The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  He trailed off meaningfully, praying that the guards would be sufficiently forewarned of Palance’s irrational behavior to think twice about calling him down. The guards hesitated momentarily, then nodded quietly, released the latches on the door and stepped aside, swinging the massive portal open to reveal the stone stairway leading downward. Stenmin again led the way without comment. Apparently he had decided to follow Menion’s instructions to the letter, but the cautious highlander knew that the mystic was no fool. If Balinor were successfully freed and restored to command of the Border Legion, then his own power over the throne of Callahorn would be finished. He would undoubtedly attempt something, but the time and the place had not yet come. The heavy door closed quietly behind them and they began their descent into the torchlit cellar.

  Menion saw the trapdoor in the center of the cellar floor almost immediately. The guards had not bothered to conceal it a second time with the wine barrels, but had fastened a series of iron bars and latches across the stone slab, effectively preventing anyone imprisoned below from breaking free. Although Menion could not have known, the prisoners had not been returned to their cells following the aborted escape attempt earlier that same morning. Instead, they had been left to roam in the darkness of the dungeon corridors. Two guards were stationed next to the sealed opening, their attention now focused on the two men who had just been admitted from the palace. Menion saw a plate of cheese and bread resting half eaten on one of the wine barrels and two cups of wine placed next to a half-drained flask. They had been drinking. The highlander smiled slightly.

  As the two reached the stone flooring, Menion pretended to glance about the wine cellar in great interest, beginning a jovial conversation with the silent Stenmin. The guards rose slowly and came to attention at the sight of the King’s adviser, who was looking decidedly grim about something. The highlander knew they had been caught off balance by this unexpected visit and he decided to make the most of it.

  “I see what you mean, my Lord.” He glowered fiercely at the mystic as they drew near to the sentries. “These men have been drinking while on duty! Suppose the prisoners should have escaped while these men lay in a drunken stupor? The King must be told of this as soon as we have finished our business here.”

  The guards turned pale with fear at mention of the King.

  “My Lord, you are mistaken,” the one pleaded hastily. “We were only taking a little wine with our breakfast. We have not been lax …”

  “The King should decide that.” Menion cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “But … the King will not listen …”

  Stenmin glowered in fury at the deception, but the guards misunderstood and quickly assumed he meant to have them punished. The mystic tried to say something, but Menion moved quickly in front of him, as if in an effort to restrain his advance toward the unfortunate guards, drawing the dagger and holding it close to the man’s unprotected chest.

  “Yes, of course they are probably lying,” Menion continued without changing his tone of voice. “Still the King is a busy man and I hate to bother him with little problems. Perhaps a word of warning to them …?”

  He glanced back at the guards who nodded dumbly, grasping at any chance to avoid Stenmin’s wrath. Like everyone else in the Kingdom, they were frightened of the power the strange mystic possessed over Palance and were more than eager to avoid angering him.

  “Very good, then, you have had your warning.” Menion sheathed the dagger and turned back to the still-shaken sentries. “Now open the dungeon door and bring up the prisoners.”

  He stood close to Stenmin, glancing at him quickly in warning. The dark face did not seem to see him anymore, the eyes staring vacantly at the stone slab that barred their entry to the dungeons beneath. The sentries had not moved, but were glancing at each other in new desperation.

  “My Lord, the King has forbidden anyone to see the prisoners … for any reason,” the one guard gulped at last. “I cannot bring them out of the dungeon.”

  “So you would bar the King’s adviser and his personal guest.” Menion did not hesitate. He had expected this. “Then we have no choice but to call the King down here …”

  That was all it took. There was no further deliberation as the sentries raced to the stone slab, quickly sliding back the latches and bolts. Bracing themselves, the guards pulled back on the iron ring and the trapdoor swung ponderously upward and fell back heavily against the stone flooring, leaving a gaping black hole. Holding their swords ready, the sentries called down into the darkness, commanding the prisoners to come out. There were footsteps on the ancient stone stairway as Menion waited expectantly at Stenmin’s side, his own sword now drawn. His free hand held the mystic’s arm tightly, and in a sharp whisper he warned the lean adviser not to speak or move. Then Balinor’s broad form appeared from out of the pit, closely followed by the Elven brothers and the durable Hendel, his own attempt to rescue his friends thwarted only hours earlier. They did not see Menion at first. Quickly the highlander stepped forward, still holding the silent Stenmin.

  “That’s it, keep them moving, keep them together. Such men must be watched carefully. They are always dangerous.”

  The wearied prisoners glanced over abruptly, only thinly masking their astonishment on seeing the Prince of Leah. Menion winked quickly behind the guards’ backs, and the four captives turned away, only the slow smile on Dayel’s young face betraying the sudden joy they were experiencing at the sight of their old friend. They were out of the pit now and standing quietly a few feet from the guards, who stood with their backs to the highlander. But before Menion could act, the heretofore passive Stenmin wrested his whiplike form free from his captor’s iron grip and sprang aside to shout a quick warning to the unsuspecting sentries.

  “Traitor! Guards, it’s a trick …”

  He was never able to finish. As the distracted sentries whirled about, Menion leaped catlike at the fleeing mystic, throwing him violently to the stone floor. The soldiers realized their mistake too late. The four prisoners sprang into action, closing the short space of ground separating them from their jailers and disarming them before they could recover. Within seconds the guards were subdued, quickly bound and gagged, and dragged into a corner of the cellar where they were hidden from sight. A thoroughly beaten Stenmin was yanked unceremoniously to his feet to face his new captors. Menion glanced anxiously at the closed door at the top of the cellar stairway, but no one appeared. Apparently the shout had gone unheeded. Balinor and the others came over to him with smiles of gratitude on their tired faces, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand once again.

  “Menion Leah, we owe you more than we can ever hope to give back.” The giant borderman gripped his hand tightly. “I did not think we would ever see you again. Where is Allanon?”

  Quickly Menion explained how he had left Allanon and Flick concealed above the camp of the Northland army and come to Callahorn to warn of the impending advance against Tyrsis. Pausing momentarily to gag Stenmin in the event the evil adviser should attempt to call out another warning to the guards posted outside the cellar door, the highlander told of rescuing Shirl Ravenlock, fleeing to Kern and subsequently to the walls of Tyrsis after the island city was besieged and destroyed. His friends listened grimly until he had finished.

  “Whatever else may come out of this, highlander,” Hendel declared quietly, “you have proved yourself this day and we shall never forget it.”

  “The Border Legion must be re-formed and sent to hold the Mermidon immediately,” Balinor cut in quickly. “We must get word to the lower city. Then we must find my father … and my brother. But I want to secure the palace and the army without a battle. Menion, can we trust Janus Senpre to come to our aid if we call for him?”

  “He is loyal to you and to the King.” Menion nodded affirmatively.

  “You must get a message to him while we remain here,” the Prince of Callahorn continued, pacing over toward the captive Stenmin. “Once he arrives with help,
we should have no trouble—my brother will be left without support. But what of my father …?”

  Towering over the dark form of the mystic, he removed the gag from the captive’s mouth and stared coldly down at him. Stenmin met his gaze briefly, his own eyes furtive and filled with hate. The mystic knew he was beaten if Palance was captured and removed as monarch of Callahorn, and he was becoming increasingly desperate as the end drew near and his plans began to break apart. Standing with the Elven brothers and Hendel as Balinor confronted the mysterious captive, Menion found himself wondering what the man had hoped to gain by encouraging Palance to take the steps he had. Certainly it was no mystery why he had supported the distraught and unstable Prince as the new King of Callahorn. His own position was assured with Balinor’s brother ruling. But why had he encouraged the disbanding of the Border Legion when he knew that an invading army was threatening to overrun the little Southland kingdom and put an end to its enlightened monarchy? Why had he gone to such pains to imprison Balinor and to secrete his father in a distant wing of the palace when they could have been quietly disposed of? And why had he tried to kill Menion Leah, a man he had never met before?

  “Stenmin, your rule over this land and its people and your domination of my brother are over,” Balinor declared with cold determination. “Whether or not you will ever see the light of another day depends on what you do from now until the time I am again in command of the city. What have you done with my father?”

  There was a long moment of silence as the mystic looked desperately around, the dark face ashen with fear.

  “He … he is in the north wing … in the tower,” the answer was a whisper.

  “If he has been harmed, mystic …”

  Balinor turned away sharply, leaving the terrified man momentarily forgotten. Stenmin shrank away against one wall, gazing after the tall figure of the borderman. One hand came up nervously to stroke the small, pointed beard. Menion watched him, almost in pity, and then suddenly something clicked in his mind. An image flashed sharply—a memory of a scene he had witnessed several days earlier on the banks of the Mermidon north of the island of Kern as he had lain concealed on a small hillock overlooking a windy beachhead. That same mannerism—the stroking of a small pointed beard! Now he knew exactly what Stenmin was attempting to do! His face turned to a mask of rage and he started forward, brushing past Balinor as if he wasn’t even there.

  “You were the man on the beach—the kidnapper!” he accused in undisguised fury. “You tried to kill me because you thought I would recognize you as the man who kidnapped Shirl—the man who turned her over to the Northlanders. You traitor! You intended to betray us all—to turn the city over to the Warlock Lord!”

  Heedless of the cries of his companions, he rushed toward the now hysterical mystic, who somehow managed to evade his initial lunge and break away toward the cellar stairway. Menion was after him with a bound, the gleaming sword of his father raised to strike. Halfway up the stone steps he caught him, one hand jerking the dark form about as the man shrieked in terror. Yet the end did not come, for as the sword drew back and Menion held the maddened Stenmin tightly against the stone wall, the massive door to the ancient cellar suddenly swung open, the thrust of the pull slamming the ironbound wood back against the wall with a jarring crash. Framed in the entryway stood the broad figure of Palance Buckhannah.

  XXIX

  For a moment no one moved. Even the terrified Stenmin had gone limp against the cellar wall, his dark face staring blankly at the silent form that waited statuelike at the top of the ancient stairway. The lined face of the Prince was drained of color, and the eyes reflected a curious mixture of anger and confusion. Resolutely, Menion Leah met those searching eyes, his sword arm lowering slowly, his own hatred fading with the sudden turn of events. Their lives might all be forfeited if he didn’t act fast. Roughly he yanked Stenmin to his feet and threw him disdainfully toward the Prince.

  “Here is your traitor, Palance—the real enemy of Callahorn. This is the man who gave Shirl Ravenlock to the Northlanders. This is the man who would give Tyrsis to the Warlock Lord….”

  “My Lord, you’ve come just in time.” The mystic had recovered his wits enough to cut Menion off before any more damage could be done. He stumbled fearfully to his feet and rushed up the stairs, throwing himself at Palance’s feet and pointing down at the company of friends. “I discovered them escaping—I was running to warn you! The highlander is a friend of Balinor—he came to kill you!” The words were tumbling out of the man’s mouth in undisguised hatred as he groped at his benefactor’s tunic and raised himself slowly to his side. “They would have killed me—and then you, my Lord. Can’t you see what is happening?”

  Menion fought down the urge to rush up the steps and cut the evil mystic’s lying tongue out, forcing himself to remain outwardly calm, his gaze riveted on that of the stunned Palance Buckhannah.

  “You have been betrayed by this man, Palance,” he continued evenly. “He has poisoned your heart and your mind. He has sapped you of your will to think for yourself. He cares nothing for you; he cares nothing for this land, which he has so cheaply sold to the enemy that has already destroyed Kern.” Stenmin roared in fury, but Menion continued in stoney disregard. “You once said we would be friends, and friends must have trust for each other. Do not be deceived now, or your kingdom will surely be lost.”

  At the bottom of the stairway, Balinor and his friends watched silently, afraid that any distraction might break the strange spell Menion Leah was weaving, for Palance was still listening, his clouded mind struggling to break the wall of confusion surrounding it. Slowly he stepped forward on the landing, closing the door quietly behind him and brushing past Stenmin as if he hadn’t seen him. His adviser hesitated in confusion, glancing uncertainly at the cellar door as if debating the wisdom of attempting to flee. But he was not yet prepared to accept defeat, and he whirled quickly, catching Palance by the arm and thrusting his lean face next to the man’s ear.

  “Are you mad? Are you as insane as some say, my King?” he whispered venomously. “Will you throw everything away now—give it all back to your brother? Was he meant to be king—or you? This is all a lie! The Prince of Leah is a friend to Allanon.”

  Palance turned toward him slightly, his eyes widening.

  “Yes, Allanon!” Stenmin knew he had struck a nerve and was determined to pursue it. “Who do you think seized your betrothed from her home in Kern? This man who speaks of friendship was part of the kidnapping—it was all a ruse to get inside the palace and then assassinate you. You were to be killed!”

  Below the stairway, Hendel took a step forward, but Balinor put out a restraining hand. Menion stood quietly, knowing that any sudden move now would only confirm Stenmin’s charges. He directed a withering glance at the wily mystic, turning quickly back to Palance and shaking his head.

  “He is a traitor. He belongs to the Warlock Lord.”

  Palance took several steps down the stairway, glancing briefly at Menion and then staring fixedly at his brother who waited patiently at the foot of the stairs. A faint smile crossed his lips as he paused confusedly.

  “What do you think, brother? Am I really … mad? If not me, then … why, it must be everyone else, and I alone am … sane. Say something, Balinor. We should have that talk now … Before … I did want to say something …”

  But the sentence was left unfinished as he straightened his tall frame and looked back once again at Stenmin, who had taken on the appearance of a dangerously cornered animal, crouched and waiting to attack.

  “You are pathetic, Stenmin. Stand up!” The sharp command cut through the stillness and the bent figure of the mystic snapped upright. “Advise me what I should do,” Palance ordered sharply. “Do I have everyone killed—will that protect me?”

  In an instant Stenmin was back at his side, the sharp eyes cold with fury.

  “Call your guard, my Lord. Dispose of these assassins now!”

  Suddenly Palan
ce seemed to waver, his tall frame drooping, his eyes glancing at the walls of the cellar in studied concentration of the stonework. Menion sensed that the Prince of Callahorn was again losing his grip on reality and falling back into the clouded world of madness that had impaired his once sound reason. Stenmin recognized it as well, a grim smile creeping over his dark face, his hand coming up to stroke the small pointed beard. Then abruptly, Palance spoke once more.

  “No, there will be no soldiers … no killing. A King must be a man of judgment … Balinor is my brother, though he wishes to be King in my place. He and I must talk now … he is not to be harmed … not harmed.” His voice trailed off and he smiled unexpectedly at Menion. “You brought Shirl back to me … I thought I had lost her, you know. Why … would you do that … If you were an enemy …?”

  Stenmin screamed in fury, grasping furiously at the other’s tunic, but the Prince did not seem to realize he was even there.

  “It is difficult for me … to think clearly, Balinor,” Palance continued in a low whisper, shaking his head slowly. “Nothing is clear anymore … I don’t even feel angry toward you for wanting to be King. I have always … wanted to be King. I have, you know. But I have to have … friends … someone to talk to …”

  He turned dispassionately toward Stenmin, his eyes blank and expressionless. Something his adviser saw there caused the mystic to release his grip on the other’s arm and shrink limply back against the stone wall, his jaw sagging in fear. Only Menion was close enough to realize what had happened. Whatever hold the evil mystic had managed to secure over Palance Buckhannah was gone. The man’s already muddled thought processes had been pushed beyond the brink of even basic comprehension of identities, and Stenmin was now no more than another face in a sea of indistinguishable beings that haunted the nightmare world of the maddened Prince of Callahorn.