by Terry Brooks
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.”
“How can you say that?” Flick exclaimed in disbelief. “What makes you think you will be allowed to come back? He
needs the Elfstones! In fact, what if it’s the Elfstones he’s really after? Have you thought of that?”
Shea had thought of everything. Some of it made him ashamed of himself, but Flick was right about one thing. This was Panamon Creel, and Panamon was capable of anything. So he wasn’t going into this blindfolded.
When it was all said and done, Flick stood firm on his insistence that Shea not go, but Shea persisted and went anyway. He advised his father he would be traveling with Panamon for as long as two weeks and rode out the next day on a horse he had rented from the local stable master, his gear and clothing stowed in a bedroll tied to the back of the saddle, the Elfstones tucked down inside his tunic. Flick, to his surprise and disappointment, remained behind. He had almost believed that his brother would come with him, just as he had on the quest for the Sword of Shannara. But the times and the circumstances were different, and apparently Flick had done enough questing in his life. He loved Shea and feared for him, but he simply refused to support a cause in which he did not believe.
“Turns out Audrana Coos was right,” he said in parting. “Try not to make me regret it. Come home safe.”
So Shea and Panamon Creel rode north out of Shady Vale into the Duln Forests until they reached the banks of the Rainbow Lake. There they turned west to follow the lakeshore around to where they could begin their journey toward the Streleheim and into the Northland.
Shea spent his time on horseback thinking of how long ago the last quest now seemed. It was almost as if it had happened in another lifetime—one he had lived as a different person entirely. He had grown up on that quest, seasoned and matured under the pressure of constantly being hunted and placed at risk, of facing death almost every day, of watching friends and strangers die all around him, and of knowing how much depended on the success of his efforts.
This time the feelings were altogether different. He was not being chased, and the threat of death seemed remote. He was placing himself in some danger, but what was at stake was much smaller and less world-changing.
What troubled him most was the absence of Flick, who had stuck with him before for as long as he was physically able, and had been there to reassure him when his doubts and fears threatened to undo him. He missed his brother and wished mightily he were there again.
So when, on the third day out, Flick appeared, it was almost like a miracle. He had left the same afternoon, after telling their father what he was doing, unable to stand the idea of Shea going without him, surprising himself with the intensity of his feelings. Taking the trail he knew they would follow to go north, he had tracked them until he caught up.
“Changed my mind,” he announced as he rode up. Noting the look of dismay on Panamon’s face, he added, “I can’t have my brother going off like this without someone reliable watching out for his best interests.”
Shea laughed and clapped Flick on the back affectionately. Panamon Creel said nothing.
* * *
They were three now as the journey continued. Panamon regaled the other two with tales of his exploits, most of which caused Shea to smile and Flick to roll his eyes. The thief made so many outlandish claims and recounted so many improbable happenings, it was impossible to believe half of it. But it was entertaining, and it helped the time to pass more swiftly. To his credit, Flick did not say or do anything to deliberately irritate Panamon. He did not question the purpose of their journey or the details surrounding how the thief intended to fulfill it, and studiously avoided offering any sort of challenge to the other’s authority.
But Panamon was clearly irritated by his presence nevertheless, which eventually persuaded Shea to confront him.
“You don’t seem too happy having Flick along,” he said. They were standing alone at their campsite on the fourth day out while Flick was off gathering firewood. By now they were above the Dragon’s Teeth and only a day from their destination. “Why are you so upset?”
“Because, Shea,” Panamon replied in a dismissive tone, “this effort doesn’t need a third person. It just needs you and me. Flick will only be in the way. He might even cause problems for us when we go after the Irix, just by being here. I didn’t plan on him coming, and I don’t need him.”
Shea held his temper. “But perhaps I do.”
“That’s nonsense. You were on your own when I found you two years ago. You didn’t seem to need him so badly then.”
“Well, appearances can be deceiving. I missed him terribly. I can’t tell you how much being separated from him bothers me. So let’s understand something. I am happy he came to find us, and it would be a good idea if you stopped acting as if he shouldn’t be here. It makes me think I shouldn’t be here, either.”
Panamon seemed to take his words to heart. On the following day, he went out of his way to speak with Flick, telling him how much help he expected he would be to them and how pleased he was to have him along. Flick was clearly doubtful at first, but after a while he began to respond to the other’s efforts, and the ride north immediately became more pleasant for everyone.
During their travels, they had seen almost no one. By the time they reached the banks of the River Lethe and the Knife Edge Mountains came into view through a screen of mist and gray, the country had turned so barren that it seemed impossible anyone or anything could possibly find a way to subsist. The landscape was composed of rock and dirt and grasses that were so dried out and prickly, they cut like knives if you brushed up against them.
That was all you could see in any direction.
There was nothing out there. Anywhere.
Except for the Harrgs.
At least Panamon knew what they were and was prepared for them when they appeared. The travelers were camped on the evening of the fifth day, their horses tethered, their fire built, and the night black and silent around them. But moon and stars lit the blasted terrain surrounding them so they could see the squat shapes when they began to close in.
“What’s that?” Shea asked, the first to catch sight of the creatures moving at the edges of the firelight like vague and indistinct shadows.
“Harrgs,” Panamon answered casually. “Don’t move.”
“Don’t move?” Flick asked in disbelief, getting a good look at what they were facing now as the creatures edged close enough to be seen clearly. They not only sounded like pigs, snuffling and grunting, but they looked like pigs—pigs with tusks and huge, hairy bodies and mean little eyes. There were at least a dozen of them, moving back and forth like phantoms.
“What are those?” Shea whispered.
“Feral pigs, of a sort. Boars, really. They live here; this is their country. They eat those sharp-edged grasses, mostly. But they’re omnivores, so we don’t want to take chances. Quiet, now.”
He was fumbling beneath his cloak in the pouch he always wore strapped about his waist, digging in it.
The Harrgs were getting close. Very close. Shea and Flick edged nearer the fire, scooting like startled crabs. “Panamon,” Shea hissed.
A second later the thief leapt to his feet and flung what appeared to be a handful of pebbles at the Harrgs. The creatures backed off a few steps, hesitant yet undeterred. Then one or two of them inched forward, sniffing loudly. A moment later Shea and Flick could hear the sound of chewing.
But only a heartbeat after that the night silence was filled with the sounds of agonized squealing and snorting as one or more of the Harrgs went wild, leaping and charging about, sending the others into a frenzy that ended with all of them racing away into the darkness.
Panamon brushed off his hands. “Pepper root. The Harrgs can’t stand it. I disguised the smell so they would eat it, knowing they will eat just about anything. They won’t be back. Not that we were in any real danger from them.”
“Those tusks suggest otherwise,” Flick pointed out.
“Well, yes, perhaps they do,” the thief conceded. “But Harrgs are not hunters; they’re opportunists. They were more curious about us than anything.”
He c
ame back to where they were still crouched by the fire and sat down again. The night air had turned chilly with the deepening of the darkness, and he rubbed his hands briskly.
“Cold,” he said.
“How do you happen to know so much about Harrgs?” Shea asked.
Panamon shrugged. “I know a few things.”
“It was fortunate you knew about this one, wasn’t it?”
Panamon did not miss the implication. He shrugged. “I knew about the Harrgs because I’ve run into them before.” He cleared his throat and spit. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to leave any further discussion of the subject until morning. I am tired, and I need my rest.”
Shea and Flick exchanged a quick glance as the thief picked up his blanket, found a suitable piece of hard ground, lay down with his back to them, and went to sleep.
He needs his rest, Flick mouthed to Shea and rolled his eyes.
* * *
The morning dawned gray and sullen, the weather typical for the Northland and the country of the Skull Kingdom. No matter that the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers were dead and gone; the weather never changed. After eating breakfast and packing their gear—and at Panamon’s urging—Shea reached inside his tunic and brought out the Elfstones to attempt to locate the Black Irix. While he hadn’t said anything about it to his brother or Panamon, he had experimented with the Stones about a year ago after returning home, just because he wanted to know if he could still command the magic. He had gone deep into the woods before using them, then chosen a simple task—finding out what his father was doing back in Shady Vale.
He had gone through the process of forming in his mind a clear image of his father’s face, and the magic of the Elfstones had warmed within his hand and then rushed swiftly through his body, filling him with their presence and an awareness of their power. Moments later the familiar blue light had materialized and begun to weave its way through the trees, back to his home and to where his father sat eating his lunch within the inn’s kitchen. It illuminated the scene for several long moments, then vanished once more.
