gone?” snapped Panamon irritably, kicking at the pile of junk. “What are you talking about?”
“That old sword in the leather scabbard. The one with the arm and the torch.”
Panamon looked quickly at the swords in the little heap, frowning curiously. Keltset straightened abruptly and looked at Shea with those deeply intelligent eyes fixed on the little Valeman. He realized the truth as well.
“So he took one sword,” Panamon growled without stopping to think. “That doesn’t mean he …” He caught himself, his jaw dropping open in dismay, his eyes rolling back in disbelief. “Oh, no! That can’t be—it can’t. You mean he has …?”
He couldn’t finish the thought, but choked on his words. Shea shook his head in quiet despair.
“The Sword of Shannara!”
21
The same morning that found Shea and his new companions facing the awful truth about the fleeing Orl Fane and the Sword of Shannara also found Allanon and the remaining members of the company embroiled in difficulties of their own. They had escaped from the Druid’s Keep under the aged
mystic’s sure guidance, winding downward through the maze of tunnels in the core of the mountain to the forest land below. They had encountered no initial resistance to their escape, finding only a few scattered Gnomes scurrying about the passages, remnants of the broken palace guard that had fled earlier. It was early evening by the time the little band was clear of the forbidding heights and moving northward through the forests. Allanon was certain that the Gnomes had removed the Sword of Shannara from the Keep sometime before the encounter with the Skull Bearer in the furnace room, but it was impossible to tell exactly when the removal had been accomplished. Eventine was patrolling the northern perimeter of Paranor and any attempt to move the Sword would be met with resistance from his soldiers. Perhaps the Elven king had already gained possession of the Sword. Perhaps he had even intercepted the missing Shea. Allanon was extremely worried about the little Valeman, whom he had expected to find at the Druid’s Keep. There had been no mistake when he had made his mental search for the youth back at the foot of the Dragon’s Teeth. Shea was in the company of others, and they were moving northward toward Paranor. Something had diverted them. Still, Shea was a resourceful fellow, and he had the power of the Elfstones to protect him from the Warlock Lord. The Druid could only hope that somehow they would find each other without further complications, and that when they did, Shea would be safe and unharmed.
Allanon had other worries, however, which demanded his immediate attention. Gnome reinforcements began to arrive in large numbers, and it did not take them long to conclude that Allanon and his little band of invaders had fled the castle and were somewhere in the dangerous Impregnable Forest surrounding Paranor. In truth, the Gnomes had no idea for whom they were searching; they only knew that the castle had been invaded, and the intruders had to be captured or destroyed. The emissaries of the Warlock Lord had not arrived, and the Skull King himself did not yet realize his prey had escaped him once again. He rested contentedly in the dark recesses of his domain, assured that the troublesome Allanon had been destroyed in the furnaces of Paranor, that the heir of Shannara and the others with him were prisoners, and that the Sword of Shannara was safely on its way to the Northland, intercepted by this time by a Skull Bearer whom he had dispatched a day earlier to be certain the precious Sword was not retaken. So the newly arrived Gnomes began to comb the forests surrounding Paranor in an effort to find the unknown intruders, believing that they would flee south and sending the majority of their hunters in that direction.