Terry Brooks - TheSword Of Shannara

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The Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks

The sun was already sinking into the deep green of the hills to the west of the

valley, the red and gray-pink of its shadows touching the comers of the land,

when Flick Ohmsford began his descent. The bail stretched out unevenly down the

northern slope, winding through the huge boulders which studded the rugged

terrain in massive clumps, disappearing into the thick forests of the lowlands

to reappear in brief glimpses in small clearings and thinning spaces of

woodland. Flick followed the familiar trail with his eyes as he trudged wearily

along, his light pack slung loosely over one shoulder. His broad, windburned

face bore a set, placid look, and only the wide gray eyes revealed the restless

energy that burned beneath the calm exterior. He was a young man, though his

stocky build and the grizzled brown hair and shaggy eyebrows made him look much

older. He wore the loose-fitting work clothes of the Vale people and in the pack

he carded were several metal implements that rolled and clanked loosely against

one another.

There was a slight chill in the evening air, and Flick clutched the

collar of his open wool shirt closer to his neck. His journey ahead lay through

forests and rolling flatlands, the latter not yet visible to him as he passed

into the forests, and the darkness of the tall oaks and somber hickories reached

upward to overlap and blot out the cloudless night sky. The sun had set, leaving

only the deep blue of the heavens pinpointed by thousands of friendly stars. The

huge trees shut out even these, and Flick was left alone in the silent darkness

as he moved slowly along the beaten path. Because he had traveled this same

route a hundred times, the young man noticed immediately the unusual stillness

that seemed to have captivated the entire valley this evening. The familiar

buzzing and chirping of insects normally present in the quiet of the night, the

cries of the birds that awoke with the setting of the sun to fly in search of

food-all were missing. Flick listened intently for some sound of life, but his

keen ears could detect nothing. He shook his head uneasily. The deep silence was

unsettling, particularly in view of the rumors of a frightening black-winged

creature sighted in the night skies north of the valley only days earlier.

He forced himself to whistle and turned his thoughts back to his day's

work in the country just to the north of the Vale, where outlying families

farmed and tended domestic livestock: He traveled to their homes every week,

supplying various items that they required and bringing bits of news on the

happenings of the Vale and occasionally the distant cities of the deep

Southland. Few people knew the surrounding countryside as well as he did, and

fewer still cared to travel beyond the comparative safety of their homes in the

valley. Men were more inclined to remain in isolated communities these days and

let the rest of the world get along as best it could. But Flick liked to travel

outside the valley from time to time, and the outlying homesteads were in need

of his services and were willing to pay him for the trouble. Flick's father was

not one to let an opportunity pass him by where there was money to be made, and

the arrangement seemed to work out well for all concerned.

A low-hanging branch brushing against his head caused Flick to start

suddenly and leap to one side. In chagrin, he straightened himself and glared

back at the leafy obstacle before continuing his journey at a slightly quicker

pace. He was deep in the lowland forests now and only slivers of moonlight were

able to find their way through the thick boughs overhead to light the winding

path dimly. It was so dark that Flick was having trouble finding the trail, and

as he studied the lay of the land ahead, he again found himself conscious of the

heavy silence. It was as if all life had been suddenly extinguished, and he

alone remained to find his way out of this forest tomb. Again he recalled the

strange rumors. He felt a bit anxious in spite of himself and glanced worriedly

around. But nothing stirred on the trail ahead nor moved in the trees about him,

and he felt embarrassingly relieved.

Pausing momentarily in a moonlit clearing, he gazed at the fullness of

the night sky before passing abruptly into the trees beyond. He walked slowly,

picking his way along the winding path that had narrowed beyond the clearing and

how seemed to disappear into a wall of trees and bushes ahead. He knew that it

was merely an illusion, but found himself glancing about uneasily all the same.

A few moments later, he was again on a wider trail and could discern bits of sky

peeking through the heavy trees. He was almost to the bottom of the valley and

about two miles from his home. He smiled and began whistling an old tavern song

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as he hurried on. He was so intent on the trail ahead and the open land beyond

the forest that he failed to notice the huge black shadow that seemed to rise up

suddenly, detaching itself from a great oak tree on his left and moving swiftly

toward the path to intercept him. The dark figure was almost on top of the Vale

man before Flick sensed its presence looming up before him like a great, black

stone which threatened to crush his smaller being. With a startled cry of fear

he leaped aside, his pack falling to the path with a crash of metal, and his

left hand whipped out the long thin dagger at his waist. Even as he crouched to

defend himself, he was stayed by a commanding arm raised above the figure before

him and a strong, yet reassuring voice that spoke out quickly.

"Wait a moment, friend. I'm no enemy and have no wish to harm you. I

merely seek directions and would be grateful if you could show me the proper

path."

Flick relaxed his guard a bit and tried to peer into the blackness of

the figure before him in an effort to discover some semblance of a human being.

He could see nothing, however, and he moved to the left with cautious steps in

an attempt to catch the features of the dark figure in the tree-shadowed

moonlight.

"I assure you, I mean no harm," the voice continued, as if reading the

Valeman's mind. "I did not mean to frighten you, but I didn't see you until you

were almost upon me, and I was afraid you might pass the by without realizing I

was there."

The voice stopped and the huge black figure stood silently, though Flick

could feel the eyes following him as he edged about the path to put his own back

to the light. Slowly the pale moonlight began to etch out the stranger's

features in vague lines and blue shadows. For a long moment the two faced one

another in silence, each studying the other, Flick in an effort to decide what

it was he faced, the stranger in quiet anticipation.

Then suddenly the huge figure lunged with terrible swiftness, his

powerful hands seizing the Valeman's wrists, and Flick was lifted abruptly off

the solid earth and held high, his knife dropping from nerveless fingers as the

deep voice laughed mockingly up at him.

"Well, well, my young friend! What are you going to do now, I wonder? I

could cut your heart out on the spot and leave you for the wolves if I chose,

couldn't I?"

Flick struggled violently to free himself, terror numbing his mind to

any thought but that of escape. He had no idea what manner of creature had

subdued him, but it was far more powerful than any normal man and apparently

prepared to dispatch Flick quickly. Then abruptly, his captor held him out at

arm's length, and the mocking voice became icy cold with displeasure.

"Enough of this, boy! We have played our little game and still you know

nothing of me. I'm tired and hungry and have no wish to be delayed on the forest

trail in the chill of the evening while you decide if I am man or beast. I will

set you down that you may show me the path. I warn you-do not try to run from me

or it will be the worse for you."

The strong voice trailed off and the tone of displeasure disappeared as

the former hint of mockery returned with a short laugh.

"Besides," the figure rumbled as the fingers released their iron grip

and Flick slipped to the path, "I may be a better friend than you realize."

The figure moved back a step as Flick straightened himself, rubbing his

wrists carefully to restore the circulation to his numbed hands. He wanted to

run, but was certain that the stranger would catch him again and this time

finish him without further thought. He leaned over cautiously and picked up the

fallen dagger, returning it to his belt.

Flick could see the fellow more dearly now, and a quick scrutiny of him

revealed that he was definitely human, though much larger than any man Flick had

ever seen. He was at least seven feet tall, but exceptionally lean, though it

was difficult to be certain about this, since his tall frame was wrapped in a

flowing black cloak with a loose cowl pulled close about his head. The darkened

face was long and deeply lined, giving it a craggy appearance. The eyes were

deep-set and almost completely hidden from view by shaggy eyebrows that knotted

fiercely over a long flat ruse. A short, black beard outlined a wide mouth that

was lust a line on the face-a line that never seemed to move. The overall

appearance was frightening, all blackness and size, and Flick had to fight down

the urge building within him to make a break for the forest's edge. He looked

straight into the deep, hard eyes of the stranger, though not without some

difficulty, and managed a weak smile.

"I thought you were a thief," he mumbled hesitantly.

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"You were mistaken," was the quiet retort. Then the voice softened a

bit. "You must learn to know a friend from an enemy. Sometime your life may

depend upon it. Now then, let's have your name."

"Flick Ohmsford."

Flick hesitated and then continued in a slightly braver tone of voice.

"My father is Curzad Ohmsford. He manages an inn in Shady Vale a mile or

two from here. You could find lodging and food there."

"Ah, Shady Vale," the stranger exclaimed suddenly. "Yes, that is where I

am going." He paused as if reflecting on his own words. Flick watched him

cautiously as he rubbed his craggy face with crooked fingers and looked beyond

the forest's edge to the rolling grasslands of the valley. lie was still looking

away when he spoke again.

"You . . . have a brother."

It was not a question; it was a simple statement of fact. It was spoken

so distantly and calmly, as if the tall stranger were not at all interested in

any sort of a reply, that Flick almost missed hearing it. Then suddenly

realizing the significance of the remark, he started and looked quickly at the

other.

"How did . . .?"

"Oh, well," the man said, "doesn't every young Valeman like yourself

have a brother somewhere?"

Flick nodded dumbly, unable to comprehend what it was that the other was

trying to say and wondering vaguely how much he knew about Shady Vale. The

stranger was looking questioningly at him, evidently waiting to be guided to the

promised food and lodging. Flick quickly turned away to find his hastily

discarded pack, picked it up and slung it over his shoulder, looking back at the

figure towering over him.

"The path is this way." He pointed, and the two began walking.

They passed out of the deep forest and entered rolling, gentle hills

which they would follow to the hamlet of Shady Vale at the far end of the

valley. Out of the woods, it was a bright night; the moon was a full white globe

overhead, its glow clearly illuminating the landscape of the valley and the path

which the two travelers were following. The path itself was a vague line winding

over the grassy hills and distinguishable only by occasional rain-washed ruts

and fiat, hard patches of earth breaking through the heavy grass. The wind had

gathered strength and rushed at the two men with quick gusts that whipped at

their clothing as they walked, forcing them to bow their heads slightly to

shield their eyes. Neither spoke a word as they proceeded, each concentrating on

the lay of the land beyond, as new hills and small depressions appeared with the

passing of each traveled knoll. Except for the rushing of the wind, the night

remained silent. Flick listened intently, and once he thought he heard a sharp

cry far to the north, but an instant later it was gone, and he did not hear it

again. The stranger appeared to be unconcerned with the silence. His attention

seemed to be focused on a constantly changing point on the ground some six feet

in front of them. He did not look up and he did not look at big young guide for

directions as they went. Instead, he seemed to know exactly where the other was

going and walked confidently beside hum.

After a while, Flick began to have trouble keeping pace with the tall

man, who traveled the path with long, swinging strides that dwarfed Flick's

shorter ones. At times, the Valeman almost had to run to keep up. Once or twice

the other man glanced down at his smaller companion and, seeing the difficulty

he was having in trying to match strides, slowed to an easier pace. Finally, as

the southern slopes of the valley drew near, the hills began to level off into

shrub-covered grasslands that hinted at the appearance of new forests. The

terrain began to dip downward at a gentle slope, and Flick located several

familiar landmarks that bounded the outskirts of Shady Vale. He felt a surge of

relief in spite of himself. The hamlet and his own warm home were just ahead.

The stranger did not speak a single word during the brief journey, and

Flick was reluctant to attempt any conversation. Instead, he tried to study the

giant in quick glimpses as they walked, without permitting the other to observe

what he was doing. He was understandably awed. The long craggy face, shaded by

the sharp black beard, recalled the fearful Warlocks described to him by stern

elders before the glowing embers of a late evening fire when he was only a

child. Most frightening were the stranger's eyes-or rather the deep, dark

caverns beneath the shaggy brows where his eyes should be. Flick could not

penetrate the heavy shadows that continued to mask that entire area of his face.

The deeply lined countenance seemed carved from stone, fixed and bowed slightly

to the path before it. As Flick pondered the inscrutable visage, he suddenly

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realized that the stranger had never even mentioned his name.

The two were on the outer lip of the Vale, where the now clearly

distinguishable path wound through large, crowded bushes that almost choked off

human passage. The tall stranger stopped suddenly and stood perfectly still,

head bowed, listening intently. Flick halted beside him and waited quietly, also

listening, but unable to detect anything. They remained motionless for seemingly

endless minutes, and then the big man turned hurriedly to his smaller companion.

"Quickly! Hide in the bushes ahead. Go now, run!"

He half pushed, half threw Flick in front of him as he raced swiftly

toward the tall brush. Flick scurried fearfully for the sanctuary of the

shrubbery, his pack slapping wildly against his back and the metal implements

clanging. The stranger turned on him and snatched the pack away, tucking it

beneath the long robe.

"Silence!" he hissed. "Run now. Not a sound"

They ran quickly to the dark wall of foliage some fifty feet ahead, and

the tall man hurriedly pushed Flick through the leafy branches that whipped

against their faces, pulling him roughly into the middle of a large clump of

brush, where they stood breathing heavily. Flick glanced at his companion and

saw that he was not looking through the brush at the country around them, but

instead was peering upward where the night sky was visible in small, irregular

patches through the foliage. The sky seemed clear to the Valeman as he followed

the other's intense gaze, and only the changeless stars winked back at him as he

watched and waited. Minutes passed; once he attempted to speak, but was quickly

silenced by the strong hands of the stranger, gripping his shoulders in warning.

Flick remained standing, looking at the night and straining his ears for some

sound of the apparent danger. But he heard nothing save their own heavy

breathing and a quiet rush of wind through the weaving branches of their cover.

Then, just as Flick prepared to case his tired limbs by sitting the sky

was suddenly blotted out by something huge and black that floated overhead and

then passed from sight. A moment later it passed again, circling slowly without

seeming to move, its shadow flanging ominously above the two hidden travelers as

if preparing to fall upon them. A sudden feeling of terror raced through Flick's

mind, trapping it in an iron web as it strained to flee the fearful madness

penetrating inward. Something seemed to be reaching downward into his chest,

slowly squeezing the air from his lungs, and he found himself gasping for

breath. A vision passed sharply before him of a black image laced with red, of

clawed hands and giant wings, of a thing so evil that its very existence

threatened his frail life. For an instant the young man thought he would scream,

but the hand of the stranger gripped his shoulder tightly, pulling him back from

the precipice. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the giant shadow was gone

and the peaceful sky of the patched night was all that remained.

The hand on Flick's shoulder slowly relaxed its grip, and the Valeman

slid heavily to the ground, his body limp as he broke out in a cold sweat. The

tall stranger seated himself quietly next to his companion and a small smile

crossed his face. He laid one long hand on Flick's and patted it as he would a

child's.

"Come now, my young friend," he whispered, "you're alive and well, and

the Vale lies just ahead."

Flick looked up at the other's calm face, his own eyes wide with fear as

he shook his head slowly.

"That thing! What was that terrible thing?"

"Just a shadow," the man replied easily. "But this is neither the place

nor the time to concern ourselves with such matters. We will speak of it later.

Right now, I would like some food and a warm fire before I lose all patience."

He helped the Valeman to his feet and returned his pack to him. Then

with a sweep of his robed arm, he indicated that he was ready to follow if the

other was ready to lead. They left the cover of the brush, Flick not without

misgivings as he glanced apprehensively at the night sky. It almost seemed as if

the whole business had been the result of an overactive imagination. Flick

pondered the matter solemnly and quickly decided that whatever the case, he had

had enough for one evening: first this nameless giant and then that frightening

shadow. He silently vowed that he would think twice before traveling again at

night so far from the safety of the Vale.

Several minutes later, the trees and brush began to thin out and the

flickering of yellow light was visible through the darkness. As they drew

closer, the vague forms of buildings began to take shape as square and

rectangular bulks in the gloom. The path widened into a smoother dirt road that

led straight into the hamlet, and Flick smiled gratefully at the lights that

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shone in friendly greeting through the windows of the silent buildings. No one

moved on the road ahead; if it had not been for the lights, one might well have

wondered if anyone at all lived in the Vale. As it was, Flick's thoughts were

far from such questions. Already he was considering how much he ought to tell

his father and Shea, not wishing to worry them about strange shadows that could

easily have been the product of his imagination and the gloomy night. The

stranger at his side might shed some light on the subject at a later time, but

so far he had not proved to be much of a conversationalist. Flick glanced

involuntarily at the tall figure walking silently beside him. Again he was

chilled by the blackness of the man. It seemed to reflect from his cloak and

hood over his bowed head and lean hands, to shroud the entire figure in hazy

gloom. Whoever he was, Flick felt certain that he would be a dangerous enemy.

They passed slowly between the buildings of the hamlet, and Flick could

see torches burning through the wooden frames of the wide windows. The houses

themselves were long, low structures, each containing only a ground floor

beneath a slightly sloping roof, which in most instances tapered off on one side

to shelter a small veranda, supported by heavy poles affixed to a long porch.

The buildings were constructed of wood, with stone foundations and stone

frontings on a few. Flick glanced through the curtained windows, catching

glimpses of the inhabitants, the sight of familiar faces reassuring to him in

the darkness outside. It had been a frightening night, and he was relieved to be

home among people he knew.

The stranger remained oblivious to everything. He did not bother with

more than a casual glance at the hamlet and had not spoken once since they had

entered the Vale. Flick remained incredulous at the way in which the other

followed him. He wasn't following Flick at all, but seemed to know exactly where

the Valeman was going. When the road branched off in opposite directions amid

identical rows of houses, the tall man had no difficulty in determining the

correct route, though he never once looked at Flick nor even raised his head to

study the road. Flick found himself trailing along while the other guided.

The two quickly reached the inn. It was a large structure consisting of

a main building and lounging porch, with two long wings that extended out and

back on either side. It was constructed of huge logs, cut and laced on a high

stone foundation and covered with the familiar wood shingle roof, this

particular roof much higher than those of the family dwellings. The central

building was well lighted, and muffled voices could be heard from within,

interspersed with occasional laughter and shouts. The wings of the inn were in

darkness; it was there that the sleeping quarters of the guests were located.

The smell of roasting meat permeated the night air, and Flick quickly led the

way up the wooden steps of the long porch to the wide double doors at the center

of the inn. The tall stranger followed without a word.

Flick slid back the heavy metal door latch and pulled on the handles.

The big door on the right swung open to admit them into a large lounging room,

filled with benches, high-backed chairs, and several long, heavy wooden tables

set against the wall to the left and rear. The room was brightly lit by the tall

candles on the tables and wall racks and by the huge fireplace built into the

center of the wall on the left; Flick was momentarily blinded as his eyes

adjusted to this new light. He squinted sharply, glancing past the fireplace and

lounging furniture to the closed double doors at the back of the room and over

to the long serving bar running down the length of the wall to his right. The

men gathered about the bar looked up idly as the pair entered the room, their

faces registering undisguised amazement at the appearance of the tall stranger.

But Flick's silent companion did not seem to see them, and they quickly returned

to their conversation and evening drinks, glancing back at the newcomers once or

twice to see what they were going to do. The pair remained standing at the door

for a few moments more as Flick looked around a second time at the face of the

small crowd to see if his father were present. The stranger motioned to the

lounging chairs on the left.

"I will have a seat while you find your father. Perhaps we can have

dinner together when you return."

Without further comment, he moved quietly away to a small table at the

rear of the room and seated himself with his back to the men at the bar, his

face slightly bowed and turned away from Flick. The Valeman watched him for a

moment, then moved quickly to the double doors at the rear of the room and

pushed through them to the hallway beyond. His father was probably in the

kitchen, having dinner with Shea. Flick hurried down the hall past several

closed doors before reaching the one that opened into the inn kitchen. As he

entered, the two cooks who were working at the rear of the room greeted the

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young man with a cheerful good evening. His father was seated at the end of a

long counter at the left. As Flick had anticipated, he was in the process of

finishing his dinner. He waved a brawny hand in greeting.

"You're a bit later than usual, son," he growled pleasantly. "Come over

here and have dinner while there's still something to eat."

Flick walked over wearily, lowered the traveling pack to the floor with

a slight clatter, and perched himself on one of the high counter stools. His

father's large frame straightened itself as he shoved back the empty plate and

looked quizzically at the other, his wide forehead wrinkling.

"I met a traveler on the road coming into the valley," Flick explained

hesitantly. "He wants a room and dinner. Asked us to join him."

"Well, he came to the right place for a room," the elder Ohmsford

declared. "I don't see why we shouldn't join him for a bite to eat-I could

easily do with another helping."

He raised his massive frame from the stool and signaled the cooks for

three dinners. Flick looked about for Shea, but he was nowhere in sight. His

father lumbered over to the cooks to give some special instructions on preparing

the meal for the small party, and Flick turned to the basin next to the sink to

wash off the dirt and grime from the road. When his father came over to him,

Flick asked where his brother had gone.

"Shea has gone out on an errand for me and should return on the moment,"

his father replied. "By the way, what's the name of this man you brought back

with you?"

"I don't know. He didn't say." Flick shrugged.

His father frowned and mumbled something about closemouthed strangers,

rounding off his muffled comment with a vow to have no more mysterious types at

his inn. Then motioning to his son, he led the way through the kitchen doors,

his wide shoulders brushing the wall beyond as he swung to his left toward the

lounging area. Flick followed quickly, his broad face wrinkled in doubt.

The stranger was still sitting quietly, his back to the men gathered at

the serving bar. When he heard the rear doors swing open, he shifted about

slightly to catch a glimpse of the two who entered. The stranger studied the

close resemblance between father and son. Both were of medium height and heavy

build, with the same broad, placid faces and grizzled brown hair. They hesitated

in the doorway and Flick pointed toward the dark figure. He could see the

surprise in Curzad Ohmsford's eyes as the innkeeper regarded him for a minute

before approaching. The stranger stood up courteously, towering over the other

two as they came up to him.

"Welcome to my inn, stranger," the elder Ohmsford greeted him, trying

vainly to peer beneath the cloak hood that shadowed the other's dark face. "My

name, as my boy has probably told you, is Curzad Ohmsford."

The stranger shook the extended hand with a grip that caused the stocky

man to grimace and then nodded to Flick.

"Your son was kind enough to show me to this pleasant inn." He smiled

with what Flick could have sworn was a mocking grin. "I hope you will join me

for dinner and a glass of beer."

"Certainly," answered the innkeeper, lumbering past the other to a

vacant chair where he seated himself heavily. Flick also pulled up a chair and

sat down, his eyes still on the stranger, who was in the process of

complimenting his father on having such a fine inn. The elder Ohmsford beamed

with pleasure and nodded in satisfaction to Flick as he signaled one of the men

at the serving bar for three glasses. The tall man still did not pull back the

hood of the cloak shading his face. Flick wanted to peer beneath the shadows,

but was afraid the stranger would notice, and one such attempt had already

earned him sore wrists and a healthy respect for the big man's strength and

temper. It was safer to remain in doubt.

He sat in silence as the conversation between his father and the

stranger lengthened from polite comments on the mildness of the weather to a

more intimate discussion of the people and happenings of the Vale. Flick noticed

that his father, who never needed much encouragement anyway, was carrying the

entire conversation with only casual questions interjected by the other man. It

probably did not matter, but the Ohmsfords knew nothing about the stranger. He

had not even told them his name. Now he was quite subtly drawing out information

on the Vale from the unsuspecting innkeeper. The whole situation bothered Flick,

but he was uncertain what he should do. He began to wish that Shea would appear

and see what was happening. But his brother remained absent, and the

long-awaited dinner was served and entirely consumed before one of the wide

double doors at the front of the lobby swung open, and Shea appeared from out of

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the darkness.

For the first time, Flick saw the hooded stranger take more than a

passing interest in someone. Strong hands gripped the table as the black figure

rose silently, towering over the Ohmsfords. He seemed to have forgotten they

were there, as the lined brow furrowed more deeply and the craggy features

radiated an intense concentration. For one frightening second, Flick believed

that the stranger was somehow about to destroy Shea, but then the idea

disappeared and was replaced with another. The man was searching his brother's

mind.

He stared intently at Shea, his deep, shaded eyes running quickly over

the young man's slim countenance and slight build. He noted the telltale Elven

features immediately-the hint of slightly pointed ears beneath the tousled blond

hair, the pencil-like eyebrows that ran straight up at a sharp angle from the

bridge of the nose rather than across the brow, and the slimness of the nose and

jaw. He saw intelligence and honesty in that face, and now as he faced Shea

across the room, he saw determination in the penetrating blue eyes-determination

that spread in a flush over the youthful features as the two men locked their

gazes on one another. For a moment Shea hesitated in awe of the huge, dark

apparition across the room. He felt unexplainably trapped but, bracing himself

with sudden resolve, he walked toward the forbidding figure.

Flick and his father watched Shea approach them, his eyes still on the

tall stranger and then, as if suddenly realizing who he was, the two rose from

the table. There was a moment of awkward silence as they faced one another, and

then all the Ohmsfords began greeting each other at once in a sudden jumble of

words that relieved the initial tension. Shea smiled at Flick, but could not

take his eyes off the imposing figure before him. Shea was slightly shorter than

his brother and was therefore even more in the shadow of the stranger than Flick

had been, though he was less nervous about it as tie faced the man. Curzad

Ohmsford was talking to him about his errand, and his attention was momentarily

diverted while he replied to his father's insistent questions. After a few

preliminary remarks, Shea turned back to the newcomer to the Vale.

"I don't believe we have met, yet you seem to know me from somewhere,

and I have the strangest feeling that I should know you."

The dark face above him nodded as the familiar mocking smile crossed it

fleetingly.

"Perhaps you should know me, though it is not surprising that you do not

remember. But I know who you are; indeed, I know you well."

Shea was dumbfounded at this reply and, unable to respond, stood staring

at the stranger. The other raised a lean hand to his chin to stroke the small

dark beard, glancing slowly around at the three men who waited for him to

continue. Flick's open mouth was framing the question on the minds of all the

Ohmsfords, when the stranger reached up and pulled back the cowl of his cloak to

reveal clearly the dark face, now framed by long black hair, cut nearly shoulder

length and shading the deep-set eyes, which still showed only as black slits in

the shadows beneath the heavy brows.

"My name is Allanon," he announced quietly.

There was a long moment of stunned silence as the three listeners stared

in speechless amazement. Allanon-the mysterious wanderer of the four lands,

historian of the races, philosopher and teacher, and, some said, practitioner of

the mystic arts. Allanon-the man who had been everywhere from the darkest havens

of the Anar to the forbidden heights of the Charnal Mountains. His was a name

familiar to the people of even the most isolated Southland communities. Now he

stood unexpectedly before the Ohmsfords, none of whom had ventured outside their

valley home more than a handful of times in their lives.

Allanon smiled warmly for the first time, but inwardly he felt pity for

them. The quiet existence they had known for so many years was finished, and, in

a way, it was his responsibility.

"What brings you here?" Shea asked at last.

The tall man looked sharply at him and uttered a deep, low chuckle that

caught them all by surprise.

"You, Shea," he murmured. "I came looking for you."

Shea was awake early the next morning, rising from the warmth of his bed to

dress hastily in the damp cold of the morning air. He had arisen so early, he

discovered, that no one else in the entire inn, guest or family, was yet awake.

The long building was silent as he moved quietly from his small room in the rear

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Terry Brooks - TheSword Of Shannara

of the main section to the large lobby, where he quickly started a fire in the

great stone hearth, his fingers almost numb with cold. The valley was always

strikingly cold in the early-morning hours before the sun reached the rim of the

hills, even during the warmest seasons of the year. Shady Vale was well

sheltered, not only from the eyes of men, but from the fury of perverse weather

conditions that drifted down from the Northland. Yet while the heavy storms of

the winter and spring passed over the valley and Shady Vale, the bitter cold of

early morning all year round settled into the high hills, holding until the

warmth of the noonday sun filtered down to chase away the chill.

The fire crackled and snapped at the wood as Shea relaxed in one of the

high, straight-backed chairs and pondered the events of the previous evening. He

leaned back, folded his arms for warmth, and hunched down into the hard wood.

How could Allanon have known him? He had seldom been out of the Vale and would

certainly have remembered the other man if he had met him while on one of his

infrequent journeys. Allanon had refused to say more on the subject after that

one declaration. He had finished his dinner in silence, concluding that further

talk should wait until the next morning, and he became once again the forbidding

figure he had first appeared when Shea entered the inn that evening. His meal

completed, he had asked to be shown, to his room so that he might sleep, and

then excused himself. Neither Shea nor Flick could get him to say one word

further about the trip to Shady Vale and his interest in Shea. The two brothers

had talked alone later that night, and Flick had related the story of his

encounter with Allanon and the incident with the terrifying shadow.

Shea's thoughts drifted back to his initial question-how could Allanon

have known him? Mentally he retraced the events of his life. Hs early years were

a vague memory. He did not know where he bad been born, although sometime after

the Ohmsfords had adopted him, he had been told that his place of birth was a

small Westland community. His father had died before he was old enough to form a

lasting impression, and now he could recall almost nothing of him. For a time

his mother had kept him, and he could recall bits and pieces of his years with

her, playing with Elven children, surrounded by great trees and deep green

solitude. He was five when she became suddenly ill and decided to return to her

own people in the hamlet of Shady Vale. She must have known then that she was

dying, but her first concern was for her son. The journey south was the finish

for her, and she died shortly after they reached the valley.

The relatives his mother had left when she married were gone, all but

the Ohmsfords, who were no more than distant cousins. Curzad Ohmsford had lost

his wife less than a year earlier, and was raising his son Flick while he

managed the inn. Shea became a part of their family, and the two boys had grown

up as brothers, both bearing the name Ohmsford. Shea had never been told his

true name, nor did he care to ask. The Ohmsfords were the only family that meant

anything to him, and they had accepted him as their own. There were times that

being a half-blood bothered him, but Flick had stoutly insisted that it was a

distinct advantage because it gave him the instincts and character of two races

to build upon.

Yet nowhere could he remember an encounter with Allanon. It was as if

the event had never really occurred. Perhaps it never had. He shifted around in

the chair and gazed absently into the fire. There was something about the grim

wanderer that frightened him. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could not

shake off the feeling that the man could somehow read his thoughts, could see

right through him whenever he chose to do so. It seemed ridiculous, but the

thought had lingered with the Valeman since the meeting in the lobby of the inn.

Flick had remarked on it too. And he had gone further than that, whispering in

the darkness of their sleeping room to his brother, fearful that he might in

some way be overheard, that he felt Allanon was dangerous.

Shea stretched himself and sighed deeply. Already it was becoming light

outside. He rose to add some more wood to the fire, and heard the sound of his

father's voice in the hallway, grumbling loudly about matters in general.

Sighing in resignation, Shea put aside his thoughts and hastened to the kitchen

to help with the morning preparations.

It was almost noon before Shea saw any sign of Allanon, who had

evidently kept to his room for the duration of the morning. He appeared quite

suddenly from around one corner of the inn as Shea relaxed beneath a huge shade

tree at the rear of the building, absently munching on a quick luncheon he had

prepared for himself. His father was occupied within, and Flick was off

somewhere on an errand. The dark stranger of the previous night seemed no less

forbidding in the noon sun, still a shadowed figure of tremendous height, though

he appeared to have changed his cloak from black to a light gray. The lean face

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Terry Brooks - TheSword Of Shannara

was slightly bowed to the path before him as he walked toward Shea and seated

himself on the grass next to the Valeman, gazing absently at the hilltops to the

east which appeared above the trees of the hamlet. Both men were silent for

several long minutes, until at last Shea could stand it no longer.

"Why did you come to the vale, Allanon? Why were you looking for me?"

The dark face turned toward him and a slight smile played across the

lean features.

"A question, my young friend, that cannot be as easily answered as you

would like. Perhaps the best way in which to answer you is first to question

you. Have you read anything of the history of the Northland?"

He paused.

"Do you know of the Skull Kingdom?"

Shea stiffened at the mention of the name-a name that was synonymous

with all the terrible things in life, real and imagined, a name used to frighten

little children who had been bad or to send shivers down the spines of grown men

when stories were told before the dying coals of a late evening fire. It was a

name that hinted of ghosts and goblins, of the sly forest Gnomes of the east and

the great Rock Trolls of the far north. Shea looked at the grim visage before

him and nodded slowly. Again Allanon paused before continuing.

"I am a historian, Shea, among other things-perhaps the most widely

traveled historian alive today, since few besides myself have entered the

Northland in over five hundred years. I know much about the race of Man that

none now suspect. The past has become a blurred memory, and just as well

perhaps; for the history of Man has not been particularly glorious in the last

two thousand years. Men today have forgotten the past; they know little of the

present and less of the future. The race of Man lives almost solely in the

confines of the Southland. It knows nothing at all of the Northland and its

peoples, and little of the Eastland and Westland. A pity that Men have developed

into such a shortsighted people, for once they were the most visionary of the

races. But now they are quite content to live apart from the other races,

isolated from the problems of the rest of the world. They remain content, mind

you, because those problems have not as yet touched them and because a fear of

the past has persuaded them not to look too closely at the future."

Shea felt slightly irritated by these sweeping accusations, and his

reply was sharp.

"You make it sound like a terrible thing to want to be left alone. I

know enough history-no, I know enough life-to realize that Man's only hope for

survival is to remain apart from the races, to rebuild everything he has lost

over the last two thousand years. Then perhaps he will be smart enough not to

close it a second time. He almost destroyed himself entirely in the Great Wars

by his persistent intervention in the affairs of others and his ill-conceived

rejection of an isolation policy."

Allanon's dark face turned hard.

"I am well aware of the catastrophic consequences brought about by those

wars-the products of power and greed that the rate of Man brought down on its

own head through a combination of carelessness and remarkable shortsightedness.

That was long ago-and what has changed? You think that Man can start again, do

you, Shea? Well, you might be quite surprised to learn that some things never

change, and the dangers of power are always present, even to a race that almost

completely obliterated itself. The Great Wars of the past may be gone-the wars

of the races, of politics and nationalism, and the final ones of sheer energy,

of ultimate power. But we face new dangers today, and these are more of a threat

to the existence of the races than were any of the old! If you think Man is free

to build a new life while the rest of the world drifts by, then you do not know

anything of history!"

He paused suddenly, his grim features lined with anger. Shea stared back

defiantly, though within he felt small and frightened.

"Enough of this," Allanon began again, his face softening as one strong

hand reached up to grip Shea's shoulder in friendship. "The past is behind us,

and it is with the future that we must concern ourselves. Let me refresh your

memory for a moment on the history of the Northland and the legend of the Skull

Kingdom. As you know, I'm sure, the Great Wars brought an end to an age where

Man alone was the dominant race. Man was almost completely destroyed and even

the geography he had known was completely altered, completely restructured.

Countries, nations, and governments all ceased to exist as the last members of

the human race fled south to survive. It was nearly a thousand years before Man

had once again raised himself above the standard of the animals he hunted for

food and established a progressive civilization. It was primitive, to be sure,

Side 9

Terry Brooks - TheSword Of Shannara

but there was order and a semblance of government. Then Man began to discover

there were other races besides himself inhabiting the world-creatures who had

survived the Great Wars and developed their own races. In the mountains were the

huge Trolls, powerful and ferocious, but quite content with what they had. In

the hills and forests were the small and cunning creatures we now call Gnomes.

Many a battle was fought between Men and Gnomes for the rights to land during

the years following the Great Wars, and the battles hurt both races. But they

fought to survive, and reason has no place in the mind of a creature fighting

for its life.

"Man also discovered that there was another race-a race of men who had

fled beneath the earth to survive the effects of the Great Wars. Years of living

in the huge caverns beneath the earth's crust away from the sunlight altered

their appearance. They became short and stocky, powerful in the arms and chest,

with strong, thick legs for climbing and scrambling underground. Their sight in

the dark became superior to that of other creatures, yet in the sunlight they

could see little. They lived beneath the earth for many hundreds of years, until

at last they began to emerge to live again on the face of the land. Their eyes

were very bad at first, and they made their homes in the darkest forests of the

Eastland. They developed their own language, though they later reverted to the

language of Man. When Man first discovered remnants of this lost race, they

called them Dwarfs, after a fictional race of the old days."

His voice trailed off and he remained silent for a few minutes staring

out at the tips of the hills showing brilliant green in the sunlight. Shea

considered the historian's comments. He had never seen a Troll, and only one or

two Gnomes and Dwarfs, and those he did not remember very well.

"What about the Elves?" he asked finally.

Allanon looked back thoughtfully and bowed his head a little more.

"Ah, yes, I had not forgotten. A remarkable race of creatures, the

Elves. Perhaps the greatest people of all, though no one has ever fully realized

it. But the tale of the Elven people must wait for another time; suffice to say

that they were always there in the great forests of the Westland, though the

other races seldom encountered them at this stage of history.

"Now we shall see how much you know of the history of the Northland, my

young friend. Today, it is a land inhabited by almost no one other than the

Trolls, a barren and forbidding country where few people of any race care to

travel, let alone settle. The Trolls, of course, are bred to survive there.

Today, Men live in the warmth and comfort of the Southland's mild climate and

green lands. They have forgotten that once the Northland, too, was settled by

creatures of all the races, not only the Trolls in the mountain regions, but

Men, Dwarfs, and Gnomes in the lowlands and forests. This was in the years when

all the races were just beginning to rebuild a new civilization with new ideas,

new laws, and many new cultures. It was a very promising future, but Men today

have forgotten that those times ever existed-forgotten that they are more than a

beaten race trying to live apart from those who defeated them and crippled their

pride. There was no division of countries then. It was an earth reborn, where

each race was being given a second chance at building a world. Of course, they

did not realize the significance of the opportunity. They were too concerned

with holding what they considered theirs and building their own private little

worlds. Each race was certain that it was destined to be the dominant power in

the years ahead-gathered together like a pack of angry rats guarding a stale,

sorry piece of cheese. And Man, oh, yes, in all his glory, was groveling and

snapping at the chance just like the others. Did you know that, Shea?"

The Valeman shook his head slowly, unable to believe that what he was

hearing could be the truth. He had been told that Man had been a persecuted

people ever since the Great Wars, fighting to keep alive his dignity and honor,

to protect the little land that was his in the face of complete savagery on the

part of the other races. Man had never been the oppressor in these battles;

always he was the oppressed. Allanon smiled grimly, his lips curling with

mocking satisfaction as he saw the effect of his words.

"You didn't realize that it was this way, I see. No matter-it will be

the least of the surprises I have in store for you. Man has never been the great

people he has fancied himself. In those days Men fought like the rest, although

I will concede that perhaps they had a higher sense of honor and a clearer

purpose to rebuild than some of the others, and they were slightly more

civilized." He twisted the word meaningfully as he spoke it, lacing it with

undisguised sarcasm. "But all this commentary has little to do with the main

point of our discussion, which I hope to make clear to you shortly.

"It was about this same time, when the races had discovered one another

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Terry Brooks - TheSword Of ShannaraThe Sword of Shannara by Terry BrooksCopyright 1977IThe sun was already sinking into the deep green of the hills to the west of the valley, the red and gray-pink of its shadows touching the comers of the land, when Flick Ohmsford began his descent. The bail stretch...

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