The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  She shook her head at the memory. “It was wonderful at first. She told me things that no one else knew, secrets of the land and the life upon it that had been lost to the races for centuries—lost or forgotten. She told me of the Great Wars, of the Race Wars, of the birth of the Four Lands and their peoples, of all that had been since the beginning of the new world. She told me something of what the old world had been like, though her memory failed her as she went back in time. Some of what she told me, I did not understand. But I understood much. I understood what she told me of growing things, of planting and nurturing. That was her gift to me, the ability to make things grow. It was a beautiful gift. And the talks were magical—just being able to hear about all those wonderful things.

  “That was at first. That was when I had just begun my service and the talks were so new and exciting that I accepted what was happening without question. But soon something very unpleasant began to take place. This will sound odd, Wil, but I began to lose myself in her. I began to lose all sense of who I was. I wasn’t me anymore; I was an extension of her. I still do not know if that was intentional on her part or merely the natural result of our close relationship. At the time, I believed it intentional. I grew frightened of what was happening to me—frightened and then angry. Was I expected as a Chosen to forgo my own personality, my own identity, in order to satisfy her needs? I was being toyed with, I felt; I was being used. It was wrong.

  “The rest of the Chosen began to see a change in me. They began to suspect, I think, that there was something different about my relationship with the Ellcrys. I felt them avoiding me; I felt them watching. All the while, I was losing myself in her—a little more of me gone with every day. I was determined to stop it. I began avoiding her as the other Chosen avoided me. I refused to go to her when she asked; I sent another in my stead. When she asked me what was wrong, I would not tell her. I was frightened of her; I was ashamed of myself; I was angry at the whole situation.”

  Her mouth tightened. “At last I decided that the real problem was that I was never meant to be a Chosen. I did not seem able to cope with the responsibility, to understand what was expected of me. She had done something for me that she had done for no other Chosen—a wondrous, marvelous thing—and I could not accept it. It was wrong that I should feel this way; none of the others would have reacted as I had. My selection as a Chosen had been a mistake.

  “So, I left, Wil, barely a month after my choosing. I told my mother and my grandfather that I was leaving, that I could no longer continue to serve. I did not tell them why. I could not bring myself to do that. Failing as a Chosen was bad enough. But to fail because she had made demands on me that anyone else would have been pleased to meet—no. I could admit to myself what had happened between the Ellcrys and me, but I could not admit it to anyone else. My mother seemed to understand. My grandfather did not. There were harsh words exchanged that left us both bitter. I went out of Arborlon disgraced in my own eyes as well as in the eyes of my family and my people, determined that I would not come back again. I swore an Elven vow of outland service; I would make my home in one of the other lands and teach what I knew of the care and preservation of the earth and her life. I traveled until I found Havenstead. That became my home.”

  There were tears in her eyes. “But I was wrong. I can say that now—I must say it. I walked away from a responsibility that was mine. I walked away from my fears and my frustrations. I disappointed everyone and in the end, I left my companion Chosen to die without me.”

  “You judge yourself too harshly,” Wil admonished her.

  “Do I?” Her mouth twisted. “I am afraid that I do not judge myself harshly enough. If I had remained in Arborlon, perhaps the Ellcrys would have spoken sooner of her dying. I was the one to whom she had spoken before—not the others. They did not even realize what had taken place. She might have spoken to me, soon enough that the Bloodfire could have been found and the seed planted before the Forbidding began to crumble and the Demons to break through. Don’t you see, Wil? If that is so, then all the Elven dead must be on my conscience.”

  “It is equally possible,” the Valeman pointed out, “that had you not gone out from Arborlon, but remained as you suggest, the warning from the Ellcrys would have come no sooner than it did. Then you would lie dead with the others and be of no use whatsoever to the Elves still living.”

  “You are asking me to justify my actions through the convenience of hindsight.”

  He shook his head. “I am asking you not to use hindsight to second-guess what is past. Perhaps it was intended that matters should work out the way they have. You cannot know.” His voice hardened. “Now listen to me a minute. Suppose that the Ellcrys had decided to select another of your companion Chosen as the one to whom she would speak. Would that Chosen have reacted any differently from how you did to the experience? Would another have been immune to the emotions that affected you? I do not think so, Amberle. I know you. Maybe I know you better than anyone, after what we have been through. You have strength of character, you have conviction and, despite what you say, you have determination.”

  He took her chin in his hand and held it. “I do not know anyone—anyone, Amberle—who would have weathered this journey and all its perils any better than you have. I think that it is time for me to tell you what you are so fond of telling me. Believe in yourself. Stop doubting. Stop second-guessing. Just believe. Put a little trust in yourself. Amberle, you merit that trust.”

  She was crying openly, silently. “I do care for you.”

  “And I for you.” He kissed her forehead, no longer doubting. “Very much.”

  She lowered her head against his shoulder, and he held her. When she looked up at him again, the tears were gone.

  “I want you to promise me something,” she told him.

  “All right.”

  “I want you to promise me that you will make certain that I see this quest through to its conclusion—that I do not falter, that I do not stray, that I do not fail to do what I came to do. Be my strength and my conscience. Promise me.”

  He smiled gently. “I promise.”

  “I am still afraid,” she confessed softly.

  At the door to their cell, Eretria stood up. “Healer!”

  Wil scrambled to his feet, Amberle with him, and together they hurried over to join the Rover girl. Her black eyes danced. Wordlessly she slipped the metal rod from the keyhole and returned it to her boot. Then with a wink at the Valeman, she grasped the iron bars to the cell door and pulled. The door swung silently open.

  Wil Ohmsford gave her a triumphant grin. Now if they could only find Wisp.

  45

  They found him almost immediately. They had left the cell, moved to the bottom of the stairway, and were peering upward tentatively into the gloom of the passageway when they heard the sound of approaching footfalls. Quickly, Wil motioned Eretria to one side of the passage opening, while drawing Amberle back against the other. Flattened against the stone, they waited expectantly as the footsteps drew closer, a light, familiar scuttling sound that Wil recognized at once.

  Seconds later, Wisp’s wizened face poked out of the darkness of the passage.

  “Pretty one, hello, hello. Talk with Wisp?…”

  Wil’s hand latched firmly onto his neck. Wisp gasped in fright, struggling madly to break free as the Valeman lifted him clear of the floor.

  “Keep still!” Wil whispered in warning, yanking the little fellow about so that he could see who had him.

  Wisp’s eyes went wide. “No, no, cannot leave!”

  “Be quiet!” Wil shook him until he was still. “One more word, and I will snap your neck, Wisp.”

  Wisp nodded frantically, his wiry form squirming in the Valeman’s grip. Wil dropped to one knee, lowering his captive to the floor again, still holding tightly to his neck. Wisp’s eyes were like saucers.

  “Now listen carefully, Wisp,” the Valeman said. “I want the Elfstones back again, and you are going to show me
what the Witch has done with them. Do you understand?”

  Wisp shook his head violently. “Wisp serves the Lady! Cannot leave!”

  “In a box, you said.” Wil ignored him. “Take me to where she keeps that box.”

  “Wisp serves the Lady! Wisp serves the Lady!” the little fellow repeated in desperation. “You stay! Go back!”

  Wil was momentarily at a loss. Then Eretria stepped forward, her dark face just inches from Wisp’s. The dagger flashed from her boot and fastened against the little fellow’s throat.

  “Listen, you little furball!” she said. “If you do not take us to the Elfstones at once, I will cut your throat from one ear to the other. You won’t serve anybody then.”

  Wisp grimaced horribly. “Don’t hurt Wisp, pretty one. Like you, pretty one. Care for you. Don’t hurt Wisp.”

  “Where are the Elfstones?” she asked, moving the dagger blade tighter against the Elf’s throat.

  Abruptly the tower bell sounded—once, twice, three times, then a fourth. Wisp let out a frightened moan and thrashed violently against Wil’s grip. The Valeman shook him angrily.

  “What’s happening, Wisp? What is it?”

  Wisp slumped down helplessly. “Morag comes,” he whimpered.

  “Morag?” Wil felt a sudden sense of desperation. What brought Morag to her sister’s keep? He glanced quickly at the others, but the confusion in his eyes was mirrored in theirs.

  “Wisp serves the Lady,” Wisp muttered and began to cry.

  Wil looked about hurriedly. “We need something to bind his hands.”

  Eretria loosened the long sash about her waist and used it to tie Wisp’s hands behind his back. Wil picked up the loose ends and wrapped them about one hand.

  “Listen to me, Wisp.” He jerked the moaning Elf’s chin upright until their eyes met. “Listen to me!” Wisp listened. “I want you to take us to where the Lady keeps the Elfstones. If you try to run or if you try to give any warning, you know what will happen to you, don’t you?”

  He waited patiently until Wisp nodded. “Then do not be foolish enough to try. Just take us to the Elfstones.”

  Wisp started to say something, but Eretria brought the dagger up at once. Meekly, the little fellow nodded one time more.

  “Good for you, Wisp.” Wil released his chin. “Now let’s go.”

  In a line, they started up the stairway, Wisp leading, Wil just a step behind, holding firmly onto the sash that bound Wisp’s arms, Eretria and Amberle trailing. Into the blackness they went, eyes peering blindly, hands groping to find the stone walls of the passage. For several moments they were in total blackness. Then a new light glimmered ahead, and the faint outline of the stairs reappeared from the dark. A globe similar to the one that had illuminated their cell came into view, and they passed beneath it. Ahead, others flickered through the gloom.

  The climb wore on, the stairway spiralling upward through the tower. From time to time they passed black, empty passageways tunneling through the stone and isolated doors, closed and latched, but Wisp did not slow. The bells had gone still after the first sounding; the entire tower lay wrapped in silence. The musky smell of incense burned more strongly as they climbed, filling the stairwell with its pungent odor. It made the Valeman and the women groggy, and they tried not to breathe it. Wil began to grow suspicious as the minutes slipped away. Perhaps Wisp was smarter than he appeared.

  But then they reached a landing and Wisp stopped. He pointed down a dimly lighted corridor that ran a short distance into the tower and ended at a massive, ironbound door. From beyond the door came the sound of voices.

  Wil bent down hurriedly. “What is it, Wisp?”

  The wizened face was furtive and beaded with sweat. “Morag,” Wisp whispered, then shook his head quickly. “Very bad. Very bad.”

  Wil straightened. “Morag is not our concern. Where are the Elfstones?”

  Wisp again pointed to the door. Wil hesitated, staring at him uncertainly. Was Wisp telling him the truth? Then Eretria knelt down next to the little fellow, her voice gentle this time, the dagger no longer in view.

  “Wisp, are you certain?”

  Wisp nodded. “Not lie, pretty one. Don’t hurt Wisp.”

  “I do not want to hurt you,” she assured him, her eyes holding his. “But you serve the Lady, not us. Are we to believe what you say?”

  “Wisp serves the Lady,” Wisp agreed rather weakly, then shook his head. “Wisp does not lie. Pretty stones there, across great hall, in small room at top of stairs, in box with pretty flowers, red and gold.”

  Eretria stared at him a moment longer, then glanced at Wil and nodded. She believed him, she was saying. Wil nodded back.

  “Is there any other way to get to the box?” Wil pressed the little Elf.

  Wisp shook his head. “One door.” He pointed down the corridor.

  Wil looked at him silently for a moment, then motioned for the others to follow. Quietly, he crept down the short passageway until he stood before the door. Beyond, voices rose, shrill and angry. Whatever was taking place in there, Wil wanted no part of it. He took a deep breath, then slowly, carefully released the latch that held the door before him and pulled. The door slipped open just a crack. The Valeman peered through.

  Beyond was the hall where Mallenroh had seized them, massive and shadowed, illuminated faintly by a handful of the strange, smokeless lights that hung like spiders from an invisible ceiling. Immediately past the door, a landing swept downward in a series of half-circle steps to the floor of the hall. There hundreds of the stick men jammed tightly together, encircling two willowy black figures that faced each other at less than a dozen paces and shrieked as if they were cats at bay.

  Wil Ohmsford stared. The Witch Sisters, Morag and Mallenroh, last of their Coven, bitter enemies through a centuries-old conflict forgotten by everyone but themselves, were identical twins. Black robes flung back from their tall figures, woven gray hair trailing nightshade, flawless white skin, ghostlike in the dark—they were mirror images. Both were exquisitely formed, both lithe and delicate. But at this moment their beauty was marred by the hatred that contorted their features and hardened their violet eyes. Their words reached out to the Valeman, softer now as the shrieking subsided, yet harsh and biting.

  “My power is as strong as your own, Sister, and I fear nothing that you might do. You cannot even keep me from this dreary refuge of yours. We are as rock to stone, and neither one nor the other may prevail.” The speaker shook her head mockingly. “But you would change all that, Sister. You would seek to arm yourself with magic that does not belong to you. In so doing, you would bring an end to our shared dominion over these Hollows. Foolish, Sister. You can have no secrets from me. I know as soon as you what it is that you intend.” She paused. “And I know of the Elfstones.”

  “You know nothing,” shrieked the other, whom Wil now saw to be Mallenroh. “Go from my home, Sister. Go while still you may or I will find a way to make you wish that you had.”

  Morag laughed. “Be still, foolish one. You cannot frighten me. I will leave when I have what I came to get.”

  “The Elfstones are mine!” Mallenroh snapped. “I have them and will hold on to them. The gift was meant for me.”

  “Sister, no gift shall be yours if I do not wish it. Such power as the Elfstones offer must belong to her who is best suited to wield it. That one is me. It has always been me.”

  “You have never been better suited to anything, Sister.” Mallenroh spat. “I have permitted you to share this valley with me because you were the last of my sisters, and I felt some pity for one as ugly and purposeless as yourself. Think on it, Sister. I have always had my share of pretty things; but you, you have had nothing but the company of your voiceless stick men.” Her voice became a hiss. “Remember the human you tried to take from me, the beautiful one that was mine, the one you wanted so badly? Remember, Sister? Why even that pretty one was lost to you, wasn’t he? So careless you were that you let him be destroyed.”


  Morag stiffened. “It was you who destroyed him, Sister.”

  “I?” Mallenroh laughed. “One touch from you and he withered with horror.”

  Morag’s face was frozen with rage. “Give me the Elfstones.”

  “I will give you nothing!”

  Crouched motionlessly behind the massive wooden door, Wil Ohmsford felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped in surprise. Eretria peered past him through the crack. “What is happening?”

  “Stay back,” he whispered, and his own eyes returned at once to the confrontation taking place within the hall.

  Morag had come forward and now stood directly in front of Mallenroh.

  “Give me the Elfstones. You must give them to me.”

  “Go back to the hole out of which you crawled, lizard.” Mallenroh sneered. “Go back to your empty nest.”

  “Snake! You would feed on your own kind!”

  Mallenroh screamed. “Ugly thing! Leave now!”

  Morag’s hand whipped from beneath her robe and struck Mallenroh a stinging blow across the face. The sound reverberated through the stillness. Mallenroh staggered back in surprise. The wooden limbs of the stick men rattled as they shifted anxiously about the cavernous hall, moving away from the two antagonists.

  Then Mallenroh’s laughter rose sharply, unexpectedly. “You are pitiful, Sister. You cannot hurt me. Go home. Wait for me to come to you. Wait for me to give you the death you merit. You are not worth having as a slave.”

  Morag came forward and struck her again, a quick, sudden blow that brought a shriek of rage from Mallenroh. “Give me the Elfstones!” Morag’s voice had a desperate edge to it. “I will have them, Sister! I will have them! Give them to me!”

  She came at Mallenroh, hands closing about her sister’s throat. Mallenroh lurched back again, her beautiful face twisting with rage. Down upon the floor of the tower the Witch Sisters tumbled, scratching and clawing at each other like cats. Then Mallenroh broke free and scrambled back to her feet. One hand stretched forth. Instantly a massive root broke forth from the stone at her feet to wrap tightly about Morag’s writhing form. Upward it swept toward the darkness, carrying the struggling Morag with it and growing huge and towering as it reached beyond the glow of the lamps. Morag screamed. Abruptly the darkness blazed with a brilliant flash, and green fire burned the length of the root, turning it to ash. It crumpled lifelessly, smoke billowing out from its remains in thick clouds. Then Morag reappeared, floating downward through the haze like some wraith, to stand again upon the tower floor.