The Wishsong of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  He trailed off, and Brin smiled. “I’ll miss both of you, too. And Whisper. I owe my life as much to Whisper as to the rest of you. If he hadn’t come down into the Maelmord to find me . . .”

  “He sensed that he was needed,” Kimber declared firmly. “He would not have disregarded your warning if he had not sensed that need. I think there is a special bond between you—a bond beyond that created by your song.”

  “Don’t want you coming back again without telling me first, though,” Cogline interrupted suddenly. “Or until I invite you. You don’t come into peoples’ homes without being asked!”

  “Grandfather.” Kimber sighed.

  “Will you come to see me?” Brin asked her.

  The girl smiled and glanced at her grandfather. “Perhaps, some day. For a time, I think I’ll stay with grandfather and Whisper at Hearthstone. I have been away long enough. I miss my home.”

  Brin came to her and hugged her close. “I miss mine as well, Kimber. But we’ll meet again some day.”

  “You will always be my friend, Brin.” There were tears in her eyes as she buried her face in the Valegirl’s shoulder.

  “And you will be mine,” Brin whispered. “Good-bye, Kimber. Thank you.”

  Rone added his good-byes to Brin’s, then walked over to stand before Whisper. The big moor cat sat back on his haunches regarding the highlander curiously, saucer blue eyes blinking.

  “I was wrong about you, cat,” he offered grudgingly. He hesitated. “That probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but it means something to me. You saved my life, too.” He stood looking at the moor cat for a moment, then glanced ruefully back at the others. “I promised myself I’d say that if he brought Brin safely out of the pit; but I still feel like an idiot standing here talking with him like this, for cat’s . . . for . . .”

  He trailed off. Whisper yawned sleepily and showed all of his teeth.

  A dozen yards away, Jair was feeling something of an idiot himself as he faced Slanter and struggled to find expression for the jumble of emotions rushing through him.

  “Look, boy.” The Gnome was gruff and impatient. “Don’t make so much work out of this. Just say it. Goodbye. Just say it.”

  But Jair shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t, Slanter. It’s not enough. You and I, we’ve been together one way or another right from the first—tight from the time I tricked you with the snakes and locked you in that wood bin.”

  “Please don’t remind me!” the Gnome grumbled.

  “We’re all that’s left, Slanter,” Jair tried to explain, folding his arms protectively across his chest. “All that way we came, you and I and the others—but they’re gone and we’re all that’s left.” He shook his head. “So much has happened, and I can’t just dismiss it with a simple ‘good-bye.’ “

  Slanter sighed. “It’s not as if we’ll never see each other again, boy. What’s the matter—you think I’ll end up dead, too? Well, think again! I know how to take care of myself—said so yourself once, remember? Nothing’s going to happen to me. And I’d bet a month of nights in the black pit that nothing will ever happen to you! You’re too confounded sneaky!”

  Jair smiled in spite of himself. “I guess that’s quite a compliment, coming from you.” He took a deep breath. “Come back with me, Slanter. Come back to Culhaven and tell them what happened. It should come from you.”

  “No, boy.” The Gnome lowered his rough face and shook his head slowly. “I won’t be going back there again. Gnomes won’t be welcome in the Lower Anar for a good many years to come, no matter their reasons. No, I’m for the borderlands again—for now, at least.”

  Jair nodded, and there was an awkward silence between them. “Good-bye then, Slanter. Until next time.”

  He stepped forward and put his arms about the Gnome. Slanter hesitated, then patted him roughly on the shoulders.

  “Now see, boy—that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Nevertheless, it was a long time before he broke away.

  It was more than a week later when Brin, Jair, and Rone arrived once more in Shady Vale and turned onto the cobblestone walkway that led to the front door of the Ohmsford home. It was late afternoon, and the sun had already slipped behind the hills, leaving the forest cloaked in shadows and half-light. The sound of voices drifted through the still autumn air from homes scattered about, and leaves rustled through the long grass.

  Before them, the windows of the cottage were already lighted against the evening gloom.

  “Brin, how are we going to explain all this?” Jair asked for what must have been the hundredth time.

  They had passed through the stand of flowering plum, by now almost entirely leafless, when the front door swung open and Eretria came rushing out.

  “Wil, they’re home!” she called back over her shoulder and hurried to embrace both of her children and Rone in the bargain. A moment later Wil Ohmsford appeared as well, bent to kiss both Brin and Jair, and gave Rone a warm handshake.

  “You look a bit tired, Brin,” he observed quietly. “Did you and your brother manage to get any sleep while you were in Leah?”

  Brin and Jair exchanged a quick glance, while Rone smiled benignly and began studying the ground. “How was your trip south, father?” Jair changed the subject quickly.

  “We were able to help a lot of people, fortunately.” Wil Ohmsford scrutinized his son carefully. “The work kept us away much longer than we had intended or we would have come for you in Leah. As it was, we just returned last night.”

  Brin and Jair exchanged another quick glance, and this time their father saw it at once. “Would either of you like to tell me now who that old man was you sent?”

  Brin stared. “What old man?”

  “The old man with the message, Brin.”

  Jair frowned. “What message?”

  Eretria stepped forward now, a hint of displeasure in her dark eyes. “An old man came to us in the outlying villages south of Kaypra. He was from Leah. He had a message from you telling us that you had gone to the highlands and that you would be away for several weeks and not to worry. Your father and I thought it strange that so old a man would be serving as messenger for Rone’s father, but . . .”

  “Brin!” Jair whispered, wide-eyed.

  “There was something familiar about him,” Wil mused suddenly. “It seemed to me that I ought to have known him.”

  “Brin, I didn’t send any . . .” Jair began, then cut himself short. They were all staring at him. “Wait . . . just wait right here, just . . . for a moment,” he sputtered, stumbling over the words as he edged past them. “Be right back!”

  He dashed past them into the house, down the hallway, through the front room, and into the kitchen. He went at once to the stone hearth where it joined the shelving nooks and traced his way down to the third shelf. Then he moved the loose stone from its niche and reached inside.

  His fingers closed over the Elfstones and their familiar leather pouch.

  He stood there for a moment, stunned. Then gripping the Stones in his hand, he walked back through the house to where the others still waited on the cobbled walkway. With a grin, he produced the pouch and its contents and displayed them to an astonished Brin and Rone.

  There was a long moment of silence as the five stared at one another. Then Brin took her mother with one arm and her father with the other.

  “Mother. Father. I think we had better all go inside and sit down for a while.” She smiled. “Jair and I have something to tell you.”

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Measure of the Magic

  by Terry Brooks

  Published by Del Rey Books

  ONE

  HUMMING TUNELESSLY, THE RAGPICKER WALKED the barren, empty wasteland in the aftermath of a rainstorm. The skies were still dark with clouds and the earth was sodden and slick with surface water, but none of that mattered to him. Others might prefer the sun and blue skies and the feel of hard, dry earth beneath their feet, might revel in the
brightness and the warmth. But life was created in the darkness and damp of the womb, and the ragpicker took considerable comfort in knowing that procreation was instinctual and needed nothing of the face of nature’s disposition that he liked the least.

  He was an odd-looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical figure. He was tall and whipcord-thin, and he walked like a long-legged waterbird. Dressed in dark clothes that had seen much better days, he tended to blend in nicely with the mostly colorless landscape he traveled. He carried his rags and scraps of cloth in a frayed patchwork bag slung over one shoulder, the bag looking very much as if it would rip apart completely with each fresh step its bearer took. A pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble, scavenged from a dead man some years back, but still holding up quite nicely.

  Everything about the ragpicker suggested that he was harmless. Everything marked him as easy prey in a world where predators dominated the remnants of a decimated population. He knew how he looked to the things that were always hunting, what they thought when they saw him coming. But that was all right. He had stayed alive this long by keeping his head down and staying out of harm’s way. People like him, they didn’t get noticed. The trick was in not doing anything to call attention to yourself.

  So he tried hard to give the impression that he was nothing but a poor wanderer who wanted to be left alone, but you didn’t always get what you wanted in this world. Even now, other eyes were sizing him up. He could feel them doing so, several pairs in several different places. Those that belonged to the animals—the things that the poisons and chemicals had turned into mutants—were already turning away. Their instincts were sharper, more finely tuned, and they could sense when something wasn’t right. Given the choice, they would almost always back away.

  It was the eyes of the human predators that stayed fixed on him, eyes that lacked the awareness necessary to judge him properly. Two men were studying him now, deciding whether or not to confront him. He would try to avoid them, of course. He would try to make himself seem not worth the trouble. But, again, you didn’t always get what you wanted.

  He breathed in the cool, damp air, absorbing the taste of the rain’s aftermath on his tongue, of the stirring of stagnation and sickness generated by the pounding of the sudden storm, of the smells of raw earth and decay, the whole of it marvelously welcome. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could pretend he was the only one left in the world. He could think of it all as his private preserve, his special place, and imagine everything belonged to him.

  He could pretend that nothing would ever bother him again.

  His humming dropped away, changing to a little song:

  Ragpicker, ragpicker, what you gonna do

  When the hunters are hunting and they’re hunting for you.

  Ragpicker, ragpicker, just stay low.

  If you don’t draw attention they might let you go.

  He hummed a few more bars, wondering if he had gotten past the predators. He was thinking it was almost time to stop and have something to drink and eat. But that would have to wait. He sighed, his lean, sharp-featured face wreathed in a tight smile that caused the muscles of his jaw to stand out like cords.

  Ragpicker, ragpicker, you’re all alone.

  The hunters that are hunting want to pick your bones.

  Ragpicker, ragpicker, just walk on.

  If you wait them out they will soon be gone.

  He crossed a meadow, a small stream filled with muddy water, a rocky flat in which tiny purple flowers were blooming, and a withered woods in which a handful of poplars grew sparse and separate as if strangers to one another. Ahead, there was movement in a rugged mass of boulders that formed the threshold to foothills leading up to the next chain of mountains, a high and wild and dominant presence. He registered the movement, ignored it. Those who had been watching him were still there and growing restless; he must skirt their hiding place and hope they were distracted by other possibilities. But there didn’t appear to be anyone else out here other than himself, and he was afraid that they would come after him just because they were bored.

  He continued on furtively, still humming softly.

  Daylight leached away as the clouds began to thicken anew. It might actually rain some more, he decided. He glanced at the skies in all four directions, noting the movement of the clouds and the shifting of their shadows against the earth. Yes, more rain coming. Better find shelter soon.

  He stalked up the slope into the rocks, his long, thin legs stretching out, meandering here and there as if searching for the best way through. He headed away from the watchers, pretending he was heedless of them, that he knew nothing of them and they, in turn, should not want to bother with him.

  But suddenly his worst fears were realized and just like that they were upon him.

  They emerged from the rocks, two shaggy-haired, ragged men, carrying blades and clubs. One was blind in one eye, and the other limped badly. They had seen hard times, the ragpicker thought, and they would not be likely to have seen much charity and therefore not much inclined to dispense any. He stood where he was and waited on them patiently, knowing that flight was useless.

  “You,” One-eye said, pointing a knife at him. “What you got in that bag of yours?”

  The ragpicker shrugged. “Rags. I collect them and barter for food and drink. It’s what I do.”

  “You got something more than that, I’d guess,” said the second man, the larger of the two. “Better show us what it is.”

  The ragpicker hesitated, and then dumped everything on the ground, his entire collection of brightly colored scarves and bits of cloth, a few whole pieces of shirts and coats, a hat or two, some boots. Everything he had managed to find in his travels of late that he hadn’t bargained away with the Trolls or such.

  “That’s crap!” snarled One-eye, thrusting his knife at the ragpicker. “You got to do better than that! You got to give us something of worth!”

  “You got coin?” demanded the other.

  Hopeless, the ragpicker thought. No one had coin anymore and even if they did it was valueless. Gold or silver, maybe. A good weapon, especially one of the old automatics from the days of the Great Wars, would have meant something, would have been barter material. But no one had coins.

  “Don’t have any,” he said, backing away a step. “Can I pick up my rags?”

  One-eye stepped forward and ground the colored cloth into the dirt with the heel of his boot. “That’s what I think of your rags. Now watch and see what I’m gonna do to you!”

  The ragpicker backed away another step. “Please, I don’t have anything to give you. I just want you to let me pass. I’m not worth your trouble. Really.”

  “You ain’t worth much, that’s for sure,” said the one who limped. “But that don’t mean you get to go through here free. This is our territory and no one passes without they make some payment to us!”

  The two men came forward again, a step at a time, spreading out just a little to hem the ragpicker in, to keep him from making an attempt to get around them. As if such a thing were possible, the ragpicker thought, given his age and condition and clear lack of athletic ability. Did he look like he could get past them if he tried? Did he look like he could do anything?

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said suddenly, stopping short in his retreat. “You might not fully understand what you’re doing.”

  The predators stopped and stared at him. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” said the one who limped. “Is that what you said, you skinny old rat?”

  The ragpicker shook his head. “It always comes down to this. I don’t understand it. Let me ask you something. Do you know of a man who carries a black staff?”

  The two exchanged a quick look. “Who is he?” asked One-eye. “Why would we know him?”

  The ragpicker sighed. “I don’t know that you do. Probably you don’t. But he would be someone who had real coin on him, should you know where to find him. You don’t, do you?” />
  “Naw, don’t know anyone like that,” snarled One-eye. He glanced at his companion. “C’mon, let’s see what he’s hiding.”

  They came at the ragpicker with their blades held ready, stuffing the clubs in their belts. They were hunched forward slightly in preparation for getting past whatever defenses the scarecrow intended to offer, the blades held out in front of them. The ragpicker stood his ground, no longer backing up, no longer looking as if he intended escape. In fact, he didn’t look quite the same man at all. The change was subtle and hard to identify, but it was evident that something was different about him. It was in his eyes as much as anywhere, in a gleam of madness that was bright and certain. But it was in his stance, as well. Before, he had looked like a frightened victim, someone who knew that he stood no chance at all against men like these. Now he had the appearance of someone who had taken control of matters in spite of his apparent inability to do so, and his two attackers didn’t like it.

  That didn’t stop them, of course. Men of this sort were never stopped by what they couldn’t understand, only by what was bigger and stronger and better armed. The ragpicker was none of these. He was just an unlucky fool trying to be something he wasn’t, making a last-ditch effort to hang on to his life.

  One-eye struck first, his blade coming in low and swift toward the ragpicker’s belly. The second man was only a step behind, striking out in a wild slash aimed at his victim’s exposed neck. Neither blow reached its intended mark. The ragpicker never seemed to move, but suddenly he had hold of both wrists, bony fingers locking on flesh and bone and squeezing until his attackers cried out in pain, dropped their weapons, and sank to their knees in shock, struggling to break free. The ragpicker had no intention of releasing them. He just held them as they moaned and writhed, studying their agonized expressions.

  “You shouldn’t make assumptions about people,” he lectured them, bending close enough that they could see the crimson glow in his eyes, a gleam of bloodlust and rage. “You shouldn’t do that.”