The Wishsong of Shannara (11 page)

“Enough,” the Druid told him. “Draw it out.”

Slowly Rone lifted the sword clear of the lake. The blade, once polished iron, had gone black; the waters of the Hadeshorn clung to its surface, swirling about it as if alive.

“Rone!” Brin whispered in horror.

The highlander held the sword steady before him, blade extended away from his body, eyes fixed on the water that spun and wove across the metal surface.

“Now stand fast!” Allanon ordered, one arm lifting free of the black robes. “Stand fast, Prince of Leah!”

Blue fire spurted out from the fingers of his hand in a thin, dazzling line. It ran all along the blade, searing, burning, igniting water and metal, and fusing them as one. Blue fire flared in a burst of incandescent light, yet no heat passed from the blade into the handle. While Rone Leah averted his eyes, he held the sword firm.

An instant later it was done, the fire was gone, and the Druid’s arm lowered once more. Rone Leah looked down at his sword. The blade was clean, a polished and glistening black, the edges hard and true.

“Look closely, Prince of Leah,” Allanon told him.

He did as he was asked, and Brin bent close beside him. Together they stared into the black, mirrored surface. Deep within the metal, murky green pools of light swirled lazily.

Allanon stepped close. “It is the magic of life and death mixed as one. It is power that now belongs to you, highlander; it becomes your responsibility. You are to be as much Brin Ohmsford’s protector as I. You are to have power such as I. This sword shall give it to you.”

“How?” Rone asked softly.

“As with all swords, this one both cuts and parries—not flesh and blood or iron and stone, but magic. The evil magic of the Mord Wraiths. Cut through or blocked away, such magic shall not pass. Thus you have committed yourself. You are to be the shield that stands before this girl now and until this journey ends. You would be her protector, and I have made you so.”

“But why  . . . why would you give me  . . . ?” Rone stammered.

But the Druid simply turned and began to walk away. Rone stared after him, a stunned look on his face.

“This is unfair, Allanon!” Brin shouted at the retreating figure, angered suddenly by what he had done to Rone. She started after him. “What right have you  . . . ?” She never finished. There was a sudden, terrifying explosion and she was lifted off her feet and thrown to the valley floor. A whirling mass of red fire engulfed Allanon and he disappeared.

Miles to the south, his body fatigued and aching, Jair Ohmsford stumbled from night’s shadows into a dawn of eerie mist and half-light. Trees and blackness seemed to fall away, pushed aside like a great curtain, and the new day was there. It was vast and empty, a monstrous vault of heavy mist that shut away all the world within its depthless walls. Fifty yards from where he stood, the mist began and all else ended. Sleep-filled eyes stared blankly, seeing the path of mottled deadwood and greenish water that stretched that short distance into the mist, yet not understanding what it was that had happened.

“Where are we?” he murmured.

“Mist Marsh,” Slanter muttered at his elbow, Jair glanced over at the Gnome dumbly, and the Gnome stared back at him with eyes as tired as his own. “We’ve cut its border too close—wandered into a pocket. We’ll have to backtrack around it.”

Jair nodded, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. Garet Jax appeared suddenly beside him, black and silent. The hard, empty eyes passed briefly across his own, then out into the swamp. Wordlessly, the Weapons Master nodded to Slanter, and the Gnome turned back. Jair trailed after. There was no sign of weariness in the eyes of Garet Jax.

They had walked all night, an endless tiring march through the maze of the Black Oaks. It was little more than a distant, clouded memory now in the Valeman’s mind, a fragmented bit of time lost in exhaustion. Only his determination kept him on his feet. Even fear had lost its hold over him after a time, the threat of pursuit no longer a thing of immediacy. It seemed that he must have slept even while walking, for he could remember nothing of what had passed. Yet there had been no sleep, he knew. There had been only the march  . . .

A hand yanked him back from the swamp’s edge as he strayed too close. “Watch where you walk, Valeman.” It was Garet Jax next to him.

He mumbled something in response and stumbled on. “He’s dead on his feet,” he heard Slanter growl, but there was no response. He rubbed his eyes. Slanter was right. His strength was almost gone. He could not go on much longer.

Yet he did. He went on for hours, it seemed, trudging through the mist and the gray half-light, stumbling blindly after Slanter’s blocky form, vaguely aware of the silent presence of Garet Jax at his elbow. All sense of time slipped from him. He was conscious only of the fact that he was still on his feet and that he was still walking. One step followed the next, one foot the other, and each time it was a separate and distinct effort. Still the path wore on.

Until . . .

“Confounded muck!” Slanter was muttering, and suddenly the entire swamp seemed to explode upward. Water and slime geysered into the air, raining down on the startled Valeman. A roar shattered the dawn’s silence, harsh and piercing, and something huge rose up almost on top of Jair.

“Log Dweller!” he heard Slanter shriek.

Jair stumbled back, confused and frightened, aware of the massive thing that lifted before him, of a body scaled and dripping with the swamp, of a head that seemed all snout and teeth gaping open, and of clawed limbs reaching. He stumbled back, frantic now, but his legs would not carry him, too numb with fatigue to respond as they should. The huge thing was atop him, its shadow blocking away even the half-light, its breath fetid and raw.

Then something hurtled into him from one side, bowling him over, propelling him clear of the monster’s claws. In a daze, he saw Slanter standing where he had stood, short sword drawn, swinging wildly at the massive creature that reached down for him. But the sword was a pitifully inadequate weapon. The monster blocked it away and sent it spinning from the Gnome’s grasp. In the next instant one great, clawed hand fastened about Slanter’s body.

“Slanter!” Jair screamed, struggling to regain his feet.

Garet Jax was already moving. He sprang forward, a blurred shadow, thrusting the black staff into the creature’s gaping jaws and ramming it deep into the soft tissue of the throat. The Log Dweller roared in pain, jaws snapping shut upon the staff and breaking it apart. The clawed hands reached for the fragments caught in its throat, dropping Slanter back to the earth.

Again Garet Jax leaped up against the creature, his short sword drawn. So quickly that Jair could scarcely follow, he was upon the monster’s shoulder and past the grasping claws. He buried the sword deep in the Log Dweller’s under throat. Dark blood spurted forth. Then swiftly he sprang clear. The Log Dweller was hurt now, pain evident in its wounded bellow. It turned with a lurch and stumbled blindly back into the mist and the dark.

Slanter was struggling back up again, dazed and shaken, but Garet Jax came instead to Jair, hauling him quickly to his feet. The Valeman’s eyes were wide, and he stared at the Weapons Master in awe.

“I never saw  . . . I never saw anyone move  . . . so fast!” he stammered.

Garet Jax ignored him. With one hand fastened securely on his collar, he pulled the Valeman into the trees, and Slanter followed hurriedly after.

In seconds, the clearing was behind them.

Red fire burned all about the Druid, wrapping him in crimson coils and flaring out wickedly against the gray light of dawn. Dazed and half-blinded by the explosion, Brin struggled to her knees and shielded her eyes. Within the fire, the Druid hunched down against the shimmering black rock of the valley floor, a faint blue aura holding back the flames that had engulfed him. A shield, Brin realized—his protection against the horror that would destroy him.

Desperately she sought the maker of that horror and found it not twenty yards away. There, stark against the sun’s faint gold as it slipped from beneath the horizon, a tall black form stood silhouetted, arms raised and leveled, with the red fire spurting forth. A Mord Wraith! She knew immediately what it was. It had come upon them without a sound, caught them unawares, and struck down the Druid. With no chance to defend himself, Allanon was alive now only through instinct.

Brin surged to her feet. She screamed frantically at the black thing that attacked him, but it did not move, nor did the fire waver. In a steady, ceaseless stream, the fire spurted forth from the outstretched hands to where the Druid crouched, whirling all about his folded body and hammering down against the faint blue shield that yet held it back. Crimson light flared and reflected skyward from the mirror surface of the valley rock, and the whole of the world contained within turned to blood.

Then Rone Leah rushed forward, springing past Brin to stand before her like a crouched beast.

“Devil!” he howled in fury.

He swept up the black metal blade of the Sword of Leah, giving no thought in that moment to who it was he chose to aid or for whose sake he so willingly placed his own life in danger. He was in that moment the great-grandson of Menion Leah, as quick and reckless as his ancestor had ever thought to be, and instinct ruled his reason. Crying out the battle cry of his forebears for centuries gone, he attacked.

“Leah! Leah!”

He leaped into the fire, and the sword swept down, severing the ring that bound Allanon. Instantly, the flames shattered as if made of glass, falling from the Druid’s crouched form in shards. The fire still flew from the Mord Wraith’s hands; but like iron to a magnet, it was now drawn to the blade wielded by the red-haired highlander. It rushed in a sweep to the black metal and burned downward. Yet no fire touched Rone’s hands; it was as if the sword absorbed it. The Prince of Leah stood squared away between Wraith and Druid, the Sword of Leah held vertically before him, crimson fire dancing off the blade.

Allanon rose up, as black and forbidding as the thing that had stalked him, free now of the flames that had held him bound. Lean arms lifted from beneath the robes, and blue fire exploded outward. It caught the Mord Wraith, lifted it clear off its feet, and threw it backward as if struck by a ram. Black robes flew wide, and a terrible, soundless shriek reverberated in Brim’s mind. Once more the Druid fire flared outward, and an instant later the black thing it sought had been turned to dust.

Fire died into trailing wisps of smoke and scattered ash, and silence filled the Valley of Shale. The Sword of Leah sank, black iron clanging sharply against the rock as it dropped. Rone Leah’s head lowered; a stunned look was in his eyes as they sought out Brin. She came to him, wrapped her arms about him and held him.

“Brin,” he whispered softly. “This sword  . . . the power  . . .”

He could not finish. Allanon’s lean hand fastened gently on his shoulder.

“Do not be frightened, Prince of Leah.” The Druid’s voice was tired, but reassuring. “The power truly belongs to you. You have shown that here. You are indeed the Valegirl’s protector—and for this one time at least, mine as well.”

The hand lingered a moment longer, then the big man was moving back along the path that had brought them in.

“There was only the one,” he called back to them. “Had there been others, we would have seen them by now. Come. Our business here is finished.”

“Allanon  . . .” Brin started to call after him.

“Come, Valegirl. Time slips from us. Paranor needs whatever aid we can offer. We must go there at once.”

Without a backward glance, he began to climb from the valley. Brin and Rone Leah followed in silent resignation.

X

I
t was midmorning before Jair and his companions finally broke clear of the Black Oaks. Before them, rolling countryside stretched away—hill country to the north, lowlands to the south. They took little time admiring either. Exhausted almost to the point of collapse, they took just enough time to locate a sheltering clump of broad-leaf maple turned brilliant crimson by autumn’s touch. In seconds they were asleep.

Jair had no idea whether either of his companions thought to keep watch during the time he slept, but it was Garet Jax who shook him awake as dusk began to settle in. Wary of being so close yet to the Mist Marsh and the Oaks, the Weapons Master wanted to find a safer place to spend the coming night. The Battlemound Lowlands were fraught with dangers all their own, so the little company turned north into the hills. Somewhat refreshed by their half-day sleep, they walked on almost to midnight before settling in to sleep until dawn within a grove of wild fruit trees partially overgrown with brush. This time Jair insisted at the outset that the three share the watch.

The following day, they traveled north again. By late afternoon, they had reached the Silver River. Clear and sparkling in the fading sunlight, it wound its way west through tree-lined banks and rocky shoals. For several hours after, the three travelers followed the river east toward the Anar, and by nightfall they were well away from the Marsh and the Oaks. They had encountered no other journeyers during their march, and there had been no sign of either Gnomes or black walkers. It appeared that for the moment, at least, they were safe from any pursuit.

It was night again by the time they found a small pocket sheltered by maple and walnut trees on a ridge above the river and their camp. They decided to risk a fire, built one that was small and smokeless, ate a hot meal, and settled back to watch the coals die into ash. The night was clear and warm; overhead, stars began to wink into view, clustering in brilliant patterns across the dark backdrop of the sky. All about them, night birds sang, insects hummed, and the faint rush of the river’s swift waters murmured in the distance. Drying leaves and brush gave a sweet and musty smell to the cool dark.

“Think I’ll gather up some wood,” Slanter announced suddenly after being silent for a time. He pushed himself heavily to his feet.

“I’ll help,” Jair offered.

The Gnome shot him a look of annoyance. “Did I ask for any help? I can gather wood by myself, boy.”

Scowling, he trudged off into the dark.

Jair leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest. That typified the way things had been ever since the three of them had started out—no one saying much of anything and saying what they did without a great deal of warmth. With Garet Jax, it didn’t matter. He was taciturn by nature, so his refusal to contribute anything in the way of conversation was not surprising. But Slanter was a garrulous fellow, and his uncommunicative posture was disquieting. Jair much preferred Slanter the way he had been before—brash, talkative, almost like a rough uncle. He wasn’t like that now. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself and shut himself away from the Valeman—as if traveling with Jair had become almost distasteful.

Well, in a way it was, Jair supposed, reflecting on the matter. After all, Slanter hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. He had only come because Jair had shamed him into it. Here he was, a Gnome traveling with one fellow who had been his prisoner before and another who didn’t trust him a wink, all for the sole purpose of seeing to it that they safely reached a people who were at war with his own. And he wouldn’t have been doing that, except that, in helping Jair, he had compromised his loyalties so that he was now little better than an outcast.

Then, too, there was the matter of the Log Dweller. Slanter had come to Jair’s aid in an act of bravery that the Valeman still found mystifying—an act not at all in character for a fellow as opportunistic and self-centered as Slanter—and look what had happened. Slanter had failed to stave off the Log Dweller, had himself become a victim, and had been forced to rely on Garet Jax to save him. That must rankle. Slanter was a tracker, and trackers were a proud breed. Trackers were supposed to protect the people they guided, not the other way around.

Sparks shot out suddenly from the little fire, drawing his attention. A dozen feet away, stretched out against an old log, Garet Jax stirred and glanced over. Those strange eyes sought his, and Jair found himself wondering once more about the character of the Weapons Master.

“Guess I should thank you again,” he said, drawing his knees up to his chest, “for saving me from that thing in the Marsh.”

The other man looked back at the fire. Jair watched for a moment, trying to decide if he should say anything else.

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally.

The Weapons Master shrugged his indifference.

“Why
did
you save me—not just from the thing in the Marsh, but back there in the Oaks when the Gnomes had me prisoner?” The hard eyes suddenly fixed on him again, and he hurried his words before he had time to think better of them. “It’s just that I don’t quite understand what made you do it. After all, you didn’t know me. You could have just gone your own way.”

Garet Jax shrugged again. “I did go my own way.”

“What do you mean?”

“My way happened to be your way. That’s what I mean.”

Jair frowned slightly. “But you didn’t know where I was being taken.”

“East. Where else would a Gnome patrol with a prisoner be going?”

Jair’s frown deepened. He couldn’t argue with that. Still, none of what the Weapons Master had said did much to explain why he had bothered to rescue Jair in the first place.

“I still don’t see why you helped me,” he pressed.

A faint smile crossed the other’s face. “I don’t appear to you to possess a particularly humanitarian nature, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Anyway, you’re right—I don’t.”

Jair hesitated, staring at him.

“I said I don’t,” Garet Jax repeated. The smile was gone. “I wouldn’t stay alive very long if I did. And staying alive is what I do best.”

There was a long silence. Jair didn’t know where else to go with the conversation. The Weapons Master pushed himself forward, leaning into the fire’s warmth.

“But you interest me,” he said slowly. His gaze shifted to Jair. “I suppose that’s why I rescued you. You interest me, and not many things do that anymore  . . .”

He trailed off, a distant look in his eyes. But an instant later it was gone, and he was studying Jair once more.

“There you were, bound and gagged and under guard by an entire Gnome patrol armed to the teeth. Very odd. They were frightened of you. That intrigued me. I wanted to know what it was about you that frightened them so.”

He shrugged. “So I thought it was worth the trouble to set you free.”

Jair stared at him. Curiosity? Was that why Garet Jax had come to his aid—out of curiosity? No, he thought at once, it was more than that.

“They were frightened of the magic,” he said suddenly. “Would you like to see how it works?”

Garet Jax looked back at the fire. “Later, maybe. The journey’s not done yet.” He seemed totally without interest.

“Is that why you’re taking me with you to Culhaven?” Jair pressed.

“In part.”

He let the words hang. Jair glanced over at him uneasily.

“What’s the rest?”

The Weapons Master did not respond. He did not even look at the Valeman. He just leaned back against the fallen log, wrapped himself in the black travel cloak and watched the fire.

Jair tried a different approach. “What about Slanter? Why did you help him? You could have left him to the Log Dweller.”

Garet Jax sighed. “I could have. Would that have made you any happier?”

“Of course not. What do you mean?”

“You seem to have formed an opinion of me as a man who does nothing for anyone without some personal benefit. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. You’re young, not stupid.”

Jair flushed. “Well, you don’t like Slanter very much, do you?”

“I don’t know him well enough to like or dislike him,” the other replied. “I admit that for the most part I’m not particularly fond of Gnomes. But this one twice was willing to place himself in danger for your sake. That makes him worth saving.”

He glanced over suddenly. “Besides, you like him and you don’t want anything to happen to him. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“Well, that in itself seems rather curious, don’t you think? As I said before, you interest me.”

Jair nodded thoughtfully. “You interest me, too.”

Garet Jax turned away. “Good. We’ll both have something to think about on our way to Culhaven.”

He let the matter drop and Jair did the same. The Valeman was by no means satisfied that he understood what it was that had persuaded the Weapons Master to aid either Slanter or himself, but it was obvious he would learn nothing more this night. Garet Jax was an enigma that would not easily be solved.

The fire had almost died away by now, causing Jair to remember that Slanter had gone in search of wood and not yet returned. He pondered for a moment whether or not he should do anything about it, then turned once more to Garet Jax.

“You don’t think anything could have happened to Slanter, do you?” he asked. “He’s been gone quite a while.”

The Weapons Master shook his head. “He can look after himself.” He rose and kicked at the fire, scattering the wood embers so that the flames died. “We don’t need the fire any longer, anyway.”

Returning to his spot next to the fallen log, he rolled himself in his travel cloak and was asleep in seconds. Jair lay silently for a time, listening to the man’s heavy breathing and staring out into the dark. Finally he, too, rolled into his cloak and settled back. He was still a bit worried about Slanter, but he guessed that Garet Jax was right when he said the Gnome could look out for himself. Besides, Jair had grown suddenly sleepy. Breathing the warm night air deeply, he let his eyes close. For a moment, his mind wandered free and he found himself thinking of Brin, Rone, and Allanon, wondering where they were by now.

Then the thoughts scattered and he was asleep.

On a rise that overlooked the Silver River, lost in the shadows of an old willow, Slanter was thinking, too. He was thinking that it was time to move on. He had come this far because that confounded boy had shamed him into it. Imagine, offering him a bribe—that boy—as if be would stoop to accepting bribes from boys! Still, it was well meant, he supposed. The boy’s desire to have his company had been genuine enough. And he did rather like the boy. There was a lot of toughness in the youngster.

The Gnome pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms about them thoughtfully. Nevertheless, this was a fool’s mission. He was walking right into the camp of his enemy. Oh, the Dwarves weren’t a personal enemy, of course. He didn’t care a whit about Dwarves one way or the other. But just at the moment, they were at war with the Gnome tribes, and he doubted that it made a whole lot of difference what his feelings were about them. Seeing that he was a Gnome would be enough.

He shook his head. The risk was just too great. And it was all for that boy, who probably didn’t know what he wanted from one day to the next, anyway. Besides, he had said he would take the boy as far as the border of the Anar, and they were almost there now. By nightfall of the coming day, they would probably reach the forests. He had kept his part of the bargain.

So. He took a deep breath and hauled himself to his feet. Time to be moving on. That was the way he had always lived his life—the way trackers were. The boy might be upset at first, but he would get over it. And Slanter doubted the boy would be in much danger with Garet Jax looking after him. Fact was, the boy would probably be better off that way.

He shook his head irritably. No reason to be calling Jair a boy, either. He was older than the Gnome had been when he first left home. Jair could look after himself if he had to. Didn’t really need Slanter or the Weapons Master or anyone else. Not so long as he had that magic to protect him.

Slanter hesitated a moment longer, thinking it through once more. He wouldn’t find out anything about the magic, of course—that was too bad. The magic intrigued him, the way the boy’s voice could  . . . No, his mind was made up. A Gnome in the Eastland had no business being anywhere near Dwarves. He was best off sticking to his own people. And now he could no longer do even that. Best thing for it was to slip back to the camp, pick up his gear, cross the river, and head north into the borderlands.

He frowned. Maybe it was just that the Valeman seemed like a boy  . . .

Slanter, get on with it!

Quickly he turned about and disappeared into the night.

Dreams flooded Jair Ohmsford’s sleep. He rode on horseback over hills, across grasslands, and through deep and shadowed forests, with the wind screaming in his ears. Brin rode at his side, her midnight hair impossibly long and flying. They spoke no words as they rode, yet each knew the other’s thoughts and lived within the other’s mind. On and on they raced, passing through lands they had never seen, vibrant and sprawling and wild. Danger lurked all about them: a Log Dweller, massive and reeking of the swamp; Gnomes, their twisted yellow faces leering their evil intentions; Mord Wraiths, no more than ghostly forms, featureless and eerie as they stretched from the dark. There were others, too—shapeless, monstrous things that could not be seen, but only felt, the sense of their presence somehow more terrible than any face could ever be. These beings of evil reached for them, claws and teeth ripping the air, eyes gleaming like coals in blackest night. The beings sought to pull Jair and his sister from their mounts and to tear the life from them. Yet always the things were too slow, an instant too late to achieve their purpose, as the swift horses carried Jair and Brin beyond their reach.

Yet the chase wore on. It did not end as a chase should end. It simply went on, an endless run through countryside that swept to the horizon. Though the creatures hunting them never quite managed to catch up to them, still there were always others lying in wait ahead. Exhilaration filled the pair at first. They were wild and free and nothing could touch them, brother and sister a match for all that sought to drag them down. But after a time, something changed. The change crept over them gradually, an insidious thing, until at last it lodged itself fully within them and they knew it for what it was. It had no name. It whispered to them of what must be: the race they ran could not be won for the things they ran from were a part of themselves; no horse, however swift, could carry them to safety. Look at what they were, the voice whispered, and they would see the truth.