by Terry Brooks
“Have you not believed in a legend from the very start?” he asked quietly. “Have you not yourself seen the foothold that the spirit world has secured in your world of flesh and blood, earth and stone? Have we not from the beginning been fighting against beings born of this other existence, beings who possess powers that surely do not belong to mortal men? You have witnessed the potency of the Elfstones. Why would you now turn your back on all that, in favor of what your common sense tells you—a reasoning process that relies on fact and stimuli accumulated in this world, your material world, unable to transpose itself to an existence where even your most basic understandings have no meaning.”
They stared at him wordlessly, realizing that he was right, but unwilling to abandon their plan to find Shea. The whole journey had been premised on half dreams and old legends, not on common sense, and suddenly to decide it was time to be practical once again was indeed a ludicrous idea. Flick had given up being practical the day he had first run in fear from Shady Vale.
“I would not be concerned, my young friends,” Allanon soothed, suddenly next to them, a lean hand on each shoulder, strangely comforting even now. “Shea still carries the Elfstones, and their power will give him great protection. They may also guide him toward the Sword, since they are attuned to it. With luck, we will find him when we find the Sword at Paranor. All roads now lead to the Druid’s Keep, and we must be certain we are there to give what aid we can to Shea.”
The other members of the company had gathered up their weapons and small packs and stood ready, their silhouettes shadowlike in the dim starlight, finely etched pencil lines against the blackness of the mountains. Flick gazed northward to the dark forest that blanketed the low country beyond the Dragon’s Teeth. In its midst, rising upward like an obelisk, were the cliffs of Paranor, and there at the apex, the Druid’s Keep and the Sword of Shannara. The end of the quest. Flick looked quietly for a few moments at the solitary pinnacle, then turned to Menion. The highlander nodded reluctantly.
“We’ll go with you.” Flick’s voice was a hushed whisper in the stillness.
The swirling waters of the rushing river dashed madly against the confining walls of their mountain channel, beating and raging their way eastward, dragging with them stray debris and driftwood that had fallen into their restless grasp. They rushed down out of the mountains in heavy rapids that churned fiercely around smooth-surfaced rocks and sudden bends, winding slowly toward the calm of the quiet rivers that branched into the hilly lowlands above the Rabb Plains. It was in one of these small, quiet tributaries that the man, still bound to the splintered log by his leather belt, finally washed up on a mud riverbank, unconscious and nearly drowned. The clothes he wore were ripped and shredded, the leather boots lost, the damp face ashen and bloodied from the beating sustained when he had been swept through the series of rapids down the river that had carried him to this place. He awakened, realizing that he had at last reached land. Feebly untying himself from the beached log, he dragged himself on hands and knees farther onto the shore and into the deep grass of a low hill. As if by reflex, his battered hands felt for the small leather pouch at his waist, and to his relief it was still there, securely bound by the leather thongs. A moment later, the last of his remaining strength exhausted, he fell into a deep, welcome sleep.
He slept soundly in the warmth and quiet of the day until late afternoon, when the cooling grass whipping against his face in a building breeze caused him to stir slightly. There was something else as well, something in his now-rested mind that warned him suddenly that he was in danger. But he could barely rouse his sluggish body to a half-sitting position as a group of ten or twelve figures appeared at the crest of the hill above him, paused in astonishment as they saw his raised figure, then hastened down the hill to reach him. Instead of carefully turning his battered body to check for injuries, they flung him flat once again, gripping his helpless arms behind his back and tying them securely with leather thongs that bit into the unprotected skin. His feet were bound as well, and at last he was turned faceup where he could finally focus on his captors. His worst fears were immediately confirmed. The gnarled yellow frames, clothed in forest garb and armed with short swords, were easily recognizable after Menion’s description of the incident that had taken place only days before in the Pass of Jade. He looked fearfully into the sharp Gnome eyes as they gazed with some amazement at his half-man, half-Elf features and at the remnants of his unusual Southland garb. Finally, the leader reached down and began to search him thoroughly. Shea struggled, but was slapped hard several times and at last lay motionless as the Gnome removed the small leather pouch containing the precious Elfstones.
The Gnomes gathered around curiously as the three blue stones, shining brightly in the warm sunlight, were emptied into the hand of the leader. There was a brief discussion, none of which the captive was able to follow, concerning what he was doing with the stones and where he could have found them. At last it was decided that both the captive and the stones should be taken to the main encampment at Paranor where higher authorities could be consulted. The Gnomes dragged their captive to his feet, cutting the thongs that bound his legs, and proceeded to march him northward, pushing him from time to time when he slowed from exhaustion. They were still moving northward at sunset when, on the other side of the mountain barrier known as the Dragon’s Teeth, the Druid leader of a small band of determined seekers struggled within his own mind to pinpoint the missing Shea Ohmsford.
It was in the early-morning hours, wrapped with the blanket silence of darkness and hidden by the shadows of the heavy forests that so completely shut out the reassuring light of the moon and stars, that the company stood at last before the cliffs of Paranor. It was a moment that would last forever in their minds, as expectant eyes traveled upward over the steep rock walls, unbroken by trail or ledge, upward past the dwarfed height of the tall pines and oaks, which ended abruptly as the cliffs began, upward still farther to the man-made structure at its apex—the Druid’s Keep. The Keep was castlelike, age-old walls of blocked stone rising to peaked turrets and spiraled towers that cut the sky in proud defiance. It was unmistakably a fortress built to withstand assault by the strongest army, the ancient home and protectorate of the all but extinguished race of men called Druids. Within the heart of this stronghold of stone and iron had long rested the memorial of Man’s triumph over the forces of the spirit world, the symbol of the courage and hope of the races in times long past, forgotten over the years as generations passed away and old legends died—the wondrous Sword of Shannara.
As the seven men stood there surveying the Druid’s Keep, Flick’s mind traveled back over the events that had taken place since the company had departed the Dragon’s Teeth at sunset. They had traveled quickly over the open grasslands separating them from the forest surrounding Paranor, reaching the seclusion of its dark perimeter without incident in only a few short hours. At that time, Allanon briefed them on what to expect next. The forest, he said, was impenetrable unless one knew how to avoid the dangerous obstacles that the Warlock Lord had created to discourage any attempt to reach the Druid’s Keep. Wolves prowled the entire woodland, huge, gray beasts that could catch anything on two or four feet and tear it to pieces within seconds. Beyond the wolves, surrounding the base of the cliffs beneath the Keep, was an impregnable barrier of thorns, coated with a poison for which there was no known cure. But the resourceful Druid was prepared. They moved quickly into the black forest, not bothering to choose any approach but the direct one, their path taking them straight for the fortress. Allanon warned them to stay close to him, but the warning was quite unnecessary. Only Menion seemed eager to forge ahead of the group, and the highlander rejoined them instantly at the first sound of the marauding wolves. The great, gray beasts attacked within minutes after the men entered the forest, their eyes bloodred in the darkness, their huge jaws snapping in blind hatred. But before they could reach the alarmed group, Allanon placed a strange whistle to his lips and blew softly. A sound so
high-pitched as to be indistinguishable to the men was emitted and the snarling wolves scattered brokenly, wheeling about and scurrying off with loud cries of dismay, their frightened whimpers still audible long after they were lost from sight.
The wolves appeared twice more during the remainder of the trek through the forest, although it was impossible to tell if it was the same pack or a different one. Flick was inclined to believe they were different packs after observing the effect of the strange whistle. Each time the wolves cringed in terror, leaving the travelers untouched. The company reached the thorn barrier without difficulty. But the bristling mass of poisonous spikes that confronted them seemed truly impenetrable, even by the redoubtable Allanon. Once again he reminded them that this was the homeland of the Druids, not the Warlock Lord. Leading them to the right, he skirted the edge of the barrier until he reached a point that seemed to satisfy him. Quickly pacing off a distance from a nearby oak that looked for all the world to Flick like any other oak, the Druid marked a spot on the ground before the thorny obstruction, nodding to the others that this was to be the spot of entry. Then to their amazement, the grim mystic simply walked up to the razor-sharp spikes and disappeared into the vegetation, only to reappear a moment later unharmed. In hushed tones he explained to them that at this point the barrier was fake and quite harmless, a secret passage to the fortress. There were others as well, all indistinguishable to any human eye unaware of what to look for. And so the company passed through the barrier, discovering that the spikes were indeed harmless, and stood at last before the walls of Paranor.
It seemed impossible somehow to Flick that they should be here at all. The journey had been an endless one while they were making it, the dangers encountered by them never conquered, only evaded and ultimately substituted, one for another. Yet here they were. All that remained was to scale the cliffs and seize the Sword, no simple task, but nevertheless no more difficult than the others they had faced and successfully completed. He gazed upward to the castle battlements, studying briefly the spaced torches that lit the ramparts, knowing that the enemy guarded those walls and the Sword within. He wondered who the enemy was, what it was. Not the Gnomes or the Trolls, but the real enemy—the creature that belonged in another world, but that had invaded this one in some inexplicable way to enslave the humans who inhabited it. He wondered vaguely if he would ever know the reason behind all that had happened to them, the reason why they stood here now, hunters for the legendary Sword of Shannara, of which none of them save the Druid mystic knew anything. He sensed that there was a lesson somewhere to be learned, but at the moment it eluded him. He only wanted to get the matter over with and get out of there alive.
His thoughts ended abruptly as Allanon motioned them forward along the steep walls of the cliff. Again, the Druid seemed to be searching for something. A few minutes later he halted before a smooth portion of the cliff face, touched something in the rock, and a concealed door swung open to reveal a hidden passageway. Allanon stepped inside for a moment and returned with unlit torches, giving one to each of the company and indicating that they were to follow him. They moved silently inside, halting momentarily in the small entryway as the stone door closed noiselessly behind them. Squinting in the near blackness, they saw a vague outline of stone steps leading upward into the rock, barely visible in the dim light of a lone torch flickering just ahead in the passage. They climbed carefully to that torch and each man lit his own to provide the necessary light for the ascent to the castle. Putting a single finger to his lips to indicate that he expected absolute silence, the dark figure of their leader turned and began to climb the damp stone steps, his black cloak billowing slightly as he walked, filling the entire passageway ahead with its shadow. The others followed without a word. The assault of the Druid’s Keep had begun.
The staircase rose in a continual spiral, winding and twisting until at last no one knew how far they had come. The air in the passage became gradually warmer and more comfortable to breathe, and the dampness of the walls and steps diminished until it was entirely gone. Their heavy leather hunting boots scraped faintly against the stone, echoing through the deep silence of the caverns. Hundreds of steps and many minutes later, the company reached the end of the tunnel. A massive wooden door, bound with iron and fastened into the rock, blocked their passage. Allanon again proved that he knew the way well. A single touch on the binding and the door swung silently open to admit the men into a large chamber with numerous passages leading out of it, all of them well lit by burning torches. A quick look around revealed no one in sight, so Allanon brought the company around him once again.
“We are directly below the castle proper,” he explained in a barely audible whisper as the others crowded close. “If we can reach the room where the Sword of Shannara rests without being seen, then we may be able to escape without a fight.”
“Something’s wrong,” Balinor cautioned shortly. “Where are the guards?”
Allanon shook his head to indicate he couldn’t answer, but the others saw the concern in his eyes. Something was amiss.
“The passage we will take runs to the main heating ducts and a back stairway that leads to the central hall. Say nothing more until we are there, but keep your eyes open!”
Without waiting for any response, he turned and moved quickly toward one of the open tunnels, and the others followed hastily. The passage led upward, twisting tightly around after a short distance until it seemed they must be cutting back on themselves. Balinor had discarded his torch and drawn his broadsword after only a few steps, then the rest of the company was quick to follow his lead. The flickering light from the torches, fastened in iron racks to the bedrock of the cavern, cast their crouched shadows against the stone walls, their reflected images moving like furtive creatures seeking to escape the light. They crept warily through those ancient tunnels—the Druid, the two Princes, the Valeman, the Elven brothers, and the Dwarf—all watching expectantly, caught up in the guarded excitement that comes with the end of a long hunt. Apart from one another, spread out along the walls of the passage, weapons held ready, eyes and ears straining for any hint of danger, they moved steadily forward, farther upward, deeper into the core of the Druid’s Keep. Then the silence slowly faded, and there was a muffled sound like heavy breathing and the heat became more intense. Ahead, the passageway ended and a stone door with an iron handle came into view, its edges outlined sharply by a piercing light from the chamber just beyond. The mysterious sound increased in volume and became identifiable. It was the throbbing hum of machinery lodged in the rock beneath them, pumping with steady rhythm. Apprehensively, the members of the company approached the closed door on Allanon’s silent command.
As the giant Druid opened the heavy stone barrier, the unsuspecting men were struck by a blast of hot air that surged violently through their lungs to lodge in the pits of their stomachs. Gasping for air, they momentarily hesitated, then moved reluctantly into the room. The door swung shut behind them. They knew where they were in an instant. The room was actually little more than a circular catwalk above a huge pit that dropped off into the rock for well over a hundred feet. At the bottom burned a fierce blaze, fed by some unknown source, its red-orange flames leaping into the air toward the top of the deep well. The pit cut away the greater portion of the chamber, leaving only the small walkway several feet wide with a short iron guard rail that rimmed its inner edge. From the ceiling and walls ran various heating ducts which carried the hot air to other parts of the structure. A concealed pumping system controlled the amount of heat generated by the open furnace. Because it was night, the pumping system had been shut down, and the temperature level along the catwalk was still tolerable, despite the intense heat of the pit fire below. When the bellows were in full operation, any human passing through the chamber would be fried in a matter of seconds.
Menion, Flick, and the Elven brothers paused by the railing to get a closer look at the system. Hendel hung back, uncomfortable in this confining rock struc
ture, comparing it unfavorably to the open woodlands with which he was familiar. Allanon moved to Balinor’s side and conversed with him for a few moments, glancing uneasily at the several closed doors leading into the chamber and pointing to the open spiral staircase that led to the upper halls of the castle. Finally, the two seemed to settle on something, nodding in agreement, and signaled the others to catch up. Hendel was only too glad to comply. Menion and the Elven brothers moved away from the railing to join him. Only Flick lingered a second, strangely attracted by the fascinating blaze below. This slight delay produced an unexpected result. As he lifted his eyes with a parting glance to the other side of the chamber, he saw the dark figure of a Skull Bearer appear out of nowhere.
Flick froze instantly. The creature remained in a half-crouch directly across the pit from him, its body a black mass even in the light of the pit fires, the caped wings billowing out slightly behind it. Its legs were crooked, the feet ending in cruel-looking claws that seemed capable of rending the stone itself. Hunched low between the massive shoulders, the head and face bore a vague resemblance to scarred coal. The wicked eyes fastened on the speechless Valeman, their depths drawing him closer to the reddish glow that burned within, an open invitation to death. With slow, dragging steps, it began to make its way around the chamber, its breath rasping with every labored step as it drew closer and closer to the spellbound Flick. He wanted to cry out, run away, do anything but stay where he was, yet the strange eyes held him motionless. He knew he was finished.
But the others had noticed his immobile form; following his frightened gaze across the chamber, they had discovered the black Skull Bearer creeping noiselessly around the rim of the pit. In a flash, Allanon leaped in front of Flick, yanking him around to break the spell of the creature’s terrible eyes. Dazed, Flick stumbled backward into the waiting arms of Menion, who had rushed to his assistance. The others stood just behind the Druid, their weapons held ready. The creature stopped several yards from Allanon, still in a half-crouch, hiding the hideous face from the fire’s glow with one raised wing and clawed hand. Its breath sounded in slow, steady rasps as its cruel eyes rested on the tall figure that stood between it and the little Valeman.
