by Terry Brooks
Garet Jax and Slanter did little to improve his mood. Even without the constant reminder of the river’s ill and the harsh cast of the day, Jair would have found it difficult to keep a smile on his face or cheerfulness in his voice with the Weapons Master and the Gnome for traveling companions. Withdrawn and taciturn, they trudged beside him with all of the enthusiasm of mourners at a death watch. Not a dozen words had been exchanged since the march had resumed early that morning, and not a smile had crossed either face. Eyes riveted on the path ahead, they went forward with a singleminded determination that bordered on fanaticism. Once or twice, Jair had ventured to speak, and the response each time had been little more than a muted grunt. The noontime meal had been a strained and awkward ritual of necessity, and even the silent march east had been preferable to that.
Thus their approach into Culhaven was more than a little welcome to the Valeman, if for no other reason than that it meant he would soon have a chance to talk to someone civil for a change—although there was some reason to doubt even that. Dwarves had sighted them as far west as the border of the Anar, silent watchers who had made no effort to make them feel welcome. All along the trail leading in, there had been patrols of Dwarf Hunters—hardened men wrapped in leather waistcoats and forest cloaks, armed and purposeful in their walk. None of these had given greeting, or paused for even the briefest chat. All had passed and gone their way without inquiry. Only their eyes had strayed over to view these visitors—and their eyes had not been friendly.
By the time Jair and his fellow travelers reached the edge of the Dwarf village, they were being studied openly by every Dwarf they passed, and there was more than a hint of suspicion in those looks. Still in the lead, Garet Jax seemed oblivious to the eyes that followed after them, but Slanter was growing increasingly edgy and Jair was almost as uncomfortable as the Gnome. Garet Jax led along the roadway that crisscrossed the village, clearly familiar with the community and certain of what he was about. Neatly kept homes and shops lined the pathways they walked, sturdily built structures fronted by immaculate lawns and hedgerows, and brightened by lines of flowerbanks and carefully tended gardens. Families and shopowners looked up as they passed, hands gripping tools and wares as they paused in their day’s work. But there were armed men even here—Dwarf Hunters with hard eyes and belted weapons. This might be a community of families and homes, Jair thought to himself, but just at the moment it has more the look of an armed camp.
Finally, as they entered the central part of the village, they were brought to a halt by a foot patrol. Garet Jax spoke briefly with one of the sentries and the Dwarf disappeared on the run. The Weapons Master stepped back with Jair and Slanter. Together they faced the remaining members of the patrol in studied silence and waited. Dwarf children came to stand about them curiously, eyes fixed on Slanter. The Gnome ignored them for a time, then tired of the game and gave a sudden growl that sent the entire bunch scurrying for cover. The gnome glowered after them, glanced irritably at Jair, and withdrew into a determined funk.
A few minutes later, the sentry dispatched by Garet Jax returned. With him was a rugged-looking Dwarf with a great curling black beard and mustache and a bald head. Without slowing, he went directly to the Weapons Master, his hand extended in welcome,
“Took your sweet time getting here,” he growled as the other clasped the callused hand in his own. Sharp brown eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows, and the look of the man was hard and fierce. His stout, compact body was clothed in loose-fitting forest garb, belted and booted in soft leather, and he wore a brace of long knives at his waist. In one ear, a large gold earring dangled.
“Elb Foraker,” Garet Jax introduced the Dwarf to Jair and Slanter.
Foraker studied them wordlessly for a moment, then turned back to the Weapons Master. “Strange company you’re keeping, Garet.”
“Strange times.” The other shrugged. “How about a place to sit and something to eat?”
Foraker nodded. “This way.”
He led them past the patrol to where the roadway branched right and from there into a building that housed a large eating hail filled with benches and tables. A handful of the tables were occupied by Dwarf Hunters absorbed in their evening meal. A few glanced up and nodded to Foraker, but no one this time showed any particular interest in the Dwarf’s companions. Apparently it made a difference whom you were with, Jair thought. Foraker chose a table for them well back against one wall and signaled for food to be brought.
“What am I supposed to do with these two?” the Dwarf asked when they had seated themselves.
Garet Jax turned to his companions. “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he? He was with me ten years ago when I was training Dwarf Hunters for a border skirmish along the Wolfsktaag. He was with me again in Callahorn a few years back. That’s why I’m here now. He asked me to come, and he doesn’t take no for an answer.”
He looked back at Foraker. “The Valeman is Jair Ohmsford. He’s looking for his sister and a Druid.”
Foraker leaned back frowning. “A Druid? What Druid? There aren’t any Druids anymore. Haven’t been any Druids since . . .”
“I know—since Allanon,” Jair interjected, unable to keep still any longer. “That’s the Druid I’m looking for.”
Foraker stared at him. “That right? What makes you think you’ll find him here?”
“He told me that he would be going into the Eastland. He took my sister with him.”
“Your sister?” The Dwarf’s brows were fiercely knit. “Allanon and your sister? And they’re supposed to be here somewhere?”
Jair nodded slowly, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Foraker looked at him as if he were crazy. Then he looked at Garet Jax.
“Where did you find this Valeman?”
“On the way,” the other replied vaguely. “What do you know about the Druid?”
Foraker shrugged. “I know that no one has seen Allanon in the Eastland for more than twenty years—with or without anybody’s sister.”
“Well, you don’t know much, then,” Slanter spoke up suddenly, the faintest hint of a sneer in his voice. “The Druid’s come and gone right under your nose!”
Foraker’s fierce countenance swung around on the speaker. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Gnome.”
“This one supposedly tracked the Druid out of the Eastland,” Garet Jax offered, gray eyes wandering off casually about the empty hail. “Tracked him from the Maelmord right to the Valeman’s doorstep.”
Foraker stared at him. “I’ll ask again—what exactly am I supposed to do with these two?”
Garet Jax looked back at him. “I’ve been thinking about that. Does the Council meet tonight?”
“Every night, these days.”
“Then let the Valeman speak to them.”
Foraker frowned. “Why should I do that?”
“Because he has something to tell them that I think they’re going to want to hear. And not just about the Druid.”
Dwarf and Weapons Master eyed each other in silence. “I’ll have to make a request,” Foraker said at last, his lack of enthusiasm evident.
“Now seems like a good time to do it.” Garet Jax rose to his feet.
Foraker sighed and stood up with him, glancing down at Jair and Slanter as he did so. “You two can eat your meal and stay put. Don’t try wandering off.” He hesitated. “I don’t know anything about a Druid passing through, but I’ll look into it for you, Ohmsford.” He shook his head. “Come along, Garet.”
The Dwarf and the Weapons Master left the eating hall. Jair and Slanter sat alone at the table, lost in thought. Where was Allanon? Jair asked himself in silent desperation, head lowered to study his hands as he clasped them before him. The Druid had said he was going into the Eastland. Wouldn’t he come through Culhaven? If he hadn’t, then where had he gone? Where had he taken Brin?
A Dwarf in a white bib apron brought them plates of hot food and cups of ale, and they began to eat. No one said anything. The minutes
slipped past as they consumed the meal, and Jair felt his hopes fading with each bite he took—as if somehow he were consuming the answers his questions demanded. Pushing the plate back from where he sat, he scuffed one boot against the plank flooring nervously and tried to decide what he would do if Elb Foraker were right and Allanon and Brin had indeed not come this way.
“Stop that!” Slanter growled suddenly.
Jair glanced up. “Stop what?”
“Stop rubbing your boot against the floor. It’s annoying.”
“Sorry.”
“And quit looking like you’d lost your best friend. Your sister will turn up.”
Jair shook his head slowly, still distracted. “Maybe.”
“Humph,” the Gnome muttered. “I’m the one who should be worrying—not you. I don’t know how I ever let you talk me into this fool’s errand.”
Jair propped his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. There was determination in his voice. “Even if Brin didn’t come through Culhaven, even if Allanon went another way, we’ve still got to go into the Anar, Slanter. And we’ve got to persuade the Dwarves to help us.”
Slanter stared at him. “We? Us? You’d better take a moment and rethink that ‘we and us’ nonsense! I’m not going anywhere but back to where I came from before I got involved in this whole mess!”
“You’re a tracker, Slanter,” Jair said quietly. “I need you.”
“Too bad,” the Gnome snapped, his rough yellow face suddenly dark. “I’m also a Gnome, in case you hadn’t noticed! Did you see the way they looked at me out there? Did you see those children looking at me like I was some sort of wild animal brought in from the forest? Use your head! There’s a war going on between Gnomes and Dwarves, and the Dwarves aren’t likely to listen to anything you have to say so long as you persist in making me your ally! Which I’m not, in any case!”
Jair bent forward. “Slanter, I have to reach Heaven’s Well before Brin reaches the Maelmord. How am I going to do that without someone to guide me in?”
“You’ll find a way, knowing you.” The Gnome brushed the matter aside. “Besides, I can’t go back there anymore. Spilk will have told them what I did. Or if not him, then that other Gnome that ran off. They’ll be looking for me. If I go back, someone will recognize me. When I’m caught, the walkers . . .” He stopped abruptly and threw up his hands. “I’m not going and that’s that!”
He went back to eating his food, his head lowered to his plate. Jair regarded him silently, wondering if perhaps he were making a mistake in seeking Slanter’s help in the first place; perhaps the King of the Silver River hadn’t intended him as an ally after all. Slanter didn’t really seem like much of an ally when you thought about it. He was altogether too clever, too opportunistic, and his loyalty changed as often as the wind. He wasn’t one to be depended on, was he? Yet despite all that, there was still something about the Gnome that Jair liked. Maybe it was his toughness. Like Garet Jax, Slanter was a survivor, and that was the sort of companion Jair needed if he were to reach the deep Anar.
He watched as the Gnome drank down the last of the ale in noisy gulps, then said quietly, “I thought you wanted to learn about the magic.”
Slanter shook his head. “Not anymore. I’ve learned all I care to know about you, boy.”
Jair frowned in annoyance. “I think you’re just scared.”
“Think what you like. I’m not going.”
“What about your people? Don’t you care what the Mord Wraiths are doing to them?”
Slanter’s eyes snapped up. “I don’t have a people anymore, thanks to you!” Then he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, though. I haven’t really had a people since I left the Eastland. I’m my own people.”
“That’s not true. The Gnomes are your people. You went back to help them, didn’t you?”
“Times change. I went back because it was the smart thing to do. Now I’m not going back because that’s the smart thing to do!” Slanter was growing angry. “Why don’t you just give it up, boy? I’ve done enough for you already. I don’t feel obliged to do anything further. After all, the King of the Silver River didn’t give me any Silver Dust to help clean up his river!”
“That’s fortunate, isn’t it?” Jair flushed, a bit angry now himself. “A fat lot of good you’d be, changing sides every five minutes when things got a little rough! I thought you helped me back in the Oaks because you’d made a choice! I thought you cared what happened to me! Well, maybe I was wrong! What do you care about, Slanter?”
The Gnome was nonplussed. “I care about staying alive. That’s what you’d care about, too, if you had any brains.”
Jair went rigid with indignation. He came halfway out of his seat, arms braced on the table. “Staying alive! Well, just exactly how are you going to do that when the Mord Wraiths poison the Eastland and then move west into the other lands? That’s what’s going to happen, isn’t it? That’s what you said! Where will you run to then? Plan on changing sides one time more—become a Gnome again long enough to fool the walkers?”
Slanter reached up and shoved Jair back. “You have a big mouth for someone who understands so little about life. Maybe if you’d been out in the world looking after yourself instead of having someone do it for you, you’d not be so quick to point the finger at others. Now, shut up!”
Jair lapsed into immediate silence. There was nothing to be gained by pushing the matter any further. Slanter had made up his mind not to help, so that was the end of it. He was probably better off without the Gnome anyway.
The two were still glowering at each other when Garet Jax returned a few moments later. He was alone, and he came directly to where they sat. If he noticed the tension between them, he gave no indication of it. He took a seat next to Jair.
“You’re to go before the Council of Elders,” he said quietly.
Jair shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about this. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do.”
The Weapons Master pinned him with his eyes. “You don’t have a choice.”
“What about Brin? And Allanon?”
“There is no news of them. Foraker checked, and they haven’t been to Culhaven. No one knows anything about them.” The gray eyes studied the Valeman intently. “Whatever help you’re to find in this quest of yours, you’ll have to find it on your own.”
Jair glanced quickly at Slanter, but the Gnome refused to meet his gaze. He turned back to Garet Jax. “When do I go before the Council?”
The Weapons Master stood up. “Now.”
The Dwarf Council of Elders had convened in the Assembly, a large and cavernous hail settled within the bowels of a squarish building that housed all of the offices governing the affairs of the village of Culhaven. Twelve strong, the members of the Council sat behind a long table on a dais at the head of the chamber and looked down upon rows of benches separated by aisles that ran back to a pair of wide double-doors leading in. It was through these doors that Garet Jax brought Jair and Slanter. Shadows cloaked all but the very forefront of the Assembly, where oil lamps cast their harsh yellow light across the dais. The three who entered made their way to the edge of the light and stopped. A gathering of others occupied seats on the benches closest to the dais, and heads lifted and turned at their approach. A haze of pipe smoke hung over the men gathered, and the pungent smell of burning tobacco filled the air.
“Come forward,” a voice called.
They proceeded until they stood even with the foremost line of benches. Jair glanced around uneasily. The faces that stared back at him were not simply the faces of Dwarves. A handful of Elves sat immediately to his right, and half a dozen Bordermen from Callahorn far to his left. Foraker was there as well, black-bearded face dour and set as he leaned against the far wall.
“Welcome to Culhaven,” the voice spoke again.
The speaker rose from behind the table on the dais. He was a gray-bearded Dwarf of some years, rough-faced and bluff, skin browned and lined in the ha
rsh light of the lamps. He stood centermost among the Elders at the Council.
“My name is Browork, Elder and citizen of Culhaven, First at this Council,” he informed them. His hand lifted and beckoned to Jair. “Come forward, Valeman.”
Jair came toward him a step or two and stopped, glancing at the line of faces that looked down at him. All were aged and weathered, yet with eyes still quick and alert as they studied him.
“Your name?” Browork asked him.
“Jair Ohmsford,” he replied. “Of Shady Vale.”
The Dwarf nodded. “What would you say to us, Jair Ohmsford?”
Jair glanced about. The faces all about him waited expectantly—faces he did not know. Should he reveal what he knew to them? He looked back at the Elder.
“You may speak freely,” Browork assured him, sensing his concern. “All gathered here are to be trusted; all are leaders in the fight against the Mord Wraiths.”
He sat down again slowly and waited. Jair looked about once more, then took a deep breath and began to speak. Step by step, he revealed all that had happened since the arrival of Allanon in Shady Vale those many nights past. He told of the Druid’s coming, of his warning of the Mord Wraiths, of his need for Brin, and of their departure east. He described his subsequent flight, the adventures that had befallen him in the highlands and the Black Oaks, his meeting with the King of the Silver River, and the prophecy foretold by the legendary King. It took him some time to tell it all. While he spoke, the men gathered about him stayed silent. He could not bring himself to look at them; he was frightened of what he might see in their faces. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the seams and hollows that molded Browork’s weathered countenance and the deep-set blue eyes that stared fixedly back at him.
