by Terry Brooks
“Sstupid little peopless!” the Mwellret rasped in fury. “Diess here in the prissonss!”
The hall divided before them. To the left, a gathering of Gnomes caught sight of them and charged with weapons drawn. Slanter wheeled and took the little company right. Ahead, a Gnome Hunter darted from a doorway, but Foraker bowled him over without slowing, banging the fellow’s helmeted head against the stone block walls with jarring force. Cries of pursuit rose up all about.
“Slanter!” Jair cried suddenly in warning.
Too late. The Gnome had stumbled into the midst of a swarm of armed Hunters that had burst unexpectedly from an adjoining hall. He went down in a tangle of arms and legs, crying out. Thrusting Stythys at Helt, Garet Jax went to his aid, Foraker and Edain Elessedil a step behind. Weapons glittered sharply in the gray half-light and cries of pain and anger filled the hall. The rescuers swept into the Gnomes, thrusting them back from the fallen Slanter. Garet Jax was like a cat at hunt, fluid and swift, as he parried and cut with the slender sword. The Gnomes gave way. Aided by Edain Elessedil, Slanter struggled to his feet once more.
“Slanter! Get us out of here!” Elb Foraker roared, the great, two-edged axe before him.
“Ahead!” Slanter coughed and staggered forward.
Surging through the Gnomes that still barred their way, the little company raced down the corridor, dragging the reluctant Stythys with them. Gnome Hunters sprang at them from everywhere, but they threw back the attackers with ferocious determination. Slanter went down again, tripped by the haft of a short spear thrust before him. Instantly Foraker was there, broadax hammering at the attacker and one hand dragging Slanter back up. The cries from behind them became a solid roar as hundreds of Gnomes flooded the hallway about the armory door and gave chase.
Then they were in the clear for a moment, bounding down a flight of stairs, cutting back beneath the flooring to a passageway below. A broad rotunda opened before them, its windows and doors neatly spaced about, closed and shuttered against the weather. Without slowing, Slanter wrenched open the door closest and led the little company back out into the rain.
They were in another court, walled and gated. The rain blew wildly in their faces, and thunder rolled across the High Bens. Slowing his pace, Slanter led the way across the court to the gates, pushed them open, and stepped through. An outside stairway circled downward to a line of battlements and watchtowers. Beyond, the dark shadow of the forest pressed close about the walls.
Boldly, Slanter led the company down the stairs and onto the battlements. Gnome Hunters clustered about the watchtowers now, alerted that something had happened within the fortress. Slanter ignored them. Head lowered, cloak wrapped close, he motioned the others into a passageway beneath the battlements. Within the concealment of their shadow, he gathered the company about him.
“We’re going right through the gates,” he announced, his breath ragged. “No one talks but me. Keep your hoods up and your heads down. Whatever happens, don’t stop. Quick, now!”
There was no argument, not even from Garet Jax. Cloaks drawn close and hoods in place, the company slipped from the shadows once more. With Slanter leading, they followed the battlement walls beneath the watchtower to a pair of iron-barred, open gates. A cluster of Gnome Hunters stood talking before them, heads bent against the weather, sharing a flask of ale. A head or two lifted at their approach, and Slanter waved, calling out something in the Gnome tongue that Jair could not understand. One of the Hunters drew away from his fellows and stepped out to meet them.
“Keep moving,” Slanter whispered over his shoulder.
A few scattered shouts from behind them had reached the ears of the Gnome Hunters. Startled, they looked back into the fortress to discover what had happened.
The little company marched past them without slowing. Instinctively, Jair tried to shrink down within his cloak, tensing so badly he stumbled and almost went down before Elb Foraker caught him. Slanter stepped apart from the others as they came past the watch, blocking away the eyes of the Gnome who had thought to detain them. He spoke angrily with the fellow, and Jair caught the word Mwellret in the conversation. They were clear of the Hunters now, all save Slanter, passing beneath the battlements and through the open gates. No one stopped them. As they hurried from Dun Fee Aran into the darkness of the trees, Jair slowed and looked back anxiously. Slanter still stood within the arch, arguing with the watch.
“Keep your head down!” Foraker urged, pushing him ahead.
He went into the rain-soaked forest, following reluctantly after the others, and the walls and towers of the fortress disappeared behind him. They pressed on a few minutes longer, weaving their way through the scrub and trees, Elb Foraker in the lead. Then they stopped, gathering beneath a monstrous oak, its leaves fallen and matted into the earth about it in a carpet of muddied yellow. Garet Jax backed Stythys against the gnarled trunk and held him there. They waited in silence.
The minutes slipped by. Slanter did not appear. Crouched down at the edge of the little clearing that encircled the old oak, Jair peered helplessly into the rain. The others spoke in hushed tones behind him. The rain fell steadily, spattering in noisy cadence on the earth and forest trees. Still Slanter did not appear. Jair’s mouth tightened with determination. If he did not come in the next five minutes, the Valeman was going back for him. He would not leave the Gnome—not after what Slanter had done for him.
Five minutes passed, and still Slanter did not appear. Jair rose and looked questioningly at the others, a cluster of cloaked and hooded figures in the dark and the rain.
“I’m going back,” he told them. Then a rustling noise brought him about and Slanter emerged from the trees.
“Took a bit more talking than I thought it would,” the Gnome announced. “They’ll be after us quick enough.” Then he saw the look of relief on Jair’s face and stopped. “Thinking of going somewhere, boy?” he guessed rightly.
“Well, I … no, I guess not now …” Jair stuttered.
A look of amusement spread over the Gnome’s rough face. “No? Still planning on finding your sister, aren’t you?” Jair nodded. “Good. Then you are going somewhere after all. You’re going north with the rest of us. Get moving.”
Motioning to the others, he turned into the trees. “We’ll ford the river six miles upstream to throw off any pursuit that lasts that long. River’s deep there, but I guess we can’t get much wetter than we are.”
Jair permitted himself a brief smile, then followed after the others. The peaks of the High Bens rose before them, misted and gray through the trees. Beyond, still far to the north and hidden from view, the mountains of the Ravenshorn waited. It might yet be a long way to Graymark, the Valeman thought, breathing in the cool autumn air and the smell of the rain, but for the first time since Capaal he felt certain that they were going to get there.
34
Brin spoke little on the journey back from the Grimpond to Hearthstone. She needed to sort through and decipher the meaning of all that the shade had told to her, for she knew that her confusion would only grow greater with the passage of time. Pressed by her companions to tell all that the Grimpond had told to her, she revealed only that the missing Sword of Leah was in the hands of the Spider Gnomes and that the way to enter the Maelmord without being seen was through Graymark’s sewers. After saying that much, she begged them to forbear from any further questioning until they had returned to the valley, then gave herself over to the task of reconsidering all that she had been told.
The strange image of Jair in that darkened room with the cloaked form advancing so menacingly toward him was foremost in her mind as she began the task of sorting through the puzzle given her. In spite and anger, the Grimpond had conjured up that image, and she could not believe that there was any truth in what she had been shown. The cloaked form was neither Gnome nor Mord Wraith, and those were the enemies that sought the Ohmsfords. It angered her that she had stayed to watch the image play itself out before her, teas
ing her as the Grimpond had intended that it should. Had she any sense, she would have turned away at once and not let herself be taunted. Jair was safe in the Vale with her parents and their friends. The Grimpond’s image was but a loathsome lie.
And yet she could not be entirely certain.
Unable to do anything further with that concern, she pushed it aside and turned her thoughts to the other mysteries that the Grimpond had given her. There were many. Past and present were joined in some way by the dark magic, the shade had hinted. The power that the Warlock Lord had wielded in the time of Shea Ohmsford was the power wielded in her own time by the Mord Wraiths. But there was more to the Grimpond’s meaning. There was mention of some tie between the Wars of the Races and the more recent war her father and the Westland Elves had fought against the Demons of the faerie world. There was that insidious suggestion that while the Warlock Lord had been destroyed by the magic of the Sword of Shannara, he was not really gone. “Who now gives voice to the magic and sends the Mord Wraiths forth?” the Grimpond had asked. Worst of all was the shade’s sly insistence that Allanon—who through all his years of service to the Four Lands and her people had always foreseen everything—had this time been deceived. Thinking that he saw the truth, he had let his eyes be closed. What was it the Grimpond had said? That Allanon saw only the Warlock Lord come again—that he saw only what was past.
What do you see? the shade had whispered. Are your eyes open?
Frustration welled up within her, but she brought it quickly under control. Frustration would only serve to blind her further, and she needed to keep her vision clear, if she was even to begin to comprehend the Grimpond’s words. Suppose, she reasoned, that Allanon had indeed been deceived—an assumption that was difficult for her to accept, but one that she must accept if she were to puzzle through what she had been told. In what way could that deception have been worked? It was evident enough that the Druid had been deceived in his belief that the Wraiths would not anticipate their coming into the Eastland through the Wolfsktaag or that the Wraiths could not follow them after they left the Vale. Were these deceptions only bits and pieces of some greater deceit?
Are your own eyes open? Do you see?
The words whispered again in her mind, a warning that she did not understand. Was the deception of Allanon in some way her own? She shook her head against her confusion. Reason it through, she told herself. She must assume that Allanon had been deceived somehow in his analysis of the danger that confronted them in the Maelmord. Perhaps the power of the Mord Wraiths was greater than he had supposed. Perhaps some part of the Warlock Lord had survived the Master’s destruction. Perhaps the Druid had underestimated the strength of their enemies or overestimated their own strength.
She thought then of what the Grimpond had said about her. Dark child, he had called her, doomed to die in the Maelmord, the bearer of the seeds of her own destruction. Surely that destruction would come from the magic of the wishsong—an inadequate and erratic defense against the dark magic of the walkers. The Mord Wraiths were victims of their magic. But so, too, was she, the Grimpond had said. And when she had heatedly replied that she was not like them, that she did not use the dark magic, the shade had laughed and told her that none used the magic—that the magic used them.
“There is the key to what you seek,” he had said.
That was another puzzle. It was certainly true that the magic used her as much as she used it. She remembered her anger against the men from west of Spanning Ridge at the Rooker Line Trading Center and how Allanon had shown her what the magic could do to those trees so closely intertwined. Savior and destroyer—she would be both, the shade of Bremen had warned. And now the Grimpond had warned her, too.
Cogline whispered something at her side, then danced away as Kimber Boh told him to behave. Her thoughts scattered momentarily, and she watched the old man slip into the forest wilderness, laughing and chattering like one half gone into madness. She breathed the cool afternoon air deeply, seeing the shadows of early evening beginning to slip down about the land. She found herself missing Allanon. Odd that she should, for his dark and formidable presence had been small comfort to her in the days that she had traveled with him. But there had been that strange kinship between them, that sense of understanding, and of being in some way similar…
Was it the magic they shared—the wishsong and the Druid power?
She found tears forming in her eyes as she pictured his broken form once again, slumped down within that sunlit glen, bloodied and torn. How terrible he had looked to her, stricken by impending death, his hand lifting to touch her forehead with his blood … A lonely, worn figure in her mind, steeped not so much in Druid power as in Druid guilt, he had bound himself by his father’s oath to purge the Druids of the responsibility they bore for unleashing the dark magic into the world of men.
And now that responsibility had been passed to her.
Afternoon faded into evening, and the little company passed down out of the Anar wilderness into the valley of Hearthstone. Brin ceased to puzzle over the words of the Grimpond and began to think instead of what she was to tell her companions and what she was to do with the small bit of knowledge that she had gained. Her own lot in this matter was fixed, but not so that of the others—not even Rone. If she were to tell him all that she had been told by the Grimpond, perhaps he could be persuaded to let her go on alone. If it was predetermined that she must go to her death, perhaps she could at least keep him from going to his.
An hour later they were gathered together before the fireplace in the little cottage, drawn up in covered chairs and on benches—Brin, the old man, the girl, and Rone Leah. The warmth of the flames danced off their faces as the night settled down, cold and still. Whisper slept peacefully upon his rug, his giant body stretched full-length before the fire. Invisible most of the day on their journey to and from the Grimpond, the moor cat had reappeared on their return and promptly curled up in his favorite resting spot.
“The Grimpond appeared to me in my own image,” Brin began quietly as the others listened. “It took my face and taunted me with what it said I was.”
“It plays those games,” Kimber said sympathetically. “You must not be bothered by it.”
“All lies and deceits! It is a dark and twisted thing,” Cogline whispered, his sticklike frame hunched forward. “Locked within its pool since before the loss of the old world, speaking riddles no man could hope to unravel—or woman either.”
“Grandfather,” Kimber Boh cautioned gently.
“What was it that the Grimpond had to say?” Rone wanted to know.
“What I have told you,” Brin replied. “That the Sword of Leah is in the hands of the Spider Gnomes, pulled from the waters of the Chard Rush. That the way into the Maelmord without being seen by the walkers is through the sewers of Graymark.”
“There was no deceit in this?” he pressed.
She shook her head slowly, thinking of the dark way in which she had used the wishsong’s magic. “Not in this.”
Cogline snorted. “Well, the rest was lies, I’ll wager!”
Brin turned to him. “The Grimpond said that death would come to me in the Maelmord—that I could not escape it.”
There was a hushed silence. “Lies, just as the old man says,” Rone muttered finally.
“The Grimpond said that your death awaits you there as well, Rone. It said that we both carry the seeds of that death in the magic we would wield—yours in the Sword of Leah, mine in the wishsong.”
“And you believe that nonsense?” The highlander shook his head. “Well, I don’t. I can look after the both of us.”
Brin smiled sadly. “But what if the Grimpond’s words are not lies? What if that part, too, is truth? Must I bear your death on my conscience, Rone? Will you insist on dying with me?”
Rone flushed at the rebuke. “If I must. Allanon made me your protector when I sought to be so. What manner of protector would I be if I were to abandon you now and let you
go on alone? If it is predetermined that we should die, Brin, then let that not be on your conscience. Let it be on mine.
Brin had tears in her eyes again and she swallowed hard against the feelings coursing through her.
“Girl, girl, no crying now, no crying!” Cogline was suddenly on his feet, shuffling over to where she sat. To her surprise, he reached up gently and brushed the tears away. “It’s all games with the Grimpond, all lies and half-truths. The shade predicts everyone’s death as if it were blessed with special insight. Here, here. What can a spirit thing know of death?”
He patted Brin on the shoulder, then scowled inexplicably at Rone, as if the fault were somehow his, and muttered something about dratted trespassers.
“Grandfather, we must help them,” Kimber said suddenly.
Cogline wheeled on her, bristling. “Help them? And just what is it that we’ve been doing, girl? Gathering firewood?”
“No, I don’t think that, grandfather, but …”
“But nothing!” Crooked arms gestured impatiently. “Of course we’re going to help them!”
Valegirl and highlander stared at the old man in astonishment. Cogline cackled shrilly, then kicked at the sleeping Whisper and brought the cat’s whiskered face up with a jerk. “Me and this worthless animal—we’re going to help all we can! Can’t be having tears like those! Can’t be having guests wandering all over the place with no one to show them the way!”
“Grandfather …” the girl started to interrupt, but the old man brushed her aside.
“Haven’t had a run at those Spider Gnomes for some time now, have we? Good idea to let them know that we’re still here in case they think we moved out. Up on Toffer Ridge, they’ll be—no, not this time of year. No, they’ll be down off the ridge to the moor with the season’s change at hand. That’s their ground; that’s where they’d take a sword like that if they pulled it from the river. Whisper will track it for us. Then we’ll turn east, skirt the moor, and cross to the Ravenshorn. Day or two, maybe, all told.”