The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (179 page)

Still smiling, he retrieved a blanket from the far side of the clearing, brought it over to Jair and wrapped it about him, tucking in the corners where the ropes bound him to the tree so that it would stay fixed. Then he walked over to the fire and kicked it out. In the faint glow of the embers, Jair could see his stocky form as it moved off into the dark.

“Ah, me—reduced to chasing down Valemen,” the Gnome muttered. “Waste of talent. Not even a Dwarf! At least they could give me a Dwarf to track. Or the Druid again. Bah! Druid’s gone back to help the Dwarves and here I sit, watching this boy  . . .”

He muttered on a bit more, most of it unintelligible, and then his voice faded away entirely.

Jair Ohmsford sat alone in the dark and wondered what he was going to do when morning came.

He slept poorly that night, cramped and bruised by the ropes that bound him, haunted by the specter of what lay ahead. Considered from any point of view, his future appeared bleak. He could expect no help from his friends; after all, no one knew where he was. His parents and Brin, Rone, and Allanon all thought him safely housed at the inn at Shady Vale. Nor could he reasonably anticipate much consideration from his captors. Slanter’s reassurances notwithstanding, he did not expect to be released, no matter how many questions he answered. After all, how would he answer questions about the magic? Slanter clearly thought it something he had been taught. Once the Gnomes learned it was not an acquired skill, but a talent he had been born with, they would want to know more. They would take him to the Eastland, to the Mord Wraiths  . . .

So the night hours passed. He dozed at times, his weariness overcoming his discomfort and his worry—yet never for very long. Then finally, toward morning, exhaustion overtook him, and at last he drifted off to sleep.

It was not yet dawn when Slanter shook him roughly awake.

“Get up,” the Gnome ordered. “The others are here.”

Jair’s eyes blinked open, squinting into the predawn gray that shrouded the highland forest. The air was chill and damp, even with the blanket still wrapped about his body, and a fine fall mist clung about the dark trunks of the fir. It was deathly still, the forest life not yet come awake. Slanter bent over him, loosing the ropes that bound him to the tree. There were no other Gnomes in sight.

“Where are they?” he asked as the gag was slipped from his mouth.

“Close. A hundred yards down the slope.” Slanter gripped the Valeman’s tunic front and hauled him to his feet. “No games now. Keep the magic to yourself. I’ve let you loose from the tree so that you might look the part of a man, but I’ll strap you back again if you cross me. Understand?”

Jair nodded quickly. Ropes still bound his hands and feet, and his limbs were so badly cramped he could barely manage to stand. He stood with his back against the fir, the muscles of his body aching and stiff. Even if he could manage to break free, he couldn’t run far like this. His mind was dizzy with fatigue and sudden fear as he waited for his strength to return. Answer the questions, Slanter had advised. Don’t be foolish. But what answers could he give? What answers would they accept?

Then abruptly a line of shadowy figures materialized from out of the gloom, trudging heavily through the forest trees. Two, three, half a dozen, eight—Jair watched as one by one they appeared through the mist, bulky forms wrapped in woolen forest cloaks. Gnomes—rugged yellow features glimpsed from within hoods drawn close, thick-fingered hands clasping spears and cudgels. Not a word passed their lips as they filed into the clearing, but sharp eyes fixed on the captive Valeman and there was no friendliness in their gaze.

“This him?”

The speaker stood at the forefront of the others. He was powerfully built, his body corded with muscle, his chest massive. He thrust the butt of his cudgel into the forest earth, gripping it with scarred, gnarled fingers, twisting it slowly.

“Well, is it?”

The Gnome glanced briefly at Slanter. Slanter nodded. The Gnome let his gaze shift back to Jair. Slowly he pulled clear the hood of his forest cloak. Rough, broken features dominated his broad face. Cruel eyes studied the Valeman dispassionately, probing.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

“Jair Ohmsford,” Jair answered at once.

“What was the Druid doing at your home?”

Jair hesitated, trying to decide what he should say. Something unpleasant flickered in the Gnome’s eyes. With a sudden snap of his hands he brought the cudgel about, sweeping the Valeman’s feet from beneath him. Jair fell hard, the breath knocked from his body. The Gnome stood over him silently, then reached down, seized the front of his tunic and pulled him back to his feet.

“What was the Druid doing in your home?”

Jair swallowed, trying to hide his fear. “He came to find my father,” he lied.

“Why?”

“My father is the holder of Elfstones. Allanon will use them as a weapon against the Mord Wraiths.”

There was an endless moment of silence. Jair did not even breathe. If Slanter had found the Elfstones in his tunic, the lie was already discovered and he was finished. He waited, eyes fixed on the Gnome.

“Where are they now, the Druid and your father?” the other said finally.

Jair exhaled. “Gone east.” He hesitated, then added, “My mother and sister are visiting in the villages south of the Vale. I was supposed to wait at the inn for their return.”

The Gnome grunted noncommittally. I’ve got to try to protect them, Jair thought. Spilk was watching him carefully. He did not look away. You can’t tell that I’m lying, he thought. You can’t.

Then a gnarled finger lifted from the cudgel. “Do you do magic?”

“I  . . .” Jair glanced at the dark faces about him.

The cudgel came up, a quick, sharp blow that caught Jair across the knees, throwing him to the earth once more. The Gnome smiled, eyes hard. He yanked Jair back to his feet.

“Answer me—do you do magic?”

Jair nodded wordlessly, mute with pain. He could barely stand.

“Show me,” the Gnome ordered.

“Spilk.” Slanter’s voice broke softly through the sudden silence. “You might want to reconsider that request.”

Spilk glanced briefly at Slanter, then dismissed him. His eyes returned to Jair. “Show me.”

Jair hesitated. Again the cudgel came up. Even though Jair was ready this time, he could not move fast enough to avoid the blow. It caught him alongside the face. Pain exploded in his head, and tears flooded his eyes. He dropped to his knees, but Spilk’s thick hands knotted in his tunic and once more he was hauled to his feet.

“Show me!” the Gnome demanded.

Then anger flooded through Jair—anger so intense that it burned. He gave no thought to what he did next; he simply acted. A quick, muted cry broke from his lips and turned abruptly to a frightening hiss. Instantly Spilk was covered with huge gray spiders. The Gnome Sedt shrieked in dismay, tearing frantically at the great hairy insects, falling back from Jair. The Gnomes behind him scattered, spears and cudgels hammering downward as they sought to keep the spiders from their own bodies. The Sedt went down under a flurry of blows, thrashing upon the forest earth, trying to dislodge the terrible things that clung so tenaciously to him, his cries filling the morning air.

Jair sang a moment longer and then quit. Had he not been bound hand and foot or had he not been dizzy still from the blows struck by Spilk, he would have taken advantage of the confusion the wishsong’s use had created to attempt an escape. But Slanter had made certain he could not run. As the anger left him he grew silent.

For a few seconds Spilk continued to roll upon the ground, tearing at himself. Then abruptly he realized that the spiders were gone. Slowly he came to his knees, his breathing harsh and ragged, his battered face twisting until his eyes found Jair. He surged to his feet with a howl and threw himself at the Valeman, gnarled hands reaching. Jair stumbled back, his legs tangling in the ropes. In the next instant, the Gnome was atop him, fists hammering wildly. Dozens of blows struck Jair’s head and face, seemingly all at once. Pain and shock washed through him.

Then everything went black.

He came awake again only moments later. Slanter knelt next to him, dabbing at his face with a cloth soaked in cold water. The water stung, and he jerked sharply at its touch.

“You got more sand than brains, boy,” the Gnome whispered, bending close. “You all right?”

Jair nodded, reaching up to touch his face experimentally. Slanter knocked his hand away.

“Leave it be.” He dabbed a few more times with the cloth, then allowed a faint grin to cross his rough face. “Scared old Spilk half to death, you did. Half to death!”

Jair glanced past Slanter to where the remainder of the patrol huddled at the far side of the clearing, eyes darting watchfully in his direction. Spilk stood apart from everyone, his face black with anger.

“Had to pull him off you myself,” Slanter was saying. “Would have killed you otherwise. Would have beat your head in.”

“He asked me to show him the magic,” Jair muttered, swallowing hard. “So I did.”

The thought clearly amused the Gnome, and he permitted himself another faint smile, carefully averting his face from the Sedt. Then he put his arm about Jair’s shoulders and raised him to a sitting position. Pouring a short ration of ale from the container at his waist, he gave the Valeman a drink. Jair accepted the ale, swallowing and choking as it burned clear down to his stomach.

“Better?”

“Better,” Jair agreed.

“Then listen.” The smile was gone. “I’ve got to gag you again. You’re in my care now—the others won’t have anything to do with you. You’re to be kept bound and gagged except for meals. So behave. It’s a long journey.”

“A long journey to where?” Jair did not bother to conceal the alarm in his eyes.

“East. The Anar. You’re to be taken to the Mord Wraiths. Spilk’s decided. He wants them to have a look at your magic.” The Gnome shook his head solemnly. “Sorry, but there’s no help for it. Not after what you did.”

Before Jair could say anything, Slanter shoved the gag back into his mouth. Then, loosing the ties that bound Jair’s ankles, he pulled the Valeman to his feet. Producing a short length of rope, he looped one end through Jair’s belt and tied the other end to his own.

“Spilk,” he called over to the other.

The Gnome Sedt turned wordlessly and started off into the forest. The remainder of the patrol followed after.

“Sorry, boy,” Slanter repeated.

Together, they walked from the clearing into the early morning mist.

A
ll that day, the Gnomes marched Jair north through the wooded hill country bordering the western perimeter of Leah. Embracing the shelter of the trees, forsaking the more accessible roadways that crisscrossed the highlands, they kept to themselves and to their purpose. It was a long, exhausting trek for the Valeman, made no less difficult by the way in which he was secured, for his bonds cut into and cramped his body with every step. His discomfort might not have gone unnoticed, but it went unrelieved. Nor did his captors evidence the slightest concern for the toll that the pace of their march was extracting from him. Rugged, hardened veterans of the border wars of the deep Eastland, they were accustomed to forced marches through the worst kind of country and under the least favorable of conditions—marches that at times lasted several days. Jair was fit, but he was no match for these men.

By nightfall, when they at last arrived on the shores of the Rainbow Lake and made their way down to a secluded cove to set their camp, Jair could barely walk. Bound once again to a tree, given a quick meal and a few swallows of ale, he was asleep in minutes.

The following day passed in similar fashion. Awake at sunrise, the Gnomes took him east along the shores of the lake, skirting the northern highlands that they might reach the concealment of the Black Oaks. Three times that day, the Gnomes paused to rest—once at midmorning, again at midday and a final time at midafternoon. The remainder of the day, they walked and Jair walked with them, his body aching, his feet blistered and raw. Pushed to the limit of his endurance, he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter, even for a moment. Determination gave him strength, and he kept pace.

All the time they marched him through the highlands, he thought about escape. It never entered his mind that he wouldn’t escape; it was only a question of when. He even knew how he would manage it. That part was easy. He would simply make himself invisible to them. That was something they wouldn’t be looking for—not so long as they thought his magic limited to creating imaginary spiders and snakes. They didn’t understand that he could do other things as well. Sooner or later he would be given the opportunity. They would free him just long enough so that he could make use of the magic one more time. Just a moment was all that he would need. Like that, he would be gone. The certainty of it burned bright within him.

There was added incentive now for his need to escape. Slanter had told him that the walker that had come into the Vale with the Gnome patrol had gone east again in search of Allanon. But how was Allanon to know that the Mord Wraith tracked him? There was only Jair to warn him, and the Valeman knew he must find a way to do so.

His plans for escape were still foremost in his thoughts when, later that afternoon, they passed into the Black Oaks. The great dark trunks rose—about them like a wall. In moments the sun was screened away. They traveled deep into the forest, following a pathway that ran parallel to the shoreline of the lake, winding their way steadily eastward into dusk. It was cooler here, deep and silent within these trees. Like a cave opening downward into the earth, the forest took them in and swallowed them up.

By sundown, the highlands were far behind. Camped within a small clearing sheltered by the oaks and along ridgeline that dropped away northward to the water’s edge, the Valeman sat back against a moss-grown trunk a dozen times his girth—bound and gagged still—and watched Slanter scoop meat stew from a kettle that simmered over a small cooking fire. Weary and discomfited, Jair nevertheless found himself studying the Gnome, pondering the contradictions he saw in the tracker’s character. For two days he had had ample opportunity to observe Slanter, and he was as puzzled by the Gnome now as he had been when he had first conversed with him that night following his capture. What sort of fellow was he? True, he was a Gnome—yet at the same time, he didn’t seem like a Gnome. Certainly he wasn’t an Eastland Gnome. He wasn’t like these Gnomes he traveled with. Even they seemed to sense that much. Jair could see it in their behavior toward him. They tolerated him, but they also avoided him. And Slanter had acknowledged that to Jair. He was as much an outsider in his own way as the Valeman. But it was more than that. There was something in the Gnome’s character that set him apart from the others—an attitude, perhaps, an intelligence. He was smarter than they. And that was due most probably to the fact that he had done what they had not. A skilled tracker, a traveler of the Four Lands, he was a Gnome who had broken the traditions of his people and gone out of the homeland. He had seen things they had not. He understood things they could not. He had learned.

Yet in spite of all that, he was here. Why?

Slanter ambled over from the fire with a plate of stew in one hand and squatted down beside him. Loosing the gag so that his mouth was clear, the Gnome began to feed him.

“Doesn’t taste too bad, does it?” The dark eyes watched him.

“No—tastes good.”

“You can have more if you want.” Slanter stirred the stew on the plate absently. “How do you feel?”

Jair met his gaze squarely. “I hurt everywhere.”

“Feet?”

“Especially the feet.”

The Gnome set down the stew. “Here, let me have a look.”

He pulled free the Valeman’s boots and stockings and examined the blistered feet, shaking his head slowly. Then he reached over into his pack and pulled free a small tin. Loosening its cap, he dipped his fingers in and extracted a reddish salve. Slowly he began rubbing it into the open wounds. The salve was cool and eased the pain.

“Should take away some of the sting, help toughen the skin when you walk,” he said. He rubbed on some more, glanced up momentarily, his rough yellow face creasing with a sad smile, and then looked down again. “Tough sort of nut, aren’t you?”

Jair didn’t say anything. He watched the Gnome finish applying the salve, then resumed his meal. He was hungry and had two plates of the stew.

“Take a drink of this.” Slanter held the ale container to his lips when the food was gone. He took several swallows, grimacing. “You don’t know what’s good for you,” the Gnome told him.

“Not that stuff.” Jair scowled.

Slanter sat back on his heels. “I heard something a little while ago I think you ought to know. It’s not good news for you.” He paused, glancing casually over his shoulder. “We’re to meet with a walker the other side of the Oaks. There’ll be one waiting for us. Spilk said so.”

Jair went cold. “How does he know that?”

Slanter shrugged. “Prearranged meet, I guess. Anyway, I thought you should know. We’ll be through the Oaks tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Jair felt his hopes fade instantly. How could he escape by tomorrow? That wasn’t enough time! He had thought he would have at least a week and maybe more before they reached the deep Anar and the Mord Wraiths’ stronghold. But tomorrow? What was he going to do?

Slanter watched him as if reading his thoughts. “I’m sorry, boy. I don’t care for it either.”

Jair’s eyes shifted to meet his, and he tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “Then why don’t you let me go?”

“Let you go?” Slanter laughed tonelessly. “You’re forgetting who’s with whom, aren’t you?”

He took a long swallow from the ale pouch and sighed. Jair leaned forward. “Why are you with them, Slanter? You’re not like them. You don’t belong with them. You don’t . . .”

“Boy!” The Gnome cut him off sharply. “Boy, you don’t know anything at all about me! Nothing! So don’t be telling me who I’m like and who I belong with! Just look after yourself!”

There was a long silence. In the center of the clearing, the other Gnomes were gathered about the fire, drinking ale from a heavy leather jug. Jair could see the glitter of their sharp eyes as they glanced in his direction from time to time. He could see the suspicion and fear mirrored there.

“You’re not like them,” he repeated softly.

“Maybe,” Slanter agreed suddenly, staring off into the dark. “But I know enough not to cut against the grain. There’s a change in the wind. It’s shifted about and it’s blowing straight out of the east, and everything in its path will be swept away. Everything! You don’t begin to see the half of it. The Mord Wraiths are power like nothing I’d ever imagined, and the whole of the Eastland belongs to them. But that’s only today. Tomorrow . . .” He shook his head slowly. “This is no time for a Gnome to be anything other than a Gnome.”

He drank again of the ale, then offered it to Jair. The Valeman shook his head. His mind worked frantically.

“Slanter, would you do me a favor?” he asked.

“Depends.”

“Would you take the ropes off my arms and hands for a few minutes?” The Gnome’s black eyes narrowed. “I just want to rub them a bit, try to get some feeling back. I’ve had the ropes on for two days now. I can barely feel my fingers. Please—I give you my word I won’t try to escape. I won’t use the magic.”

Slanter studied him. “Your word’s been pretty good until now.”

“It’s still good. You can leave my legs and feet bound if you like. Just give me a moment.”

Slanter kept looking at him for a few minutes longer, then nodded. Moving forward, he knelt beside the Valeman, then loosened the knots that secured the ropes about his arms and wrists and let them fall slack. Gingerly Jair began to massage himself, rubbing first his hands, then his wrists, his arms, and finally his body. In the darkness before him, he saw the glint of a knife in Slanter’s hand. He kept his eyes lowered and his thoughts hidden. Slowly he worked, all the while thinking, don’t let him guess, don’t let him see . .

“That’s enough.” Slanter’s voice was gruff and sudden, and he drew the ropes tight again. Jair sat quietly, offering no resistance. When the ropes had again been secured, Slanter moved back in front of him.

“Better?”

“Better,” he said quietly.

The Gnome nodded. “Time to get some sleep.” He drank one time more from the ale pouch, then bent forward to test the bonds. “Sorry about the way this thing’s worked out, boy. I don’t like it any better than you do.”

“Then help me escape,” Jair pleaded, his voice a whisper. Slanter stared at him wordlessly, blunt features expressionless. Gently he placed the gag back in Jair’s mouth and rose.

“Wish you and I had never met,” he murmured. Then he turned and walked away.

In the darkness, Jair let himself go limp against the oak. Tomorrow. One day more, and then the Mord Wraiths would have him. He shuddered. He had to escape before then. Somehow, he had to find a way.

He breathed the cool night air deeply. At least he knew one thing now that he hadn’t known before—one very important thing. Slanter hadn’t suspected. He had permitted Jair those few moments of freedom from the ropes—time to rub life back into his limbs and body, time to relieve them just a bit of the ache and discomfort.

Time to discover that he still retained possession of the Elfstones.

Too swift, it seemed, the morning came, dawn breaking gray and hard within the gloom of the Black Oaks. For the third day, the Gnomes marched Jair east. The warming touch of the sun was screened away by banks of storm clouds that rolled down from out of the north. A wind blew harsh and quick through the trees, chill with the promise of winter’s coming. Wrapped in their short cloaks, the Gnomes bent their heads against the swirl of silt and leaves and trudged ahead.

How can I escape?

How?

The question repeated itself over and over in the Valeman’s mind as he worked to keep pace with his captors. Each step marked the passing of the seconds that remained, the minutes, the hours. Each step took him closer to the Mord Wraith. This one day was all the time he had left. Somehow during the day he must find an opportunity to get free of his restraints long enough to utilize the wishsong. A single moment was all it would take.

Yet that moment might never come. He had not doubted that it would—until now. But the time slipped so fast from him! It was nearing midmorning, and already they had been on the march for several hours. Silently he berated himself for not seizing the opportunity Slanter had presented him with the night before when he had agreed to free him from his bonds. There had been time enough then to escape his captors. A few seconds to freeze them where they stood, covered with something so loathsome they could think of nothing else as he worked loose the bindings about his ankles, then a few seconds more to shift the pitch of his voice to hide him from their sight, and he would have been gone. Dangerous, yes, but he could have done it—except, of course, that he had given his word. What difference, if that word had been broken when it was given to a Gnome?

He sighed. It did make a difference somehow. Even with a Gnome, his word was still his word, and it meant something when he gave it. One’s word was a matter of honor. It was not a thing that could be bandied about when convenient or slipped on and off like clothing to match changes in the weather. If he went back on it even once, that opened the door to a flood of excuses for going back on it every time thereafter.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he could have done that to Slanter, Gnome or not. It was strange, but he had developed a certain attachment for the fellow. He wouldn’t have described it as affection exactly. Respect was more like it. Or maybe he just saw something of himself in the Gnome because they were both rather different sorts. In any case, he didn’t think he could have made himself trick Slanter like that, even to escape whatever it was that lay ahead.