Heritage of Shannara 02 – Brooks, Terry

 

 

 

he King of the Silver River stood at the edge of the

Gardens that had been his domain since the dawn of

‘ the age of faerie and iooked out over the world of

mortal men. What he saw left him sad and discouraged. Every-

where the land sickened and died, rich black earth turning to

dust, grassy plains withering, forests becoming huge stands of

deadwood, and lakes and rivers either stagnating or drying away.

Everywhere the creatures who lived upon the land sickened and

died as well, unable to sustain themselves as the nourishment

they relied upon grew poisoned. Even the air had begun to turn

foul.

 

And all the while, the King of the Silver River thought, the

Shadowen grow stronger.

 

His fingers reached out to brush the crimson petals of the

cyclamen that grew thick about his feet. Forsythia clustered just

beyond, dogwood and cherry farther back, fuchsia and hibiscus,

rhododendrons and dahlias, beds of iris, azaleas, daffodils,

roses, and a hundred other varieties of flowers and flowering

plants that were always in bloom, a profusion of colors that

stretched away into the distance until lost from sight. There were

animals to be seen as well, both large and small, creatures whose

evolution could be traced back to that distant time when all

f-ings lived in harmony and psace.

 

In me present world, the world of the Four Lands and the

Races that had evolved out of the chaos and destruction of the

Great Wars, that time was all but forgotten. The King of

the Silver River was its sole remnant. He had been alive when

the world was new and its firsi creatures were just being born.

He had been young then, and tilers had been many like him.

Now he was old and he was the lasi of his kind. Everything that

 

1

 

2                               The Druid of Shannara

 

had been, save for the Gardens in which he lived, had passed

away. The Gardens alone survived, changeless, sustained by the

magic of faerie. The Word had given the Gardens to the King

of the Silver River and told him to tend them, to keep them as a

reminder of what had once been and what might one day be

again. The world without would evolve as it must, but the Gar-

dens would remain forever the same.

 

Even so, they were shrinking. It was not so much physical as

 

spiritual. The boundaries of the Gardens were fixed and unal-

terable, for the Gardens existed in a plane of being unaffected

by changes in the world of mortal men. The Gardens were a

presence rather than a place. Yet that presence was diminished

by the sickening of the world to which it was tied, for the work

of the Gardens and their tender was to keep that world strong.

As the Four Lands grew poisoned, the work became harder, the

effects of that work grew shorter, and the boundaries of human

belief and trust in its existence—always somewhat marginal—

 

began to fail altogether.

 

The King of the Silver River grieved that this should be. He

did not grieve for himself; he was beyond that. He grieved for

the people of the Four Lands, the mortal men and women for

whom the magic of faerie was in danger of being lost forever.

The Gardens had been their haven in the land of the Silver River

for centuries, and he had been the spirit friend who protected

its people. He had watched over them, had given them a sense

of peace and well-being that transcended physical boundaries,

and gave promise that benevolence and goodwill were still ac-

cessible in some comers of the world to all. Now that was ended.

Now he could protect no one. The evil of the Shadowen, the

poison they had inflicted upon the Four Lands, had eroded his

own strength until he was virtually sealed within his Gardens,

powerless to go to the aid of those he had worked so long to

 

protect.

 

He stared out into the ruin of the world for a time as his

 

despair worked its relentless will on him. Memories played hide-

and-seek in his mind. The Druids had protected the Four Lands

once. But the Druids were gone. A handful of descendents of

the Elven house of Shannara had been champions of the Races

for generations, wielding the remnants of the magic of faerie.

 

But they were all dead.

 

He forced his despair away, replacing it with hope. The Dru-

ids could come again. And there were new generations of the

old house of Shannara. The King of the Silver River knew most

 

The Druid of Shannara                               3

 

of what was happening in the Four Lands even if he could not

go out into them. Allanon’s shade had summoned a scattering

of Shannara children to recover the lost magic, and perhaps they

yet would if they could survive long enough to find a means to

do so. But all of them had been placed in extreme peril. All

were in danger of dying, threatened in the east, south, and west

by the Shadowen and in the north by Uhl Belk, the Stone King.

 

The old eyes closed momentarily. He knew what was needed

to save the Shannara children—an act of magic, one so powerful

and intricate that nothing could prevent it from succeeding, one

that would transcend the barriers that their enemies had created,

that would break past the screen of deceit and lies that hid ev-

erything from the four on whom so much depended.

 

Yes, four, not three. Even Allanon did not understand the

whole of what was meant to be.

 

He turned and made his way back toward the center of his

refuge. He let the songs of the birds, the fragrances of the flow-

ers, and the warmth of the air soothe him as he walked and he

drew in through his senses the color and taste and feel of all that

lay about him. There was virtually nothing that he could not do

within his Gardens. Yet his magic was needed without. He knew

what was required. In preparation he took the form of the old

man that showed himself occasionally to the world beyond. His

gait became an unsteady shamble, his breathing wheezed, his

eyes dimmed, and his body ached with the feelings of life fad-

ing. The birdsong stopped, and the small animals that had

crowded close edged quickly away. He forced himself to sepa-

rate from everything he had evolved into, receding into what he

might have been, needing momentarily to feel human mortality

in order to know better how to give that part of himself that was

needed.

 

When he reached the heart of his domain, he stopped. There

was a pond of clearest water fed by a small stream. A unicorn

drank from it. The earth that cradled the pond was dark and

rich. Tiny, delicate flowers that had no name grew at the water’s

edge; they were the color of new snow. A small, intricately

formed tree lifted out of a scattering of violet grasses at the

pond’s far end, its delicate green leaves laced with red. From a

pair of massive rocks, streaks of colored ore shimmered brightly

in the sunshine.

 

The King of the Silver River stood without moving in the

presence of the life that surrounded him and willed himself to

become one with it. When he had done so, when everything had

 

4                               The Druid of Shannara

 

threaded itself through the human form he had taken as if joined

by bits and pieces of invisible lacing, he reached out to gather

it all in. His hands, wrinkled human skin and brittle bones,

lifted and summoned his magic, and the feelings of age and

. time that were the reminders of mortal existence disappeared.

 

The little tree came to him first, uprooted, transported, and

set down before him, the framework of bones on which he would

build. Slowly it bent to take the shape he desired, leaves folding

close against the branches, wrapping and sealing away. The earth

came next, handfuls lifted by invisible scoops to place against

the tree, padding and defining. Then came the ores for muscle,

the waters for fluids, and me petals of the tiny flowers for skin.

He gathered silk from the unicorn’s mane for hair and black

pearls for eyes. The magic twisted and wove, and slowly his

 

creation took form.

 

When he was finished, the girl who stood before him was

 

perfect in every way but one. She was not yet alive.

 

He cast about momentarily, then selected the dove. He took

it out of the air and placed it still living inside the girl’s breast

where it became her heart. Quickly he moved forward to em-

brace her and breathed his own life into her. Then he stepped

 

back to wait.

 

The girl’s breast rose and fell, and her limbs twitched. Her

 

eyes fluttered open, coal black as they peered out from her del-

icate white features. She was small boned and finely wrought

like a piece of paper art smoothed and shaped so that the edges

and comers were replaced by curves. Her hair was so white it

seemed silver; there was a glitter to it that suggested the pres-

ence of that precious metal.

 

‘ ‘Who am I? ” she asked in a soft, lilting voice that whispered

 

of tiny streams and small night sounds.

 

“You are my daughter,” the King of the Silver River an-

swered, discovering within himself the stirring of feelings he

 

had thought long since lost.

 

He did not bother telling her that she was an elemental, an

 

earth child created of his magic. She could sense what she was

from the instincts with which he had endowed her. No other

 

explanation was needed.

 

She took a tentative step forward, then another. Finding that

she could walk, she began to move more quickly, testing her

abilities in various ways as she circled her father, glancing cau-

tiously, shyly at the old man as she went. She looked around

curiously, taking in the sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of the

 

The Druid of Shannara                               5

 

Gardens, discovering in them a kinship that she could not im-

mediately explain.

 

“Are these Gardens my mother?” she asked suddenly, and

he told her they were. “Am I a part of you both?” she asked,

and he told her yes.

 

“Come with me,” he said gently.

 

Together, they walked through the Gardens, exploring in the

manner of a parent and child, looking into flowers, watching

for the quick movement of birds and animals, studying the vast,

intricate designs of the tangled undergrowth, the complex layers

of rock and earth, and the patterns woven by the threads of the

Gardens’ existence. She was bright and quick, interested in ev-

erything, respectful of life, caring. He was pleased with what

he saw; he found that he had made her well.

 

After a time, he began to show her something of the magic.

He demonstrated his own first, only the smallest bits and pieces

of it so as not to overwhelm her. Then he let her test her own

against it. She was surprised to learn that she possessed it, even

more surprised to discover what it could do. But she was not

hesitant about using it. She was eager.

 

“You have a name,” he told her. “Would you like to know

what it is?”

 

“Yes,” she answered, and stood looking at him alertly.

“Your name is Quickening.” He paused. “Do you under-

stand why?”

 

She thought a moment. “Yes,” she answered again.

 

He led her to an ancient hickory whose bark peeled back in

great, shaggy strips from its trunk. The breezes cooled there,

smelling of jasmine and begonia, and the grass was soft as they

sat together. A griffin wandered over through the tall grasses

and nuzzled the girl’s hand.

 

“Quickening,” the King of the Silver River said. “There is

something you must do.”

 

Slowly, carefully he explained to her that she must leave the

Gardens and go out into the world of men. He told her where it

was that she must go and what it was that she must do. He talked

of the Dark Uncle, the Highlander, and the nameless other, of

the Shadowen, of Uhl Belk and Eldwist, and of the Black Elf-

stone. As he spoke to her, revealing the truth behind who and

what she was, he experienced an aching within his breast that

was decidedly human, part of himself that had been submerged

for many centuries. The ache brought a sadness that threatened

to cause his voice to break and his eyes to tear. He stopped once

 

6                               The Druid of Shannara

 

in surprise to fight back against it. It required some effort to

resume speaking. The girl watched him without comment-

intense, introspective, expectant. She did not argue with what

he told her and she did not question it. She simply listened and

 

accepted.

 

When he was done, she stood up. “I understand what is

 

expected of me. I am ready.”

 

But the King of the Silver River shook his head. “No, child,

you are not. You will discover that when you leave here. Despite

who you are and what you can do, you are vulnerable neverthe-

less to things against which I cannot protect you. Be careful then

to protect yourself. Be on guard against what you do not under-

stand.”

 

“I will,” she replied.

 

He walked with her to the edge of the Gardens, to where the

world of men began, and together they stared out at the en-

croaching ruin. They stood without speaking for a very long

time before she said, “I can tell that I am needed there.”

 

He nodded bleakly, feeling the loss of her already though she

had not yet departed. She is only an elemental, he thought and

knew immediately that he was wrong. She was a great deal

more. As much as if he had given birth to her, she was a part

 

of him.

 

“Goodbye, Father,” she said suddenly and left his side.

 

She walked out of the Gardens and disappeared into the world

beyond. She did not kiss him or touch him in parting. She simply

left, because that was all she knew to do.

 

The King of the Silver River turned away. His efforts had

wearied him, had drained him of his magic. He needed time to

rest. Quickly he shed his human image, stripping away the false

covering of skin and bones, washing himself clean of its mem-

ories and sensations, and reverting to the faerie creature he was.

 

Even so, what he felt for Quickening, his daughter, the child

of his making, stayed with him.

 

II

 

) alker Boh came awake with a shudder.

 

 

 

 

WDark Uncle.

 

The whisper of a voice in his mind jerked

him back from the edge of the black pool into which he was

sliding, pulled him from the inky dark into the gray fringes of

the light, and he started so violently that the muscles of his legs

cramped. His head snapped up from the pillow of his arm, his

eyes slipped open, and he stared blankly ahead. There was pain

all through his body, endless waves of it. The pain wracked him

as if he had been touched by a hot iron, and he curled tightly

into himself in a futile effort to ease it. Only his right arm re-

mained outstretched, a heavy and cumbersome thing that no

longer belonged to him, fastened forever to the floor of the

cavern on which he lay, turned to stone to the elbow.

 

The source of the pain was there.

 

He closed his eyes against it, willing it to disperse, to disap-

pear. But he lacked the strength to command it, his magic al-

most gone, dissipated by his struggle to resist the advancing

poison of the Asphinx. It was seven days now since he had come

into the Hall of Kings in search of the Black Elfstone, seven

days since he had found instead the deadly creature that had

been placed there to snare him.

 

Oh, yes, he thought feverishly. Definitely to snare him.

 

But by whom? By the Shadowen or by someone else? Who

now had possession of the Black Elfstone?

 

He recalled in despair the events that had brought him to this

end. There had been the summons from the shade of Allanon,

dead three hundred years, to the heirs of,the Shannara magic:

 

his nephew Par Ohmsford, his cousin Wren Ohmsford, and him-

self. They had received the summons and a visit from the once-

 

8                              The Druid of Shannam

 

Druid Cogline urging them to heed it. They had done so, assem-

bling at the Hadeshom, ancient resting place of the Druids,

where Allanon had appeared to them and charged them with

separate undertakings that were meant to combat the dark work

of the Shadowen who were using magic of their own to steal

away the life of the Four Lands. Walker had been charged with

recovering Paranor, the disappeared home of the Druids, and

with bringing back the Druids themselves. He had resisted this

charge until Cogline had come to him again, this time bearing

a volume of the Druid Histories which told of a Black Elfstone

which had the power to retrieve Paranor. That in turn had led

him to the Grimpond, seer of the earth’s and mortal men’s se-

crets.

 

He searched the gloom of the cavern about him, the doors to

 

the tombs of the Kings of the Four Lands dead all these centu-

ries, the wealth piled before the crypts in which they lay, and

the stone sentinels that kept watch over their remains. Stone eyes

stared out of blank faces, unseeing, unheeding. He was alone

 

with their ghosts.

He was dying.

Tears filled his eyes, blinding him as he fought to hold them

 

back. He was such a fool!

 

Dark Uncle. The words echoed soundlessly, a memory that

taunted and teased. The voice was the Grimpond’s, that

wretched, insidious spirit responsible for what had befallen him.

It was the Grimpond’s riddles that had led him to the Hall of

Kings in search of the Black Elfstone. The Grimpond must have

known what awaited him, that there would be no Elfstone but

the Asphinx instead, a deadly trap that would destroy him.

 

And why had he thought it would be otherwise? Walker asked

himself bleakly. Didn’t the Grimpond hate him above all others?

Hadn’t it boasted to Walker that it was sending him to his doom

by giving him what he asked for? Walker had simply gone out

of his way to accommodate the spirit, anxiously rushing off to

greet the death that he had been promised, blithely believing

that he could protect himself against whatever evil he might

encounter. Remember? he chided himself. Remember how con-

fident you were?

 

He convulsed as the poison burned into him. Well and good.

 

But where was his confidence now?

 

He forced himself to his knees and bent down over the open-

ing in the cavern floor where his hand was pinned to the stone.

He could just make out the remains of the Asphinx, the snake’s

 

The Druid of Shannam                              9

 

stone body coiled about his own stone arm, the two of them

forever joined, fastened to the rock of the mountain. He tight-

ened his mouth and pulled up the sleeve of his cloak. His arm

was hard and unyielding, gray to the elbow, and streaks of gray

worked their way upward toward his shoulder. The process was

slow, but steady. His entire body was turning to stone.

 

Not that it mattered if it did, he thought, because he would

starve to death long before that happened. Or die of thirst. Or

of the poison.

 

He let the sleeve fall back into place, covering the horror of

what he had become. Seven days gone. What little food he’d

brought with him had been consumed almost immediately, and

he’d drunk the last of his water two days ago. His strength was

failing rapidly now. He was feverish most of the time, his lucid

periods growing shorter. He had struggled against what was

happening at first, trying to use his magic to banish the poison

from his body, to restore his hand and arm to flesh and blood.

But his magic had failed him completely. He had worked at

freeing his arm from the stone flooring, thinking that it might

be pried loose in some way. But he was held fast, a condemned

man with no hope of release. Eventually his exhaustion had

forced him to sleep, and as the days passed he had slept more

often, slipping further and further away from wanting to come

awake.

 

Now, as he knelt in a huddle of darkness and pain, salvaged

momentarily from the wreckage of his dying by the voice of the

Grimpond, he realized with terrifying certainty that if he went

to sleep again it would be for good. He breathed in and out

rapidly, choking back his fear. He must not let that happen. He

must not give up.

 

He forced himself to think. As long as he could think, he

reasoned, he would not fall asleep. He retraced in his mind his

conversation with the Grimpond, hearing again the spirit’s

words, trying anew to decipher their meaning. The Grimpond

had not named the-Hall of Kings in describing where the Black

Elfstone could be found. Had Walker simply jumped to the

wrong conclusion? Had he been deliberately misled? Was there

any truth in what he had been told?

 

Walker’s thoughts scattered in confusion, and his mind re-

fused to respond to the demands he placed on it. He closed his

eyes in despair, and it was with great difficulty that he forced

them open again. His clothes were’chill and damp with his own

sweat, and his body shivered within them. His breathing was

 

10                              The Druid of Shannara

 

ragged, his vision blurred, and it was growing increasingly dif-

ficult to swallow. So many distractions—how could he think?

He wanted simply to lie down and . . .

 

He panicked, feeling the urgency of his need threaten to swal-

low him up. He shifted his body, forcing his knees to scrape

against the stone until they bled. A little more pain might help

keep me awake, he thought. Yet he could barely feel it.

 

He forced his thoughts back to the Grimpond. He envisioned

the wraith laughing at his plight, taking pleasure at it. He heard

the taunting voice calling out to him. Anger gave him a measure

of strength. There was something that he needed to recall, he

thought desperately. There was something that the Grimpond

had told him that he must remember.

 

Please, don’t let me fall asleep!

 

The Hall of Kings did not respond to the urgency of his plea;

 

the statues remained silent, disinterested, and oblivious. The

 

mountain waited.

 

/ have to break free! he howled wordlessly.

And then he remembered the visions, or more specifically

the first of the three that the Grimpond had shown him, the one

in which he had stood on a cloud above the others of the little

company that had gathered at the Hadeshom in answer to the

summons of the shade ofAllanon, the one in which he had said

that he would sooner cut off his hand than bring back the Druids

and then lifted his arm to show that he had done exactly that.

He remembered the vision and recognized its truth.

He banished the reaction it provoked in horrified disbelief

and let his head droop until it was resting on the cavern stone.

He cried, feeling the tears run down his cheeks, the sides of his

face, stinging his eyes as they mingled with his sweat. His body

twisted with the agony of his choices.

No! No, he would not!

Yet he knew he must.

 

His crying turned to laughter, chilling in its madness as it

rolled out of him into the emptiness of the tomb. He waited until

it expended itself, the echoes fading into silence, then looked

up again. His possibilities had exhausted themselves; his fate

was sealed. If he did not break free now, he knew he never

would.

 

And there was only one way to do so.

He hardened himself to the fact of it, walling himself away

from his emotions, drawing from some final reserve the last of

his strength. He cast about the cavern floor until he found what

 

The Druid of Shannara                              11

 

he needed. It was a rock that was approximately the size and

shape of an axe-blade, jagged on one side, hard enough to have

survived intact its fall from the chamber ceiling where it had

been loosened by the battle four centuries earlier between Al-

lanon and the serpent Valg. The rock lay twenty feet away,

clearly beyond reach of any ordinary man. But not him. He

summoned a fragment of the magic that remained to him, forc-

ing himself to remain steady during its use. The rock inched

forward, scraping as it moved, a slow scratching in the cavern’s

silence. Walker grew light-headed from the strain, the fever

burning through him, leaving him nauseated. Yet he kept the

rock moving closer.

 

At last it was within reach of his free hand. He let the magic

slip away, taking long moments to gather himself. Then he

stretched out his arm to the rock, and his fingers closed tightly

about it. Slowly he gathered it in, finding it impossibly heavy,

so heavy in fact that he was not certain he could manage to lift

it let alone . . .

 

He could not finish the thought. He could not dwell on what

he was about to do. He dragged the rock over until it was next

to him, braced himself firmly with his knees, took a deep breath,

raised the rock overhead, hesitated for just an instant, then in a

rush of fear and anguish brought it down. It smashed into the

stone of his arm between elbow and wrist, hammering it with

such force that it jarred his entire body. The resulting pain was

so agonizing that it threatened to render him unconscious. He

screamed as waves of it washed through him; he felt as if he

were being torn apart from the inside out. He fell forward, gasp-

ing for breath, and the axe-blade rock dropped from his nerve-

less fingers.

 

Then he realized that something had changed.

 

He pushed himself upright and looked down at his arm. The

blow had shattered the stone limb at the point of impact. His

wrist and hand remained fastened to the Asphinx in the gloom

of the hidden compartment’of the cavern floor. But the rest of

him was free.

 

He knelt in stunned disbelief for a long time, staring down at

the ruin of his arm, at the gray-streaked flesh above the elbow

and the jagged stone capping below. His arm felt leaden and

stiff. The poison already within it continued to work its damage.

There were jolts of pain all through him.

 

But he was free! Shades, he was free!

 

Suddenly there was a stirring in the chamber beyond, a faint

 

12                             The Druid of Shannam

 

and distant mstling like something had come awake. Walker

Boh went cold in the pit of his stomach as he realized what had

happened. His scream had given him away. The chamber be-

yond was the Assembly, and it was in the Assembly that the

serpent Valg, guardian of the dead, had once lived.

 

And might live still.

Walker came to his feet, sudden dizziness washing through

 

him. He ignored it, ignored the pain and weariness as well, and

stumbled toward the heavy, ironbound entry doors that had

brought him in. He shut away the sounds of everything about

him, everything within, concentrating the whole of his effort on

making his way across the cavern floor to the passageway that

lay beyond. If the serpent was alive and found him now, he knew

 

he was finished.

 

Luck was with him. The serpent did not emerge. Nothing

 

appeared. Walker reached the doors leading from the tomb and

pushed his way through into the darkness beyond.

 

What happened then was never clear afterward in his mind.

Somehow he managed to work his way back through the Hall

of Kings, past the Banshees whose howl could drive men mad,

and past the Sphinxes whose gaze could turn men to stone. He

heard the Banshees wail, felt the gaze of the Sphinxes burning

down, and experienced the terror of the mountain’s ancient

magic as it sought to trap him, to make him another of its vic-

tims. Yet he escaped, some final shield of determination pre-

serving him as he made his way clear, an iron will combining

with weariness and pain and near madness to encase and pre-

serve him. Perhaps his magic came to aid him as well; he thought

it possible. The magic, after all, was unpredictable, a constant

mystery. He pushed and trudged through near darkness and

phantasmagoric images, past walls of rock that threatened to

close about him, down tunnels of sight and sound in which he

could neither see nor hear, and finally he was free.

 

He emerged into the outside world at daybreak, the sun’s light

chill and faint as it shone out of a sky thick with clouds and rain

that lingered from the previous night’s storm. With his arm

tucked beneath his cloak like a wounded child, he made his way

down the mountain trail toward the plains south. He never looked

back. He could just manage to look ahead. He was on his feet

only because he refused to give in. He could barely feel himself

anymore, even the pain of his poisoning. He walked as if jerked

along by strings attached to his limbs. His black hair blew wildly

m the wind, whipping about his pale face, lashing it until his

 

The Druid of Shannam

 

13

 

eyes blurred with tears. He v/as a scarecrow figure of madness

as he wandered out of the mist and gray.

 

Dark Uncle, the Grimpond’s voice whispered in his mind and

laughed in glee.

 

He lost track of time completely. The sun’s weak light failed

to disperse the stormclouds and the day remained washed of

color and friendless. Trails came and went, an endless proces-

sion of rocks, defiles, canyons, and drops. Walker remained

oblivious to all of it. He knew only that he was descending,

working his way downward out of the rock, back toward the

world he had so foolishly left behind. He knew that he was

trying to save his life.

 

It was midday when he emerged at last from the high peaks

into the Valley of Shale, a tattered and aimless bit of human

wreckage so badly fevered and weakened that he stumbled half-

way across the crushed, glistening black rock of the valley floor

before realizing where he was. When he finally saw, his strength

gave out. He collapsed in the tangle of his cloak, feeling the

sharp edges of the rock cutting into the skin of his hands and

face, heedless of its sting as he lay facedown in exhaustion. After

a time, he began to crawl toward the placid waters of the lake,

inching his way painfully ahead, dragging his stone-tipped arm

beneath him. It seemed logical to him in his delirium that if he

could reach the Hadeshorn’s edge he might submerge his ruined

arm and the lethal waters would counteract the poison that was

killing him. It was nonsensical, but for Walker Boh madness

had become the measure of his life.

 

He failed even in this small endeavor. Too weak to go more

than a few yards, he lapsed into unconsciousness. The last thing

he remembered was how dark it was in the middle of the day,

the world a place of shadows.

 

He slept, and in his sleep he dreamed that the shade of Al-

lanon came to him. The shade rose out of the churning, boiling

waters of the Hadeshom, dark and mystical as it materialized

from the netherworld of afterlife to which it had been consigned.

It reached out to Walker, lifted him to his feet, flooded him with

new strength, and gave clarity once more to his thoughts and

vision. Spectral, translucent, it hung above the dark, greenish

waters—yet its touch felt curiously human.

 

-Dark Uncle-

When the shade spoke the words, they were not taunting and

hateful as they had been when spoken by the Grimpond. They

were simply a designation of who and what Walker was.

 

14                              The Druid of Shannara

 

—Why will you not accept the charge I have given you—

Walker struggled angrily to reply but could not seem to find

 

the words.

 

—The need for you is great. Walker. Not my need, but the

need of the Lands and their people, the Races of the new world.

If you do not accept my charge, there is no hope for them—

 

Walker’s rage was boundless. Bring back the Druids, who

were no more, and disappeared Paranor? Surely, thought Walker

in response. Surely, shade of AUanon. I shall take my ruined

body in search of what you seek, my poisoned limb, though I

be dying and cannot hope to help anyone, still I…

 

—Accept, Walker. You do not accept. Acknowledge the truth

of yourself and your own destiny-

Walker didn’t understand.

 

—Kinship with those who have gone before you, those who

understood the meaning of acceptance. That is what you lack—

 

Walker shuddered, disrupting the vision of his dream. His

strength left him. He collapsed at the Hadeshom’s edge, blan-

keted in confusion and fear, feeling so lost that it seemed to him

impossible that he could ever again be found.

 

Help me, Allanon, he begged in despair.

 

The shade hung motionless in the air before him, ethereal

against a backdrop of wintry skies and barren peaks, rising up

like death’s specter come to retrieve^ fresh victim. It seemed

suddenly to Walker that dying was all that was left to him.

 

Do you wish me to die? he asked in disbelief. Is this what

you demand of me ?

 

The shade said nothing.

 

Did you know that this would happen to me ? He held forth

his arm, jagged stone stump, poison-streaked flesh.

 

The shade remained silent.

 

Why won’t you help me ? Walker howled.

 

—Why won’t you help me—

 

The words echoed sharply in his mind, urgent and filled with

a sense of dark purpose. But he did not speak them. Allanon

 

did.

 

Then abruptly the shade shimmered in the air before him and

faded away. The waters of the Hadeshom steamed and hissed,

roiled in fury, and went still once more. All about the air was

misted and dark, filled with ghosts and wild imaginings, a place

where life and death met at a crossroads of unanswered ques-

tions and unresolved puzzles.

 

Walker Boh saw them for only a moment, aware that he was

 

The Druid of Shannara 15

 

seeing them not in sleep but in waking, realizing suddenly that

his vision might not have been a dream at all.

 

Then everything was gone, and he fell away into blackness.

 

When he came awake again there was someone bending over

him. Walker saw the other through a haze of fever and pain, a

thin, sticklike figure in gray robes with a narrow face, a wispy

beard and hair, and a hawk nose, crouched close like something

that meant to suck away what life remained to him.

 

‘ ‘Walker?” the figure whispered gently.

 

It was Cogline. Walker swallowed against the dryness in his

throat and struggled to raise himself. The weight of his arm

dragged against hum, pulling him back, forcing nun down. The

old man’s hands groped beneath the concealing cloak and found

the leaden stump. Walker heard the sharp intake of his breath.

 

“How did you . . . find me?” he managed.

 

‘ ‘Allanon,” Cogline answered. His voice was rough and laced

with anger.

 

Walker sighed. “How long have I. . . ?”

 

“Three days. I don’t know why you’re still alive. You haven’t

any right to be.”

 

“None,” Walker agreed and reached out impulsively to hug

the other man close. The familiar feel and smell of the old man’s

body brought tears to his eyes. “I don’t think . . .I’m meant to

die … just yet.”

 

Cogline hugged Walker back. He said, “No, Walker. Not

yet.”

 

Then the old man was lifting him to his feet, hauling him up

with strength Walker hadn’t known he possessed, holding him

upright as he pointed them both toward the south end of the

valley. It was dawn again, the sunrise unclouded and brilliant

gold against the eastern horizon, the air still and expectant with

the promise of its coming.

 

“Hold on to me,” Cogline urged, walking him along the

crushed black rock. “There are horses waiting and help to be

had. Hold tight. Walker.”

 

Walker Boh held on for dear life.

 

Ill

 

Cogline took Walker Boh to Storlock. Even on horseback

with Walker lashed in place, it took until nightfall to

complete the journey. They came down out of the Dra-

gon’s Teeth into a day filled with sunshine and warmth, turned

east across the Rabb Plains, and made their way into the East-

land forests of the Central Anar to the legendary village of the

Stors. Wracked with pain and consumed with thoughts of dying,

Walker remained awake almost the entire time. Yet he was never

certain where he was or what was happening about him, con-

scious only of the swaying of his horse and Cogline’s constant

reassurance that all would be well.

 

He did not believe that Cogline was telling him the truth.

Storlock was silent, cool and dry in the shadow of the trees,

a haven from the swelter and dust of the plains. Hands reached

up to take Walker from the saddle, from the smell of sweat and

the rocking motion, and from the feeling that he must at any

moment give in to the death that was waiting to claim him. He

did not know why he was alive. He could give himself no reason.

White-robed figures gathered all around, supporting him, eas-

ing him down—Stors, the Gnome Healers of the Village. Every-

one knew of the Stors. Theirs was the most advanced source of

healing in the Four Lands. Wil Ohmsford had studied with them

once and become a healer, the only Southlander ever to do so.

Shea Ohmsford had been healed after an attack in the Wolfsk-

taag. Earlier, Par had been brought to them as well, infected by

the poison of the Werebeasts in Olden Moor. Walker had brought

him. Now it was Walker’s turn to be saved. But Walker did not

think that would happen.

 

A cup was raised to his lips, and a strange liquid trickled

down his throat. Almost immediately the pain eased, and he felt

 

16

 

The Druid of Shannara                              17

 

himself grow drowsy. Sleep would be good for him, he decided

suddenly, surprisingly. Sleep would be welcome. He was car-

ried into the Center House, the main care lodge, and placed in

a bed in one of the back rooms where the forest could be seen

through the weave of the curtains, a wall of dark trunks set at

watch. He wa^ stripped of his clothes, wrapped in blankets,

given something further to drink, a bitter, hot liquid, and left to

fall asleep.

 

He did so almost at once.

 

As he slept, the fever dissipated, and the weariness faded

away. The pain lingered, but it was distant somehow and not a

part of him. He sank down into the warmth and comfort of his

bedding, and even dreams could not penetrate the shield of his

rest. There were no visions to distress him, no dark thoughts to

bring him awake. Allanon and Cogline were forgotten. His an-

guish at the loss of his limb, his struggle to escape the Asphinx

and the Hall of Kings, and his terrifying sense of no longer being

in command of his own destiny—all were forgotten. He was at

peace.

 

He did not know how long he slept, for he was not conscious

of time passing, of the sweep of the sun across the sky, or of the

change from night to day and back again. When he began to

come awake once more, floating out of the darkness of his rest

through a worid of half-sleep, memories of his boyhood stirred

unexpectedly, small snatches of his life in the days when he was

first learning to cope with the frustration and wonder of discov-

ering who and what he was.

 

The memories were sharp and clear.

 

He was still a child when he first learned he had magic. He

didn’t call it magic then; he didn’t call it anything. He believed

such power common; he thought that he was like everyone else.

He lived then with his father Kenner and mother Risse at Hearth-

stone in Darklin Reach, and there were no other children to

whom he might compare himself. That came later. It was his

mother who told him that what he could do was unusual, that it

made him different from other children. He could still see her

face as she tried to explain, her small features intense, her white

skin striking against coal black hair that was always braided and

laced with flowers. He could still hear her low and compelling

voice. Risse. He had loved his mother deeply. She had not had

magic of her own; she was a Boh and the magic came from his

father’s side, from the Ohmsfords. She told him that, sitting him

down before her on a brilliant autumn day when the smell of

 

18                              The Druid of Shannara

 

dying leaves and burning wood filled the air, smiling and reas-

suring as she spoke, trying unsuccessfully to hide from him the

uneasiness she felt.

 

That was one of the things the magic let him do. It let him

see sometimes what others were feeling—not with everyone,

but almost always with his mother.

 

“Walker, the magic makes you special,” she said. “It is a

gift that you must care for and cherish. I know that someday

you are going to do something wonderful with it.”

 

She died a year later after falling ill to a fever for which even

her formidable healing skills could not find a cure.

 

He lived alone with his father then, and the “gift” with which

she had believed him blessed developed rapidly. The magic was

an enabler; it gave him insight. He discovered that frequently

he could sense things in people without being told—changes in

their mood and character, emotions they thought to keep secret,

their opinions and ideas, their needs and hopes, even the reasons

behind what they did. There were always visitors at Hearth-

stone—travelers passing through, peddlers, tradesmen, woods-

men, hunters, trappers, even Trackers—and Walker wpuld know

all about them without their having to say a word. He would tell

them so. He would reveal what he knew. It was a game that he

loved to play. It frightened some of them, and his father ordered

him to stop. Walker did as he was asked. By then he had dis-

covered a new and more interesting ability. He discovered that

he could communicate with the animals of the forest, with birds

and fish, even with plants. He could sense what they were think-

ing and feeling just as he could with humans, even though their

thoughts and feelings were more rudimentary and limited. He

would disappear for hours on excursions of learning, on make-

believe adventures, on journeys of testing and seeking out. He

designated himself early as an explorer of life.

 

As time passed, it became apparent that Walker’s special in-

sight was to help him with his schooling as well. He began

reading from his father’s library almost as soon as he learned

how the letters of the alphabet formed words on the fraying

pages of his father’s books. He mastered mathematics effort-

lessly. He understood sciences intuitively. Barely anything had

to be explained. Somehow he just seemed to understand how it

all worked. History became his special passion; his memory of

things, of places and events and people, was prodigious. He

began to keep notes of his own, to write down everything he

 

The Druid of Shannara                              19

 

learned, to compile teachings that he would someday impart to

others.

 

The older he grew, the more his father’s attitude toward him

seemed to change. He dismissed his suspicions at first, certain

that he was mistaken. But the feeling persisted. Finally he asked

his father about it, and Kenner—a tall, lean, quick-moving man

with wide, intelligent eyes, a stammer he had worked hard to

overcome, and a gift for craning—admitted it was true. Kenner

did not have magic of his own. He had evidenced traces of it

when he was young, but it had disappeared shortly after he had

passed out of boyhood. It had been like that with his father and

his father’s father before that and every Ohmsford he knew about

all the way back to Brin. But it did not appear to be that way

with Walker. Walker’s magic just seemed to grow stronger. Ken-

ner told him that he was afraid that his son’s abilities would

eventually overwhelm him, that they would develop to a point

where he could no longer anticipate or control their effects. But

he said as well, just as Risse had said, that they should not be

suppressed, that magic was a gift that always had some special

purpose in being.

 

Shortly after, he told Walker of the history behind the Ohms-

ford magic, of the Druid Allanon and the Valegirl Brin, and of

the mysterious trust that the former in dying had bequeathed to

the latter. Walker had been twelve when he heard the tale. He

had wanted to know what the trust was supposed to be. His

father hadn’t been able to tell him. He had only been able to

relate the history of its passage through the Ohmsford bloodline.

 

“It manifests itself in you. Walker,” he said. “You in turn

will pass it on to your children, and they to theirs, until one day

there is need for it. That is the legacy you have inherited.”

 

“But what good is a legacy that serves no purpose?” Walker

had demanded.

 

And Kenner had repeated, “There is always purpose in

magic—even when we don’t understand what it is.”

 

Barely a year later, as Walker was entering his youth and

leaving his childhood behind, the magic revealed that it pos-

sessed another, darker side. Walker found out that it could be

destructive. Sometimes, most often when he was angry, his

emotions transformed themselves into energy. When that hap-

pened, he could move things away and break them apart without

touching them. Sometimes he could summon a form of fire. It

wasn’t ordinary fire; it didn’t burn like ordinary fire and it was

different in color, a sort of cobalt. It wouldn’t do much of what

 

20

 

The Druid of Shannara

 

he tried to make it do; it did pretty much what it wished. It took

him weeks to learn to control it. He tried to keep his discovery

a secret from his father, but his father learned of it anyway, just

as he eventually learned of everything about his son. Though he

said little, Walker felt the distance between them widen.

 

Walker was nearing manhood when his father made the de-

cision to take him out of Hearthstone. Kenner Ohmsford’s health

had been failing steadily for several years, his once strong body

afflicted by a wasting sickness. Closing down the cottage that

had been Walker’s home since birth, he took the boy to Shady

Vale to live with another family of Ohmsfords, Jaralan and Mir-

ianna and their sons Par and Coll.

 

The move became for Walker Boh the worst thing that had

ever happened to him. Shady Vale, though little more than a

hamlet community, nevertheless seemed constricting after

Hearthstone. Freedom there had been boundless; here, there

were boundaries that he could not escape. Walker was not used

to being around so many people and he could not seem to make

himself fit in. He was required to attend school, but there was.

nothing for him to learn. His master and the other children dis-

liked and mistrusted him; he was an outsider, he behaved dif-

ferently than they, he knew entirely too much, and they quickly

decided that they wanted nothing to do with him. His magic

became a snare he could not escape. It manifested itself in ev-

erything he did, and by the time he realized he should have

hidden it away it was too late to do so. He was beaten a number

of times because he wouldn’t defend himself. He was terrified

of what would happen if he let the fire escape.

 

He was in the village less than a year when his father died.

Walker had wished that he could die, too.

 

He continued to live with Jaralan and Mirianna Ohmsford,

who were good to him and who sympathized with the difficulties

he was encountering because their own son Par was just begin-

ning to exhibit signs of having magic of his own. Par was a

descendent of Jair Ohmsford, Brin’s brother. Both sides of the

family had passed the magic of their ancestors down through

the bloodline in the years since Allanon’s death, so the appear-

ance of Par’s magic was not entirely unexpected. Par’s was a

less unpredictable and complicated form of magic, manifesting

itself principally in the boy’s ability to create lifelike images with

his voice. Par was still little then, just five or six, and he barely

understood what was happening to him. Coil was not yet strong

enough to protect his brother, so Walker ended up taking the

 

The Druid of Shannara                              21

 

boy under his wing. It seemed natural enough to do so. After

all, only Walker understood what Par was experiencing.

 

His relationship with Par changed everything. It gave him

something to focus on, a purpose beyond worrying about his

own survival. He spent time with Par helping him adjust to the

presence of the magic in his body. He counseled him in its use,

advised him in the cautions that were necessary, the protective

devices he must learn to employ. He tried to teach him how to

deal with the fear and dislike of people who would choose not

to understand. He became Par’s mentor.

 

The people of Shady Vale began calling him ‘ ‘Dark Uncle.”

It began with the children. He wasn’t Par’s uncle, of course; he

wasn’t anybody’s uncle. But he hadn’t a firm blood tie in the

eyes of the villagers; no one really understood the relationship

he bore to Jaralan and Mirianna, so there were no constrictions

on how they might refer to him. “Dark Uncle” became the

appellation that stuck. Walker was tall by then, pale skinned and

black haired like his mother, apparently immune to the brown-

ing effect of the sun. He looked ghostly. It seemed to the Vale

children as if he were a night thing that never saw the light of

day, and his relationship toward the boy Par appeared mysteri-

ous to them. Thus he became “Dark Uncle,” the counselor of

magic, the strange, awkward, withdrawn young man whose in-

sights and comprehensions set him apart from everyone.

 

Nevertheless, the name “Dark Uncle” notwithstanding,

Walker’s attitude improved. He began to learn how to deal with

the suspicion and mistrust. He was no longer attacked. He found

that he could turn aside these assaults with not much more than

a glance or even the set of his body. He could use the magic to

shield himself. He found he could project wariness and caution

into others and prevent them from following through on their

violent intentions. He even became rather good at stopping fights

among others. Unfortunately, all this did was distance him fur-

ther. The adults and older youths left him alone altogether; only

the younger children turned cautiously friendly.

 

Walker was never happy in Shady Vale. The mistrust and the

fear remained, concealed just beneath the forced smiles, the

perfunctory nods, and the civilities of the villagers that allowed

him to exist among them but never gain acceptance. Walker

knew that the magic was the cause of his problem. His mother

and father might have thought of it as a gift, but he didn’t. And

he never would again. It was a curse that he felt certain would

haunt him to the grave.

 

22                              The Druid of Shannara

 

By the time he reached manhood. Walker had resolved to

return to Hearthstone, to the home he remembered so fondly,

away from the people of the Vale, from their mistrust and sus-

picion, from the strangeness they caused him to feel. The boy

Par had adjusted well enough that Walker no longer felt con-

cerned about him. To begin with, Par was a native of the Vale

and accepted in a way that Walker never could be. Moreover,

his attitude toward using magic was far different than Walker’s.

Par was never hesitant; he wanted to know everything the magic

could do. What others thought did not concern him. He could

get away with that; Walker never could. The two had begun to

grow apart as they grew older. Walker knew it was inevitable.

It was time for him to go. Jaralan and Mirianna urged him to

stay, but understood at the same time that he could not.

 

Seven years after his arrival, Walker Boh departed Shady Vale.

He had taken his mother’s name by then, disdaining further use

of Ohmsford because it linked him so closely with the legacy of

magic he now despised. He went back into Darklin Reach, back

to Hearthstone, feeling as if he were a caged wild animal that

had been set free. He severed his ties with the life he had left

behind him. He resolved that he would never again use the

magic. He promised himself that he would keep apart from the

world of men for the rest of his life.

 

For almost a year he did exactly as he said he would do. And

then Cogline appeared and everything changed . . .

 

Half-sleep turned abruptly to waking, and Walker’s memories

faded away. He stirred in the warmth of his bed, and his eyes

blinked open. For a moment he could not decide where he was.

The room in which he lay was bright with daylight despite the

brooding presence of a cluster of forest trees directly outside his

curtained window. The room was small, clean, almost bare of

furniture. There were a sitting chair and a small table next to

his bed, the bed, and nothing else. A vase of flowers, a basin

of water, and some cloths sat on the table. The single door

leading into the room stood closed.

 

Storlock. That was where he was, where Cogline had brought

 

him.

 

He remembered then what had happened to bring him here.

Cautiously, he brought his ruined arm out from beneath the

bedding. There was little pain now, but the heaviness of the

stone persisted and there was no feeling. He bit his lip in anger

and frustration as his arm worked free. Nothing had changed

beyond the lessening of the pain. The stone tip where the lower

 

The Druid of Shannara                              23

 

arm had shattered was still there. The streaks of gray where the

poison worked its way upward toward his shoulder were there

as well.

 

He slipped his arm from view again. The Stors had been

unable to cure him. Whatever the nature of the poison that the

Asphinx had injected into him, the Stors could not treat it. And

if the Stors could not treat it—the Stors, who were the best of

the Four Lands’ Healers . . .

 

He could not finish the thought. He shoved it away, closed

his eyes, tried to go back to sleep, and failed. All he could see

was his arm shattering under the impact of the stone wedge.

 

Despair washed over him and he wept.

 

An hour had passed when the door opened and Cogline en-

tered the room, an intrusive presence that made the silence seem

even more uncomfortable.

 

“Walker,” he greeted quietly.

 

“They cannot save me, can they?” Walker asked bluntly, the

despair pushing everything else aside.

 

The old man became a statue at his bedside. “You’re alive,

aren’t you?” he replied.

 

“Don’t play word games with me. Whatever’s been done, it

hasn’t driven out the poison. I can feel it. I may be alive, but

only for the moment. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

 

Cogline paused. “You’re not wrong. The poison is still in

you. Even the Stors haven’t the means to remove it or to stop its

spread. But they have slowed the process, lessened the pain, and

given you time. That is more than I would have expected given

the nature and extent of the injury. How do you feel?”

 

Walker’s smile was slow and bitter. “Like I am dying, natu-

rally. But in a comfortable fashion.”

 

They regarded each other without speaking for a moment.

Then Cogline moved over to the sitting chair and eased himself

into it, a bundle of old bones and aching joints, of wrinkled

brown skin. “Tell me what happened to you. Walker,” he said.

 

Walker did. He told of reading the ancient, leatherbound

Druid History that Cogline had brought to him and learning of

the Black Elfstone, of deciding to seek the counsel of the Grim-

pond, of hearing its riddles and witnessing its visions, of deter-

mining that he must go to the Hall of Kings, of finding the secret

compartment marked with runes in the floor of the Tomb, and

finally of being bitten and poisoned by the Asphinx left there to

snare him.

 

24

 

The Druid of Shannam

 

“To snare someone at least, perhaps anyone,” Cogline ob-

served.

 

Walker looked at him sharply, anger and mistrust flaring in

 

his dark eyes. “What do you know of this, Cogline? Do you

play the same games as the Druids now? And what of AUanon?

 

Did Allanon know …”

 

“Allanon knew nothing,” Cogline interrupted, brushing

 

aside the accusation before it could be completed. The old eyes

glittered beneath narrowed brows. “You undertook to solve the

Grimpond’s riddles on your own—a foolish decision on your

part. I warned you repeatedly that the wraith would find a way

to undo you. How could Allanon know of your predicament?

You attribute far too much to a man three-hundred-years dead.

Even if he were still alive, his magic could never penetrate that

which shrouds the Hall of Kings. Once you were within, you

were lost to him. And to me. It wasn’t’until you emerged again

and collapsed at the Hadeshom that he was able to discover what

happened and summon me to help you. I came as quickly as I

could and even so it took me three days.”

 

One hand lifted, a sticklike finger jabbing. “Have you both-

ered to question why it is that you aren’t dead? It is because

Allanon found a way to keep you alive, first until I arrived and

second until the Stors could treat you! Think on that a bit before

you start casting blame about so freely!”

 

He glared, and Walker glared back at him. It was Walker who

looked away first, too sick at heart to continue the confrontation.

“I have trouble believing anyone just at the moment,” he of-

fered lamely..

 

“You have trouble believing anyone at any time,” Cogline

 

snapped, unappeased. “You cast your heart in iron long ago,

Walker. You stopped believing in anything. I remember when

 

that wasn’t so.”

 

He trailed off, and the room went silent. Walker found him-

self thinking momentarily of the time the old man referred to,

the time when he had first come to Walker and offered to show

him me ways in which the magic could be used. Cogline was

right. He hadn’t been so bitter then; he’d been full of hope.

He almost laughed. That was such a long time ago.

“Perhaps I can use my own magic to dispel the poison from

my body,” he ventured quietly. “Once I return to Hearthstone,

once I’m fully rested. Brin Ohmsford had such power once.”

Cogline dropped his eyes and looked thoughtful. His gnarled

 

The Druid of Shannam                             25

 

hands clasped loosely in the folds of his robe. It appeared as if

he were trying to decide something.

 

Walker waited a moment, then asked,’ ‘What has become of

the others—of Par and Coil and Wren?”

 

Cogline kept his gaze lowered. “Par has gone in search of

the Sword, young Coil with him. The Rover girl seeks the Elves.

They’ve accepted the charges Allanon gave to them.” He looked

up again. “Have you, Walker?”

 

Walker stared at him, finding the question both absurd and

troubling, torn between conflicting feelings of disbelief and un-

certainty. Once he would not have hesitated to give his answer.

He thought again of what Allanon had asked him to do: Bring

back disappeared Paranor and restore the Druids. A ridiculous,

impossible undertaking, he had thought at the time. Game play-

ing, he had decried. He would not be a part of such foolishness,

he had announced to Par, Coil, Wren, and the others of the little

company that had come with him to the Valley of Shale. He

despised the Druids for their manipulation of the Ohmsfords.

He would not be made their puppet. So bold he had been, so

certain. He would sooner cut off his hand than see the Druids

come again, he had declared.

 

And the loss of his hand was the price that had been exacted,

it seemed.

 

Yet had that loss truly put an end to any possibility of the

return of Paranor and the Druids? More to the point, was that

what he now intended?

 

He was conscious of Cogline watching him, impatient as he

waited for Walker Boh’s answer to his question. Walker kept his

eyes fixed on the old man without seeing him. He was thinking

suddenly of the Druid History and its tale of the Black Elfstone.

If he had not gone in search of the Elfstone, he would not have

lost his arm. Why had he gone? Curiosity, he had thought. But

that was a simplistic answer and he knew it was given too easily.

In any case, didn’t the very fact of his going indicate that despite

any protestations to the contrary he indeed had accepted Alla-

non’s charge?

 

If not, what was it that he was doing?

 

He focused again on the old man. “Tell me something, Cog-

line. Where did you get that book of the Druid Histories? How

did you find it? You said when you brought it to me that you got

it out of Paranor. Surely not.”

 

Cogline’s smile was faint and ironic. “Why ‘surely not,’

Walker?”

 

26                              The Druid of Shannara

 

“Because Paranor was sent out of the world of men by Al-

lanon three hundred years ago. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

 

Cogline’s face crinkled like crushed parchment. “Doesn’t

exist? Oh, but it does. Walker. And you’re wrong. Anyone can

reach it if they have the right magic to help them. Even you.”

 

Walker hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

 

“Allanon sent Paranor out of the world of the men, but it still

exists,” Cogline said softly. “It needs only the magic of the

Black Elfstone to summon it back again. Until then, it remains

lost to the Four Lands. But it can still be entered by those who

have the means to do so and the courage to try. It does require

courage, Walker. Shall I tell you why? Would you like to hear

the story behind my journey into Paranor?”

 

Walker hesitated again, wondering if he wanted to hear any-

thing ever again about the Druids and their magic. Then he

 

nodded slowly. “Yes.”

 

“But you are prepared to disbelieve what I am going to tell

 

you, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

The old man leaned forward. “Tell you what. I’ll let you

 

judge for yourself.”

 

He paused, gathering his thoughts. Daylight framed him in

 

brightness, exposing the flaws of old age that etched his thin

frame in lines and hollows, that left his hair and beard wispy

and thin, and that gave his hands a tremulous appearance as he

 

clasped them tightly before him.

 

“It was after your meeting with Allanon. He sensed, and I

as well, that you would not accept the charge you had been

given, that you would resist any sort of involvement without

further evidence of the possibility that you might succeed. And

that there was reason to want to. You differ in your attitude from

the others—you doubt everything that you are told. You came to

Allanon already planning to reject what you would hear.”

 

Walker started to protest, but Cogline held up his hands

quickly and shook his head. “No, Walker. Don’t argue. I know

you better than you know yourself. Just listen to me for now. I

went north on Allanon’s summons, seeming to disappear, leav-

ing you to debate among yourselves what course of action you

would follow. Your decision in the matter was a foregone con-

clusion. You would not do as you had been asked. Since that

was so, I resolved to try to change your mind. You see, Walker,

I believe in the dreams; I see the truth in them that you as yet

do not. I would not be a messenger for Allanon if there were

 

The Druid of Shannara                              27

 

any way to avoid it. My time as a Druid passed away long ago,

and I do not seek to return to what was. But I am all there is

and since that is so I will do what I think necessary. Dissuading

you from refusing to involve yourself in the matter at hand is

something I deem vital.”

 

He was shaking with the conviction of his words and the look

he extended Walker was one that sought to convey truths that

the old man could not speak.

 

“I went north, Walker, as I said. I traveled out of the Valley

of Shale and across the Dragon’s Teeth to the valley of the Druid’s

Keep. Nothing remains of Paranor but a few crumbling out-

buildings on a barren height. The forests still surround the spot

on which it once stood, but nothing will grow upon the earth,

not even the smallest blade of grass. The wall of thorns that

once protected the Keep is gone. Everything has disappeared—

as if some giant reached down and snatched it all away.

 

“I stood there, near twilight, looking at the emptiness, en-

visioning what had once been. I could sense the presence of the

Keep. I could almost see it looming out of the shadows, rising

up against the darkening eastern skies. I could almost define the

shape of its stone towers and parapets. I waited, for Allanon

knew what was needed and would tell me when it was time.”

 

The old eyes gazed off into space. ‘ ‘I slept when I grew tired,

and Allanon came to me in my dreams as he now does with all

of us. He told me that Paranor was indeed still there, cast away

by magic into a different place and time, yet there nevertheless.

He asked me if I would enter and bring out from it a certain

volume of the Druid Histories which would describe the means

by which Paranor could be restored to the Four Lands. He asked

if I would take that book to you.” He hesitated, poised to reveal

something more, then simply said, “I agreed.

 

‘ ‘He reached out to me then and took my hand. He lifted me

away from myself, my spirit out of my body. He cloaked me in

his magic. I became momentarily something other than the man

I am—but I don’t know even now what that something was. He

told me what I must do. I walked alone then to where the walls

of the Keep had once stood, closed my eyes so that they would

not deceive me, and reached out into worlds that lie beyond our

own for the shape of what had once been. I found that I could

do that. Imagine my astonishment when Paranor’s walls mate-

rialized suddenly beneath my fingers. I risked taking a quick

look at them, but when I did so there was nothing to see. I was

forced to begin again. Even as a spirit I could not penetrate the

 

28                              The Druid of Shannara

 

magic if I violated its rules. I kept my eyes closed tightly this

time, searched out the walls anew, discovered the hidden trap-

door concealed in the base of the Keep, pushed the catch that

 

would release the locks, and entered.”

 

Cogline’s mouth tightened. “I was allowed to open my eyes

then and look around. Walker, it was the Paranor of old, a great

sprawling castle with towers that rose into clouds of ancient

brume and battlements that stretched away forever. It seemed

endless to me as I climbed its stairs and wandered its halls; I

was like a rat in a maze. The castle was filled with the smell

and taste of death. The air had a strange greenish cast; every-

thing was swathed in it. Had I attempted to enter in my flesh-

and-blood body, I would have been destroyed instantly; I could

sense the magic still at work, scouring the rock corridors for

any signs of life. The furnaces that had once been fueled by the

fire at the earth’s core were still, and Paranor was cold and

lifeless. When I gained the upper halls I found piles of bones,

grotesque and misshapen, the remains of the Mord Wraiths and

Gnomes that Allanon had trapped there when he had summoned

the magic to destroy Paranor. Nothing was alive in the Druid’s

 

Keep save myself.”

 

He was silent for a moment as if remembering. ‘ ‘I sought out

 

the vault in which the Druid Histories were concealed. I had a

sense of where it was, quickened in part by the days in which I

studied at Paranor, in part by Allanon’s magic. I searched out

the library through which the vault could be entered, finding as

I did so that I could touch things as if I were still a creature of

substance and not of spirit. I felt along the dusty, worn edges of

the bookshelves until I found the catches that released the doors

leading in. They swung wide, and the magic gave way before

me. I entered, discovered the Druid Histories revealed, and took

from its resting place the one that was needed.”

 

Cogline’s eyes strayed off across the sunlit room, seeking

visions that were hidden from Walker. “I left then. I went back

the same way as I had come, a ghost out of the past as much

as those who had died there, feeling the chill of their deaths and

the immediacy of my own. I passed down the stairwells and

corridors in a half-sleep that let me feel as well as see the horror

of what now held sway in the castle of the Druids. Such power,

Walker! The magic that Allanon summoned was frightening

even yet. I fled from it as I departed—not on foot, you under-

stand, but in my mind. I was terrified!”

 

The eyes swung back. “So I escaped. And when I woke, I

 

The Druid of Shannara            ,                 29

 

had in my possession the book that I had been sent to recover

and I took it then to you.”

 

He went silent, waiting patiently as Walker considered his

story. Walker’s eyes were distant. “It can be done then? Paranor

can be entered even though it no longer exists in the Pour

Lands?”

 

Cogline shook his head slowly. “Not by ordinary men.” His

brow furrowed. “Perhaps by you, though. With the magic of

the Black Elfstone to help you.”

 

“Perhaps,” Walker agreed dully. “What magic does the Elf-

stone possess?”

 

“I know nothing more of it than you,” Cogline answered

quietly.

 

“Not even where it can be found? Or who has it?”

 

Cogline shook his head. “Nothing.”

 

“Nothing.” Walker’s voice was edged with bitterness. He let

his eyes close momentarily against what he was feeling. When

they opened, they were resigned. “This is my perception of

things. You expect me to accept Allanon’s charge to recover

disappeared Paranor and restore the Druids. I can only do this

by first recovering the Black Elfstone. But neither you nor I

know where the Elfstone is or who has it. And I am infected

with the poison of the Asphinx; I am being turned slowly to

stone. I am dying! Even if I were persuaded to . . .” His voice

caught, and he shook his head. “Don’t you see? There isn’t

enough time!”

 

Cogline looked out the window, hunching down into his

robes. “And if there were?”

 

Walker’s laugh was hollow, his voice weary. “Cogline, I don’t

know.”

 

The old man rose. He looked down at Walker for a long time

without speaking. Then he said, “Yes, you do.” His hands

clasped tightly before him. “Walker, you persist in your refusal

to accept the truth of what is meant to be. You recognize that

truth deep in your heart, but you will not heed it. Why is that?”

 

Walker stared back at him wordlessly.

 

Cogline shrugged. “I have nothing more to say. Rest, Walker.

You will be well enough in a day or two to leave. The Stors have

done all they can; your healing, if it is to be, must come from

another source. I will take you back to Hearthstone.”

 

“I will heal myself,” Walker whispered. His voice was sud-

denly urgent, rife with both desperation and anger.

 

30                              The Druid of Shannara

 

Cogline did not respond. He simply gathered up his robes

and walked from the room. The door closed quietly behind him.

‘ ‘I will,” Walker Boh swore.

 

IV

 

It took Morgan Leah the better part of three days after part-

ing with Padishar Creel and the survivors of the Movement

to travel south from the empty stretches of the Dragon’s

Teeth to the forest-sheltered Dwarf community of Culhaven.

Storms swept the mountains during the first day, washing the

ridgelines and slopes with torrents of rain, leaving the trail-

ways sodden and slick with the damp, and wrapping the whole

of the land in gray clouds and mist. By the second day the

storms had passed away, and sunshine had begun to break

through the clouds and the earth to dry out again. The third

day brought a return of summer, the air warm and fragrant

with the smell of flowers and grasses, the countryside bright

with colors beneath a clear, windswept sky, the slow, lazy

sounds of the wild things rising up from the pockets of shelter

 

where they made their home.

 

Morgan’s mood improved with the weather. He had been

disheartened when he had set out. Steff was dead, killed in the

catacombs of the Jut, and Morgan was burdened with a lingering

sense of guilt rooted in his unfounded but persistent belief that

he could have done something to prevent it. He didn’t know

what, of course. It was Teel who had killed Steff, who had al-

most killed him as well. Neither Steff nor he had known until

the very last that Teel was something other than what she ap-

peared, that she was not the girl the Dwarf had fallen in love

with but a Shadowen whose sole purpose in coming with them

into the mountains was to see them destroyed. Morgan had sus-

pected what she was, yet lacked any real proof that his suspi-

 

The Druid of Shannara                               31

 

cions were correct until the moment she had revealed herself

and by then it was too late. His friends the Valemen, Par and

Coil Ohmsford, had disappeared after escaping the horrors of

the Pit in Tyrsis and not been seen since. The Jut, the stronghold

of the members of the Movement, had fallen to the armies of

the Federation, and Padishar Creel and his outlaws had been

chased north into the mountains. The Sword of Shannara, which

was what all of them had come looking for in the first place, was

still missing. Weeks of seeking out the talisman, of scrambling

to unlock the puzzle of its hiding place, of hair-raising confron-

tations with and escapes from the Federation and the Shadowen,

and of repeated frustration and disappointment, had come to

nothing.

 

But Morgan Leah was resilient and after a day or so of brood-

ing about what was past and could not be changed his spirits

began to lift once more. After all, he was something of a veteran

now in the struggle against the oppressors of his homeland.

Before, he had been little more than an irritant to that handful.

of Federation officials who governed the affairs of the High-

lands, and in truth he had never done anything that affected the

outcome of larger events in the Four Lands. His risk had been

minimal and the results of his endeavors equally so. But that

had all changed, hi the past few weeks he had journeyed to the

Hadeshom to meet with the shade of Allanon, he had joined in

the quest for the missing Sword of Shannara, he had battled both

Shadowen and Federation, and he had saved the lives of Padishar

Creel and his outlaws by warning them of Teel before she could

betray them one final time. He knew he had done something at

last that had value and meaning.

 

And he was about to do something more.

 

He had made Steff a promise. As his friend lay dying, Morgan

had sworn that he would go to Culhaven to the orphanage where

Steff had been raised and warn Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt that

they were in danger. Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt—the only

parents Steff had ever known, the only kindred he was leaving—

were not to be abandoned. If Teel had betrayed Steff, she would

have betrayed them as well. Morgan was to help them get safely

away.

 

It gave the Highlander a renewed sense of purpose, and that

as much as anything helped bring him out of his depression. He

had begun his journey disenchanted. He had lagged in his travel,

bogged down by the weather and his mood. By the third day he

had shaken the effects of both. His resolution buoyed him. He

 

32                              The Druid of Shannara

 

would spirit Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt out of Culhaven to

somewhere safe. He would return to Tyrsis and find the Vale-

men. He would continue to search for the missing Sword of

Shannara. He would find a way to rid Lean and the whole of the

Four Lands of both Shadowen and Federation. He was alive and

everything was possible. He whistled and hummed as he walked,

let the sun’s rays warm his face, and banished self-doubt and

discouragement. It was time to get on with things.

 

Now and again as he walked his thoughts strayed to the lost

magic of the Sword of Leah. He still wore the remains of the

shattered blade strapped to his waist, cradled in the makeshift

sheath he had constructed for it. He thought of the power it had

given him and the way the absence of that power made him

feel—as if he could never be whole again without it. Yet some

small part of the magic still lingered in the weapon; he had

managed to call it to life in the catacombs of the Jut when he

destroyed Teel. There had been just enough left to save his life.

 

Deep inside, where he could hide it and not be forced to admit

the implausibility of it, he harbored a belief that one day the

magic of the Sword of Leah would be his again.

 

It was late afternoon on that third day of travel when he

emerged from the forests of the Anar into Culhaven. The Dwarf

village was shabby and worn where he walked, the refuge of

those now too old and as yet too young who had not been taken

by the Federation authorities to the mines or sold as slaves in

the market. Once among the most meticulously maintained of

communities, Culhaven was now a dilapidated collection of

buildings and people that evidenced little of care or love. The

forest grew right up against the outermost buildings, weeds in-

truding into yards and gardens, roadways rutted and choked

with scrub. Wooden walls warped under peeling paint, tiles and

shingles cracked and splintered, and trim about doorways and

windows drooped away. Eyes peered out through the shadows,

following after the Highlander as he made his way in; he could

sense the people staring from behind windows and doors. The

few Dwarves he encountered would not meet his gaze, turning

quickly away. He walked on without slowing, his anger rekin-

dled anew at the thought of what had been done to these people.

Everything had been taken from them but their lives, and their

lives had been brought to nothing.

 

He pondered anew, as Par Ohmsford had done when last they

were there, at the purpose of it.

 

He kept clear of the main roads, staying on the side paths,

 

The Druid of Shannara                              33

 

not anxious to draw attention to himself. He was a Southlander

and therefore free to come and go in the Eastland as he pleased,

but he did not identify in any way with its Federation occupiers

and preferred to stay clear of them altogether. Even if none of

what had happened to the Dwarves was his doing, what he saw

of Culhaven made him ashamed all over again of who and what

he was. A Federation patrol passed him and the soldiers nodded

cordially. It was all he could do to make himself nod back.

 

As he drew nearer to the orphanage, his anticipation of what

he would find heightened perceptibly. Anxiety warred with con-

fidence. What if he were too late? He brushed the possibility

away. There was no reason to think that he was. Teel would not

have risked jeopardizing her disguise by acting precipitately. She

would have waited until she was certain it would not have mat-

tered.

 

Shadows began to lengthen as the sun disappeared into the

trees west. The air cooled and the sweat on Morgan’s back dried

beneath his tunic. The day’s sounds began to fade away into an

expectant hush. Morgan looked down at his hands, fixing his

gaze on the irregular patchwork of white scars that crisscrossed

the brown skin. Battle wounds were all over his body since

Tyrsis and the Jut. He tightened the muscles of his jaw. Small

things, he thought. The ones inside him were deeper.

 

He caught sight of a Dwarf child looking at him from behind

a low stone wall with intense black eyes. He couldn’t tell if it

was a girl or a boy. The child was very thin and ragged. The

eyes followed him a moment, then disappeared.

 

Morgan moved ahead hurriedly, anxious once more. He

caught sight of the roof of the orphanage, the first of its walls,

a window high up, a gable. He rounded a bend in the roadway

and slowed. He knew instantly that something was wrong. The

yard of the orphanage was empty. The grass was untended.

There were no toys, no children. He fought back against the

panic that rose suddenly within him. The windows of the old

building were dark. There was no sign of anyone.

 

He came up to the gate at the front of the yard and

paused. Everything was still.

 

He had assumed wrong. He was too late after all.

 

He started forward, then stopped. His eyes swept the darkness

of the old house, wondering if he might be walking into some

sort of trap. He stood there a long time, watching. But there

was no sign of anyone. And no reason for anyone to be waiting

here for him, he decided.

 

34                              The Druid of Shannara

 

He pushed through the gate, walked up on the porch, and

pushed open the front door. It was dark inside, and he took a

moment to let his eyes adjust. When they had done so, he en-

tered. He passed slowly through the building, searched each of

its rooms in turn, and came back out again. There was dust on

everything. It had been some time since anyone had lived there.

Certainly no one was living there now.

 

So what had become of the two old Dwarf ladies?

He sat down on the porch steps and let his tall form slump

back against the railing. The Federation had them. There wasn’t

any other explanation. Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt would never

leave their home unless they were forced to. And they would

never abandon the children they cared for. Besides, all of their

clothes were still in the chests and closets, the children’s toys,

the bedding, everything. He had seen it in his search. The house

wasn’t closed up properly. Too much was in disarray. Nothing

was as it would have been if the old ladies had been given a

 

choice.

 

Bitterness flooded through him. Steff had depended on him;

 

he couldn’t quit now. He had to find Granny and Auntie. But

where? And who in Culhaven would tell him what he needed to

know? No one who knew anything, he suspected. The Dwarves

surely wouldn’t trust him—not a Southlander. He could ask until

the sun rose in the west and set in the east.

 

He sat there thinking a long time, the daylight fading into

dusk. After a while, he became aware of a small child looking

at him through the front gate—the same child who had been

watching him up the road. A boy, he decided this time. He let

the boy watch him until they were comfortable with each other,

then said, “Can you tell me what happened to the ladies who

 

lived here?”

 

The boy disappeared instantly. He was gone so fast that it

 

seemed as if the earth must have swallowed him up. Morgan

sighed. He should have expected as much. He straightened his

legs. He would have to devise a way to extract the information

he needed from the Federation authorities. That would be dan-

gerous, especially if Teel had told them about him as well as

Granny and Auntie—and there was no reason now to believe

that she hadn’t. She must have given the old ladies up even

before the company began its journey north to Darklin Reach.

The Federation must have come for Granny and Auntie the mo-

ment Teel was safely beyond the village. Teel hadn’t worried

 

The Druid of Shannara                              35

 

that Steff or Morgan or the Valemen would find out; after all,

they would all be dead before it mattered.

 

Morgan wanted to hit something or someone. Teel had be-

trayed them all. Par and Coil were lost. StefF was dead. And

now these two old ladies who had never hurt anyone . . .

 

“Hey, mister,” a voice called.

 

He looked up sharply. The boy was back at the gate. An older

boy stood next to him. It was the second boy who spoke, a hefty

fellow with a shock of spiked red hair.’ ‘Federation soldiers took

the old ladies away to the workhouses several weeks ago. No

one lives here now.”

 

Then they were gone, disappeared as completely as before.

Morgan stared after them. Was the boy telling him the truth?

The Highlander decided he was. Well and good. Now he had a

little something to work with. He had a place to start looking.

 

He came to his feet, went back down the pathway, and out

the gate. He followed the rutted road as it wound through the

twilight toward the center of the village. Houses began to give

way to shops and markets, and the road broadened and split in

several directions. Morgan skirted the hub of the business dis-

trict, watching as the light faded from the sky and the stars

appeared. Torchlight brightened the main thoroughfare but was

absent from the roads and paths he followed. Voices whispered

in the stillness, vague sounds that lacked meaning and defini-

tion, hushed as if the speakers feared being understood. The

houses changed character, becoming well tended and neat, the

yards trimmed and nourished. Federation houses, Morgan

thought—stolen from Dwarves—tended by the victims. He kept

his bitterness at bay, concentrating on the task ahead. He knew

where the workhouses were and what they were intended to

accomplish. The women sent there were too old to be sold as

personal slaves, yet strong enough to do menial work such as

washing and sewing and the like. The women were assigned to

the Federation barracks at large and made to serve the needs of

the garrison. If that boy had been telling the truth, that was what

Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt would be doing.

 

Morgan reached the workhouses several minutes later. There

were five of them, a series of long, low buildings that ran parallel

to each other with windows on both sides and doors at both

ends. The women who worked them lived in them as well. Pal-

lets, blankets, washbasins, and chamberpots were provided and

pulled out from under the workbenches at night. Steff had taken

 

36                              The Druid of Shannara

 

Morgan up to a window once to let him peer inside. Once had

 

been quite enough.

 

Morgan stood in the shadows of a storage shed across the way

 

for long moments, thinking through what he would do. Guards

stood at all the entrances and patroled the roadways and lanes.

The women in the workhouses were prisoners. They were not

permitted to leave their buildings for any reason short of sick-

ness or death or some more benevolent form of release—and the

latter almost never occurred. They were permitted visitors in-

frequently and then closely watched. Morgan couldn’t remem-

ber when it was that visits were permitted. Besides, it didn’t

matter. It infuriated him to think of Granny Elise and Auntie

Jilt being kept in such a place. Steff would not have waited to

 

free them, and neither would he.

 

But how was he going to get in? And how was he going to

 

get Granny and Auntie out once he did?

 

The problem defeated him. There was no way to approach

the workhouses without being seen and no way to know in which

of the five workhouses the old ladies were being kept in any

case. He needed to know a great deal more than he did now

before he could even think of attempting any rescue. Not for the

first time since he had left the Dragon’s Teeth, he wished Steff

 

were there to advise him.

 

At last he gave it up. He walked down into the center of the

village, took a room at one of the inns that catered to Southland

traders and businessmen, took a bath to wash off the grime,

washed his clothes as well, and went off to bed. He lay awake

thinking about Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt until sleep finally

 

overcame him.

 

When he awoke the following morning he knew what he

 

needed to do to rescue them.

 

He dressed, ate breakfast in the inn dining room, and set out.

What he was planning was risky, but there was no help for it.

Aftet making a few inquiries, he discovered the names of the

taverns most frequented by Federation soldiers. There were three

of them, and all were situated on the same street close to the

city markets. He walked until he found them, picked the most

likely—a dimly lit hall called the High Boot—entered, found a

table close to the serving bar, ordered a glass of ale, and waited.

Although the day was still young there were soldiers drifting in

already, men from the night shift not yet ready for bed. They

were quick to talk about garrison life and not much concerned

with who might be listening. Morgan listened closely. From

 

The Druid of Shannara

 

37

 

time to time he looked up long enough to ask a friendly ques-

tion. Occasionally he commented. Once in a while he bought a

glass for someone. Mostly he waited.

 

Much of the talk revolved around a girl who was rumored to

be the daughter of the King of the Silver River. She had appeared

rather mysteriously out of the Silver River country south and

west below the Rainbow Lake and was making her way east.

Wherever she went, in whatever villages and towns she passed

through, she performed miracles. There had never been such

magic, it was said. She was on her way now to Culhaven.

 

The balance of the tavern’s chatter revolved around com-

plaints about the way the Federation army was run by its offi-

cers. Since it was the common soldiers who were doing the

complaining, the nature of the talk was hardly surprising. This

was the part that Morgan was interested in hearing. The day

passed away in lazy fashion, sultry and still within the confines

of the hall with only the cold glasses of ale and the talk to relieve

the heat and boredom. Federation soldiers came and went, but

Morgan remained where he was, an almost invisible presence

as he sipped and watched. He had thought earlier to circulate

from one tavern to the next, but it quickly became apparent that

he would leam everything he needed to know by remaining at

the first.

 

By midaftemoon he had the information he needed. It was

time to act on it. He roused himself from his seat and walked

across the roadway to the second of the taverns, the Frog Pond,

an aptly named establishment if ever there was one. Seating

himself near the back at a green cloth table that sat amid the

shadows like a lily pad in a dark pool, he began looking for his

victim. He found him almost immediately, a man close to his

own size, a common soldier of no significant rank, drinking

alone, lost in some private musing that carried his head so far

downward it was almost touching the serving bar. An hour

passed, then two. Morgan waited patiently as the soldier fin-

ished his final glass, straightened, pushed away from the bar,

lurched out through the entry doors. Then he followed.

 

The day was mostly gone, the sun already slipping into the

trees of the surrounding forests, the daylight turning gray with

the approach of evening. The soldier shumed unsteadily down

the road through knots of fellow soldiers and visiting tradesmen,

making his way back to the barracks. Morgan knew where he

^s going and slipped ahead to cut him off. He intercepted him

as he came around a comer by a blacksmith’s shop, seeming to

 

38                              The Druid of Shannara

 

bump into him by accident but in fact striking him so hard that

the man was unconscious before he touched the ground. Morgan

let him fall, muttered in mock exasperation, then picked the

fellow up, hoisting him over one shoulder. The blacksmith and

his workers glanced over together with a few passersby, and

Morgan announced rather irritably that he supposed he would

have to carry the fellow back to his quarters. Then off he marched

 

in mock disgust.

 

He carried the unconscious soldier to a feed barn a few doors

down and slipped inside. No one saw them enter. There, in near

darkness, he stripped the man of his uniform, tied and gagged

him securely, and shoved him back behind a pile of oat sacks.

He donned the discarded uniform, brushed it out and straight-

ened its creases, stuffed his own clothes in a sack he had brought,

strapped on his weapons, and emerged once more into the light.

 

He moved quickly after that. Timing was everything in his

plan; he had to reach the administration center of the work-

houses just after the shift change came on at dusk. His day at

the taverns had told him everything he needed to know about

people, places, and procedures; he need only put the informa-

tion to use. Already the twilight shadows were spreading across

the forestland, swallowing up the few remaining pools of sun-

light. The streets were starting to empty as soldier, trader, and

citizen alike made their way homeward for the evening meal.

Morgan kept to himself, careful to acknowledge senior officers

in passing, doing what he could to avoid drawing attention to

himself. He assumed a deliberate look and stance designed to

keep others at bay. He became a rather hard-looking Federation

soldier about his business—no one to approach without a reason,

certainly no one to anger. It seemed to work; he was left alone.

 

The workhouses were lighted when he reached them, the day’s

activities grinding to a close. Dinner in the form of soup and

bread was being carried in by the guards. The food smells wafted

through the air, somewhat less than appetizing. Morgan crossed

the roadway to the storage sheds and pretended to be checking

on something. The minutes slipped past, and darkness ap-

proached.

 

At precisely sunset the shift change occurred. New guards

 

replaced the old on the streets and at the doors of the work-

houses. Morgan kept his eyes fixed on the administration center.

The officer of the day relinquished his duty to his nighttime

counterpart. An aide took up a position at a reception desk. Two

men on duty—that was all. Morgan gave everyone a few minutes

 

The Druid of Shannara

 

39

 

to settle in, then took a deep breath and strode out from the

shadows.

 

He went straight to the center, pushed through the doors, and

confronted the aide at the reception desk. “I’m back,” he an-

nounced.

 

The aide looked at him blankly.

 

“For the old ladies,” Morgan added, allowing a hint of irri-

tation to creep into his voice. He paused. “Weren’t you told?”

 

The aide shook his head. “I just came on …”

 

“Yes, but there should be a requisition order still on your

desk from no more than an hour ago,” Morgan snapped. “Isn’t

it there?”

 

“Well, I don’t…” The aide cast about the desktop in con-

fusion, moving stacks of papers aside.

 

“Signed by Major Assomal.”

 

The aide froze. He knew who Major Assomal was. There

wasn’t a Federation soldier garrisoned at Culhaven who didn’t.

Morgan had found out about the major in the tavern. Assomal

was the most feared and disliked Federation officer in the oc-

cupying army. No one wanted anything to do with him if they

could help it.

 

The aide rose quickly. “Let me get the watch captain,” he

muttered.

 

He disappeared into the back office and emerged moments

later with his superior in tow. The captain was clearly agitated.

Morgan saluted the senior officer with just the right touch of

disdain.

 

‘ ‘What’s this all about?” the captain demanded, but the ques-

tion came out sounding more like a plea than a demand.

 

Morgan clasped his hands behind his back and straightened.

His heart was pounding. “Major Assomal requires the services

of two of the Dwarf women presently confined to the work-

houses. I selected them personally earlier in the day at his re-

quest. I left so that the paperwork could be completed and now

I am back. It seems, however, that the paperwork was never

done.”

 

The watch captain was a sallow-skinned, round-faced man

who appeared to have seen most of his service behind a desk.

“I don’t know anything about that,” he snapped peevishly.

 

Morgan shrugged. “Very well. Shall I take that message back

to Major Assomal, Captain?”

 

The other man went pale. “No, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s

 

40                              The Druid of Shannara

 

just that I don’t. . .”He exhaled sharply. “This is very annoy-

ing.”

 

“Especially since Major Assomal will be expecting me back

 

momentarily.” Morgan paused. “With the Dwarves.”

 

The watch captain threw up his hands. “All right! What dif-

ference does it make! I’ll sign them out to you myself! Let’s

have them brought up and be done with it!”

 

He opened the registry of names and with Morgan looking

on determined that Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt were housed in

building four. Hurriedly he scribbled out a release order for the

workhouse guards. When he tried to dispatch the aide to collect

the old ladies, Morgan insisted that he go as well.

 

‘ ‘Just to make certain there are no further mix-ups. Captain,”

he explained. “After all, I have to answer to Major Assomal as

 

well.”

 

The watch captain didn’t argue, obviously anxious to be shed

 

of the matter as quickly as possible, and Morgan went out the

door with the aide. The night was still and pleasantly warm.

Morgan felt almost jaunty. His plan, risky or not, was going to

work. They crossed the compound to building four, presented

the release order to the guards stationed at the front doors, and

waited while they perused it. Then the guards unfastened the

locks and beckoned for them to proceed. Morgan and the aide

pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.

 

The workhouse was crammed with workbenches and bodies

and smelled of stale air and sweat. Dust lay over everything,

and the lamplight shone dully against walls that were dingy and

unwashed. The Dwarf women were huddled on the floor with

cups of soup and plates of bread in hand, finishing their dinner.

Heads and eyes turned hurriedly as the two Federation soldiers

entered, then turned just as quickly away again. Morgan caught

the unmistakable look of fear and loathing.

“Call their names,” he ordered the aide.

The aide did so, his voice echoing in the cavernous room and

near the back two hunched forms came slowly to their feet.

“Now wait outside for me,” Morgan said.

The aide hesitated, then disappeared back through the doors.

Morgan waited anxiously as Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt

made their way gingerly through the clutter of bodies, benches,

and pallets to where he stood. He barely recognized them. Their

clothes were in tatters. Granny Elise’s fine gray hair was un-

kempt, as if it were fraying all around the edges; Auntie Jilt’s

sharp, birdlike face was pinched and harsh. They were bent over

 

The Druid of Shannara

 

41

 

with more than age, moving so slowly that it appeared it hurt

them even to walk.

 

They came up to him with their eyes downcast and stopped.

 

“Granny,” he said softly. “Auntie Jilt.”

 

They looked up slowly and their eyes widened. Auntie Jilt

caught her breath. ‘ ‘Morgan!” Granny Elise whispered in won-

der. “Child, it’s really you!”

 

He bent down quickly then and took them in his arms, hug-

ging them close. They collapsed into him; rag dolls lacking

strength of their own, and he could hear them both begin to cry.

Behind them, the other Dwarf women were staring in confusion.

 

Morgan eased the two old ladies gently away. “Listen now,”

he said softly. “We haven’t much time. I’ve tricked the watch

captain into releasing you into my custody, but he’s liable to

catch on if we give him the chance so we have to hurry. Do you

have somewhere that you can go to hide, someplace you won’t

be found?”

 

Auntie Jilt nodded, her narrow face a mask of determination.

“The Resistance will hide us. We still have friends.”

 

“Morgan, where’s Steff?” Granny Elise interrupted.

 

The Highlander forced himself to meet her urgent gaze. “I’m

sorry. Granny. Steff is dead. He was killed fighting against the

Federation in the Dragon’s Teeth.” He saw the pain that filled

her eyes. “Teel is dead, too. She was the one who killed Steff.

She wasn’t what any of us thought, I’m afraid. She was a crea-

ture called a Shadowen, a thing of dark magic linked to the

Federation. She betrayed you as well.”

 

“Oh, Steff,” Granny Elise whispered absently. She was cry-

ing again.

 

“The soldiers came for us right after you left,” Auntie Jilt

said angrily. “They took the children away and put us in this

cage. I knew something had gone wrong. I thought you might

have been taken as well. Drat it, Morgan, that girl was like our

own!”

 

“I know, Auntie,” he answered, remembering how it had

been. “It has become difficult to know who to trust. What about

the Dwarves you plan to hide with? Can they be trusted? Are

you sure you will be safe?”

 

“Safe enough,” Auntie replied. “Stop your crying, Elise,”

she said and patted the other woman’s hand gently. ‘ ‘We have

to do as Morgan says and get out of here while we have the

chance.”

 

Granny Elise nodded, brushing away her tears. Morgan stood

 

The Druid of Shannara

 

42

 

up again. He stroked each gray head in turn. “Remember, you

don’t know me, you’re just my charges until we get clear of this

place. And if something goes wrong, if we get separated, go

where you’ll be safe. I made a promise to Steff that I would see

to it that you did. So you make certain I don’t break that prom-

ise, all right?”

 

“All right, Morgan,” Granny Elise said.

They went out the door then, Morgan leading, th’e two old

ladies shuffling along behind with their heads bowed. The aide

was standing rigidly to one side by himself; the guards looked

bored. With the Dwarf ladies in tow, Morgan and the aide re-

turned to the administration center. The watch captain was wait-

ing impatiently, the promised release papers clutched in his

hand. He passed them across the reception desk to Morgan for

his signature, then shoved them at the aide and stalked back into

his office. The aide looked at Morgan uncomfortably.

 

Inwardly congratulating himself on his success, Morgan said,

 

“Major Assomal will be waiting.”

 

He turned and was in the process of ushering Granny Elise

and Auntie Jilt outside when the door opened in front of them

and a new Federation officer appeared, this one bearing the

 

crossed bars of a divisional commander.

 

“Commander Soldt!” The aide leaped to his feet and saluted

 

smartly.

 

Morgan froze. Commander Soldt was the officer in charge of

 

supervising the confinement of the Dwarves, the ranking officer

off the field for the entire garrison. What he was doing at the

center at this hour was anybody’s guess, but it was certainly not

going to do anything to help further Morgan’s plans.

 

The Highlander saluted.

 

“What’s this all about?” Soldt asked, glancing at Granny

Elise and Auntie Jilt. “What are they doing out of their quar-

ters?”

 

“Just a requisition. Commander,” replied the aide. “From

 

Major Assomal.”

 

“Assomal?” Soldt frowned. “He’s in the field. What would

 

he want with Dwarves . . .”He glanced again at Morgan. “I

don’t know you, soldier. Let me see your papers.”

 

Morgan hit him as hard as he could. Soldt fell to the floor and

lay unmoving. Instantly Morgan went after the aide, who backed

away shrieking in terror. Morgan caught him and slammed his

head against the desk. The watch captain emerged just in time

 

The Druid of Shannara 43

 

to catch several quick blows to the face. He staggered back into

his office and went down.

 

“Out the door!” Morgan whispered to Granny Elise and

Auntie Jilt.

 

They rushed from the administration center into the night.

Morgan glanced about hurriedly and breathed out sharply in

relief. The sentries were still at their posts. No one had heard

the struggle. He guided the old ladies quickly along the street,

away from the workhouses. A patrol appeared ahead. Morgan

slowed, moving ahead of his charges, assuming a posture of

command. The patrol turned off before it reached them, disap-

pearing into the dark.

 

Then someone behind them was shouting, calling for help.

Morgan pulled the old ladies into an alleyway and hastened them

toward its far end. The shouts were multiplying now, and there

was the sound of running feet. Whistles blew and an assembly

horn blared.

 

“They’ll be all over us now,” Morgan muttered to himself.

 

They reached the next street over and turned onto it. The

shouts were all around them. He pulled the ladies into a shad-

owed doorway and waited. Soldiers appeared at both ends of

the street, searching. Morgan’s rescue plans were collapsing

about him. His hands tightened into fists. Whatever happened,

he couldn’t allow the Federation to recapture Granny and Auntie.

 

He bent to them. “I’ll have to draw them away,” he whis-

pered urgently. “Stay here until they come after me, then run.

Once you’re hidden, stay that way—no matter what.”

 

“Morgan, what about you?” Granny Elise seized his arm.

 

“Don’t worry about me. Just do as I say. Don’t come looking

for me. I’ll find you when this whole business is over. Goodbye,

Granny. Goodbye, Auntie Jilt.”

 

Ignoring their pleas to remain, he kissed and hugged them

hurriedly, and darted into the street. He ran until he caught sight

of the first band of searchers and yelled to them, “They’re over

here!”

 

The soldiers came running as he turned down an alleyway,

leading them away from Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. He

wrenched the broadsword he wore strapped to his back from its

scabbard. Breaking free of the alleyway, he caught sight of an-

other band and called them after him as well, gesturing vaguely

ahead. To them he was just another soldier—for the moment, at

least. If he could just maneuver them ahead of him, he might be

able to escape as well.

 

44                              The Druid of Shannara

 

“That barn, ahead of us,” he shouted as the first bunch caught

 

up with him. “They’re in there!”

 

The soldiers charged past, one knot, then the second. Morgan

turned and darted off in the opposite direction. As he came

around the comer of a feed building, he ran right up against a

 

third unit.

 

“They’ve gone into …”

 

He stopped short. The watch captain stood before him, howl-

ing in recognition.

 

Morgan tried to break free, but the soldiers were on him in

an instant. He fought back valiantly, but there was no room to

maneuver. His attackers closed and forced him to the ground.

 

Blows rained down on him.

 

This isn ‘t working out the way I expected, he thought bleakly

 

and then everything went black.

 

v

 

^iF^ hree days later she who was said to be the daughter of

(»    the King of the Silver River arrived in Culhaven. The

^^^^ news of her coming preceded her by half a day and by

the time she reached the outskirts of the village the roadway

leading in was lined with people for more than a mile. They

had come from everywhere—from the village itself, from the

surrounding communities of both the Southland and the East-

land, from the farms and cottages of the plains and deep

forests, even the mountains north. There were Dwarves and

Men and a handful of Gnomes of both sexes and all ages.

They were ragged and poor and until now without hope. They

jammed the roadside expectantly, some come simply out of

a sense of curiosity, most come out of their need to find

something to believe in again.

 

The stories of the girl were wondrous. She had appeared in

 

The Druid of Shannara                             45

 

the heart of the Silver River country close by the Rainbow Lake,

a magical being sprung full-blown from the earth. She stopped

at each village and town, farm and cottage, and performed mir-

acles. It was said that she healed the land. She turned blackened,

withered stalks to fresh, green shoots. She brought flowers to

bloom, fruit to bear, and crops to harvest with the smallest of

touches. She gave life back to the earth out of death. Even where

the sickness was most severe, she prevailed. She bore some

special affinity to the land, a kinship that sprang directly from

her father’s hands, from the legendary stewardship of the King

of the Silver River. For years it had been believed that the spirit

lord had died with the passing of the age of magic. Now it was

known he had not; as proof he had sent his daughter to them.

The people of the Silver River country were to be given back

their old life. So the stories proclaimed.

 

No one was more anxious to discover the truth of the matter

than Pe Ell.

 

It was midday, and he had been waiting for the girl within the

shade of the towering old shagbark hickory on a rise at the very

edge of town since just after sunrise when word had reached

him that today was the day she would appear. He was very good

at waiting, very patient, and so the time had gone quickly for

him as he stood with the others of the growing crowd and

watched the sun lift slowly into the summer sky and felt the heat

of the day settle in. Conversation around him had been plentiful

and unguarded, and he listened attentively. There were stories

of what the girl had done and what it was believed she would

do. There were speculations and judgments. The Dwarves were

the most vehement in their beliefs—or lack thereof. Some said

she was the savior of their people; some said she was nothing

more than a Southland puppet. Voices raised in shouts, quar-

reled, and died away. Arguments wafted through the still, humid

air like small explosions of steam out of a fiery earth. Tempers

flared and cooled. Pe Ell listened and said nothing.

 

“She comes to drive out the Federation soldiers and restore

our land to us, land that the King of the Silver River treasures!

She comes to set us free!”

 

“Bah, old woman, you speak nonsense! There is nothing to

say she is who she claims to be. What do you know of what she

can or cannot do?”

 

“I know what I know. I sense what will be.”

 

“Ha! That’s the ache of your joints you feel, nothing more!

You believe what you want to believe, not what is. The truth is

 

46                              The Druid of Shannara

 

that we have no more sense of who this girl is than we do of

what tomorrow will bring. It is pointless to get our hopes up!”

 

“It is more pointless to keep them down!”

 

And so on, back and forth, an endless succession of argu-

ments and counterarguments that accomplished nothing except

to help pass the time. Pe Ell had sighed inwardly. He seldom

 

argued. He seldom had cause to.

 

When at last she was said to approach, the arguments and

conversation faded to mutterings and whispers. When she ac-

tually appeared, even the mutterings and whispers died away. A

strange hush settled over those who lined the roadway suggest-

ing that either the girl was not at all what they had expected or,

perhaps, that she was something more.

 

She came up the center of the roadway surrounded by the

would-be followers who had flocked to her during her journey

east, a mostly bedraggled lot with tattered clothes and exhila-

rated faces. Her own garb was rough and poorly sewn, yet she

evinced a radiance that was palpable. She was small and slight,

but so exquisitely shaped as to seem not quite real. Her hair was

long and silver, shining as water would when it shimmered in

the moonlight. Her features were perfectly formed. She walked

alone in a rush of bodies that crowded and stumbled about her

yet could not bear to approach. She seemed to float among them.

Voices called out anxiously to her, but she seemed unaware that

 

anyone was there.

 

And then she passed by Pe Ell and turned deliberately to look

 

at him. Pe Ell shuddered in surprise. The weight of that look—

or perhaps simply the experience of it—was enough to stagger

him. Almost immediately her strange black eyes shifted away

again, and she was moving on, a sliver of brilliant sunlight that

had momentarily left him blind. Pe Ell stared after her, not

knowing what she had done to him, what it was that had oc-

curred in that brief moment when their eyes met. It was as if

she had looked into his heart and mind and read them quite

clearly. It was as if with that single glance she had discovered

everything there was to know about him.

 

He found her to be the most beautiful creature he had ever

 

seen in his life.

 

She turned down the roadway into the village proper, the

crowd trailing after, and Pe Ell followed. He was a tall, lean

man, so thin that he appeared gaunt. His bones were prominent,

and the muscles and skin of his body were molded tightly against

them so as to suggest he might easily break. Nothing could have

 

The Druid of Shannara                              47

 

been further from the truth. He was as hard as iron. He had a

long, narrow face with a hawk nose and a wide forehead with

eyebrows set high above hazel eyes that were disarmingly frank