The Wishsong of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  Jair stumbled back in dismay, alone now. Even Slanter had disappeared. But then Garet Jax was there once more, a black form slipping past the Gnome Hunters who sought to slow him. In an instant he was next to Jair, sweeping the Valeman before him, turning him back into the defile.

  Alone, the two retraced their steps hurriedly through the darkness. Shouts of pursuit followed after, and a flicker of torchlight chased their shadows. At the far end of the defile, the Weapons Master gave a quick glance upward at the sheer cliff face, then pulled Jair after him as he worked his way down a scrub-covered drop toward the mass of siege fires that twinkled below. Jair was too stunned by what had happened to the others of the company to question the decision.

  Slanter, Foraker, Helt and Edain Elessedil—all lost in an instant’s time. He could not believe it.

  Halfway to the bottom of the drop was a small pathway, barely wide enough for a single man. It was deserted—for the moment, at least. Crouching within a small bit of brush, Garet Jax searched quickly the land about him. Jair searched with him and saw no way out. The Gnomes were all about them. Torches flickered on the paths above as well as the broader ledges and trails below. Sweat ran down the Valeman’s back, and his own breathing sounded harsh in his ears.

  “What are we . . .?” he started to ask, but the Weapons Master’s hand clamped about his mouth instantly.

  Then they were on their feet again, bent down within the rocks as they scrambled east along the narrow path. Boulders and jagged projections rose up against the faint light of the sky, thrusting out from the cliff face. They ran on, and the path ahead grew less easy. Jair risked a quick glance back. A line of torches was coiling up the slope from the siege camp below, up to where they had just knelt within the brush. Moments later, the torches were upon the trail.

  The Weapons Master slipped down into the jumbled rocks, with Jair a step behind him, scrambling wildly to keep his feet. Ahead, the cliff face jutted far out into the night sky, and the slope beneath where they climbed began to drop away sharply. Jair felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. This was a dead end. They were not going to get through.

  Still Garet Jax worked his way forward, easing downward through the rocks, climbing farther out onto the cliffs. Behind, the torches followed after, and all across the length and breadth of the chasm that sheltered the locks and dams of Capaal the cries of the Gnome Hunters rang out.

  Then at last the Weapons Master drew to a halt. The trail fell away in a sheer cliff a dozen yards farther on. Far below, the waters of the Cillidellan reflected with firelight, Jair glanced quickly above where they stood. There, too, the cliff angled sharply out. There was nowhere left for them to go but back. They were trapped.

  Garet Jax put a hand on his shoulder and led him forward to where the trail fell away completely. Then he turned.

  “We have to jump,” he said softly, his hand still gripping the Valeman. “Just lock your legs and pull in your arms. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Jair glanced down to where the Cillidellan shimmered. It was a long, long way. He looked back again at the Weapons Master.

  “It’s the only choice we have left.” The other’s voice was calm and reassuring. “Hurry, now.”

  The torches grew closer on the pathway behind them. Guttural voices called sharply to one another.

  “Hurry, Jair.”

  Jair took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them again and jumped.

  So violent was the Gnome counterattack, as the six from Culhaven sought to break through the heights above Capaal, that the initial rush carried most of the attackers right past Foraker and Edain Elessedil. Thrown back against the cliff face as the assault swept on toward the others, Dwarf and Elven Prince scrambled upward into a stand of brush, a handful of Gnomes in desperate pursuit. They turned to fight at a small outcropping, the Elf swinging the sturdy ash bow, the Dwarf stabbing out with short sword and long knife. The Gnomes tumbled, howling with pain, and the pursuit fell back for an instant. The two companions peered down at the ledge and the steep slide below, swarming now with Gnome Hunters. There was no sign of the others.

  “This way!” Elb Foraker called, puffing the Elven Prince after him.

  They scrambled up the slope, scratching and clawing their way over the loose earth and rock. Cries of anger followed after, and suddenly arrows flew past them, a vicious hissing in their ears. Torches bobbed in the darkness, searching them out, but for the moment at least, they were beyond the light.

  A roar sounded from somewhere below, and the pursued companions looked back apprehensively. The lights of the watchfires seemed to be spreading out across the cliff face, bits of fire darting about in the blackness. Hundreds more flickered into view on the dark line of the peaks south—torches from the army that lay camped along the banks of the Cillidellan. The whole of the mountainside now burned bright with flame.

  “Elb, they’re all around us!” the Elven Prince cried out, staggered by the number of the enemy.

  “Keep climbing!” the other snapped.

  Onward they went, fighting their way through the dark. Now a new cluster of torches appeared to their right, and shouts of discovery broke from the throats of the Gnomes who bore them. Spears and arrows whistled all about the two who climbed. Foraker scrambled away from them, eyes searching frantically across the dark cliff face.

  “Elb!” Edain Elessedil screamed in pain and spun about, his shoulder pierced by a dart.

  Instantly the Dwarf was at his side. “Ahead—another dozen feet to that patch of scrub! Hurry!”

  Half carrying the injured Elven Prince, Foraker scrambled toward a broad thatch of brush that loomed suddenly out of the night. Torchlight flickered above them now as well, Gnome Hunters coming down from high off the slopes of the peak where the search lines cordoned off all escape. Edain Elessedil set his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and struggled forward with the Dwarf.

  They tumbled into the brush, down into the concealing shadows to lie panting on the earth.

  “They’ll . . . find us here,” the Elven Prince gasped, forcing himself to his knees. Across his back, blood and sweat mingled and ran.

  Foraker yanked him down again. “Stay put!” Wheeling, he began groping his way through the brush until he found the slope against which it grew. “Here! A tunnel door! Thought I’d remembered right, but . . . have to find the trip lock . . .”

  While Edain Elessedil watched, he began to fumble frantically about the slope face, through crumbling rock and earth, puffing and clawing in silent desperation. The cries of their pursuers were drawing steadily closer. Through faint breaks in the brush appeared the flicker of torchlight, bobbing and weaving against the black.

  “Elb, they’re almost here!” Edain whispered hoarsely. His hand reached down to his waist and drew forth the short sword belted there.

  “Got it!” the Dwarf cried triumphantly.

  A squarish chunk of rock and earth swung back, and an opening in the cliff face yawned before them. Frantically, they scrambled through into the darkness beyond, and Foraker pulled shut the rock behind them. It closed ponderously, sealing them away with a series of sharp clicks, the locks fastening in place.

  They lay in the dark for long moments, listening to the faint sounds of the Gnomes without. Then the pursuit passed on, and there was only silence. A moment later Foraker began groping about in the dark. Flint and stone struck a spark, and harsh yellow torchlight filled the void. They sat within a small cave from which a stone stairway ran downward into the mountain.

  Foraker slid the torch into an iron bracket next to the sealed door and began working on the Elven Prince’s injured shoulder. In a few minutes’ time, he had the arm bound and wrapped in a makeshift sling.

  “That should do for now,” he muttered. “Can you walk?”

  The Elf nodded. “What about the door? Suppose the Gnomes find it?”

  “Too bad for them if they do,” Foraker snorted. “The locks should hold it; but if they don’t, a
break-in will trigger a collapse of the whole entrance. On your feet, now. We’ve got to go.”

  “Where do the stairs lead?”

  “Down. Into Capaal.” He shook his head. “Have to hope the others will find some different way to get there.”

  He helped Edain to his feet, puffing the Elf’s good arm over his shoulder. Then he snatched the torch from its rack.

  “Hold tight, now.”

  Slowly, they began their descent.

  The Borderman Helt tumbled headlong down the steep slide, weapons flying from him as he fell, the maddened struggle on the cliff ledge left behind. Lights and sound whirled about him as he went, a jumble that spun and faded in his mind. Then came a jarring halt, and he found himself wedged within a mass of brush at the slide’s bottom, sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs. He lay dazed for a minute, the breath knocked from his body. Gingerly he tried to extricate himself from the tangle. It was then that he realized that not all of the arms and legs were his own.

  “Easy!” a voice hissed in his ear. “Half broke me in two already!”

  The Borderman started. “Slanter?”

  “Keep it down!” the other snapped. “They’re all around us!”

  Helt lifted his head carefully and blinked his eyes against the dizziness. Torchlight flickered close by, and there were voices calling back and forth through the darkness. He realized suddenly that he lay on top of the little Gnome. With great care, he lifted himself clear of the other, coming unsteadily to his knees within the shadow of the brush.

  “Took me right off the ledge with you!” Slanter muttered, disbelief and anger mingling in his voice. The gnarled body straightened, and he peered carefully about through the scrub, the distant firelight reflected in his eyes. “Oh, shades!” he groaned.

  Helt came to a low crouch, staring out into the dark. Behind them, the slide down which they had fallen loomed like a wall against the night. Before them, spread out for hundreds of yards in all directions in a mass of blazing yellow light, were the watchfires of the Gnome army that encircled the fortress of Capaal. Helt studied the fires wordlessly for a moment, then dropped back into the brush, Slanter beside him.

  “We’re right in the middle of the siege camp,” he said quietly.

  Already there were torches lining the ledge from which they had fallen, far distant yet unmistakable in their purpose. The Gnomes on the ledge were coming down after them.

  “We can’t stay here.” Helt came to his feet once more, eyes peering out through the brush at the Gnome Hunters about them.

  “Well, where do you suggest we go, Borderman?” Slanter snapped.

  Helt shook his head slowly. “Perhaps along the slide . . .”

  “The slide? Perhaps we can fly while we’re at it!” Slanter shook his head. The Gnome Hunters were calling down into the camp from the ledge. “No way out of this one,” he muttered bitterly. He cast about futilely for a moment, then paused. “Unless, of course, you happen to be a Gnome.”

  His rough yellow face swung about to find Helt. The Borderman stared back at him wordlessly, waiting. “Or perhaps one of the walkers,” he added.

  Helt shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  Slanter bent close. “Must be mad even to consider this, but I guess it’s no madder than anything else that’s happened. You and me, Borderman. Black walker and Gnome servant. Pull that cloak about you, hood about your head, no one’ll know. You’re big enough for it. Walk right through them, you and me—right up to the gates of that fortress. Hope to all that’s good and right that the Dwarves open up long enough for us to slip in.”

  Shouts rose from off to their left. Helt glanced over quickly, then back again. “You could do all this without me, Slanter. You could get out on your own a lot easier than if I’m with you.”

  “Don’t tempt me!” the Gnome snapped.

  The gentle eyes were steady. “They’re your people. You could still go back to them.”

  Slanter seemed to think it over for a moment. Then he shook his head roughly. “Forget it. I’d have that black devil Weapons Master tracking me all through the Four Lands. I’m not risking that.” The hard yellow face seemed to stiffen further. “And there’s the boy . . .”

  His eyes snapped up. “Well, do we try it or not, Borderman?”

  Helt rose, pulling his cloak close about him. “We try it.” They strode clear of the brush, Slanter with his cloak thrown wide so that all could see it was a Gnome who led the way, Helt with his drawn close, a massive, hooded giant towering above the other. They passed boldly down through the spokes of the siege lines toward where the army massed before the fortress walls, staying carefully within the darkness between those lines so that they could not be clearly seen. They walked for nearly fifty yards, and no one gave challenge.

  Then a cross line blocked their way forward, and there was no longer any darkness left through which to pass. Slanter never hesitated. He stalked toward the watchfires, the cloaked figure following. The Gnome Hunters who were gathered there turned to gape, weapons lifting guardedly.

  “Stand back!” Slanter called out sharply. “The Master comes!”

  Eyes widened and fear reflected in the harsh yellow faces. Weapons lowered quickly, and all stood aside as the two figures passed, slipping into a square of half-light between the lines. Gnomes were all about them now, heads turning, eyes staring in surprise and curiosity. Still no one challenged, the tumult of the search on the slope drowning out everything else in the autumn night.

  Another siege line lay ahead. Slanter lifted his arms dramatically to the Gnome Hunters who turned. “Give way to the Master, Gnomes!”

  Again the lines parted to let them through. Sweat was pouring down Slanter’s rough face as he glanced back at the shadowed figure behind him. Hundreds of eyes followed after them, and there was a faint stirring within the ranks of the Gnomes. A few were beginning to question what was happening.

  The last of the forward lines of the siege lay before them. Here the Gnome Hunters again brought up their short spears menacingly, and there were disgruntled mutterings. Beyond the watchfires the dark walls of the Dwarf citadel rose up against the night and on their battlements, torches burned in solitary patches of hazy light.

  “Stand away!” Slanter bellowed, again throwing up his arms. “Dark magic runs loose this night and the walls of the enemy keep shall crumble before it! Stand away! Let the walker pass!”

  As if to emphasize the warning, the cloaked figure following lifted one arm slowly and pointed toward the watch.

  That was enough for the Gnomes on the siege lines. Breaking ranks, they parted hurriedly, most of them scurrying back toward the second line of defense, casting anxious glances over, their shoulders as they went. A few lingered, frowns on their faces as the two figures passed, but still no one stepped forward to offer challenge.

  The Gnome and the Borderman walked into the night, eyes riveted now on the dark walls ahead. Slanter raised his hands high above his head as they approached, praying inwardly that this simple gesture would be enough to stay the deadly missiles surely pointed in their direction.

  They were two dozen yards from the walls when a voice rang out. “Come no farther, Gnome!”

  Slanter drew to an immediate halt, arms lowering. “Open the gates!” he cried furtively. “We’re friends!”

  There was a low muttering on the walls, and a call down to someone below. But the gates remained closed. Slanter glanced about frantically. Behind where he and Helt stood watching, the Gnomes were stirring once more.

  “Who are you?” the voice from atop the wall called out again.

  “Open the gates, you fool!” Slanter’s patience was gone. Now Helt came forward to stand beside the Gnome. “Callahorn!” he called out in a hoarse whisper.

  Behind them, a chorus of howls rose up from the Gnomes. The game was up. The two broke for the fortress walls in a mad dash, calling to the Dwarves within. They dashed up against the iron-bound gates, casting despe
rate glances back as they ran. An entire line of Gnome Hunters swept toward them, torches bobbing wildly, cries of rage breaking from their throats. Spears and arrows launched through the dark.

  “Oh, shades, open up in there, you . . . !” Slanter bawled. Abruptly the gates swung open and hands reached out to yank them through. An instant later they were within the fortress, the gates slamming shut behind them as renewed howls of fury filled the night. They were thrown to the ground, and iron-tipped spears ringed them tightly.

  Slanter shook his head in disgust and glanced over at Helt. “You explain it to them, Borderman,” he muttered. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could.”

  Jair Ohmsford fell a long way into the Cillidellan. Downward he plunged, a tiny speck of darkness against the deep blue-gray of the night sky, the pit of his stomach dropping away, the rush of the wind filling his ears with its sound. Far below him the waters of the lake shimmered with bits of crimson light as the watchfires of the Gnomes reflected against their rippling surface, and all about him the vast sweep of the mountains and cliffs encircling Capaal rose up through the blur of his vision. Time seemed to come to a sudden standstill, and it felt as if he would never come to rest.

  Then he struck with jarring force, breaking through the surface of the lake and plunging deep into the cold, dark waters. The breath left his lungs with stunning suddenness, and his whole body went numb with shock. Frantically, he clawed his way through the chill blackness that had closed about him, barely conscious of anything beyond his need to reach the surface once more so that he could breathe. The heat from his body dissipated in seconds, and he felt a crushing force pressing in against him, so terrible that it threatened to break him in two. He struggled upward, desperate with need. Lights danced before his eyes and his arms and legs seemed suddenly turned to lead. Weakly, he thrashed against their pull, lost in a maze of dark turns.