The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  Wil shook his head. “The Stones have no value to anyone but me. They would be worthless to you.”

  “Indeed.” The Rover did not bother to conceal the sneer in his voice. “Are you a sorcerer, then? A Devil yourself? Why not tell me who you are?”

  Wil hesitated. He was getting nowhere this way. He had to put an end to this whole conversation. Amberle stepped up beside him, one small hand reaching out to take his arm, touching it lightly. It was reassuring to have her there.

  “Cephelo, you must return my horse to me,” he said quietly. The Rover’s face went black. “Amberle and I must go at once. There are more Devils than this one I destroyed—that much I will tell you. They track both the Elven girl and me. Because I used the Stones, they will know now where we can be found. We must go—and you must leave here, as well.”

  Cephelo stared wordlessly at him for several long moments, obviously trying to determine if what he was being told was the truth. In the end, caution overruled mistrust. He nodded curtly.

  “Take your horse and go. I want no more of either of you.”

  He wheeled and walked away, calling loudly to his people to strike camp. Clearly he wished to be gone from the Tirfing as well. Wil watched him for a moment, then dropped the Elfstones into their leather pouch and tucked the pouch back within his tunic. Taking Amberle by the arm, he began moving toward the horses. Then he remembered Eretria. He looked for her and found her in the shadow of the wagons, her dark eyes watching him.

  “Goodbye, Wil Ohmsford,” she said quietly.

  He smiled faintly. She knew that she had lost her chance to go with him. For an instant, he hesitated. She had saved his life; he owed her something for that. Would it be so wrong for him to help her now? Yet he knew that he could not. His sole concern now must be for Amberle. He could not distract himself from that, even for this Rover girl he found so enchanting. The debt he owed her must be paid another time.

  “Goodbye, Eretria,” he replied.

  A touch of that dazzling smile broke through the shadow of her face.

  “We will meet again,” she called, then whirled and was gone.

  Five minutes later, Wil and Amberle rode Artaq north out of the Rover camp and disappeared into the night.

  XVII

  With little more than an hour remaining before dawn, they arrived at the south bank of the Mermidon several miles downstream from where the river emerged from the forests of the Westland into Callahorn. They had ridden Artaq for most of the night, maintaining a steady pace as they journeyed north through the open, more easily traveled grasslands, seeking to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Tirfing. They had rested only once, a brief stop for water and relief from rapidly cramping muscles, then remounted and gone on. By the time they reached the river’s edge, both horse and riders were close to exhaustion. The Valeman could discern no readily accessible point for crossing, the Mermidon being both wide and deep for as far as the eye could see in both directions, and it quickly became apparent that they either would have to swim the river or follow its banks until a shallows was found. Having no wish to attempt either while it was still dark, Wil decided that the best thing for them to do was to rest until daylight. Turning Artaq into a grove of cottonwood, he unsaddled and tethered the big black, then spread blankets for both Amberle and himself. Screened by the trees, all three fell quickly asleep.

  It was almost noon when Wil awoke once more, feeling the warmth of the summer day filter through the cottonwoods from out of yet another clear, sunlit sky. The Valeman touched Amberle gently, and she came awake. They rose, washed, ate a brief meal, and resumed their journey toward Arborlon.

  They rode Artaq upstream for several miles, almost to the edge of the Westland forests, but found no shallows that would afford them a safe crossing. Rather than waste further time retracing their steps downstream, they decided they would chance swimming the river. Strapping their few possessions about Artaq’s neck, they tied themselves to his saddle with a length of rope, led the big black down to the water’s edge, and plunged in. The water was chill, and the shock of the sudden immersion numbed them. They thrashed wildly for a few minutes, fighting the cold and the pull of the current, then settled into a steady kick, hands gripping the safety rope tightly. Artaq swam strongly. Even though the river swept them downstream for nearly half a mile, they reached the far bank unharmed.

  From there they rode north at a leisurely pace, walking Artaq frequently to rest him. Wil believed that they had traveled far enough from the Tirfing to confuse any immediate pursuit, and he saw no reason to tire the black further. The previous night’s run had taken a lot out of the gallant horse, and he needed a chance to regain his strength. If he were not given that chance now, he would be useless to them later—and Wil was not about to discount the possibility that they might have great need for him before Arborlon was reached. Besides, even at this slower pace, they would reach the Valley of Rhenn by the following morning. That was soon enough, he reasoned. They would be safe until then.

  Amberle might have had a different opinion, but she kept it to herself. Free of the Rovers, her spirits were noticeably improved. She sang and hummed once more as they walked, pausing frequently to observe small flowers and plants, bits and pieces of tiny life that would have gone unnoticed by the Valeman in the vast carpet of the grasslands. She had little to say to Wil, although she answered pleasantly when he spoke to her and smiled patiently at his questions about the growing things she was drawn to. But for the most part, she stayed reserved and distant in her attitude toward him, refusing to engage in general conversation, walled away in that private world she had chosen for herself since the time they had begun this journey north from the banks of the Rainbow Lake.

  As the day wore on, Wil found himself thinking of Eretria, wondering if she would leave Cephelo and the caravan as she had threatened and if he would indeed see her again one day. There was an excitement to the Rover girl that he found fascinating. She reminded him of a brief vision created by the Sirens that grew on the Battlemound—mesmeric and alluring, stirring within the mind wild and beautiful thoughts. He smiled at the comparison. It was foolish, really. She was flesh and blood, no vision. Still, if he were to probe the surface of her, would he find that she, like the Siren, was a thing of deception? There was something to her that suggested this, and it bothered him more than a little. He had not forgotten how she had risked her own life to save his; he would hate to discover that there had been any deception in that.

  By nightfall, they were angling west, following the line of the forestland as it wound northward toward the vast expanse of the Streleheim. As darkness closed about them, Wil turned Artaq into the woods, trailing a small stream through the trees for several hundred feet until it pooled below a rapids, providing them with suitable drinking water. There they made camp, bedding down Artaq in a patch of thick grass, feeding and watering him before turning to their own needs. A cooking fire would call attention to their presence, so they settled for fruits and vegetables provided by Amberle. Once again, these were unfamiliar foods to the Valeman, but he enjoyed them nonetheless. He sensed that, given enough time, he might even become used to the strange fare. He was almost finished with the last of the peculiar, elongated, orange fruits when the Elven girl turned to him suddenly, a quizzical look on her face.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?” she wanted to know.

  He grinned. “How do I know if I mind, if I don’t know what it is you plan to ask?”

  “Well, you needn’t answer if you don’t wish to—but this has been bothering me ever since we left the Rover camp.”

  “In that case, ask.”

  The small clearing in which they sat was very dark, the pale light of the moon and stars screened by the tangle of tree limbs that interlocked above them, and she moved close to him so that she could see his face dearly.

  “Will you be honest with me?” Her eyes fixed on his.

  “I will.”

 
; “When you used the Elfstones, did you …?” She hesitated, as if not sure of the word she wanted. “Did you … hurt yourself?”

  He stared at her, a sudden premonition stirring at the back of his mind, undefined still, but there nevertheless.

  “That is a curious question.”

  “I know.” She nodded, and a faint smile escaped before her face grew serious once more. “I cannot explain it, really—it was a feeling I had when I watched you. At first you could not seem to control the Elfstones. You held them up and nothing happened, although it was clear enough that you were trying to use their power to stop the Demon. Then, when they did at last come alive, there was a change in you—a change that showed in your face … almost like pain.”

  The Valeman was nodding slowly. He remembered now, and the memory was not pleasant. After it had happened, he had blocked it from his mind—blocked it without thinking, almost as a reflex action. Even now, he did not know why. It was not until this moment, when she recalled it to him, that he remembered what he had felt.

  There was concern mirrored in the Elven girl’s eyes as he stared into them now. “If you do not wish …” she began quickly.

  “No.” His voice was quiet, firm. He shook his head slowly. “No. I do not know if I understand it myself, though—but it would help to talk about it, I think.”

  He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “There was a block somewhere within me. I do not know what it was or what caused it, but it was there and it would not let me use the Stones. I could not seem to pass around it or go through it.” He shook his head again. “Then the Demon was almost on top of me, and you and Eretria were both there, and all of us were going to die, and I somehow smashed the block—smashed it apart and reached down into the Stones …”

  He paused. “There was no pain, but a sense of something unpleasant happening within me, something … I don’t know how to describe it. A sense of having done something wrong—yet there was nothing wrong in what I did.”

  “The wrong may have been to yourself,” she murmured after a moment’s consideration. “Perhaps the Elven magic is harmful to you in some way.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Yet my grandfather never spoke of this. Can it be that the magic did not affect him, yet does affect me? Why would it be different with me?”

  She shook her head doubtfully. “Elven magic causes different reactions in different people. It has always been so. It is a magic born of the spirit, and the spirit is never a constant.”

  “But my grandfather and I are so much alike—even more so than my father and I were.” Wil pondered. “Kindred spirits, you might say—and not so diverse as to cause this … this difference in our use of the Stones. Surely he would have felt this as well—and he would have told me.”

  Amberle’s hand reached for his arm, holding it firmly.

  “I do not think you should use the Elfstones again.”

  He smiled. “Even to protect you?”

  He said it lightly, but she did not return the smile. There was nothing humorous in this to her.

  “I would not be the cause of any injury to you, Healer,” she announced quietly. “It was not my choice that brought you on this journey, and I feel badly that you are here at all. But since you are here, I will speak my mind. Elven magic is nothing to be toyed with; it can prove to be more dangerous than the evil it was created to protect against. Our histories have left us with that warning, if little else. The magic may act against not only the body, but the spirit as well. Wounds of the body may be treated. But what of wounds to the spirit? How will you treat them, Healer?”

  She bent close. “No one is worth such injury—no one. Especially me.”

  Wil stared at her silently for a moment, startled to see tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. He reached out his hand to cover hers.

  “We shall be careful for each other,” he promised. He tried a quick smile. “Maybe we won’t have need of the Stones again.”

  The look she gave him in response suggested that she did not believe a word of it.

  It was midnight when the howl of the Demon-wolves rose out of the stillness of the grasslands, shrill, hungry, and filled with hatred. Wil and Amberle came awake at once, the contentment of their sleep twisted with fear. For an instant they did not move, their bodies pushed upright from beneath the blankets, their eyes wide and staring as they sought each other out in the dark. The cry died, echoed in the silence that followed, then rose again, piercing and high. This time neither Valeman nor Elven girl hesitated. Without a word, both were on their feet, pulling on their boots, slipping their riding cloaks about their shoulders. In seconds they had saddled Artaq, mounted, and were riding north once more.

  They moved ahead at a steady trot, keeping to the open plains where the way was clear and lit by moon and stars, following the line of the forestland. Cool night air rushed over them as they rode, damp with moisture gathering into morning dew, filled with the smells of the dark. Behind them, the howling continued, far back still, somewhere above the line of the Mermidon. The Demon-wolves were searching. The trail they followed was a day old; they did not realize yet how close they actually were to their prey.

  Artaq ran smoothly, his great body working effortlessly as he raced across the grasslands, little more than another shadow slipping through the summer night. He had gotten most of the rest he needed for this run and he would not be winded quickly. Wil rated him carefully, keeping the pace steady, not letting the black overextend himself. It was early still; the chase had just begun. Their pursuers would discover soon enough the truth of matters. The Valeman was angry with himself; he had not believed they could be found again so quickly. The Elfstones must have revealed their presence in the Tirfing. The Demon-wolves had come for the Valeman and the Elven girl immediately, tracked them north, and now flushed them from the Westland forests. Once they found the campsite their quarry had abandoned, the wolves would come after them with a vengeance. The Demons would run them until they were caught.

  They rode on for better than an hour without sighting the valley, the howling trailing after them as they fled. It was answered now by cries that rose out of the grasslands below the Dragon’s Teeth and the plains to the north. Wil felt his heart sink. The wolves had them ringed. Only the Westland had been left open to them. He wondered suddenly if that way, too, might be closed. He remembered how it had been at the Silver River. The Valley of Rhenn might be a trap as well. Perhaps they were purposely being driven into the valley and it was there that the Demons planned to finish them. Yet what other choice was left them but to take that chance?

  Moments later the howls behind them rose in a frenzy. The Demon-wolves had found their camp.

  Wil put Artaq into a full gallop. The Demons would come quickly now, certain that their prey was close ahead, knowing that they could be caught. Cries north and east of them sounded in answer to those behind, shrill and ragged as the hunters began to run. Artaq was sweating, his head extended forward, his ears laid back. The grasslands thinned into barren scrub; they had crossed into the Streleheim. The Valley of Rhenn could not be far. Wil stretched himself low over Artaq’s straining neck and urged the gallant horse onward.

  It was during the third hour of the chase, when the grasslands of Callahorn had been left far behind and the earth beneath Artaq’s pounding hooves had gone hard and cracked, when the howls of the Demon-wolves had drawn so near that it seemed the huge gray forms must spring into view at any moment, when wind and dust had blinded them and sweat from fear had streaked their bodies beneath their tangled clothes, that Valeman and Elven girl at last caught sight of the broken ridges that formed the mouth of the Valley of Rhenn. They rose out of the flatlands below the Elven forests, rock and scrub black against the night sky. The riders turned toward the pass without slowing. Artaq’s flanks were heaving, his nostrils flaring; sweat and lather coated his sleek black body. He stretched out further, racing through the darkness, the two hunched forms on his back holding on
desperately.

  In seconds, the pass was before them, craggy ridges looming up on either side. Down into the narrow slot of the valley thundered the black. Wil peered frantically through tear-filled eyes as the wind ripped across his face, searching for the Demons that he had feared would be waiting to trap them. Astonishingly, he found none. They were alone in the valley. He felt a quick sense of exhilaration. They were going to escape! Their pursuers were too far back to catch them before they were safely into the Westland forests, into the country of the Elves. By then there would be help …

  The incomplete thought hung suspended in his mind, repeating itself over and over in cadence with the sound of Artaq’s pounding hooves as the black raced along the floor of the valley. Wil went cold. What was he thinking? There would be no help for them. No one even knew they were coming—no one but Allanon, and the Druid was gone. Help? What help did he expect? Already the Demons had gone into the very heart of the city of Arborlon to destroy the Chosen. What did he think would stop them from trailing one incredibly foolish Valeman and an unarmed Elven girl into forestland miles from anything? All he had succeeded in doing in gaining the Valley of Rhenn was to take Artaq out of the open grasslands, where he could run, into the confinement of the woods, where he could not. There was nothing there that would prevent the wolves from coming after them—creatures that were quicker and more agile than they, better able to penetrate the maze of trees and brush, better able to pursue than they would be able to flee. He wanted to scream what he was feeling. Stupid! His shortsightedness had taken away their one slim chance of escape. He had been so concerned with what they had been running from that he had forgotten to consider what they had been running into. They were not going to escape at all. They would be caught; they would be killed. It was his fault. He had done this to them.

  He must do something.

  His mind raced, searching desperately. He had only one weapon left.