by Terry Brooks
“Jair Ohmsford.” Jair was still trying to swallow. “I guess you knew that.”
Slanter nodded. “I did. Should have found out a bit more, it appears. Quite a chase you took me on.”
Jair frowned. “How did you manage to catch up to me? I didn’t think anyone could catch me.”
“Oh, that.” The Gnome sniffed. “Well, not just anyone could have caught you. But then I’m not just anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
The Gnome laughed. “I mean I’m a tracker, boy. It’s what I do. Fact is, it’s what I do better than just about anyone else alive. That’s why they brought me, the others. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been tracking.”
“Me?” Jair asked in astonishment.
“No, not you—the Druid! The one they call Allanon. It was him I was tracking. You just happened to cross my path at the wrong time.”
A look of bewilderment crossed the Valeman’s face. This Gnome was a tracker? No wonder he hadn’t been able to escape him as he would have another man. But tracking Allanon . . .?
Slanter shook his head helplessly and climbed to his feet. “Look, I’ll explain it all to you, but first let’s have something to eat. I had to carry you down from that hunting lodge two miles distant, and you may look small but you weigh better than your size. Worked up a pretty good appetite while you rested. Sit still, now—I’ll put something on the fire.”
Slanter retrieved a knapsack from the other side of the clearing, pulled clear some cooking utensils and within minutes had a beef and vegetable stew simmering over the fire. The smell of the cooking food wafted through the night air to Jair’s nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He was beyond famished, he decided. He had not had a decent meal since he had left the inn. Besides, he needed to keep his strength up if he was to have any chance of escaping this fellow, and he had every intention of doing so at the first opportunity.
When the stew was finished, Slanter brought it over to where he was tied and hand-fed him mouthfuls, sharing the meal with him. The food tasted wonderful, and they ate all that there was, together with an end of bread and some cheese. Slanter drank more of the ale, but gave Jair sips from a cup of water.
“Not a bad stew if I do say so myself,” the Gnome remarked afterward, bent next to the fire to scrape clean the pan. “Learned a few useful things over the years.”
“How long have you been a tracker?” Jair asked him, intrigued.
“Most of my life. Began learning when I was your age.” He finished with the cookware, stood up and came back over to the Valeman. “What do you know about trackers?”
Briefly Jair told him about the old tracker who had boarded at the inn, of their conversations, and of the tracking games they’d played while the man’s leg had healed. Slanter listened quietly, obvious interest reflected in his rough yellow features. When Jair had finished, the Gnome sat back, a distant look in his sharp eyes.
“I was like you once, long time ago. Used to think about nothing but being a tracker. Left home with one finally—an old Borderman. I was younger than you. Left home, went right out of the Eastland into Callahorn and the Northland. Gone better than fifteen years. Traveled all the lands at one time or another, you know. As much of them in me as Eastland Gnome. Odd, but I’m kind of a homeless sort because of it. Gnomes don’t really trust me, because I’ve been away too long, seen too much of what else there is ever to really be the same as them. A Gnome who’s not a Gnome. I’ve learned more than they ever will, shut away in the Eastland forests like they are. They know it, too. They barely tolerate me. They respect me, though, because I’m the best that there is at what I do.”
He glanced sharply at Jair. “That’s why I’m here—because I’m the best. The Druid Allanon—the fellow you don’t know, remember?—he came into the Ravenshorn and Graymark, tried to get down into the Maelmord. But nothing goes down into that pit, not Druid nor Devil. The Wraiths knew he was there and went after him. One walker, a patrol of Gnome Hunters, and me to track. Tracked to your village, then waited for someone’ to show. Thought someone would, even though it was pretty clear that the Druid had already gone elsewhere. And who should appear but you?”
Jair’s mind was racing. How much does he know? Does he know the reason that Allanon came to Shady Vale? Does he know about the . . .? And suddenly he remembered the Elfstones, tucked hastily within his tunic when he fled the Vale. Did he still have them? Or had Slanter found them? Oh, shades!
Eyes still fixed on those of the Gnome, he shifted cautiously against the ropes that bound him, trying to feel the pressure of the Stones against his body. But it was hopeless. The ties knotted his clothing and gave him no sure feel for what he still had on him. He dared not look down, even for an instant.
“Ropes cutting a bit?” Slanter asked suddenly.
He shook his head. “I was just trying to get comfortable.” He forced himself to sit back and relax. He changed the subject back. “Why did you bother coming after me if you were supposed to be tracking Allanon?”
Slanter cocked his head slightly. “Because I was tracking the Druid to find out where he went, and I’ve done that. He went to your village, to your family. Now he’s gone back to the Eastland—isn’t that right? Oh, you needn’t answer. At least not to me. But you will have to answer to those who came with me when they get here in the morning. A bit slow they are, but sure. I had to leave them to be certain I caught you. You see, they want to know something of Allanon’s visit. They want to know why he came. And unfortunately for you, they want to know one thing more.”
He paused meaningfully, eyes boring into Jair. The Valeman took a deep breath. “About the magic?” he whispered.
“Sharp fellow.” Slanter’s smile was hard.
“What if I don’t want to tell them?”
“That would be foolish,” the Gnome said quietly.
They stared at each other wordlessly. “The Wraith would make me tell, wouldn’t he?” Jair asked finally.
“The Wraith is not your problem.” Slanter snorted. “The Wraith’s gone north after the Druid. The Sedt is your problem.”
The Valeman shook his head. “Sedt? What is a Sedt?”
“A Sedt is a Gnome chieftain—in this case, Spilk. He commands the patrol. A rather unpleasant fellow. Not like me, you see. Very much an Eastland Gnome. He would just as soon cut your throat as look at you. He’s your problem. You’d better answer the questions he asks.”
He shrugged. “Besides, once you’ve told Spilk what he wants to know, I’ll do what I can to see that you’re released. After all, our fight’s not with the Vale people. Our fight’s with the Dwarves. Not to disappoint you, but you’re really not all that important. That magic of yours is what’s interesting. No, you answer the questions and I think you’ll be turned loose quick enough.”
Jair eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”
Slanter drew back. “You don’t? Well, here’s my word on it, then. As good as your own.” Heavy eyebrows arched. “It means as much to me as yours does, boy. Now take it.”
Jair said nothing for a moment. Strangely enough, he thought the Gnome was telling him the truth. If he promised he would seek Jair’s release, he would do just that. If he thought Jair would be released on answering the questions asked, Jair probably would. Jair grimaced. On the other hand, why should he trust any Gnome?
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“You don’t know?” Slanter shook his head hopelessly. “You’d think you had a choice, boy. You don’t answer, Spilk goes to work on you. You still don’t answer, he turns you over to the walkers. What do you think happens to you then?”
Jair went cold to the bone. He didn’t care to think about what would happen then.
“I thought you were smart,” the Gnome continued, wizened yellow features twisting into a grimace. “Smart, the way you got past those others back there—even got past the walker. So stay smart. What difference does it make now what you tell anyone? What difference i
f you tell the Sedt why the Druid came to see you? The Druid’s gone by now anyway—won’t likely catch up to him this side of the Eastland. He wouldn’t tell you anything all that important anyway, would he? The magic—well, all they want to know about the magic is how you learned it. The Druid, maybe? Someone else?” He waited a moment, but Jair said nothing. “Well, anyway, just tell how you learned it and how you use it—simple enough and no skin off your nose. No games, just tell the truth. You do that, and that’s the end of your use.”
Again he waited for Jair to respond, and again the Valeman stayed silent.
Slanter shrugged. “Well, think on it.” He stood up, stretched, and came over to Jair. Smiling cheerfully, he replaced the gag in the Valeman’s mouth. “Sorry about the sleeping accommodations, but I can’t be taking many chances with you. You’ve shown me that much.”
Still smiling, he retrieved a blanket from the far side of the clearing, brought it over to Jair and wrapped it about him, tucking in the corners where the ropes bound him to the tree so that it would stay fixed. Then he walked over to the fire and kicked it out. In the faint glow of the embers, Jair could see his stocky form as it moved off into the dark.
“Ah, me—reduced to chasing down Valemen,” the Gnome muttered. “Waste of talent. Not even a Dwarf! At least they could give me a Dwarf to track. Or the Druid again. Bah! Druid’s gone back to help the Dwarves and here I sit, watching this boy . . .”
He muttered on a bit more, most of it unintelligible, and then his voice faded away entirely.
Jair Ohmsford sat alone in the dark and wondered what he was going to do when morning came.
He slept poorly that night, cramped and bruised by the ropes that bound him, haunted by the specter of what lay ahead. Considered from any point of view, his future appeared bleak. He could expect no help from his friends; after all, no one knew where he was. His parents and Brin, Rone, and Allanon all thought him safely housed at the inn at Shady Vale. Nor could he reasonably anticipate much consideration from his captors. Slanter’s reassurances notwithstanding, he did not expect to be released, no matter how many questions he answered. After all, how would he answer questions about the magic? Slanter clearly thought it something he had been taught. Once the Gnomes learned it was not an acquired skill, but a talent he had been born with, they would want to know more. They would take him to the Eastland, to the Mord Wraiths . . .
So the night hours passed. He dozed at times, his weariness overcoming his discomfort and his worry—yet never for very long. Then finally, toward morning, exhaustion overtook him, and at last he drifted off to sleep.
It was not yet dawn when Slanter shook him roughly awake.
“Get up,” the Gnome ordered. “The others are here.”
Jair’s eyes blinked open, squinting into the predawn gray that shrouded the highland forest. The air was chill and damp, even with the blanket still wrapped about his body, and a fine fall mist clung about the dark trunks of the fir. It was deathly still, the forest life not yet come awake. Slanter bent over him, loosing the ropes that bound him to the tree. There were no other Gnomes in sight.
“Where are they?” he asked as the gag was slipped from his mouth.
“Close. A hundred yards down the slope.” Slanter gripped the Valeman’s tunic front and hauled him to his feet. “No games now. Keep the magic to yourself. I’ve let you loose from the tree so that you might look the part of a man, but I’ll strap you back again if you cross me. Understand?”
Jair nodded quickly. Ropes still bound his hands and feet, and his limbs were so badly cramped he could barely manage to stand. He stood with his back against the fir, the muscles of his body aching and stiff. Even if he could manage to break free, he couldn’t run far like this. His mind was dizzy with fatigue and sudden fear as he waited for his strength to return. Answer the questions, Slanter had advised. Don’t be foolish. But what answers could he give? What answers would they accept?
Then abruptly a line of shadowy figures materialized from out of the gloom, trudging heavily through the forest trees. Two, three, half a dozen, eight—Jair watched as one by one they appeared through the mist, bulky forms wrapped in woolen forest cloaks. Gnomes—rugged yellow features glimpsed from within hoods drawn close, thick-fingered hands clasping spears and cudgels. Not a word passed their lips as they filed into the clearing, but sharp eyes fixed on the captive Valeman and there was no friendliness in their gaze.
“This him?”
The speaker stood at the forefront of the others. He was powerfully built, his body corded with muscle, his chest massive. He thrust the butt of his cudgel into the forest earth, gripping it with scarred, gnarled fingers, twisting it slowly.
“Well, is it?”
The Gnome glanced briefly at Slanter. Slanter nodded. The Gnome let his gaze shift back to Jair. Slowly he pulled clear the hood of his forest cloak. Rough, broken features dominated his broad face. Cruel eyes studied the Valeman dispassionately, probing.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
“Jair Ohmsford,” Jair answered at once.
“What was the Druid doing at your home?”
Jair hesitated, trying to decide what he should say. Something unpleasant flickered in the Gnome’s eyes. With a sudden snap of his hands he brought the cudgel about, sweeping the Valeman’s feet from beneath him. Jair fell hard, the breath knocked from his body. The Gnome stood over him silently, then reached down, seized the front of his tunic and pulled him back to his feet.
“What was the Druid doing in your home?”
Jair swallowed, trying to hide his fear. “He came to find my father,” he lied.
“Why?”
“My father is the holder of Elfstones. Allanon will use them as a weapon against the Mord Wraiths.”
There was an endless moment of silence. Jair did not even breathe. If Slanter had found the Elfstones in his tunic, the lie was already discovered and he was finished. He waited, eyes fixed on the Gnome.
“Where are they now, the Druid and your father?” the other said finally.
Jair exhaled. “Gone east.” He hesitated, then added, “My mother and sister are visiting in the villages south of the Vale. I was supposed to wait at the inn for their return.”
The Gnome grunted noncommittally. I’ve got to try to protect them, Jair thought. Spilk was watching him carefully. He did not look away. You can’t tell that I’m lying, he thought. You can’t.
Then a gnarled finger lifted from the cudgel. “Do you do magic?”
“I . . .” Jair glanced at the dark faces about him.
The cudgel came up, a quick, sharp blow that caught Jair across the knees, throwing him to the earth once more. The Gnome smiled, eyes hard. He yanked Jair back to his feet.
“Answer me—do you do magic?”
Jair nodded wordlessly, mute with pain. He could barely stand.
“Show me,” the Gnome ordered.
“Spilk.” Slanter’s voice broke softly through the sudden silence. “You might want to reconsider that request.”
Spilk glanced briefly at Slanter, then dismissed him. His eyes returned to Jair. “Show me.”
Jair hesitated. Again the cudgel came up. Even though Jair was ready this time, he could not move fast enough to avoid the blow. It caught him alongside the face. Pain exploded in his head, and tears flooded his eyes. He dropped to his knees, but Spilk’s thick hands knotted in his tunic and once more he was hauled to his feet.
“Show me!” the Gnome demanded.
Then anger flooded through Jair—anger so intense that it burned. He gave no thought to what he did next; he simply acted. A quick, muted cry broke from his lips and turned abruptly to a frightening hiss. Instantly Spilk was covered with huge gray spiders. The Gnome Sedt shrieked in dismay, tearing frantically at the great hairy insects, falling back from Jair. The Gnomes behind him scattered, spears and cudgels hammering downward as they sought to keep the spiders from their own bodies. The Sedt went down under a flurry of bl
ows, thrashing upon the forest earth, trying to dislodge the terrible things that clung so tenaciously to him, his cries filling the morning air.
Jair sang a moment longer and then quit. Had he not been bound hand and foot or had he not been dizzy still from the blows struck by Spilk, he would have taken advantage of the confusion the wishsong’s use had created to attempt an escape. But Slanter had made certain he could not run. As the anger left him he grew silent.
For a few seconds Spilk continued to roll upon the ground, tearing at himself. Then abruptly he realized that the spiders were gone. Slowly he came to his knees, his breathing harsh and ragged, his battered face twisting until his eyes found Jair. He surged to his feet with a howl and threw himself at the Valeman, gnarled hands reaching. Jair stumbled back, his legs tangling in the ropes. In the next instant, the Gnome was atop him, fists hammering wildly. Dozens of blows struck Jair’s head and face, seemingly all at once. Pain and shock washed through him.
Then everything went black.
He came awake again only moments later. Slanter knelt next to him, dabbing at his face with a cloth soaked in cold water. The water stung, and he jerked sharply at its touch.
“You got more sand than brains, boy,” the Gnome whispered, bending close. “You all right?”
Jair nodded, reaching up to touch his face experimentally. Slanter knocked his hand away.
“Leave it be.” He dabbed a few more times with the cloth, then allowed a faint grin to cross his rough face. “Scared old Spilk half to death, you did. Half to death!”
Jair glanced past Slanter to where the remainder of the patrol huddled at the far side of the clearing, eyes darting watchfully in his direction. Spilk stood apart from everyone, his face black with anger.
“Had to pull him off you myself,” Slanter was saying. “Would have killed you otherwise. Would have beat your head in.”
“He asked me to show him the magic,” Jair muttered, swallowing hard. “So I did.”
The thought clearly amused the Gnome, and he permitted himself another faint smile, carefully averting his face from the Sedt. Then he put his arm about Jair’s shoulders and raised him to a sitting position. Pouring a short ration of ale from the container at his waist, he gave the Valeman a drink. Jair accepted the ale, swallowing and choking as it burned clear down to his stomach.
