The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  He bent forward then, his frail hand lifting. “But be cautioned. You must reach the Well before your sister enters into the Maelmord. It is written that she shall do so, since the Druid’s faith in her magic is well placed. You must be there when that happens.”

  “I will,” Jair whispered and clutched the vision crystal tightly.

  The old man nodded. “I have placed much trust in you. The lands and the races depend now on you, and you must not fail them. But you have courage. You shall be true. Speak the words, Jair.”

  “I shall be true,” the Valeman repeated.

  Gingerly the King of the Silver River rose again, a ghost in the night. A great weariness stole suddenly over Jair, pulling him down into his travel cloak. Warmth and comfort seeped slowly through his body.

  “You, most of all, are a part of me,” he heard the old man say, the words faint and distant. “Child of life, the magic makes you so. All things change, but the past carries forward and becomes what is to be. Thus it was with your great-grandfather and your father. Thus it is with you.”

  He was fading, dissipating like smoke into the firelight. Jair peered after him, but his eyes were so clouded with sleep that he could not seem to make them focus.

  “When you awake, all will be as it was save for this—I have come. Sleep now, child. Be at peace.”

  Jair’s eyes closed obediently, and he slept.

  11

  When Jair awoke, dawn had already broken. Sunshine spilled down out of a cloudless blue sky and warmed an earth still damp with morning dew. He stretched lazily and breathed in the smell of bread and meat cooking. Kneeling next to the campfire, his back turned to the Valeman, Garet Jax was preparing breakfast.

  Jair glanced about. Slanter was nowhere to be seen.

  All will be as it was…

  Abruptly he remembered everything that had happened the night gone past and sat up with a start. The King of the Silver River—or had it all been just a dream? He looked down at his hands. There was no vision crystal. When he had fallen back asleep, the crystal—if there really were one—had been clutched in his hands. He felt about the ground for it, then through the travel cloak. Still no crystal. Then it had been a dream. He felt hurriedly for the pockets of his tunic. A bulge in one pocket revealed the presence of the Elfstones—or was it the pouch that contained the Silver Dust? Quickly his hands flew over the rest of his body.

  “Looking for something?”

  Jair’s head jerked up and he found Garet Jax staring at him. He shook his head hurriedly. “No, I was just …” he stammered.

  Then his eyes detected a gleam of metal against his chest where the tunic opened in front. He looked down, tucking his chin back. It was a silver chain.

  “Do you want something to eat?” the other man asked.

  Jair didn’t hear him. It hadn’t been a dream after all, he was thinking. It had been real. It had all happened just as he remembered it. One hand felt down the front of his tunic past the length of the silver chain, touching upon the orb of the crystal fastened at its end.

  “Do you want something to eat or not?” Garet Jax repeated, a touch of annoyance in his voice.

  “Yes, I … yes, I do,” Jair mumbled, rising and coming over to kneel beside the other. A plate was passed to him, filled with food from the kettle. Masking his excitement, he began to eat.

  “Where’s Slanter?” he asked after a moment, recalling once more the absent Gnome.

  Garet Jax shrugged. “He never came back. I scouted around for him before breakfast. His tracks led down to the river and then turned west.”

  “West?” Jair stopped eating. “But that’s not the way to the Anar.”

  The Weapons Master nodded. “I’m afraid your friend decided he had come far enough with us. That’s the trouble with Gnomes—they’re not very reliable.”

  Jair felt a twinge of disappointment. Slanter must indeed have decided to go his own way. But why did he have to sneak off like that? Why couldn’t he at least have said something? Jair thought about it a moment longer, then forced himself to resume eating, pushing the disappointment from his mind. He had more immediate problems to concern himself with this morning.

  He thought back over everything the King of the Silver River had told him last night. He had a mission to perform. He had to go into the deep Anar, into the Ravenshorn and the lair of the Mord Wraiths to the peak called Heaven’s Well. It would be a long, dangerous journey—even for a trained Hunter. Jair stared hard at the ground. He was going, of course. There was no question about that. But as game and determined as he might be, he had to admit nevertheless that he was far from being a trained Hunter—or a trained anything. He was going to need help with this. But where was he going to find it?

  He glanced curiously at Garet Jax. This man shall be your protector, the King of the Silver River had promised. I give to him strength to withstand the dangers that will beset you on your journey. When you have need of him, he shall be there.

  Jair frowned. Did Garet Jax know all this? It certainly didn’t appear that way. Obviously the old man hadn’t come to the Weapons Master last night as he had come to Jair. Otherwise the man would have said something by now. That meant it was up to Jair to explain it to him. But how was the Valeman supposed to convince the Weapons Master to come with him into the deep Anar? For that matter, how was he supposed to convince him that he hadn’t simply been dreaming.

  He was still mulling the problem over when, to his complete astonishment, Slanter stalked out of the trees.

  “Anything left in the kettle?” Slanter asked, scowling at them both.

  Wordlessly, Garet Jax handed him a plate. The Gnome dropped the pack he was carrying, sat down next to the fire, and helped himself to a generous portion of the bread and meat. Jair stared at him. He looked haggard and irritable, as if he hadn’t slept all night.

  The Gnome caught him staring. “What’s bothering you?” he snapped.

  “Nothing.” Jair looked away quickly, then looked back again. “I was just wondering where you’d been.”

  Slanter stayed bent over his plate. “I decided to sleep down by the river. Cooler there. Too hot by the fire.” Jair’s eyes strayed down to the discarded pack, and the Gnome’s head jerked up. “Took the pack so I could scout upriver a bit—just in case. Thought I’d be certain that nothing …”

  He broke off. “I don’t have to account to you, boy! What’s the difference what I was doing? I’m here now, aren’t I? Let me be!”

  He went back to his breakfast, attacking it with a vengeance. Jair glanced furtively at Garet Jax, but the Weapons Master seemed to take no notice. The Valeman turned again to Slanter. He was lying, of course; his tracks led downriver. Garet Jax had said so. Why had he decided to come back?

  Unless…

  Jair caught himself. The idea was so wild that he could barely conceive of it. But just perhaps the King of the Silver River had used his magic to bring the Gnome back again. He could have done that, Jair thought, and Slanter would never have been the wiser or realized what was being done to him. The old man could have seen that Jair would have need for the tracker—a Gnome who knew the whole of the Eastland.

  Then suddenly it occurred to Jair that perhaps the King of the Silver River had brought Garet Jax to him as well—that the Weapons Master had come to his aid in the Black Oaks because the old man had wanted it so. Was that possible? Was that the reason that Garet Jax had freed him—all without realizing it?

  Jair sat there in stunned silence, his food forgotten. That would explain the reluctance of both tracker and soldier-of-fortune to discuss the reasons for their actions. They didn’t understand it fully themselves. But if that were true, then Jair, too, might have been brought here by similar manipulation. How much of what had happened to him had been the work of the old man?

  Garet Jax finished his breakfast and was kicking out the fire. Slanter, too, was on his feet, wordlessly pulling on the discarded pack. Jair stared at them in turn, wondering what he
should do. He knew that he couldn’t just stay silent.

  “Time to go,” Garet Jax called over, motioning him up. Slanter was already at the edge of the clearing.

  “Wait … wait just a minute.” They turned to stare at him as he climbed slowly to his feet. “I’ve got something to tell you first.”

  He told them everything. He had not intended it to happen that way, but telling one thing led to telling another by way of explanation; before he knew it the whole story was out. He told them of Allanon’s visit to the Vale and of his story of the Ildatch, of how Brin and Rone Leah had gone east with the Druid to gain entry into the Maelmord, and lastly of the appearance of the King of the Silver River and of the mission he had given to Jair.

  When he had finished, there was a long silence. Garet Jax walked back to the fallen log and sat down, gray eyes intense.

  “I am to be your protector?” he asked quietly.

  Jair nodded. “He said you would be.”

  “What if I were to decide otherwise?”

  Jair shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I have heard some wild tales, but this is the wildest it has ever been my misfortune to suffer through!” Slanter exclaimed suddenly. “What are you up to with all this nonsense? What’s the purpose of it? You don’t think for a minute anyone sitting here believes a word of it, do you?”

  “Believe what you want. It’s the truth,” Jair insisted, refusing to back away as the Gnome advanced on him.

  “The truth! What do you know about the truth?” Slanter was incredulous. “You spoke with the King of the Silver River, did you? He gave you magic, did he? And now we’re supposed to go traipsing off into the deep Anar, are we? And not just into the Anar, but right into the teeth of the black walkers! Into the Maelmord! You’re mad, boy! That’s the only truth there is in any of this!”

  Jair reached into his tunic and brought forth the pouch containing the Silver Dust. “This is the Dust he gave me, Slanter. And here.” He pulled the vision crystal on its silver chain free of his neck. “You see? I have the things he gave me, just as I said. Look for yourself.”

  Slanter threw up his hands. “I don’t want to look! I don’t want anything to do with any of this! I don’t even know what I’m doing here!” He wheeled about suddenly. “But I’ll tell you this—I’m not going into the Anar, not with a thousand crystals or a whole mountain of Silver Dust! Find someone else who’s tired of living and leave me be!”

  Garet Jax was back on his feet. He came over to Jair, took the pouch from the Valeman’s hand, slipped the drawstrings open, and peered inside. Then he looked up again at Jair.

  “Looks like sand to me,” he said.

  Jair glanced down hurriedly. Sure enough, the contents of the pouch looked exactly like sand. There was not a sparkle of silver to be seen in the supposed Silver Dust.

  “Of course, the color might be a guise to protect against theft,” the Weapons Master mused thoughtfully, a distant look in his eyes.

  Slanter was aghast. “You don’t really believe …”

  Garet Jax cut him short. “I don’t believe much of anything, Gnome.” His eyes were hard again as they shifted to Jair. “Let’s put this magic to the test. Take out the vision crystal and sing to it.”

  Jair hesitated. “I don’t know how.”

  “You don’t know how?” Slanter sneered. “Shades!”

  Garet Jax didn’t move. “This seems like a good time to learn, doesn’t it?”

  Jair flushed and looked down at the crystal. Neither of them believed a word he had told them. He couldn’t really blame them, though. He wouldn’t have believed it himself if it hadn’t happened to him. But it had, and it had been all too convincing not to be real.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

  He began to sing softly to the crystal. He held it cupped within his hands like a fragile thing, the silver chain dangling down through his fingers. He sang without knowing what it was he should sing or how he could bring the crystal to life. Low and gentle, his voice called to it and asked that it show him Brin.

  It responded almost instantly. Light flared within his palms, startling him so that he nearly dropped the crystal. A living thing, the light shimmered a brilliant white, expanding until it was the size of a child’s ball. Garet Jax bent close, his lean face intense. Slanter edged his way back from across the clearing.

  Then abruptly Brin Ohmsford’s face appeared within the light, dark and beautiful, framed by mountains whose slopes were stark and towering against a dawn less friendly than their own.

  “Brin!” Jair whispered.

  He thought for a moment she might reply, so real was her face within the light. Yet her eyes were far distant in their vision, and her ears were closed to his voice. Then the vision faded; in his excitement, Jair had ceased to sing, and the crystal’s magic was spent. The light was gone in the same moment. Jair’s hands cupped the crystal once more.

  “Where was she?” he asked hurriedly.

  Garet Jax shook his head. “I’m not sure. Perhaps …” But he did not finish.

  Jair turned to Slanter, but the Gnome was shaking his head as well. “I don’t know. It happened too fast. How did you do that, boy? It’s that song, isn’t it? It’s that magic you have.”

  “And the magic of the King of the Silver River,” Jair added quickly. “Now do you believe me?”

  Slanter shook his head glumly. “I’m not going into the Anar,” he muttered.

  “I need you, Slanter.”

  “You don’t need me. With magic like that, you don’t need anyone.” The Gnome turned away. “Just sing your way into the Maelmord like your sister.”

  Jair forced down the anger building within him. He shoved the crystal and the pouch with the Silver Dust back into his tunic. “Then I’ll go alone,” he declared heatedly.

  “No need for that quite yet.” Garet Jax swung his pack over his shoulder and started across the clearing once more. “First we’ll see you safely to Culhaven, the Gnome and me. Then you can tell the Dwarves this story of yours. The Druid and your sister should have passed that way by now—or word of their passing reached the Dwarves. In any case, let’s find out if anyone there understands anything of what you’ve been telling us.”

  Jair stalked after him hurriedly. “What you’re saying is that you think I made this all up! Listen to me a minute. Why would I do that? What possible reason could I have? Go on, tell me!”

  Garet Jax snatched up the Valeman’s cloak and blanket and shoved them at him as they went. “Don’t waste your time telling me what I think,” he replied calmly. “I’ll tell you what I think when I’m ready.”

  Together they disappeared into the trees, following the trail that led east along the banks of the Silver River. Slanter watched them until they were out of sight, his rough yellow face twisting with displeasure. Then, picking up his own pack, he hastened after, muttering as he went.

  12

  For the better part of three days, Brin Ohmsford and Rone Leah rode north with Allanon toward the Keep of Paranor. The path chosen by the Druid was long and circuitous, a slow hard journey through country made rugged by steep slides, narrow passes, and choking forest wilderness. But at the same time the path was free of the presence of Gnomes, Mord Wraiths, and other evils that might beset the unwary traveler, and it was for this reason that Allanon had made his choice. Whatever else must be endured on their journey north, he was determined that in the making of that journey he would take no further chances with the life of the Valegirl.

  So he did not take them through the Hall of Kings as he had once done with Shea Ohmsford, a march that would have forced them to leave their horses and proceed afoot through the underground caverns that interred the kings of old, where traps could be triggered with every step forward and monsters guarded against all who trespassed. Nor did he take them across the Rabb to the Jannisson Pass, a ride through open country where they might be easily seen and which would take them much too close to the fores
ts of the Eastland and the enemy they sought to avoid. Instead, he took them west along the Mermidon through the deep forests that blanketed the lower slopes of the Dragon’s Teeth from the Valley of Shale to the mountain forests of Tyrsis. They rode west until at last they reached the Kennon Pass, a high mountain trail that led them far into the Dragon’s Teeth to emerge miles further north within the forests that bound the castle of Paranor.

  It was at dawn of the third day that they came down from the Kennon into the valley beyond, a dawn gray and hard as iron, clouded over and cold with winter’s chill. They rode in a line, traversing the narrow pass through mountains bare and stark as they loomed against the morning sky, and it was as if all life had ceased to be. Wind swept the empty rock with fierce gusts, and they bent their heads against its force. Below, the forested valley that sheltered the castle of the Druids stretched dark and forbidding before them. A faint, swirling mist hid the distant pinnacle of the Keep from their eyes.

  As they rode, Brin Ohmsford struggled with an unshakable sense of impending disaster. It was a premonition really, and it had been with her since they had left the Valley of Shale. It tracked her with insidious purpose, a shadow as murky and cold as the land she rode through, an elusive thing that lurked within the rocks and crags, flitting from one place of hiding to another, watching with sly and evil intent. Hunched down within her riding cloak, drawing what warmth she could from the bulky folds, she let her mount choose its path on the narrow trail and felt the weight of the presence as it followed after.

  It had been the Wraith mostly, she thought, that fostered that premonition. More than the harshness of the day, the dark intent of the Druid she followed, or the newfound fear she felt for the power of her wishsong, it was the Wraith. The Druid had assured her that there were no others. Yet such a dark and evil thing, silent in its coming, swift and terrible in its attack, then gone as quickly as it had appeared, with nothing left but its ashes. It was as if it were a being come from death into life, then gone back again, faceless, formless, a thing without identity, yet above all, frightening.