The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (145 page)

He halted beside the kettle and stared down into it, trying to decide what he might do to improve the appeal of its contents. It was at that moment that he heard the approach of the horses and wagon, distant still, lost in the dark somewhere up the trail from his hut, winding uncertainly toward him. He turned and stared into the night, waiting. At his side, Drifter growled in an unfriendly manner, and the old man gave him a warning cuff. The minutes slipped away, and the sounds drew closer. Finally a line of shadows emerged from the dusk, winding down over the crest of the rise fronting the clearing—a single wagon with horses in trace and half a dozen riders in tow. The old man’s mood soured the moment he saw the wagon. He knew it well enough, knew it to be Rover, knew it to belong to that rogue Cephelo. He spat to one side with distaste and thought seriously about loosing Drifter on the bunch of them.

The riders and wagon halted just inside the fringes of the clearing. Cephelo’s dark form dismounted and came forward. When he reached the old man, the Rover’s wide-brimmed hat swept down in greeting.

“Well met, Hebel. Good evening to you.”

The old man snorted. “Cephelo. What do you want?”

Cephelo looked shocked. “Hebel, Hebel, this is no greeting for two who have done as much for one another as we. This is no greeting for men who have shared the hardships and misfortunes of humankind. Hello, now.”

The Rover took the old man’s hand and shook it firmly. Hebel neither resisted nor aided the effort.

“Ah, you look well.” Cephelo smiled disarmingly. “The high country is good for the aches and pains of age, I imagine.”

“Aches and pains of age, is it?” Hebel spat and wrinkled his nose. “What are you selling, Cephelo—some cure-all for the infirm?”

Cephelo glanced back at those who had come with him and shrugged apologetically. “You are most unkind, Hebel, most unkind.”

The old man followed his gaze. “What have you done with the rest of your pack? Have they taken up with some other thief?”

This time the Rover’s face darkened slightly. “I have sent them on ahead. They follow the main roadway east to await my coming in the Tirfing. I am here with these few on a matter of some importance. Might we talk a bit?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Hebel pointed out. “Talk all you want.”

“And share your fire?”

Hebel shrugged. “I don’t have the food to feed you all—wouldn’t if I did. Maybe you brought something with you, huh?”

Cephelo gave an exaggerated sigh. “We did. Tonight you shall share our dinner.”

He called back to the others. The riders dismounted and began caring for the horses. An old woman had been driving the wagon in the company of a young couple. She climbed down now, removed provisions and cook-ware from the rear of the wagon, and shuffled wordlessly to the cooking fire. The two who sat with her hesitated momentarily, then came forward at Cephelo’s invitation. They were joined by a slim, dark-haired girl who had been one of the riders.

Hebel turned away wordlessly and reseated himself in the rocker. There was something peculiar about the two who had come down off the wagon seat, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was. They looked like Rovers and yet at the same time they didn’t. He watched them approach with Cephelo and the dark-haired girl. All four seated themselves on the grass about the old man—the dark-haired girl slipping suggestively close to the young man and giving him a bold wink.

“My daughter, Eretria.” Cephelo shot the girl an irritated look as he introduced her. “These two are Elves.”

“I’m not blind,” Hebel snapped, recognizing now why they appeared to be something more than Rovers. “What are they doing with you?”

“We have undertaken a quest,” the Rover announced.

Hebel leaned forward. “A quest? With you?” He glanced at the young man, his aged face wrinkling. “You seem like a bright sort. What made you decide to take up with him?”

“He requires a guide through this miserable country,” Cephelo answered for him—rather too quickly, Hebel thought. “Why is it, Hebel, that you insist on making this forsaken wilderness your home? One day I’ll pass by and find your bones, old man, and all because you were too stubborn to take your worthless hide to safer regions.”

“Much you’d care,” Hebel grunted. “For a man such as myself, this land is as safe as any other. I know it, know what walks and breathes and hunts it, know how to keep my distance and when to show my teeth. I’ll outlive you, Rover—mark my words on that.” He pushed back in the rocker, watching Drifter’s dark shadow settle in behind him. “What do you want with me?”

Cephelo shrugged. “A bit of talk, just as I’ve said.”

Hebel laughed hoarsely. “A bit of talk? Come now, Cephelo—what do you want? Don’t waste my time—there isn’t that much of it left.”

“For myself, nothing. For these young Elflings, something of the knowledge stored in that balding old pate. It has taken me a great deal of effort to reach you up here, but there are causes that merit special …”

Hebel had heard enough. “What are you cooking over there?” He
allowed himself to be distracted by the smell of the food simmering in the cooking kettle. “What’s in there?”

“How should I know?” Cephelo snapped, irritated by the old man’s seeming inattention.

“Beef, I think. Beef and vegetables.” Hebel rubbed his weathered hands. “I think we should eat before we talk. Got some of that Rover ale with you, Cephelo?”

So they ate plates of stew, day-old bread, dried fruit, and nuts, with glasses of ale to wash it all down. Not much was said while they ate, though a considerable number of glances were exchanged, and those glances told Hebel a good deal more about the situation than whatever words his visitors might have spoken. The Elves, he decided, were there because they had run out of choices in the matter. They cared nothing more for Cephelo and his band than he did. Cephelo, of course, was there because there was something in all of this for him, but what that might be would undoubtedly be kept carefully concealed. It was the dark-haired girl, the Rover’s daughter, who puzzled him most. The way she looked at that Elf lad told him something of what she was about, yet there was more to her than that, more than she was willing to let on. The old man grew increasingly curious as to what it might be.

At last the food was gone and the ale was drunk. Hebel produced a long pipe, struck flint and tinder to its contents, and puffed a broad wreath of smoke into the night air. Cephelo tried again.

“This young Elf and his sister need your help. They have already come a long way, but they won’t be able to go any further if you don’t give them that help. I told them, of course, that you would.”

The old man snorted. He knew this game. “Don’t like Elves. They think they’re too good for this country, for people like me.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t like Rovers either, as you well know. Like them even less than Elves.”

Eretria smirked. “There seems to be a lot you don’t like.”

“Shut your mouth!” Cephelo snapped, his face darkening. Eretria went still and Hebel saw the anger in her eyes.

He chuckled softly. “I don’t blame you, girl.” He looked at Cephelo. “What will you give me if I help the Elflings, Rover? An even trade now, if you want what I know.”

Cephelo glowered. “Do not try my patience too severely, Hebel.”

“Ha! Will you cut my throat? See what words you find then! Now speak again—what will you give me?”

“Clothes, bedding, leather, silk—I don’t care.” The Rover brushed aside the question stiffly.

“I got all that.” Hebel spat.

Cephelo controlled himself only with a monumental effort. “Well, what is it that you want, then? Speak up, old man!”

From behind the rocker, Drifter growled in warning. Hebel reached back and gave the dog a cuff.

“Knives,” he announced. “Half a dozen good blades. An axe head and wedges. Two dozen arrows, ashwood and feathered. And a cutting stone.”

The big man nodded, looking less than pleased. “Done, thief. Now give me something back for all that.”

Hebel shrugged. “What is it you want to know?”

Cephelo pointed at the young man. “The Elfling is a Healer. He looks for a root that produces a rare medicine. His books of healing say that it can be found here, within the Wilderun, in a place called Safehold.”

There was a long moment of silence as the Rover and the old man stared at each other and the others waited.

“Well?” Cephelo demanded finally.

“Well what?” the old man snapped.

“Safehold! Where is it?”

Hebel grinned crookedly. “Right where it’s always been, I imagine.” He saw the surprise in the other’s face. “I know the name, Rover. An old name, forgotten by everyone but me, I’d guess. Tombs of some sort—catacombs beneath a mountain.”

“That’s it!” The young man came to his feet, his face flushed. Then he saw that everyone was staring at him and he sat down again quickly. “At least that is the way that the books described it,” he added lamely.

“Did they now?” Hebel rocked back, puffing. “Did they speak as well of the Hollows?”

The young man shook his head and glanced at the Elf girl, who shook her head as well. It was Cephelo who leaned forward sharply, his eyes narrowing.

“You mean that Safehold lies within the Hollows, old man?”

There was an edge to Cephelo’s voice that did not escape Hebel. Cephelo was frightened.

Hebel chuckled. “Within the Hollows. Do you still seek Safehold, Rover?”

The young man hunched forward. “Where can the Hollows be found?”

“South, a day’s walk,” the old man answered. It was time to put an end to this foolishness. “Deep and dark they are, Elfling—a pit in which anything that drops falls from sight and is lost forever. Death, Elfling. Nothing that goes into the Hollows comes out again. Those who live there choose to keep it so.”

The young man shook his head. “I do not understand.”

Eretria muttered something under her breath, her eyes darting quickly to
the face of the young Elf. She knew, Hebel saw. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“The Witch Sisters, Elfling. Morag and Mallenroh. The Hollows belong to them and to the things they make to serve them—things of Witch power.”

“But where within the Hollows lies Safehold?” the other persisted. “You spoke of a mountain …?”

“Spire’s Reach—a solitary peak that rises up out of the Hollows like an arm stretched forth from death’s grave. There lies Safehold.” The old man paused, shrugging. “Or so it was once. I have not been to the Hollows myself in many, many years.” He shook his head. “No one goes there anymore.”

The young man nodded slowly. “Tell me something of these Witch Sisters.”

Hebel’s eyes narrowed. “Morag and Mallenroh—the last of their kind. Once, Elfling, there were many such as they—now there are but two. Some say they were the handmaidens of the Warlock Lord. Some say they were here long before even he. Power to match that of the Druids, some say.” He spread his hands. “The truth is hidden with them—seek it if you wish. The loss of another Elf, more or less, means nothing to me.”

He laughed sharply, choking a bit until he lifted his cup and drank down a swallow or two of ale. His thin frame bent forward as he sought the young man’s eyes.

“Sisters, they are, Morag and Mallenroh. Blood sisters. But there is a great hate between them, a hate from some wrong suffered long ago—real or imagined I could not say, nor anyone else I’d guess. But they war within the Hollows, Elfling—Morag holds the east, Mallenroh the west, each trying to destroy the other, each trying to seize for herself her sister’s land and power. And at the center of the Hollows, just between the two, stands Spire’s Reach—and there, Safehold.”

“Have you seen Safehold?”

“I? Not I. The Hollows belong to the Sisters; the valley is room enough for me.” Hebel rocked back, remembering. “Once, so many years ago that I no longer care to count, I hunted along the rim of the Hollows. Foolish it was, but I was still of a mind to know the whole of the land that I had chosen for my home, and the stories were but stories. For days I hunted within the shadow of the Hollows, seeing nothing. Then one night as I slept, alone but for the dimming embers of my campfire, she came to me—Mallenroh, tall and like some creature from a dream, gray hair long and woven with nightshade, her face the face of Mistress Death. She came to me, told me she felt the need to speak to one of human blood, one such as I. All the rest of the night she talked and told me of herself and her sister
Morag and of the war they fought to own the Hollows.”

He was lost in the memory now, his voice distant and soft. “In the morning she was gone, almost as if she had never been. I never saw her again, of course, not from that moment to this. I might have thought it all imagined, not real at all, except that she took some part of me with her—some bit of life I’d suppose you’d say.”

He shook his head slowly. “Most of what she told me scattered like the fragments of some dream. But I remember her words of Safehold, Elfling. Catacombs beneath the arm of Spire’s Reach, she said. A place from another age where some strange magic had once been done. So old it was that even the Sisters did not know its meaning. She told me that, did Mallenroh. I remember … that much, at least.”

He was silent then, thinking back on what had been. Even after all these years, the memory of her was as clear as the faces of those who sat about him. Mallenroh! Strange, he thought, that he should remember her so well.

The young man was speaking quietly, his hand touching the edge of the rocker.

“You remember enough, Hebel.”

The old man looked at the Elf in surprise, not understanding. Then he saw in the other’s eyes what he intended. He meant to go there, Hebel realized. He meant to go into the Hollows. Impulsively he leaned down.

“Do not go,” he whispered, his head shaking slowly. “Do not go.”

The young man smiled faintly. “I must, if Cephelo is to have his reward.”

The Rover said nothing, his dark face inscrutable. Eretria glanced sharply at him, then turned back to the young man.

“Healer, do not do this,” she begged. “Listen to what the old man has said. The Hollows are no place for you. Seek your medicine elsewhere.”