by Terry Brooks
He paused. “But before this could be done, some of the evil ones locked within the Forbidding broke free, finding the wall sufficiently weakened as the strength of the Ellcrys began to fail. One slipped into the Elven city of Arborlon, where the Ellcrys stands, and killed the Chosen it found there, believing that with their deaths any chance for a rebirth would be ended. I arrived too late to prevent this from happening. But I spoke with the Ellcrys and discovered through her that one of the Chosen still remains alive—a young girl who was not within the city when the others were killed. Her name is Amberle. I left Arborlon in search of her.”
He leaned forward once more. “But the evil ones have learned of her also. They sought once already to prevent me from reaching her and very nearly succeeded. They will certainly try again if they have the chance to do so. But they do not know where she can be found nor, for the moment at least, do they know where I am. If I am quick enough, I should be able to reach her and return her safely to Arborlon before they discover me again.”
“Then I should think that you are wasting valuable time conversing with us,” Flick declared firmly. “You should be on your way to the girl.”
The Druid ignored him, though his face darkened slightly. “Even though I return Amberle to Arborlon, there are problems still that must be dealt with. As the last of the Chosen, it will fall to her to bear the Ellcrys’ seed in quest of the Bloodfire. No one, myself included, knows exactly where the Fire can be found. Once, the Ellcrys knew. But the world she remembers is gone now. She gave the Elves a name—Safehold. It is a name that means nothing to them, a name from the old world. When I left Arborlon, I traveled first to Paranor to search the Druid histories compiled by the Council after the Great Wars—histories which record the mysteries of the old world. Reading through those histories, I was able to discover the country within which Safehold lies. Still, the exact location of the Bloodfire must be discovered by those who seek it.”
And suddenly Wil Ohmsford realized why it was that Allanon wanted him to go into the Westland.
He realized it and still he could not believe it.
“Amberle cannot undertake this search alone,” Allanon continued. “The country into which she must go is dangerous—much too dangerous for a young Elven girl to travel by herself. It will be a difficult journey at best. Those who have crossed through the Forbidding will continue to seek her out; if they find her, she will have no protection against them. She must not be harmed in any way. She is the last hope of her people. If the Ellcrys is not reborn, the Forbidding will eventually fail altogether and the evil locked within it will be loose once more upon the earth. There will be war with the Elves that they cannot, in all probability, win. If they are destroyed, the evil will move into the other Lands as well. It will grow stronger as it comes, as is the nature of beings such as these. In the end, the races will be devoured.”
“But you will be there to help her …” Wil began, searching for a way out of the trap he felt closing about him.
“I cannot be there to help her,” Allanon cut in quickly.
There was a long silence. Allanon spread his hands on the table.
“There is good reason for this, Wil Ohmsford. I have told you that the evil already begins to break through the wall of the Forbidding. The Ellcrys will grow steadily weaker; as she does so, the creatures she imprisons will grow bolder. They will continue to push against the wall of the Forbidding. They will continue to breakthrough. Eventually, they will tear down the wall entirely. When this happens, they will converge upon the Elven nation and attempt to destroy it. This may very well happen long before the Bloodfire is found. There is also a possibility that the Bloodfire may never be found or that it may be found too late. In either case, the Elven people must be prepared to stand and fight. But some of the creatures within the Forbidding are very powerful; at least one possesses sorcery very nearly as great as my own. The Elves will have no defense against such power. Their own magic is lost. The Druids who once aided them are gone. There is only me. If I leave them and go with Amberle, they will be defenseless. I cannot do that. I must give them whatever aid I can.
“Yet someone must go with Amberle—someone who possesses power enough to resist the evil that will pursue her, someone who can be trusted to do everything humanly possible to protect her. That someone is you.”
“What are you talking about?” Flick exclaimed in exasperation. “What possible help can Wil be against creatures such as these—creatures that very nearly succeeded in doing you in? You don’t mean for him to use the Sword of Shannara?”
Allanon shook his head. “The power of the Sword works only against illusion. The evil we face is very real, very tangible. The Sword would have no power against it.”
Flick almost came to his feet. “What then?”
The Druid’s eyes were dark and filled with insight and Wil Ohmsford felt his heart sink.
“The Elfstones.”
Flick was aghast. “The Elfstones! But Shea has the Elfstones!”
Wil put his hand quickly on the other’s arm. “No, Uncle Flick, I have them.” He groped within his tunic and then withdrew a small leather pouch. “Grandfather gave them to me when I left Shady Vale to come to Storlock. He told me that he no longer had need of them and that he thought they should belong to me.” His voice was shaking. “It’s strange; I only took them to please him—not because I ever thought that I would use them. I’ve never even tried.”
“It would do you no good, Wil.” Flick turned back hurriedly to Allanon. “He knows. No one but Shea could ever use the Elfstones. They are useless to anyone else.”
Allanon’s expression did not change. ’That is not entirely true, Flick. They can only be used by one to whom they are freely given. I gave them to Shea to use when I warned him to flee the Vale to Culhaven. They remained his until he gave them to Wil. Now they belong to Wil. Their power is his to invoke, just as it was once Shea’s.”
Flick looked desperate. “You can give them back,” he insisted, turning once more to Wil, seeing the confusion in his eyes. “Or you can give them to someone else—anyone else. You don’t have to keep them. You don’t have to become involved in any of this madness!”
Allanon shook his head. “Flick, he is already involved.”
“But what of my plans to become a Healer?” Wil interjected suddenly. “What of the time and work I have put into that? Becoming a Healer is all that I have ever wanted to do, and I am finally on my way to doing it. Am I expected just to give it all up?”
“If you refuse your aid in this matter, how can you then become a Healer?” The Druid’s voice turned hard. “A Healer must give whatever help he can, whenever he can, in any way that he can. It is not something he can pick and choose. If you refuse to go and all that I have foreseen comes to pass—as I am certain that it then will—how will you live with yourself, knowing that you never even tried to prevent it?”
Wil flushed. “But when will I be able to return again?”
“I don’t know. It may be a long time.”
“And even if I come with you, can you be certain that the power of the Elfstones will be strong enough to protect this girl?”
Allanon’s face closed in about itself, dark, secretive.
“I cannot. Such power as the Elfstones possess draws its strength from the holder. Shea never tested their limits; you may have to.”
“Can you give me no assurances, then?” The Valeman’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
“None.” The Druid’s gaze never left him. “Still, you must come.”
Wil slumped back in his chair, stunned. “It seems I have no choice.”
“Of course you have a choice!” Flick snapped angrily. “Will you give up everything for no other reason than this—that Allanon says you must? Will you go with him for that alone?”
Wil’s eyes lifted. “Didn’t you, Uncle Flick—grandfather and you—to search out the Sword of Shannara?”
Flick hesitated uncertainly; then he
reached over and took his nephew’s hands in his own, clasping them tightly.
“You are too quick in this, Wil. I warned you of Allanon. Now you listen to me. I see more in this than you. There is something hidden behind the Druid’s words. I can feel it.” His voice tightened, and the lines in his gray-bearded face creased even more deeply. “I am afraid for you. It is because I am afraid that I speak to you as I do. You are like my own son; I don’t want to lose you.”
“I know,” Wil whispered. “I know.”
Flick straightened. “Then don’t go. Let Allanon find another.”
The Druid shook his head. “I cannot, Flick. There is no other. There is only Wil.” His eyes again sought those of the young Valeman. “You must come.”
“Let me go instead,” Flick offered suddenly, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Wil can give the Elfstones to me, and I can watch over the Elven girl. Allanon, we have traveled together before …”
But the Druid was already shaking his head no. “Flick, you cannot come,” he said gently. “Your heart is greater than your strength, Valeman. The journey that lies ahead will be long and hard and must be made by a younger man.” He paused. “Our travels together are over, Flick.”
There was a long silence, and then the Druid turned again to Wil Ohmsford, waiting. The Valeman looked at his uncle. They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, Flick’s gray eyes uncertain, Wil’s now steady. Flick saw that the decision had been made. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
“You must do what you feel is right,” he mumbled, reluctance sounding in his every word.
Wil turned to Allanon. “I will come with you.”
IX
Early the next morning, Allanon came to Wil Ohmsford and told him that they were leaving Storlock at once. Dark and grim-visaged, the Druid appeared at the door of the Valeman’s cottage without a word of forewarning and while Wil gave thought to arguing against such an abrupt departure, something in the big man’s face and voice convinced him that he should not. Last evening, when they had parted company, there had been no urgency in the Druid’s behavior; now there clearly was. Whatever it was that had persuaded Allanon to make this decision, it was compelling. Wordlessly the Valeman packed his few belongings and latched the door of the cottage behind him as he followed the Druid out.
It was raining once more as a new storm approached from out of the northwest, and the dawn skies were heavy and leaden. Allanon led the Valeman up the muddied roadway, his tall form wrapped in the black robe, his cowled head bent slightly against a steadily rising wind. A handful of white-robed Stors waited to receive them on the steps of the rest center with a small kit for Wil and provisions for the journey. Artaq was saddled and shaking his head with impatience, and Allanon mounted the black at once, a gingerliness in his movements suggesting that his wounds were not yet fully healed. A wiry gray gelding named Spitter was given to Wil, and he had one foot in the stirrup when Flick came dashing up, bearded face dripping and flushed. Hastily his uncle pulled him back into the shelter of the rest center’s covered porch.
“They just told me,” he panted, wiping the rain from his eyes. “I’m surprised they bothered!” He glanced angrily toward Allanon. “Is it necessary that you leave so quickly?”
Wil nodded slowly. “I think something may have made it necessary.”
Frustration and concern showed in Flick’s eyes. “It is not too late to rethink your decision in all this,” he whispered harshly and would have said more, but Wil was already shaking his head. “Very well. I’ll tell your grandfather what has happened, though I am certain he won’t like it any better than I do. Be careful, Wil. Remember what I said about all of us having our limitations.”
Wil nodded. They said their goodbyes quickly and gruffly, almost as if they were afraid to express what they were really feeling, their faces fixed and drawn as they exchanged uneasy glances and hurriedly embraced. Then Allanon and he were riding away. Flick, the Stors, and the village became dark shadows that faded into the mist and gray of the Eastland forests and disappeared from view.
The Druid and the Valeman rode west out of Storlock to the edge of the Rabb Plains, then turned south. Allanon paused long enough to tell Wil that the first leg of their journey would take them below the Silver River to a small village on the western edge of the lower Anar called Havenstead. It was at Havenstead that they would find Amberle. The Druid did not volunteer anything further on the matter, and Wil did not ask. Rain washed over them in sheets as the storm worsened; keeping within the fringe of the forestland, they bent their heads over their horses’ necks and rode without speaking.
As they traveled, Wil’s thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous evening. Even now, he was not sure exactly why he had decided to go with the Druid. And that disturbed him. Surely he should be able to explain why he had agreed to such an improbable journey—to himself, at least, if to no one else. Yet he could not. There had been sufficient time to think about his reasons for making the decision, and indeed he had thought about little else. Hindsight should have lent clarity to his actions; it did not. Rather, he felt a lingering sense of confusion. Everything seemed to jumble together in his mind—all the disparate, incomplete reasoning, all the emotions that intertwined and colored. They would not sort themselves out for him; they would not arrange themselves in a neat, orderly fashion. They merely shuffled about like stray sheep and he chased after them hopelessly.
He wanted to believe that he had chosen to go because he was needed. If all that Allanon had told him were true—and he felt it was, despite Flick’s obvious doubts—then he could be of great service to the Elven people and particularly to the girl Amberle. But who was he fooling? He had no idea at all whether he could use the Elfstones that his grandfather had entrusted to him. Suppose their power was beyond him. Suppose Allanon was wrong in thinking that the Elfstones could be passed down to him. Suppose anything at all. The fact was that he had made a rather impulsive decision, and now he must live with it. On the other hand, the impulsiveness of the decision did not necessarily detract from its merit. If he possessed aid to offer the Elves, he must extend that aid. He must at least try to help them. Besides, his grandfather would have gone; he knew that as surely as he knew anything. Shea Ohmsford would have gone, had Allanon asked him, just as he had gone on his quest for the Sword of Shannara. Wil could do no less.
He took a deep breath. Yes, he had made the right decision in going, and he believed that he had made that decision for the right reasons, though they seemed jumbled and out of order to him now. What bothered him most, he realized suddenly, had nothing to do with the decision itself or the reasons for that decision. It had to do with Allanon. Wil would have liked to believe that the decision to go with the Druid had been his own. Yet the more he considered the matter, the more certain he became that the decision had not really been his at all. It had been Allanon’s. Oh, he had spoken the words as if they were his own, spoken them bravely and despite his uncle’s warnings. Yet he knew that the Druid had been able to foresee exactly what it would take to persuade Wil to speak those words, and he had directed the conversation accordingly. Somehow he had known what the younger Valeman’s reactions would be, what Flick’s would be, how the two would interact, and how his own comments would influence them. He had known all this and used that knowledge accordingly. Shea Ohmsford had once told Wil that Allanon possessed the ability to see into the minds of other men, to know their thoughts. Wil understood now exactly what his grandfather had been talking about.
Thus he had committed himself. It was not something that could be undone, even if he should choose to do so, and he did not. But from here forward, he would be on his guard against such clever manipulation by the Druid. In so far as it was possible for him to do so, he would look beyond the words and actions of the big man to the reasons that lay behind them, the better to see where it was that he was being led. Wil Ohmsford was nobody’s fool. He had been looking after himself for several years, and
he was not about to quit doing so now. He must be wary of the Druid. He would trust him, but not blindly and not without proper consideration. Perhaps he could be of service to the Elves and to the girl Amberle; he did not reject that possibility simply because of what he felt about the manner in which his cooperation in all this had been secured. But he would be careful to choose his own manner of giving aid. He would be careful to decide for himself whose interests he might best look after. He would accept nothing as he found it.
His face lifted guardedly, and he peered through the rain at the dark form riding ahead of him—Allanon, last of the Druids, a being who came from another age, whose powers dwarfed anything known to this current world. And Wil must both trust him and yet not trust him. He felt a moment of deep consternation. What had he gotten himself into? Perhaps Flick had been right after all. Perhaps he would have done well to have given a little more thought to his decision. But it was too late for that now. Too late, as well, for thoughts such as these. He shook his head. There was little point in dwelling on it further. He would be well advised to turn his thoughts in another direction.
He spent the remainder of the day trying unsuccessfully to do so.
The rain turned to drizzle as the day lengthened, then at last died away entirely in the cold gray of early evening. Thunderclouds continued to blanket the skies as nightfall turned from gray to black, and the air filled with mist that wandered at the forest’s edge like a child lost. Allanon turned into the shelter of the great trees, and they made camp in a small clearing several hundred yards from the borders of the Rabb. Behind them, rising above the roof of the forest, was the dark wall of the Wolfsktaag, little more than a deeper shade of black against the night. Despite the damp, they managed to salvage enough dry wood and kindling to make a small fire, and the flames lent some warmth to the evening chill. Travel cloaks were hung on lines stretched overhead, and the horses were tethered close by.
They consumed a sparse meal of cold beef, fruit, and nuts that they had packed before leaving Storlock, exchanging only a few perfunctory words as they ate. The Druid sat in brooding silence, preoccupied with his own thoughts, as he had been ever since they had left the village, and seemingly uninterested in carrying on any sort of conversation. But Wil had determined to learn something more of what lay ahead and he had no intention of waiting any longer to begin talking about it. When they had finished their meal, he eased himself a bit closer to the fire, making sure the movement caught Allanon’s attention.
