The Sword of Shannara & Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  They rested on the bluff for half an hour, then climbed back upon Genewen and were off once again, winging westward through the massive peaks. Twice more during the morning they landed, resting themselves and Genewen, and then continued on. Each time Perk offered to share food and drink with his companions, and each time they quickly declined. All they would agree to accept was another piece of the strange root. Perk offered it to them without comment. It had been like this for him, too, when he had first flown.

  By late morning, they had reached the eastern edge of the Wilderun. From atop Genewen, they could see the whole of the valley clearly, a tangled mass of forest ringed by the mountains of the Rock Spur and Irrybis and the broad, misty sweep of the Shroudslip. It was a forbidding stretch of woodland, heavily overgrown, a jumble of depressions and ridges, spotted with bogs and a scattering of solitary peaks that broke out of the trees like grasping arms. There was no sign of habitation, no villages nor isolated dwellings, no planted fields nor grazing stock. The whole of the valley was wilderness, dark and friendless. Wil and Amberle stared down into it apprehensively.

  Moments later, Perk guided Genewen back into the shadow of the mountains and the Wilderun disappeared behind the peaks. They flew on without stopping until shortly after midday, when Perk turned Genewen south again. In a slow, gradual arc, the Roc slipped through a narrow break in the peaks. Ahead of them, the Wilderun again came into view. They flew toward it, dropping along a rugged slide that fell away at its lower end into the bowl of the valley. At the edge of the slide, Genewen banked right, winging downward toward a broad slope that sat back against the base of the peak and overlooked the Wilderun. Scattered dumps of trees dotted the slope, and Perk brought Genewen to rest behind a covering of fir.

  Wil and Amberle climbed gingerly from the Roc’s back, rubbing muscles that had grown stiff and cramped with the long ride. After a quick command to Genewen, Perk followed them down, his face flushed and excited.

  “You see? We did it!” He was grinning from ear to ear.

  “We did, indeed.” Wil smiled ruefully, massaging his backside.

  “What do we do next?” The boy wanted to know immediately.

  Wil straightened himself, grimacing. “You don’t do anything, Perk. This is as far as you go.”

  “But I want to help,” Perk insisted.

  Amberle stepped forward and put her arm about the boy. “You did help, Perk. We would not have gotten this far without you.”

  “But I want to go …”

  “No, Perk,” Amberle interrupted quickly. “What we must do now is far too dangerous for you to become involved in. Wil and I must go down into the Wilderun. You have said yourself that the Wilderun is forbidden to you. So you must leave us now. Remember, you promised Wil that you would do so when we asked.”

  The boy nodded glumly. “I am not afraid,” he muttered.

  “I know.” The Elven girl smiled. “I don’t think much of anything would frighten you.”

  Perk brightened a bit with this compliment, a quick smile lighting his face.

  “There is one thing more you can do for us.” Wil put a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know very much about the Wilderun. Can you tell us anything about what we might find down there?”

  “Monsters,” the boy answered without hesitation.

  “Monsters?”

  “All kinds. Witches, too, my grandfather says.”

  The Valeman could not decide whether to believe that or not. After all, the grandfather was trying to keep the boy out of the Wilderun and that was the kind of warning one would expect him to give.

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Safehold?” he asked impulsively.

  Perk shook his head no.

  “I didn’t think so.” Wil sighed. “Monsters and witches, huh? Are there any roads?”

  The boy nodded. “I will show you.”

  He led them out of the fir trees to a small rise where they could look down upon the valley.

  “See that?” he asked, indicating a mass of fallen trees at the base of the slope. Wil and Amberle peered downward until they saw where he was pointing. “There is a road beyond those trees that leads to the village of Grimpen Ward. All roads in the Wilderun lead to Grimpen Ward. You cannot see anything of it from here, but it’s down there, several miles into the forest. My grandfather tells me that it is a bad place, that the people are thieves and cutthroats: Maybe, though, you could find someone there to guide you.”

  “Maybe we can.” Wil smiled his thanks. At least the thieves and cutthroats were preferable to the monsters and witches, he thought to himself. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. Even if all the thieves and cutthroats and witches and monsters were imaginary, there were Demons searching for them, perhaps even waiting for them, who were not.

  Perk was deep in thought. After a moment, he looked up. “What will you do when you find this Safehold?” he asked.

  Wil hesitated. “Well, Perk, when we find Safehold, we find the talisman I told you about. Then we can return to Arborlon.”

  The boy’s face lighted. “Then there is something more that I can do,” he announced eagerly.

  He reached into the small pouch that hung about his neck and withdrew the silver whistle, handing it to the Valeman.

  “Perk, what …?” Wil began as the whistle was thrust into his palm.

  “I have five days more before I must return to the Wing Hove,” the boy interrupted quickly. “Each day I will fly once across the valley at noon. If you need me, signal with that whistle and I will come. The sound cannot be heard by humans—only by the Rocs. If you can find the talisman within the five days that I have left, then Genewen and I will carry you north again to your homeland.”

  “Perk, I don’t think so …” Amberle started to object, shaking her head slowly.

  “Wait a minute,” Wil interjected. “If Genewen could fly us north again, we would save days. We would avoid all of the country we had to travel through to get here. Amberle, we have to get back as quickly as we can—you know that.”

  He turned quickly to Perk. “Could Genewen make such a trip? Could you?”

  The boy nodded confidently.

  “But he has said already that the Wilderun is forbidden to him,” Amberle pointed out. “How can he land within it, then?”

  Perk thought it out. “Well, if I set Genewen down just long enough to pick you up—that would only take a moment.”

  “I do not like this idea one bit,” Amberle declared, frowning at Wil. “It is entirely too dangerous for Perk—and it is a violation of the trust that he has been given.”

  “I want to help,” the boy insisted. “Besides, you told me how important this was.”

  He sounded so determined that for a moment Amberle could not think of a further argument. Wil took this opportunity to step in again.

  “Look, why don’t we compromise? I’ll make a promise. If there is any danger to Perk, I’ll not summon him under any circumstances. Fair enough?”

  “But Wil …” the boy began.

  “And Perk will agree that at the end of five days he will return to the Wing Hove as he has promised his grandfather, whether or not I have summoned him,” the Valeman finished, cutting short the objections Perk was about to raise.

  Amberle thought it over for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “All right. But I will hold you to your promise, Wil.”

  The Valeman’s eyes met hers. “Then it is agreed.” He turned back to the boy. “We have to be going now, Perk. We owe you a lot.”

  He took the Elf’s rough hand and gripped it firmly in his own.

  “Goodbye,” Amberle said, bending down to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

  Perk flushed, his eyes lowering. “Goodbye, Amberle. Good luck.”

  With a final wave of farewell, the Valeman and the Elven girl turned and started down the long slope toward the forest wilderness. Perk watched them until they were out of sight.

  XXVI

  In the late afternoon h
ours of the second day following the departure of Wil and Amberle with the Elven Hunters who served as their escort from the city of Arborlon, Eventine Elessedil sat alone in the study of his home, maps and charts spread out on the worktable in front of him, his head bent close in concentration. Outside, the rain continued to fall in steady, gray sheets, just as it had fallen for two days past, drenching the whole of the Elven forests. Already dusk was beginning to creep forth, its shadow falling long and dark through the curtained, floor-length windows at the far side of the room.

  Manx layed curled at his master’s feet, grizzled head resting comfortably on his forepaws, his breathing deep and even.

  The old King lifted his head from his work, rubbing his eyes reddened with fatigue. He stared across the room absently, then pushed his chair back from the table. Allanon should have been here by now, he thought anxiously. There was still much to be done, much that could not be done without the aid of the Druid. Eventine had no idea where the big man had gone this time; he had departed early that morning and had not been seen since.

  The King stared out into the rain. For three days now he had worked with the Druid and the members of his Council preparing the defense for the Elven homeland—a defense that he knew would be necessary. Time was slipping away from him. The Ellcrys continued to fail, the Forbidding to weaken. With the passage of each day, the King expected to learn that both had crumbled, that the imprisoned Demons had broken free, and that the invasion of the Westland had begun. The Elven army was mobilized and stood ready: pikemen, swordsmen, archers and lancers; foot soldiers and cavalry; Home Guard and Black Watch; regular army and reserve; Elven fighting men from one end of the land to the other. The call had gone out, and all who were able had come to serve, leaving homes and families and pouring into the city to be outfitted with arms and equipment. Yet the King knew that even the iron will of the Elven army would not be enough to withstand an assault of the entire Demon horde, once it had broken free and welded itself into a cohesive unit. He knew this because Allanon had said that it would be so, and Eventine knew better than to question the Druid when he made a pronouncement as dire as this one. The Demons were physically stronger than the Elves; their numbers were greater. They were savage, maddened creatures driven by a hatred that had begun with the day of their banishment from the earth and had focused in whole upon the people responsible for that banishment. For centuries, there had been nothing else. Now that hatred would be given vent. Eventine harbored no illusions. If the Elves did not receive help from some quarter, the Demons would destroy them all.

  It was no good depending solely on Amberle and the seed of the Ellcrys. However painful the thought, Eventine knew he must accept the fact that he might never see his granddaughter again. Even before her return to Arborlon, the King had dispatched messengers to the other races, requesting that they stand with the Elves against this evil that threatened his land—an evil that would ultimately consume them all. The messengers had been gone more than a week; as yet, none had returned. It was still too early, of course, to expect an answer from any of the other races, for even Callahorn was several days’ ride. Even so, it was doubtful that many would come to stand with them.

  Certainly the Dwarves would come, just as they had always come. The Dwarves and the Elves had stood together against every foe the free peoples of the Four Lands had faced since the time of the First Council of the Druids. Yet the Dwarves must come all the way from the deep forests of the Anar. And they must come afoot, for they were not horsemen. Eventine shook his head. They would come as quickly as they could—yet perhaps not quickly enough to save the Elves.

  There was Callahorn, of course, but not the Callahorn of old, not the Callahorn of Balinor. Had Balinor still lived, or the Buckhannahs still ruled, the Border Legion would have marched at once. But Balinor was dead, the last of the Buckhannahs, and Callahorn’s present ruler, a distant cousin who had ascended the throne more by accident than by acclaim, was an indecisive and overly cautious man who might find it convenient to forget that the Elves had come to the aid of Callahorn when last they called. In any case, the combined councils of Tyrsis and Varfleet and of Kern, rebuilt since its destruction fifty years earlier, wielded more power now than the King. They would be slow to act, even if Eventine’s messenger were successful in conveying the urgency of the situation, for they lacked a strong leader to unite them in their thinking. They would debate, and while they debated the Border Legion would sit idle.

  Ironically, it was their mistrust of their fellow Southlanders—and more particularly, their mistrust of the Federation—that would be likely to delay action on the part of the men of Callahorn. Following the destruction of the Warlock Lord and the defeat of his armies, the major cities of the deep Southland belatedly realized the extent of the threat that the Dark Lord had posed; acting in a haste born of fear, they had formed an alliance with one another, an alliance that began as a loose-knit organization of territories sharing common borders and common fears and quickly grew into the highly structured Federation. The Federation was the first cohesive form of government that the race of Man had known in more than a thousand years. Its professed goal was the final unification of the Southland and the race of Man under a single ruling government. That government, of course, was to be the Federation. To that end, they had begun a concerted effort to unite the remaining cities and provinces. In the four decades since its formation, the Federation had come to dominate almost the whole of the Southland. Of the major Southland cities, only those of Callahorn had resisted the suggested unification. The decision to do so had resulted in no small amount of friction between the two governments—especially as the Federation continued its steady advance northward toward Callahorn’s borders.

  Eventine folded his arms across his chest, frowning. He had dispatched a messenger to the Federation, yet he had little hope that there would be help forthcoming. The Federation had shown scant interest in the affairs of the other races, and it was doubtful that they would see a Demon invasion of the Westland as being of legitimate concern. In fact, it was doubtful that they would even believe that such an invasion was possible. The Men of the deep Southland knew little of the sorcery that had troubled the other lands since the time of the First Council of the Druids; theirs had been a closed, introverted existence, and in their new expansion they had not yet encountered many of the unpleasant realities that lay beyond their own limited experience.

  Again the King shook his head. No, the cities of the Federation would not come. Just as had been the case when they were warned of the coming of the Warlock Lord, they would not believe.

  No messenger had been sent to the Gnomes. It would have been pointless to do so. The Gnomes were a tribal race. They did not answer to a single ruler or governing council. Their chieftains and their seers were their leaders, and there were different chieftains and seers for each tribe, all constantly feuding with one another. Bitter and disgruntled since their defeat at Tyrsis, the Gnomes had not mixed in the affairs of the other races in the fifty years that had since passed. It was hardly reasonable to expect that they should choose to do so now.

  There remained the Trolls. The Trolls, too, were a tribal race, yet since the conclusion of the aborted Third War of the Races, the Trolls had begun unifying within the vast stretches of the Northland, tribes banding together within certain territories under council leadership. The closest and one of the largest of these communities lay within the Kershalt Territory, at the northern borders of the Elven homeland. The Kershalt was occupied principally by Rock Trolls, though some of the lesser tribes inhabited portions of this region as well. Traditionally, Elves and Trolls had been enemies; in the last two Race Wars, they had fought bitterly against one another. But with the fall of the Warlock Lord, the enmity between the two races had lessened appreciably, and for the past fifty years they had lived in comparatively peaceful coexistence. Relations between Arborlon and the Kershalt had been particularly good. Trade had opened up and plans had been made to ex
change delegations. There was a chance then that the Kershalt Trolls might agree to aid them.

  The old King checked his thoughts and smiled wanly. A slim chance, he conceded. But he knew he could not afford to pass over any chance. The Elves would have need of whomever they could find to stand with them if they were to survive.

  He stood up slowly, stretched, then glanced down again at the array of maps spread out on the worktable. Each depicted a different sector of the Westland, chartings of all the known country that comprised the Elven homeland and the territories surrounding it. Eventine had studied them until he thought it possible to trace their configurations in his sleep. Out of one of those sectors the Demons would come; and there the Elven defenses must be settled. But out of which? Where would the Forbidding crumble first? Where would the invasion begin?

  The King let his eyes wander from one map to the next. Allanon had promised that he would discover where the break would come, and it was for that vital piece of information that the Elven army waited. Until then …

  He sighed and walked to the window-doors that opened onto the manor house grounds. As he stared out through the growing dusk he caught sight of Ander coming up the walkway, head bent against the rain, arms laden with the troop registers and supply listings that he had been instructed to collect. The frown that creased the old King’s face softened. Ander had been invaluable these past few days. To his younger son had fallen the tedious, if necessary, task of information gathering—thankless work at best and work that Arion would certainly have disdained. Yet Ander had undertaken the job without a single word of complaint. The King shook his head. Strange, but even though Arion was Crown Prince of the Elves and the closer of his sons, there were times these past few days when he saw more of himself in Ander.