The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  Then they rode away, each to his own home. Durin and Dayel traveled west to Beleal, where Dayel would finally be reunited with his beloved Lynliss. The Ohmsfords turned south to Shady Vale and, as Flick had repeatedly announced to his brother, a well-deserved rest. As far as Flick was concerned, their traveling days were over. Menion Leah went with them to the Vale, determined to see to it personally that nothing further befell Shea. From there, he would return for a time to the highlands to be with his father, who would be missing him by now. But very soon, he knew he must come back again to the border country and to the red-haired daughter of kings who would be waiting.

  Standing silently by the empty roadway, Balinor watched after his friends until they were no more than small shadows in the distant green of the flatlands. Then slowly he mounted his waiting horse and rode back into Tyrsis.

  The Sword of Shannara remained in Callahorn. It had been Shea’s firm decision to leave the talisman with the border people. No one had given more to preserve the freedom of the four lands. No one had a better right to be entrusted with its care and preservation. And so the legendary Sword was implanted blade downward in a block of red marble and placed in a vault in the center of the gardens of the People’s Park in Tyrsis, sheltered by the wide, protective span of the Bridge of Sendic, there to remain for all time. Carved upon the stone facing of the vault was the inscription:

  Herein lies the heart and soul of the nations.

  Their right to be free men,

  Their desire to live in peace,

  Their courage to seek out truth.

  Herein lies the Sword of Shannara.

  Weeks later, Shea perched wearily on one of the tall wooden stools in the inn kitchen and studied blankly the plate of food on the counter in front of him. At his elbow, Flick was already starting on his second helping. It was early in the evening, and the Ohmsford brothers had spent the entire day repairing the veranda roof. The summer sun had been hot and the work had been tedious; yet, although he was tired and vaguely disgruntled, Shea found himself unable to locate his appetite. He was still picking at his food when his father appeared in the hall doorway, mumbling blackly to himself. Curzad Ohmsford came up to them without a word and tapped Shea on the shoulder

  “How much longer is this nonsense going to continue?” he demanded.

  Shea looked up in surprise.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered truthfully, glancing at Flick, who shrugged blankly.

  “Not eating much either, I see.” His father spied the dinner plate. “How do you expect to get your strength back if you don’t eat properly?”

  He paused for a moment, and then seemed to recall that he had gotten off the subject entirely.

  “Strangers, that’s what I mean. Now I suppose you’ll be off again. I thought that was all done with.”

  Shea stared at him.

  “I’m not going anywhere. What in the world are you talking about?”

  Curzad Ohmsford seated himself heavily on a vacant stool and eyed his foster son closely, apparently resigned to the fact that he was not going to get a straight answer without a little unnecessary effort.

  “Shea, we have never lied to each other, have we? When you came back from your visit with the Prince of Leah, I never pressed you about what went on while you were there, even though you left in the middle of the night without a word to anyone, even though you came back looking like your own ghost and very carefully avoided telling me exactly how you got that way. Now answer me,” he continued quickly when Shea tried to object. “I never once asked you to tell me anything, did I?”

  Shea shook his head silently. His father nodded in satisfaction.

  “No, because I happen to believe that a man’s business is mostly his own affair. But I cannot forget that the last time you disappeared from the Vale was right after that other stranger appeared asking for you.”

  “Other stranger!” the brothers exclaimed together.

  Instantly all the old memories came back to them—Allanon’s mysterious appearance, Balinor’s warning, the Skull Bearers, the running, the fear … Shea slid down from his stool slowly.

  “There’s someone here … looking for me?”

  His father nodded, his broad face clouding darkly as he caught the look of concern mirrored in his son’s furtive glance at the doorway.

  “A stranger, like before. He got in several minutes ago, looking for you. He’s waiting out in the lobby. But I don’t see …”

  “Shea, what can we do?” Flick interrupted hurriedly. “We don’t even have the Elfstones to protect us anymore.”

  “I … I don’t know,” his brother mumbled, desperately trying to think through his confusion. “We could slip out the back way …”

  “Now wait a minute!” Curzad Ohmsford had heard enough. He gripped their shoulders tightly and turned them about to face him, staring at them in disbelief.

  “I did not raise my sons to run away from trouble.” He studied their worried faces a moment and shook his head. “You must learn to face your problems, not run from them. Why, here you are in your own home, among family and friends who will stand by you, and you talk about running away.”

  He released them and stepped back a pace.

  “Now we’ll all go out there together and face this man. He looks a hard sort, but he seemed friendly enough when we talked. Besides, I don’t think a one-handed man is any kind of a match physically for three whole men—even with that pike.”

  Shea started abruptly.

  “One-handed …?”

  “He looks like he traveled a long way to get here.” The elder Ohmsford did not seem to have heard him. “He’s carrying a little leather pouch that he claims belongs to you. I offered to take it, but he wouldn’t give it to me. Said he wouldn’t give it to anyone but you.”

  Now suddenly Flick understood.

  “It must be something important,” his father declared. “He told me you dropped it on your way home. Now how could that happen?”

  Curzad Ohmsford had to wait a while longer for his answer. In a rush, his sons were past him, through the kitchen door, and halfway down the hallway to the lobby of the inn.

  THE ELFSTONES

  OF SHANNARA

  For Barbara,

  With Love

  FOREWORD

  I finished revision work on The Sword of Shannara in the fall of 1975, an undertaking that ended up consuming almost a year, and went to work several months later on a new book. I outlined the story three-quarters of the way through, but the last quarter didn’t seem to want to fall into place, so I left it. Then I sat down to write. I told my editor, Lester del Rey, what I was doing. He said fine, but could he see some of it? Or at least the outline? Sometimes a second book was harder to write than the first, he cautioned. Silly old Lester, I thought, and put him off. I wanted to surprise him. The truth was I thought I would astonish him because I was certain that this book was going to be miles better than the first.

  By the spring of 1977, writing nights and weekends while I practiced law, I had completed three-quarters of the book and still hadn’t figured out the ending. The story seemed right enough, yet at the same time something was wrong. So at last I packed it up and sent it off to Lester. Surely he would know what to do to wrap things up.

  Lester knew exactly what to do, and told me in no uncertain terms. The story would have to be scrapped, he wrote back. It had so many problems that there was no way to salvage it. I could publish it if I wanted—the success of Sword assured that someone would pick it up. But he advised against it. He felt so strongly that he said he would return the manuscript with specific page-by-page comments on what was wrong.

  I was stunned. Two and a half years of work down the drain! I didn’t know if I could accept it. Nevertheless, I waited for the comments to arrive, and when they did I read them through carefully several times. They catalogued multiple problems of plot, character, pacing, perspective, and focus, and as much as I hated to admit it, they were
right on the mark.

  That was the beginning of my professional education as a writer. Ruefully, I admitted that the manuscript was a mess. I would do as suggested and start over, this time submitting an outline in advance in an effort to identify potential problems before all the work was done.

  I turned to a much needed and often promised story on the history of the Elves. There had been no strong female lead in Sword, so the new book would have one. Amberle, the Elven Chosen with a secret past and an uncertain future, came into being. As her counterpart, there was Eretria, the fiery Rover girl. Allanon would be back, and Eventine Elessedil, now in his twilight years as King of the Elves. The Free Corps Commander Stee Jans would fill the void left by Balinor. And this time the danger that threatened the people of the Four Lands would come both from without and from another time, and it would wear several faces.

  After some deliberation, the title of the new book became The Elfstones of Shannara.

  My education as a writer continued. After submitting the outline for the story and gaining Lester’s approval late in 1978, I went to work. Elfstones took two years to write, and when it was finished I dispatched it with an uncertain sigh of relief. It was done, but was it done right? I was no longer so certain of myself. Lester wrote back in February of 1981. The letter he sent was twenty-five pages long, single-spaced. I took a deep breath and read. The book was coming along, he advised. But … the other shoe dropped. Two hundred plus pages in the very middle of the book would have to be rewritten. The reason? All of the action was narrated rather too dispassionately from the viewpoint of the author. It needed to be observed and reacted to by a character in the book. SHOW—DON’T TELL! Thus spoke Lester. The focal point of narrative was to be Ander Elessedil, a character who until now was secondary to the storyline. I couldn’t believe it. Twenty-five pages of changes. Over two hundred pages of rewrites. After a good bit of teeth gritting and more than a few mumbled threats, I went back to the typewriter. Four months later the story went out again. A smattering of additional changes and Lester was happy.

  To this day Elfstones remains my favorite book if for no better reason than so much work went into seeing it completed. I think, on looking back, that Lester taught me almost everything I know about being a professional writer from that one experience. I have forgotten the title of that other book, and the manuscript has long since been lost, but I remember every mistake I made and every lesson it taught.

  I should. It made me a better writer.

  —Terry Brooks

  1

  The night sky brightened faintly in the east with the approach of dawn as the Chosen entered the Gardens of Life. Without, the Elven city of Arborlon lay sleeping, its people still wrapped in the warmth and solitude of their beds. But for the Chosen, the day had already begun. Their trailing white robes billowing slightly with a rush of summer wind, they passed between the sentries of the Black Watch, who stood rigid and aloof as such sentries had stood for centuries gone before the arched, wrought-iron gateway inlaid with silver scroll and ivory chips. They passed quickly, and only their soft voices and the crunch of their sandled feet on the gravel pathway disturbed the silence of the new day as they slipped into the pine-shadowed dark beyond.

  The Chosen were the caretakers of the Ellcrys, the strange and wondrous tree that stood at the center of the Gardens—the tree, as the legends told, that served as protector against a primordial evil that had very nearly destroyed the Elves centuries ago, an evil that had been shut away from the earth since before the dawn of the old race of Men. In all the time that had followed, there had been Chosen to care for the Ellcrys. Theirs was a tradition handed down through generations of Elves, a tradition of service that the Elves regarded as both a coveted honor and a solemn duty.

  Yet there was little evidence of solemnity in the procession that passed through the Gardens this morning. Two hundred and thirty days of the year of their service had gone by, and youthful spirits could no longer be easily subdued. The first sense of awe at the responsibility given them had long since passed, and the Chosen of the Elves were now just six young men on their way to perform a task they had performed each day since the time of their choosing, a task grown old and familiar—the greeting of the tree at the first touch of sunrise.

  Only Lauren, youngest of this year’s Chosen, was silent. He lagged a bit behind the others as they walked, taking no part in their idle chatter. His red head was bent in concentration, and there was a deep frown on his face. So wrapped up in his thoughts was he that he was not aware when the noise ahead ceased, nor of the steps that fell back beside him, until a hand touched his arm. Then his troubled face jerked up abruptly to find Jase regarding him.

  “What’s the matter, Lauren? Are you sick?” Jase asked. Because he was a few months older than the rest, Jase was the accepted leader of the Chosen.

  Lauren shook his head, but the frown did not leave his face entirely. “I’m all right.”

  “Something is bothering you. You’ve been brooding all morning. Come to think of it, you were rather quiet last night, too.” Jase’s hand on his shoulder brought the younger Elf about to face him. “Come on, out with it. Nobody expects you to serve if you’re not feeling well.”

  Lauren hesitated, then sighed and nodded. “All right. It’s the Ellcrys. Yesterday, at sunset, just before we left her, I thought I saw some spotting on her leaves. It looked like wilt.”

  “Wilt? Are you sure? Nothing like that ever happens to the Ellcrys—at least that’s what we’ve always been told,” Jase said doubtfully.

  “I could have been mistaken,” Lauren admitted. “It was getting dark. I told myself then that it was probably just the way the shadows lay on the leaves. But the more I try to remember how it looked, the more I think it really was wilt.”

  There was a disconcerted muttering from the others, and one of them spoke. “This is Amberle’s fault. I said before that something bad would come from having a girl picked as a Chosen.”

  “There were other girls among the Chosen, and nothing happened because of it,” Lauren protested. He had always liked Amberle. She had been easy to talk to, even if she was King Eventine Elessedil’s granddaughter.

  “Not for five hundred years, Lauren,” the other said.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Jase interrupted. “We agreed not to talk about Amberle. You know that.” He stood silently for a moment, pondering what Lauren had said. Then he shrugged. “It would be unfortunate if anything happened to the tree, especially while she was under our care. But after all, nothing lasts forever.”

  Lauren was shocked. “But Jase, when the tree weakens, the Forbidding will end and the Demons within will be freed …”

  “Do you really believe those old stories, Lauren?” Jase laughed.

  Lauren stared at the older Elf. “How can you be a Chosen and not believe?”

  “I don’t remember being asked what I believed when I was chosen, Lauren. Were you asked?”

  Lauren shook his head. Candidates for the honor of being Chosen were never asked anything. They were simply brought before the tree—young Elves who had crossed over into manhood and womanhood in the prior year. At the dawn of the new year, they gathered to pass beneath her limbs, each pausing momentarily for acceptance. Those the tree touched upon the shoulders became the new Chosen, to serve until the year was done. Lauren could still remember the mix of ecstasy and pride he had felt at the moment a slender branch had bent to touch him and he’d heard her speak his name.

  And he remembered, too, the astonishment of all when Amberle had been called…

  “It’s just a tale to frighten children,” Jase was saying. “The real function of the Ellcrys is to serve as a reminder to the Elven people that they, like her, survive despite all the changes that have taken place in the history of the Four Lands. She is a symbol of our people’s strength, Lauren—nothing more.”

  He motioned for them all to resume their walk into the Gardens and turned away. Lauren lapsed back i
nto thought. The older Elf’s casual disregard for the legend of the tree disturbed him. Of course Jase was from the city, and Lauren had observed that the people of Arborlon seemed to take the old beliefs less seriously than did those of the little northern village from which he came. But the story of the Ellcrys and the Forbidding wasn’t just a story—it was the foundation of everything that was truly Elven, the most important event in the history of his people.

  It had all taken place long ago, before the birth of the new world. There had been a great war between good and evil—a war that the Elves had finally won by creating the Ellcrys and a Forbidding that had banished the evil Demons into a timeless dark. And so long as the Ellcrys was kept well, so long would the evil be locked from the land.

  So long as the Ellcrys was kept well…

  He shook his head doubtfully. Maybe the wilt was but a trick of his imagination. Or a trick of the light. And if not, they would simply have to find a cure. There was always a cure.

  Moments later, he stood with the others before the tree. Hesitantly, he looked up, then sighed in relief. It appeared as if the Ellcrys was unchanged. Perfectly formed, her silver-white trunk arched skyward in a symmetrically balanced network of tapered limbs clustered with broad, five-cornered leaves that were blood-red in color. At her base, strips of green moss grew in patchwork runners through the cracks and crevices of the smooth-skinned bark, like emerald streams flowing down a mountain hillside. There were no splits to mar the trunk’s even lines, no branches cracked or broken. So beautiful, he thought. He looked again, but could see no signs of the sickness he had feared.

  The others went to gather the tools they would use in the feeding and grooming of the tree and in the general upkeep of the Gardens. But Jase held Lauren back. “Would you like to greet her today, Lauren?” he asked.