The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  Then abruptly the Trolls turned left and automatically Flick turned with them—only to find himself almost on top of a long, low tent guarded by more armed Trolls. There was no time to turn back or avoid being seen, so when the procession came to a halt before the tent, the fearful Valeman kept right on walking, moving past them as if he were oblivious to what was taking place. The guards evidently failed to think there was anything out of the ordinary, all glancing briefly his way as he shuffled past, the cloak pulled closely about him, and in an instant he was beyond them, alone in the blackness of the shadows.

  He halted sharply, sweat running down his body beneath the heavy clothing, his breathing short and labored. There had been only a second to glance through the open front of the lighted tent, between the towering Troll sentries holding the long, iron pikes—only a second to see the crouched, black-winged monster that stood within, surrounded by the lesser forms of both Trolls and Gnomes. But there was no mistaking one of those deadly creatures that had hunted them across the four lands. There was no mistaking the chill feeling of terror that ran through the Valeman’s body as he stood breathlessly in the shadows to still his pounding heart.

  Something vitally important was taking place inside that heavily guarded tent. Perhaps the missing men and the Sword were there, held by the servants of the Warlock Lord. It was a chilling thought, and Flick knew that he had to get a look inside. His time was up, his luck run out. The guards alone were deterrent enough to anyone trying to pass through the open flaps, and the added presence of the Skull Bearer made the idea suicidal. Flick sat back on his heels in the darkness between the tents and shook his head hopelessly. The enormity of the task utterly discouraged any hope for success, yet what other course lay open? If he returned to Allanon now, they would know nothing more than they had known previously and his arduous night of creeping about the enemy encampment would have been for nothing.

  He gazed expectantly at the night sky, as if it might hold some clue to the answer to his problem. The cloud bank remained solidly in position overhead, hanging ominously between the light of the moon and stars and the blackness of the sleeping earth. The night was almost over. Flick rose and pulled the cloak closely about his chilled body once again. Fate may have decided that he should come all these torturous miles only to be killed in a foolish gamble, but Shea depended on him—perhaps Allanon and the others as well. He had to know what was in that tent. Slowly, cautiously, he began to inch his way forward.

  The dawn came quickly, a sullen gray lightening of the eastern sky, heavy with mist and silence. The weather had not improved below the Streleheim, south of the persistent wall of darkness that marked the advance of the Warlock Lord. Huge thunderclouds remained locked overhead like an ominous shroud covering its earthen corpse. Near the base of the western Dragon’s Teeth, the enemy sentries had abandoned their night watch to return to the awakening encampment of the Northland army. Allanon sat quietly in the shelter of the boulder-strewn slope, the long, black cloak that was wrapped loosely around his lean, reedlike body offering little protection against either the chill dawn air or the faint drizzle that was rapidly turning into a heavy downpour. He had been there all night, his eyes watching, searching for some sign of Flick, his hopes slowly fading as the sky lightened in the east and the enemy came to life. Still he waited, hoping against the odds that the little Valeman had somehow managed to conceal his identity, somehow managed to slip through the camp undetected and find his missing brother, the Elven King, and the Sword, then somehow managed to work his way clear of the pickets before daylight to reach freedom.

  The encampment was breaking up, the tents disassembled and packed as the huge army fell into columns that covered the vast plain like giant black squares. Finally the fighting machine of the Warlock Lord began to march southward in the direction of Kern, and the giant Druid came down out of the rocks where he could be seen by the missing Valeman if he were anywhere close at hand. There was no movement, no sound but the wind blowing softly across the grasslands, and the tall dark figure stood silently. Only the eyes betrayed the keen bitterness he felt.

  At last, the Druid turned southward, choosing a course parallel to that of the army marching ahead. Giant strides quickly ate up the distance between them as the rain began to fall in heavy sheets and the vast emptiness of the plains was left behind.

  Menion Leah reached the winding Mermidon River immediately north of the island city of Kern only minutes before dawn. Allanon had not been wrong when he had warned the Prince that he would have a difficult time slipping through the enemy lines undetected. The sentry outposts extended beyond the perimeter of the sprawling plain encampment, running west above the Mermidon from the southern edge of the Dragon’s Teeth. Everything north of that line belonged to the Warlock Lord. Enemy patrols roamed unchallenged along the southern boundaries of the towering Dragon’s Teeth, guarding the few passages that cut through these formidable peaks. Balinor, Hendel, and the Elven brothers had managed to break the security of one of these enemy patrols in the high Kennon Pass. Menion did not have the protective shelter of the mountains in which to conceal himself from the Northlanders. Once he had left Allanon and Flick, he was forced to proceed directly across the flat, open grasslands that stretched south to the Mermidon. But the highlander had two things in his favor. The night remained clouded and completely, impenetrably black, making it nearly impossible to see more than several yards ahead. More important than this, Menion was a tracker and hunter without equal in the Southland. He could move through this shroudlike blackness with speed and stealth, undetected by any but the most sensitive ears.

  So it happened that he moved silently from the side of his two companions, still angered that Allanon had forced him to give up the search for Shea in order that he might warn Balinor and the people of Callahorn of the impending invasion. He felt strangely uneasy about leaving Flick alone with the mysterious and unpredictable Druid. He had never completely trusted the giant mystic, knowing that the man was keeping the truth about the Sword of Shannara hidden from them, knowing that there was more to Allanon than he had chosen to tell them. They had done everything the Druid had commanded of them in blind faith, trusting him implicitly each time a crisis had arisen. Each time he had been right—but still they had failed to gain possession of the Sword, and they had lost Shea. Now on top of everything else, it appeared the Northland army would successfully invade the Southland. Only the border kingdom of Callahorn stood ready to resist the assault. Having seen the awesome size of the invader, Menion did not see how even the legendary Border Legion could hope to withstand such a mighty force. His own common sense told him that the only hope was to stall the advancing enemy long enough to unite the Elven and Dwarf armies with the Border Legion and then strike back. He felt certain the missing Sword was lost to them, and that even when they relocated Shea, there would be no further opportunity to search for the strange weapon.

  He uttered a low oath as his exposed knee jammed painfully against the sharp edge of a jutting boulder, and he turned his attention to the matter at hand, all further speculation about the future put aside for the time being. Like a lean, black lizard, he skimmed noiselessly down the low slopes of the Dragon’s Teeth, winding his torturous way through the maze of knife-edged boulders and rocks that covered the mountainside, the sword of Leah and the long ash bow strapped securely to his back. He reached the base of the slope without encountering anyone, and he peered into the darkness. There was no sign of life. He moved cautiously onto the grass-covered plainlands, inching forward a few yards at a time, pausing periodically to listen. He knew the sentry lines had to be posted close to this point to be effective, but it was impossible to see anyone.

  At last he rose to his feet, as silent as the shadows all about him; hearing nothing, he began to walk slowly southward through the wall of darkness, his hunting knife held loosely in one hand. He walked for long minutes without incident and had just begun to relax in the belief that he had somehow slipped thro
ugh the enemy lines without either of them knowing it, when he heard a small noise. He froze in midstride, trying to locate the source, and then it came again, a low cough from someone in the darkness directly in front of him. A sentry had given himself away just in time to save the highlander from stumbling into him. One cry would have brought others in an instant.

  Menion dropped into a crouch on his hands and knees, the dagger clutched tightly. He began to creep forward toward the source of the cough, his movement soundless. At last his eyes were able to discern the dim outline of someone standing silently before him. From his small size, the sentry was clearly a Gnome. Menion waited a few minutes longer to be certain that the Gnome had his back turned to him, then he crept still closer until he was within several feet. In one fluid motion he rose to tower over the unsuspecting sentry, one steel-like arm gripping the fellow’s throat, cutting off the cry of warning before it could escape. The butt end of the knife came down sharply on the exposed head, just back of the ear, and the unconscious Gnome crumpled to the earth. The highlander did not pause, but slipped ahead into the darkness, knowing there would be others close at hand, and eager to move beyond their range of hearing. He held the dagger ready, anticipating that there might be still another sentry line. The chill wind blew steadily and the long minutes of the night crawled on.

  Finally he was at the Mermidon, just above the island city of Kern, its lights faint in the distant south. He paused at the top of a small rise which dropped off gradually and sloped downward to form the north bank of the swift river. He remained in a half-crouch, his long hunting cloak wrapped about his lean frame to protect himself from the growing chill of the dawn wind. He was surprised and relieved that he had reached the river without running into still other enemy pickets. He suspected that his earlier assumption had been correct, and that he had passed through at least one other sentry line without realizing it.

  Gazing carefully around, the Prince of Leah assured himself that no one else was about, then rose and stretched wearily. He knew he had to cross the Mermidon farther downriver if he wished to avoid a chilling swim in the icy waters. Once he reached a point directly across from the island, he was certain he would find a boat or ferry service to the city. Hitching his weapons higher on his back and smiling grimly against the cold, he began to walk southward along the river rise.

  He had not gone very far, perhaps no more than a thousand yards, when the rushing of the dawn wind faded for an instant, and in the sudden stillness he heard an unfamiliar murmur from somewhere ahead. Instantly he dropped to the ground, his dark form flat against the small rise. The wind rushed back into his straining ears as he listened in the blackness. The gusting breeze died a second time and again he heard the low murmur, but this time he was certain of its origin. It was the muffled sound of human voices carried out of the darkness ahead near the bank of the river. The highlander crawled hurriedly back over the rise to where the terrain again shielded him from the faint lights of the distant city. Then he rose and moved forward in a half-crouch, running parallel to the river, his passing noiseless and swift. The voices grew louder and more distinct and at last seemed to come from directly behind the grassy rise. He listened a minute longer, but found it impossible to decipher what was being said. Cautiously, he crawled on his stomach to the top of the rise where he was able to make out a group of dark figures huddled next to the Mermidon.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the boat pulled up onto the riverbank and tied to a low bush. There was his transportation if he could get to it, but he discarded the idea almost instantly. Standing in a tight circle next to the moored boat were four very large, armed Trolls, their huge black bulks unmistakable even in this poor light. They were speaking with a fifth figure, smaller and slighter in build, his robes clearly marking him as a Southlander.

  Menion studied them a moment with great care, trying to make out their faces, but the dim light gave him only brief glimpses of the man and he didn’t appear to be anyone Menion had ever encountered previously. A small, dark beard covered the thin, shallow face of the stranger, and he had a peculiar habit of stroking the little beard in short, nervous pats while he talked.

  Then the Prince of Leah saw something else. To one side of the circle of men was a large bundle covered with a heavy cloak and securely tied. Menion studied it dubiously, unable to tell what it was in the darkness. Then to his astonishment, the bundle moved slightly—enough to convince the highlander that there was something alive beneath the heavy coverings. Desperately he tried to think of a way he might move closer to the small party, but already he was too late. The four Trolls and the stranger were parting company. One of the Trolls moved over to the mysterious bundle and, in one effortless heave, threw it over his broad, bulky shoulder. The stranger was returning to the boat, loosening the fastenings and climbing in, the oars lowered to the choppy waters. There were several parting words exchanged, and Menion caught snatches of the brief conversation, including something about having the situation well in hand. The final comment as the boat moved out into the swift waters was a warning from the stranger to wait for further word from him on the Prince.

  Menion inched back a bit on the damp grass of the little rise, watching the man and the small boat disappear into the misty darkness of the Mermidon. Dawn was breaking at last, but it came in the form of a dim, hazy grayness that hampered visibility almost as effectively as the night. The sky was still overcast by low-hanging cumulous clouds that threatened to drop to the earth itself should they swell further. A heavy rain would fall before much longer and already the air was coated with a damp, penetrating mist that soaked the highlander’s clothing and chilled the exposed skin. The huge Northland army would be on the march toward the island city of Kern within the hour, probably reaching it by midday. There was little time remaining for him to warn its citizens of the impending assault—an onslaught of men and weapons against which the city could not hope to defend itself for long. The people had to be evacuated immediately and taken to Tyrsis or farther south for protection. Balinor had to be warned that time had run out, that the Border Legion must assemble and fight a delaying action until reinforced by the Dwarf and Elven armies.

  The Prince of Leah knew there was no time to ponder further the mysterious meeting he had just accidentally witnessed, but he lingered a moment longer as the four Trolls turned from the riverbank, carrying the struggling bundle, and moved toward the rise to his right. Menion was certain that someone had been taken prisoner by the stranger in the boat and turned over to these soldiers of the Northland army. This night meeting had been prearranged by both parties and the exchange made for reasons known only to them. If they had gone to all that trouble, the prisoner must be someone very important to them—and therefore important to the Warlock Lord.

  Menion watched the Trolls move away from him into the heavy morning mist, still undecided as to whether he should intervene. Allanon had given him a task to complete—a vital task that might save thousands of lives. There was no time for wild forays in enemy country just to satisfy personal curiosity, even if it meant saving … Shea! Suppose it was Shea they had taken prisoner? The thought flashed through the impetuous mind, and instantly the decision had been made. Shea was the key to everything—if there was any chance that he was the captive wrapped in that bundle, Menion had to try to rescue him.

  He leaped to his feet and began running swiftly northward, back in the direction from which he had just come, trying to stay on a course parallel to that taken by the Trolls. In the heavy mist, it was difficult to keep his sense of direction, but Menion had no time to be concerned with that. It was going to be extremely difficult to take that prisoner away from four armed Trolls, especially when any one of them was easily a match physically for the slight highlander. There was the added danger that they might at any point pass back through the sentry lines of the Northland outposts. If he failed to stop them before then, he was finished. Any chance of rescue depended on keeping open an escape route to
the Mermidon. Menion felt the first rains of the coming storm strike his face as he ran, and the thunder rumbled ominously overhead as the wind began to grow in force. Desperately he searched through the rolling clouds of mist and fog for some sign of his quarry, but there was nothing to be seen. Certain that he had been too slow and had missed them, he raced at breakneck speed across the grasslands, charging like a wild black shadow through the mist, dodging the small trees and clumps of brush, his eyes searching the empty flatlands. The rain beat against his face and ran into his eyes, blinding him, forcing him to slow down momentarily to wipe away the warm haze of mingled rain and perspiration. He shook his head in anger. They had to be somewhere close! He couldn’t have lost them!

  Abruptly the four Trolls appeared out of the fog behind him and off to the left. Menion had misjudged and completely overtaken and passed them. He dropped into a crouch behind a small clump of bushes and watched a moment as the four moved closer. If they stayed on their present course, they would pass almost next to a large clump of scrub brush farther ahead—still beyond their vision, but within Menion’s. The highlander bounded from cover and raced back into the mist until he could no longer see the Trolls. If they had seen him make that quick dash into the fog, he was through. They would be expecting him when they reached the scrub brush. But if not, he would spring his ambush there and make a break for the river. He cut back across the plains to his left until he reached the seclusion of the brush where, panting heavily, he dropped to all fours and peered cautiously through the branches.