The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  The Rover shrugged. “Enough for a day or two, no more.”

  He nodded to the old woman, who stepped back through the door of the wagon. Wil watched the Rover shift uneasily in his saddle. Something was bothering Cephelo.

  “How will I find you to pay you your share of the reward?” he asked suddenly.

  “Reward? Oh, yes.” Cephelo seemed to have forgotten it momentarily. “Well, as I said before, I will know when you have been paid. I will seek you out, Healer.”

  The Valeman nodded, rose and stepped down from the wagon, then turned back to help Amberle. He glanced at her briefly as he lifted her down. She did not feel any easier about the Rover’s behavior than he did. He turned back to Cephelo.

  “Could you give us a horse? One would …”

  Cephelo cut him short. “There are no horses to be spared. Now I think you should be going. There is a storm coming.”

  The old woman reappeared and handed Wil a small sack. The Valeman slung it over one shoulder and thanked her. Then he glanced up at the Rover once more.

  “A safe journey, Cephelo.”

  The big man nodded. “And a quick one to you, Healer. Farewell.”

  Wil took Amberle’s arm and led her through the gathering of horsemen to the crossroads. Eretria sat astride her bay, black hair blowing wildly as the wind swirled past her. When the Valeman reached her side, he stopped momentarily and extended his hand.

  “Goodbye, Eretria.”

  She nodded, her dark face expressionless, cold and beautiful. Then without a word, she rode back to join Cephelo. The Valeman stared after her a moment, but she did not look at him again. He turned to the pathway leading south. Dirt blew into his eyes, and he shielded them with his hand, squinting into the gloom. With Amberle beside him, he started ahead.

  Hebel spent the morning at his workbench behind the little hut, hunched over a carving of a swamp cat. As he worked, his mind drifted back to the events of the previous night, to the Elflings and their strange quest, and the warning he had given them which they had ignored. He could not understand it. Why had they refused to heed him? Certainly he had made it clear enough that it was death to go into the Hollows. And certainly he had made it clear as well that the domain of the Witch Sisters could not be violated. What was it then that could prompt this brother and sister to go there for nothing more than some obscure root medicine?

  Then it occurred to him that perhaps there was something more. He thought about that for a moment and the more he thought about it the more plausible it seemed. After all, they would not be so foolish as to entrust a rogue like Cephelo with the truth; no, not that young man—he was too quick for that. Safehold lay within the depths of Spire’s Reach; what sort of root would grow deep within a mountain where no sunlight could ever reach to nourish its growth? But magic had once been done within Safehold, the Witch Sister had whispered to him—magic from another age, lost and forgotten. Did the Elflings hope to discover it again?

  Overhead, the sky darkened further as the storm rolled out of the far country, the howl of the wind in the trees rising to a higher pitch. The old man paused in his work and looked up momentarily. This would be a big one, he thought idly. Another bad sign for those Elflings who would be caught in the open, for the storm would overtake them before they reached the Hollows. He shook his head. He would go after them if he thought it would do any good, but their minds were obviously made up. Still, it was too bad. Whatever they hoped to find within Safehold, be it root medicine or magic, they would have been better off to have forgotten it entirely. They would never live to use it.

  At his feet, Drifter lifted his shaggy head and sniffed the wind. Then abruptly the dog growled, low, deep, and angry. Hebel stared down at him curiously and glanced about. Shadows fell across the clearing from the forest trees, but nothing moved.

  Drifter growled again and the hackles on the back of his neck rose. Hebel looked around guardedly. There was something out there, something hidden back in the gloom. He stood up, reaching for the broad axe. Cautiously, he started toward the trees, Drifter crouched beside him, still growling.

  But then he stopped. He did not understand why he stopped except that suddenly he felt something cold slip into his body, chilling him so badly that he could barely stand. At his feet, Drifter lay on his belly and cried as if he had been struck, his great body cringing. The old man caught a glimpse of something moving—a shadow, massive and cloaked, there one moment and then gone. A fear passed through him, so terrible that he could not find the will to thrust it from him. It gripped him cruelly and held him fast as he stared helplessly at the dark forest and wished with everything that was left him that he might turn and flee. The axe fell from his hands and tumbled to the earth, useless.

  Then the feeling slipped from him, gone as quickly as it had come. All about him the wind howled, and a spattering of rain struck his leathery face. Drawing a deep breath, he reached down for the axe and, with Drifter close against him, backed slowly away until he felt his legs brush up against the workbench. He paused then, one hand gripping the neck of the big dog to keep himself from shaking. With frightening certainty he knew that, in sixty years of struggling to survive the dangers of the valley, never before had he come so close to dying.

  Wil and Amberle had walked for less than an hour when the storm overtook them. A sprinkling of heavy drops that slipped teasingly through the dense canopy of trees turned quickly to a downpour. Sheets of rain swept across the pathway, driven by a west wind, and thunder boomed and reverberated through the sodden forest. Ahead, the gloom of the narrow trail darkened further with the rainfall, and water-laden tree limbs began to droop about them in damp trailers. They were soaked in minutes, bereft of the travel cloaks which they had failed to recover from the Rovers along with the rest of their clothing. The light garments they had been fitted with in their stead clung to their bodies. There was nothing to be done that would ease their discomfort, however, so they simply put their heads down and walked on.

  For several hours the rain continued to fall at a steady pace, save for occasional brief lulls that gave false promise of an end to the storm. Through it all, the Valeman and the Elven girl trudged on, water dripping from their bodies and their clothing, mud caking on their boots, their eyes fixed on the rutted path ahead. When at last the rain did slow and the storm moved eastward, mist began to seep out of the forest to mix with the deep gloom. Trees and brush shone dark and shiny through the haze, and water dripped noisily in the sudden stillness. Overhead, the sky stayed clouded and dark; to the east thunder rumbled, distant and lingering. The mist began to deepen, and the pace of the travelers slowed.

  It was then that the pathway began to slope downward, a slight dropping off that at first was barely perceptible, but gradually increased. Valeman and Elven girl slipped and skidded in the muddied earth as they followed it down, peering hopefully into the gloom ahead, yet finding nothing more than the dark tunnel of the road and the closure of the trees. The stillness had grown even more pronounced. Even the faint sounds of insects singing at the passing of the storm had faded into silence.

  Then suddenly, so suddenly that it was as if someone had removed a veil from before their eyes, the trees of the woods split apart, the slope dropped away, and the great, dark bowl of the Hollows lay spread before them. Valeman and Elven girl stopped where they were in the center of the muddied trail and stared down into the awesome expanse. They knew at once that they had found the Hollows; this massive pit of black forest could be nothing else. It was as if they had come upon some monstrous dead lake, still and lifeless, its dark surface grown thick with vegetation so that what lay beneath its waters could only be guessed at. From its shadowed center rose Spire’s Reach, a solitary column of rock thrusting up into the gloom, barren and pitted. The Hollows were bleak like an open grave that whispered of death.

  The Valeman and the Elven girl stood silently upon the rim, fighting a sense of revulsion that grew with each passing moment that they gazed down
into the soundless gloom. Nothing that either had ever encountered had looked so desolate.

  “We have to go down there,” Wil ventured finally, hating the idea.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  He cast about hopefully for a way to proceed. Ahead, the trail appeared to stop altogether. Yet when the Valeman walked forward a bit, he saw that it did not end after all, but split to either side to wend downward into the shadows below. He hesitated a moment, studying the two paths, trying to decide which would provide the easier descent, then chose the one that ran left. He held out his arm to Amberle and she gripped it firmly. Leading the way, he started down, feeling his boots slide as the damp earth and rock gave way in clumps. Amberle stayed close, leaning heavily on him for support. Cautiously they moved ahead.

  Then abruptly Wil lost his footing and went down. Amberle fell with him, tripping forward across his legs, tumbling headlong from the muddied path to disappear with a sharp cry into the wooded darkness. Frantically, Wil scrambled after her, pushing his way through heavy brush that ripped his clothing and cut his face. He might not have found the Elven girl at all but for the bright silk of her Rover clothing, a splash of red against the dark. She lay lodged against a clump of scrub, the breath knocked from her body, her face smeared with mud. Her eyes flickered uncertainly as he touched her.

  “Wil?”

  He eased her into a sitting position, cradling her in his arms. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She smiled. “You’re pretty clumsy, you know that?”

  He nodded, grinning with relief. “Let’s get you up.”

  He put his arm about her waist and lifted her clear of the scrub, her small frame feather-light as he set her back on her feet. Instantly she cried out and dropped back to the earth, reaching for her ankle.

  “It’s twisted!”

  Wil felt along the ankle, checking the bones. “Nothing broken, just a bad sprain.” He sat down beside her. “We can take a few moments to rest, then go on. I can help you down the slope; I can even carry you if it becomes necessary.”

  She shook her head. “Wil, I am so sorry. I should have been more careful.”

  “You? I was the one who fell.” He grinned, trying to appear cheerful. “Well, maybe one of the old man’s Witch Sisters will come along to help us out.”

  “That is not funny.” Amberle frowned. She looked about uneasily. “Maybe we should wait until morning to climb down any further. My ankle might feel better by then. Besides, even if we made it down before dark, we would have to spend the night there, and I don’t much care to do that.”

  Wil nodded. “Nor I. Nor do I think we should try to find our way about at night. Daylight will be soon enough.”

  “Maybe we should go back up to the rim.” She looked at him hopefully.

  The Valeman smiled. “Do you really believe the old man’s story? Do you think there are Witches living down there?”

  She stared at him darkly. “Don’t you?”

  He hesitated and then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yes, I guess so. There is very little I don’t believe anymore.” He sat forward slowly, arms coming up about his knees. “If there are Witches, I hope they are frightened of Elfstones, because that is just about all the protection we have left. Of course, if I have to use the Stones in order to make them afraid, we may be in a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t think so,” she responded quietly.

  “You still think I can use them, don’t you—even after what happened on the Pykon?”

  “Yes. But you shouldn’t.”

  He looked at her. “You said something like that once before, remember? After the Tirfing, when we camped above the Mermidon. You were worried for me. You said that I should not use the Stones again, even if it meant saving you.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then later, when we fled the Pykon, I told you that I could no longer use the Stones, that their power was lost to me, that my Elven blood was not strong enough. You told me that I should not be so quick to judge myself—that you had confidence in me.”

  “I remember that, too.”

  “Well look at what we have been saying. I think I should use the Stones, but don’t think I can. You think I can, but don’t think I should. Funny, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “And we still don’t know which of us is right, do we? Here we are, almost to Safehold, and I still haven’t found out …”

  He stopped suddenly, realizing what it was that he was saying.

  “Well, it’s not important,” he finished, looking away. “Better that we never find out. Better that they be given back to my grandfather.”

  They were silent for a moment. Almost without thinking, Wil reached into the Rover tunic and lifted out the pouch that held the Elfstones. He fingered it idly and was about to return it again when he noticed something odd about its feel. Frowning, he opened the drawstrings and dumped the contents into his open palm. He found himself staring at three ordinary pebbles.

  “Wil!” Amberle exclaimed in horror.

  The Valeman stared at the pebbles in stunned silence, his mind racing.

  “Cephelo,” he whispered finally. “Cephelo. Somehow he switched these for the Stones. Last night, probably, while we slept. It had to be then; they were in the pouch that morning in Grimpen Ward—I checked.” He rose slowly, still talking. “But this morning, I forgot. I was so tired last night—and you fell asleep almost at once. He must have drugged the ale to be certain I would not awake. No wonder he was so anxious to be rid of us. No wonder he made light of Hebel’s warning about the Hollows. He would be happy if we never came back. The reward meant nothing to him. It was the Elfstones that he wanted all along.”

  He started up the trail, his face livid. Then abruptly he remembered Amberle. Turning quickly back, he lifted the Elven girl in his arms, held her close against him, and scrambled back to the rim of the Hollows. For a moment he looked about, then walked to a clump of high bushes several yards back. Stepping beneath the shelter of their boughs, he set the Elven girl down.

  “I have to go back for the Elfstones,” he declared quietly. “If I leave you here, will you be all right?”

  “Wil, you don’t need the Stones.”

  He shook his head. “If we have to test that theory, I would prefer that it be done with the Stones in my possession. You heard what the old man said about the Hollows. The Stones are all that I have to protect you.”

  Amberle’s face was white. “Cephelo will kill you.”

  “Maybe. Maybe he has gotten so far up the trail by this time that I won’t even get close to him. But Amberle, I have to try. If I don’t find him by dawn, I’ll turn back, I promise. With or without the Elfstones, I will be with you to go into the Hollows.”

  She started to say something more, but then stopped. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her hands lifted to touch his face.

  “I care for you,” she whispered. “I really do.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. “Amberle!”

  “Go on,” she urged him, her voice breaking. “Cephelo will have stopped for the night and you may catch him if you hurry. But be careful, Wil Ohmsford—do not give your life foolishly. Come back for me.”

  She reached up to kiss him. “Go. Quickly.”

  He stared at her wordlessly for one instant more, then sprang to his feet. Without looking back, he ran from her and in seconds had disappeared into the forest gloom.

  39

  At dawn of the same day that found Wil and Amberle faced with the disappearance of the Elfstones, the Demons attacked Arborlon. With a frightening shriek that shattered the morning stillness and reverberated through the lowland forests, they burst from the cover of the trees, a massive wave of humped and twisted bodies that stretched the length of the Carolan. In a frenzy that cast aside reason and thought, the creatures of the dark swept out of the gloom that was still thick within the shadowed woods and threw themselves into the waters of the Rill Song. Like a huge stain spread
ing over the water, they filled the river, large and small, swift and slow, leaping, crawling, shambling bodies surging and heaving through the swift current. Some swam the river’s waters, thrusting and kicking to gain the far bank. Those light and fleet flew above, hopped upon, or skimmed over the river’s surface. Others so huge that they might walk upon the river’s bottom, lunged awkwardly ahead, snouts and muzzles stretched high, bobbing and dipping. Many rode crude boats and rafts, poling mindlessly into the river and grasping tightly at whomever or whatever came within reach, thus to be pulled to safety or carried to the bottom with that which had failed to give them aid. Madness gripped the Demon horde, born of frustration with and hatred for the enemy that waited a scant few hundred yards away. This time, certainly, they would see that enemy destroyed.

  But the Elves did not panic. Though the number, size, and ferocity of the Demons who came at them might have broken the spirit of a less determined defender, the Elves stood their ground. This was to be their final battle. It was their home city that they defended, the heart of the land that had been theirs for as long as the races had existed. All else had been lost now, from the Rill Song west. But the Elves were determined that they would not lose Arborlon. Better that they fight and die here, the last man, woman and child of them, than that they be driven entirely from their homeland, outcasts in foreign lands, hunted like animals by their pursuers.

  Atop the battlements of the Elfitch, Ander Elessedil watched the Demon tide sweep forward. Allanon stood beside him. Neither man spoke. After a moment, Ander’s eyes lifted. High overhead a small dot appeared out of the clear blue of the dawn skies, growing in size as it circled downward until it took shape. It was Dayn and his Roc Dancer. Downward they flew, gliding along the cliffs of the Carolan to settle finally on the open rampway above Ander and the Druid. Dismounting, Dayn came hurriedly to where the Elven Prince waited.

  “How many?” Ander asked at once.

  Dayn shook his head. “Even the woods and the mist can’t hide them all. The ones we see before us are only a handful.”