by Terry Brooks
He looked to the end of the table, where Shea and Flick sat watching in a mixed state of shock and confusion. Menion Leah pondered quietly, looking at no one in particular. Allanon glanced expectantly at Shea, his grim face suddenly softening as he saw the frightened eyes of the young Valeman who had come so far, through so many dangers to this apparent haven of safety, only to be told that he was expected to leave it for an even more perilous trip northward. But there had been no time to break the news to the Valeman in a gentle way. He shook his head doubtfully and waited.
“I think I had better go.” The abrupt declaration came from Menion, who had again risen to his feet to face the others. “I came with Shea this far to be certain he reached the safety of Culhaven, which he has done. My duty to him is finished, but I owe it to my homeland and to my people to protect them in any way I can.”
“What can you offer then?” asked Allanon abruptly, astonished that the highlander would volunteer without first speaking to his friends. Shea and Flick were clearly dumbfounded by this unexpected announcement.
“I’m the best bowman in the Southland,” Menion answered smoothly. “Probably the best tracker as well.”
Allanon seemed to hesitate for a moment, then looked to Balinor, who quietly shrugged. For a brief moment Menion and Allanon locked gazes, as if to judge each other’s intentions. Menion smiled coldly at the grim historian.
“Why should I answer to you?” he queried shortly.
The dark figure at the other end of the table stared at him almost curiously and a deathly silence settled over the company. Even Balinor stepped back one short pace in shock. Shea knew instantly that Menion was asking for trouble and that everyone at the table except the three companions knew something about the foreboding Allanon they did not. The frightened Valeman shot a quick look at Flick, whose flushed face had gone pale at the thought of a confrontation between the two men. Desperate to avoid any trouble, Shea stood up suddenly and cleared his throat. Everyone looked in his direction, and his mind went blank.
“You have something to say?” demanded Allanon blackly. Shea nodded and his mind raced desperately, knowing what was expected. He looked again to Flick, who managed a barely perceptible nod indicating that he would go along with whatever his brother decided. Shea cleared his throat a second time.
“My special skill appears to be that I was born in the wrong family, but I had better see this matter through. Flick and I—Menion, too—will go to Paranor.”
Allanon nodded his approval and even managed a slight smile, inwardly pleased with the young Valeman. Shea, more than any of the others, had to be strong. He was the last son of the house of Shannara, and the fate of so many would depend on that single, small chance of birth.
At the other end of the table, Menion Leah relaxed quietly in his seat, a barely audible sigh of relief escaping his lips as he silently congratulated himself. He had deliberately provoked Allanon, and in so doing had forced Shea to come to his rescue by agreeing to go to Paranor. It had been a desperate gamble to induce the little Valeman to make up his mind that he was going with them. The highlander had come close to what might have been a fatal confrontation with Allanon. He had been lucky. He wondered if luck would smile on all of them during the journey ahead.
9
Shea stood quietly in the darkness outside the assembly hall and let the night air wash over his hot face in cool waves. Flick was immediately to his right, the broad face grim in the shadowed moonlight. Menion leaned idly against a tall oak some yards off to their left. The meeting had concluded, and Allanon had asked them to wait for him. The tall wanderer was still inside making preparations with the Dwarf elders to counter the expected invasion from the upper Anar. Balinor was with them, coordinating the defense of the famed Border Legion in distant Callahorn with that of the Dwarf army of the Eastland. Shea was relieved to be out of the stuffy little room—out in the open night where he could consider more clearly his hasty decision to go with the company to Paranor. He knew—and he guessed Flick must have known as well—that they could not expect to stay out of the inevitable conflict centering around the Sword of Shannara. They could have stayed in Culhaven, living almost like prisoners, hoping that the Dwarf people would protect them from the searching Skull Bearers. They could have stayed in this strange land, apart from all who knew them, perhaps forgotten in time by everyone except the Dwarfs. But to alienate themselves that way would have been worse than any imaginable fate at the hands of the enemy. For the first time Shea realized that he must accept the fact, finally and forever, that he was no longer merely the adopted son of Curzad Ohmsford. He was a son of the Elven House of Shannara, the son of kings and the heir to the fabled Sword, and though he would have wished it otherwise, he must accept what chance had decreed for him.
He looked quietly at his brother, who stood lost in thought, staring at the darkened earth, and he felt a keen pang of sorrow at the remembrance of the other’s loyalty. Flick was courageous and loved him, but he had not bargained for this unexpected turn of events that would take them into the heart of the enemy’s country. Shea did not want Flick to be involved in this matter—it was not his responsibility. He knew that the stocky Valeman would never desert him so long as he felt he could help, but perhaps now Flick could be persuaded to remain behind, even to return to Shady Vale to explain to their father what had befallen them. But even as he toyed with the idea, he discarded it, knowing that Flick would never turn back. Whatever else happened, he would see this matter through.
“There was a time,” Flick’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts, “when I would have sworn that I would live out my life in uneventful solitude in Shady Vale. Now it appears that I will be a part of an effort to save mankind.”
“Do you think I should have chosen otherwise?” Shea asked after a moment’s silent thought.
“No, I don’t think so.” Flick shook his head. “But remember what we talked about on the trip here—about things being beyond our control, even our understanding? You see how little control we now have over what’s to become of us.”
He paused and looked squarely over to his brother. “I think you made the right choice, and whatever happens, I’ll be with you.”
Shea smiled broadly and placed a hand on the other’s shoulder, thinking to himself that this was exactly what he had predicted Flick would say. It was a small gesture perhaps, but one that meant more to him than any other could have. He was aware of the sudden approach of Menion from the other side and turned to face the highlander.
“I suppose you think me some sort of fool after what happened in there tonight,” Menion stated abruptly. “But this fool stands along with old Flick. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together, be it mortal or spirit.”
“You caused that scene in there to get Shea to agree to go, didn’t you?” an irate Flick demanded. “That’s the lowest trick I have ever witnessed!”
“Never mind, Flick,” Shea cut him short. “Menion knew what he was doing, and he did the right thing. I would have decided to go anyway—at least I’d like to believe I would. Now we’ve got to forget the past, forget our differences, and stand together for our own preservation.”
“As long as I stand where I can see him,” retorted his brother bitterly.
The door to the conference room opened suddenly and the broad figure of Balinor was silhouetted in the torchlight from within. He surveyed the three men standing just beyond him in the darkness, then closed the door and walked over to them, smiling slightly as he approached.
“I’m glad you decided to come with us, all of you,” he stated simply. “I must add, Shea, that without you, the trip would have been pointless. Without the heir of Jerle Shannara, the Sword is only so much metal.”
“What can you tell us about this magic weapon?” Menion asked quickly.
“I’ll leave that to Allanon,” replied Balinor. “He plans to speak with you here in just a few minutes.”
Menion nodded, inwardly disturbed at the pros
pect of encountering the tall man again that evening, but curious to hear more about the power of the Sword. Shea and Flick exchanged quick glances. At last they would learn the full story behind what was happening in the Northland.
“Why are you here, Balinor?” Flick asked cautiously, not wishing to pry into the borderman’s personal affairs.
“It’s a rather long story—you would not be interested,” replied the other almost sharply, immediately causing Flick to believe he had overstepped his bounds. Balinor saw his chagrined look, and smiled reassuringly. “My family and I have not been on very good terms lately. My younger brother and I had a … disagreement, and I wanted to leave the city for a while. Allanon asked me to accompany him to the Anar. Hendel and others were old friends, so I agreed.”
“Sounds like a familiar tale,” commented Menion dryly. “I’ve had some problems like that myself from time to time.”
Balinor nodded and managed a half smile, but Shea could tell from his eyes that he did not consider this a laughing matter. Whatever had caused him to leave Callahorn was more serious than anything Menion had ever encountered in Leah. Shea quickly changed the subject.
“What can you tell us about Allanon? We seem to be placing an unusual amount of trust in him, and we still know absolutely nothing about the man. Who is he?”
Balinor arched his eyebrows and smiled, amused by the question and at the same time uncertain as to how it should be answered. He walked away from them a little, thinking to himself, and then turned back abruptly and motioned vaguely toward the assembly hall.
“I really don’t know much about Allanon myself,” he admitted frankly. “He travels a great deal, exploring the country, recording in his notes the changes and growth of the land and its people. He’s well known in all the nations—I think he has been everywhere. The extent of his knowledge of this world is extraordinary—most of it isn’t in any book. He is very remarkable.…”
“But who is he?” Shea persisted eagerly, feeling that he must learn the true origin of the historian.
“I can’t say for certain, because he has never confided completely even in me, and I am almost like a son to him,” Balinor stated very quietly, so softly in fact that they all moved a bit closer to be certain they missed nothing of what was to follow. “The elders of the Dwarfs and of my own kingdom say that he is the greatest of the Druids, that almost forgotten Council that governed men over a thousand years ago. They say that he is a direct descendant of the Druid Bremen—perhaps even of Galaphile himself. I think there is more than a little truth in that statement, because he went to Paranor often and stayed for long periods, recording his findings in the great record books stored there.”
He paused for a moment and his three listeners glanced at one another, wondering if the grim historian could actually be a direct descendant of the Druids, thinking in awe of the centuries of history behind the man. Shea had suspected before that Allanon was one of the ancient philosopher-teachers known as Druids, and it seemed apparent that the man possessed a greater knowledge of the races and the origins of the threat facing them than did anyone else. He turned back to Balinor, who was speaking again.
“I can’t explain it, but I don’t believe we could be in better company for any peril, even were we to come face-to-face with the Warlock Lord himself. Though I haven’t one shred of concrete evidence nor even an example to cite you, I’m certain that Allanon’s power is beyond anything we have ever seen. He would be a very, very dangerous enemy.”
“Of that, I haven’t the slightest doubt,” Flick muttered dryly.
Only minutes later, the door of the conference room opened and Allanon stepped quietly into view. In the half-light of the moon, he was huge and forbidding, almost a replica of the dreaded Skull Bearers they feared so much, the dark cape billowing slightly as he moved toward them, his lean face hidden in the depths of the long cowl about his head. They were silent as he approached, wondering what he would tell them, what it would mean for them in the days ahead. Perhaps he knew their thoughts instinctively as he walked up to them, but their eyes could not pierce the mask of inscrutability that cloaked his grim features and sheltered the man buried within. They could only see the sudden glint of his eyes as he stopped before them and looked slowly from one face to the next. A deep silence settled ominously over the little group.
“The time has come for you to learn the full story behind the Sword of Shannara, to learn the history of the races as only I know it to be.” His voice reached out and drew them commandingly to him. “It is essential that Shea should understand, and since the rest of you share the risks involved, you should also know the truth. What you will learn tonight must be kept in confidence until I tell you it no longer matters. This will be hard, but you must do it.”
He motioned for them to follow him and moved away from the clearing, drawing them deeper into the darkness of the trees beyond. When they were several hundred feet into the forest, he turned into a small, almost hidden clearing. He seated himself on the worn stub of an ancient trunk and motioned the others to find a place. They did so quickly and waited in silence as the famous historian gathered his thoughts and prepared to speak.
“A very long time ago,” he began finally, still considering his explanation as he spoke, “before the Great Wars, before the existence of the races as we know them today, the land was—or was thought to be—populated only by Man. Civilization had developed even before then for many thousands of years—years of hard toil and learning that brought Man to a point where he was on the verge of mastering the secrets of life itself. It was a fabulous, exciting time to live in, so expansive that much of it would be totally beyond your comprehension were I empowered to draw you the most perfect picture. But while Man worked all those years to discover the secrets of life, he never managed to escape his overpowering fascination for death. It was a constant alternative, even in the most civilized of the nations. Strangely enough, the catalyst of each new discovery was the same endless pursuit—the study of science. Not the science the races know today—not the study of animal life, plant life, the earth, and the simple arts. This was a science of machines and power, one that divided itself into infinite fields of exploration, all of which worked toward the same two ends—discovering better ways to live or quicker ways to kill.”
He paused and laughed grimly to himself, cocking his head in the direction of the attentive Balinor.
“Very strange indeed, when you think about it—that Man should spend so much time working toward two such obviously different goals. Even now nothing has changed—even after all these years.…”
His voice trailed off for a moment and Shea risked a brief look at the others, but their eyes were fixed on the speaker.
“Sciences of physical power!” Allanon’s sudden exclamation brought Shea’s head around with a snap. “These were the means to all the ends of that era. Two thousand years ago the achievements of the human race were unparalleled in earth’s history. Man’s age-old enemy, Death, could now claim only those who had lived out their natural lifetime. Sickness was virtually eliminated and, given a bit more time, Man would even have found a way to prolong life. Some philosophers claimed that the secrets of life were forbidden to mortals. No one had ever proved otherwise. They might have done so, but their time ran out and the same elements of power that had made life free from sickness and infirmity nearly destroyed it altogether. The Great Wars began, building gradually from smaller disputes between a few peoples and spreading steadily, despite the realization of what was happening—spreading from little matters into basic hatreds: race, nationality, boundaries, creeds … in the end, everything. Then suddenly, so suddenly that few knew what happened, the entire world was enveloped in a series of retaliatory attacks by the different countries, all very scientifically planned and executed. In a matter of minutes, the science of thousands of years, the learning of centuries, culminated in an almost total destruction of life.
“The Great Wars.” The deep voice wa
s grim, the glint of the dark eyes watching carefully the faces of his listeners. “Very apt name. The power expended in those few minutes of battle not only succeeded in wiping out those thousands of years of human growth, but it also began a series of explosions and upheavals that completely altered the surface of the land. The initial force did most of the damage, killing every living thing over ninety percent of the face of the earth, but the aftereffects carried on the alteration and extinction, breaking the continents apart, drying up oceans, making lands and seas uninhabitable for several hundred years. It should have been the end of all life, perhaps the end of the world itself. Only a miracle prevented that end.”
“I can’t believe it.” The words slipped out before Shea could catch himself, and Allanon looked toward him, the familiar mocking smile spreading over his lips.
“That’s your history of civilized man, Shea,” he murmured darkly. “But what happened thereafter concerns us more directly. Remnants of the race of Man managed to survive during the terrible period following the holocaust, living in isolated sectors of the globe, fighting the elements for survival. This was the beginning of the development of the races as they are today—Men, Dwarfs, Gnomes, Trolls, and some say the Elves—but they were always there and that’s another story for another time.”
Allanon had made exactly the same comment concerning the Elven people to the Ohmsford brothers in Shady Vale. Shea wanted badly to stop the narration at that point to ask about the race of Elves and about his own origin. But he knew better than to irritate the tall historian by breaking in as he had several times during their first meeting.
“A few men remembered the secrets of the sciences that had shaped their way of life prior to the destruction of the old world. Only a few remembered. Most were little more than primitive creatures, and the few could recollect only bits and pieces of knowledge. But they had kept their books of learning intact and these could tell them most of the secrets of the old sciences. They kept them hidden and secure during that first several hundred years, unable to put the words to practical use, waiting for the time when they might. They read their precious texts instead and then, as the books themselves began to crumble with age and there was no way to preserve them or copy them, those few men who possessed the books began to memorize the information. The years passed and the knowledge was passed down carefully from father to son, each generation keeping the knowledge safely within the family, guarding it from those who didn’t use it wisely, who might create a world in which the Great Wars could happen a second time. In the end, even after it once again became possible to record the information in those irreplaceable books, the men who had memorized them declined to do so. They were still afraid of the consequences, afraid of one another and even themselves. So they decided, individually for the most part, to wait for the right time to offer their knowledge to the growing new races.
