by Terry Brooks
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 mo
ment, 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.
Fly! Jair howled in fury, and urged his horse to run faster. But the voice whispered on, and about them the sky went steadily darker, the color faded from the land, and everything turned gray and dead. Fly! he screamed. He turned then to find Brin, sensing somehow that all was not well with her. The horror sprang to life before him and Brin was no longer there; she had been overtaken and consumed, swallowed by the dark monster that reached . . . that reached . . .
Jair’s eyes snapped open. Sweat bathed his face, and his clothing was damp beneath the cloak in which he lay wrapped. Stars twinkled softly overhead, and the night was still and at peace. Yet the dream lingered in his mind, a vivid, living thing.
Then he realized that the fire was burning brightly once more, its flames crackling on new wood in the dark. Someone had rebuilt it.
Slanter . . .?
Hurriedly he threw off the cloak and sat up, his eyes searching. Slanter was nowhere to be seen. A dozen feet away, Garet Jax slept undisturbed. Nothing had changed—nothing save the fire.
Then a figure stepped from the night, a thin and frail old man, his bent and aged frame clothed in white robes. Silver white hair and beard framed a weathered, gentle face, and a walking stick guided his way. Smiling warmly, he came into the light and stopped.
“Hello, Jair,” he greeted.
The Valeman stared. “Hello.”
“Dreams can be visions of what is to come, you know. And dreams can be warnings of what we must beware.”
Jair was speechless. The old man turned and came about the fire, picking his way with care until at last he stood before the Valeman. Then he lowered himself gingerly to the ground, a wisp of life that a strong wind might blow from the earth.
“Do you know me, Jair?” the old man asked, his voice a soft murmur in the silence. “Let your memory tell you.”
“I don’t . . .” Jair started to say and then stopped. As if the suggestion had triggered something deep within him, Jair knew at once who it was that sat across from him.
“Speak my name.” The other smiled.
Jair swallowed. “You are the King of the Silver River.” The old man nodded. “I am what you name me. I am also your friend, just as I once was friend to your father and to your great-grandfather before him—men with lives intertwined in purpose, given over to the land and her needs.”
Jair stared at him wordlessly, then suddenly remembered the sleeping Garet Jax. Would not the Weapons Master waken . . .?
“He will sleep while we talk,” his unspoken question was answered. “No one comes to disturb us this night, child of life.”
Child? Jair stiffened. But in the next instant his anger was gone, melted by what he saw in the other’s face—the warmth, the gentleness, the love. With this old man there could be no anger or harsh feelings. There could be only respect.
“Hear me now,” the aged voice whispered. “I have need of you, Jair. Let your thoughts have ears and eyes that you may understand.”
Then everything about the Valeman seemed to dissolve away, and within his mind images began to form. He could hear the old man’s voice speaking to him, the words strangely hushed and sad, giving life to what he saw.
The forests of the Anar lay before him and there was the Ravenshorn, a vast and sprawling mountain range that rose black and stark against a crimson sun. The Silver River wound through its peaks, a thin, bright ribbon of light against the dark rock. He followed its course upriver far into the mountains until at last he had traced it to its source, high within a single, towering peak. There stood a well, its waters spring-fed from deep within the earth, rising through the rock to spill over and begin the long journey west.
But there was something more—something beyond the well and its keep. Below the peak, lost in mist and darkness was a great pit hemmed all about by jagged rock walls. From pit to peak a long and winding stairway rose, a slender thread of stone spiraling upward. Mord Wraiths walked that causeway, dark and furtive in their purpose. One by one they came, at last gaining the peak. There they stood in a row and looked down upon the waters of the well. Then they advanced as one upon it and touched the waters with their hands. Instantly the water went foul, poisoned and turned from clearest crystal to an ugly black. It ran down out of the mountains, filtering west through the great forests of the Anar where the Dwarves dwelt, then on to t
he land of the King of the Silver River and to Jair . . .
Poisoned! The word screamed suddenly in the Valeman’s mind. The Silver River had been poisoned, and the land was dying . . .
The images were gone in a rush. Jair blinked. The old man was before him again, his weathered face smiling gently.
“From the bowels of the Maelmord the Mord Wraiths climbed the walk they call the Croagh to Heaven’s Well, the life-source of the Silver River,” he whispered. “Bit by bit, the poison has grown worse. Now the waters threaten to go bad altogether. When that happens, Jair Ohmsford, all of the life they serve and sustain, from the deep Anar west to the Rainbow Lake, will begin to die.”
“But can’t you stop it?” the Valeman demanded angrily, wincing with pain from the memory of what he had been shown. “Can’t you go to them and stop them before it is too late? Surely your power is greater than theirs!”
The King of the Silver River sighed. “Within my own land, I am the way and the life. But only there. Beyond, I am without strength. I do what I can to keep the waters clean within the Silver River country, but I can do nothing for the lands beyond. Nor do I have power enough to withstand forever the poison that seeps steadily down. Sooner or later, I will fail.”
There was a moment’s silence as the two faced each other in the flickering light of the campfire. Jair’s mind raced.
“What about Brin?” he exclaimed suddenly. “She and Allanon are going to the source of the Mord Wraiths’ power to destroy it! When they have done that, won’t the poisoning stop?”
The old man’s eyes found his. “I have seen your sister and the Druid in my dreams, child. They will fail. They are leaves in the wind. Both will be lost.”
Jair went cold. He faced the old man in stunned silence. Lost! Brin, gone forever . . .
“No,” he murmured harshly. “No, you’re wrong.”
“She can be saved,” the gentle voice reached out to him suddenly. “You can save her.”
“How?” Jair whispered.
“You must go to her.”
