Terry Brooks - Shannara 03 - The Wishsong of Shannara

The Wishsong of Shannara by Terry Brooks

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,

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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

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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.

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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?"

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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

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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

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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..."

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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

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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

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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

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Terry Brooks - Shannara 03 - The Wishsong of Shannara

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