Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1

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Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1
ONE
Hunter Predd was patrolling the waters of the Blue Divide
north of the island of Mesca Rho, a Wing Hove outpost at
the western edge of Elven territorial waters, when he saw
the man clinging to the spar. The man was draped over the length
of wood as if a cloth doll, his head laid on the spar so that his face
was barely out of the water, one arm wrapped loosely about his
narrow float to keep him from sliding away. His skin was burned
and ravaged from sun, wind, and weather, and his clothing was in
tatters. He was so still it was impossible to tell if he was alive. It was
the odd rolling movement of his body within the gentle swells, in
fact, that first caught Hunter Predd's eye.
Obsidian was already banking smoothly toward the castaway,
not needing the touch of his master's hands and knees to know what
to do. His eyes sharper than those of the Elf, he had spotted the
man n the water before Hunter and shifted course to effect a
rescue. It was a large part of the work he was trained to do, locating
and rescuing those whose ships had been lost at sea. The Roc could
tell a man from a piece of wood or a fish a thousand yards away.
He swung around slowly, great wings stretched wide, dipping
toward the surface and plucking the man from the waters with a sure
and delicate touch. Great claws wrapped securely, but gently, about
the limp form, the Roc lifted away again. Depthless and clear, the
late spring sky spread away in a brilliant blue dome brightened by
sunlight that infused the warm air and reflected in flashes of silver
off the waves. Hunter Predd guided his mount back toward the
closest piece of land available, a small atoll some miles from Mesca
Rho. There he would see what, if anything, could be done.
They reached the atoll in less than half an hour, Hunter Predd
keeping Obsidian low and steady in his flight the entire way. Black
as ink and in the prime of his life, the Roc was his third as a Wing
Rider and arguably the best. Besides being big and strong, Obsidian
had excellent instincts and had learned to anticipate what Hunter
wished of him before the Wing Rider had need to signal it. They
had been together five years, not long for a Rider and his mount, but
sufficiently long in this instance that they performed as if linked in
mind and body.
Lowering to the leeward side of the atoll in a slow flapping of
wings, Obsidian deposited his burden on a sandy strip of beach and
settled down on the rocks nearby. Hunter Predd jumped off and hur-
ried over to the motionless form. The man did not respond when the
Wing Rider turned him on his back and began to check for signs of
life. There was a pulse, and a heartbeat. His breathing was slow and
shallow. But when Hunter Predd checked his face, he found his eyes
had been removed and his tongue cut out.
He was an Elf, the Wing Rider saw. Not a member of the Wing
Hove, however. The lack of harness scars on his wrists and hands
marked him so. Hunter examined his body carefully for broken
bones and found none. The only obvious physical damage seemed
to be to his face. Mostly, he was suffering from exposure and lack of
nourishment. Hunter placed a little fresh water from his pouch on
the man's lips and let it trickle down his throat. The man's lips
moved slightly.
Hunter considered his options and decided to take the man to
the seaport of Bracken Clell, the closest settlement where he could
find an Elven Healer to provide the care that was needed. He could
take the man to Mesca Rho, but the island was only an outpost. An-
other Wing Rider and himself were its only inhabitants. No healing
help could be found there. If he wanted to save the man's life, he
would have to risk carrying him east to the mainland.
The Wing Rider bathed the man's skin in fresh water and ap-
plied a healing salve that would protect it from further damage.
Hunter carried no extra clothing, the man would have to travel in
the rags he wore. He tried again to give the man fresh water, and
this time the man's mouth worked more eagerly in response, and he
moaned softly. For an instant his ruined eyes tried to open, and
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Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1
he mumbled unintelligibly.
As a matter of course and in response to his training, the Wing
Rider searched the man and took from his person the only two
items he found. Both surprised and perplexed him. He studied each
carefully, and the frown on his lips deepened.
Unwilling to delay his departure any longer, Hunter picked up
the man and, with Obsidian's help, eased him into place on the
Roc's broad back. A pad cushioned and restraining straps secured
him. After a final check, Hunter climbed back aboard his mount,
and Obsidian lifted away.
They flew east toward the coming darkness for three hours, and
sunset was approaching when they sighted Bracken Clell. The sea-
port's population was a mixture of races, predominantly Elven, and
the inhabitants were used to seeing Wing Riders and their Rocs
come and go. Hunter Predd took Obsidian upland to a clearing
marked for landings, and the big Roc swung smoothly down into
the trees. A messenger was sent into town from among the curious
who quickly gathered, and the Elven Healer appeared with a clutch
of litter bearers.
"What's happened to him?" the Healer asked of Hunter Predd,
Ofl discovering the man's empty eye sockets and ruined mouth.
Hunter shook his head. "That's how I found him."
"Identification? Who is he?"
"I don't know," the Wing Rider lied.
He waited until the Healer and his attendants had picked up the
man and begun carrying him toward the Healer's home, where the
man would be placed in one of the sick bays in the healing center,
before dispatching Obsidian to a more remote perch, then fol-
lowing after the crowd. What he knew was not to be shared with
the Healer or anyone else in Bracken Clell. What he knew was
meant for one man only.
He sat on the Healer's porch and smoked his pipe, his long-
bow and hunting knife by his side as he waited for the Healer to
reemerge. The sun had set, and the last of the light lay across the
waters of the bay in splashes of scarlet and gold. Hunter Predd was
small and slight for a Wing Rider, but tough as knotted cord. He
was neither young nor old, but comfortably settled in the middle
and content to be there. Sun-browned and windburned, his face
seamed and his eyes gray beneath a thick thatch of brown hair, he
had the look of what he was—an Elf who had lived all of his life in
the outdoors.
Once, while he was waiting, he took out the bracelet and held it
up to the light, reassuring himself that he had not been mistaken
about the crest it bore. The map he left in his pocket.
One of the Healer's attendants brought him a plate of food,
which he devoured silently. When he was finished eating, the atten-
dant reappeared and took the plate away, all without speaking. The
Healer still hadn't emerged.
It was late when he finally did, and he looked haggard and un-
nerved as he settled himself next to Hunter. They had known each
other for some time, the Healer having come to the seaport only a
year after Hunter had returned from the border wars and settled
into Wing Rider service off the coast. They had shared in more than
one rescue effort and, while of different backgrounds and callings,
were of similar persuasion regarding the foolishness of the world's
progress. Here, in an outback of the broader civilization that was
designated the Four Lands, they had found they could escape a little
of the madness.
How is he?" Hunter Predd asked.
The Healer sighed. "Not good. He may live. If you can call it
that. He's lost his eyes and his tongue. Both were removed forcibly.
Exposure and malnutrition have eroded his strength so severely he
will probably never recover entirely. He came awake several times
and tried to communicate, but couldn't."
"Maybe with time—"
"Time isn't the problem," the Healer interrupted, drawing his
gaze and holding it. "He cannot speak or write. It isn't just the
damage to his tongue or his lack of strength. It is his mind. His
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Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1
mind is gone. Whatever he has been through has damaged him ir
reparably. I don't think he knows where he is or even who he is."
Hunter Predd looked off into the night. "Not even his name?"
"Not even that. I don't think he remembers anything of what's
happened to him."
The Wing Rider was silent a moment, thinking. "Will you keep
him here for a while longer, care for him, watch over him? I want to
look into this more closely."
The Healer nodded. "Where will you start?"
"Arborlon, perhaps."
A soft scrape of a boot brought him about sharply. An attendant
appeared with hot tea and food for the Healer. He nodded to
them without speaking and disappeared again. Hunter Predd stood,
walked to the door to be certain they were alone, then reseated
himself beside the Healer.
"Watch this damaged man closely, Dome. No visitors. Nothing
until you hear back from me."
The Healer sipped at his tea. "You know something about him
that you're not telling me, don't you?"
"I suspect something. There's a difference. But I need time to
make certain. Can you give me that time?"
The Healer shrugged. "I can try. The man inside will have some-
thing to say about whether he will still be here when you return. He
is very weak. You should move swiftly."
Hunter Predd nodded. "As swift as Obsidian's wings can fly," he
replied softly.
Behind him, in the near darkness of the open doorway, a shadow
detached itself from behind a wall and moved silently away.
The attendant who had served dinner to the Wing Rider and
the Healer waited until after midnight, when the people of Bracken
Clell were mostly asleep, to slip from his rooms in the village into
the surrounding forest. He moved quickly and without the benefit
of light, knowing his path well from having traveled it many times
before. He was a small, wizened man who had spent the whole of
his life in the village and was seldom given a second glance. He
lived alone and had few friends. He had served in the Healer's
household for better than thirteen years, a quiet, uncomplaining
sort who lacked imagination but could be depended on. His quali-
ties suited him well in his work as a Healer's attendant, but even
better ac a spy
He reached the cages he kept concealed in a darkened pen be-
hind the old cabin in which he had been born. When his father and
mother had died, possession had passed to him as the eldest male. It
was a poor inheritance, and he had never accepted that it was all to
which he was entitled. When the opportunity had been offered to
him, he snatched at it eagerly. A few words overheard here and
there, a face or a name recognized from tales told in taverns and ale
houses, bits and pieces of information tossed his way by those res-
cued from the ocean and brought to the center to heal—they were
all worth something to the right people.
And to one person in particular, make no mistake about it.
The attendant understood what was expected of him. She had
made it clear from the beginning. She was to be his Mistress, to whom
he must answer most strongly should he step from between the lines
of obedience she had charted for him. Whoever passed through the
Healer's doors and whatever they said, if they or it mattered at all, she
was to know. She told him the decision to summon her was his, al-
ways his. He must be prepared to answer for his cummons, of course.
But it would be better to act boldly than belatedly. A chance missed
was much less acceptable to her than time wasted.
He had guessed wrongly a few times, but she had not been
angry or critical. A few mistakes were to be expected. Mostly, he
knew what was worth something and what was not. Patience and
perseverance were necessary.
He'd developed both, and they had served him well. This time,
he knew, he had something of real value
He unfastened the cage door and took out one of the strange
birds she had given him. They were wicked-looking things with
Side 3
Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1
sharp eyes and beaks, swept-back wings, and narrow bodies. They
watched him whenever he came in sight, or took them out of the
cages, or fastened a message to their legs, as he was doing now.
They watched him as if marking his efficiency for a report they
would make later. He didn't like the way they looked at him, and he
seldom looked hack
When the message was in place, he tossed the bird into the air,
and it rose into the darkness and disappeared. They flew only at
night, these birds. Sometimes, they returned with messages from
her. Sometimes, they simply reappeared, waiting to be placed back
in their cages. He never questioned their origins, It was better, he
sensed, simply to accept their usefulness.
He stared into the night sky. He had done what he could. There
was nothing to do now, but wait. She would tell him what was
needed next. She always did.
Closing the doors to the pen so that the cages were hidden once
more, he crept silently back the way he had come.
Two days later, Allardon Elessedil had just emerged from a long
session with the Elven High Council centered on the renewal of
trade agreements with the cities of Callahorn and on the seemingly
endless war they fought as allies with the Dwarves against the Fed-
eration, when he was advised that a Wing Rider was waiting to
speak to him. It was late in the day, and he was tired, but the Wing
Rider had flown all the way to Arborlon from the southern seaport
of Bracken Clell, a two-day journey, and was refusing to deliver his
message to anyone but the King. The aide who advised Allardon of
the Wing Rider's presence conveyed quite clearly the other's deter-
mination not to be swayed on this issue.
The Elf King nodded and followed his aide to where the Wing
Rider waited. His arrangement with the Wing Hove demanded that
he accede to any request for privacy in the conveyance of mes-
sages. Pursuant to a contract drawn up in the early years of Wren
Elessedil's rule, the Wing Riders had been serving the Land Elves as
scouts and messengers along the coast of the Blue Divide for more
than 130 years. They were provided with goods and coin in ex-
change for their services, and it was an arrangement that the Elven
Kings and Queens had found useful on more than one occasion. If
the Wing Rider who waited had asked to speak with Allardon per-
sonally, then there was good reason for the request, and he was not
about to ignore it.
With Home Guards Perin and Wye flanking him protectively,
he trailed after his aide as they departed the High Council and
walked back through the gardens to the Elessedil palace home. Al-
lardon Elessedil had been King for more than twenty years, since
the death of his mother, the Queen Aine. He was of medium height
and build, still fit and trim in spite of his years, his mind sharp and
his body strong. Only his graying hair and the lines on his face gave
evidence of his advanced years. He was a direct descendant of the
great Queen Wren Elessedil, who had brought the Elves and their
city out of the island wilderness of Morrowindl into which the Fed-
eration and the hated Shadowen had driven them. He was her
great-great-grandson, and he had lived the whole of his life as if
measuring it against hers.
It was difficult to do so in these times. The war with the Federa-
tion had been raging for ten years and showed no signs of ending
anytime soon The Southland coalition of Bordermen, Dwarves,
and Elves had halted the Federation advance below the Duin two
years earlier on the Prekkendorran Heights. Now the armies were
stalemated in a front that had failed to shift one way or the other in
all that time and continued to consume lives and waste energy at an
alarming rate. There was no question that the war was necessary.
The Federation's attempt at reclaiming the Borderlands it had lost in
the time of Wren Elessedil was invasive and predatory and could
not be tolerated But the King couldn't help thinking that his an-
cestor would have found a way to put an end to it by now, where he
had failed to do so.
None of which had anything to do with the matter at hand, he
chided himself. The war with the Federation was centered at the cross-
Side 4
Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1
roads of the Four Lands and had not yet spilled over onto the coast. For
now, at least, it was contained.
He walked into the reception room where the Wing Rider was
waiting and immediately dismissed those who accompanied him. A
member of the Home Guard would already be concealed within
striking distance, although Allardon had never personally heard of a
Wing Rider turned assassin.
As the door closed behind his small entourage, he extended
his hand to the Rider. "I'm sorry you had to wait. I was sitting with
the High Council, and my aide didn't want to disturb me." He
shook the other's corded hand and scanned the weathered face. "I
know you, don't I? You've brought me a message once or maybe
twice before."
"Once, only," the other advised. "It was a long time ago. You
wouldn't have reason to remember me. My name is Hunter Predd."
Ihe Elven King nodded, failing to recognize the other's name,
but smiling anyway. Wing Riders cared nothing for formalities, and
he didn't bother relying on them here. "What do you have for me,
Hunter?"
The Wing Rider reached inside his tunic and produced a short,
slender length of metal chain and a scrap of hide. He held on to
both as he spoke. 'Three days ago, I was patrolling the waters north
off the island of Mesca Rho, a Wing Hove outpost. I found a man
floating on a ship spar. He was barely alive, suffering from exposure
and dehydration. I don't know how long he was out there, but it
must have been some time. His eyes and his tongue had been cut
out before he had been cast adrift. He was wearing this."
He held out the length of metal chain first, which turned out to
be a bracelet. Allardon accepted it, studied it, and went pale. The
bracelet bore the Flessedil crest, the spreading boughs of the sa-
cred Ellcrys surrounded by a ring of Bloodfire. It had been more
than thirty years since he had seen the bracelet, but he recognized it
immediately.
His gaze shifted from the bracelet to the Wing Rider. "The man
you found wore this?" he asked quietly.
"It was on his wrist."
"Did you recognize him?"
"I recognized the bracelet's crest, not the man."
"There was no other identification?"
"Only this. I searched him carefully."
He handed the piece of softened hide to Allardon. It was frayed
about the edges, water stained and worn. The Elf King opened it
carefully. It was a map, its symbols and writing etched in faded ink
and in places smudged. He studied it carefully, making sure of what
he had. He recognized the Westland coast along the Blue Divide. A
dotted line ran from island to island, traveling west and north and
ending at a peculiar collection of blocky spikes. There were names
beneath each of the islands and the cluster of spikes, but he did not
recognize them. The writing in the margins of the map was indeci-
pherable. The symbols that decorated and perhaps identified cer
tam places on the map were of strange and frightening creatures he
had never seen.
"Do you recognize any of these markings?" he asked Hunter
Predd.
The Wing Rider shook his head. "Most of what the map shows
is outside the territory we patrol. The islands are beyond the reach
of our Rocs, and the names are not familiar."
Allardon walked to the tall, curtained windows that opened
onto the garden, and stood looking out at the flower beds. "Where
is the man you found, Hunter? Is he still alive?"
"I left him with the Healer who serves Bracken Clell. He was
alive when I left."
"Have you told anyone else of this bracelet and map?"
"No one knows but you. Not even the Healer. He is a friend, but
I know enough to keep silent when silence is called for."
Allardon nodded his approval. "You do, indeed."
He called for cold glasses of ale and a full pitcher from which to
refill them. His mind raced as he waited with the Wing Rider for the
Side 5
摘要：

Terry Brooks - The Voyage Of The Jerle Shannara 1ONEHunter Predd was patrolling the waters of the Blue Dividenorth of the island of Mesca Rho, a Wing Hove outpost atthe western edge of Elven territorial waters, when he sawthe man clinging to the spar. The man was draped over the lengthof wood as if ...

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