The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (20 page)

Again he paused to measure the force of his words. There was absolute silence as he looked doubtfully at the silent gallery of grim faces staring back. Suddenly Menion Leah rose at the far end of the table and faced the giant speaker.

“What you are suggesting is that we go after the Sword—to Paranor.”

Allanon nodded slowly, a half smile playing over his thin lips as he waited for a reaction from the startled listeners. His deep-set eyes twinkled blackly beneath the great brow, watching carefully the faces about him. Menion sat down slowly, total disbelief showing plainly on his handsome features, as Allanon continued.

“The Sword is still at Paranor; there is an excellent possibility that it will remain there. Neither Brona nor the Bearers of the Skull can personally remove the talisman—its mere physical presence is an anathema to their continued existence in the mortal world. Any form of exposure for more than several minutes would cause excruciating pain. This means that any attempt to transport the Sword north to the Skull Kingdom must be accomplished by use of the Gnomes that hold Paranor.

“Eventine and his Elven warriors were given the task of securing the Druid stronghold and the Sword. While Paranor has been lost to us, the Elves still hold the southern stretch of the Streleheim north of the fortress, and any attempt to travel north to the Dark Lord would require breaking through their patrols. Apparently Eventine was not at Paranor when it was taken, and I have no reason to believe that he will not endeavor to regain the Sword or, at the very least, thwart any attempt to remove it. The Warlock Lord will be aware of this, and I do not think he will risk losing the weapon by having the Gnomes carry it out. Instead, he will entrench at Paranor until his army moves south.

“There is a possibility that the Warlock Lord does not expect us to attempt to regain the Sword. He may believe that the House of Shannara has been exterminated. He may expect us to concentrate on strengthening our
defenses against his forthcoming assault. If we act immediately, a small party may be able to slip into the Keep undetected and retrieve the Sword. Such an undertaking would be dangerous, but if there is even the remotest chance of success, the risk is worth it.”

Balinor had risen and indicated he wished to speak to those assembled. Allanon nodded and sat down.

“I do not understand the power of the Sword over the Warlock Lord—that much I freely admit,” the tall warrior began. “But I do know the threat that we all face if Brona’s army invades the Southland and the Anar as our reports indicate it is preparing to do. My homeland will be the first to face this threat, and if I can prevent it in anyway, then I cannot do otherwise. I will go with Allanon.”

The Dwarfs leaped up again at this point and enthusiastically shouted their support. Allanon stood up and raised his long arm in a plea for silence.

“These two young Elves at my side are cousins of Eventine. They will accompany me, for their stake in this matter is at least as great as your own. Balinor will go as well, and I will take one of the Dwarf chieftains—no more. This must be a small, highly skilled party of hunters if we are to succeed. Pick the best man among you and let him come with us.”

He looked to the end of the table, where Shea and Flick sat watching in a mixed state of shock and confusion. Menion Leah pondered quietly, looking at no one in particular. Allanon glanced expectantly at Shea, his grim face suddenly softening as he saw the frightened eyes of the young Valeman who had come so far, through so many dangers to this apparent haven of safety, only to be told that he was expected to leave it for an even more perilous trip northward. But there had been no time to break the news to the Valeman in a gentle way. He shook his head doubtfully and waited.

“I think I had better go.” The abrupt declaration came from Menion, who had again risen to his feet to face the others. “I came with Shea this far to be certain he reached the safety of Culhaven, which he has done. My duty to him is finished, but I owe it to my homeland and to my people to protect them in any way I can.”

“What can you offer then?” asked Allanon abruptly, astonished that the highlander would volunteer without first speaking to his friends. Shea and Flick were clearly dumbfounded by this unexpected announcement.

“I’m the best bowman in the Southland,” Menion answered smoothly. “Probably the best tracker as well.”

Allanon seemed to hesitate for a moment, then looked to Balinor, who quietly shrugged. For a brief moment Menion and Allanon locked gazes, as if to judge each other’s intentions. Menion smiled coldly at the grim historian.

“Why should I answer to you?” he queried shortly.

The dark figure at the other end of the table stared at him almost curiously and a deathly silence settled over the company. Even Balinor stepped back one short pace in shock. Shea knew instantly that Menion was asking for trouble and that everyone at the table except the three companions knew something about the foreboding Allanon they did not. The frightened Valeman shot a quick look at Flick, whose flushed face had gone pale at the thought of a confrontation between the two men. Desperate to avoid any trouble, Shea stood up suddenly and cleared his throat. Everyone looked in his direction, and his mind went blank.

“You have something to say?” demanded Allanon blackly. Shea nodded and his mind raced desperately, knowing what was expected. He looked again to Flick, who managed a barely perceptible nod indicating that he would go along with whatever his brother decided. Shea cleared his throat a second time.

“My special skill appears to be that I was born in the wrong family, but I had better see this matter through. Flick and I—Menion, too—will go to Paranor.”

Allanon nodded his approval and even managed a slight smile, inwardly pleased with the young Valeman. Shea, more than any of the others, had to be strong. He was the last son of the house of Shannara, and the fate of so many would depend on that single, small chance of birth.

At the other end of the table, Menion Leah relaxed quietly in his seat, a barely audible sigh of relief escaping his lips as he silently congratulated himself. He had deliberately provoked Allanon, and in so doing had forced Shea to come to his rescue by agreeing to go to Paranor. It had been a desperate gamble to induce the little Valeman to make up his mind that he was going with them. The highlander had come close to what might have been a fatal confrontation with Allanon. He had been lucky. He wondered if luck would smile on all of them during the journey ahead.

S
hea stood quietly in the darkness outside the assembly hall and let the night air wash over his hot face in cool waves. Flick was immediately to his right, the broad face grim in the shadowed moonlight. Menion leaned idly against a tall oak some yards off to their left. The meeting had concluded, and Allanon had asked them to wait for him. The tall wanderer was still inside making preparations with the Dwarf elders to counter the expected invasion from the upper Anar. Balinor was with them, coordinating the defense of the famed Border Legion in distant Callahorn with that of the Dwarf army of the Eastland. Shea was relieved to be out of the stuffy little room—out in the open night where he could consider more clearly his hasty decision to go with the company to Paranor. He knew—and he guessed Flick must have known as well—that they could not expect to stay out of the inevitable conflict centering around the Sword of Shannara. They could have stayed in Culhaven, living almost like prisoners, hoping that the Dwarf people would protect them from the searching Skull Bearers. They could have stayed in this strange land, apart from all who knew them, perhaps forgotten in time by everyone except the Dwarfs. But to alienate themselves that way would have been worse than any imaginable fate at the hands of the enemy. For the first time Shea realized that he must accept the fact, finally and forever, that he was no longer merely the adopted son of Curzad Ohmsford. He was a son of the Elven House of Shannara, the son of kings and the heir to the fabled Sword, and though he would have wished it otherwise, he must accept what chance had decreed for him.

He looked quietly at his brother, who stood lost in thought, staring at the darkened earth, and he felt a keen pang of sorrow at the remembrance of the other’s loyalty. Flick was courageous and loved him, but he had not bargained for this unexpected turn of events that would take them into the heart of the enemy’s country. Shea did not want Flick to be involved in this matter—it was not his responsibility. He knew that the stocky Valeman would never desert him so long as he felt he could help, but perhaps now Flick could be persuaded to remain behind, even to return to Shady Vale to
explain to their father what had befallen them. But even as he toyed with the idea, he discarded it, knowing that Flick would never turn back. Whatever else happened, he would see this matter through.

“There was a time,” Flick’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts, “when I would have sworn that I would live out my life in uneventful solitude in Shady Vale. Now it appears that I will be a part of an effort to save mankind.”

“Do you think I should have chosen otherwise?” Shea asked after a moment’s silent thought.

“No, I don’t think so.” Flick shook his head. “But remember what we talked about on the trip here—about things being beyond our control, even our understanding? You see how little control we now have over what’s to become of us.”

He paused and looked squarely over to his brother. “I think you made the right choice, and whatever happens, I’ll be with you.”

Shea smiled broadly and placed a hand on the other’s shoulder, thinking to himself that this was exactly what he had predicted Flick would say. It was a small gesture perhaps, but one that meant more to him than any other could have. He was aware of the sudden approach of Menion from the other side and turned to face the highlander.

“I suppose you think me some sort of fool after what happened in there tonight,” Menion stated abruptly. “But this fool stands along with old Flick. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together, be it mortal or spirit.”

“You caused that scene in there to get Shea to agree to go, didn’t you?” an irate Flick demanded. “That’s the lowest trick I have ever witnessed!”

“Never mind, Flick,” Shea cut him short. “Menion knew what he was doing, and he did the right thing. I would have decided to go anyway—at least I’d like to believe I would. Now we’ve got to forget the past, forget our differences, and stand together for our own preservation.”

“As long as I stand where I can see him,” retorted his brother bitterly.

The door to the conference room opened suddenly and the broad figure of Balinor was silhouetted in the torchlight from within. He surveyed the three men standing just beyond him in the darkness, then closed the door and walked over to them, smiling slightly as he approached.

“I’m glad you decided to come with us, all of you,” he stated simply. “I must add, Shea, that without you, the trip would have been pointless. Without the heir of Jerle Shannara, the Sword is only so much metal.”

“What can you tell us about this magic weapon?” Menion asked quickly.

“I’ll leave that to Allanon,” replied Balinor. “He plans to speak with you here in just a few minutes.”

Menion nodded, inwardly disturbed at the prospect of encountering the tall man again that evening, but curious to hear more about the power of the Sword. Shea and Flick exchanged quick glances. At last they would learn the full story behind what was happening in the Northland.

“Why are you here, Balinor?” Flick asked cautiously, not wishing to pry into the borderman’s personal affairs.

“It’s a rather long story—you would not be interested,” replied the other almost sharply, immediately causing Flick to believe he had overstepped his bounds. Balinor saw his chagrined look, and smiled reassuringly. “My family and I have not been on very good terms lately. My younger brother and I had a … disagreement, and I wanted to leave the city for awhile. Allanon asked me to accompany him to the Anar. Hendel and others were old friends, so I agreed.”

“Sounds like a familiar tale,” commented Menion dryly. “I’ve had some problems like that myself from time to time.”

Balinor nodded and managed a half smile, but Shea could tell from his eyes that he did not consider this a laughing matter. Whatever had caused him to leave Callahorn was more serious than anything Menion had ever encountered in Leah. Shea quickly changed the subject.

“What can you tell us about Allanon? We seem to be placing an unusual amount of trust in him, and we still know absolutely nothing about the man. Who is he?”

Balinor arched his eyebrows and smiled, amused by the question and at the same time uncertain as to how it should be answered. He walked away from them a little, thinking to himself, and then turned back abruptly and motioned vaguely toward the assembly hall.

“I really don’t know much about Allanon myself,” he admitted frankly. “He travels a great deal, exploring the country, recording in his notes the changes and growth of the land and its people. He’s well known in all the nations—I think he has been everywhere. The extent of his knowledge of this world is extraordinary—most of it isn’t in any book. He is very remarkable….”