Paladins of Shannara: The Black Irix (Short Story) (2 page)

He rode up to Shea and stopped. “Well met, Shea Ohmsford,” he said, swinging down
to stand before him.

“Panamon Creel,” Shea replied in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.

“I should have sent word I was coming. But it is always more fun to show up unexpectedly.
I trust I am not unwelcome here?”

“Not you,” the boy said. “Not ever.”

“Well, then, don’t stand there with your mouth open—show some enthusiasm!”

Shea dropped the wood with a clatter, rushed past the fallen logs, and hugged the
other to him, pounding his back happily. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

It had been over a year and a half since the culmination of the events leading to
Shea’s discovery and use of the Sword of Shannara against the Warlock Lord—an effort
that would never have been successful if not for Panamon Creel. In the aftermath of
Shea’s flight from the Skull Kingdom, he had been forced to leave his friend behind
and thought him forever lost. But Panamon had turned up again weeks later in Shady
Vale, alive and well, eager to recount the tales of those earlier days and to learn
the truth about what had really happened, for much of it had been hidden from him.

Now he was back again—the bad penny returned, the clever trickster everyone so mistrusted,
but who had saved Shea’s life over and over and about whom he could never think badly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink for a thirsty traveler in that establishment
of yours, would you?” the thief asked, grinning. “I’ve come far and ridden hard, and
I’ve a very parched throat.”

“Come along,” Shea invited, picking up the scattered chunks of wood once more and
starting for the inn. “You can tie up the horse out back and come inside for a glass
of ale.”

“Or two, perhaps?” the other pressed, one eyebrow cocked.

He hadn’t changed, Shea thought. He never would. In point of fact, he looked exactly
the same as the last time the Valeman had seen him—sun-browned face, unruly dark hair
with touches of gray at the temples, piercing blue eyes, and a ready smile. A small,
thin mustache gave him a rakish look. He was always charming and never predictable.
With Panamon, there was always more than what appeared on the surface.

Shea remembered it all, fleeting thoughts that came and went as he walked the other
inside and dumped his load of wood in the bin next to the fireplace. Then he walked
over to the bar, drew down a couple of tankards of ale, and led his companion over
to one of the tables in the mostly empty common room.

Panamon raised his tankard in a salute. “To surviving the bad and enjoying the good.”

Shea clinked his tankard with Panamon’s and drank. “You look as fit as ever.”

“Oh, I am. I don’t age, you know. I prefer to stay just as I was when you first met
me. I’ve found that age to be a perfect fit for me, and I have decided to keep it.”

“Nice trick.”

“Magic, of a sort. You can do it, but it takes practice.” He leaned forward. “Rather
like using those blue Stones you were carrying around when I went with you into the
Northland. Do you remember?”

Shea nodded. “How could I forget?”

“Do you still have those Stones?”

Right away, Shea knew there was a reason for asking that went beyond mere curiosity.
But this was Panamon Creel, and it would have been out of character for him not to
be hiding something. “I do.”

“You can still use them?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t had reason to try for a while.”

The thief laughed. “Good point. I certainly hope you haven’t. The good life of the
Vale is founded on enjoying peace and prosperity, not engaging in life-and-death struggles.
You’ve been well, I trust, in the last year or two?”

He hadn’t, of course, and he told Panamon about his struggle to recover from what
had happened to him in the Skull Kingdom. Panamon listened and nodded and drank his
ale, his eyes bright and interested, his face impassive. When Shea had finished, he
suggested another tankard—for himself, since Shea had barely touched his.

Shea refilled the other’s drink from behind the bar and then returned. He glanced
around as he did so—a necessary habit when you are an innkeeper’s son—to see if anyone
needed anything. He was surprised to find that the room was empty.

“How is Curzad?” Panamon asked as he took his seat. “Your father has always been one
of those who look like they might live forever.”

“Just so,” Shea answered. “It was being of his blood, I think, that kept me safe when
things looked bad.”

“Yes, the sickness.” Panamon looked about casually. “I confess I came here for a reason,
young Shea, beyond the obvious desire to visit an old friend. I have a favor to ask.”

Shea nodded.
Now we are getting to it
. “Ask it.”

“This may take a few minutes. Bear with me. Are you sure you don’t want a refill before
we start? Once I get going, I like to keep going.”

“Just say what you have to say,” the Valeman replied.

Panamon squared himself up and leaned forward. “You will remember that we lost a good
friend when we tried to escape from the Warlock Lord. He gave his life for us. He
was my companion for many years, but almost to the end of his life he was a mystery
to me. We found out together, you and I, the secret he was hiding when we were taken
by Rock Trolls. Do you remember all this?”

Shea did, of course. Keltset, the giant Rock Troll, had been with Panamon when they
had rescued Shea from Gnome raiders. Then, subsequently, when they were found by members
of his own kind, he was placed on trial as a traitor for being in the company of people
from a Race with whom his own were at war.

“Keltset,” he said.

“You will remember, as well, then,” Panamon continued, “that you and I were saved
from being handed over to the Warlock Lord, and he from being thrown off a cliff,
when he revealed he was the holder of the highest honor that can be accorded by the
Troll nation to one of their own. He stood there before them and displayed it boldly—a
challenge to all to dispute his loyalty and his courage when it was being questioned.
That was an unforgettable moment, wasn’t it, Shea?”

The Valeman nodded. Keltset had produced from a leather belt strapped about his waist
an iron medallion with a cross embedded in a circle, held it up for all to see, then
hung it about his neck in a dramatic display that had stunned all assembled and thereby
gained them their freedom.

“Do you remember what that medallion was called?”

“The Black Irix,” Shea answered.

Panamon Creel leaned back in his seat. “It was lost with Keltset when the walls of
that mountain passageway collapsed on him. I intend to find it and bring it out.”

Shea stared. “From under a collapsed mountain?”

“No, from wherever Kestra Chule has hidden it.”

The Valeman considered. “Back up a bit. Who is Kestra Chule?”

“A buyer and seller of stolen goods.”

“He has the Black Irix?”

“He does.”

“How did he manage that? How do you even know about this?”

Panamon Creel shrugged. “As to the first, I don’t know. I don’t even know how he found
out where it was, let alone how he managed to dig it out. As to the second, I am a
thief, as you have pointed out to me a time or two in the past. It is my job to know
about such things.”

“So you intend to steal it back from him? Why go to all that trouble for a piece of
iron, no matter what it represents?”

“Because,” the other said slowly, drawing out the word, “the Black Irix is immensely
valuable. There are perhaps a dozen known Irixes in existence, and most of those are
in the hands of the Trolls. You cannot overestimate what a collector would pay to
get his hands on one. But it is valuable, as well, because the materials used to make
it are extremely rare. You might think it is only a piece of iron, but you would be
wrong. An Irix is hammered out from a mix of metals, some used for strength and some
to provide special value. Auridium is the most precious of those metals. Do you know
of it?”

Shea shook his head. He had never heard of auridium.

“It is so valuable that there is only one known source. It is deep in the Eastland
and mined by Dwarves, who trade half of what they acquire to the Trolls in exchange
for a wagonful of high-quality weapons. That exchange has been going on for a long
time. In any case, half an ounce goes into the making of every Irix. That alone would
buy you a small kingdom.”

He exaggerated, but Shea got the point. “So you want to recover the Irix from Kestra
Chule. Why don’t you just do so? What do you want with me?”

“As I said,” Panamon replied, “Chule has hidden it.”

“So how does …,” Shea began and then stopped. “Oh, I see. You want me to come with
you and use the Elfstones to find it.”

“Because of the conditions under which I will be exercising my particular skills,
it would be helpful to know where exactly the Irix is hidden in advance of extracting
it. You could tell me that. Or, more to the point, your special Stones could. I am
asking this as a favor to someone who has done much for you in the past.”

Shea gave him a look. “Someone whose life you saved on more than one occasion. You
forgot that part.”

The other man shrugged. “I was holding it in reserve, in case further persuasion proved
necessary.”

“The problem with this request is that I have sworn to one and all—myself included—that
I would not take part in another quest, no matter what. I have promised not to leave
the Vale again. And after recovering from my sickness, I reaffirmed that vow.”

“Are you saying you will not go with me? Even knowing how much you owe me?”

“I am saying I have made a vow and now you are asking me to break it.”

“For a very good reason.”

“A very good reason for you. But not necessarily for me.”

Panamon sighed. “Shea, consider. You told me you were so sick you almost died, and
that you found yourself blessed by your recovery. Of what use is all that if you spend
the rest of your life hunkered down in Shady Vale, never venturing farther than its
borders, never taking another chance on anything, never risking even once the possibility
you might do someone a great service?”

Panamon held up his hand quickly to forestall the Valeman’s next response. “And I
am not talking about myself. I am talking about those who loved and cared for Keltset,
and who would be made glad beyond words if we were able to recover his Black Irix
and return it to them. Does that count for nothing?”

Shea tightened his lips, thinking. “What do you get out of this? Wait! You are planning
on returning it, aren’t you? You don’t intend to sell it yourself?”

Panamon looked shocked. “No, I don’t intend to sell it myself! What kind of creature
do you think I am? This is Keltset we’re talking about. He saved our lives, and mine
more than once! I’m doing this for him. I don’t want Kestra Chule to make his fortune
on the death of my friend! I intend that he not make a single coin, and that the Irix
go back to Keltset’s people where it belongs!”

“You’re telling me the truth? You’re giving it back?”

“What would you do?”

“What I would do isn’t necessarily what you would do.”

“Don’t play games with this.” Panamon was flushed, angry. “Just answer the question!
What would you do?”

They were shouting at each other now, and upon realizing it they went quiet at once.
Panamon picked up his tankard and drained it. Then he passed it across the table to
Shea who took it without a word, carried it back behind the serving counter one more
time, refilled it, and returned.

As he sat down again, he found himself remembering what Flick had said about the woodswoman’s
prediction. He hadn’t believed it possible that it would come true. He had thought
it funny that it would cause Flick to be so concerned.

Well, he wasn’t laughing now.

“I would do what you are doing,” he said quietly. “How soon do we leave?”

* * *

It was the sort of decision you made quickly. There wasn’t much to think about when
you came right down to it. You could make all the promises or vows you wanted, but
ultimately everything hinged on the answer to a single question. How much did you
owe someone who stood by you when you needed it and by doing so saved your life? If
it didn’t matter to you, you turned them down when they asked for your help. If it
counted for something, you didn’t.

No matter the doubts or inconveniences attached to making this trip with Panamon Creel,
Shea felt honor-bound to go. He tried to explain that to Flick later that same evening
when his brother returned from the miller’s, but his efforts were futile. Flick was
having none of it. Shea was deliberately and foolishly placing himself in harm’s way
out of a misguided
sense of loyalty to a man of questionable character—although admittedly one who had
helped him in the past. Was Shea forgetting that Panamon had tried to steal the Elfstones
from him? Was he forgetting that Panamon’s mission—no matter its claimed virtues—was
essentially another theft? Was he forgetting that the thief had a tendency not to
be entirely forthcoming with what he knew and tended to shade the truth of whatever
he did tell?

“What about the fact that you only just got your health back?” he demanded as a last
resort. “You almost died, Shea! Now you are going on a trip that could very well finish
the job. Shades, you don’t even know where you’re going!”

They were standing out back by the woodshed, shouting at each other, while inside
the patrons of the inn drank and laughed and talked loud enough that they could not
hear a word of the argument taking place out back.

“I know where we’re going. Panamon told me. It’s in the lower Northland, not far from
the ruins of the Skull Kingdom. I know a little about the country. It’s wild, but
not so dangerous anymore. We’ll be close to Paranor and the Westland. Flick, listen
to me. I have to do this. But I promise to be careful, and if I get sick or it becomes
too dangerous, I will come home at once. I won’t take chances.”