by Terry Brooks
“Your eyes say you’re going after it, Par,” Coll continued calmly, actually smiling. “Whether it’s out there or not, you’re going after it. I know you. You’re going because you still think you can learn something about your own magic by doing so, because you want to do something fine and noble with it, because you have this little voice inside you whispering that the magic is meant for something. No, no, hold on, now—hear me out.” He held up his hands at Par’s attempt to dispute him. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. I understand it. But I don’t know if you do or whether you can admit to it. And you have to be able to admit to it because otherwise you won’t ever be at peace with yourself about why you are going. I know I don’t have any magic of my own, but the fact is that in some ways I do understand the problem better than you.”
He paused, somber. “You always look for the challenges no one else wants. That’s part of what’s happening here. You see Walker and Wren walk away from this and right away you want to do just the opposite. That’s the way you are. You couldn’t give it up now if you had to.”
He cocked his head reflectively. “Believe it or not, I have always admired that in you.”
Then he sighed. “I know there are other considerations as well. There’s the matter of the folks, still under confinement back in the Vale, and us with no home, no real place to go, outlaws of a sort. If we abandon this search, this quest Allanon’s shade has given us, where do we go? What possible thing can we do that will change matters more thoroughly than finding the Sword of Shannara? I know there’s that. And I know . . .”
Par interrupted. “You said ‘we.’”
Coll stopped. “What?”
Par was studying him critically. “Just then. You said ‘we.’ Several times. You said, what if ‘we’ abandon this, search and where do ‘we’ go?”
Coll shook his head ruefully. “So I did. I start talking about you and almost before I know it I’m talking about me as well. But that’s exactly the problem, I guess. We’re so close that I sometimes think of us as if we were the same—and we’re not. We’re very different and no more so than in this instance. You have the magic and the chance to learn about it and I don’t. You have the quest and I haven’t. So what should I do if you go, Par?”
Par waited a moment, then said, “Well?”
“Well. After all is said and done, after all the arguments for and against have been laid on the table, I keep coming back to a couple of things.” He shifted so he was facing Par. “First, I’m your brother and I love you. That means I don’t abandon you, even when I’m not sure if I agree with what you’re doing. I’ve told you that before. Second, if you go . . .” He paused.
“You are going, aren’t you?”
There was a long moment of silence. Par did not reply.
“Very well. If you go, it will be a dangerous journey, and you will need someone to watch your back. And that’s what brothers are supposed to do for each other. That’s second.”
He cleared his throat. “Last, I’ve thought it all out from the point of view of what I would do if I were you, go or not go, measuring what I perceive to be the right and wrong of the matter.” He paused. “If it were up to me, if I were you, I think I’d go.”
He leaned back against the poplar trunk and waited. Par took a deep breath. “To be honest, Coll, I think that’s just about the last thing I ever expected to hear from you.”
Coll smiled. “That’s probably why I said it. I don’t like to be predictable.”
“So you would go, would you? If you were me?” Par studied his brother silently for a moment, letting the possibility play itself out in his mind. “I don’t know if I believe you.”
Coll let the smile broaden. “Of course you do.”
They were still staring at each other as Morgan wandered up and sat down across from them, faintly puzzled as he saw the same look registered on both faces. Steff and Teel came over as well. All three glanced at one another. “What’s going on?” Morgan asked finally.
Par stared at him momentarily without seeing him. He saw instead the land beyond, the hills dotted with sparse groves, running south out of the barren stretches of the Dragon’s Teeth, fading into a heat that made the earth shimmer. Dust blew in small eddies where sudden breezes scooped at the roadway leading down. It was still beneath the tree, and Par was thinking about the past, remembering the times that Coll and he had shared. The memories were an intimacy that comforted him; they were sharp and clear, most of them, and they made him ache in a sweet, welcome way.
“Well?” Morgan persisted.
Par blinked. “Coll tells me he thinks I ought to do what the shade said. He thinks I ought to try to find the Sword of Shannara.” He paused. “What do you think, Morgan?”
Morgan didn’t hesitate. “I think I’m going with you. It gets tiresome spending all of my time tweaking the noses of those Federation dunderheads who try to govern Leah. There’s better uses for a man like me.” He lunged to his feet. “Besides, I have a blade that needs testing against things of dark magic!” He reached back in a mock feint for his sword. “And as all here can bear witness, there’s no better way to do so than to keep company with Par Ohmsford!”
Par shook his head despairingly. “Morgan, you shouldn’t joke . . .”
“Joke! But that’s just the point! All I’ve been doing for months now is playing jokes! And what good has it done?” Morgan’s lean features were hard. “Here is a chance for me to do something that has real purpose, something far more important than causing Leah’s enemies to suffer meaningless irritations and indignities. Come, now! You have to see it as I do, Par. You cannot dispute what I say.” His eyes shifted abruptly. “Steff, how about you? What do you intend? And Teel?”
Steff laughed, his rough features wrinkling. “Well now, Teel and I share pretty much the same point of view on the matter. We have already reached our decision. We came with you in the first place because we were hoping to get our hands on something, magic or whatever, that could help our people break free of the Federation. We haven’t found that something yet, but we might be getting closer. What the shade said about the Shadowen spreading the dark magic, living inside men and women and children to do so, might explain a good part of the madness that consumes the Lands. It might even have something to do with why the Federation seems so bent on breaking the backs of the Dwarves! You’ve seen it for yourself—that’s surely what the Federation is about. There’s dark magic at work there. Dwarves can sense it better than most because the deeper stretches of the Eastland have always provided a hiding place for it. The only difference in this instance is that, instead of hiding, it’s out in the open like a crazed animal, threatening us all. So maybe finding the Sword of Shannara as the shade says will be a step toward penning that animal up again!”
“There, now!” Morgan cried triumphantly. “What better company for you, Par Ohmsford, than that?”
Par shook his head in bewilderment. “None, Morgan, but . . .”
“Then say you’ll do it! Forget Walker and Wren and their excuses! This has meaning! Think of what we might be able to accomplish!” He gave his friend a plaintive look. “Confound it, Par, how can we lose by trying when by trying we have everything to gain?”
Steff reached over and poked him. “Don’t push so hard, Highlander. Give the Valeman room to breathe!”
Par stared at them each in turn, at the bluff-faced Steff, the enigmatic Teel, the fervently eager Morgan Leah, and finally Coll. He remembered suddenly that his brother had never finished revealing his own decision. He had only said that if he were Par, he would go.
“Coll . . .” he began.
But Coll seemed to read his thoughts. “If you’re going, I’m going.” His brother’s features might have been carved from stone. “From here to wherever this all ends.”
There was a long moment of silence as they faced each other, and the anticipation mirrored in their eyes was a whisper that rustled the leaves of their thoughts as if it were the wind
.
Par Ohmsford took a deep breath. “Then I guess the matter’s settled,” he said. “Now where do we start?”
XVII
As usual, Morgan Leah had a plan.
“If we expect to have any luck at all locating the Sword, we’re going to need help. The five of us are simply too few. After all these years, finding the Sword of Shannara is likely to be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack—and we don’t begin to know enough about the haystack. Steff, you and Teel may be familiar with the Eastland, but Callahorn and the Borderlands are foreign ground. It’s the same with the Valemen and myself—we simply don’t know enough about the country. And let’s not forget that the Federation will be prowling about every place we’re likely to go. Dwarves and fugitives from the law aren’t welcome in the Southland, the last I heard. We’ll have to be on the lookout for Shadowen as well. Truth is, they seem drawn to the magic like wolves to the scent of blood, and we can’t assume we’ve seen the last of them. It will be all we can to do watch our backs, let alone figure out what’s happened to the Sword. We can’t do it alone. We need someone to help us, someone who has a working knowledge of the Four Lands, someone who can supply us with men and weapons.”
He shifted his gaze from the others to Par and smiled that familiar smile that was filled with secretive amusement. “We need your friend from the Movement.”
Par groaned. He was none too keen to reassociate with the outlaws; it seemed an open invitation to trouble. But Steff and Teel and even Coll liked the idea, and after arguing about it for a time he was forced to admit that the Highlander’s proposal made sense. The outlaws possessed the resources they lacked and were familiar with the Borderlands and the free territories surrounding them. They would know where to look and what pitfalls to avoid while doing so. Moreover, Par’s rescuer seemed a man you could depend upon.
“He told you that if you ever needed help, you could come to him,” Morgan pointed out. “It seems to me that you could use a little now . . .”
There was no denying that, so the matter was decided. They spent what remained of the day at the campsite below the foothills leading to the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshorn, sleeping restlessly through the second night of the new moon at the base of the Dragons Teeth. When morning came, they packed up their gear, mounted their horses and set out. The plan was simple. They would travel to Varfleet, search out Kiltan Forge at Reaver’s End in the north city and ask for the Archer—all as Par’s mysterious rescuer had instructed. Then they would see what was what.
They rode south through the scrub country that bordered the Rabb Plains until they crossed the east branch of the Mermidon, then turned west. They followed the river through midday and into early afternoon, the sun baking the land out of a cloudless sky, the air dry and filled with dust. No one said much of anything as they traveled, locked away in the silence of their own thoughts. There had been no further talk of Allanon since setting out. There had been no mention of Walker or Wren. Par fingered the ring with the hawk insigne from time to time and wondered anew about the identity of the man who had given it to him.
It was late afternoon when they passed down through the river valley of the Runne Mountains north of Varfleet and approached the outskirts of the city. It sprawled below them across a series of hills, dusty and sweltering against the glare of the westward fading sun. Shacks and hovels ringed the city’s perimeter, squalid shelters for men and women who lacked even the barest of means. They called out to the travelers as they passed, pressing up against them for money and food, and Par and Coll handed down what little they had. Morgan glanced back reprovingly, somewhat as a parent might at a naive child, but made no comment.
A little farther on, Par found himself wishing belatedly that he had thought to disguise his Elven features. It had been weeks since he had done so, and he had simply gotten out of the habit. He could take some consolation from the fact that his hair had grown long and covered his ears. But he would have to be careful nevertheless. He glanced over at the Dwarves. They had their travel cloaks pulled close, the hoods wrapping their faces in shadow. They were in more danger than he of discovery. Everyone knew that Dwarves were not permitted to travel in the Southland. Even in Varfleet, it was risky.
When they reached the city proper and the beginnings of streets that bore names and shops with signs, the traffic increased markedly. Soon, it was all but impossible to move ahead. They dismounted and led their horses afoot until they found a stable where they could board them. Morgan made the transaction while the others stood back unobtrusively against the walls of the buildings across the way and watched the people of the city press against one another in a sluggish flow. Beggars came up to them and asked for coins. Par watched a fire-eater display his art to a wondering crowd of boys and men at a fruit mart. The low mutter of voices filled the air with a ragged sound.
“Sometimes you get lucky,” Morgan informed them quietly as he returned. “We’re standing in Reaver’s End. This whole section of the city is Reaver’s End. Kiltan Forge is just a few streets over.”
He beckoned them on, and they slipped past the steady throng of bodies, working their way into a side street that was less crowded, if more ill-smelling, and soon they were hurrying along a shadowed alley that twisted and turned past a rutted sewage way. Par wrinkled his nose in distaste. This was the city as Coll saw it. He risked a quick glance back at his brother, but his brother was busy watching where he was stepping.
They crossed several more streets before emerging onto one that seemed to satisfy Morgan, who promptly turned right and led them through the crowds to a broad, two-storey barn with a sign that bore the name Kiltan Forge seared on a plaque of wood. The sign and the building were old and splintering, but the furnaces within burned red-hot, spitting and flaming as metals were fed in and removed by tenders. Machines ground, and hammers pounded and shaped. The din rose above the noise of the street and echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings, to disappear finally into the suffocating embrace of the lingering afternoon heat.
Morgan edged his way along the fringes of the crowd, the others trailing silently after, and finally managed to work his way up to the Forge entrance. A handful of men worked the furnaces under the direction of a large fellow with drooping mustaches and a balding pate colored soot-black. The fellow ignored them until they had come all the way inside, then turned and asked, “Something I can help you with?”
Morgan said, “We’re looking for the Archer.”
The fellow with the mustaches ambled over. “Who did you say, now?”
“The Archer,” Morgan repeated.
“And who’s that supposed to be?” The other man was broad-shouldered and caked with sweat.
“I don’t know,” Morgan admitted. “We were just told to ask for him.”
“Who by?”
“Look . . .”
“Who by? Don’t you know, man?”
It was hot in the shadow of Kiltan Forge, and it was clear that Morgan was going to have trouble with this man if things kept going the way they were. Heads were already starting to turn. Par pushed forward impulsively, anxious to keep from drawing attention to themselves and said, “By a man who wears a ring that bears the insigne of a hawk.”
The fellow’s sharp eyes narrowed, studying the Valeman’s face with its Elven features.
“This ring,” Par finished and held it out.
The other flinched as if he had been stung. “Don’t be showing that about, you young fool!” he snapped and shoved it away from him as if it were poison.
“Then tell us where we can find the Archer!” Morgan interjected, his irritation beginning to show through.
There was sudden activity in the street that caused them all to turn hurriedly. A squad of Federation soldiers was approaching, pushing through the crowd, making directly for the Forge. “Get out of sight!” the fellow with the mustaches snapped urgently and stepped away.
The soldiers came into the Forge, glancing about t
he fire-lit darkness. The man with the mustaches came forward to greet them. Morgan and the Valemen gathered up the Dwarves, but the soldiers were between them and the doorway leading to the street. Morgan edged them all toward the deep shadows.
“Weapons order, Hirehone,” the squad leader announced to the man with the mustaches, thrusting out a paper. “Need it by week’s end. And don’t argue the matter.”
Hirehone muttered something unintelligible, but nodded. The squad leader talked to him some more, sounding weary and hot. The soldiers were casting about restlessly. One moved toward the little company. Morgan tried to stand in front of his companions, tried to make the soldier speak with him. The soldier hesitated, a big fellow with a reddish beard. Then he noticed something and pushed past the Highlander. “You there!” he snapped at Teel. “What’s wrong with you?” One hand reached out, pulling aside the hood. “Dwarves! Captain, there’s . . .”
He never finished. Teel killed him with a single thrust of her long knife, jamming the blade through his throat. He was still trying to talk as he died. The other soldiers reached for their weapons, but Morgan was already among them, his own sword thrusting, forcing them back. He cried out to the others, and the Dwarves and Valemen broke for the doorway. They reached the street, Morgan on their heels, the Federation soldiers a step behind. The crowd screamed and split apart as the battle careened into them. There were a dozen soldiers in pursuit, but two were wounded and the rest were tripping over one another in their haste to reach the Highlander. Morgan cut down the foremost, howling like a madman. Ahead, Steff reached a barred door to a warehouse, brought up the suddenly revealed mace, and hammered the troublesome barrier into splinters with a single blow. They rushed through the darkened interior and out a back door, turned left down an alley and came up against a fence. Desperately, they wheeled about and started back.
The pursuing Federation soldiers burst through the warehouse door and came at them.
Par used the wishsong and filled the disappearing gap between them with a swarm of buzzing hornets. The soldiers howled and dove for cover. In the confusion, Steff smashed enough boards of the fence to allow them all to slip through. They ran down a second alley, through a maze of storage sheds, turned right and pushed past a hinged metal gate.
