The Wishsong of Shannara by Terry Brooks

Copyright 1985

 

 

      1

A change of seasons was upon the Four Lands as late summer faded slowly into autumn. Gone were the long, still days of midyear where sweltering heat slowed the pace of life and there was a sense of having time enough for anything. Though summer's warmth lingered, the days had begun to shorten, the humid air to dry, and the memory of life's immediacy to reawaken. The signs of transition were all about. In the forests of Shady Vale, the leaves had already begun to turn.

      Brin Ohmsford paused by the flowerbeds that bordered the front walkway of her home, losing herself momentarily in the crimson foliage of the old maple that shaded the yard beyond. It was a massive thing, its trunk broad and gnarled. Brin smiled. That old tree was the source of many childhood memories for her. Impulsively, she stepped off the walkway and moved over to the aged tree.

      She was a tall girl-taller than her parents or her brother Jair, nearly as tall as Rone Leah-and although there was a delicate look to her slim body, she was as fit as any of them. Jair would argue the point of course, but that was only because Jair found it hard enough as it was to accept his role as the youngest. A girl, after all, was just a girl.

      Her fingers touched the roughened trunk of the maple softly, caressing, and she stared upward into the tangle of limbs overhead. Long, black hair fell away from her face and there was no mistaking whose child she was. Twenty years ago, Eretria had looked exactly as her daughter looked now, from dusky skin and black eyes to soft, delicate features. All that Brin lacked was her mother's fire. Jair had gotten that. Brin had her father's temperament, cool, self-assured, and disciplined. In comparing his children one time-a time occasioned by one of Jair's more reprehensible misadventures-Wil Ohmsford had remarked rather ruefully that the difference between the two was that Jair was apt to do anything, while Brin was also apt to do it, but only after thinking it through first. Brin still wasn't sure who had come out on the short end of that reprimand.

      Her hands slipped back to her sides. She remembered the time she had used the wishsong on the old tree. She had still been a child, experimenting with the Elven magic. It had been midsummer and she had used the wishsong to turn the tree's summer green to autumn crimson; in her child's mind, it seemed perfectly all right to do so, since red was a far prettier color than green. Her father had been furious; it had taken almost three years for the tree to come back again after the shock to its system. That had been the last time either she or Jair had used the magic when their parents were about.

      "Brin come help me with the rest of the packing, please."

      It was her mother calling. She gave the old maple a final pat and turned toward the house.

      Her father had never fully trusted the Elven magic. A little more than twenty years earlier he had used the Elfstones given him by the Druid Allanon in his efforts to protect the Elven Chosen Amberle Elessedil in her quest for the Bloodfire. Use of the Elven magic had changed him; he had known it even then, though not known how. It was only after Brin was born, and later Jair, that it became apparent what had been done. It was not Wil Ohmsford who would manifest the change the magic had wrought; it was his children. They were the ones who would carry within them the visible effects of the magic-they, and perhaps generations of Ohmsfords to come, although there was no way of ascertaining yet that they would carry within them the magic of the wishsong.

      Brin had named it the wishsong. Wish for it, sing for it, and it was yours. That was how it had seemed to her when she had first discovered that she possessed the power. She learned early that she could affect the behavior of living things with her song.. She could change that old maple's leaves. She could soothe an angry dog. She could bring a wild bird to light on her wrist. She could make herself a part of any living thing-or make it a part of her. She wasn't sure how she did it; it simply happened. She would sing, the music and the words coming as they always did, unplanned, unrehearsed-as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was always aware of what she was singing, yet at the same time heedless, her mind caught up in feelings of indescribable sensation. They would sweep through her, drawing her in, making her somehow new again, and the wish would come to pass.

      It was the gift of the Elven magic-or its curse. The latter was how her father had viewed it when he had discovered she possessed it. Brin knew that, deep inside, he was frightened of what the Elfstones could do and what he had felt them do to him. After Brin had caused the family dog to chase its tail until it nearly dropped and had wilted an entire garden of vegetables, her father had been quick to reassert his decision that the Elfstones would never be used again by anyone. He had hidden them, telling no one where they could be found, and hidden they had remained ever since. At least, that was what her father thought. She was not altogether certain. One time, not too many months earlier, when there was mention of the hidden Elfstones, Brin had caught Jair smiling rather smugly. He would not admit to anything, of course, but she knew how difficult it was to keep anything hidden from her brother, and she suspected he had found the hiding place.

      Rone Leah met her at the front door, tall and rangy, rust brown hair loose about his shoulders and tied back with a broad headband. Mischievous gray eyes narrowed appraisingly. "How about lending a hand, huh? I'm doing all the work and I'm not even a member of the family, for cat's sake!"

      "As much time as you spend here, you ought to be," she chided. "What's left to be done?"

      "Just these cases to be carried out-that should finish it." A gathering of leather trunks and smaller bags stood stacked in the entry. Rone picked up the largest. "I think your mother wants you in the bedroom."

      He disappeared down the walkway and Brin moved through her home toward the back bedrooms. Her parents were getting ready to depart on their annual fall pilgrimage to the outlying communities south of Shady Vale, a journey that would keep them gone from their home for better than two weeks. Few Healers possessed the skills of Wil Ohmsford, and not one could be found within five hundred miles of the Vale. So twice a year, in the spring and fall, her father traveled down to the outlying villages, lending his services where they were needed. Eretria always accompanied him, a skilled aide to her husband by now, trained nearly as thoroughly as he in the care of the sick and injured. It was a journey they need not have made-would not, in fact, had they been less conscientious than they were. Others would not have gone. But Brin's parents were governed by a strong sense of duty. Healing was the profession to which both had dedicated their lives, and they did not take their commitment to it lightly.

      While they were gone on these trips of mercy, Brin was left to watch over Jair. On this occasion, Rone Leah had traveled down from the highlands to watch over them both.

      Brin's mother looked up from the last of her packing and smiled as Brin entered the bedroom. Long black hair fell loosely about her shoulders, and she brushed it back from a face that looked barely older than Brin's.

      "Have you seen your brother? We're almost ready to leave."

      Brin shook her head. "I thought he was with father. Can I help you with anything?"

      Eretria nodded, took Brin by the shoulders, and pulled her down next to her on the bed. "I want you to promise me something, Brin. I don't want you to use the wishsong while your father and I are gone-you or your brother."

      Brin smiled. "I hardly use it at all anymore." Her dark eyes searched her mother's dusky face.

      "I know. But Jair does, even if he thinks I don't know about it. In any case, while we are gone, your father and I don't want either of you using it even a single time. Do you understand?"

      Brin hesitated. Her father understood that the Elven magic was a part of his children, but he did not accept that it was either a good or necessary part. You are intelligent, talented people just as you are, he would tell them. You have no need of tricks and artifices to advance yourselves. Be who and what you can without the song. Eretria had echoed that advice, although she seemed to recognize more readily than he that they were likely to ignore it when discretion suggested that they could.

      In Jair's case, unfortunately, discretion seldom entered into the picture. Jair was both impulsive and distressingly headstrong; when it came to use of the wishsong, he was inclined to do exactly as he pleased-as long as he could safety get away with it.

      Still, the Elven magic worked differently with Jair...

      "Brin?"

      Her thoughts scattered. "Mother, I don't see what difference it makes if Jair wants to play around with the wishsong. It's just a toy."

      Eretria shook her head. "Even a toy can be dangerous if used unwisely. Besides, you ought to know enough of the Elven magic by now to appreciate the fact that it is never harmless. Now listen to me. You and your brother are both grown beyond the age when you need your mother and father looking over your shoulder. But a little advice is still necessary now and then. I don't want you using the magic while we're gone. It draws attention where it's not needed. Promise me that you won't use it-and that you will keep Jair from using it as well."

      Brin nodded slowly. "It's because of the rumors of the black walkers, isn't it?" She had heard the stories. They talked about it all the time down at the inn these days. Black walkers-soundless, faceless things born of the dark magic, appearing out of nowhere. Some said it was the Warlock Lord and his minions come back again. "Is that what this is all about?"

      "Yes." Her mother smiled at Brin's perceptiveness. "Now promise me."

      Brin smiled back. "I promise."

      Nevertheless, she thought it all a lot of nonsense.

      The packing and loading took another thirty minutes, and then her parents were ready to depart. Jair reappeared, back from the inn where he had gone to secure a special sweet as a parting gift for his mother who was fond of such things, and good-byes were exchanged.

      "Remember your promise, Brin," her mother whispered as she kissed her on the cheek and hugged her close.

      Then the elder Ohmsfords were aboard the wagon in which they would make their journey and moving slowly up the dusty roadway.

      Brin watched them until they were out of sight.

 

      Brin, Jair, and Rone Leah went hiking that afternoon in the forests of the Vale, and it was late in the day when at last they turned homeward. By then, the sun had begun to dip beneath the rim of the Vale and the forest shadows of midday to lengthen slowly into evening. It was an hour's walk to the hamlet, but both Ohmsfords and the highlander had come this way so often before that they could have navigated the forest trails even in blackest night. They proceeded at a leisurely pace, enjoying the close of what had been an altogether beautiful autumn day.

      "Let's fish tomorrow," Rone suggested. He grinned at Brin. "With weather like this, it won't matter if we catch anything or not."

      The oldest of the three, he led the way through the trees, the worn and battered scabbard bearing the Sword of Leah strapped crosswise to his back, a vague outline beneath his hunting cloak. Once carried by the heir-apparent to the throne of Leah, it had long since outlived that purpose and been replaced. But Rone had always admired the old blade-borne years earlier by his great-grandfather Menion Leah when he had gone in search of the Sword of Shannara. Since Rone admired the weapon so, his father had given it to him, a small symbol of his standing as a Prince of Leah-even if he were its youngest prince.

      Brin looked over at him and frowned. "You seem to be forgetting something. Tomorrow is the day we set aside for the house repairs we promised father we would make while he was away. What about that?"

      He shrugged cheerfully. "Another day for the repairs-they'll keep."

      "I think we should do some exploring along the rim of the Vale," Jair Ohmsford interjected. He was lean and wiry and had his father's face with its Elven features-narrow eyes, slanted eyebrows, and ears pointed slightly beneath a thatch of unruly blond hair. "I think we should see if we can find any sign of the Mord Wraiths."

      Rone laughed. "Now what do you know about the walkers, tiger?" It was his pet name for Jair.

      "As much as you, I'd guess. We hear the same stories in the Vale that you hear in the highlands," the Valeman replied. "Black walkers, Mord Wraiths-things that steal out of the dark. They talk about it down at the inn all the time."

      Brin glanced at her brother reprovingly. "That's all they are, too-just stories."

      Jair looked at Rone. "What do you think?"

      To Brin's surprise, the highlander shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

      She was suddenly angry. "Rone, there have been stories like this ever since the Warlock Lord was destroyed, and none of them has ever contained a word of truth. Why would it be any different this time?"

      "I don't know that it would. I just believe in being careful. Remember, they didn't believe the stories of the Skull Bearers in Shea Ohmsford's time either-until it was too late."

      "That's why I think we ought to have a look around," Jair repeated.

      "For what purpose exactly?" Brin pressed, her voice hardening. "On the chance that we might find something as dangerous as these things are supposed to be? What would you do then-call on the wishsong?"

      Jair flushed. "If I had to, I would. I could use the magic..."

      She cut him short. "The magic is nothing to play around with, Jair. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

      "I just said that..."

      "I know what you said. You think that the wishsong can do anything for you and you're sadly mistaken. You had better pay attention to what father says about not using the magic. Someday, it's going to get you into a lot of trouble."

      Her brother stared at her. "What are you so angry about?"

      She was angry, she realized, and it was serving no purpose. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I made mother a promise that neither of us would use the wishsong while she and father were away on this trip. I suppose that's why it upsets me to hear you talking about tracking Mord Wraiths."

      Now there was a hint of anger in Jair's blue eyes. "Who gave you the right to make a promise like that for me, Brin?"

      "No one, I suppose, but mother..."

      "Mother doesn't understand..."

      "Hold on, for cat's sake!" Rone Leah held up his hands imploringly. "Arguments like this make me glad that I'm staying down at the inn and not up at the house with you two. Now let's forget all this and get back to the original subject. Do we go fishing tomorrow or not?"

      "We go fishing," Jair voted.

      "We go fishing," Brin agreed. "After we finish at least some of the repairs."

      They walked in silence for a time, Brin still brooding over what she viewed as Jair's increasing infatuation with the uses of the wishsong. Her mother was right; Jair practiced using the magic whenever he got the chance. He saw less danger in its use than Brin did because it worked differently for him. For Brin, the wishsong altered appearance and behavior in fact, but for Jair it was only an illusion. When he used the magic, things only seemed to happen. That gave him greater latitude in its use and encouraged experimentation. He did it in secret, but he did it nevertheless. Even Brin wasn't entirely sure what he had learned to do with it.

      Afternoon faded altogether and evening settled in. A full moon hung above the eastern horizon like a white beacon, and stars began to wink into view. With the coming of night, the air began to cool rapidly, and the smells of the forest turned crisp and heavy with the fragrance of drying leaves. All about rose the hum of insects and night birds.

      "I think we should fish the Rappahalladran," Jair announced suddenly.

      No one said anything for a moment. "I don't know," Rone answered finally. "We could fish the ponds in the Vale just as well."

      Brin glanced over at the highlander quizzically. He sounded worried.

      "Not for brook trout," Jair insisted. "Besides, I want to camp out in the Duln for a night or two."

      "We could do that in the Vale."

      "The Vale is practically the same as the backyard," Jair pointed out, growing a bit irritated. "At least the Duln has a few places we haven't explored before. What are you frightened about?"

      "I'm not frightened of anything," the highlander replied defensively. "I just think...Look, why don't we talk about this later. Let me tell you what happened to me on the way out here. I almost managed to get myself lost. There was this wolfdog..."

      Brin dropped back a pace as they talked, letting them walk on ahead. She was still puzzled by Rone's unexpected reluctance to make even a short camping trip into the Duln-a trip they had all made dozens of times before. Was there something beyond the Vale of which they need be frightened? She frowned, remembering the concern voiced by her mother. Now it was Rone as well. The highlander had not been as quick as she to discount as rumors those stories of the Mord Wraiths. In fact, he had been unusually restrained. Normally, Rone would have laughed such stories off as so much nonsense, just as she had done. Why hadn't he done so this time? It was possible, she realized, that he had some cause to believe it wasn't a laughing matter.

      Half an hour passed, and the lights of the village began to appear through the forest trees. It was dark now, and they picked their way along the path with the aid of the moon's bright light. The trail dipped downward into the sheltered hollow where the village proper sat, broadening as it went from a footpath to a roadway. Houses appeared; from within, the sound of voices could be heard. Brin felt the first hint of weariness slip over her. It would be good to crawl into the comfort of her bed and give herself over to a good night's sleep.

      They walked down through the center of Shady Vale, passing by the old inn that had been owned and managed by the Ohmsford family for so many generations past. The Ohmsfords still owned the establishment, but no longer lived there-not since the passing of Shea and Flick. Friends of the family managed the inn these days, sharing the earnings and expenses with Brin's parents. Her father had never really been comfortable living at the inn, Brin knew, feeling no real connection with its business, preferring his own life as a Healer to that of innkeeper. Only Jair showed any real interest in the happenings of the inn and that was because he liked to go down to listen to the tales carried to Shady Vale by travelers passing through-tales filled with adventure enough to satisfy the spirit of the restless Valeman.

      The inn was busy this night, its broad double-doors flung open, the lights within falling over tables and a long bar crowded with travelers and village folk, laughing and joking and passing the cool autumn evening with a glass or two of ale. Rone grinned over his shoulder at Brin and shook his head. No one was anxious for this day to end.

      Moments later, they reached the Ohmsford home, a stone and mortar cottage set back within the trees on a small knoll. They were halfway up the cobblestone walk that ran through a series of hedgerows and flowering plum to the front door when Brin brought them to a sudden halt.

      There was a light in the window of the front room.

      "Did either of you leave a lamp burning when we left this morning?" she asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Both shook their heads.

      "Maybe someone stopped in for a visit," Rone suggested.

      Brin looked at him. "The house was locked."

      They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, a vague sense of uneasiness starting to take hold. Jair, however, was feeling none of it.

      "Well, let's go on in and see who's there," he declared and started forward.

      Rone put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. "Just a moment, tiger. Let's not be too hasty."

      Jair pulled free, glanced again at the light, then looked back at Rone. "Who do you think's waiting in there-one of the walkers?"

      "Will you stop that nonsense!" Brin ordered sharply.

      Jair smirked. "That's who you think it is, don't you? One of the walkers, come to steal us away!"

      "Good of them to put a light on for us," Rone commented dryly.

      They stared again at the light in the front window, undecided.

      "Well, we can't just stand out here all night," Rone said finally. He reached back over his shoulder and pulled free the Sword of Leah. "Let's have a look. You two stay behind me. If anything happens, get, back to the inn and bring some help." He hesitated. "Not that anything is going to happen."

      They proceeded up the walk to the front door and stopped, listening. The house was silent. Brin handed Rone the key to the door and they stepped inside. The anteway was pitch black, save for a sliver of yellow light that snaked down the short hallway leading in. They hesitated a moment, then passed silently down the hall and stepped into the front room.

      It was empty.

      "Well, no Mord Wraiths here," Jair announced at once. "Nothing here except..."

      He never finished. A huge shadow stepped into the light from the darkened drawing room beyond. It was a man over seven feet tall, cloaked all in black. A loose cowl was pulled back to reveal a lean, craggy face that was weathered and hard. Black beard and hair swept down from his face and head, coarse and shot through with streaks of gray. But it was the eyes that drew them, deep-set and penetrating from within the shadow of his great brow, seeming to see everything, even that which was hidden.

      Rone Leah brought up the broadsword hurriedly, and the stranger's hand lifted from out of the robes.

      "You won't need that."

      The highlander hesitated, stared momentarily into the other's dark eyes, then dropped the sword blade downward again. Brin and Jair stood frozen in place, unable to turn and run or to speak.

      "There is nothing to be frightened of," the stranger's deep voice rumbled.

      None of the three felt particularly reassured by that, yet all relaxed slightly when the dark figure made no further move to approach. Brin glanced hurriedly at her brother and found Jair watching the stranger intently, as if puzzling something through. The stranger looked at the boy, then at Rone, then at her.

      "Does not one of you know me?" he murmured softly.

      There was momentary silence, and then suddenly Jair nodded.

      "Allanon!" he exclaimed, excitement reflected in his face. "You're Allanon!"

 

 

      2

Brin, Jair, and Rone Leah sat down together at the dining room table with the stranger they knew now to be Allanon. No one, to the best of their knowledge, had seen Allanon for twenty years. Wil Ohmsford had been among the last. But the stories about him were familiar to all. An enigmatic dark wanderer who had journeyed to the farthest reaches of the Four Lands, he was philosopher, teacher, and historian of the races-the last of the Druids, the men of learning who had guided the races from the chaos that had followed the destruction of the old world into the civilization that flourished today. It was Allanon who had led Shea and Flick Ohmsford and Menion Leah in quest of the legendary Sword of Shannara more than seventy years ago so that the Warlock Lord might be destroyed. It was Allanon who had come for Wil Ohmsford while the Valeman studied at Storlock to become a Healer, persuading him to act as guide and protector for the Elven girl Amberle Elessedil as she went in search of the power needed to restore life to the dying Ellcrys, thereby to imprison once more the Demons set loose within the Westland. They knew the stories of Allanon. They knew as well that whenever the Druid appeared, it meant trouble.

      "I have traveled a long way to find you, Brin Ohmsford," the big man said, his voice low and filled with weariness. "It was a journey that I did not think I would have to make."

      "Why have you sought me out?" Brin asked.

      "Because I have need of the wishsong." There was an endless moment of silence as Valegirl and Druid faced each other across the table. "Strange," he sighed. "I did not see before that the passing of the Elven magic into the children of Wil Ohmsford might have so profound a purpose. I thought it little more than a side effect from use of the Elfstones that could not be avoided."

      "What do you need with Brin?" Rone interjected, frowning. Already he did not like the sound of this.

      "And the wishsong?" Jair added.

      Allanon kept his eyes fixed on Brin. "Your father and your mother are not here?"

      "No. They will be gone for at lease two weeks; they treat the sick in the villages to the south."

      "I do not have two weeks nor even two days," the big man whispered. "We must talk now, and you must decide what you will do. And if you decide as I think you must, your father will not this time forgive me, I'm afraid."

      Brin knew at once what the Druid was talking about. "Am I to come with you?" she asked slowly.

      He let the question hang unanswered. "Let me tell you of a danger that threatens the Four Lands-an evil as great as any faced by Shea Ohmsford or your father." He folded his hands on the table before him and leaned toward her. "In the old world, before the dawn of the race of Man, there were faerie creatures who made use of good and evil magics. Your father must have told you the story, I'm certain. That world passed away with the coming of Man. The evil ones were imprisoned beyond the wall of a Forbidding, and the good were lost in the evolution of the races-all save the Elves. There was a book from those times, however, that survived. It was a book of dark magic, of power so awesome that even the Elven magicians from the old world were frightened of it. It was called the Ildatch. Its origin is not certain, even now, it seems that it appeared very early in the time of the creation of life. The evil in the world used it for a time, until at last the Elves managed to seize it. So great was its lure that, even knowing its power, a few of the Elven magicians dared tamper with its secrets. As a result, they were destroyed. The rest quickly determined to demolish the book. But before they could do so, it disappeared. There were rumors of its use afterward, scattered here and there through the centuries that followed, but never anything certain."

      His brow furrowed. "And then the Great Wars wiped out the old world. For two thousand years, the existence of man was reduced to its most primitive level. It was not until the Druids called the First Council at Paranor that an effort was made to gather together the teachings of the old world that they might be used to help the new. All of the learning, whether by book or by word of mouth, that had been preserved through the years was brought before the Council that an effort might be made to unlock their secrets. Unfortunately, not all that was preserved was good. Among the books discovered by the Druids in their quest was the Ildatch. It was uncovered by a brilliant, ambitious young Druid called Brona."

      "The Warlock Lord," Brin said softly.

      Allanon nodded, "He became the Warlock Lord when the power of the Ildatch subverted him. Together with his followers, he was lost to the dark magic. For nearly a thousand years, they threatened the existence of the races. It was not until Shea Ohmsford mastered the power of the Sword of Shannara that Brona and his followers were destroyed."

      He paused. "But the Ildatch disappeared once more. I searched for it in the ruins of the Skull Mountain when the kingdom of the Warlock Lord fell. I could not find it. I thought it was lost for good; I thought it buried forever. But I was wrong. Somehow it was preserved. It was recovered by a sect of human followers of the Warlock Lord-would-be sorcerers from the races of men who were not subject to the power of the Sword of Shannara and therefore not destroyed with the Master. I know not how even yet, but in some fashion they discovered the place where the Ildatch lay hidden and brought it back into the world of men. They took it deep into their Eastland lair where, hidden from the races, they began to delve into the secrets of the magic. That was more than sixty years ago. You can guess what has happened to them."

      Brin was pale as she leaned forward. "Are you saying that it has begun all over again? That there is another Warlock Lord and other Skull Bearers?"

      Allanon shook his head. "These men were not Druids as were Brona and his followers, nor has the same amount of time elapsed since their subversion. But the magic subverts all who tamper with it. The difference is in the nature of the change wrought. Each time, the change is different."

      Brin shook her head. "I don't understand."

      "Different," Allanon repeated. "Magic, good or evil, adapts to the user and the user to it. Last time, the creatures born of its touch flew..."

      The sentence was left hanging. His listeners exchanged quick glances.

      "And this time?" Rone asked.

      The black eyes narrowed. "This time the evil walks."

      "Mord Wraiths!" Jair breathed sharply.

      Allanon nodded. "A Gnome term for `black walker.' They are another form of the same evil. The Ildatch has shaped them as it shaped Brona and his followers, victims of the magic, slaves to the power. They are lost to the world of men, given over to the dark."

      "Then the rumors are true after all," Rone Leah murmured. His gray eyes sought Brin's. "I didn't tell you this before, because I didn't see any purpose in worrying you needlessly, but I was told by travelers passing through Leah that the walkers have come west from the Silver River country. That's why, when Jair suggested that we go camping beyond the Vale..."

      "Mord Wraiths come this far?" Allanon interrupted hurriedly.

      There was sudden concern in his voice. "How long ago, Prince of Leah?"

      Rone shook his head doubtfully. "Several days, perhaps. Just before I came to the Vale."

      "Then there is less time than I thought." The lines on the Druid's forehead deepened.

      "But what are they doing here?" Jair wanted to know.

      Allanon lifted his dark face. "Looking for me, I suspect."

      Silence echoed through the darkened house. No one spoke; the Druid's eyes held them fixed.

      "Listen well. The Mord Wraith stronghold lies deep within the Eastland, high in the mountains they call the Ravenshorn. It is a massive, aged fortress built by Trolls in the Second War of the Races. It is called Graymark. The fortress sits atop the rim of a wall of peaks surrounding a deep valley. It is within this valley that the Ildatch has been concealed."

      He took a deep breath. "Ten days earlier, I was at the rim of the valley, determined to go down into it, seize the book of the dark magic from its hiding place, and see it destroyed. The book is the source of the Mord Wraiths' power. Destroy the book, and the power is lost, the threat ended. And this threat-ah, let me tell you something of this threat. The Mord Wraiths have not been idle since the fall of their Master. Six months ago, the border wars between the Gnomes and the Dwarves flared up once more. For years the two nations have fought over the forests of the Anar, so a resumption of their dispute surprised no one at first. But this time, unknown to most, there is a difference in the nature of the struggle. The Gnomes are being guided by the hand of the Mord Wraiths. Scattered and beaten at the fall of the Warlock Lord, the Gnome tribes have been enslaved anew by the dark magic, this time under the rule of the Wraiths. And the magic gives strength to the Gnomes that they would not otherwise have. Thus the Dwarves have been driven steadily south since the border wars resumed. The threat is grave. Recently the Silver River began to turn foul, poisoned by the dark magic. The land it feeds begins to die. When that happens, the Dwarves will die also, and the whole of the Eastland will be lost. Elves from the Westland and Bordermen from Callahorn have gone to the aid of the Dwarves, but the help they bring is not enough to withstand the Mord Wraiths' magic. Only the destruction of the Ildatch will stop what is happening."

      He turned suddenly to Brin. "Remember the stories of your father, told him by his father, told to his father by Shea Ohmsford, of the advance of the Warlock Lord into the Southland? As the evil one came, a darkness fell over everything. A shadow cast itself across the land and all beneath it withered and died. Nothing lived in that shadow that was not part of the evil. It begins again, Valegirl-this time in the Anar."

      He looked away. "Ten days ago, I stood at the walls of Graymark, intent upon finding and destroying the Ildatch. It was then that I discovered what the Mord Wraiths had done. Using the dark magic, the Mord Wraiths had grown within the valley a swamp-forest that would protect the book, a Maelmord in the faerie language, a barrier of such evil that it would crush and devour anything that attempted to enter and did not belong. Understand-this dark wood lives, it breathes, it thinks. Nothing can pass through it. I tried, but even the considerable power that I wield was not enough. The Maelmord repulsed me, and the Mord Wraiths discovered my presence. I was pursued, but I was able to escape. And now they search for me, knowing..."

      He trailed off momentarily. Brin glanced quickly at Rone, who was looking unhappier by the minute.

      "If they're searching for you, they'll eventually come here, won't they?" The highlander took advantage of the pause in the Druid's narration.

      "Eventually, yes. But that will happen regardless of whether or not they follow me now. Understand, sooner or later they will seek to eliminate any threat to their power over the races. Surely you see that the Ohmsford family constitutes such a threat."

      "Because of Shea Ohmsford and the Sword of Shannara?" Brin asked.

      "Indirectly, yes. The Mord Wraiths are not creatures of illusion as was the Warlock Lord, so the Sword cannot harm them. The Elfstones, perhaps. That magic is a force to be reckoned with, and the Wraiths will have heard of Wil Ohmsford's quest for the Bloodfire." He paused. "But the real threat to them is the wishsong."

      "The wishsong?" Brin was dumbfounded. "But the wishsong is just a toy! It hasn't the power of the Elfstones! Why would that be a threat to these monsters? Why would they be afraid of something as harmless as that?"

      "Harmless?" Allanon's eyes flickered momentarily, then closed as if to hide something. The Druid's dark face was expressionless, and suddenly Brin was really afraid.

      "Allanon, why are you here?" she asked once more, struggling to keep her hands from shaking.

      The Druid's eyes lifted again. On the table before him, the oil lamp's thin flame sputtered. "I want you to come with me into the Eastland to the Mord Wraiths' keep. I want you to use the wishsong to gain passage into the Maelmord-to find the Ildatch and bring it to me to be destroyed."

      His listeners stared at him speechlessly.

      "How?" Jair asked finally.

      "The wishsong can subvert even the dark magic," Allanon replied. "It can alter behavior in any living thing. Even the Maelmord can be made to accept Brin. The wishsong can gain passage for her as one who belongs."

      Jair's eyes widened in astonishment. "The wishsong can do all that?"

      But Brin was shaking her had. "The wishsong is just a toy," she repeated.

      "Is it? Or is that simply the way in which you have used it?" The Druid shook his head slowly. "No, Brin Ohmsford, the wishsong is Elven magic, and it possesses the power of Elven magic. You do not see that yet, but I tell you it is so."

      "I don't care what it is or isn't, Brin's not going!" Rone looked angry. "You cannot ask her to do something this dangerous!"

      Allanon remained impassive. "I do not have a choice, Prince of Leah. No more choice than I had in asking Shea Ohmsford to go in search of the Sword of Shannara nor Wil Ohmsford to go in quest of the Bloodfire. The legacy of Elven magic that was passed first to Jerle Shannara belongs now to the Ohmsfords. I wish as you do that it were different. We might as well wish that night were day. The wishsong belongs to Brin, and now she must use it."

      "Brin, listen to me." Rone turned to the Valegirl. "There is more to the rumors than I have told you. They also speak of what the Mord Wraiths have done to men, of eyes and tongues gone, of minds emptied of all life, and of fire that burns to the bone. I discounted all that until now. I thought it little more than the late-night fireside tales of drunken men. But the Druid makes me think differently. You can't go with him. You can't."

      "The rumors of which you speak are true," Allanon acknowledged softly. "There is danger. You may even die." He paused. "But what are we to do if you do not come? Will you hide and hope the Mord Wraiths forget about you? Will you ask the Dwarves to protect you? What happens when they are gone? As with the Warlock Lord, the evil will then come into this land. It will spread until there is no one left to resist it."

      Jair reached for his sister's arm. "Brin, if we have to go, at least there will be two of us..."

      "There will most certainly not be two of us!" she contradicted him instantly. "Whatever happens, you are staying right here!"

      "We're all staying right here." Rone faced the Druid. "We're not going-any of us. You will have to find another way."

      Allanon shook his head. "I cannot, Prince of Leah. There is no other way."

      They were silent then. Brin slumped back in her chair, confused and more than a little frightened. She felt trapped by the sense of necessity that the Druid created within her, by the tangle of obligations he had thrust upon her. They spun in her mind; as they spun, the same thought kept coming back, over and over. The wishsong is only a toy. Elven magic, yes-but still a toy! Harmless! No weapon against an evil that even Allanon could not overcome! Yet her father had always been afraid of the magic. He had warned against its use, cautioning that it was not a thing to be played with. And she herself had determined to discourage Jair's use of the wishsong...

      "Allanon," she said quietly. The lean face turned. "I have used the wishsong only to change appearance in small ways-to change the turning of leaves or the blooming of flowers. Little things. Even that, I have not done for many months. How can the wishsong be used to change an evil as great as this forest that guards the Ildatch?"

      There was a moment's hesitation. "I will teach you."

      She nodded slowly. "My father has always discouraged any use of the magic. He has warned against relying upon it because once he did so, and it changed his life. If he were here, Allanon, he would do as Rone has done and advise me to tell you no. If fact, he would order me to tell you no."

      The craggy face reflected new weariness. "I know, Valegirl."

      "My father came back from the Westland, from the quest for the Bloodfire, and he put away the Elfstones forever," she continued, trying to think her way through her confusion as she spoke. "He told me once that he knew even then that the Elven magic had changed him, though he did not see how. He made a promise to himself that he would never use the Elfstones again."

      "I know this as well."

      "And still you ask me to come with you?"

      "I do."

      "Without my being able to consult him first? Without being able to wait for his return? Without even an attempt at an explanation to him?"

      The Druid looked suddenly angry. "I will make this easy for you, Brin Ohmsford. I ask nothing of you that is fair or reasonable, nothing of which your father would approve. I ask that you risk everything on little more than my word that it is necessary that you do so. I ask trust where there is probably little reason to trust. I ask all this and give nothing back. Nothing."

      He leaned forward then, half-rising from his chair, his face dark and menacing. "But I tell you this. If you think the matter through, you will see that, despite any argument you can put forth against it, you must still come with me!"

      Even Rone did not choose to contradict him this time. The Druid held his position for a moment longer, dark robes spread wide as he braced himself on the table. Then slowly he settled back. There was a worn look to him now, a kind of silent desperation. It was not characteristic of the Allanon Brin's father had described to her so often, and she was frightened by that.

      "I will think the matter through as you ask," she agreed, her voice almost a whisper. "But I need this night at least. I have to try to sort through...my feelings."

      Allanon seemed to hesitate a moment, then nodded. "We will talk again in the morning. Consider well, Brin Ohmsford."

      He started to rise and suddenly Jair was on his feet before him, his Elven face flushed. "Well, what about me? What about my feelings in this? If Brin goes, so do I! I'm not being left behind!"

      "Jair, you can forget...!" Brin started to object, but Allanon cut her short with a glance. He rose and came around the table to stand before her brother.

      "You have courage," he said softly, one hand coming up to rest on the Valeman's slender shoulder. "But yours is not the magic that I need on this journey. Your magic is illusion, and illusion will not get us past the Maelmord."

      "But you might be wrong," Jair insisted. "Besides, I want to help!"

      Allanon nodded. "You shall help. There is something that you must do while Brin and I are gone. You must be responsible for the safety of your parents, for seeing to it that the Mord Wraiths do not find them before I have destroyed the Ildatch. You must use the wishsong to protect them if the dark ones come looking. Will you do that?"

      Brin did not care much for the Druid's assumption that it was already decided that she would be going with him into the Eastland, and she cared even less for the suggestion that Jair ought to use the Elven magic as a weapon.

      "I will do it if I must," Jair was saying, a grudging tone in his voice. "But I would rather come with you."

      Allanon's hand dropped from his shoulder. "Another time, Jair."

      "It may be another time for me as well," Brin announced pointedly. "Nothing has been determined yet, Allanon."

      The dark face turned slowly. "There will be no other time for you, Brin," he said softly. "Your time is here. You must come with me. You will see that by morning."

      Nodding once, he started past them toward the front entry, dark robes wrapped close.

      "Where are you going, Allanon?" the Valegirl called after him.

      "I will be close by," he replied and did not slow. A moment later he was gone. Brin, Jair, and Rone Leah stared after him.

      Rone was the first to speak. "Well, now what?"

      Brin looked at him. "Now we go to bed." She rose from the table.

      "Bed!" The highlander was dumbfounded. "How can you go to bed after all that?" He waved vaguely in the direction of the departed Druid.

      She brushed back her long black hair and smiled wanly. "How can I do anything else, Rone? I am tired, confused, and frightened, and I need to rest."

      She came over to him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Stay here for tonight." She kissed Jair as well and hugged him. "Go to bed, both of you."

      Then she hurried down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door tightly behind her.

 

      She slept for a time, a dream-filled, restless sleep in which subconscious fears took shape and came for her like wraiths. Chased and harried, she came awake with a start, the pillow damp with sweat. She rose then, slipped on her robe for warmth and passed silently through the darkened rooms of her home. At the dining room table she lighted an oil lamp, the flame turned low, seated herself, and stared wordlessly into the shadows.

      A sense of helplessness curled about Brin. What was she to do? She remembered well the stories told her by her father and even her great-grandfather Shea Ohmsford when she was just a little girl-of what it had been like when the Warlock Lord had come down out of the Northland, his armies sweeping into Callahorn, the darkness of his coming enfolding the whole of the land. Where the Warlock Lord passed, the light died. Now, it was happening again: border wars between Gnomes and Dwarves; the Silver River poisoned and with it the land it fed; darkness falling over the Eastland. All was as it had been seventy-five years ago. This time, too, there was a way to stop it, to prevent the dark from spreading. Again, it was an Ohmsford who was being called upon to take that way-summoned, it seemed, because there was no other hope.

      She hunched down into the warmth of her robe. Seemed-that was the key word where Allanon was concerned. How much of this was what it seemed? How much of what she had been told was truth-and how much half-truth? The stories of Allanon were all the same. The Druid possessed immense power and knowledge and shared but a fraction of each. He told what he felt he must and never more. He manipulated others to his purpose, and often that purpose was kept carefully concealed. When one traveled Allanon's path, one did so knowing that the way would be kept dark.

      Yet the way of the Mord Wraiths might be darker still, if they were indeed another form of the evil destroyed by the Sword of Shannara. She must weigh the darkness of one against the darkness of the other. Allanon might be devious and manipulative in his dealings with the Ohmsfords, but he was a friend to the Four Lands. What he did, he did in an effort to protect the races, not to bring them harm. And he had always been right before in his warnings. Surely there was no reason to believe that he was not right this time as well.

      But was the wishsong's magic strong enough to penetrate this barrier conceived by the evil? Brin found the idea incredible. What was the wishsong but a side effect of using the Elven magic? It had not even the strength of the Elfstones. It was not a weapon. Yet Allanon saw it as the only means by which the dark magic could be passed-the only means, when even his power had failed him.

      Bare feet padded softly from the dining room entry, startling her. Rone Leah slipped clear of the shadows, crossed to the table, and seated himself.

      "I couldn't sleep either," he muttered, blinking in the light of the oil lamp. "What have you decided?"

      She shook her head. "Nothing. I don't know what to decide. I keep asking myself what my father would do."

      "That's easy." Rone grunted. "He would tell you to forget the whole idea. It's too dangerous. He'd also tell you-as he's told both of us many times-that Allanon is not to be trusted."

      Brin brushed back her long black hair and smiled faintly. "You didn't hear what I said, Rone. I said, I keep asking myself what my father would do-not what my father would tell me to do. It's not the same thing, you know. If he were being asked to go, what would he do? Wouldn't he go, just as he went when Allanon came to him in Storlock twenty years ago, knowing that Allanon was not altogether truthful; knowing that there was more than he was being told, but knowing, too, that he had magic that could be useful and that no one other than he had that magic?"

      The highlander shifted uneasily. "But, Brin, the wishsong is...well, it's not the same as the Elfstones. You said it yourself. It's just a toy."

      "I know that. That is what makes all of this so difficult-that and the fact that my father would be appalled if he thought even for a minute that I would consider trying to use the magic as a weapon of any sort." She paused. "But Elven magic is a strange thing. Its power is not always clearly seen. Sometimes it is obscured. It was so with the Sword of Shannara. Shea Ohmsford never saw the way in which such a small thing could defeat an enemy as great as the Warlock Lord-not until it was put to the test. He simply went on faith..."

      Rone sat forward sharply. "I'll say it again-this journey is too dangerous. The Mord Wraiths are too dangerous. Even Allanon can't get past them; he told you so himself? It would be different if you had the use of the Elfstones. At least the Stones have power enough to destroy creatures such as these. What would you do with the wishsong if you came up against them-sing to them the way you used to do to that old maple?"

      "Don't make fun of me, Rone." Brin's eyes narrowed.

      Rone shook his head quickly. "I'm not making fun of you. I care too much about you to ever do that. I just don't feel the wishsong is any kind of protection against something like the Wraiths!"

      Brin looked away, staring out through curtained windows into the night, watching the shadowed movements of the trees in the wind, rhythmic and graceful.

      "Neither do I," she admitted softly.

      They sat in silence for a time, lost in their separate thoughts. Allanon's dark, tired face hung suspended in the forefront of Brin's mind, a haunting specter that accused. You must come. You will see that by morning. She heard him speak the words again, so certain as he said them. But what was it that would persuade her that this was so? she asked herself. Reasoning only seemed to lead her deeper into confusion. The arguments were all there, all neatly arranged, both those for going and those for staying, and yet the balance did not shift in either direction.

      "Would you go?" she asked Rone suddenly. "If it were you with the wishsong?"

      "Not a chance," he said at once-a bit too quickly, a bit too flip.

      You're lying, Rone, she told herself. Because of me, because you don't want me to go, you're lying. If you thought it through, you would admit to the same doubts facing me.

      "What's going on?" a weary voice asked from the darkness.

      They turned and found Jair standing in the hall, squinting sleepily into the light. He came over to them and stood looking from face to face.

      "We were just talking, Jair," Brin told him.

      "About going after the magic book?"

      "Yes. Why don't you go on back to bed?"

      "Are you going? After the book, I mean?"

      "I don't know."

      "She's not going if she possesses an ounce of common sense," Rone grumbled. "It's entirely too dangerous a journey. You tell her, tiger. She's the only sister you've got, and you don't want the black walkers getting hold of her."

      Brin shot him an angry glance. "Jair doesn't have anything to say about this, so quit trying to scare him."

      "Him? Who's trying to scare him?" Rone's lean face was flushed. "It's you I'm trying to scare, for cat's sake!"

      "Anyway, the black walkers don't scare me," Jair declared firmly.

      "Well, they ought to!" Brin snapped.

      Jair shrugged, yawning. "Maybe you should wait until we have a chance to talk with father. We could send him a message or something."

      "Now that makes good sense," Rone added his approval. "At least wait until Wil and Eretria have a chance to talk this over with you."

      Brin sighed. "You heard what Allanon said. There isn't enough time for that."

      The highlander folded his arms across his chest. "He could make the time if it were necessary. Brin, your father might have a different slant on all this. After all, he's had the benefit of experience-and he's used the Elven magic."

      "Brin, he could use the Elfstones!" Jair's eyes snapped open. "He could go with you. He could protect you with the Elfstones, just as he protected the Elven girl Amberle!"

      Brin saw it then; those few words gave her the answer that she had been looking for. Allanon was right. She must go with him. But the reason was not one she had considered until now. Her father would insist on accompanying her. He would take the Elfstones from their hiding place and go with her in order that she should be protected. And that was exactly what she must avoid. Her father would be forced to break his pledge never to use the Elfstones again. He probably wouldn't even agree to her accompanying Allanon. He would go instead in order that she, her mother, and Jair be kept safe.

      "I want you to go back to bed, Jair," she said suddenly.

      "But I just got..."

      "Go on. Please. We'll talk this all out in the morning."

      Jair hesitated. "What about you?"

      "I'll be only a few minutes, I promise. I just want to sit here alone for a time."

      Jair studied her suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Good night." He turned and walked back into the darkness. "Just be sure you come to bed, too."

      Brin's eyes found Rone's. They had known each other since they were small children, and there were times when each knew what the other was thinking without a word being said. This was one such time.

      The highlander stood up slowly, his lean face set. "All right, Brin. I see it, too. But I'm coming with you, do you understand? And I'm staying with you until it's finished."

      She nodded slowly. Without another word, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving her alone.

      The minutes slipped by. She thought it through again, sifting carefully the arguments. In the end, her answer was the same. She could not permit her father to break his vow because of her, to risk further use of the Elven magic he had foresworn. She could not.

      Then she rose, blew out the flame of the oil lamp and walked, not in the direction of her bedroom, but to the front entry instead. Releasing the latch, she opened the door quietly and slipped out into the night. The wind blew against her face, cooling and filled with autumn's smells. She stood for a moment staring out into the shadows, then made her way around the house to the gardens in back. Night sounds filled the silence, a steady cadence of invisible life. At the edge of the gardens, beneath a stand of giant oak, she stopped and looked about expectantly.

      A moment later, Allanon appeared. Somehow, she had known he would. Black as the shadows about him, he drifted soundlessly from the trees to stand before her.

      "I have decided," she whispered, her voice steady. "I'm going with you."

 

 

      3

Morning came quickly, a pale silver light that seeped through the predawn forest mist and chased the shadows westward. Their restless sleep broken, the members of the Ohmsford household stirred awake. Within an hour, preparations were underway for Brin's departure to the Eastland. Rone was dispatched to the inn to secure horses, riding harness, weapons, and foodstuffs. Brin and Jair packed clothing and camping gear. In businesslike fashion, they went about their tasks. There was little conversation. No one had much to say. No one felt much like talking.

      Jair Ohmsford was feeling particularly uncommunicative, trudging through the house as he went about his work in determined silence. He was more than a little disgruntled that both Brin and Rone would be going east with Allanon while he was to be left behind. That had been decided first thing that morning, practically moments after he was out of bed. Gathering in the dining area as they had gathered last night, they had discussed briefly Brin's decision to go into the Anar-a decision, Jair thought, of which everyone but he already seemed aware. Then came the determination that, while Brin and Rone would make the journey, he would not. True, the Druid had not been pleased by Rone's insistence that if Brin were to go, then he must go as well, because Brin needed someone she could depend upon, someone she could trust. No, the Druid had not been pleased with that at all. In fact, he had agreed to Rone's coming only after Brin had admitted she would feel better with Rone along. But when Jair suggested that she would feel better still with him along as well-after all, he had the magic of the wishsong, too, and could help protect her-all three had abruptly and firmly told him no. Too dangerous, Brin said. Too long and hazardous a journey, Rone added. Besides, you are needed here, Allanon reminded him. You have a responsibility to your parents. You must use your magic to protect them.

      With that, Allanon had disappeared somewhere and there was no further opportunity to argue the matter with him. Rone thought the sun rose and set on Brin, so naturally he would not go against her wishes on this, and Brin had already made up her mind. So that was that. Part of the problem with his sister, of course, was that she didn't understand him. In fact, Jair was not altogether certain that she really understood herself a good deal of the time. At one point during their preparations, with Allanon still gone and Rone still down in the village, he had brought up the subject of the Elfstones.

      "Brin." They were packing blankets on the floor of the front room, wrapping them in oilskins. "Brin I know where father hides the Elfstones."

      She had looked up at once. "I thought that you probably did."

      "Well, he made such a big secret of it..."

      "And you don't like secrets, do you? Have you had them out?"

      "Just to look at," he admitted, then leaned forward. "Brin, I think you should take the Elfstones with you."

      "Whatever for?" There was a touch of anger in her voice then.

      "For protection. For the magic."

      "The magic? No one can use their magic but father, as you well know."

      "Well, maybe..."

      "Besides, you know how he feels about the Elfstones. It's bad enough that I have to make this journey at all, but to take the Elfstones as well? You're not thinking very clearly about this, Jair."

      Then Jair had gotten angry. "You're the one who's not thinking clearly. We both know how dangerous it's going to be for you. You're going to need all the help you can get. The Elfstones could be a lot of help-all you need to do is to figure out how to make them work. You might be able to do that."

      "No one but the rightful holder can..."

      "Make the Stones work?" He had been almost nose to nose with her then. "But maybe that's not so with you and me, Brin. After all, we already have the Elven magic inside us. We have the wishsong. Maybe we could make the Stones work for us!"

      There had been a long, intense moment of silence. "No," she said at last. "No, we promised father we would never try to use the Elfstones..."

      "He also made us promise not to use the Elven magic, remember? But we do-even you, now and then. And isn't that what Allanon wants you to do when you reach the Mord Wraiths' keep? Isn't it? So what's the difference between using the wishsong and the Elfstones? Elven magic is Elven magic!"

      Brin had stared at him silently, a distant, lost look in her dark eyes. Then she had turned again to the blankets. "It doesn't matter. I'm not taking the Elfstones. Here, help me tie these."

      And that had been that, just like the subject of his going with them into the Eastland. No real explanation had been offered; she had simply made up her mind that she would not take the Elfstones, whether she could use them or not. He didn't understand it at all. He didn't understand her. If it had been him, he would have taken the Elfstones in a moment. He would have taken them and found a way to use them, because they were a powerful weapon against the dark magic. But Brin...Brin couldn't even seem to see the inconsistency of her agreeing to use the magic of the wishsong and refusing to use the magic of the Stones.

      He went through the remainder of the morning trying to make some sense of his sister's reasoning or lack thereof. The hours slipped quickly past. Rone returned with horses and supplies, packs were loaded, and a hasty lunch consumed in the cool shade of the backyard oaks. Then all at once Allanon was standing there again, as black in midday as at darkest night, waiting with the patience of Lady Death, and suddenly there was no time left. Rone was shaking Jair's hand, clapping him roughly on the back, and extracting a firm promise that he would look out for his patents when they returned. Then Brin was there, arms coming tightly about him and holding him close.

      "Good-bye, Jair," she whispered. "Remember-I love you."

      "I love you, too," he managed ands hugged her back.

      A moment later, they were mounted, and the horses turned down the dirt roadway. Arms lifted in farewell, waving as he waved back. Jair waited until they were out of sight before he brushed an unwanted tear from his eye.

 

      That same afternoon, he moved down to the inn. He did so because of the possibility voiced by Allanon that the Wraiths or their Gnome allies might already be searching for the Druid in the lands west of the Silver River. If their enemies reached Shady Vale, the Ohmsford home would be the first place they would look. Besides, it was much more interesting at the inn-its rooms filled with travelers from all the lands, each with a different tale to tell, each with some different piece of news to share. Jair much preferred the excitement of tales told over a glass of ale in the tavern hall to the boredom of an empty house.

      As he went to the inn with a few personal items in tow, the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face eased a bit the disappointment he still felt at being left behind. Admittedly, there was good reason for. his staying. Someone had to explain to his parents when they returned what had become of Brin. That would not be easy. He visualized momentarily his father's face upon hearing what had happened and shook his head ruefully. His father would not be happy. In fact, he would probably insist on going after Brin-maybe even with the Elfstones.

      A sudden look of determination creased his face. If that happened, he was going as well. He wouldn't be left behind a second time.

      He kicked at the leaves fallen across the pathway before him, scattering them in a shower of color. His father wouldn't see it that way, of course. Nor his mother, for that matter. But he had two whole weeks to figure out how to persuade them that he should go.

      He walked on, a bit more slowly now, letting the thought linger in his mind enticingly. Then he brushed it away. What he was supposed to do was to tell them what had happened to Brin and Rone and then accompany them into Leah, where they were all to remain under the protection of Rone's father until the quest was finished. That was what he was supposed to do, so that was what he would do. Of course, Wil Ohmsford might not choose to go along with this plan. And Jair was first and foremost his father's son, so it was to be expected that he might have a few ideas of his own.

      He grinned and quickened his step. He would have to work on that.

      The day came and went. Jair Ohmsford ate dinner at the inn with the family that managed the business for his parents, offered to lend a hand the following morning with the day's work, and then drifted into the lounge to listen to the tales being told by the drummers and wayfarers passing through the Vale. More than one made mention of the black walkers, the dark-robed Mord Wraiths that none had seen but all knew to be real, the evil ones that could burn the life from you with just a glance. Come from the earth's dark, the voices warned in rough whispers, heads nodding all around in agreement. Better that you never encountered such as they. Even Jair found himself feeling a bit uneasy at the prospect.

      He stayed with the storytellers until after midnight, then went to his room. He slept soundly, woke at daybreak and spent the morning working about the inn. He no longer felt quite so bad about being left behind. After all, his own part in all of this was important, too. If the Mord Wraiths did indeed know of the magic Elfstones and came looking for the holder, then Wil Ohmsford was in as much danger as his daughter-possibly more so. It was up to Jair, then, to keep a sharp eye open, in order that no harm befell his father before he could be properly warned.

      By midday Jair's work was finished and the innkeeper thanked him and told him to take some time for himself. So he walked out into the forests in back of the inn where no one else was about and experimented for several hours with the wishsong, using the magic in a variety of ways, pleased with the control he was able to exercise. He thought again about his father's continual admonition to forgo use of the Elven magic. His father just didn't understand. The magic was a part of him, and using it was as natural as using his arms and legs. He couldn't pretend it wasn't there any more than he could pretend they weren't! Both his parents kept saying the magic was dangerous. Brin said that on occasion too, though she said it with a whole lot less conviction, since she was guilty of using it as well. He was convinced they told him that simply because he was somewhat younger than Brin and they worried more about him. He hadn't seen anything to suggest that the magic was dangerous; until he did, he intended to keep using it.

      On the way back to the inn, as the first shadows of early evening began to slip through the late afternoon sunshine, it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to check the house-just to be certain that nothing was disturbed. It was locked, of course, but it wouldn't hurt to check anyway. After all, the care of the house was a part of his responsibility.

      He debated the matter as he walked, finally deciding to wait until after dinner to make the inspection. Eating seemed more imperative to him at the moment than hiking up to the house. Using the magic always made him hungry.

      He worked his way along the forest trails that ran back of the inn, breathing in the smells of the autumn day, thinking of trackers. Trackers fascinated him. Trackers were a special breed of men who could trace the movements of anything that lived simply by studying the land they passed through. Most of them were more at home in the wilderness than they were in settled communities. Most preferred the company of their own kind. Jair had talked with a tracker once-years ago now, it seemed-an old fellow brought down to the inn with a broken leg by some travelers who had chanced on him. The old man had stayed at the inn almost a week, waiting for the leg to mend sufficiently that he might leave again. The tracker hadn't wanted to have anything to do with Jair at first, despite the boy's persistence-or anything to do with anyone else, for that matter-but then Jair had showed him something of the magic-just a touch. Intrigued, the old man had talked with him then, a little at first, then more. And what tales that old man had had to tell...

      Jair swung out onto the roadway beside the inn, turning into the side entry, grinning broadly as he remembered what it had been like. It was then that he saw the Gnome.

      For an instant he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him and he stopped where he was, his hand fastened to the inn door handle as he stared out across the roadway to the stable fence line where the gnarled yellow figure stood. Then the other's wizened face turned toward him, sharp eyes searching his own, and he knew at once he was not mistaken.

      Hurriedly, he pushed the inn door open and stepped inside. Leaning back against the closed door, alone now in the hallway beyond, he tried to calm himself. A Gnome! What was a Gnome doing in Shady Vale? A traveler, perhaps? But few Gnomes traveled this way-few, in fact, beyond the familiar confines of the Eastland forests. He couldn't remember the last time there had been a Gnome in Shady Vale. But there was one here now. Maybe more than one.

      He stepped quickly away from the door and went down the hall until he stood next to a window that opened out toward the roadway. Cautiously he peered around the sill, Elven face intense, eyes searching the innyard and the fence line beyond. The Gnome stood where Jair had first seen him, still looking toward the inn. The Valeman looked about. There appeared to be no others.

      Again he leaned back against the wall. What was he to do now? Was it coincidence that brought the Gnome to Shady Vale at a time when Allanon had warned that the Mord Wraiths would be looking for them? Or was it not chance at all? Jair forced his breathing to slow. How could he find out? How could he make certain?

      He took a deep breath. The first thing he must remember to do was to stay calm. One Gnome presented no serious threat. His nose picked up the scent of beef stew simmering, and he thought about how hungry he was. He hesitated a moment longer, then started toward the kitchen. The best thing to do was to think matters through over dinner. Eat a good meal and decide on a plan of action. He nodded to himself as he walked. He would try to put himself in Rone's boots. Rone would know what to do if he were here. Jair would have to try to do the same.

      The beef stew was excellent and Jair was starved, yet he found it difficult to concentrate on food, knowing that the Gnome was standing just outside, watching. Halfway through the meal, he remembered suddenly the empty, unguarded house and the Elfstones hidden within. If the Gnome was here at the bidding of the black walkers, then he might have come for the Elfstones as well as the Ohmsfords or Allanon. And there might be others, already searching...

      He shoved his plate away, drained the remainder of his ale, and hurried from the kitchen back down the hallway to the window. Carefully, he peered out. The Gnome was gone.

      He felt his heart quicken. Now what? He turned and raced back down the hall. He had to get back to the house. He had to make certain that the Elfstones were secure, then...He caught himself in midstride, slowing. He didn't know what he would do then. He would have to see. He quickened his step once more. The important thing now was to see whether or not there had been any attempt to enter his home.

      He passed the side door through which he had entered and went on toward the rear of the building. He would leave by a different way just in case the Gnome was indeed looking for him-or even if he wasn't, but had become suspicious at the Valeman's furtive interest. I shouldn't have stopped to look at him, he told himself angrily. I should have kept going, then doubled back. But it was too late now.

      The hallway ended at a door at the very rear of the main building. Jair stopped, listening momentarily, chiding himself for being foolish, then eased the door open and stepped out. Evening shadows cast by the forest trees lay dark and cool across the grounds, staining the inn walls and roof. Overhead, the sky was darkening. Jair looked about quickly, then started toward the trees. He would cut through the forest to his home, staying off the roadways until he was certain that...

      "Talking a walk, boy?"

      Jair froze. The Gnome stepped silently from the dark trees in front of him. Hard, rough features twisted with a wicked looking smile. The Gnome, had been waiting.

      "Oh, I saw you, boy. I saw you quick enough. Knew you right away. Halfling features, Elf and Man-not too many like you." He stopped a half dozen paces away, gnarled hands resting on his hips, the smile fixed. Leather woodsman's garb covered the stocky form; his boots and wristbands were studded with iron, and knives and a short sword were belted at his waist. "Young Ohmsford, aren't you? The boy, Jair?"

      The word boy stung. "Stay away from me," Jair warned, afraid now, and trying desperately to keep the fear from his voice.

      "Stay away from you?" The Gnome laughed sharply. "And what will you do if I don't, halfling? Throw me to the ground, perhaps? Take away my weapons? You are a brave one, aren't you

      Another laugh followed, low and guttural. For the first time, Jair realized that the Gnome was speaking to him in the language used by the Southlanders rather than the harsh Gnome tongue.

      Gnomes seldom used any tongue but their own; their race was an insular people who wanted nothing to do with the other lands. This Gnome had been well outside the Eastland to be so fluent.

      "Now, boy," the Gnome interrupted his thoughts. "Let's be sensible, you and me. I seek the Druid. Tell me where he is, here or elsewhere, and I'll be gone."

      Jair hesitated. "Druid? I don't know any Druids. I don't know what you're..."

      The Gnome shook his head and sighed. "Games, is it? Worse luck for you, boy. Guess we'll have to do this the hard way."

      He started toward Jair, hands reaching. Instinctively, Jair twisted away. Then he used the wishsong. There was a moment's hesitation, a moment's uncertainty-for he had never used the magic against another human-and then he used it. He gave a low, hissing sound, and a mass of snakes appeared, coiled tightly about the Gnome's outstretched arms. The Gnome howled in dismay, whipping his arms about desperately in an effort to shake loose the snakes. Jair looked around, found a broken piece of tree limb the size of a bulky walking staff, seized it with both hands and brought it crashing down over the Gnome's head. The Gnome grunted and dropped to the earth in a heap, unmoving.

      Jair released the tree limb, his hands shaking. Had he killed him? Cautiously he knelt next to the fallen Gnome and felt for his wrist. There was a pulse. The Gnome was not dead, just unconscious. Jair straightened. What was he to do now? The Gnome had been looking for Allanon, knowing that he had come to Shady Vale and to the Ohmsfords, knowing...knowing who knew what else! Too much, in any case, for Jair to remain in the Vale any longer, especially now that he had used the magic. He shook his head angrily. He shouldn't have used the magic; he should have kept it a secret. But it was too late for regrets now. He didn't think the Gnome was alone. There would be others, probably at the house. And that was where he had to go, because that was where the Elfstones were hidden.

      He glanced about, his thoughts organizing swiftly. Several dozen feet away was a woodbin. Seizing the Gnome's feet, he dragged him to the bin, threw back the lid, shoved his captive inside, dropped the lid down again, and put the metal bar through the catch. He grinned in spite of himself. That bin was well constructed. The Gnome wouldn't get out of there for a while.

      Then he hurried back into the inn. Despite the need for haste, he had to leave word with the innkeeper where he was going-otherwise the whole community would be combing the countryside looking for him. It was one thing for Brin and Rone to disappear; that had been easy enough to explain simply by saying they had gone for a visit to Leah and he had decided to stay in the Vale. It would be quite another matter entirely if he disappeared as well, since there was no one left to alibi for him. So feigning nonchalance and smiling disarmingly, he announced that he had changed his mind and was going over to the highlands after all early the next morning. Tonight he would stay at the house and pack. When the innkeeper thought to ask what had persuaded him to change his mind so abruptly, the Valeman quickly explained that he had received a message from Brin. Before there could be any further questions, he was out the door.

      Swiftly, he melted into the woods, racing through the darkness toward his home. He was sweating profusely, hot with excitement and anticipation. He was not frightened-not yet, at least-probably because he hadn't stopped long enough to let himself think about what he was doing. Besides, he kept telling himself, he had taken care of that Gnome, hadn't he?

      Tree branches slapped his face. He hurried on, not bothering to duck, eyes riveted on the darkness ahead. He knew this section of the forest well. Even in the growing darkness, he found his way with ease, moving on cat's feet, carefully listening to the sounds about him.

      Then, fifty yards from his home, he melted silently into a small stand of pine, working his way forward until he could see the darkened structure through the needled branches. Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered through the night, searching. There was no sound, no movement, no sign of life. Everything seemed as it should. He paused to brush back a lock of hair which had fallen down across his face. It should be simple. All he had to do was slip into the house, retrieve the Elfstones and slip out again. If there really wasn't anyone watching, it should be easy...

      Then something moved in the oaks at the rear of the home-just a momentary shadow, then nothing. Jair took a deep breath and waited. The minutes slipped past. Insects buzzed about him hungrily, but he ignored them. Then he saw the movement a second time, clearly now. It was a man. No, not a man, he corrected quickly-a Gnome.

      He sat back. Well, Gnome or not, he had to go down there. And if there was one, there were probably more than one, waiting, watching-but without knowing when or if he would return. Sweat ran down his back, and his throat was dry. Time was slipping away from him. He had to get out of the Vale. But he couldn't leave the Elfstones.

      There was nothing for it but to use the wishsong.

      He took a moment to pitch his voice the way he wanted, feigning the buzzing of the mosquitoes that were all around him, still lingering on in the warmth of early autumn, not yet frozen away by winter's touch. Then he glided from the pines down through the thinning forest. He had used this trick once or twice before, but never under conditions as demanding as these. He moved quietly, letting his voice make him a part of the forest night, knowing that if he did it all properly he would be invisible to the eyes that kept watch for him. The house drew steadily closer as he worked his way ahead. He caught sight again of the Gnome that kept watch in the trees behind the darkened building. Then suddenly he saw another, off to his right by the high bushes fronting the house-then another, across the roadway in the hemlock. None looked his way. He wanted to run, wanted to race as swiftly as the night wind to reach the dark of the home, but he kept his pace steady and his voice an even, faint buzz. Don't let them see me, he prayed. Don't let them look.

      He crossed the lawn, slipping from tree to bush, eyes darting to find the Gnomes all about him. The rear door, he thought as he went-that would be the easiest door to enter, dark in the shadow of high, flowering bushes, their leaves still full...

      A sudden call from somewhere beyond the house brought him to an abrupt, frightened halt, frozen in midstride. The Gnome at the rear of the Ohmsford house stepped clear of the oaks, moonlight glinting on his long knife. Again the call came, then sudden laughter. The blade lowered. It was from neighbors down the road, joking and talking in the warm autumn night, their dinner done. Sweat soaked Jair's tunic, and for the first time he was scared. A dozen yards away, the Gnome who had stepped from the oaks turned and disappeared back into them again. Jair's voice trembled, then strengthened, keeping him hidden. Quickly he went on.

      He paused at the door, letting the wishsong die momentarily, trying desperately to steady himself Fumbling through his pockets, he at last produced the house key, fitted it to the lock, and turned it guardedly. The door opened without a sound. In an instant, he was through.

      He paused again in the darkness beyond. Something was wrong. He could sense it more than describe it-it was a feeling that ran cold to the bone. Something was wrong. The house...the house was not right; it was different...He stayed silent, waiting for his senses to reveal what lay hidden from him. As he stood, he grew slowly aware that something else was in the house with him, something terrible, something so evil that just its presence permeated the air with fear. Whatever it was, it seemed to be everywhere at once, a hideous, black pall that hung across the Ohmsford home like a death shroud. A thing, his mind whispered, a thing...

      A Mord Wraith.

      He quit breathing. A walker-here, in his home! Now he was really-afraid, the certainty of his suspicion driving from him the last of his courage. It waited within the next room, Jair sensed, within the dark. It would know he was here and come for him-and he would not be able to stand against it!

      He was certain for a moment that he would break and run, overwhelmed by the panic that coursed through him. But then he thought of his parents, who would return unwarned if he should fail, and of the Elfstones, the sole weapon that the black ones would fear-concealed not a dozen feet from where he stood.

      He didn't think anymore; he simply acted. A soundless shadow, he moved to the stone hearth that served the kitchen, his fingers tracing the rough outline of the stone where it curved back along the wall in a series of shelving nooks. At the end of the third shelf, the stone slipped away at his touch. His hand closed over a small leather pouch.

      Something stirred in the other room.

      Then the back door opened suddenly and a burly form pushed into view. Jair stood flattened against the hearth wall, lost in the shadows, braced to flee. But the form went past him without slowing, head bent as if to find its way. It went into the front room, and a low, guttural voice whispered to the creature that waited within.

      In the next instant, Jair was moving-back through the still open door, back into the shadows of the flowering bushes. He paused just long enough to see that it was the Gnome who kept watch within the oaks who had come into-the house, then raced for the cover of the trees. Faster, faster! he screamed soundlessly.

      And without a backward glance, Jair Ohmsford fled into the night.

 

 

      4

It proved to be a harrowing flight.

      Once before, Ohmsfords had fled the Vale under cover of night, pursued by black things that would harry them the length and breadth of the Four Lands. It had been more than seventy years now since Shea and Flick Ohmsford had slipped from their home at the Shady Vale inn, barely escaping the monstrous winged Skull Bearer sent by the Warlock Lord to destroy them. Jair knew their story; barely older than he, they had fled all the way eastward to Culhaven and the Dwarves. But Jair Ohmsford was no less able than they. He, too, had been raised in the Vale, and he knew something about surviving in unfamiliar country.

      As he fled through the forests of the Vale, carrying with him little more than the clothes on his back, the hunting knife in his belt that all Valemen wore, and the leather pouch with the Elfstones tucked within his tunic, he did so with confidence in his ability to make his way safely to his destination. There was no panic in his flight; there was merely a keen sense of expectation. For just a moment, when he had stood within the kitchen of his home, hidden within the shadows of the great hearth, listening to the silence, knowing that only a room away there waited one of the Wraiths, and feeling the evil of the thing permeating even the air he breathed, there had been real fear. But that was behind him, lost in the darkness that slipped steadily back into the past as he raced ahead, and now he was thinking with clarity and determination.

      The destination he had chosen in fleeing the Vale was Leah. It was a three-day journey, but one he had made before and so could make without danger of becoming lost. Moreover, help that could not be found in the Vale could be found in Leah. Shady Vale was a small hamlet, its people ill-equipped to stand against the black walkers or their Gnome allies. But Leah was a city; the highlands were governed by monarchial rule and protected by a standing army. Rone Leah's father was king and a good friend to the Ohmsford family. Jair would tell him what had befallen, persuade him to send patrols south in search of his parents so that they could be warned of the danger that waited in the Vale, and then all of them would take refuge in the city until Allanon returned with Brin and Rone. It was an excellent plan to Jair's way of thinking, and he could find no reason that it wouldn't be successful.

      Still, the Valeman was not about to leave anything to chance. That was the reason that he had brought the Elfstones, taking them from their hiding place where they might have been found, though taking them meant revealing to his father that he had known all along where they were hidden.

      As he ran, working his way steadily through the Vale forests toward the rim of the valley, he tried to recall everything that the old tracker had told him in their talks about disguising one's trail from pursuers. Jair and the old man had played at it like a game, each contriving new and different twists to the imaginary pursuits that made up their game, each delighting the other with a kind of grim inventiveness. For the tracker, experience was the touchstone of his skill. For Jair, it was an uninhibited imagination. Now the play adventure had turned real, however, and imagination alone was not going to be enough. A bit of the old man's experience was needed, and Jair called to mind everything he could manage to remember.

      Time was his most pressing concern. The quicker he reached the highlands, the quicker those patrols would leave in search of his parents. Whatever else happened, they must not be allowed to return to the Vale unwarned. Therefore, no unnecessary time must be spent in disguising his trail eastward. This decision was reinforced by the fact that his skills were admittedly limited in any case and by the further fact that he could not be certain that the Gnomes and their dark leader would come after him. He thought that they would, of course, particularly after hearing from the Gnome he had locked in the wood bin. But they would still have to track him, and that would slow them, down somewhat, even if they were to guess which direction he had taken. He had gained a head start on them, and he must take advantage of it. He would run swiftly and surely, his purpose fixed, and they must try to catch him.

      Besides, even if they did catch up to him, he could still use the wishsong to protect himself.

      By midnight, he had gained the eastern wall of the valley that sheltered Shady Vale, climbed the rock-strewn slope to its rim, and disappeared into the Duln. Using the moon and stars to mark his bearings, he made his way through the dark forest, slowing a bit to conserve his strength. He was tiring now, having had no sleep since the previous night, but he wanted to make certain that he crossed the Rappahalladran before he stopped to rest. That meant he must travel until dawn, and the journey would be a hard one. The Duln was a difficult woodland to traverse, even under the best of conditions, and darkness often made the wilderness a treacherous maze. Still, Jair had traveled the Duln at night before, and he felt confident he could find his way. So with a careful eye for the forest tangle that stretched before him, he pushed on.

      Time crawled past on leaden feet, but at last the night sky began to lighten into morning. Jair was exhausted, his slim body numb with fatigue and his hands and face cut and bruised by the forest. Still he had not reached the river. For the first time, he began to worry that perhaps he had misplaced his sense of direction and traveled too far north or south. He was still traveling eastward, he knew, because the sun was rising directly in front of him. But where was the Rappahalladran? Ignoring the weariness and a growing sense of concern, he stumbled ahead.

      The sun had been up an hour when he finally reached the banks of the river. Deep and swift, the Rappahalladran churned its way southward through the dark quiet of the forest. Jair had already shelved his plans to cross the river now. The currents were too dangerous to attempt a crossing when he was not rested. Finding a stand of pine close to the water, he stretched out within the shaded coolness of their boughs and fell quickly asleep.

 

      He came awake again at sunset, disoriented and vaguely uneasy. It took him a moment to remember where he was and what it was that had brought him there. Then he saw that the day was gone, and he became alarmed that he had slept so long. He had intended to sleep only until midday before continuing his flight east. A whole day was too long; it gave his pursuers too much time to catch him.

      He went down to the river's edge, splashed cold water on his face to bring himself fully awake and then went in search of food. He hadn't eaten anything for the past twenty-four hours, he realized suddenly, and found himself wishing that he'd taken just a moment longer in making his escape to pack a loaf of bread and some cheese. As he searched through the trees, resigned to a meal of berries and roots, he found himself thinking again about his supposed pursuers. Maybe he was worrying about nothing. Maybe no one was giving chase. After all, what would they want with him anyway? It was Allanon they wanted. The Gnome had told him that much. What had probably happened was that, after he had escaped the Vale, they had gone on their way, looking elsewhere for the Druid. If that were true, then he was breaking his neck out here for nothing.

      Of course if he were wrong...

      Wild berries in autumn were a scarce commodity, so Jair was forced to make a meal principally of edible roots and a few wild rhubarb stalks. Despite his general dissatisfaction with the fare, he was feeling pretty good about things by the time the meal was finished. Rone Leah couldn't have done any better, he decided. He had overcome that Gnome, secured the Elfstones from under the noses of a walker and a patrol of Gnome Hunters, escaped the Vale and was now making his way successfully toward Leah. He took a moment to envision the surprised face of his sister when he told her all that had happened to him.

      And then it occurred to him, suddenly, shockingly, that he really didn't know that he would ever see Brin again. His sister was being taken by Allanon into the very heart of the same evil that had invaded his home and driven him from the Vale. He remembered again what he had felt in the presence of that evil-the terrible, overpowering sense of panic. Brin was being taken to where that evil lived, where there was not just one of the black walkers, but many. Against them she had nothing more than the strength of the magic of the Druid and her wishsong. How could Brin hope to stand against something like that? What if she were discovered before she managed to reach the book...?

      He could not complete the thought. Despite their differing personalities and ways, Jair and his sister were close. He loved her and he did not like the idea of anything happening to her. He wished more than ever that he had been allowed to go with her to the Anar.

      Abruptly he glanced westward to where the sun was slipping down into the treetops. The light was failing quickly now, and it was time to make his crossing and get on with the journey east. He cut a series of branches, using the long knife, and bound them together with pine bark strips to construct a small raft on which he could place his clothes. He had no desire to walk the chill autumn night in wet clothing, so he would swim the river naked and dress again on the far bank.

      When the raft was finished, he carried it down to the river's edge and suddenly recalled one of the lessons taught to him by the old tracker. They had been talking of ways to throw off a pursuit. Water was the best disguise of one's tracks, the old man had announced in his cryptic way. Couldn't follow tracks through water-unless, of course, you were stupid enough to try losing a pursuer in water so shallow that your footprints left their mark in the mud. But deep water-ah, that was the best. The current always took you downstream, and even if your pursuer tracked you to the water's edge and knew you'd gone across-didn't have to go across, of course, but that was another trick-he'd still have to find your trail on the other side. So-and here was glimmer of genius to the game-the very smartest quarry would wade upstream, then swim the deep water so that he would come out still above the point on the far bank where his tracks ended. Because the hunter knew you'd be carried downstream, too, didn't he-so where do you think he would be looking? He wouldn't think to look upstream right away.

      Jair had always been impressed with that bit of trickery and resolved now to put it to the test. Maybe he wasn't being followed, but on the other hand, he couldn't be sure. He was still two days from Leah. If someone had come after him, this device of the old tracker would give him a bigger head start yet.

      So he stripped off his boots, tucked them under one arm with the raft, then waded upstream several hundred yards to where the channel narrowed. Far enough, he decided. He took off the rest of his clothing, placed it on the raft and pushed off into the cold waters of the river.

      The current caught him almost at once, pulling him downstream at a rapid pace. He let it take him, swimming with it, the raft held firmly in his trailing hand, angling as he swam toward the far bank. Bits of deadwood and brush swirled past him, rough and chill to the touch, and the sounds of the forest faded into the churning rush of the water. Overhead, the night sky darkened as the sun slipped below the treeline. Jair kicked steadily on, the far bank drawing closer.

      Then at last his feet touched bottom, kicking into the soft mud, and he stood up, the night air chill against his skin. Snatching his clothes from the raft, he shoved it back into the river's current and watched it swirl away. A moment later he was back on dry land, brushing the water from his body and slipping back into his clothes. Insects buzzed past him, bits of sound in the dark. On the bank from which he had come, the forest trees were fading stalks of black in the night's deepening haze.

      Within those dark stalks, something suddenly moved.

      Jair froze, his eyes fixed on the spot from which the movement had come. But it was gone now, whatever it had been. He took a deep breath. It had looked-just for a moment-to be a man.

      Carefully, slowly, he backed into the shelter of the trees behind him, still watching the other bank, waiting for the movement to come again. It did not. He finished dressing hurriedly, checked to be certain that the Elfstones were still tucked safely within his tunic, then turned and trotted soundlessly into the forest. He was probably mistaken, he told himself.

      He walked all night, relying again on the moon and stars visible in small patches of forest sky to point him in the right direction. He traveled at a slow trot where the forest thinned, less certain than before that no one had come after him. When he had been alone with the memory of those few moments in his home with that black thing behind him, he had felt secure. But the idea that someone or something was back there, following him, brought back the sense of panic. Even in the cool autumn night, he was sweating, his senses sharp with fear. Time and again, his thoughts wandered back to Brin, and he found himself imagining her to be as alone as he-alone and hunted. He wished she were there with him.

      When sunrise came, he kept walking. He was not yet clear of the Duln, and the sense of uneasiness was still with him. He was tired, but not so tired that he felt the need to sleep just yet. He walked on while the sun rose before him in a golden haze, thin streamers of brightness slipping down into the forest gray, reflecting rainbow colors from the drying leaves and emerald moss. From time to time he found himself glancing back, watching.

      Several hours into morning, the forest ended and rolling grasslands appeared, a threshold to the distant blue screen of the highlands. It was warm and friendly here, less confining than the forest, and Jair felt immediately more at ease. As he walked further into the grasslands, he began to recognize the countryside about him. He had come this way before on a visit to Leah just a year ago when Rone had brought him to his hunting lodge at the foot of the highlands where they had stayed and fished the mist lakes. The lodge lay another two hours eastward, but it offered a soft bed and shelter for the remainder of the day so that he might set out again refreshed with nightfall. The idea of the bed decided him.

      Disregarding the weariness he felt, Jair continued to march east through the grasslands, the rise of the highlands broadening before him as he drew closer. Once or twice he looked back into the countryside through which he had come, but each time the land lay empty.

      It was midday when he reached the lodge, a timber and stone house set back within a tall stand of pine at the edge of the highland forests. The lodge sat upon a slope overlooking the grasslands, but was hidden by the trees until approached within hailing distance. Jair stumbled wearily up the stone steps to the lodge door, turned to locate the key that Rone kept concealed in a crevice in the stones, then saw that the lock was broken. Cautiously he lifted the latch and peered in. The building was empty.

      Of course it was empty, he grumbled to himself, eyes heavy with the need for sleep. Why wouldn't it be?

      He closed the door behind him, glanced briefly about at the immaculate interior-wood and leather furniture, shelves of stores and cooking ware, ale bar, and stone fireplace-and moved gratefully down the short hallway at the rear of the main room that led to the bedrooms. He stopped at the first door he came to, released the latch, pushed his way in, and collapsed on the broad, feather-stuffed bed.

      In seconds, he was asleep.

 

      It was almost dark when he came awake, and the autumn sky was deep blue, laced with dying silver sunlight through the curtained bedroom window. A noise brought him awake, a small scuffling sound-boots passing over wooden planking.

      Without thinking, he was on his feet, still half-asleep as he walked quickly to the bedroom door and peered out. The darkened room at the front of the lodge stood empty, bathed in shadow. Jair blinked and stared through the dusk. Then he saw something else.

      The front door stood open.

      He stepped out into the hallway in disbelief, sleep-filled eyes blinking.

      "Taking another walk, boy?" a familiar voice asked from behind.

      Frantically he whirled-far too slowly. Something hammered into the side of his face, and lights exploded before his eyes. He fell to the floor and into blackness.

 

 

      5

It was still summer where the Mermidon flowed down out of Callahorn and emptied into the vast expanse of the Rainbow Lake. It was green and fresh, a mix of grassland and forest, foothill and mountain. Water from the river and its dozens of tributaries fed the earth and kept it moist. Mist from the lake drifted north with each sunrise, dissipated, and settled into the land, giving life beyond the summer season. Sweet, damp smells permeated the air, and autumn was yet a stranger.

      Brin Ohmsford sat alone on a rise overlooking the juncture of lake and river and was at peace. The day was almost gone, and the sun was a brilliant reddish gold flare on the western horizon, its light staining crimson the silver waters that stretched away before her. No wind broke the calm of the coming evening, and the lake's surface was mirrorlike and still. High overhead, its bands of color a sharper hue against the coming gray of night where the eastern sky darkened, the wondrous rainbow from which the lake took its name arched from shoreline to shoreline. Cranes and geese glided gracefully through the fading light, their cries haunting in the deep silence.

      Brin's thoughts drifted. It had been four days since she had left her home and come eastward on a journey that would take her to the deep Anar, farther than she had ever gone before. It seemed odd that she knew so little about the journey, even now. Four days had gone, and she, was still little more than a child who gripped a mother's hand, trusting blindly. From Shady Vale they had gone north through the Duln, east along the banks of the Rappahalladran, north again, and then east, following the shoreline of the Rainbow Lake to where the Mermidon emptied down. Never once had Allanon offered a word of explanation.

      Both Rone and she had asked the Druid to explain, of course. They had asked their questions time and again, but the Druid had brushed them aside. Later, he would tell them. Your questions will be answered later. For now, simply follow after me. So they had followed as he had bidden them, wary and increasingly distrustful, promising themselves that they would have their explanations before the Eastland was reached.

      Yet the Druid gave them little cause to believe that their promise would be fulfilled. Enigmatic and withdrawn, he kept them from him. In the daytime, when they traveled, he rode before them, and it was clear that he preferred to ride alone. At night, when they camped, he left them and moved into the shadows. He neither ate nor slept, behavior that seemed to emphasize the differences between them and thereby widen the distance. He watched over them like a hawk over its prey, never leaving them alone to stray.

      Until now, she corrected. On this evening of the fourth day, Allanon unexpectedly had left them. They had encamped here, where the Mermidon fed into the Rainbow Lake, and the Druid had stalked off into the woodlands bordering the river's waters and disappeared without a word of explanation. Valegirl and highlander had watched him go, staring after in disbelief. At last, when it became apparent that he had indeed left them-for how long, they could only guess-they resolved to waste no further time worrying about him and turned their attention to preparing the evening meal. Three days of eating fish pulled first from the waters of the Rappahalladran and then from the waters of the Rainbow Lake had blunted temporarily their enthusiasm for fish. So armed with ash bow and arrows, a weapon Menion Leah had favored, Rone had gone in search of different fare. Brin had taken a few minutes to gather wood for a cooking fire, then settled herself on this rise and let the solitude of the moment slip over her.

      Allanon! He was an enigma that defied resolution. Committed to the preservation of the land, he was a friend to her people, a benefactor to the races, and a protector against evil they could not alone withstand. Yet what friend used people as Allanon did? Why keep so carefully concealed the reasons for all he did? He seemed at times as much enemy, malefactor, and destroyer as that which he claimed to stand against.

      The Druid himself had told her father the story of the old world of faerie from which all the magic had come along with creatures who wielded it. Good or bad, black or white, the magic was the same in the sense that its power was rooted in the strength, wisdom, and purpose of the user. After all, what had been the true difference between Allanon and the Warlock Lord in their struggle to secure mastery over the Sword of Shannara? Each had been a Druid, learning the magic from the books of the old world. The difference was in the character of the user, for where one had been corrupted by the power, the other had stayed pure.

      Perhaps. And perhaps not. Her father would argue the matter, she knew, maintaining that the Druid had been corrupted by the power as surely as the Dark Lord, if only in a different way. For Allanon was also governed in his life by the power he wielded and by the secrets of its use. If his sense of responsibility was of a higher sort and his purpose less selfish, he was nevertheless as much its victim. Indeed, there was something strangely sad about Allanon, despite his harsh, almost threatening demeanor. She thought for a time about the sense of sadness that the Druid invoked in her-a sadness her father had surely never felt-and she wondered how it was that she felt it so keenly.

      "I'm back!"

      She turned, startled. But it was only Rone, calling up to her from the campsite in the pine grove below the rise. She climbed to her feet and started down.

      "I see that the Druid hasn't returned yet," the highlander said as she came up to him. He had a pair of wild hens slung over one shoulder and dropped them to the ground. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he won't come back at all."

      She stared at him. "Maybe that wouldn't be so lucky."

      He shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it."

      "Tell me how you look at it, Rone."

      He frowned. "All right. I don't trust him."

      "And why is it that you don't?"

      "Because of what he pretends to be: protector against the Warlock Lord and the Bearers of the Skull; protector against the Demons released from the old world of faerie; and now protector against the Mord Wraiths. But always, it's with the aid of the Ohmsford family and their friends, take note. I know the history, too, Brin. It's always the same. He appears unexpectedly, warning of a danger that threatens the races, which only a member of the Ohmsford family can help put an end to. Heirs to the Elven house of Shannara and to the magics that belong to it-those are the Ohmsfords. First the Sword of Shannara, then the Elfstones and now the wishsong. But somehow things are never quite what they seem, are they?"

      Brin shook her head slowly. "What are you saying, Rone?"

      "I'm saying that the Druid comes out of nowhere with a story designed to secure Shea or Wil Ohmsford's aid-and now your aid-and each time it's the same. He tells only what he must. He gives away only as much as he needs give away. He keeps back the rest; he hides a part of the truth. I don't trust him. He plays games with people's lives!"

      "And you believe that he's doing that with us?"

      Rone took a deep breath. "Don't you?"

      Brin was silent a moment before answering. "I'm not sure."

      "Then you don't trust him either?"

      "I didn't say that."

      The highlander stared at her a moment, they slowly settled himself on the ground across from her, folding his long legs before him. "Well, which way is it, Brin? Do you trust him or don't you?"

      She sat down as well. "I guess I haven't really decided."

      "Then what are you doing here, for cat's sake?"

      She smiled at his obvious disgust. "I'm here, Rone, because he needs me-I believe that much of what I have been told. The rest I'm not sure about. The part he keeps hidden, I have to discover for myself."

      "If you can."

      "I'll find a way."

      "It's too dangerous," he said flatly.

      She smiled, rose, and came over to where he sat. Gently she kissed his forehead. "That's why I wanted you here with me, Rone Leah-to be my protector. Isn't that why you came?" He flushed bright scarlet and muttered something unintelligible, and she laughed in spite of herself. "Why don't we leave this discussion until later and do something with those hens. I'm starved."

      She built a small cooking fire while Rone cleaned the hens. Then they cooked and ate the birds together with a small portion of cheese and ale. They ate their meal in silence, seated back atop the small rise, watching the night sky darken and the stars and gibbous moon cast their pale silver light on the waters of the lake.

      By the time they had finished, night had fallen and Allanon still had not returned.

      "Brin, you remember what you said before, about my being here to protect you?" Rone asked her after they had returned to the fire. She nodded. "Well, it's true-I am here to protect you. I wouldn't let anything happen to you-not ever. I guess you know that."

      He hesitated, and she smiled through the dark. "I know."

      "Well." He shifted about uneasily, his hands lifting the battered scabbard that housed the Sword of Leah. "There's another reason I'm here, too. I hope you can understand this. I'm here to prove something to myself." He hesitated again, groping for the words to explain. "I am a Prince of Leah, but that's just a title. I was born into it, just like my brothers-and they're all older. And this sword, Brin." He held up the scabbard and its weapon. "It isn't really mine; it's my great-grandfather's. It's Menion Leah's sword. It always has been, ever since he carried it in search of the Sword of Shannara. I carry it-the ash bow, too-because Menion carried them and I'd like to be what he was. But I'm not."

      "You don't know that," she said quickly.

      "That's just the point," he continued. "I've never done anything to find out what I could be. And that's partly why I'm here. I want to know. This is how Menion found out-by going on a quest, as protector to Shea Ohmsford. Maybe I can do it this way, too."

      Brin smiled. "Maybe you can. In any case, I'm glad you told me." She paused. "Now I'll tell you a secret. I came for the same reason. I have something to prove to myself, too. I don't know if I can do what Allanon expects of me; I don't know if I am strong enough. I was born with the wishsong, but I have never known what I was meant to do with it. I believe there is a reason for my having the magic. Maybe I will learn that reason from Allanon."

      She put her hand on his arm. "So you see, we're not so different after all, are we, Rone?"

      They talked a while longer, growing drowsy as the evening lengthened and the weariness of the day's travel overcame them. Then at last their talk gave way to silence, and they spread their bedding. Clear and cool, the autumn night wrapped them in its solitude and peace as they stretched out next to the dark embers of the fire and pulled their blankets close.

      They were asleep in moments.

      Neither saw the tall, black-robed figure who stood in the shadow of the pines just beyond the fire's light.

 

      When they awoke the following morning, Allanon was there. He was seated only a few yards away from them on a hollow log, his tall, spare form wraithlike in the gray light of early dawn. He watched silently as they rose, washed, and ate a light breakfast, offering no explanation as to where he had been. More than once the Valegirl and the highlander glanced openly in his direction, but he seemed to take no notice. It was not until they had packed their bedrolls and cooking gear and brought the horses in to be saddled that he finally rose and came over to them.

      "There has been a change of plans," he announced. They stared at him silently. "We are no longer going east. We are going north into the Dragon's Teeth."

      "The Dragon's Teeth?" Rone's jaw tightened. "Why?"

      "Because it is necessary."

      "Necessary for whom?" Rone snapped.

      "It will only be for a day or so." Allanon turned his attention to Brin now, ignoring the angry highlander. "I have a visit to make. When it is finished, we will turn east again and complete our journey."

      "Allanon." Brin spoke his name softly. "Tell us why we must go north."

      The Druid hesitated, his face darkening. Then he nodded. "Very well. Last night I received a summons from my father. He bids me come to him, and I am bound to do so. In life, he was the Druid Bremen. Now his shade surfaces from the netherworld through the waters of the Hadeshorn in the Valley of Shale. In three days time, before daybreak, he will speak with me there."

      Bremen-the Druid who had escaped the massacre of the Council at Paranor, when the Warlock Lord swept down out of the Northland in the Second War of the Races, and who had forged the Sword of Shannara. So long ago, Brin though, the legendary tale recalling itself in her memory. Then, seventy-odd years ago, Shea Ohmsford had gone with Allanon into the Valley of Shale and seen the shade of Bremen rise from the Hadeshorn to converse with his son, to warn of what lay ahead, to prophesy...

      "He can see the future, can't he?" Brin asked suddenly, remembering now how the shade had warned of Shea's fate. "Will he speak of that?"

      Allanon shook his head doubtfully. "Perhaps. Even so, he would reveal only fragments of what is to be, for the future is not yet formed in its entirety and must of necessity remain in doubt. Only certain things can be known. Even they are not always clear to our understanding." He shrugged. "In any case, he calls. He would not do so if it were not of grave importance."

      "I don't like it," Rone announced. "It's another three days or more gone-time that could be spent getting into and out of the Anar. The Wraiths are already searching for you. You told us that much yourself. We're just giving them that much more time to find you-and Brin."

      The Druid's eyes fixed on him, cold and hard. "I take no unnecessary risks with the girl's safety, Prince of Leah. Nor with your own."

      Rone flushed angrily, and Brin stepped forward, seizing his hand. "Wait, Rone. Perhaps going to the Hadeshorn is a good idea. Perhaps we will learn something of what the future holds that will aid us."

      The highlander kept his gaze locked on Allanon. "What would aid us most is a bit more of the truth of what we're about!" he snapped.

      "So." The word was a soft, quick whisper, and Allanon's tall form seemed to suddenly grow taller. "What part of the truth would you have me reveal, Prince of Leah?"

      Rone held his ground. "This much, Druid. You tell Brin that she must come with you into the Eastland because you lack the power necessary to penetrate the barrier that protects the book of dark magic-you, who are the keeper of the secrets of the Druids, who possess power enough to destroy Skull Bearers and Demons alike! Yet you need her. And what does she have that you don't? The wishsong. Nothing more, just that. It lacks even the power of the Elfstones! It is a magic toy that changes the colors of leaves and causes flowers to bloom! What kind of protection is that?"

      Allanon stared at him silently for a moment and then smiled, a faint, sad smile. "What kind of power, indeed?" he murmured. He looked suddenly at Brin. "Do you, too, harbor these doubts the highlander voices? Do you seek a better understanding of the wishsong? Shall I show you something of its use?"

      It was cold the way he said it, but Brin nodded. "Yes."

      The Druid strode past her, seized the reins of his horse and mounted. "Come then, and I will show you, Valegirl," he said.

      They rode north in silence along the Mermidon, winding their way through the rocky forestland, the light of the sunrise breaking through the trees on their left, the shadow of the Runne Mountains a dark wall on their right. They rode for more than an hour, a grim, voiceless procession. Then at last the Druid signaled a halt, and they dismounted.

      "Leave the horses," he instructed.

      They walked west into the forest, the Druid leading the Valegirl and the highlander across a ridge and down into a heavily wooded hollow. After several minutes of fighting their way through the tangled undergrowth, Allanon stopped and turned.

      "Now then, Brin." He pointed ahead into the brush. "Pretend that this hollow is the barrier of dark magic through which you must pass. How would you use the wishsong to gain passage?"

      She glanced about uncertainly. "I'm not sure..."

      "Not sure?" He shook his head. "Think of the uses to which you have put the magic. Have you used it as the Prince of Leah suggests to bring autumn color to the leaves of a tree? Have you used it to bring flowers to bloom, leaves to bud, plants to grow?" She nodded. "You have used it, then, to change color and shape and behavior. Do so here. Make the brush part for you."

      She looked at him a moment and then nodded. This was more than she had ever asked of herself, and she was not convinced she had the power. Moreover, it had been a long time since she had used the magic. But she would try. Softly, she began to sing. Her voice was low and even, the song blending with the sounds of the forest. Then slowly she changed its pitch, and it rose until all else had faded into stillness. Words came, unrehearsed, spontaneous and somehow intuitively felt as she reached out. to the brush that blocked her passage. Slowly the tangle drew back, leaves and branches withdrawing in winding ribbons of sleek green.

      A moment later, the way forward lay open to the center of the hollow.

      "Simple enough, don't you agree?" But the Druid wasn't really asking. "Let's see where your path takes us."

      He started ahead again, black robes drawn close. Brin glanced quickly at Rone, who shrugged his lack of understanding. They followed after the Druid. Seconds later he stopped again, this time pointing to an elm, its trunk bent and stunted within the shadow of a taller, broader oak. The elm's limbs had grown into those of the oak, twisting upward in a futile effort to reach the sunlight.

      "A bit harder task this time, Brin," Allanon said suddenly. "That elm would be much better off if the sun could reach it. I want you to straighten it, bring it upright, and disentangle it from the oak."

      Brin looked at the two trees doubtfully. They seemed to closely entwined. "I don't think I can do that," she told him quietly.

      "Try."

      "The magic is not strong enough..."

      "Try anyway," he cut her short.

      So she sang, the wishsong enfolding the other sounds of the forest until there was nothing else, rising brightly into the morning air. The elm shuddered, limbs quaking in response. Brin lifted the pitch of her song, sensing the tree's resistance, and the words formed a harder edge. The stunted trunk of the elm drew back from the oak, its limbs scraping and tearing and its leaves ripped violently from their stems.

      Then, with shocking suddenness, the entire tree seemed to heave upward and explode in a shower of fragmented limbs, twigs, and leaves that rained down across the length of the hollow. Astonished, Brin stumbled back, shielding her face with her hands, the wishsong dying into instant stillness. She would have fallen but for Allanon, who caught her in his arms, held her protectively until the shower had subsided, then turned her to face him.

      "What happened...?" she began, but he quickly put a finger to her lips.

      "Power, Valegirl," he whispered. "Power in your wishsong far greater than what you have imagined. That elm could not disentangle itself from the oak. Its limbs were far too stiff, far too

heavily entwined. Yet it could not refuse your song. It had no choice but to pull free-even when the result meant destroying itself!"

      "Allanon!" She shook her head in disbelief.

      "You have that power, Brin Ohmsford. As with all things magic, there is a dark side-as well as a light." The Druid's face came closer. "You have played with changing the colors of a tree's leaves. Think what would happen if you carried the seasonal change you wrought to its logical conclusion. The tree would pass from autumn into winter, from winter into spring, from seasonal change to seasonal change. At last it would have passed through the entire cycle of its life. It would die."

      "Druid..." Rone warned and started forward, but a single dark glance from the other's eyes froze him in his tracks.

      "Stand, Prince of Leah. Let her hear the truth." The black eyes again found Brin's. "You have played with the wishsong as you would a curious toy because that is all the use you saw for it. Yet you knew that it was more than that, Valegirl-always, deep inside, you knew. Elven magic has always been more than that. Yours is the magic of the Elfstones, born into new form in its passage from your father's blood to your own. There is power in you of a sort that transcends any that has gone before-latent perhaps, yet the potential is unmistakable. Consider for a moment the nature of this magic you wield. The wishsong can change the behavior of any living thing! Can you not see what that means? Supple brush can be made to part for you, giving you access where there was none before. Unbending trees can be made to part as well, though they shatter with the effort. If you can bring color to leaves, you can also drain it away. If you can cause flowers to bloom, you can also cause them to wilt. If you can give life, Brin, you can also take it away."

      She stared at him, horrified. "What are you saying?" she whispered harshly. "That the wishsong can kill? That I would use it to kill? Do you think...?"

      "You asked to be shown something of its use," Allanon cut short her protestations. "I have simply done as you wished. But I think now you will no longer doubt that the magic is much more than you thought it was."

      Brin's dusky face burned with anger. "I no longer doubt, Allanon. Nor should you doubt this-that even so, I would never use the wishsong to kill! Never!"

      The Druid held her gaze, yet the hard features softened slightly. "Not even to save your own life? Or perhaps the life of the highlander? Not even then?"

      She did not look away. "Never."

      The Druid stared at the Valegirl a moment longer-as if to measure in some way the depth of her commitment. Then abruptly he wheeled away and started back toward the slope of the hollow.

      "You have seen enough, Brin. We have to get on with our journey. Think about what you have learned."

      His black form disappeared into the brush. Brin stood where he had left her, aware suddenly that her hands were shaking. That tree! The way it had simply shattered, torn apart...

      "Brin." Rone was standing before her, and his hands came up to grip her shoulders. She winced at their touch. "We can't go on with him-not anymore. He plays games with us as he has done with all the others. Leave him and his foolish quest and come back with me now to the Vale."

      She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. "No. It was necessary that I see this."

      "None of this is necessary, for cat's sake!" His big hands drew back and fastened about the pommel of the Sword of Leah. "If he does something like that again, I'll not think twice..."

      "No, Rone." She put her hands over his. She was calm once more, realizing suddenly that she had missed something. "What he did was not done simply to frighten or intimidate me. It was done to teach me, and it was done out of a need for haste. It was in his eyes. Could you not see it?"

      He shook his head. "I saw nothing. What need for haste?"

      She looked to where the Druid had gone. "Something is wrong. Something."

      Then she thought again of the destruction of the tree, of the Druid's words of warning, and of her vow. Never! She looked quickly back at Rone. "Do you think I could use the wishsong to kill?" she asked softly.

      For just an instant he hesitated. "No."

      Even to save your life? she thought. And what if it were not a tree that threatened, but a living creature? Would I destroy it to save you? Oh, Rone, what if it were a human being?

      "Will you still come with me on this journey?" she asked him.

      He gave her his most rakish smile. "Right up to the moment when we take that confounded book and shred it."

      Then he bent to kiss her lightly on the mouth, and her arms came up to hold him close. "We'll be all right;" she heard him say.

      And she answered, "I know."

      But she was no longer sure.

 

 

      6

When Jair Ohmsford regained consciousness, he found himself trussed hand and foot and securely lashed against a tree trunk. He was no longer in the hunting lodge but in a clearing sheltered by closely grown fir that loomed over him like sentinels set to watch. A dozen feet in front of him, a small fire burned, casting its faint glow into the shadowed dark of the silent trees. Night lay over the land.

      "Awake again, boy?"

      The familiar, chiding voice came from out of the darkness to his left, and he turned his head slowly, searching. A squat, motionless figure crouched at the edge of the firelight. Jair started to reply, then realized that he was not only tied; he was gagged as well.

      "Oh yes, sorry about that," the other spoke again. "Had to put the gag in, of course. Couldn't have you using your magic on me a second time, could I? Do you have any idea how long it took me to get out of that wood bin?"

      Jair sagged back against the tree, remembering. The Gnome at the inn-that was who had followed him, caught up with him at Rone's hunting lodge, and struck him from behind...

      He winced at the memory, finding that the side of his head still throbbed.

      "Nice trick, that thing with the snakes." The Gnome chuckled faintly. He rose and came into the firelight, seating himself crosslegged a few feet from his prisoner. Narrow green eyes studied Jair speculatively. "I thought you harmless, boy-not some Druid's whelp. Worse luck for me, eh? There I was, sure you'd be so scared that you'd tell me right off what I wanted to know-tell me anything just to get rid of me. Not you, though. Snakes on my arms and a four-foot limb bashed up against my head, that's what you gave me. Lucky I'm alive!"

      The blocky yellow face cocked slightly. "Course, that was your mistake." A blunt finger came up sharply. "You should have finished me. But you didn't, and that gave me another chance at you. Suppose that's the way you are, though, being from the Vale. Anyway, once I got free of that wood bin, I came after you like a fox after a rabbit. Too bad for you, too, because I wasn't about to let you escape, after what you'd put me through. Not by a whisker's cut, I wasn't! Those other fools, they'd have let you outrun them. But not me. Tracked you three days. Almost had you at the river, but you were already across and I couldn't pick up your trail at night. Had to wait. But I caught you napping at that lodge, didn't I?"

      He laughed cheerfully and Jair flushed with anger. "Oh, don't be angry with me-I was just doing my job. Besides, it was a matter of pride. Twenty years, and no one's ever gotten the best of me until now. And then it's some nothing boy. Couldn't live with that. Oh, knocking you senseless-had to do that, too. Like I said, couldn't be taking chances with the magic."

      He got up and came a few steps closer, his rough face screwed up with obvious curiosity. "It was magic, wasn't it? How'd you learn to do that? It's in the voice, right? You make the snakes come by using the voice. Quite a trick. Scared the wits out of me, and I thought there wasn't much left that could scare me." He paused. "Except maybe the walkers."

      Jair's eyes glistened with fear at mention of the Mord Wraiths. The Gnome saw it and nodded. "Something to be scared of, they are. Black all through. Dark as midnight. Wouldn't want them hunting me. Don't know how you got past that one back at the house..."

      He stopped suddenly and bent forward. "Hungry, boy?" Jair nodded. The Gnome regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then rose. "Tell you what. I'll loosen the gag and feed you if you promise not to use the magic on me. Wouldn't do you much good anyway trussed up to that tree-not unless those snakes of yours can chew through ropes. I'll feed you and we can talk a bit. The others won't catch up until morning. What about it?"

      Jair thought it over a moment, then nodded his agreement. He was famished.

      "Done, then." The Gnome came over and slipped free the gag. One hand fastened tightly to Jair's chin. "Your word now-let's have it. No magic."

      "No magic," Jair repeated, wincing.

      "Good. Good." The Gnome let his hand drop. "You're one who keeps his word, I'm betting. Man's only as good as his word, you know." He reached down to his waist for a hard leather container, released the stopper and brought it up to the Valeman's lips. "Drink. Go on, take a swallow."

      Jair sipped at the unknown liquid, his throat dry and tight. It was an ale, harsh and bitter, and it burned all the way down. Jair choked and drew back, and the Gnome recapped the container and returned it to his belt. Then he sat back on his haunches, grinning.

      "I'm called Slanter."

      "Jair Ohmsford." Jair was still trying to swallow. "I guess you knew that."

      Slanter nodded. "I did. Should have found out a bit more, it appears. Quite a chase you took me on."

      Jair frowned. "How did you manage to catch up to me? I didn't think anyone could catch me."

      "Oh, that." The Gnome sniffed. "Well, not just anyone could have caught you. But then I'm not just anyone."

      "What do you mean?"

      The Gnome laughed. "I mean I'm a tracker, boy. It's what I do. Fact is, it's what I do better than just about anyone else alive. That's why they brought me, the others. That's why I'm here. I've been tracking."

      "Me?" Jair asked in astonishment.

      "No, not you-the Druid!-The one they call Allanon. It was him I was tracking. You just happened to cross my path at the wrong time."

      A look of bewilderment crossed the Valeman's face. This Gnome was a tracker? No wonder he hadn't been able to escape him as he would have another man. But tracking Allanon...?

      Slanter shook his head helplessly and climbed to his feet. "Look, I'll explain it all to you, but first let's have something to eat. I had to carry you down from that hunting lodge two miles distant, and you may look small but you weigh better than your size. Worked up a pretty good appetite while you rested. Sit still, now-I'll put something on the fire."

      Slanter retrieved a knapsack from the other side of the clearing, pulled clear some cooking utensils and within minutes had a beef and vegetable stew simmering over the fire. The smell of the cooking food wafted through the night air to Jair's nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He was beyond famished, he decided. He had not had a decent meal since he had left the inn. Besides, he needed to keep his strength up if he was to have any chance of escaping this fellow, and he had every intention of doing so at the first opportunity.

      When the stew was finished, Slanter brought it over to where he was tied and hand-fed him mouthfuls, sharing the meal with him. The food tasted wonderful, and they ate all that there was, together with an end of bread and some cheese. Slanter drank more of the ale, but gave Jair sips from a cup of water.

      "Not a bad stew if I do say so myself," the Gnome remarked afterward, bent next to the fire to scrape clean the pan. "Learned a few useful things over the years."

      "How long have you been a tracker?" Jair asked him, intrigued.

      "Most of my life. Began learning when I was your age." He finished with the cookware, stood up and came back over to the Valeman. "What do you know about trackers?"

      Briefly Jair told him about the old tracker who had boarded at the inn, of their conversations, and of the tracking games they'd played while the man's leg had healed. Slanter listened quietly, obvious interest reflected in his rough yellow features. When Jair had finished, the Gnome sat back, a distant look in his sharp eyes.

      "I was like you once, long time ago. Used to think about nothing but being a tracker. Left home with one finally-an old Borderman. I was younger than you. Left home, went right out of the Eastland into Callahorn and the Northland. Gone better than fifteen years. Traveled all the lands at one time or another, you know. As much of them in me as Eastland Gnome. Odd, but I'm kind of a homeless sort because of it. Gnomes don't really trust me, because I've been away too long, seen too much of what else there is ever to really be the same as them. A Gnome who's not a Gnome. I've learned more than they ever will, shut away in the Eastland forests like they are. They know it, too. They barely tolerate me. They respect me, though, because I'm the best that there is at what I do."

      He glanced sharply at Jair. "That's why I'm here-because I'm the best. The Druid Allanon-the fellow you don't know, remember?-he came into the Ravenshorn and Graymark, tried to get down into the Maelmord. But nothing goes down into that pit, not Druid nor Devil. The Wraiths knew he was there and went after him. One walker, a patrol of Gnome Hunters, and me to track. Tracked to your village, then waited for someone to show. Thought someone would, even though it was pretty clear that the Druid had already gone elsewhere. And who should appear but, you?"

      Jair's mind was racing. How much does he know? Does he know the reason that Allanon came to Shady Vale? Does he know about the...? And suddenly he remembered the Elfstones, tucked hastily within his tunic when he fled the Vale. Did he still have them? Or had Slanter found them? Oh, shades!

      Eyes still fixed on those of the Gnome, he shifted cautiously against the ropes that bound him, trying to feel the pressure of the Stones against his body. But it was hopeless. The ties knotted his clothing and gave him no sure feel for what he still had on him. He dared not look down, even for an instant.

      "Ropes cutting a bit?" Slanter asked suddenly.

      He shook his head. "I was just trying to get comfortable." He forced himself to sit back and relax. He changed the subject back. "Why did you bother coming after me if you were supposed to be tracking Allanon?"

      Slanter cocked his head slightly. "Because I was tracking the Druid to find out where he went, and I've done that. He went to your village, to your family. Now he's gone back to the Eastland-isn't that right? Oh, you needn't answer. At least not to me. But you will have to answer to those who came with me when they get here in the morning. A bit slow they are, but sure. I had to leave them to be certain I caught you. You see, they want to know something of Allanon's visit. They want to know why he came. And unfortunately for you, they want to know one thing more."

      He paused meaningfully, eyes boring into Jair. The Valeman took a deep breath. "About the magic?" he whispered.

      "Sharp fellow." Slanter's smile was hard.

      "What if I don't want to tell them?"

      "That would be foolish," the Gnome said quietly.

      They stared at each other wordlessly. "The Wraith would make me tell, wouldn't he?" Jair asked finally.

      "The Wraith is not your problem." Slanter snorted. "The Wraith's gone north after the Druid. The Sedt is your problem."

      The Valeman shook his head. "Sedt? What is a Sedt?"

      "A Sedt is a Gnome chieftain-in this case, Spilk. He commands the patrol. A rather unpleasant fellow. Not like me, you see. Very much an Eastland Gnome. He would just as soon cut your throat as look at you. He's your problem. You'd better answer the questions he asks."