The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  “We waste time, Browork,” the first Elder muttered once more.

  “Let the Valeman be questioned by others while we get on with our business,” another said.

  Again the voices rose, and this time they drowned out Browork’s pleas for silence. Almost to a man, the Dwarves of the Council and those gathered with them called for the matter to be disposed of without further delay.

  “I could have told you this would happen,” Slanter whispered suddenly from behind him.

  Jair went crimson with anger. He had come too far and endured too much to be shoved aside now. Give us proof, they were telling him. Make us believe.

  Well, he knew how to make them believe!

  Stepping forward suddenly, he lifted his hands high, then pointed into the shadows of the aisle leading back from where he stood. So dramatic was the gesture that the voices went abruptly still, and all heads turned to look. There was nothing there, nothing but darkness…

  Then Jair sang, the wishsong quick and strident, and a tall, black figure wrapped in cloak and cowl emerged from out of the nothingness of the air.

  The figure was Allanon.

  There was a sharp gasp from those assembled. Swords and long knives slipped from their sheaths, and men bounded from their seats to defend against this shade that had emerged from the dark. Within the cowl, a dark lean face lifted to the light, eyes fixing on the men of the Council. Then Jair’s song faded and the Druid was gone.

  Jair turned once more to Browork. The Dwarf’s eyes were wide. “Now do you believe me?” the Valeman asked quietly. “You said you knew him; you said you fought with him at Arborlon. Was that the Druid?”

  Slowly Browork nodded. “That was Allanon.”

  “Then you know that I have seen him,” Jair said.

  All assembled turned back now to stare at the Valeman, uneasy and shaken by what had happened. Behind him, Jair heard Slanter chuckle, a low nervous laugh. He caught a glimpse of Garet Jax from the corner of his eye. The Weapons Master had a curious, almost surprised look on his face.

  “I have told you the truth,” Jair said to Browork. “I must go into the deep Anar and find Heaven’s Well. Allanon will be there with my sister. Now tell me—will you help me or not?”

  Browork glanced at the other Elders. “What say you?”

  “I believe what he says,” one old man ventured quietly.

  “But it could yet be a trick!” another said. “It could be the work of the Mord Wraiths!”

  Jair glanced quickly about. A few heads were nodding in agreement. In the smoky light of the oil lamps, suspicion and fear clouded many eyes.

  “The risk is too great, I think,” yet another Elder said.

  Browork rose. “We are pledged to give aid to any who seek the destruction of the Wraiths,” he said, blue eyes quick and hard. “This Valeman has told us he is allied with others of like mind and purpose. I believe him. I believe we should do what we can to aid him in his quest. I call for a vote, Elders. Give me your hands in support if you agree.”

  Browork’s hand lifted high. Half a dozen more from the Council lifted with it. But the dissenters were not to be silenced so easily.

  “This is madness!” one shouted. “Who will go with him? Are we to send men from the village, Browork? Who is to go on this quest to which you have so unwisely given your blessing? I call for volunteers if this is to be done!”

  A scattering of voices muttered in support. Browork nodded. “So be it.” He looked about the chamber silently, his eyes shifting from one face to the next, searching, waiting for someone to accept the challenge.

  “I will go.”

  Jair looked around slowly. Garet Jax had come forward a single step, gray eyes expressionless as he faced the Council.

  “The King of the Silver River promised the Valeman that I would be his protector,” he said softly. “Very well. The promise shall be kept.”

  Browork nodded, then looked about the room once more. “Who else among you will go?” he called out.

  Elb Foraker pushed away from the wall against which he was leaning and walked over to stand with his friend. Again Browork looked out among those gathered. A moment later there was a stirring from among the men of Callahorn. A giant Borderman rose to his feet, black hair and beard close-cropped about his long, strangely gentle face.

  “I’ll go,” he rumbled and came forward to stand with the others. Jair took a step back in spite of himself. The Borderman was almost as big as Allanon.

  “Helt,” Browork greeted him. “The men of Callahorn need not make this quest their own.”

  The big man shrugged. “We fight the same enemy, Elder. The quest appeals to me, and I would go.”

  Then suddenly Edain Elessedil came to his feet. “I would go as well, Elder.”

  Browork frowned. “You are a Prince of the Elves, young Edain. You are here with your Elven Hunters to repay a debt your father feels he owes from the time the Dwarves stood with him at Arborlon. Well and good. But you carry the price of the debt too far. Your father would not approve of this. Reconsider.”

  The Elven Prince smiled. “There is nothing to reconsider, Browork. The debt owed in this matter is not to the Dwarves but to the Valeman and his father. Twenty years ago, Wil Ohmsford went with an Elven Chosen in search of a talisman that would destroy the Demons who had broken free of the Forbidding. He risked his life for my father and for my people. Now I have a chance to do the same for Wil Ohmsford—to go with his son, to see to it that he finds the thing he quests for. I am as able as any man here and I would go.”

  Still Browork frowned. Garet Jax glanced at Foraker. The Dwarf merely shrugged. The Weapons Master looked over at the Elven Prince for a moment as if measuring the depth of his commitment or perhaps simply his chance of surviving, then slowly nodded.

  “Very well,” Browork acquiesced, “five, then,”

  “Six,” Garet Jax said quietly. “An even half-dozen for luck.”

  Browork looked puzzled. “Who is the sixth?”

  Garet Jax turned slowly about and pointed to Slanter. “The Gnome.”

  “What!” Slanter’s jaw dropped. “You can’t choose me!”

  “I have already done so,” the other replied. “You are the only one here who has been where we want to go. You know the way, Gnome, and you are going to show it to us.”

  “I’ll show you nothing!” Slanter was livid, his face contorted with rage. “This boy … this devil … he put you up to this! Well, you have no power over me! I’ll throw you all to the wolves if you try to make me go!”

  Garet Jax came up against him, the terrible gray eyes as cold as winter. “That would be most unfortunate for you, Gnome, for the wolves would reach you first. Take a moment and think it through.”

  The Assembly went deathly still. Weapons Master and Gnome faced each other without moving, eyes locked. In the eyes of the man in black, there was death; in the eyes of Slanter, hesitation. But the Gnome did not back away. He stood where he was, seething with anger, trapped in a snare of his own making. Slowly his gaze shifted to find Jair, and in that instant the Valeman actually found himself feeling sorry for the Gnome.

  Slanter’s nod was barely perceptible. “I’ve no choice, it seems,” he muttered. “I’ll take you.”

  Garet Jax turned back once more to Browork. “Six.”

  The Dwarf Elder hesitated, then sighed in resignation. “Six it is,” he declared softly. “Fortune go with you.”

  15

  Late the following morning, their preparations completed, the little company departed Culhaven for the deep Anar. Jair, Slanter, Garet Jax, Elb Foraker, Edain Elessedil and the Borderman Helt, armed and provisioned, slipped quietly from the village and were gone almost without notice. Only Browork was there to see them off, his aged countenance reflecting a mix of conviction and misgiving. To Jair, he gave his promise that warning of the Mord Wraiths would be sent to the elder Ohmsfords before their return to the Vale. To each of the others, he gave a firm handshake and
a word of encouragement. Slanter alone evidenced an understandable lack of appreciation for the good wishes. No other fanfare accompanied their departure; the Council of Elders and the other leaders, both Dwarf and outlander, who had participated in last night’s gathering remained divided in their feelings as to the wisdom of this undertaking. More than not, were the truth to be made known, felt the entire venture doomed from the start.

  Yet the decision had been made, and so the company went. It went alone, without escort, despite strenuous objection from the Elven Hunters who had accompanied Edain Elessedil east from the home city of Arborlon and who felt more than a little responsible for the safety of their Prince. Theirs was but a token force, after all, dispatched hurriedly by Ander Elessedil upon his receiving a call for aid from Browork and, until a larger force could be mobilized, dispatched in recognition of an obligation owed the Dwarves for their aid in the Demon-Elf struggle of twenty years earlier. Edain Elessedil had been sent in his father’s place, but without any real expectation that he would see battle unless the Gnome armies advanced all the way to Culhaven. His offer to join the company on their quest into the heart of enemy country had been completely unexpected. But there was little that the Elven Hunters could do about it—since the Prince was free to make his own decision in the matter—other than to insist that they, too, be made a part of the undertaking. There were those among the Dwarves and Bordermen who would have gone as well, but all were refused. Garet Jax made the decision, and it was supported by the others who comprised the company of six, even Slanter. The smaller the group, the greater its mobility and stealth and the better its chances of slipping through the great forests of Anar unseen. With the unavoidable exception of Jair—and he had the magic to protect him, he kept reminding them—all were skilled professionals, trained in survival. Even Edain Elessedil had been tutored by members of the King’s Home Guard during the years he had grown to manhood. The fewer they numbered, they all agreed, the better off they would be.

  And so only six went—on foot, for the forest wilderness prevented any other form of travel—eastward from the Dwarf village into the darkened woods, following the bend of the Silver River. Browork watched them until they were lost from sight in the trees, then turned reluctantly back to Culhaven and the work that awaited him there.

  It was a clear, cool autumn day, the air sharp and still and the skies bright with sunlight. Trees shimmered in myriad hues of red, gold, and brown, leaves falling to blanket the forest earth in a soft carpet that rustled beneath the feet of the six as they marched ahead. Time slipped quickly away. Almost before they knew it, the afternoon was gone, the evening settling in across the Anar in dark shades of gray and violet, and the sun sinking slowly from view.

  The company made camp next to the Silver River in a small grove of ash, sheltered on their eastern fringe by an outcropping of rocks. Dinner was prepared and eaten, and then Garet Jax called them all together.

  “This will be our route.” It was Elb Foraker who spoke, kneeling in their midst to clear the leaves away, a broken stick tracing lines in the bare earth. “The Silver River flows thus.” He marked its passage. “We stand here. East, four days or so, is the Dwarf fortress at Capaal that protects the locks and dams on the Cillidellan. North of that, the Silver River runs down out of the High Bens and the Gnome prisons at Dun Fee Aran. Further north still lie the Ravenshorn and Graymark.”

  He looked about the little circle of faces. “If we can do so, we must follow the river all the way into Graymark. If we are forced to leave the river, the path through the Anar becomes a difficult one—all wilderness.” He paused. “Gnome armies hold everything north and east of Capaal. Once there, we will have to watch ourselves carefully.”

  “Questions?” Garet Jax glanced up.

  Slanter’s snort of derision broke the silence. “You make it seem a whole lot easier than it is,” he growled.

  “That’s why we have you along.” The Weapons Master shrugged. “Once beyond Capaal, you’ll be the one choosing the path.”

  Slanter spit disdainfully on the drawing. “If we get that far.”

  The group broke up, each member moving off to make up his bed for the night. Jair hesitated, then started after Slanter. He caught up with the Gnome on the far side of the clearing.

  “Slanter,” he called. The Gnome glanced about momentarily, saw who it was and looked away at once. Jair stepped around in front of the Gnome and faced him. “Slanter, I just want to tell you that it was not my idea to bring you with us.”

  Slanter’s eyes were hard. “It was your idea, all right.”

  Jair shook his head. “I wouldn’t force anyone to come who didn’t want to—not even you. But I’m glad you’re here. I want you to know that.”

  “How very comforting,” the Gnome mocked. “Be sure to remind the walkers of that when they have us all in their prisons!”

  “Slanter, don’t be like this. Don’t …”

  The Gnome turned away abruptly. “Leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you. I want nothing to do with any of this.” Then he glanced back suddenly, and there was a fierce determination in his eyes. “First chance I get, boy, I’ll be gone! Remember that—first chance! Now—are you still glad I’m here?”

  He whirled and stalked away. Jair stared after him helplessly, both saddened and angered by the way things had worked out between them.

  “He’s not as angry at you as he seems,” a low voice rumbled. Jair turned and found the Borderman Helt beside him, the long gentle face looking down. “He’s mostly angry at himself.”

  Jair shook his head doubtfully. “It didn’t look that way.”

  The Borderman moved over to a tree stump and sat, stretching his long legs. “Maybe not, but that’s the truth of it. The Gnome’s a tracker; I knew him in Varfleet. Trackers are not like anyone else; they’re loners, and Slanter is more alone than most. He feels trapped in this, and he wants someone to blame for that. Apparently he finds it easiest to blame you.”

  “I suppose I am to blame in a way.” The Valeman stared after the retreating Gnome.

  “No more than he himself,” the other said quietly. “He came into the Anar on his own, didn’t he?”

  Jair nodded. “But I asked him to come.”

  “Someone asked all of us to come,” Helt pointed out. “We didn’t have to come, though; we chose to come. It’s no different with the Gnome. He chose to come with you to Culhaven—probably he wanted to come. It may be that he wants to come now, but can’t admit it to himself. Maybe he’s even a little frightened by the idea.”

  Jair frowned. “Why would he be frightened of that?”

  “Because it means he cares about you. There isn’t any other reason that I can think of that he would be here.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess that I thought just the opposite from what he’s been saying—that he didn’t care about anything.”

  Helt shook his head. “No, he cares, I think. And that frightens him, too. Trackers can’t afford to care about anyone—not if they expect to stay alive.”

  Jair stared at the Borderman a moment. “You seem pretty sure about all this.”

  The big man rose. “I am. You see, I was once a tracker, too.”

  He turned and walked away into the dark. Jair stared after him, wondering what it was that had prompted the Borderman to speak, but rather grateful nevertheless that he had done so.

  Dawn broke gray and cheerless, and a mass of rolling dark clouds swept east across the morning sky. The wind blew chill and harsh out of the north, biting at their faces in fierce gusts, whistling through the skeletal limbs of the forest trees. Leaves and dirt swirled all about them as they resumed the march, and the air smelled heavily of rain.

  Jair Ohmsford walked that day in the company of Edain Elessedil. The Elven Prince joined him at the start of the journey, conversing in his loose, easy manner, telling Jair what his father the King had told him of the Ohmsfords. There was a great debt owed Wil Ohmsford, the Elven Prin
ce explained, as they bent their heads against the wind and trooped forward through the cold. If not for him, the Elven nation might have lost their war with the Demons, for it was Wil who had taken the Elven Chosen Amberle in search of the Bloodfire so that the seed of the legendary Ellcrys might be placed within its flames, then returned to the earth to be born anew.

  Jair had heard the tale a thousand times, but it was different somehow hearing it from Edain, and he welcomed the retelling. He, in his turn, recounted to the Prince his own small knowledge of the Westland, of his father’s admiration for Ander Elessedil, and of his own strong feelings for the Elven people. As they talked, a sense of kinship began to develop between them. Perhaps it was their shared Elven ancestry, perhaps simply the closeness in age. Edain Elessedil was like Rone in his conversation at times—serious and relaxed by turns, anxious to share his feelings and ideas and to hear Jair’s—and bonds of friendship were quickly formed.

  Nightfall came, and the little company took shelter beneath an overhang along a ridgeline that shadowed the Silver River. There they had their dinner and watched the sullen rush of the river as it churned past through a series of rocky drops. Rain began to fall, the sky went black, and the day faded into an unpleasant night. Jair sat back within the overhang and stared out into the dark, the fetid smell of the poisoned river reaching his nostrils. The river had grown worse since Culhaven, its waters blackened and increasingly choked with masses of dying fish and deadwood. Even the vegetation along the riverbanks had shown signs of wilting. There was a murky, depthless cast to the river, and the rain that fell in steady sheets seemed welcome, if only to help somehow wash clean the foulness that lay therein.