The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (186 page)

Brin shrank back against the iron doors. This was the tower of the Keep that guarded the sanctuary of the Druids. Those who had once come with Shea Ohmsford from Culhaven had believed it contained the Sword of Shannara. A monstrous thing, it had the feel of a giant’s well made to bore through the whole of the earth.

Rone Leah took a step toward the edge of the landing, but Allanon pulled him back instantly. “Stand away, highlander!” he whispered darkly.

Without, the shouts and cries rose louder, and the running of feet scattered all about. Allanon started up the narrow stairs, his back to the tower wall.

“Stay clear of me!” he whispered down at them.

After a dozen steps, he moved to the stairway’s edge. Lean hands lifted from within the black robes, fingers curling. Words slipped from his lips that Valegirl and highlander could not understand, low and muted with rage.

From within the pit of the tower, a sharp hiss sounded in response.

The Druid’s hands lowered slowly, his fingers crooked like claws and his palms downward. Steam leaked from the corners of the hard mouth, from eyes and ears, and from the stone on which he stood. Brin and Rone stared in horror. Below, the pit hissed again.

Then the blue fire exploded from Allanon’s hands, a huge burst of flame that flew downward into the blackness. Trailing sparks, it flared sharply far below, turned a sudden wicked green in color, and died.

The tower went suddenly still. Beyond the iron doors, the shouts of alarm and the thudding of feet sounded, faint and chaotic, but within the tower there were no sounds. Allanon sagged backward against the wall, his arms clutched tightly about his body and his head lowered as if in pain. The steam that had come from within him was gone, but the stone on which he stood and against which he leaned looked charred.

Then once more the pit hissed, and this time the tower itself shuddered with the sound.

“Look into its throat!” Allanon’s voice was harsh.

Highlander and Valegirl peered downward from the edge of the landing into the pit. Deep within, a rolling green mist was stirring like liquid fire against the wails of the tower. The hiss it gave forth was like a voice, eerie and filled with hate. Slowly the mist fastened to the walls, weaving through the stone as if it were water. Slowly the mist began to climb.

“It’s coming out!” Rone whispered.

The mist began to claw its way up the stone block walls like a thing alive. Foot by foot, it hauled itself closer to where they stood.

Now Allanon was beside them once more, pulling them away from the edge of the landing, drawing their faces close to his own. His dark eyes glinted like fire.

“Flee, now!” he ordered. “Don’t look back. Don’t turn aside. Flee from the Keep and from this mountain!”

Then he threw open the tower doors with a mighty thrust and stepped out into the halls of the Keep. There were Gnome Hunters everywhere, and they turned at his appearance, their rough yellow faces frozen with surprise. Blue fire burst from the Druid’s outstretched hands and burned into them, flinging them back like leaves caught in a sudden wind. Screams rose from their throats as the fire caught them, and they scattered in terror from this dark avenger. One of the Mord Wraiths appeared, a black and faceless thing within its robes. Blue fire swept into it with stunning force as the Druid wheeled on it, and an instant later it was ash.

“Run!” Allanon called back to where Brin and Rone stood frozen within the empty doorway.

Quickly they followed after him, sprinting past the Gnomes that lay fallen across their path, racing through the smoky torchlight toward the passages that had brought them. The halls stayed empty for only a moment. Then the Gnomes reappeared, counterattacking, a solid wedge of armored yellow forms howling in anger, spears and short swords bristling from their midst. Allanon broke apart the assault with a single burst of the Druid fire, clearing the way. A second group surged at them from a cross corridor as they tried to push past, and Rone turned, the Sword of Leah lifted. Sounding the battle cry of his homeland as the Gnomes came at him, he launched himself into their midst.

Behind them, another Wraith appeared, and ahead still another. Red fire burst from their black hands, arcing toward Allanon, but the Druid blocked the assault with fire of his own. Flames scattered everywhere in a wild shower, and walls and tapestries began to burn. Brin shrank back against one wall, shielding her eyes, Rone and Allanon on either side of where she crouched. Gnomes came at them from every direction, and now there were more Wraiths as well, silent black monsters that lifted out of the dark and struck at them. Rone Leah broke off the battle with the Gnomes and sprang at one who had ventured too close. Down came the ebony blade of the Sword of Leah and shattered the Wraith into fragments of ash. Flames burned his own body from attacks all about him, but he shrugged them aside, the black blade absorbing the brunt of their force. With a howl of anger, he fought his way back to where Brin hunched down beside the wail. A fierce exhilaration lit his face, and lines of mist green swirled wildly within the black metal of the sword. Seizing her arm, he brought her to her feet and propelled her ahead. There Allanon battled to gain the door they had come through from the catacombs, his black form towering out of smoke, fire, and struggling bodies like death’s shadow come to life.

“Through the door, highlander!” the Druid roared, flinging his attackers from his side as they fought to pull him down.

A sudden explosion of red fire engulfed them all, stunning them with its force. Allanon turned, and the Druid fire thrust from his own hands, a solid blue wall that shielded them momentarily from those who came after. Somehow they were through the Mord Wraiths’ fire then, racing past a few scattered Gnomes who sought vainly to prevent their escape. Cries and screams echoed through the Druid’s Keep as they reached the door they sought. They had it open an instant later and were safely through.

Sudden darkness closed about them like a shroud. The howls of their attackers faded momentarily behind the door through which they had come. Snatching up the discarded torches, Allanon quickly relighted them and the three companions began a race back through the catacombs. Down through passageways and stairwells they sped. Behind them, the cries of the pursuit grew strident once more, but the way ahead was clear now. They rushed downward into the furnace room once more, past earth’s fire and the rumble of machinery, to where the stairs took them deep into the mountain’s core. Still no one barred their way.

Then abruptly a new sound reached their ears, distant yet, but shrill with terror. It came to them in a single, endless wail, alive with horror.

“It begins!” Allanon called back to them. “Quickly now, run!”

They ran frantically as the wail grew more frenzied behind them. Something unspeakable was happening to those yet within the Keep.

Ah, the mist! Brin cried silently.

They fled down the stairs that led to the mountain’s base, following the twists and turns of the passageway, hearing all the while the shrieks of those trapped behind them. Stairs came and went in countless number, and still they ran on.

Then finally the stairs ended, and the entry hidden in the rock of the cliff face loomed before them once more. Pushing through hurriedly, Allanon led them from the mountain into the cool dark of the forest beyond.

Still the screams followed after.

Night slipped away. It was nearing dawn when at last they walked their horses clear of the valley of Paranor. Weary and ragged, they paused on an outcropping of rock on high ground east of the pinnacle of the Keep and looked back to where green mist swirled wickedly about the aged fortress and hid it from their view. The sky lightened, and the mist burned away a little at a time, a shroud lifting. Silently they watched as it dissipated into air.

Then the dawn broke, and the mist was gone.

“It is finished,” Allanon whispered in the stillness.

Brin and Rone Leah stared. Below, the pinnacle the Druid’s Keep had once rested upon rose high into the light of the morning sun—barren and empty save for a scattering of crumbling outbuildings. The castle of the Druids had vanished.

“Thus was it written within the histories; thus was it foretold,” Allanon continued quietly. “Bremen’s shade knew the truth. Older than the time of the Keep was the magic conceived to close her away. Now she is gone, drawn back into the stone of the mountain, and with her all those she trapped within.” There was a terrible sadness in the dark face. “So it ends. Paranor is lost.”

But they were alive! Brin felt a fierce determination rushing through her, brushing aside the Druid’s somber tone. The premonition had been wrong and they were alive—all of them!

“So it ends,” Allanon repeated softly.

His eyes found those of the Valegirl then, and it was as if they shared some unspoken secret that neither quite fully understood. Then slowly Allanon turned his horse about. With Brin and Rone trailing after, he rode east toward the forests of the Anar.

L
ate in the afternoon, Jair Ohmsford and his companions reached the Dwarf community of Culhaven. It was a journey just as well over and done with in the Valeman’s opinion. Leaden skies and a chill wind had followed them east through the Silver River country, and even the changing colors of the great Eastland forests had a gray and wintry cast to them. Geese flew southward over the land through threatening autumn skies, and the flow of the river whose course they followed was rough and unfriendly.

The Silver River had begun to show signs of the poisoning foretold by its King. Blackish scum laced its waters, and its clear silver color had turned murky. Dying fish, small rodents, and fallen birds floated past, and the river was choked with deadwood and scrub. Even its smell was bad, the fresh cleanness become a rank and fetid odor that assailed their nostrils with each change in the wind, Jair remembered his father’s tales of the Silver River, tales told since the time of Shea Ohmsford, and what he saw now made him sick at heart.

Garet Jax and Slanter did little to improve his mood. Even without the constant reminder of the river’s ill and the harsh cast of the day, Jair would have found it difficult to keep a smile on his face or cheerfulness in his voice with the Weapons Master and the Gnome for traveling companions. Withdrawn and taciturn, they trudged beside him with all of the enthusiasm of mourners at a death watch. Not a dozen words had been exchanged since the march had resumed early that morning, and not a smile had crossed either face. Eyes riveted on the path ahead, they went forward with a singleminded determination that bordered on fanaticism. Once or twice, Jair had ventured to speak, and the response each time had been little more than a muted grunt. The noontime meal had been a strained and awkward ritual of necessity, and even the silent march east had been preferable to that.

Thus their approach into Culhaven was more than a little welcome to the Valeman, if for no other reason than that it meant he would soon have a chance to talk to someone civil for a change—although there was some reason to doubt even that. Dwarves had sighted them as far west as the border of the Anar, silent watchers who had made no effort to make them feel welcome. All along the trail leading in, there had been patrols of Dwarf Hunters—hardened men wrapped in leather waistcoats and forest cloaks, armed and purposeful in their walk. None of these had given greeting, or paused for even the briefest chat. All had passed and gone their way without inquiry. Only their eyes had strayed over to view these visitors—and their eyes had not been friendly.

By the time Jair and his fellow travelers reached the edge of the Dwarf village, they were being studied openly by every Dwarf they passed, and there was more than a hint of suspicion in those looks. Still in the lead, Garet Jax seemed oblivious to the eyes that followed after them, but Slanter was growing increasingly edgy and Jair was almost as uncomfortable as the Gnome. Garet Jax led along the roadway that crisscrossed the village, clearly familiar with the community and certain of what he was about. Neatly kept homes and shops lined the pathways they walked, sturdily built structures fronted by immaculate lawns and hedgerows, and brightened by lines of flowerbanks and carefully tended gardens. Families and shopowners looked up as they passed, hands gripping tools and wares as they paused in their day’s work. But there were armed men even here—Dwarf Hunters with hard eyes and belted weapons. This might be a community of families and homes, Jair thought to himself, but just at the moment it has more the look of an armed camp.

Finally, as they entered the central part of the village, they were brought to a halt by a foot patrol. Garet Jax spoke briefly with one of the sentries and the Dwarf disappeared on the run. The Weapons Master stepped back with Jair and Slanter. Together they faced the remaining members of the patrol in studied silence and waited. Dwarf children came to stand about them curiously, eyes fixed on Slanter. The Gnome ignored them for a time, then tired of the game and gave a sudden growl that sent the entire bunch scurrying for cover. The gnome glowered after them, glanced irritably at Jair, and withdrew into a determined funk.

A few minutes later, the sentry dispatched by Garet Jax returned. With him was a rugged-looking Dwarf with a great curling black beard and mustache and a bald head. Without slowing, he went directly to the Weapons Master, his hand extended in welcome,

“Took your sweet time getting here,” he growled as the other clasped the callused hand in his own. Sharp brown eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows, and the look of the man was hard and fierce. His stout, compact body was clothed in loose-fitting forest garb, belted and booted in soft leather, and he wore a brace of long knives at his waist. In one ear, a large gold earring dangled.

“Elb Foraker,” Garet Jax introduced the Dwarf to Jair and Slanter.

Foraker studied them wordlessly for a moment, then turned back to the Weapons Master. “Strange company you’re keeping, Garet.”

“Strange times.” The other shrugged. “How about a place to sit and something to eat?”

Foraker nodded. “This way.”

He led them past the patrol to where the roadway branched right and from there into a building that housed a large eating hail filled with benches and tables. A handful of the tables were occupied by Dwarf Hunters absorbed in their evening meal. A few glanced up and nodded to Foraker, but no one this time showed any particular interest in the Dwarf’s companions. Apparently it made a difference whom you were with, Jair thought. Foraker chose a table for them well back against one wall and signaled for food to be brought.

“What am I supposed to do with these two?” the Dwarf asked when they had seated themselves.

Garet Jax turned to his companions. “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he? He was with me ten years ago when I was training Dwarf Hunters for a border skirmish along the Wolfsktaag. He was with me again in Callahorn a few years back. That’s why I’m here now. He asked me to come, and he doesn’t take no for an answer.”

He looked back at Foraker. “The Valeman is Jair Ohmsford. He’s looking for his sister and a Druid.”

Foraker leaned back frowning. “A Druid? What Druid? There aren’t any Druids anymore. Haven’t been any Druids since . . .”

“I know—since Allanon,” Jair interjected, unable to keep still any longer. “That’s the Druid I’m looking for.”

Foraker stared at him. “That right? What makes you think you’ll find him here?”

“He told me that he would be going into the Eastland. He took my sister with him.”

“Your sister?” The Dwarf’s brows were fiercely knit. “Allanon and your sister? And they’re supposed to be here somewhere?”

Jair nodded slowly, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Foraker looked at him as if he were crazy. Then he looked at Garet Jax.

“Where did you find this Valeman?”

“On the way,” the other replied vaguely. “What do you know about the Druid?”

Foraker shrugged. “I know that no one has seen Allanon in the Eastland for more than twenty years—with or without anybody’s sister.”

“Well, you don’t know much, then,” Slanter spoke up suddenly, the faintest hint of a sneer in his voice. “The Druid’s come and gone right under your nose!”

Foraker’s fierce countenance swung around on the speaker. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Gnome.”

“This one supposedly tracked the Druid out of the Eastland,” Garet Jax offered, gray eyes wandering off casually about the empty hail. “Tracked him from the Maelmord right to the Valeman’s doorstep.”

Foraker stared at him. “I’ll ask again—what exactly am I supposed to do with these two?”

Garet Jax looked back at him. “I’ve been thinking about that. Does the Council meet tonight?”

“Every night, these days.”

“Then let the Valeman speak to them.”

Foraker frowned. “Why should I do that?”

“Because he has something to tell them that I think they’re going to want to hear. And not just about the Druid.”

Dwarf and Weapons Master eyed each other in silence. “I’ll have to make a request,” Foraker said at last, his lack of enthusiasm evident.

“Now seems like a good time to do it.” Garet Jax rose to his feet.

Foraker sighed and stood up with him, glancing down at Jair and Slanter as he did so. “You two can eat your meal and stay put. Don’t try wandering off.” He hesitated. “I don’t know anything about a Druid passing through, but I’ll look into it for you, Ohmsford.” He shook his head. “Come along, Garet.”

The Dwarf and the Weapons Master left the eating hall. Jair and Slanter sat alone at the table, lost in thought. Where was Allanon? Jair asked himself in silent desperation, head lowered to study his hands as he clasped them before him. The Druid had said he was going into the Eastland. Wouldn’t he come through Culhaven? If he hadn’t, then where had he gone? Where had he taken Brin?

A Dwarf in a white bib apron brought them plates of hot food and cups of ale, and they began to eat. No one said anything. The minutes slipped past as they consumed the meal, and Jair felt his hopes fading with each bite he took—as if somehow he were consuming the answers his questions demanded. Pushing the plate back from where he sat, he scuffed one boot against the plank flooring nervously and tried to decide what he would do if Elb Foraker were right and Allanon and Brin had indeed not come this way.

“Stop that!” Slanter growled suddenly.

Jair glanced up. “Stop what?”

“Stop rubbing your boot against the floor. It’s annoying.”

“Sorry.”

“And quit looking like you’d lost your best friend. Your sister will turn up.”

Jair shook his head slowly, still distracted. “Maybe.”

“Humph,” the Gnome muttered. “I’m the one who should be worrying—not you. I don’t know how I ever let you talk me into this fool’s errand.”

Jair propped his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. There was determination in his voice. “Even if Brin didn’t come through Culhaven, even if Allanon went another way, we’ve still got to go into the Anar, Slanter. And we’ve got to persuade the Dwarves to help us.”

Slanter stared at him. “We? Us? You’d better take a moment and rethink that ‘we and us’ nonsense! I’m not going anywhere but back to where I came from before I got involved in this whole mess!”

“You’re a tracker, Slanter,” Jair said quietly. “I need you.”

“Too bad,” the Gnome snapped, his rough yellow face suddenly dark. “I’m also a Gnome, in case you hadn’t noticed! Did you see the way they looked at me out there? Did you see those children looking at me like I was some sort of wild animal brought in from the forest? Use your head! There’s a war going on between Gnomes and Dwarves, and the Dwarves aren’t likely to listen to anything you have to say so long as you persist in making me your ally! Which I’m not, in any case!”

Jair bent forward. “Slanter, I have to reach Heaven’s Well before Brin reaches the Maelmord. How am I going to do that without someone to guide me in?”

“You’ll find a way, knowing you.” The Gnome brushed the matter aside. “Besides, I can’t go back there anymore. Spilk will have told them what I did. Or if not him, then that other Gnome that ran off. They’ll be looking for me. If I go back, someone will recognize me. When I’m caught, the walkers . . .” He stopped abruptly and threw up his hands. “I’m not going and that’s that!”

He went back to eating his food, his head lowered to his plate. Jair regarded him silently, wondering if perhaps he were making a mistake in seeking Slanter’s help in the first place; perhaps the King of the Silver River hadn’t intended him as an ally after all. Slanter didn’t really seem like much of an ally when you thought about it. He was altogether too clever, too opportunistic, and his loyalty changed as often as the wind. He wasn’t one to be depended on, was he? Yet despite all that, there was still something about the Gnome that Jair liked. Maybe it was his toughness. Like Garet Jax, Slanter was a survivor, and that was the sort of companion Jair needed if he were to reach the deep Anar.

He watched as the Gnome drank down the last of the ale in noisy gulps, then said quietly, “I thought you wanted to learn about the magic.”

Slanter shook his head. “Not anymore. I’ve learned all I care to know about you, boy.”

Jair frowned in annoyance. “I think you’re just scared.”

“Think what you like. I’m not going.”

“What about your people? Don’t you care what the Mord Wraiths are doing to them?”

Slanter’s eyes snapped up. “I don’t have a people anymore, thanks to you!” Then he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, though. I haven’t really had a people since I left the Eastland. I’m my own people.”

“That’s not true. The Gnomes are your people. You went back to help them, didn’t you?”

“Times change. I went back because it was the smart thing to do. Now I’m not going back because that’s the smart thing to do!” Slanter was growing angry. “Why don’t you just give it up, boy? I’ve done enough for you already. I don’t feel obliged to do anything further. After all, the King of the Silver River didn’t give me any Silver Dust to help clean up his river!”

“That’s fortunate, isn’t it?” Jair flushed, a bit angry now himself. “A fat lot of good you’d be, changing sides every five minutes when things got a little rough! I thought you helped me back in the Oaks because you’d made a choice! I thought you cared what happened to me! Well, maybe I was wrong! What do you care about, Slanter?”