The Wishsong of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  A narrow hall opened before them, lined with doors that stretched into the darkness ahead.

  “Storerooms,” Slanter informed Jair, winking.

  They stepped into the hall. Slanter slipped cautiously ahead; at the third door, he stopped and knocked softly.

  “It’s us,” he whispered into the latch.

  The latch released with a snap, the door swung wide, and Elb Foraker, Helt, and Edain Elessedil appeared. Smiles creasing their battered faces, they surrounded Jair and gripped his hand warmly.

  “Are you all right, Jair?” the Elven Prince asked at once, his own face bruised and cut so badly that the Valeman was immediately afraid for him. The Elf saw his concern and dismissed it with a shrug. “Just a few scratches. I found an escape passage, but it opened on a thorn bush. Nothing that won’t quickly heal. But you—are you truly all right?”

  “I’m fine now, Edain.” Jair hugged him impulsively.

  Helt and Foraker were battered about the face and hands as well, the result Jair supposed of having the greater part of that battlement wall fall on them. “I can’t believe that you’re all here!” The Valeman swallowed hard against the knot forming in his throat.

  “Couldn’t very well leave you behind, now could we, Jair?” The giant Borderman gripped his arm warmly with one great hand. “Yours is the magic that we need to heal the Silver River.”

  Jair grinned happily, and Foraker stepped close, eyes fixing on the Mwellret. “I see that you were able to bring him.”

  Garet Jax nodded without comment. While the others had been greeting Jair anew, he had stayed with Stythys, the long knife pointed at the Mwellret’s throat.

  “Little peopless be ssorry they takess me!” the creature hissed venomously. “Findss a way to make them ssorry!”

  Slanter spit distastefully into the earth. Foraker pointed at the Mwellret. “You alone are responsible for what happens to you now, Stythys. Had you not taken the Valeman, you would have been left alone. Since you did take him, you’ll have to answer for it. You’re going to see us safely out of this place, then safely through the forests north and into the Ravenshorn. Steer us wrong just once, and I’ll let Slanter do to you what he’d like to have done in the first place.” He glanced at the Gnome. “And remember, Stythys, he knows the way as well, so think carefully before you attempt any deception.”

  “Let’s be gone from here!” Slanter growled anxiously.

  With the Gnome leading, the little band passed down the narrow hall through a series of still smaller corridors and arrived at the foot of a winding stone stairway. Slanter put a finger to his lips in warning. In single file, they began to climb. From somewhere above, faint and distant yet, the guttural sound of Gnome voices reached their ears. A small wooden door stood closed at the top of the stairs. Slanter paused momentarily, listened, then cracked the door and peered out. Satisfied, he beckoned them through.

  They stood in a massive armory, its floor piled with stacks of weapons, armor, and provisions. Gray light filtered down through high, barred windows. The chamber was empty, and Slanter led the way hurriedly toward a door set into the far wall.

  He was almost there when the door abruptly swung open from the opposite side, and he found himself face to face with an entire squad of Gnome Hunters.

  The Gnomes hesitated, seeing first Slanter, then the odd gathering of faces that followed after him. It was when they caught sight of Foraker that their hands flew to their weapons.

  “No luck this time, boy!” Slanter howled, flinging himself protectively in front of Jair.

  The Gnome Hunters came at them in a rush, but already the dark figure of Garet Jax was moving, the slender sword darting. Down went the foremost of the attackers, and then Foraker was beside the Weapons Master, his two-edged axe thrusting back the rest. Behind them, Stythys turned and broke for the door through which they had come, but Helt was on him like a cat, bearing him to the floor. They skidded into a stack of pikes, and the pikes tumbled down about them in a clash of wood and iron.

  The Gnome Hunters stood and fought before the open door a moment longer as Garet Jax and Foraker pressed in on them. Then, with a howl of anger, they broke and fled. The Weapons Master and the Dwarf gave chase as far as the doorway; but seeing that pursuit was pointless, they turned quickly to help the struggling Helt. Together, they hauled Stythys back to his feet, the Mwellret hissing venomously, his scaled body swelling until he rose above even the giant Borderman. Holding the lizard firm, they dragged him to where Slanter and Jair stood peering down the corridor without.

  From both ends of the corridor, cries of alarm answered those of the fleeing Gnome Hunters.

  “Which way do we run?” Garet Jax snapped at Slanter.

  Wordlessly, the Gnome turned right, away from the fleeing Hunters, moving down the corridor at a quick trot and motioning the others to follow. They came after him in a knot, Stythys urged on by the long knife Garet Jax held against his ribs.

  “Sstupid little peopless!” the Mwellret rasped in fury. “Diess here in the prissonss!”

  The hall divided before them. To the left, a gathering of Gnomes caught sight of them and charged with weapons drawn. Slanter wheeled and took the little company right. Ahead, a Gnome Hunter darted from a doorway, but Foraker bowled him over without slowing, banging the fellow’s helmeted head against the stone block walls with jarring force. Cries of pursuit rose up all about.

  “Slanter!” Jair cried suddenly in warning.

  Too late. The Gnome had stumbled into the midst of a swarm of armed Hunters that had burst unexpectedly from an adjoining hall. He went down in a tangle of arms and legs, crying out. Thrusting Stythys at Helt, Garet Jax went to his aid, Foraker and Edain Elessedil a step behind. Weapons glittered sharply in the gray half-light and cries of pain and anger filled the hall. The rescuers swept into the Gnomes, thrusting them back from the fallen Slanter. Garet Jax was like a cat at hunt, fluid and swift, as he parried and cut with the slender sword. The Gnomes gave way. Aided by Edain Elessedil, Slanter struggled to his feet once more.

  “Slanter! Get us out of here!” Elb Foraker roared, the great, two-edged axe before him.

  “Ahead!” Slanter coughed and staggered forward.

  Surging through the Gnomes that still barred their way, the little company raced down the corridor, dragging the reluctant Stythys with them. Gnome Hunters sprang at them from everywhere, but they threw back the attackers with ferocious determination. Slanter went down again, tripped by the haft of a short spear thrust before him. Instantly Foraker was there, broadax hammering at the attacker and one hand dragging Slanter back up. The cries from behind them became a solid roar as hundreds of Gnomes flooded the hallway about the armory door and gave chase.

  Then they were in the clear for a moment, bounding down a flight of stairs, cutting back beneath the flooring to a passageway below. A broad rotunda opened before them, its windows and doors neatly spaced about, closed and shuttered against the weather. Without slowing, Slanter wrenched open the door closest and led the little company back out into the rain.

  They were in another court, walled and gated. The rain blew wildly in their faces, and thunder rolled across the High Bens. Slowing his pace, Slanter led the way across the court to the gates, pushed them open, and stepped through. An outside stairway circled downward to a line of battlements and watchtowers. Beyond, the dark shadow of the forest pressed close about the walls.

  Boldly, Slanter led the company down the stairs and onto the battlements. Gnome Hunters clustered about the watchtowers now, alerted that something had happened within the fortress. Slanter ignored them. Head lowered, cloak wrapped close, he motioned the others into a passageway beneath the battlements. Within the concealment of their shadow, he gathered the company about him.

  “We’re going right through the gates,” he announced, his breath ragged. “No one talks but me. Keep your hoods up and your heads down. Whatever happens, don’t stop. Quick, now!”

  There was no argum
ent, not even from Garet Jax. Cloaks drawn close and hoods in place, the company slipped from the shadows once more. With Slanter leading, they followed the battlement walls beneath the watchtower to a pair of iron-barred, open gates. A cluster of Gnome Hunters stood talking before them, heads bent against the weather, sharing a flask of ale. A head or two lifted at their approach, and Slanter waved, calling out something in the Gnome tongue that Jair could not understand. One of the Hunters drew away from his fellows and stepped out to meet them.

  “Keep moving,” Slanter whispered over his shoulder.

  A few scattered shouts from behind them had reached the ears of the Gnome Hunters. Startled, they looked back into the fortress to discover what had happened.

  The little company marched past them without slowing. Instinctively, Jair tried to shrink down within his cloak, tensing so badly he stumbled and almost went down before Elb Foraker caught him. Slanter stepped apart from the others as they came past the watch, blocking away the eyes of the Gnome who had thought to detain them. He spoke angrily with the fellow, and Jair caught the word Mwellret in the conversation. They were clear of the Hunters now, all save Slanter, passing beneath the battlements and through the open gates. No one stopped them. As they hurried from Dun Fee Aran into the darkness of the trees, Jair slowed and looked back anxiously. Slanter still stood within the arch, arguing with the watch.

  “Keep your head down!” Foraker urged, pushing him ahead.

  He went into the rain-soaked forest, following reluctantly after the others, and the walls and towers of the fortress disappeared behind him. They pressed on a few minutes longer, weaving their way through the scrub and trees, Elb Foraker in the lead. Then they stopped, gathering beneath a monstrous oak, its leaves fallen and matted into the earth about it in a carpet of muddied yellow. Garet Jax backed Stythys against the gnarled trunk and held him there. They waited in silence.

  The minutes slipped by. Slanter did not appear. Crouched down at the edge of the little clearing that encircled the old oak, Jair peered helplessly into the rain. The others spoke in hushed tones behind him. The rain fell steadily, spattering in noisy cadence on the earth and forest trees. Still Slanter did not appear. Jair’s mouth tightened with determination. If he did not come in the next five minutes, the Valeman was going back for him. He would not leave the Gnome—not after what Slanter had done for him.

  Five minutes passed, and still Slanter did not appear. Jair rose and looked questioningly at the others, a cluster of cloaked and hooded figures in the dark and the rain.

  “I’m going back,” he told them. Then a rustling noise brought him about and Slanter emerged from the trees.

  “Took a bit more talking than I thought it would,” the Gnome announced. “They’ll be after us quick enough.” Then he saw the look of relief on Jair’s face and stopped. “Thinking of going somewhere, boy?” he guessed rightly.

  “Well, I . . . no, I guess not now . . .” Jair stuttered.

  A look of amusement spread over the Gnome’s rough face. “No? Still planning on finding your sister, aren’t you?” Jair nodded. “Good. Then you are going somewhere after all. You’re going north with the rest of us. Get moving.”

  Motioning to the others, he turned into the trees. “We’ll ford the river six miles upstream to throw off any pursuit that lasts that long. River’s deep there, but I guess we can’t get much wetter than we are.”

  Jair permitted himself a brief smile, then followed after the others. The peaks of the High Bens rose before them, misted and gray through the trees. Beyond, still far to the north and hidden from view, the mountains of the Ravenshorn waited. It might yet be a long way to Graymark, the Valeman thought, breathing in the cool autumn air and the smell of the rain, but for the first time since Capaal he felt certain that they were going to get there.

  XXXIV

  Brin spoke little on the journey back from the Grimpond to Hearthstone. She needed to sort through and decipher the meaning of all that the shade had told to her, for she knew that her confusion would only grow greater with the passage of time. Pressed by her companions to tell all that the Grimpond had told to her, she revealed only that the missing Sword of Leah was in the hands of the Spider Gnomes and that the way to enter the Maelmord without being seen was through Graymark’s sewers. After saying that much, she begged them to forbear from any further questioning until they had returned to the valley, then gave herself over to the task of reconsidering all that she had been told.

  The strange image of Jair in that darkened room with the cloaked form advancing so menacingly toward him was foremost in her mind as she began the task of sorting through the puzzle given her. In spite and anger, the Grimpond had conjured up that image, and she could not believe that there was any truth in what she had been shown. The cloaked form was neither Gnome nor Mord Wraith, and those were the enemies that sought the Ohmsfords. It angered her that she had stayed to watch the image play itself out before her, teasing her as the Grimpond had intended that it should. Had she any sense, she would have turned away at once and not let herself be taunted. Jair was safe in the Vale with her parents and their friends. The Grimpond’s image was but a loathsome lie.

  And yet she could not be entirely certain.

  Unable to do anything further with that concern, she pushed it aside and turned her thoughts to the other mysteries that the Grimpond had given her. There were many. Past and present were joined in some way by the dark magic, the shade had hinted. The power that the Warlock Lord had wielded in the time of Shea Ohmsford was the power wielded in her own time by the Mord Wraiths. But there was more to the Grimpond’s meaning. There was mention of some tie between the Wars of the Races and the more recent war her father and the Westland Elves had fought against the Demons of the faerie world. There was that insidious suggestion that while the Warlock Lord had been destroyed by the magic of the Sword of Shannara, he was not really gone. “Who now gives voice to the magic and sends the Mord Wraiths forth?” the Grimpond had asked. Worst of all was the shade’s sly insistence that Allanon—who through all his years of service to the Four Lands and her people had always foreseen everything—had this time been deceived. Thinking that he saw the truth, he had let his eyes be closed. What was it the Grimpond had said? That Allanon saw only the Warlock Lord come again—that he saw only what was past.

  What do you see? the shade had whispered. Are your eyes open?

  Frustration welled up within her, but she brought it quickly under control. Frustration would only serve to blind her further, and she needed to keep her vision clear, if she was even to begin to comprehend the Grimpond’s words. Suppose, she reasoned, that Allanon had indeed been deceived—an assumption that was difficult for her to accept, but one that she must accept if she were to puzzle through what she had been told. In what way could that deception have been worked? It was evident enough that the Druid had been deceived in his belief that the Wraiths would not anticipate their coming into the Eastland through the Wolfsktaag or that the Wraiths could not follow them after they left the Vale. Were these deceptions only bits and pieces of some greater deceit?

  Are your own eyes open? Do you see?

  The words whispered again in her mind, a warning that she did not understand. Was the deception of Allanon in some way her own? She shook her head against her confusion. Reason it through, she told herself. She must assume that Allanon had been deceived somehow in his analysis of the danger that confronted them in the Maelmord. Perhaps the power of the Mord Wraiths was greater than he had supposed. Perhaps some part of the Warlock Lord had survived the Master’s destruction. Perhaps the Druid had underestimated the strength of their enemies or overestimated their own strength.

  She thought then of what the Grimpond had said about her. Dark child, he had called her, doomed to die in the Maelmord, the bearer of the seeds of her own destruction. Surely that destruction would come from the magic of the wishsong—an inadequate and erratic defense against the dark magic of the walkers. The Mord Wra
iths were victims of their magic. But so, too, was she, the Grimpond had said. And when she had heatedly replied that she was not like them, that she did not use the dark magic, the shade had laughed and told her that none used the magic—that the magic used them.

  “There is the key to what you seek,” he had said.

  That was another puzzle. It was certainly true that the magic used her as much as she used it. She remembered her anger against the men from west of Spanning Ridge at the Rooker Line Trading Center and how Allanon had shown her what the magic could do to those trees so closely intertwined. Savior and destroyer—she would be both, the shade of Bremen had warned. And now the Grimpond had warned her, too.

  Cogline whispered something at her side, then danced away as Kimber Boh told him to behave. Her thoughts scattered momentarily, and she watched the old man slip into the forest wilderness, laughing and chittering like one half gone into madness. She breathed the cool afternoon air deeply, seeing the shadows of early evening beginning to slip down about the land. She found herself missing Allanon. Odd that she should, for his dark and formidable presence had been small comfort to her in the days that she had traveled with him. But there had been that strange kinship between them, that sense of understanding, and of being in some way similar . . .

  Was it the magic they shared—the wishsong and the Druid power?

  She found tears forming in her eyes as she pictured his broken form once again, slumped down within that sunlit glen, bloodied and torn. How terrible he had looked to her, stricken by impending death, his hand lifting to touch her forehead with his blood . . . A lonely, worn figure in her mind, steeped not so much in Druid power as in Druid guilt, he had bound himself by his father’s oath to purge the Druids of the responsibility they bore for unleashing the dark magic into the world of Men.