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

Gardens that had been his domain since the dawn of

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

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

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

dust, grassy plains withering, forests becoming huge stands of

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

Everywhere the creatures who lived upon the land sickened and

died as well, unable to sustain themselves as the nourishment

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

foul.

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

Shadowen grow stronger.

His fingers reached out to brush the crimson petals of the

cyclamen that grew thick about his feet. Forsythia clustered just

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

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

roses, and a hundred other varieties of flowers and flowering

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

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

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

evolution could be traced back to that distant time when all

f-ings lived in harmony and psace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1

2                               The Druid of Shannara

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

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

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

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

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

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

dens would remain forever the same.

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

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

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

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

presence rather than a place. Yet that presence was diminished

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

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

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

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

belief and trust in its existence—always somewhat marginal—

began to fail altogether.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of peace and well-being that transcended physical boundaries,

and gave promise that benevolence and goodwill were still ac-

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

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

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

own strength until he was virtually sealed within his Gardens,

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

protect.

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

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

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

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

the Elven house of Shannara had been champions of the Races

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

But they were all dead.

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannara                               3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old eyes closed momentarily. He knew what was needed

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

and intricate that nothing could prevent it from succeeding, one

that would transcend the barriers that their enemies had created,

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

erything from the four on whom so much depended.

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

whole of what was meant to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

man that showed himself occasionally to the world beyond. His

gait became an unsteady shamble, his breathing wheezed, his

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

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

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

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

might have been, needing momentarily to feel human mortality

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

needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pair of massive rocks, streaks of colored ore shimmered brightly

in the sunshine.

The King of the Silver River stood without moving in the

presence of the life that surrounded him and willed himself to

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

4                               The Druid of Shannara

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

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

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

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

. time that were the reminders of mortal existence disappeared.

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

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

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

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

came next, handfuls lifted by invisible scoops to place against

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

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

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

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

creation took form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

back to wait.

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

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

icate white features. She was small boned and finely wrought

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

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

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

ence of that precious metal.

' 'Who am I? " she asked in a soft, lilting voice that whispered

of tiny streams and small night sounds.

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

swered, discovering within himself the stirring of feelings he

had thought long since lost.

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

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

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

explanation was needed.

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

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

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannara                               5

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

mediately explain.

"Are these Gardens my mother?" she asked suddenly, and

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

and he told her yes.

"Come with me," he said gently.

Together, they walked through the Gardens, exploring in the

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

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

intricate designs of the tangled undergrowth, the complex layers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hesitant about using it. She was eager.

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

what it is?"

"Yes," she answered, and stood looking at him alertly.

"Your name is Quickening." He paused. "Do you under-

stand why?"

She thought a moment. "Yes," she answered again.

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

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

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

sat together. A griffin wandered over through the tall grasses

and nuzzled the girl's hand.

"Quickening," the King of the Silver River said. "There is

something you must do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

was decidedly human, part of himself that had been submerged

for many centuries. The ache brought a sadness that threatened

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

6                               The Druid of Shannara

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

resume speaking. The girl watched him without comment-

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

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

accepted.

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

expected of me. I am ready."

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

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

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

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

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

stand."

"I will," she replied.

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

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

croaching ruin. They stood without speaking for a very long

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

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

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

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

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

of him.

"Goodbye, Father," she said suddenly and left his side.

She walked out of the Gardens and disappeared into the world

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

left, because that was all she knew to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

of his making, stayed with him.

II

) alker Boh came awake with a shudder.

WDark Uncle.

The whisper of a voice in his mind jerked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mained outstretched, a heavy and cumbersome thing that no

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

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

The source of the pain was there.

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

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

most gone, dissipated by his struggle to resist the advancing

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

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

days since he had found instead the deadly creature that had

been placed there to snare him.

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

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

now had possession of the Black Elfstone?

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

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

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

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

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

8                              The Druid of Shannam

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

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

where Allanon had appeared to them and charged them with

separate undertakings that were meant to combat the dark work

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

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

recovering Paranor, the disappeared home of the Druids, and

with bringing back the Druids themselves. He had resisted this

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

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

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

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

crets.

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

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

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

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

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

with their ghosts.

He was dying.

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

back. He was such a fool!

Dark Uncle. The words echoed soundlessly, a memory that

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

wretched, insidious spirit responsible for what had befallen him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

greet the death that he had been promised, blithely believing

that he could protect himself against whatever evil he might

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

fident you were?

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

But where was his confidence now?

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannam                              9

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

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

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

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

worked their way upward toward his shoulder. The process was

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

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

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

of the poison.

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

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

brought with him had been consumed almost immediately, and

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

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

periods growing shorter. He had struggled against what was

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

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

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

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

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

man with no hope of release. Eventually his exhaustion had

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

often, slipping further and further away from wanting to come

awake.

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

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

Grimpond, he realized with terrifying certainty that if he went

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

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

must not give up.

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

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

conversation with the Grimpond, hearing again the spirit's

words, trying anew to decipher their meaning. The Grimpond

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

Elfstone could be found. Had Walker simply jumped to the

wrong conclusion? Had he been deliberately misled? Was there

any truth in what he had been told?

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

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

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

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

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

10                              The Druid of Shannara

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

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

He wanted simply to lie down and . . .

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

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

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

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

He forced his thoughts back to the Grimpond. He envisioned

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

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

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

thought desperately. There was something that the Grimpond

had told him that he must remember.

Please, don't let me fall asleep!

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

the statues remained silent, disinterested, and oblivious. The

mountain waited.

/ have to break free! he howled wordlessly.

And then he remembered the visions, or more specifically

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

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

company that had gathered at the Hadeshom in answer to the

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

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

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

He remembered the vision and recognized its truth.

He banished the reaction it provoked in horrified disbelief

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

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

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

twisted with the agony of his choices.

No! No, he would not!

Yet he knew he must.

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

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

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

up again. His possibilities had exhausted themselves; his fate

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

would.

And there was only one way to do so.

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannara                              11

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

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

survived intact its fall from the chamber ceiling where it had

been loosened by the battle four centuries earlier between Al-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rock moving closer.

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

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

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

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

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

it let alone . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so agonizing that it threatened to render him unconscious. He

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

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

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

less fingers.

Then he realized that something had changed.

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

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

wrist and hand remained fastened to the Asphinx in the gloom

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

him was free.

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

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

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

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

There were jolts of pain all through him.

But he was free! Shades, he was free!

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

12                             The Druid of Shannam

and distant mstling like something had come awake. Walker

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

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

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

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

And might live still.

Walker came to his feet, sudden dizziness washing through

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

stumbled toward the heavy, ironbound entry doors that had

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

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

making his way across the cavern floor to the passageway that

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

he was finished.

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

appeared. Walker reached the doors leading from the tomb and

pushed his way through into the darkness beyond.

What happened then was never clear afterward in his mind.

Somehow he managed to work his way back through the Hall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mystery. He pushed and trudged through near darkness and

phantasmagoric images, past walls of rock that threatened to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannam

13

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

as he wandered out of the mist and gray.

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

laughed in glee.

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

to disperse the stormclouds and the day remained washed of

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

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

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

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

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

trying to save his life.

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

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

wreckage so badly fevered and weakened that he stumbled half-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

arm and the lethal waters would counteract the poison that was

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

had become the measure of his life.

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

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

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

the world a place of shadows.

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

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

waters of the Hadeshom, dark and mystical as it materialized

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

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

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

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

waters—yet its touch felt curiously human.

-Dark Uncle-

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

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

were simply a designation of who and what Walker was.

14                              The Druid of Shannara

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

Walker struggled angrily to reply but could not seem to find

the words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of yourself and your own destiny-

Walker didn't understand.

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

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

Walker shuddered, disrupting the vision of his dream. His

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

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

impossible that he could ever again be found.

Help me, Allanon, he begged in despair.

The shade hung motionless in the air before him, ethereal

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

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

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

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

you demand of me ?

The shade said nothing.

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

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

The shade remained silent.

Why won't you help me ? Walker howled.

—Why won't you help me—

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

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

did.

Then abruptly the shade shimmered in the air before him and

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

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

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

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

tions and unresolved puzzles.

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

The Druid of Shannara 15

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

his vision might not have been a dream at all.

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

When he came awake again there was someone bending over

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

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

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

that meant to suck away what life remained to him.

' 'Walker?'' the figure whispered gently.

It was Cogline. Walker swallowed against the dryness in his

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

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

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

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

"How did you . . . find me?" he managed.

' 'Allanon,'' Cogline answered. His voice was rough and laced

with anger.

Walker sighed. "How long have I. . . ?"

"Three days. I don't know why you're still alive. You haven't

any right to be."

"None," Walker agreed and reached out impulsively to hug

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

body brought tears to his eyes. "I don't think . . .I'm meant to

die ... just yet."

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

yet."

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

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

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

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

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

the promise of its coming.

"Hold on to me," Cogline urged, walking him along the

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

had. Hold tight. Walker."

Walker Boh held on for dear life.

Ill

Cogline took Walker Boh to Storlock. Even on horseback

with Walker lashed in place, it took until nightfall to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

reassurance that all would be well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

think that would happen.

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

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

16

The Druid of Shannara                              17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fall asleep.

He did so almost at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ering who and what he was.

The memories were sharp and clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

skin striking against coal black hair that was always braided and

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

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

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

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

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

18                              The Druid of Shannara

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

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

uneasiness she felt.

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

see sometimes what others were feeling—not with everyone,

but almost always with his mother.

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

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

you are going to do something wonderful with it."

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

her formidable healing skills could not find a cure.

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

she had believed him blessed developed rapidly. The magic was

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

covered a new and more interesting ability. He discovered that

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

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

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

thoughts and feelings were more rudimentary and limited. He

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

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

designated himself early as an explorer of life.

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

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

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

how the letters of the alphabet formed words on the fraying

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

lessly. He understood sciences intuitively. Barely anything had

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

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannara                              19

learned, to compile teachings that he would someday impart to

others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eventually overwhelm him, that they would develop to a point

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

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

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

purpose in being.

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

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

the mysterious trust that the former in dying had bequeathed to

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

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

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

relate the history of its passage through the Ohmsford bloodline.

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

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

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

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

had demanded.

And Kenner had repeated, "There is always purpose in

magic—even when we don't understand what it is."

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

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

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

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

emotions transformed themselves into energy. When that hap-

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

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

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

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

20

The Druid of Shannara

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

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

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

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

said little, Walker felt the distance between them widen.

Walker was nearing manhood when his father made the de-

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

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

afflicted by a wasting sickness. Closing down the cottage that

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

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

ianna and their sons Par and Coll.

The move became for Walker Boh the worst thing that had

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

hamlet community, nevertheless seemed constricting after

Hearthstone. Freedom there had been boundless; here, there

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of what would happen if he let the fire escape.

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

Walker had wished that he could die, too.

He continued to live with Jaralan and Mirianna Ohmsford,

who were good to him and who sympathized with the difficulties

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

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

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

family had passed the magic of their ancestors down through

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

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

less unpredictable and complicated form of magic, manifesting

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

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannara                              21

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

all, only Walker understood what Par was experiencing.

His relationship with Par changed everything. It gave him

something to focus on, a purpose beyond worrying about his

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

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

advised him in the cautions that were necessary, the protective

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

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

to understand. He became Par's mentor.

The people of Shady Vale began calling him ' 'Dark Uncle.''

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

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

eyes of the villagers; no one really understood the relationship

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sights and comprehensions set him apart from everyone.

Nevertheless, the name "Dark Uncle" notwithstanding,

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

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

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

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

shield himself. He found he could project wariness and caution

into others and prevent them from following through on their

violent intentions. He even became rather good at stopping fights

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

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

the younger children turned cautiously friendly.

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

fear remained, concealed just beneath the forced smiles, the

perfunctory nods, and the civilities of the villagers that allowed

him to exist among them but never gain acceptance. Walker

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

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

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

haunt him to the grave.

22                              The Druid of Shannara

By the time he reached manhood. Walker had resolved to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

world of men for the rest of his life.

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

then Cogline appeared and everything changed . . .

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

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

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

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

brooding presence of a cluster of forest trees directly outside his

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

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

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

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

leading into the room stood closed.

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

him.

He remembered then what had happened to bring him here.

Cautiously, he brought his ruined arm out from beneath the

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

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

and frustration as his arm worked free. Nothing had changed

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

The Druid of Shannara                              23

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

poison worked its way upward toward his shoulder were there

as well.

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

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

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

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

the Four Lands' Healers . . .

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

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

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

Despair washed over him and he wept.

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

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

even more uncomfortable.

"Walker," he greeted quietly.

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

despair pushing everything else aside.

The old man became a statue at his bedside. "You're alive,

aren't you?" he replied.

"Don't play word games with me. Whatever's been done, it

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

only for the moment. Tell me if I'm wrong."

Cogline paused. "You're not wrong. The poison is still in

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

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

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

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

Walker's smile was slow and bitter. "Like I am dying, natu-

rally. But in a comfortable fashion."

They regarded each other without speaking for a moment.

Then Cogline moved over to the sitting chair and eased himself

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

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

Walker did. He told of reading the ancient, leatherbound

Druid History that Cogline had brought to him and learning of

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

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

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

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

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

snare him.

24

The Druid of Shannam

"To snare someone at least, perhaps anyone," Cogline ob-

served.

Walker looked at him sharply, anger and mistrust flaring in

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

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

Did Allanon know ..."

"Allanon knew nothing," Cogline interrupted, brushing

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

glittered beneath narrowed brows. "You undertook to solve the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

could and even so it took me three days."

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

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

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

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

you start casting blame about so freely!"

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

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

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

fered lamely..

"You have trouble believing anyone at any time," Cogline

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

Walker. You stopped believing in anything. I remember when

that wasn't so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

once I'm fully rested. Brin Ohmsford had such power once."

Cogline dropped his eyes and looked thoughtful. His gnarled

The Druid of Shannam                             25

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

he were trying to decide something.

Walker waited a moment, then asked,' 'What has become of

the others—of Par and Coil and Wren?''

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

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

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

up again. "Have you, Walker?"

Walker stared at him, finding the question both absurd and

troubling, torn between conflicting feelings of disbelief and un-

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

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

back disappeared Paranor and restore the Druids. A ridiculous,

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

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

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

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

despised the Druids for their manipulation of the Ohmsfords.

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

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

come again, he had declared.

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

it seemed.

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

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

what he now intended?

He was conscious of Cogline watching him, impatient as he

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

any protestations to the contrary he indeed had accepted Alla-

non's charge?

If not, what was it that he was doing?

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

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

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

it out of Paranor. Surely not.''

Cogline's smile was faint and ironic. "Why 'surely not,'

Walker?"

26                              The Druid of Shannara

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

lanon three hundred years ago. It doesn't exist anymore."

Cogline's face crinkled like crushed parchment. "Doesn't

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

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

Walker hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

the story behind my journey into Paranor?''

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

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

nodded slowly. "Yes."

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

you, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The old man leaned forward. "Tell you what. I'll let you

judge for yourself.''

He paused, gathering his thoughts. Daylight framed him in

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

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

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

clasped them tightly before him.

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

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

given, that you would resist any sort of involvement without

further evidence of the possibility that you might succeed. And

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

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

Allanon already planning to reject what you would hear.''

Walker started to protest, but Cogline held up his hands

quickly and shook his head. "No, Walker. Don't argue. I know

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

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

ing you to debate among yourselves what course of action you

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

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

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

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

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

The Druid of Shannara                              27

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

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

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

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

something I deem vital.''

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

he extended Walker was one that sought to convey truths that

the old man could not speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

once protected the Keep is gone. Everything has disappeared—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

volume of the Druid Histories which would describe the means

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

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

something more, then simply said, "I agreed.

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

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

his magic. I became momentarily something other than the man

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

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

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

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

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

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

rialized suddenly beneath my fingers. I risked taking a quick

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

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

28                              The Druid of Shannara

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

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

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

would release the locks, and entered."

Cogline's mouth tightened. "I was allowed to open my eyes

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

sprawling castle with towers that rose into clouds of ancient

brume and battlements that stretched away forever. It seemed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fire at the earth's core were still, and Paranor was cold and

lifeless. When I gained the upper halls I found piles of bones,

grotesque and misshapen, the remains of the Mord Wraiths and

Gnomes that Allanon had trapped there when he had summoned

the magic to destroy Paranor. Nothing was alive in the Druid's

Keep save myself."

He was silent for a moment as if remembering. ' 'I sought out

the vault in which the Druid Histories were concealed. I had a

sense of where it was, quickened in part by the days in which I

studied at Paranor, in part by Allanon's magic. I searched out

the library through which the vault could be entered, finding as

I did so that I could touch things as if I were still a creature of

substance and not of spirit. I felt along the dusty, worn edges of

the bookshelves until I found the catches that released the doors

leading in. They swung wide, and the magic gave way before

me. I entered, discovered the Druid Histories revealed, and took

from its resting place the one that was needed."

Cogline's eyes strayed off across the sunlit room, seeking

visions that were hidden from Walker. "I left then. I went back

the same way as I had come, a ghost out of the past as much

as those who had died there, feeling the chill of their deaths and

the immediacy of my own. I passed down the stairwells and

corridors in a half-sleep that let me feel as well as see the horror

of what now held sway in the castle of the Druids. Such power,

Walker! The magic that Allanon summoned was frightening

even yet. I fled from it as I departed—not on foot, you under-

stand, but in my mind. I was terrified!"

The eyes swung back. "So I escaped. And when I woke, I

The Druid of Shannara            ,                 29

had in my possession the book that I had been sent to recover

and I took it then to you.''

He went silent, waiting patiently as Walker considered his

story. Walker's eyes were distant. "It can be done then? Paranor

can be entered even though it no longer exists in the Pour

Lands?"

Cogline shook his head slowly. "Not by ordinary men." His

brow furrowed. "Perhaps by you, though. With the magic of

the Black Elfstone to help you."

"Perhaps," Walker agreed dully. "What magic does the Elf-

stone possess?"

"I know nothing more of it than you," Cogline answered

quietly.

"Not even where it can be found? Or who has it?"

Cogline shook his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing." Walker's voice was edged with bitterness. He let

his eyes close momentarily against what he was feeling. When

they opened, they were resigned. "This is my perception of

things. You expect me to accept Allanon's charge to recover

disappeared Paranor and restore the Druids. I can only do this

by first recovering the Black Elfstone. But neither you nor I

know where the Elfstone is or who has it. And I am infected

with the poison of the Asphinx; I am being turned slowly to

stone. I am dying! Even if I were persuaded to . . ." His voice

caught, and he shook his head. "Don't you see? There isn't

enough time!"

Cogline looked out the window, hunching down into his

robes. "And if there were?"

Walker's laugh was hollow, his voice weary. "Cogline, I don't

know."

The old man rose. He looked down at Walker for a long time

without speaking. Then he said, "Yes, you do." His hands

clasped tightly before him. "Walker, you persist in your refusal

to accept the truth of what is meant to be. You recognize that

truth deep in your heart, but you will not heed it. Why is that?''

Walker stared back at him wordlessly.

Cogline shrugged. "I have nothing more to say. Rest, Walker.

You will be well enough in a day or two to leave. The Stors have

done all they can; your healing, if it is to be, must come from

another source. I will take you back to Hearthstone."

"I will heal myself," Walker whispered. His voice was sud-

denly urgent, rife with both desperation and anger.

30                              The Druid of Shannara

Cogline did not respond. He simply gathered up his robes

and walked from the room. The door closed quietly behind him.

' 'I will,'' Walker Boh swore.

IV

It took Morgan Leah the better part of three days after part-

ing with Padishar Creel and the survivors of the Movement

to travel south from the empty stretches of the Dragon's

Teeth to the forest-sheltered Dwarf community of Culhaven.

Storms swept the mountains during the first day, washing the

ridgelines and slopes with torrents of rain, leaving the trail-

ways sodden and slick with the damp, and wrapping the whole

of the land in gray clouds and mist. By the second day the

storms had passed away, and sunshine had begun to break

through the clouds and the earth to dry out again. The third

day brought a return of summer, the air warm and fragrant

with the smell of flowers and grasses, the countryside bright

with colors beneath a clear, windswept sky, the slow, lazy

sounds of the wild things rising up from the pockets of shelter

where they made their home.

Morgan's mood improved with the weather. He had been

disheartened when he had set out. Steff was dead, killed in the

catacombs of the Jut, and Morgan was burdened with a lingering

sense of guilt rooted in his unfounded but persistent belief that

he could have done something to prevent it. He didn't know

what, of course. It was Teel who had killed Steff, who had al-

most killed him as well. Neither Steff nor he had known until

the very last that Teel was something other than what she ap-

peared, that she was not the girl the Dwarf had fallen in love

with but a Shadowen whose sole purpose in coming with them

into the mountains was to see them destroyed. Morgan had sus-

pected what she was, yet lacked any real proof that his suspi-

The Druid of Shannara                               31

cions were correct until the moment she had revealed herself

and by then it was too late. His friends the Valemen, Par and

Coil Ohmsford, had disappeared after escaping the horrors of

the Pit in Tyrsis and not been seen since. The Jut, the stronghold

of the members of the Movement, had fallen to the armies of

the Federation, and Padishar Creel and his outlaws had been

chased north into the mountains. The Sword of Shannara, which

was what all of them had come looking for in the first place, was

still missing. Weeks of seeking out the talisman, of scrambling

to unlock the puzzle of its hiding place, of hair-raising confron-

tations with and escapes from the Federation and the Shadowen,

and of repeated frustration and disappointment, had come to

nothing.

But Morgan Leah was resilient and after a day or so of brood-

ing about what was past and could not be changed his spirits

began to lift once more. After all, he was something of a veteran

now in the struggle against the oppressors of his homeland.

Before, he had been little more than an irritant to that handful.

of Federation officials who governed the affairs of the High-

lands, and in truth he had never done anything that affected the

outcome of larger events in the Four Lands. His risk had been

minimal and the results of his endeavors equally so. But that

had all changed, hi the past few weeks he had journeyed to the

Hadeshom to meet with the shade of Allanon, he had joined in

the quest for the missing Sword of Shannara, he had battled both

Shadowen and Federation, and he had saved the lives of Padishar

Creel and his outlaws by warning them of Teel before she could

betray them one final time. He knew he had done something at

last that had value and meaning.

And he was about to do something more.

He had made Steff a promise. As his friend lay dying, Morgan

had sworn that he would go to Culhaven to the orphanage where

Steff had been raised and warn Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt that

they were in danger. Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt—the only

parents Steff had ever known, the only kindred he was leaving—

were not to be abandoned. If Teel had betrayed Steff, she would

have betrayed them as well. Morgan was to help them get safely

away.

It gave the Highlander a renewed sense of purpose, and that

as much as anything helped bring him out of his depression. He

had begun his journey disenchanted. He had lagged in his travel,

bogged down by the weather and his mood. By the third day he

had shaken the effects of both. His resolution buoyed him. He

32                              The Druid of Shannara

would spirit Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt out of Culhaven to

somewhere safe. He would return to Tyrsis and find the Vale-

men. He would continue to search for the missing Sword of

Shannara. He would find a way to rid Lean and the whole of the

Four Lands of both Shadowen and Federation. He was alive and

everything was possible. He whistled and hummed as he walked,

let the sun's rays warm his face, and banished self-doubt and

discouragement. It was time to get on with things.

Now and again as he walked his thoughts strayed to the lost

magic of the Sword of Leah. He still wore the remains of the

shattered blade strapped to his waist, cradled in the makeshift

sheath he had constructed for it. He thought of the power it had

given him and the way the absence of that power made him

feel—as if he could never be whole again without it. Yet some

small part of the magic still lingered in the weapon; he had

managed to call it to life in the catacombs of the Jut when he

destroyed Teel. There had been just enough left to save his life.

Deep inside, where he could hide it and not be forced to admit

the implausibility of it, he harbored a belief that one day the

magic of the Sword of Leah would be his again.

It was late afternoon on that third day of travel when he

emerged from the forests of the Anar into Culhaven. The Dwarf

village was shabby and worn where he walked, the refuge of

those now too old and as yet too young who had not been taken

by the Federation authorities to the mines or sold as slaves in

the market. Once among the most meticulously maintained of

communities, Culhaven was now a dilapidated collection of

buildings and people that evidenced little of care or love. The

forest grew right up against the outermost buildings, weeds in-

truding into yards and gardens, roadways rutted and choked

with scrub. Wooden walls warped under peeling paint, tiles and

shingles cracked and splintered, and trim about doorways and

windows drooped away. Eyes peered out through the shadows,

following after the Highlander as he made his way in; he could

sense the people staring from behind windows and doors. The

few Dwarves he encountered would not meet his gaze, turning

quickly away. He walked on without slowing, his anger rekin-

dled anew at the thought of what had been done to these people.

Everything had been taken from them but their lives, and their

lives had been brought to nothing.

He pondered anew, as Par Ohmsford had done when last they

were there, at the purpose of it.

He kept clear of the main roads, staying on the side paths,

The Druid of Shannara                              33

not anxious to draw attention to himself. He was a Southlander

and therefore free to come and go in the Eastland as he pleased,

but he did not identify in any way with its Federation occupiers

and preferred to stay clear of them altogether. Even if none of

what had happened to the Dwarves was his doing, what he saw

of Culhaven made him ashamed all over again of who and what

he was. A Federation patrol passed him and the soldiers nodded

cordially. It was all he could do to make himself nod back.

As he drew nearer to the orphanage, his anticipation of what

he would find heightened perceptibly. Anxiety warred with con-

fidence. What if he were too late? He brushed the possibility

away. There was no reason to think that he was. Teel would not

have risked jeopardizing her disguise by acting precipitately. She

would have waited until she was certain it would not have mat-

tered.

Shadows began to lengthen as the sun disappeared into the

trees west. The air cooled and the sweat on Morgan's back dried

beneath his tunic. The day's sounds began to fade away into an

expectant hush. Morgan looked down at his hands, fixing his

gaze on the irregular patchwork of white scars that crisscrossed

the brown skin. Battle wounds were all over his body since

Tyrsis and the Jut. He tightened the muscles of his jaw. Small

things, he thought. The ones inside him were deeper.

He caught sight of a Dwarf child looking at him from behind

a low stone wall with intense black eyes. He couldn't tell if it

was a girl or a boy. The child was very thin and ragged. The

eyes followed him a moment, then disappeared.

Morgan moved ahead hurriedly, anxious once more. He

caught sight of the roof of the orphanage, the first of its walls,

a window high up, a gable. He rounded a bend in the roadway

and slowed. He knew instantly that something was wrong. The

yard of the orphanage was empty. The grass was untended.

There were no toys, no children. He fought back against the

panic that rose suddenly within him. The windows of the old

building were dark. There was no sign of anyone.

He came up to the gate at the front of the yard and

paused. Everything was still.

He had assumed wrong. He was too late after all.

He started forward, then stopped. His eyes swept the darkness

of the old house, wondering if he might be walking into some

sort of trap. He stood there a long time, watching. But there

was no sign of anyone. And no reason for anyone to be waiting

here for him, he decided.

34                              The Druid of Shannara

He pushed through the gate, walked up on the porch, and

pushed open the front door. It was dark inside, and he took a

moment to let his eyes adjust. When they had done so, he en-

tered. He passed slowly through the building, searched each of

its rooms in turn, and came back out again. There was dust on

everything. It had been some time since anyone had lived there.

Certainly no one was living there now.

So what had become of the two old Dwarf ladies?

He sat down on the porch steps and let his tall form slump

back against the railing. The Federation had them. There wasn't

any other explanation. Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt would never

leave their home unless they were forced to. And they would

never abandon the children they cared for. Besides, all of their

clothes were still in the chests and closets, the children's toys,

the bedding, everything. He had seen it in his search. The house

wasn't closed up properly. Too much was in disarray. Nothing

was as it would have been if the old ladies had been given a

choice.

Bitterness flooded through him. Steff had depended on him;

he couldn't quit now. He had to find Granny and Auntie. But

where? And who in Culhaven would tell him what he needed to

know? No one who knew anything, he suspected. The Dwarves

surely wouldn't trust him—not a Southlander. He could ask until

the sun rose in the west and set in the east.

He sat there thinking a long time, the daylight fading into

dusk. After a while, he became aware of a small child looking

at him through the front gate—the same child who had been

watching him up the road. A boy, he decided this time. He let

the boy watch him until they were comfortable with each other,

then said, "Can you tell me what happened to the ladies who

lived here?"

The boy disappeared instantly. He was gone so fast that it

seemed as if the earth must have swallowed him up. Morgan

sighed. He should have expected as much. He straightened his

legs. He would have to devise a way to extract the information

he needed from the Federation authorities. That would be dan-

gerous, especially if Teel had told them about him as well as

Granny and Auntie—and there was no reason now to believe

that she hadn't. She must have given the old ladies up even

before the company began its journey north to Darklin Reach.

The Federation must have come for Granny and Auntie the mo-

ment Teel was safely beyond the village. Teel hadn't worried

The Druid of Shannara                              35

that Steff or Morgan or the Valemen would find out; after all,

they would all be dead before it mattered.

Morgan wanted to hit something or someone. Teel had be-

trayed them all. Par and Coil were lost. StefF was dead. And

now these two old ladies who had never hurt anyone . . .

"Hey, mister," a voice called.

He looked up sharply. The boy was back at the gate. An older

boy stood next to him. It was the second boy who spoke, a hefty

fellow with a shock of spiked red hair.' 'Federation soldiers took

the old ladies away to the workhouses several weeks ago. No

one lives here now."

Then they were gone, disappeared as completely as before.

Morgan stared after them. Was the boy telling him the truth?

The Highlander decided he was. Well and good. Now he had a

little something to work with. He had a place to start looking.

He came to his feet, went back down the pathway, and out

the gate. He followed the rutted road as it wound through the

twilight toward the center of the village. Houses began to give

way to shops and markets, and the road broadened and split in

several directions. Morgan skirted the hub of the business dis-

trict, watching as the light faded from the sky and the stars

appeared. Torchlight brightened the main thoroughfare but was

absent from the roads and paths he followed. Voices whispered

in the stillness, vague sounds that lacked meaning and defini-

tion, hushed as if the speakers feared being understood. The

houses changed character, becoming well tended and neat, the

yards trimmed and nourished. Federation houses, Morgan

thought—stolen from Dwarves—tended by the victims. He kept

his bitterness at bay, concentrating on the task ahead. He knew

where the workhouses were and what they were intended to

accomplish. The women sent there were too old to be sold as

personal slaves, yet strong enough to do menial work such as

washing and sewing and the like. The women were assigned to

the Federation barracks at large and made to serve the needs of

the garrison. If that boy had been telling the truth, that was what

Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt would be doing.

Morgan reached the workhouses several minutes later. There

were five of them, a series of long, low buildings that ran parallel

to each other with windows on both sides and doors at both

ends. The women who worked them lived in them as well. Pal-

lets, blankets, washbasins, and chamberpots were provided and

pulled out from under the workbenches at night. Steff had taken

36                              The Druid of Shannara

Morgan up to a window once to let him peer inside. Once had

been quite enough.

Morgan stood in the shadows of a storage shed across the way

for long moments, thinking through what he would do. Guards

stood at all the entrances and patroled the roadways and lanes.

The women in the workhouses were prisoners. They were not

permitted to leave their buildings for any reason short of sick-

ness or death or some more benevolent form of release—and the

latter almost never occurred. They were permitted visitors in-

frequently and then closely watched. Morgan couldn't remem-

ber when it was that visits were permitted. Besides, it didn't

matter. It infuriated him to think of Granny Elise and Auntie

Jilt being kept in such a place. Steff would not have waited to

free them, and neither would he.

But how was he going to get in? And how was he going to

get Granny and Auntie out once he did?

The problem defeated him. There was no way to approach

the workhouses without being seen and no way to know in which

of the five workhouses the old ladies were being kept in any

case. He needed to know a great deal more than he did now

before he could even think of attempting any rescue. Not for the

first time since he had left the Dragon's Teeth, he wished Steff

were there to advise him.

At last he gave it up. He walked down into the center of the

village, took a room at one of the inns that catered to Southland

traders and businessmen, took a bath to wash off the grime,

washed his clothes as well, and went off to bed. He lay awake

thinking about Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt until sleep finally

overcame him.

When he awoke the following morning he knew what he

needed to do to rescue them.

He dressed, ate breakfast in the inn dining room, and set out.

What he was planning was risky, but there was no help for it.

Aftet making a few inquiries, he discovered the names of the

taverns most frequented by Federation soldiers. There were three

of them, and all were situated on the same street close to the

city markets. He walked until he found them, picked the most

likely—a dimly lit hall called the High Boot—entered, found a

table close to the serving bar, ordered a glass of ale, and waited.

Although the day was still young there were soldiers drifting in

already, men from the night shift not yet ready for bed. They

were quick to talk about garrison life and not much concerned

with who might be listening. Morgan listened closely. From

The Druid of Shannara

37

time to time he looked up long enough to ask a friendly ques-

tion. Occasionally he commented. Once in a while he bought a

glass for someone. Mostly he waited.

Much of the talk revolved around a girl who was rumored to

be the daughter of the King of the Silver River. She had appeared

rather mysteriously out of the Silver River country south and

west below the Rainbow Lake and was making her way east.

Wherever she went, in whatever villages and towns she passed

through, she performed miracles. There had never been such

magic, it was said. She was on her way now to Culhaven.

The balance of the tavern's chatter revolved around com-

plaints about the way the Federation army was run by its offi-

cers. Since it was the common soldiers who were doing the

complaining, the nature of the talk was hardly surprising. This

was the part that Morgan was interested in hearing. The day

passed away in lazy fashion, sultry and still within the confines

of the hall with only the cold glasses of ale and the talk to relieve

the heat and boredom. Federation soldiers came and went, but

Morgan remained where he was, an almost invisible presence

as he sipped and watched. He had thought earlier to circulate

from one tavern to the next, but it quickly became apparent that

he would leam everything he needed to know by remaining at

the first.

By midaftemoon he had the information he needed. It was

time to act on it. He roused himself from his seat and walked

across the roadway to the second of the taverns, the Frog Pond,

an aptly named establishment if ever there was one. Seating

himself near the back at a green cloth table that sat amid the

shadows like a lily pad in a dark pool, he began looking for his

victim. He found him almost immediately, a man close to his

own size, a common soldier of no significant rank, drinking

alone, lost in some private musing that carried his head so far

downward it was almost touching the serving bar. An hour

passed, then two. Morgan waited patiently as the soldier fin-

ished his final glass, straightened, pushed away from the bar,

lurched out through the entry doors. Then he followed.

The day was mostly gone, the sun already slipping into the

trees of the surrounding forests, the daylight turning gray with

the approach of evening. The soldier shumed unsteadily down

the road through knots of fellow soldiers and visiting tradesmen,

making his way back to the barracks. Morgan knew where he

^s going and slipped ahead to cut him off. He intercepted him

as he came around a comer by a blacksmith's shop, seeming to

38                              The Druid of Shannara

bump into him by accident but in fact striking him so hard that

the man was unconscious before he touched the ground. Morgan

let him fall, muttered in mock exasperation, then picked the

fellow up, hoisting him over one shoulder. The blacksmith and

his workers glanced over together with a few passersby, and

Morgan announced rather irritably that he supposed he would

have to carry the fellow back to his quarters. Then off he marched

in mock disgust.

He carried the unconscious soldier to a feed barn a few doors

down and slipped inside. No one saw them enter. There, in near

darkness, he stripped the man of his uniform, tied and gagged

him securely, and shoved him back behind a pile of oat sacks.

He donned the discarded uniform, brushed it out and straight-

ened its creases, stuffed his own clothes in a sack he had brought,

strapped on his weapons, and emerged once more into the light.

He moved quickly after that. Timing was everything in his

plan; he had to reach the administration center of the work-

houses just after the shift change came on at dusk. His day at

the taverns had told him everything he needed to know about

people, places, and procedures; he need only put the informa-

tion to use. Already the twilight shadows were spreading across

the forestland, swallowing up the few remaining pools of sun-

light. The streets were starting to empty as soldier, trader, and

citizen alike made their way homeward for the evening meal.

Morgan kept to himself, careful to acknowledge senior officers

in passing, doing what he could to avoid drawing attention to

himself. He assumed a deliberate look and stance designed to

keep others at bay. He became a rather hard-looking Federation

soldier about his business—no one to approach without a reason,

certainly no one to anger. It seemed to work; he was left alone.

The workhouses were lighted when he reached them, the day's

activities grinding to a close. Dinner in the form of soup and

bread was being carried in by the guards. The food smells wafted

through the air, somewhat less than appetizing. Morgan crossed

the roadway to the storage sheds and pretended to be checking

on something. The minutes slipped past, and darkness ap-

proached.

At precisely sunset the shift change occurred. New guards

replaced the old on the streets and at the doors of the work-

houses. Morgan kept his eyes fixed on the administration center.

The officer of the day relinquished his duty to his nighttime

counterpart. An aide took up a position at a reception desk. Two

men on duty—that was all. Morgan gave everyone a few minutes

The Druid of Shannara

39

to settle in, then took a deep breath and strode out from the

shadows.

He went straight to the center, pushed through the doors, and

confronted the aide at the reception desk. "I'm back," he an-

nounced.

The aide looked at him blankly.

"For the old ladies," Morgan added, allowing a hint of irri-

tation to creep into his voice. He paused. "Weren't you told?"

The aide shook his head. "I just came on ..."

"Yes, but there should be a requisition order still on your

desk from no more than an hour ago," Morgan snapped. "Isn't

it there?"

"Well, I don't..." The aide cast about the desktop in con-

fusion, moving stacks of papers aside.

"Signed by Major Assomal."

The aide froze. He knew who Major Assomal was. There

wasn't a Federation soldier garrisoned at Culhaven who didn't.

Morgan had found out about the major in the tavern. Assomal

was the most feared and disliked Federation officer in the oc-

cupying army. No one wanted anything to do with him if they

could help it.

The aide rose quickly. "Let me get the watch captain," he

muttered.

He disappeared into the back office and emerged moments

later with his superior in tow. The captain was clearly agitated.

Morgan saluted the senior officer with just the right touch of

disdain.

' 'What's this all about?'' the captain demanded, but the ques-

tion came out sounding more like a plea than a demand.

Morgan clasped his hands behind his back and straightened.

His heart was pounding. "Major Assomal requires the services

of two of the Dwarf women presently confined to the work-

houses. I selected them personally earlier in the day at his re-

quest. I left so that the paperwork could be completed and now

I am back. It seems, however, that the paperwork was never

done."

The watch captain was a sallow-skinned, round-faced man

who appeared to have seen most of his service behind a desk.

"I don't know anything about that," he snapped peevishly.

Morgan shrugged. "Very well. Shall I take that message back

to Major Assomal, Captain?"

The other man went pale. "No, no, I didn't mean that. It's

40                              The Druid of Shannara

just that I don't. . ."He exhaled sharply. "This is very annoy-

ing."

"Especially since Major Assomal will be expecting me back

momentarily." Morgan paused. "With the Dwarves."

The watch captain threw up his hands. "All right! What dif-

ference does it make! I'll sign them out to you myself! Let's

have them brought up and be done with it!"

He opened the registry of names and with Morgan looking

on determined that Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt were housed in

building four. Hurriedly he scribbled out a release order for the

workhouse guards. When he tried to dispatch the aide to collect

the old ladies, Morgan insisted that he go as well.

' 'Just to make certain there are no further mix-ups. Captain,''

he explained. "After all, I have to answer to Major Assomal as

well."

The watch captain didn't argue, obviously anxious to be shed

of the matter as quickly as possible, and Morgan went out the

door with the aide. The night was still and pleasantly warm.

Morgan felt almost jaunty. His plan, risky or not, was going to

work. They crossed the compound to building four, presented

the release order to the guards stationed at the front doors, and

waited while they perused it. Then the guards unfastened the

locks and beckoned for them to proceed. Morgan and the aide

pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.

The workhouse was crammed with workbenches and bodies

and smelled of stale air and sweat. Dust lay over everything,

and the lamplight shone dully against walls that were dingy and

unwashed. The Dwarf women were huddled on the floor with

cups of soup and plates of bread in hand, finishing their dinner.

Heads and eyes turned hurriedly as the two Federation soldiers

entered, then turned just as quickly away again. Morgan caught

the unmistakable look of fear and loathing.

"Call their names," he ordered the aide.

The aide did so, his voice echoing in the cavernous room and

near the back two hunched forms came slowly to their feet.

"Now wait outside for me," Morgan said.

The aide hesitated, then disappeared back through the doors.

Morgan waited anxiously as Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt

made their way gingerly through the clutter of bodies, benches,

and pallets to where he stood. He barely recognized them. Their

clothes were in tatters. Granny Elise's fine gray hair was un-

kempt, as if it were fraying all around the edges; Auntie Jilt's

sharp, birdlike face was pinched and harsh. They were bent over

The Druid of Shannara

41

with more than age, moving so slowly that it appeared it hurt

them even to walk.

They came up to him with their eyes downcast and stopped.

"Granny," he said softly. "Auntie Jilt."

They looked up slowly and their eyes widened. Auntie Jilt

caught her breath. ' 'Morgan!'' Granny Elise whispered in won-

der. "Child, it's really you!"

He bent down quickly then and took them in his arms, hug-

ging them close. They collapsed into him; rag dolls lacking

strength of their own, and he could hear them both begin to cry.

Behind them, the other Dwarf women were staring in confusion.

Morgan eased the two old ladies gently away. "Listen now,"

he said softly. "We haven't much time. I've tricked the watch

captain into releasing you into my custody, but he's liable to

catch on if we give him the chance so we have to hurry. Do you

have somewhere that you can go to hide, someplace you won't

be found?"

Auntie Jilt nodded, her narrow face a mask of determination.

"The Resistance will hide us. We still have friends."

"Morgan, where's Steff?" Granny Elise interrupted.

The Highlander forced himself to meet her urgent gaze. "I'm

sorry. Granny. Steff is dead. He was killed fighting against the

Federation in the Dragon's Teeth." He saw the pain that filled

her eyes. "Teel is dead, too. She was the one who killed Steff.

She wasn't what any of us thought, I'm afraid. She was a crea-

ture called a Shadowen, a thing of dark magic linked to the

Federation. She betrayed you as well."

"Oh, Steff," Granny Elise whispered absently. She was cry-

ing again.

"The soldiers came for us right after you left," Auntie Jilt

said angrily. "They took the children away and put us in this

cage. I knew something had gone wrong. I thought you might

have been taken as well. Drat it, Morgan, that girl was like our

own!"

"I know, Auntie," he answered, remembering how it had

been. "It has become difficult to know who to trust. What about

the Dwarves you plan to hide with? Can they be trusted? Are

you sure you will be safe?"

"Safe enough," Auntie replied. "Stop your crying, Elise,"

she said and patted the other woman's hand gently. ' 'We have

to do as Morgan says and get out of here while we have the

chance."

Granny Elise nodded, brushing away her tears. Morgan stood

The Druid of Shannara

42

up again. He stroked each gray head in turn. "Remember, you

don't know me, you're just my charges until we get clear of this

place. And if something goes wrong, if we get separated, go

where you'll be safe. I made a promise to Steff that I would see

to it that you did. So you make certain I don't break that prom-

ise, all right?"

"All right, Morgan," Granny Elise said.

They went out the door then, Morgan leading, th'e two old

ladies shuffling along behind with their heads bowed. The aide

was standing rigidly to one side by himself; the guards looked

bored. With the Dwarf ladies in tow, Morgan and the aide re-

turned to the administration center. The watch captain was wait-

ing impatiently, the promised release papers clutched in his

hand. He passed them across the reception desk to Morgan for

his signature, then shoved them at the aide and stalked back into

his office. The aide looked at Morgan uncomfortably.

Inwardly congratulating himself on his success, Morgan said,

"Major Assomal will be waiting."

He turned and was in the process of ushering Granny Elise

and Auntie Jilt outside when the door opened in front of them

and a new Federation officer appeared, this one bearing the

crossed bars of a divisional commander.

"Commander Soldt!'' The aide leaped to his feet and saluted

smartly.

Morgan froze. Commander Soldt was the officer in charge of

supervising the confinement of the Dwarves, the ranking officer

off the field for the entire garrison. What he was doing at the

center at this hour was anybody's guess, but it was certainly not

going to do anything to help further Morgan's plans.

The Highlander saluted.

"What's this all about?" Soldt asked, glancing at Granny

Elise and Auntie Jilt. "What are they doing out of their quar-

ters?"

"Just a requisition. Commander," replied the aide. "From

Major Assomal."

"Assomal?" Soldt frowned. "He's in the field. What would

he want with Dwarves . . ."He glanced again at Morgan. "I

don't know you, soldier. Let me see your papers."

Morgan hit him as hard as he could. Soldt fell to the floor and

lay unmoving. Instantly Morgan went after the aide, who backed

away shrieking in terror. Morgan caught him and slammed his

head against the desk. The watch captain emerged just in time

The Druid of Shannara 43

to catch several quick blows to the face. He staggered back into

his office and went down.

"Out the door!" Morgan whispered to Granny Elise and

Auntie Jilt.

They rushed from the administration center into the night.

Morgan glanced about hurriedly and breathed out sharply in

relief. The sentries were still at their posts. No one had heard

the struggle. He guided the old ladies quickly along the street,

away from the workhouses. A patrol appeared ahead. Morgan

slowed, moving ahead of his charges, assuming a posture of

command. The patrol turned off before it reached them, disap-

pearing into the dark.

Then someone behind them was shouting, calling for help.

Morgan pulled the old ladies into an alleyway and hastened them

toward its far end. The shouts were multiplying now, and there

was the sound of running feet. Whistles blew and an assembly

horn blared.

"They'll be all over us now," Morgan muttered to himself.

They reached the next street over and turned onto it. The

shouts were all around them. He pulled the ladies into a shad-

owed doorway and waited. Soldiers appeared at both ends of

the street, searching. Morgan's rescue plans were collapsing

about him. His hands tightened into fists. Whatever happened,

he couldn't allow the Federation to recapture Granny and Auntie.

He bent to them. "I'll have to draw them away," he whis-

pered urgently. "Stay here until they come after me, then run.

Once you're hidden, stay that way—no matter what."

"Morgan, what about you?" Granny Elise seized his arm.

"Don't worry about me. Just do as I say. Don't come looking

for me. I'll find you when this whole business is over. Goodbye,

Granny. Goodbye, Auntie Jilt."

Ignoring their pleas to remain, he kissed and hugged them

hurriedly, and darted into the street. He ran until he caught sight

of the first band of searchers and yelled to them, "They're over

here!"

The soldiers came running as he turned down an alleyway,

leading them away from Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. He

wrenched the broadsword he wore strapped to his back from its

scabbard. Breaking free of the alleyway, he caught sight of an-

other band and called them after him as well, gesturing vaguely

ahead. To them he was just another soldier—for the moment, at

least. If he could just maneuver them ahead of him, he might be

able to escape as well.

44                              The Druid of Shannara

"That barn, ahead of us," he shouted as the first bunch caught

up with him. "They're in there!"

The soldiers charged past, one knot, then the second. Morgan

turned and darted off in the opposite direction. As he came

around the comer of a feed building, he ran right up against a

third unit.

"They've gone into ..."

He stopped short. The watch captain stood before him, howl-

ing in recognition.

Morgan tried to break free, but the soldiers were on him in

an instant. He fought back valiantly, but there was no room to

maneuver. His attackers closed and forced him to the ground.

Blows rained down on him.

This isn 't working out the way I expected, he thought bleakly

and then everything went black.

v

^iF^ hree days later she who was said to be the daughter of

(»    the King of the Silver River arrived in Culhaven. The

^^^^ news of her coming preceded her by half a day and by

the time she reached the outskirts of the village the roadway

leading in was lined with people for more than a mile. They

had come from everywhere—from the village itself, from the

surrounding communities of both the Southland and the East-

land, from the farms and cottages of the plains and deep

forests, even the mountains north. There were Dwarves and

Men and a handful of Gnomes of both sexes and all ages.

They were ragged and poor and until now without hope. They

jammed the roadside expectantly, some come simply out of

a sense of curiosity, most come out of their need to find

something to believe in again.

The stories of the girl were wondrous. She had appeared in

The Druid of Shannara                             45

the heart of the Silver River country close by the Rainbow Lake,

a magical being sprung full-blown from the earth. She stopped

at each village and town, farm and cottage, and performed mir-

acles. It was said that she healed the land. She turned blackened,

withered stalks to fresh, green shoots. She brought flowers to

bloom, fruit to bear, and crops to harvest with the smallest of

touches. She gave life back to the earth out of death. Even where

the sickness was most severe, she prevailed. She bore some

special affinity to the land, a kinship that sprang directly from

her father's hands, from the legendary stewardship of the King

of the Silver River. For years it had been believed that the spirit

lord had died with the passing of the age of magic. Now it was

known he had not; as proof he had sent his daughter to them.

The people of the Silver River country were to be given back

their old life. So the stories proclaimed.

No one was more anxious to discover the truth of the matter

than Pe Ell.

It was midday, and he had been waiting for the girl within the

shade of the towering old shagbark hickory on a rise at the very

edge of town since just after sunrise when word had reached

him that today was the day she would appear. He was very good

at waiting, very patient, and so the time had gone quickly for

him as he stood with the others of the growing crowd and

watched the sun lift slowly into the summer sky and felt the heat

of the day settle in. Conversation around him had been plentiful

and unguarded, and he listened attentively. There were stories

of what the girl had done and what it was believed she would

do. There were speculations and judgments. The Dwarves were

the most vehement in their beliefs—or lack thereof. Some said

she was the savior of their people; some said she was nothing

more than a Southland puppet. Voices raised in shouts, quar-

reled, and died away. Arguments wafted through the still, humid

air like small explosions of steam out of a fiery earth. Tempers

flared and cooled. Pe Ell listened and said nothing.

"She comes to drive out the Federation soldiers and restore

our land to us, land that the King of the Silver River treasures!

She comes to set us free!"

"Bah, old woman, you speak nonsense! There is nothing to

say she is who she claims to be. What do you know of what she

can or cannot do?"

"I know what I know. I sense what will be."

"Ha! That's the ache of your joints you feel, nothing more!

You believe what you want to believe, not what is. The truth is

46                              The Druid of Shannara

that we have no more sense of who this girl is than we do of

what tomorrow will bring. It is pointless to get our hopes up!"

"It is more pointless to keep them down!"

And so on, back and forth, an endless succession of argu-

ments and counterarguments that accomplished nothing except

to help pass the time. Pe Ell had sighed inwardly. He seldom

argued. He seldom had cause to.

When at last she was said to approach, the arguments and

conversation faded to mutterings and whispers. When she ac-

tually appeared, even the mutterings and whispers died away. A

strange hush settled over those who lined the roadway suggest-

ing that either the girl was not at all what they had expected or,

perhaps, that she was something more.

She came up the center of the roadway surrounded by the

would-be followers who had flocked to her during her journey

east, a mostly bedraggled lot with tattered clothes and exhila-

rated faces. Her own garb was rough and poorly sewn, yet she

evinced a radiance that was palpable. She was small and slight,

but so exquisitely shaped as to seem not quite real. Her hair was

long and silver, shining as water would when it shimmered in

the moonlight. Her features were perfectly formed. She walked

alone in a rush of bodies that crowded and stumbled about her

yet could not bear to approach. She seemed to float among them.

Voices called out anxiously to her, but she seemed unaware that

anyone was there.

And then she passed by Pe Ell and turned deliberately to look

at him. Pe Ell shuddered in surprise. The weight of that look—

or perhaps simply the experience of it—was enough to stagger

him. Almost immediately her strange black eyes shifted away

again, and she was moving on, a sliver of brilliant sunlight that

had momentarily left him blind. Pe Ell stared after her, not

knowing what she had done to him, what it was that had oc-

curred in that brief moment when their eyes met. It was as if

she had looked into his heart and mind and read them quite

clearly. It was as if with that single glance she had discovered

everything there was to know about him.

He found her to be the most beautiful creature he had ever

seen in his life.

She turned down the roadway into the village proper, the

crowd trailing after, and Pe Ell followed. He was a tall, lean

man, so thin that he appeared gaunt. His bones were prominent,

and the muscles and skin of his body were molded tightly against

them so as to suggest he might easily break. Nothing could have

The Druid of Shannara                              47

been further from the truth. He was as hard as iron. He had a

long, narrow face with a hawk nose and a wide forehead with

eyebrows set high above hazel eyes that were disarmingly frank

to look upon. When he smiled, which was often, his mouth had

a slightly lopsided appearance to it. His hair was brown and

cropped close, rather spiky and uncontrolled. He slouched a bit

when he walked and might have been either a gangly boy or a

stalking cat. His hands were slim and delicate. He wore com-

mon forest clothing made of rough cloth dyed various shades of

green and taupe, boots of worn leather laced back and across,

and a short cloak with pockets.

He carried no visible weapon. The Stiehl was strapped to his

thigh just below his right hip. The knife rode beneath his loose-

fitting pants where it could not be seen but where it could be

reached easily through a slit cut into a deep forward pocket.

He could feel the blade's magic warm him.

As he moved to keep up with the girl, people stepped aside—

whether from what they saw in his face or the way he moved or

the intangible wall they sensed surrounded him. He did not like

to be touched, and everyone seemed instinctively to know it. As

always, they shied away. He passed through them as a shadow

chasing after the light, keeping the girl in sight as he did so,

wondering. She had looked at him for a reason, and that in-

trigued him. He hadn't been certain what she would be like,

how she would make him feel when he saw her for the first

time—but he hadn't thought it would be anything like this. It

surprised him, pleased him, and at the same time left him

vaguely worried. He didn't like things that he couldn't control

and he suspected that it would be difficult for anyone to exercise

control over her.

Of course, he wasn't just anyone.

The crowd was singing now, an old song that told of the earth

being reborn with the harvesting of new crops, the bearing of

food from the fields to the tables of the people who had worked

to gather it. There was praise for the seasons, for rain and sun,

for the giving of life. Chants rose for the King of the Silver River;

the voices grew steadily louder and more insistent. The girl

seemed not to hear. She walked through the singing and the

cries without responding, making her way first past the houses

that lay at the edge of the village, then the larger shops that

formed the core of the business center. Federation soldiers be-

gan to appear and tried to police the traffic as it surged ahead.

They were too few and too ill-prepared, thought Pe Ell. Appar-

48                              The Druid of Shannara

ently they had misjudged badly the extent of the community's

response to the coming of the girl.

The Dwarves were feverish in their adoration. It was as

if they had been given back the lives that had been stolen

from them. A broken, subjugated people for so many years,

there had been little enough to happen to give them hope.

But this girl seemed to be what they had been waiting for. It

was more than the stories, more than the claims of who she

was and what she could do. It was the look and feel of her.

Pe Ell could sense it as readily as the people who rallied

about her. He could feel something of it in himself. She was

different from anyone he had ever seen. She had come here

for a reason. She was going to do something.

Business ground to a halt in Culhaven as the whole of the

village, oppressed and oppressors alike, turned out to discover

what was happening and became a part of it. Pe Ell had the

sense of a wave gathering force out in the ocean, growing in

size until it dwarfed the vast body of water that had given life to

it. It was so with this girl. There was a sense of all other events

beyond this one ceasing to exist. Everything but what she was

faded away and lost meaning. Pe Ell smiled. It was the most

wonderful feeling.

The wave swept on through the village, past the shops and

businesses, the slave markets, the workhouses, the compounds

and soldiers' quarters, the shabby homes of the Dwarves and

the well-kept houses of the Federation officials, down the main

thoroughfare, and out again. No one seemed able to guess where

it was going. No one but the girl, for she led even at the center

of the maelstrom of bodies, guiding somehow the edges of the

wave, directing it as she wished. The cries and singing and

chants continued unabated, exhilarated, rapturous. Pe Ell mar-

veled.

And then the girl stopped. The crowd slowed, swirled about

her, and grew still. She stood at the foot of the blackened slopes

that had once been the Meade Gardens. She lifted her face to

the stark line of the hill's barren crest much as if she might have

been looking beyond it to a place that no one else could see.

Few in the crowd looked where she was looking; they simply

stared at her. There were hundreds of them now, and all of them

waited to see what she would do.

Then slowly, deliberately she moved onto the slope. The

crowd did not follow, sensing perhaps that it was not meant to|B

divining from some small movement or look that it was meanl(||

The Druid of Shannara                              49

to wait. It parted for her, a sea of faces rapt with expectation. A

few hands stretched out in an attempt to touch her, but none

succeeded.

Pe Ell eased his way through the crowd until he stood at its

foremost edge less than ten yards from the girl. Although he

was purposeful in his advance, he did not yet know what he

meant to do.

A knot of soldiers intercepted the girl, led by an officer bear-

ing the crossed shoulder bars of a Federation commander. The

girl waited for them. An unpleasant murmur rose from the

crowd.

"You are not allowed here," announced the commander, his

voice steady and clear. "No one is. You must go back down."

The girl looked at him, waiting.

' "This is forbidden ground, young lady,'' the other continued,

an officer addressing an inferior in a manner intended to dem-

onstrate authority.' 'No one is permitted to walk upon this earth.

A proclamation of the Coalition Council of the Federation gov-

ernment, which I have the honor to serve, forbids it. Do you

understand?''

The girl did not answer.

"If you do not turn around and leave willingly, I shall be

forced to escort you."

A scattering of angry cries sounded.

The girl came forward a step.

"If you do not leave at once, I shall have to . . ."

The girl gestured and instantly the man's legs were entwined

in ground roots an inch thick. The soldiers who had accompa-

nied him fell back with gasps of dismay as the pikes they were

holding turned to gnarled staffs of deadwood that crumbled in

their hands. The girl walked past them, unseeing. The blustering

voice of the commander turned to a whisper of fear and then

disappeared in the shocked murmur of the crowd.

Pe Ell smiled fiercely. Magic! The girl possessed real magic!

The stories were true. It was more than he could have hoped

for. Was she really the daughter of the King of the Silver River?

he wondered.

The soldiers kept away from her now, unwilling to challenge

the kind of power she obviously wielded. There were a few

attempts at issuing orders by lesser officers, but no one was sure

what to do after what had happened to the commander. Pe Ell

glanced swiftly about. Apparently there were no Seekers in the

village. In the absence of Seekers, no one would act.

The Druid of Shannara

The girl proceeded up the empty, burned surface of the slope

toward its summit, and her passing barely stirred the dry earth

on which she walked. The sun beat down fiercely out of the

midday sky, turning the empty stretch of ground into a furnace.

The girl seemed not to notice, her face calm as she passed

through the swelter.

As he stared at her, Pe Ell felt himself drawn to the rim of a

vast chasm, knowing that beyond" was something so impossible

that he could not imagine it.

What will she do?

She came to the summit of the slope and stopped, a slim,

ethereal form outlined against the sky. She paused for a mo-

ment, as if searching for something in the air around her, an

invisible presence that would speak to her. Then she knelt. She

dropped down to the charred earth of the hillside and buried her

hands within it. Her head lowered and her hair fell about her in

a veil of silver light.

The world about her went absolutely still.

Then the earth beneath began to tremble and shake, and a

rumbling sound rose out of its depths. The crowd gasped and

fell back. Men steadied themselves, women snatched up chil-

dren, and cries and shouts began to sound. Pe Ell came forward

a step, his hazel eyes intense. He was not frightened. This was

what he had been waiting for, and nothing could have chased

him away.

Light seemed to flare from the hillside then, a glow that

dwarfed even the sunlight's brilliance. Geysers exploded from

the earth, small eruptions that burst skyward, showering Pe Ell

and the foremost members of the crowd with dirt and silt. There

was a heaving as if some giant buried beneath was rising from

his sleep, and huge boulders began to jut from the ground like

the bones of the giant's hunched shoulders. The burned surface

of the hillside began to turn itself over and disappear. Fresh earth

rose up to cover it, rich and glistening, filling the air with a

pungent smell. Massive roots lifted out like snakes, twisting and

writhing in response to the rumblings. Green shoots began to

unfold.

In the midst of it all, the girl knelt. Her body was rigid be-

neath the loose covering of her clothes, and her arms were bur-

ied in the earth up to her elbows. Her face was hidden.

Many in the crowd were kneeling now, some praying to the

forces of magic once believed to have controlled the destiny of

men, some simply steadying themselves against tremors which

The Druid of Shannara                              51

had grown so violent that even the most sturdy trees were being

shaken. Excitement rushed through Pe Ell and left him flushed.

He wanted to run to the girl, to embrace her, to feel what was

happening within her, and to share in the power.

Boulders grated and boomed as they rearranged themselves,

changing the shape of the hillside. Terraced walls formed out of

the rock. Moss and ivy filled the gaps. Trails wound down from

one level to the next in gentle descent. Trees appeared, roots

become small saplings, the saplings in turn thickening and

branching out, compressing dozens of seasons of growth into

scant minutes. Leaves budded and spread as if desperate to reach

the sunlight. Grasses and brush spread out across the empty

earth, turning the blackened surface a vibrant green. And flow-

ers! Pe Ell cried out in the silence of his mind. There were

flowers everywhere, springing forth in a profusion of bright col-

ors that threatened to blind him. Blues, reds, yellows, violets—

the rainbow's vast spectrum of shades and tones blanketed the

earth.

Then the rumbling ceased and the silence that followed was

broken by the singing of birds. Pe Ell glanced at the crowd

behind him. Most were on their knees still, their eyes wide,

their faces rapt with wonder. Many were crying.

He turned back to the girl. In a span of no more than a few

minutes she had transformed the entire hillside. She had erased

a hundred years of devastation and neglect, of deliberate razing,

of purposeful burning off and leveling out, and restored to the

Dwarves of Culhaven the symbol of who and what they were.

She had given them back the Meade Gardens.

She was still on her knees, her head lowered. When she came

back to her feet she could barely stand. All of her strength had

been expended in her effort to restore the Gardens; she seemed

to have nothing left to give. She swayed weakly, her arms hang-

ing limply at her sides, her beautiful, perfect face drawn and

lined, her silver hair damp and tangled. Pe Ell felt her eyes fix

upon him once more and this time he did not hesitate. He went

up the hillside swiftly, bounding over rocks and brush, skipping

past the trails as if they were hindrances. He felt the crowd

surging after him, heard their voices crying out, but they were

nothing to him and he did not look back. He reached the girl as

she was falling and caught her in his arms. Gently he cradled

her, holding her as he might a captured wild creature, protec-

tively and possessively at once.

Her eyes stared into his, he saw the intensity and brilliance

52                              The Druid of Shannara

of them, the depth of feeling they held, and in that moment he

was bound to her in a way that he could not describe. ' 'Take me

to where I can rest," she whispered to him.

The crowd was all about them now, their anxious voices a

babble he could not lock out. A sea of faces pressed close. He

said something to those closest to reassure them that she was only

tired and heard his words pass from mouth to mouth. He caught

a glimpse of Federation soldiers at the fringes of the crowd, but

they were wisely choosing to keep their distance. He began mov-

ing away, carrying the girl, amazed at how little she weighed.

There was nothing to her, he thought. And everything.

A handful of Dwarves intercepted him, asking him to follow

them, to bring the daughter of the King of the Silver River to

their home, to let her rest with them. Pe Ell let himself be guided

by them. One home was as good as another for now. The eyes

of the crowd followed after, but already it was dispersing at its

fringes, straying off into the paradise of the Gardens, discover-

ing for themselves the beauty that it held. There was singing

again, softer now, songs of praise and thanksgiving for the girl,

lyrical and sweet.

Pe Ell descended the hillside and passed out of the Meade

Gardens and back into the village of Culhaven with the girl

asleep in his arms. She had given herself into his keeping. She

had placed herself under his protection. He found it ironic.

After all, he had been sent there to kill her.

VI

Fe Ell carried the daughter of the King of the Silver River

to the home of the Dwarves who had offered to keep

her, a family that consisted of a man, his wife, their

widowed daughter, and two small grandchildren. Their home

was a stone cottage at the east end of the village sheltered by

The Druid of Shannara                               53

white oak and red elm and set back against the wall of the forest

close by the channel of the river. It was quiet there, isolated

from the village proper, and by the time they reached it most of

the following crowd had turned back. A handful chose to stay

and set up camp at the edge of the property, most of them those

who had followed the girl up from the country south, zealots

who were determined that she would be their savior.

But she wasn't for them, Pe Ell knew. She belonged now to

him.

With the help of the family he placed the girl in a bed in a

tiny back room where the man and woman slept. The husband

and his wife and widowed daughter went out again to prepare

something to eat for those who had chosen to keep vigil over the

girl, but Pe Ell remained. He sat in a chair next to the bed and

watched her sleep. For a time the children remained, curious to

see what would happen, but eventually they lost mterest, and he

was left alone. The daylight faded into darkness and still he sat,

waiting patiently for her to wake. He studied the line of her body

as she lay sleeping, the curve of her hip and shoulder, the soft

rounding of her back. She was such a tiny thing, just a little bit

of flesh and bone beneath the coverings, the smallest spark of

life. He marveled at the texture of her skin, at the coloring, at

the absence of flaws. She might have been molded by some great

artist whose reflection and skill had created a once-and-only

masterpiece.

Fires were lit without, and the sound of voices drifted in

through the curtained window. The sounds of night filled the

silence between exchanges, the songs of birds and the buzzing

of insects rising up against the faint rush of the river's waters.

Pe Ell was not tired and had no need to sleep.

Instead, he used the time to think.

A week earlier he had been summoned to Southwatch and a

meeting with Rimmer Dall. He had gone because it pleased him

and not because it was necessary. He was bored and he was

hopeful that the First Seeker would give him something inter-

esting to do, that he would provide him with a challenge. To Pe

Ell's way of thinking, that was all that mattered about Rimmer

Dall. The rest of what the First Seeker did with his life and the

lives of others was of no interest to him. He had no illusions, of

course. He knew what Rimmer Dall was. He simply didn't care.

It took him two days to make the journey. He traveled north

on horseback out of the rugged hill country below the Battle-

54                              The Druid of Shannara

mound where he made his home and arrived at Southwatch at

sunset on the second day. He dismounted while still out of sight

of the sentries and made his approach by foot. He need not have

bothered; he could have come all the way in and gained im-

mediate admittance. But he liked the idea of being able to come

and go as he chose. He liked demonstrating his talent.

Especially to the Shadowen.

Pe Ell was as they were as he came iato the black monolith,

seemingly through the creases in the stone, a wraith out of dark-

ness. He went past the sentries unseen and unheard, as invisible

to them as the air they breathed. Southwatch was silent and dark,

its walls polished and smooth, its corridors empty. It had the

feel and look of a well-preserved crypt. Only the dead belonged

here, or those who trafficked in death. He worked his way

through its catacombs, feeling the pulse of the magic imprisoned

in the earth beneath, hearing the whisper of it as it sought to

break free. A sleeping giant that Rimmer Dall and his Shadowen

thought they would tame, Pe Ell knew. They kept their secret

well, but there was no secret that could be kept from him.

When he was almost to the high tower where Rimmer Dall

waited, he killed one of those who kept watch, a Shadowen, but

it made no difference. He did so because he could and because

he felt like it. He melted into the black stone wall and waited

until the creature came past him, drawn by a faint noise that he

had caused, then drew the Stiehl from its sheath within his pants

and cut the life out of his victim with a single, soundless twist.

The sentry died in his arms, its shade rising up before him like

black smoke, the body crumbling into ash. Pe Ell watched the

astonished eyes go flat. He left the empty uniform where it could

be found.

He smiled as he floated through the shadows. He had been

killing for a long time now and he was very good at it. He had

discovered his talent early in life, his ability to seek out and

destroy even the most guarded of victims, his sense of how their

protection could be broken down. Death frightened most peo-

ple, but not Pe Ell. Pe Ell was drawn to it. Death was the twin

brother of life and the more interesting of the two. It was secre-

tive, unknown, mysterious. It was inevitable and forever when

it came. It was a dark, infinitely chambered fortress waiting to

be explored. Most entered only once and then only because they

had no choice. Pe Ell wanted to enter at every opportunity and

the chance to do so was offered through those he killed. Each

The Druid of Shannara 55

time he watched someone die he would discover another room,

glimpse another part of the secret. He would be reborn.

High within the tower, he encountered a pair of sentries posted

before a locked door. They failed to see him as he eased close.

Pe Ell listened. He could hear nothing, but he could sense that

someone was imprisoned within the room beyond. He debated

momentarily whether he should discover who it was. But that

would mean asking, which he would never do, or killing the

sentries, which he did not care to do. He passed on.

Pe Ell ascended a darkened flight of stairs to the apex of

Southwatch and entered a room of irregular chambers that con-

nected together like corridors in a maze. There were no doors,

only entryways. There were no sentries. Pe Ell slipped inside,

a soundless bit of night. It was dark without now, the blackness

complete as clouds blanketed the skies and turned the world

beneath opaque. Pe Ell moved through several of the chambers,

listening, waiting.

Then abruptly he stopped, straightened, and turned.

Rimmer Dall stepped out of the blackness of which he was a

part. Pe Ell smiled. Rimmer Dall was good at making himself

invisible, too.

"How many did you kill?" the First Seeker asked in his

hushed, whispery voice.

"One," Pe Ell said. His smile tugged at the corners of

his mouth. "Perhaps I will kill another on the way out."

Dall's eyes shone a peculiar red. "One day you will play this

game too often. One day you will brush up against death by

mistake and she will snatch you up instead of your victim."

Pe Ell shrugged. His own dying did not trouble him. He knew

it would come. When it did, it would be a familiar face, one he

had seen all his life. For most, there was the past, the present,

and the future. Not for Pe Ell. The past was nothing more than

memories, and memories were stale reminders of what had been

lost. The future was a vague promise—dreams and puffs of

smoke. He had no use for either. Only the present mattered,

because the present was the here and now of what you were, the

happening of life, the immediacy of death, and it could be con-

trolled as neither past nor future could. Pe Ell believed in con-

trol. The present was an ever-evolving chain of moments that

living and dying forged, and you were always there to see it

come.

A window opened on the night across a table and two chairs,

and Pe Ell moved to seat himself. Rimmer Dall joined him.

56                              The Druid of Shannara

They sat in silence for a time, each looking at the other, but

seeing something more. They had known each other for more

than twenty years. Their meeting had been an accident. Rimmer

Dall was a junior member of a policing committee of the Co-

alition Council, already deeply enmeshed in the poisonous pol-

itics of the Federation. He was ruthless and determined, barely

out of boyhood, and already someone to be feared. He was a

Shadowen, of course, but few knew it. Pe Ell, almost the same

age, was an assassin with more than twenty kills behind him.

They had met in the sleeping quarters of a man Rimmer Dall

had come to dispatch, a man whose position in the Southland

government he coveted and whose interference he had tolerated

long enough. Pe Ell had gotten there first, sent by another of

the man's enemies. They had faced each other in silence across

the man's lifeless body, the night's shadows cloaking them both

in the same blackness that mirrored their lives, and they had

sensed a kinship. Both had use of the magic. Neither was what

he seemed. Both were relentlessly amoral. Neither was afraid

of the other. Without, the Southland city ofWayford buzzed and

clanked and hissed with the intrigues of men whose ambitions

were as great as their own but whose abilities were far less. They

looked into each other's eyes and saw the possibilities.

They formed an irrevocable partnership. Pe Ell became the

weapon, Rimmer Dall the hand that wielded it. Each served the

other at his own pleasure; there were no constraints, no bonds.

Each took what was needed and gave back what was required—-

yet neither really identified with nor understood what the other

was about. Rimmer Dall was the Shadowen leader whose plans

were an inviolate secret. Pe Ell was the killer whose occupation

remained his peculiar passion. Rimmer Dall invited Pe Ell to

eliminate those he believed particularly dangerous. Pe Ell ac-

cepted the invitation when the challenge was sufficiently intrigu-

ing. They nourished themselves comfortably on the deaths of

others.

'.'Who is it that you keep imprisoned in the room below?"

Pe Ell asked suddenly, breaking the silence, ending the flow of

recollections.

Rimmer Dall's head inclined slightly, a mask of bones that

gave his face the look of a fleshless skull. "A Southlander, a

Valeman. One of two brothers named Ohmsford. The other

brother believes he has killed this one. I arranged for him to

think so. I planned it that way." The big man seemed pleased

The Druid of Shannara                               57

with himself. "When it is time, I will let them find each other

again."

"A game of your own, it seems."

"A game with very high stakes, stakes that involve magic of

unimaginable proportions—magic greater than either yours or

mine or anyone else's. Unbounded power."

Pe Ell did not respond. He felt the weight of the Stiehl against

his thigh, the warmth of its magic. It was difficult for him to

imagine a magic more powerful—impossible to envision one

more useful. The Stiehl was the perfect weapon, a blade that

could cut through anything. Nothing could withstand it. Iron,

stone, the most impenetrable of defenses—all were useless

against it. No one was safe. Even the Shadowen were vulnera-

ble; even they could be destroyed. He had discovered as much

some years back when one had tried to kill him, sneaking into

his bedchamber like a stalking cat. It had thought to catch him

sleeping; but Pe Ell was always awake. He had killed the black

thing easily.

Afterward it had occurred to him that the Shadowen might

have been sent by Rimmer Dall to test him. He hadn't chosen

to dwell on the possibility. It didn't matter. The Stiehl made him

invincible.

Fate had given him the weapon, he believed. He did not know

who had made the Stiehl, but it had been intended for him. He

was twelve years old when he found it, traveling with a man

who claimed to be his uncle—a harsh, embittered drunkard with

a penchant for beating anything smaller and weaker than him-

self—on a journey north through the Battlemound to yet another

in an endless succession of towns and villages they frequented

so that the uncle might sell his stolen goods. They were camped

in a ravine in a desolate, empty stretch of scrub country at the

edge of the Black Oaks, fence-sitting between the Sirens and

the forest wolves, and the uncle had beaten him again for some

imagined wrong and fallen asleep with his bottle tucked close.

Pe Ell didn't mind the heatings anymore; he had been receiving

them since he was orphaned at four and his uncle had taken him

in. He hardly remembered what it was like not to be abused.

What he minded was the way his uncle went about it these

days—as if each beating was being undertaken to discover the

limits of what the boy could stand. Pe Ell was beginning to

suspect he had reached those limits.

He went off into the failing light to be alone, winding down

Ae empty ravines, trudging over the desolate rises, scuffing his

58                              The Druid of Shannon

booted feet, and waiting for the pain of his cuts and bruises tc

ease. The hollow was close, no more than several hundred yard1

away, and the cave at its bottom drew him as a magnet migtr

iron. He sensed its presence in a way he could not explain, ever

afterward. Hidden by the scrub, half-buried in loose rock, r

was a dark and ominous maw opening down into the earth. Pe

Ell entered without hesitation. Few things frightened him ever

then. His eyesight had always been extraordinary, and even the

faintest light was enough to let him find his way.

He followed the cave back to where the bones were gath-

ered—human bones, centuries old, scattered about randomly a.

if kicked apart. The Stiehl lay among them, the blade gleaming

silver in the dark, pulsing with life, its name carved on its han

die. Pe Ell picked it up and felt its warmth. A talisman frorr

another age, a weapon of great power—he knew at once that it

was magic and that nothing could withstand it.

He did not hesitate. He departed the cave, returned to the

camp, and cut his uncle's throat. He woke the man first to make

certain that he knew who had done it. His uncle was the firsi

man he killed.

It had all happened a long time ago.

"There is a giri," Rimmer Dall said suddenly and paused.

Pe Ell's gaze shifted back to the other's raw-boned face, sil-

houetted against the night. He could see the crimson eyes glitter

The First Seeker's breath hissed from between his lips.' "The)

say that she possesses magic, that she can change the character

of the land simply by touching it, and that she can dispatch blight

and disease and cause flowers to spring full grown from the

foulest soil. They say that she is the daughter of the King of the

Silver River."

Pe Ell smiled. "Is she?"

Rimmer Dall nodded. "Yes. She is who and what the stories

claim. I do not know what she has been sent to do. She travels

east toward Culhaven and the Dwarves. It appears that she ha?

something specific in mind. I want you to find out what it is and

then kill her."

Pe EU stretched comfortably, his response unhurried. "Kill

her yourself, why don't you?"

Rimmer Dall shook his head. "No. The daughter of the King

of the Silver River is anathema to us. Besides, she would rec-

ognize a Shadowen instantly. Faerie creatures share a kinship

that prohibits disguise. It must be someone other than one ot

The Druid of Shannara 59

us, someone who can get close enough, someone she will not

suspect."

"Someone." Pe Ell's crooked smile tightened. "There are

lots of someones, Rimmer. Send another. You have entire ar-

mies of blindly loyal cutthroats who will be more than happy to

dispatch a giri foolish enough to reveal that she possesses magic.

This business doesn't interest me.''

"Arc you certain, Pe Ell?"

Pe Ell sighed wearily. Now the bargaining begins, he thought.

He stood up, his lean frame whiplike as he bent across the table

so that he could see clearly the other's face. "I have listened to

you tell me often enough how like the Shadowen you perceive

me to be. We are much the same, you tell me. We wield magic

against which there is no defense. We possess insight into the

purpose of life which others lack. We share common instincts

and skills. We smell, taste, sound, and feel the same. We are

two sides of one coin. You go on and on. Well then, Rimmer

Dall, unless you are lying I would be discovered by this girl as

quickly as you, wouldn't I? Therefore, there is no point in send-

ing me.''

"It must be you."

"Must it, now?"

"Your magic is not innate. It is separate and apart from who

and what you are. Even if the girl senses it, she will still not

know who you are. She will not be warned of the danger you

pose to her. You will be able to do what is needed."

Pe Ell shrugged. "As I said, this business doesn't interest

me."

"Because you think there is no challenge in it?"

Pe Ell paused, then slowly sat down again. "Yes. Because

there is no challenge."

Rimmer Dall leaned back in his chair and his face disap-

peared into shadow. "This girl is no simple flesh-and-blood

creature; she will not be easily overcome. She has great magic,

and her magic will protect her. It will take stronger magic still

to kill her. Ordinary men with ordinary weapons haven't a

chance. My legions of cutthroats, as you so disdainfully describe

them, are worthless. Federation soldiers can get close to her,

but cannot harm her. Shadowen cannot even get close. Even if

they could, I am not certain it would make any difference. Do

you understand me, Pe Ell?"

Pe Ell did not respond. He closed his eyes. He could feel

Rimmer Dall watching him.

60                              The Druid of Shannara

"This girl is dangerous, Pe Ell, the more so because she has

obviously been sent to accomplish something of importance and

I do not know what that something is. I have to find out and I

have to put a stop to it. It will not be easy to do either. It may

be too much even for you.''

Pe Ell cocked his head thoughtfully.' 'Is that what you think?''

"Possibly."

Pe Ell was out of his chair with the swiftness of thought, the

Stiehl snatched from its sheath and in his hand. The dp of the

blade swept upward and stopped not an inch from Rimmer Dall's

nose. Pe Ell's smile was frightening. "Really?"

Rimmer Dall did not flinch, did not even blink. "Do as I ask,

Pe Ell. Go to Culhaven. Meet this girl. Find out what she plans

to do. Then kill her."

Pe Ell was wondering if he should kill Rimmer Dall: He had

thought about it before, contemplated it quite seriously. Lately

the idea had begun to take on a certain fascination for him. He

felt no loyalty to the man, cared nothing for him one way or the

other beyond a vague appreciation of the opportunities he of-

fered and even those were no longer as rewarding as they had

once been. He was tired of the other's constant attempts to ma-

nipulate him. He no longer felt comfortable with their arrange-

ment. Why not put an end to him?

The Stiehl wavered. The trouble was, of course, that there

was no real point to it. Killing Rimmer Dall accomplished noth-

ing, unless, of course, he was ready to discover what secrets

might reveal themselves at the moment of the First Seeker's

dying. That could prove interesting. On the other hand, why

rush things? It was better to savor the prospect for a time. It was

better to wait.

He sheathed the Stiehl with a quicksilver movement and

backed away from Rimmer Dall. For just an instant he had a

sense of missed opportunity, as if such a chance might never

come again. But that was foolish. Rimmer Dall could not keep

him away. The First Seeker's life was his to take when he chose.

He looked at Rimmer Dall for a moment, then spread his

hands agreeably. "I'll do it."

He wheeled and started away. Rimmer Dall called after him.

"Be warned, Pe Ell. This girl is more than a match for you. Do

not play games with her. Once you have discovered her purpose,

kill her quickly."

Pe Ell did not respond. He slipped from the room and melted

back into the shadows of the keep, uninterested in anything

The Druid of Shannara                              61

Rimmer Dall thought or wished. It was enough that he had

agreed to do what the Shadowen had asked. How he accom-

plished it was his own business.

He departed Southwatch for Culhaven. He did not kill any of

the sentries on his way out. He decided it wasn't worth the effort.

Midnight approached. He grew tired of thinking and dozed

in his chair as the hours slipped away. It was only several hours

from dawn when the girl awoke. The cottage was silent, the

Dwarf family asleep. The fires of those camped without had

burned to coals and ash, and the last whispers of conversation

had died away. Pe Ell came awake instantly as the girl stirred.

Her eyes blinked open and fixed on him. She stared at him

without speaking for a very long time and then slowly sat up.

"I am called Quickening," she said.

"I am Pe EU," he replied.

She reached for his hand and took it in her own. Her fingers

were as light as feathers as they traced his skin. Then she shiv-

ered and drew back.

' 'I am the daughter of the King of the Silver River,'' she said.

She swung her legs off the bed and faced him. She smoothed

back her tangled silver hair. Pe Ell was transfixed by her beauty,

but she seemed completely unaware of it. "I need your help,"

she said. * 'I have come out of the Gardens of my father and into

the world of men in search of a talisman. Will you journey with

me to find it?"

The plea was so unexpected that for a moment Pe Ell did not

respond but simply continued staring at the girl. "Why do you

choose me?'' he asked finally, confused.

And she said at once, "Because you are special."

It was exactly the right answer, and Pe Ell was astonished

that she should know enough to give it, that she could sense

what he wanted to hear. Then he remembered Rimmer Dall's

warning and hardened himself. "What sort of talisman is it that

we search for?"

She kept her eyes fastened on him. "One of magic, one with

power enough to withstand even that of the Shadowen."

Pe Ell blinked. Quickening was so beautiful, but her beauty

was a mask that distracted and confused. He felt suddenly

stripped of his defenses, bared to his deepest comers, the light

thrown on all his secrets. She knew him for what he was, he

sensed. She could see everything.

In that instant, he almost killed her. What stopped him was

62 The Druid of Shannam

how truly vulnerable she was. Despite her magic, formidable

indeed, magic that could transform a barren, empty stretch of

hillside back into what was surely no more than a memory ir

the minds of even the most elderly of the Dwarves, she lacked

any form of defense against a killing weapon like the Stiehl. He

could sense that it was so. She was helpless should he choose

to kill her.

Knowing that, he decided not to. Not yet.

"Shadowen," he echoed softly.

"Are you frightened of them?" she asked him.

"No."

"Of magic?"

Pe Ell breathed in slowly. His narrow features twisted in upon

themselves as he bent toward her. ' 'What do you know of me?''

he asked, his eyes searching her own.

She did not look away. "I know that I need you. That you

will not be afraid to do what is necessary."

It seemed to Pe Ell that her words held more than one mean-

ing, but he was unable to decide.

"Will you come?" she asked again.

Kill her quickly, Rimmer Dall had said. Find out her purpose

and kill her. Pe Ell looked away, staring out the cottage window

into the night, listening to the rushing sound of the river and the

wind, soft and distant. He had never much bothered with the

advice of others. Most of it was self-serving, useless to a man

whose life depended on his ability to exercise his own judgment.

Besides, there was a great deal more to this business than what

Rimmer Dall had revealed. There were secrets waiting to be

discovered. It might be that the talisman the girl searched for

was something that even the First Seeker feared. Pe Ell smiled.

What if the talisman happened to fall into his hands? Wouldn't

that be interesting?

He looked back at her again. He could kill her anytime.

"I will come with you," he said.

She stood suddenly, reaching out her hands to take his own,

drawing him up with her. They might have been lovers. "There

are two more that must come with us, two like yourself who are

needed," she said. "One of them is here in Culhaven. I want

you to bring him to me.''

Pe EU frowned. He had already resolved to separate her from

those fools camped without, misguided believers in miracles

and fate who would only get in his way. Quickening belonged

to him alone. He shook his head. "No."

The Druid of Shannam                             63

She stepped close, her coal black eyes strangely empty.

"Without them, we cannot succeed. Without them, the talisman

is beyond our reach. No others need come, but they must.''

She spoke with such determination that he found it impossi-

ble to argue with her. She seemed convinced that what she was

saying was true. Perhaps it was, he decided; she knew more of

what she was about at this point than he.

' 'Just two?'' he asked. "No others? None of those without?''

She nodded wordlessly.

"All right," he agreed. No two men would be enough to

cause him problems, to interfere with his plans. The girl would

still be his to kill when he chose. "One man is here in the

village, you say. Where am I to find him?"

For the first time since she had come awake, she turned away

so mat he could not see her.

"In the Federation prisons," she said.

VII

Morgan Leah.

That was the name of the man that Pe Ell was

supposed to find and bring to the daughter of the

King of the Silver River.

The streets of Culhaven were deserted save for the homeless

huddled in the crooks and crannies of the shops, shapeless bun-

dles of rags waiting out the night. Pe EU ignored them as he

made his way toward the center of town and the Federation

prisons. Dawn was the better part of two hours away; he had

more than sufficient time to do what was needed. He might have

postponed this rescue business another night, but he saw no

reason to do so. The quicker this fellow was found, the quicker

they would all be on their way. He hadn't asked the gid yet where

it was that they were going. It didn't matter.

64                              The Druid of Shannara

He kept to the shadows as he moved ahead, mulling over in

his mind the ambivalent effect she had on him. He was both

exhilarated and appalled. She made him feel as if he were a man

in the process of rediscovering himself and at the same time as

if he were a fool. Rimmer Dall would certainly claim he was

the latter, that he was playing the most dangerous of games, that

he was being led about by the nose and deluding himself into

thinking he was in command. But Rimmer Dall had no heart,

no soul, no sense of the poetry of life and death. He cared

nothing for anything or anyone—only for the power he wielded

or sought to secure. He was a Shadowen, and the Shadowen

were empty things. However Rimmer Dall saw it, Pe Ell was

less like him than the First Seeker thought. Pe Ell understood

the harsh realities of existence, the practical necessities of stay-

ing alive, and of making oneself secure; but he also could feel

the beauty of things, particularly in the prospect of death. Death

possessed great beauty. Rimmer Dall saw it as extinction. But

when Pe Ell killed, he did so to discover anew the grace and

symmetry that made it the most wondrous of life's events.

He was certain that there would be incredible beauty in the

death of Quickening. It would be unlike any other killing he had

ever done.

So he would not rush it, not hurry the irrevocable fact of it;

he would take time to anticipate it. The feelings she invoked in

him would not alter or adversely effect the course of action he

had set for himself. He would not disparage himself for expe-

riencing them; they were part of his makeup, a reaffinnation of

his humanity. Rimmer Dall and his Shadowen could know noth-

ing of such feelings; they were as unfeeling as stone. But not Pe

Ell. Not ever.

He slipped past the workhouses, avoiding the lights of the

compound and the Federation soldiers on watch. The surround-

ing forest was hushed and sleeping, a black void in which sounds

were disembodied and somehow frightening. Pe EU became a

part of that void, comfortable within its cloaking as he moved

soundlessly ahead. He could see and hear what no one else

could; it had always been that way. He could feel what lived

within the dark even though it hid from him. The Shadowen

were like that; but even they could not assimilate as he could.

He paused at a lighted crossway and waited to be certain it

was clear. There were patrols everywhere.

He pictured Quickening's image in the aura cast by a solitary

streetlamp. A child, a woman, a magical being—she was all of

The Druid of Shannara                              65

these and much more. She was the embodiment of the land's

most beautiful things—a sunlit woodland glen, a towering falls,

a blue sky at midday, a rainbow's kaleidoscope of color, an

endless sweep of stars at night viewed from an empty plain. She

was a creature of flesh and blood, of human life, and yet she

was a part of the earth as well, of fresh-turned soil, of mountain

streams, of great old rocks that would not yield to anything but

time. It baffled him, but he could sense things in her that were

at once incongruous and compatible. How could that be? What

was she, beyond what she claimed?

He moved swiffly through the light and melted back into the

shadows. He did not know, but he was determined to find out.

The squarish dark bulk of the prisons loomed ahead. Pe Ell

took a moment to consider his options. He knew the design of

the Federation prisons at Culhaven; he had even been in them

once or twice, though no one knew about it but Rimmer Dall.

Even in prison, there were men who needed to be killed. But

that was not to be the case tonight. Admittedly, he had consid-

ered killing this man he had been sent to rescue, this Morgan

Leah. That would be one way to prevent the girl from insisting

that he accompany them in their search for the missing talisman.

Kill this one now, the other one later, and that would be the end

of the matter. He could lie about how it happened. But the girl

might guess the truth, might even divine it. She trusted him;

why take a chance on changing that? Besides, perhaps she was

right about needing these men to reclaim the talisman. He did

not know enough yet of what they were about. It was better to

wait and see.

He let his lean frame disappear into the stone of the wall

against which he rested, thinking. He could enter the prisons

directly, confront the commanding officer with his Shadowen

insignia, and secure the release of the man without further fuss.

But that would mean revealing himself, and he preferred not to

do that. No one knew about him now besides Rimmer Dall. He

was the First Seeker's private assassin. None of the other Shad-

owen even suspected that he existed; none had ever seen him.

Those who had encountered him, Shadowen or otherwise, were

all dead. He was a secret to everyone and he preferred to keep

it that way. It would be better to take the man out in the usual

way, in silence and stealth, alone.

Pe Ell smiled his lopsided smile. Save the man now so that

he could kill him later. It was a strange world.

66                              The Druid of Shannara

He eased himself out from the wall and snaked his way

through the darkness toward the prisons.

Morgan Leah was not asleep. He lay wrapped in a blanket in

his cell on a pallet of straw, thinking. He had been awake for

most of the night, too restless to sleep, plagued by worries and

regrets and a nagging sense of futility that he could not seem to

banish. The cell was claustrophobic-, barely a dozen feet square

while more than twenty feet from floor to ceiling with an iron

door several inches thick and a single barred window so high

up he could not manage to reach it to look out even by jumping.

The cell had not been cleaned since he had been thrown into it,

so consequently it stank. His food, such as it was, was brought

to him twice a day and shoved through a slot at the base of the

door. He was given water to drink in the same way, but none

with which to wash. He had been imprisoned now for almost a

week and no one had come to see him. He was beginning to

think that no one would.

It was an odd prospect. When they had caught him he had

been certain they would be quick to use whatever means they

had at their disposal to find out why he had gone to so much

trouble to free two old Dwarf ladies. He wondered even now if

Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt had escaped, if they remained free;

he had no way of knowing. He had struck a Federation com-

mander, perhaps killed him. He had stolen a Federation uniform

to impersonate a Federation soldier, used a Federation major's

name to secure entry to the workhouses, deceived the Federation

officer on duty, and made the Federation army in general appear

like a bunch of incompetents. All for the purpose of freeing two

old ladies. A maligned and misused Federation command had

to want to know why. They had to be anxious to repay him for

the humiliation and hurt he had caused them. Yet they had left

him alone.

He played mind games with the possibilities. It seemed un-

likely he was going to be ignored indefinitely, that he was to be

left in that cell until he was simply forgotten. Major Assomal,

as he had discovered, was in the field; perhaps they were waiting

for him to return to begin the questioning. But would Com-

mander Soldt be patient enough to wait after what had been done

to him? Or was he dead; had Morgan killed him after all? Or

were they all waiting for someone else?

Morgan sighed. Someone else. He always came back to the

The Druid of Shannara                              67

same inescapable conclusion. They were waiting for Rimmer

Dall.

He knew that had to be it. Teel had betrayed Granny and

Auntie to the Federation, but more particularly to the Shadowen.

Rimmer Dall had to know of their connection to Par and Coil

Ohmsford and all those who had gone in search of the Sword of

Shannara. If someone tried to rescue them, surely he would be

notified—and would come to see who it was that had been

caught.

Morgan eased himself gingerly over on one side facing out

from the wall into the blackness. He didn't hurt as much as he

had the first few days; the aches and pains of his beating were

beginning to heal. He was lucky nothing had been broken-

lucky, in fact, that he was still alive.

Or not so lucky, he amended his assessment, depending on

how you looked at it. His luck, it appeared, had run out. He

thought momentarily of Par and Coil and regretted that he would

not be able to go to them, to look after them as he had promised

he would. What would become of them without him? What had

happened to them in his absence? He wondered if Damson Rhee

had hidden them after their escape from the Pit of Tyrsis. He

wondered if Padishar Creel had found out where they were.

He wondered a thousand things, and there were no answers

to be found for any of them.

Mostly he wondered how much longer he would be kept alive.

He rolled onto his back again, thinking of how different things

might have been for him. hi another age he would have been a

Prince of Leah and one day ruled his homeland. But the Fed-

eration had put an end to the monarchy more than two hundred

years ago, and today his family ruled nothing. He closed his

eyes, trying to dispel any thoughts of might-have-beens and

would-have-beens, finding no comfort there. He remained

hopeful, his spirit intact despite all that had happened, the re-

siliency that had seen him through so much still in evidence. He

did not intend to give up. There was always a way.

He just wished he could discover what it was.

He dozed for a bit, lost in a flow of imaginings that jumbled

together in a wash of faces and voices, teasing him with their

disjointed, false connectings, lies of things that never were and

could never be.

He drifted into sleep.

Then a hand came down over his mouth, cutting off his ex-

68                              The Druid of Shannara

clamation of surprise. A second hand pinned him to the floor.

He struggled, but the grip that held him was unbreakable.

"Quiet, now," a voice whispered in his ear. "Hush."

Morgan went still. A hawk-faced man in a Federation uni-

form was bent over him, peering into his eyes intently. The

hands released, and the man sat back. A smile tugged at the

comers of his mouth, and laugh lines wreathed his narrow face.

"Who are you?" Morgan asked softly;

"Someone who can get you free of this place if you're smart

enough to do as I say, Morgan Leah."

"You know my name?"

The laugh lines deepened. "A lucky guess. Actually, I stum-

bled in here by chance. Can you show me the way out again?"

Morgan stared at him, a tall, gaunt fellow who had the look

of a man who knew what he was about. The smile he wore

seemed wired in place and there was nothing friendly about it.

Morgan shoved his blanket aside and came to his feet, noticing

the way the other backed off as he did so, always keeping the

same amount of space between them. Cautious, thought Mor-

gan, like a cat.

"Are you with the Movement?" he asked the man.

"I'm with myself. Put this on."

He tossed Morgan some clothing. When the Highlander ex-

amined it, he found he was holding a Federation uniform. The

stranger disappeared back into the dark for a moment, then re-

emerged carrying something bulky over one shoulder. He de-

posited his burden on the pallet with a grunt. Morgan started as

he realized it was a body. The stranger picked up the discarded

blanket and draped it over the dead man to make it look as if he

were sleeping.

"It will take them longer this way to discover you're miss-

ing," he whispered with that unnerving smile.

Morgan turned away and dressed as quickly as he could. The

other man beckoned impatiently when he was finished and to-

gether they slipped out through the open cell door.

The corridor without was narrow and empty. Lamplight

brightened the darkness only marginally. Morgan had seen noth-

ing of the prisons when they brought him in, still unconscious

from his beating, and he was immediately lost. He trailed after

the stranger watchfully, following the passageway as it burrowed

through the stone block walls past rows of cell doors identical

to his own, all locked and barred. They encountered no one.

When they reached the first watch station, it was deserted as

The Druid of Shannara                              69

well. There appeared to be no one on duty. The stranger moved

quickly to the corridor beyond, but Morgan caught a glint of

metal blades through a half-open door to one side. He slowed,

peering in. Racks of weapons lined the walls of a small room.

He suddenly remembered the Sword of Leah. He did not want

to leave without it.

"Wait a minute!" he whispered to the man ahead.

The stranger turned. Quickly Morgan pushed at the door. It

gave reluctantly, dragging against something. Morgan shoved

until there was enough space to get through. Inside, wedged

against the back of the door, was another dead man. Morgan

swallowed against what he was feeling and forced himself to

search the racks for the Sword of Leah.

He found it almost immediately, still in its makeshift sheath,

hung on a nail behind a brace of pikes. He strapped the weapon

on hurriedly, grabbed a broadsword as well, and went out again.

The stranger was waiting. "No more delays," he said point-

edly. "The shift change comes just after sunrise. It's almost that

now."

Morgan nodded. They went down a second corridor, a back

set of stairs supported by timbers that creaked and groaned as

they descended, and out through a courtyard. The stranger knew

exactly where he was going. There were no guards until they

reached a post just inside the walls and even then they were not

challenged. They passed through the gates and out of the prison

just as the first faint tinges of light began to appear on the ho-

rizon.

The stranger took Morgan down the roadway a short distance,

then into a barn through a backdoor where the shadows were so

thick the Highlander had to feel his way. Inside, the stranger lit

a lamp. Digging under a pile of empty feed sacks, he produced

a change of clothing for each of them, woods garb, indistin-

guishable from what most Eastland laborers wore. They changed

wordlessly, then stuffed the discarded Federation uniforms back

beneath the sacks.

The stranger motioned Morgan after him and they went out

again into the first light of the new day.

' 'A Highlander, are you?'' the stranger asked abruptly as they

walked eastward through the waking village.

Morgan nodded.

"Morgan Leah. Last name the same as the country. Your

family ruled the Highlands once, didn't they?"

"Yes," Morgan answered. His companion seemed more re-

The Druid of Shannara

laxed now, his long strides slow and easy, though his eyes never

stopped moving. "But the monarchy hasn't existed for many

years."

They took a narrow bridge across a sewage-fouled tributary

of the Silver River. An old woman passed them carrying a small

child. Both looked hungry. Morgan glanced over at them. The

stranger did not.

"My name is Pe EU," he said. He did not offer his hand.

"Where are we going?" Morgan asked him.

The comers of the other's mouth tugged upward slightly.

"You'll see." Then he added, "To meet the lady who sent me

to rescue you."

Morgan thought at once of Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. But

how would they know someone like Pe Ell? The man had al-

ready said he was not a part of the Free-born Movement; it

seemed unlikely that he was allied with the Dwarf Resistance

either. Pe Ell, Morgan thought, was with exactly who he had

said he was with—himself.

But who then was the lady on whose behalf he had come?

They passed down lanes that wound through the Dwarf cot-

tages and shacks at the edge of Culhaven, crumbling stone and

wood slat structures falling down around the heads of those who

lived within. Morgan could hear the sluggish flow of the Silver

River grow nearer. The houses separated as the trees thickened

and soon there were few to be seen. Dwarves at work in their

yards and gardens looked up at them suspiciously. If Pe Ell

noticed, he gave no sign.

Sunlight was breaking through the trees ahead in widening

streamers by the time they reached their destination, a small,

well-kept cottage surrounded by a ragged band of men who had

settled in at the edge of the yard and were in the process of

completing breakfast and rolling up their sleeping gear. The

men whispered among themselves and looked long and hard at

Pe Ell as he approached. Pe Ell went past them without speak-

ing, Morgan in tow. They went up the steps to me front door of

the cottage and inside. A Dwarf family seated at a small table

greeted them with nods and brief words of welcome. Pe Ell

barely acknowledged them. He took Morgan to the back of the

cottage and into a small bedroom and shut the door carefully

behind them.

A girl sat on the edge of the bed.

"Thank you, Pe Ell," she said quietly and rose.

Morgan Lean stared. The girl was stunningly beautiful with

The Druid of Shannara                              71

small, perfect features dominated by the blackest eyes the High-

lander had ever seen. She had long, silver hair that shimmered

like captured light, and a softness to her that invited protection.

She wore simple clothes—a tunic, pants cinched at the waist

with a wide leather belt, and boots—but the clothes could not

begin to disguise the sensuality and grace of the body beneath.

"Morgan Leah," the giri whispered.

Morgan blinked, suddenly aware that he was staring. He

flushed.

"I am called Quickening," the girl said. "My father is the

King of the Silver River. He has sent me from his Gardens into

the world of Men to find a talisman. I require your help to do

so."

Morgan started to respond and stopped, not knowing what to

say. He glanced at Pe Ell, but the other's eyes were on the giri.

Pe Ell was as mesmerized as he.

Quickening came up to him, and the flush in his face and

neck traveled down his body in a warm rush. She reached out

her hands and placed her fingers gently on the sides of his face.

He had never felt a touch like hers. He thought he might give

anything to experience it again.

"Close your eyes, Morgan Leah," she whispered.

He did not question her; he simply did as she asked. He was

immediately at peace. He could hear voices conversing some-

where without, the flow of the waters of the nearby river, the

whisper of the wind, the singing of birds, and the scrape of a

garden hoe. Then Quickening's fingers tightened marginally

against his skin and everything disappeared in a wash of color.

Morgan Leah floated as if swept away in a dream. Hazy

brightness surrounded him, but there was no focus to it. Then

the brightness cleared and the images began. He saw Quicken-

ing enter Culhaven along a roadway lined with men, women,

and children who cheered and called out to her as she passed,

then followed anxiously after. He watched as she walked through

growing crowds of Dwarves, Southlanders, and Gnomes to the

barren stretch of hillside where the Meade Gardens had once

flourished. It seemed that he became a part of the crowd, stand-

ing with those who had come to see what this girl would do,

experiencing himself their sense of expectancy and hope. Then

she ascended the hillside, buried her hands in the charred earth,

and worked her wondrous magic. The earth was transformed

before his eyes; the Meade Gardens were restored. The colors,

smells, and tastes of her miracle filled the air, and Morgan felt

72                               The Druid of Shannara

an aching in his chest that was impossibly sweet. He began to

cry.

The images faded. He found himself back in the cottage. He

felt her fingers drop away and he brushed roughly at his eyes

with the back of his hand as he opened them. She was staring

at him.

"Was that real?" he asked, his voice catching in spite of his

resolve to keep it firm. "Did that actually happen? It did, didn't

it?"

"Yes," she answered.

"You brought back the Gardens. Why?"

Her smile was faint and sweet. "Because the Dwarves need

to have something to believe in again. Because they are dying."

Morgan took a deep breath. "Can you save them, Quicken-

ing?"

"No, Morgan Leah," she answered, disappointing him, "I

cannot." She turned momentarily into the room's shadows.

"You can, perhaps, one day. But for now you must come with

me."

The Highlander hesitated, unsure. "Where?"

She lifted her exquisite face back into the light. "North, Mor-

gan Leah. To Daridin Reach. To find Walker Boh."

Pe Ell stood to one side in the little cottage bedroom, mo-

mentarily forgotten. He didn't like what he was seeing. He didn't

like the way the girl touched the Highlander or the way the

Highlander responded to it. She hadn't touched him like that. It

bothered him, too, that she knew the Highlander's name. She

knew the other man's name as well, this Walker Boh. She hadn't

known his.

She turned to him then, drawing him back into the conver-

sation with Morgan Leah, telling them both they must travel

north to find the third man. After they found him they would

leave in search of the talisman she had been sent to find. She

did not tell them what that talisman was, and neither of them

asked. It was a result of the peculiar effect she had on them, Pe

Ell decided, that they did not question what she told them, that

they simply accepted it. They believed. Pe Ell had never done

that. But he knew instinctively that this girl, this child of the

King of the Silver River, this creature of wondrous magic, did

not lie. He did not believe she was capable of it.

"I need you to come with me," she said again to the High-

lander.

The Druid of Shannara 73

He glanced at Pe Ell. "Are you coming?"

The way he asked the question pleased Pe Ell. There was a

measure of wariness in the Highlander's tone of voice. Perhaps

even fear. He smiled enigmatically and nodded. Of course,

Highlander, but only to kill you both when it pleases me, he

thought.

The Highlander turned back to the girl and began explaining

something about two old Dwarf ladies he had rescued from the

workhouses and how he needed to know that they were safe

because of some promise he had made to a friend. He kept

staring at the girl as if the sight of her gave him life. Pe Ell shook

his head. This one was certainly no threat to him. He could not

imagine why the girl mought he was necessary to their recovery

of the mysterious talisman.

Quickening told the Highlander that among those who had

come with her to the cottage was one who would be able to

discover what had become of the Dwarf ladies. He would make

certain that they were well. She would ask him to do so imme-

diately.

"Then if you truly need me, I will come with you," Morgan

Leah promised her.

Pe Ell turned away. The Highlander was coming because he

had no choice, because the girl had captured him. He could see

it in the youth's eyes; he would do anything for her. Pe Ell

understood that feeling. He shared something of it as well. The

only difference between them was what they intended to do

about it.

Pe Ell wondered again what it would feel like when he finally

killed the girl. He wondered what he would discover in her eyes.

Quickening guided Morgan toward her bed so that he could

rest. Pe EU departed the room in silence and walked out of the

cottage into the light. He stood there with his eyes closed and

let the sun's warmth bathe his face.

VIII

Coil Ohmsford was a prisoner at Southwatch for eight

days before he discovered who had locked him away.

His cell was the whole of his world, a room twenty feet

square, high within the black granite tower, a stone-and-

mortar box with a single metal door that never opened, a

window closed off by metal shutters, a sleeping mat, a

wooden bench, and a small table with two chairs. Light fil-

tered through the shutters in thin, gray shafts when it was

daytime and disappeared when it was night. He could peer

through the cracks in the shutters and see the blue waters of

the Rainbow Lake and the green canopy of the trees. He

could catch glimpses of birds flying, cranes and terns and

gulls, and he could hear their solitary cries.

Sometimes he could hear the howl of the wind blowing down

out of the Runne through the canyons that channeled the Mer-

midon. Once or twice he could hear the howling of wolves.

Cooking smells reached him now and then, but they never

seemed to emanate from the food that he was fed. His food

came on a tray shoved through a hinged flap at the bottom of

the iron door, a furtive delivery that lacked any discernible

source. The food was consumed, and the trays remained where

he stacked them by the door. There was a constant humming

sound from deep beneath the castle, a sort of vibration that at

first suggested huge machinery, then later something more akin

to an earth tremor. It carried through the stone of the tower, and

when Coil placed his hands against the walls he could feel the

stone shiver. Everything was warm, the walls and floor, the door

and window, the stone and mortar and metal. He didn't know

how that could be with the nights sometimes chill enough to

cause the air to bite, but it was. Sometimes he thought he could

74

The Druid of Shannam                             75

hear footsteps beyond his door—not when the food was deliv-

ered, but at other times when everything was still and the only

other sound was the buzz of bisects in the distant trees. The

footsteps did not approach, but passed on without slowing. Nor

did they seem to have an identifiable source; they might as easily

come from below or above as without.

He could feel himself being watched, not often, but enough

so that he was aware. He could feel someone's eyes fixed on

him, studying him, waiting perhaps. He could not determine

from where the eyes watched; it felt as if they watched from

everywhere. He could hear breathing sometimes, but when he

tried to listen for it he could hear only his own.

He spent most of his time thinking, for there was little else

to do. He could eat and sleep; he could pace his cell and look

through the cracks in the shutters. He could listen; he could

smell and taste the air. But thinking was best, he found, an

exercise that kept his mind sharp and free. His thoughts, at least,

were not prisoners. The isolation he experienced threatened to

overwhelm him, for he was closed away from everything and

everyone he knew, without reason or purpose that he could dis-

cern, and by captors that kept themselves carefully hidden. He

worried for Par so greatly that at times he nearly wept. He felt

as if the rest of the world had forgotten him, had passed him by.

Events were happening without him; perhaps everything he once

knew had changed. Time stretched away in a slow, endless suc-

cession of seconds and minutes and hours and, after a while,

days as well. He was lost in shadows and half-light and near-

silence, his existence empty of meaning.

Thinking kept him together.

He thought constantly of how he might escape. The door and

window were solidly seated in the stone of the fortress tower,

and the walls and floor were thick and impenetrable. He lacked

even the smallest digging tool in any event. He tried listening

for those who patroled without, but the effort proved futile. He

tried catching sight of those who delivered his meals, but they

never revealed themselves. Escape seemed impossible.

He thought as well about what he might do to let someone

know he was there. He could force a bit of cloth or a scrap of

paper with a message scrawled on it through the cracks in the

shutters of the window, but to what end? The wind would likely

cany it away to the lake or the mountains and no one would

ever find it. Or at least not in time to make any difference. He

thought he might yell, but he knew he was so far up and away

76                               The Druid of Shannara

from any travelers that they would never hear him. He peered at

the countryside unfailingly when it was light and never saw a

single person. He felt himself to be completely alone.

He turned his thoughts finally to envisioning what was taking

place beyond his door. He tried using his senses and when that

failed, his imagination. His captors assumed multiple identities

and behavioral patterns. Plots and conspiracies sprang to life,

fleshed out with the details of their involvement of him. Par and

Morgan, Padishar Creel and Damson Rhee, Dwarves, Elves,

and Southlanders alike came to the black tower to free him.

Brave rescue parties sallied forth. But all efforts failed. No one

could reach him. Eventually, everyone gave up trying. Beyond

the walls of Southwatch, life went on, uncaring.

After a week of this solitary existence, Coil Ohmsford began

to despair.

Then, on the eighth day of his captivity, Rimmer Dall ap-

peared.

It was late afternoon, gray and rainy, stormclouds low and

heavy across the skies, lightning a wicked spider's web flashing

through the creases, thunder rolling out of the darkness in long,

booming peals. The summer air was thick with smells brought

alive by the damp, and it felt chill within Coil's cell. He stood

close against the shuttered window, peering out through the

cracks in the fittings, listening to the sound of the Mermidon as

it churned through the canyon rocks below.

When he heard the lock on the door to his room release he

did not turn at first, certain that he must be mistaken. Then he

saw the door begin to open, caught sight of the movement out

of the comer of his eye, and wheeled about instantly.

A cloaked form appeared, tall and dark and forbidding, lack-

ing face or limbs, seemingly a wraith come out of the night.

Coil's first thought was of the Shadowen, and he dropped into a

protective crouch, frantically searching his suddenly diminished

cell for a weapon with which to defend himself.

"Don't be frightened, Valeman," the wraith soothed in an

oddly familiar, whispery voice. "You are in no danger here."

The wraith closed the door behind it and stepped into the

room's faint light. Coil saw by turns the black clothing marked

with a white wolf's head, the left hand gloved to the elbow, and

the rawboned, narrow face with its distinctive reddish beard.

Rimmer Dall.

Instantly Coil thought of the circumstances of his capture. He

had gone with Par, Damson, and the Mole through the tunnels

The Druid of Shannara 77

beneath Tyrsis into the abandoned palace of the old city's kings,

and from there the Ohmsford brothers had gone on alone into

the Pit in search of the missing Sword of Shannara. He had stood

guard outside the entry to the vault that was supposed to contain

the Sword, keeping watch while his brother went inside. It was

the last time he had seen Par. He had been seized from behind,

rendered unconscious, and spirited away. Until now he had not

known who was responsible. It made sense that it should be

Rimmer Dall, the man who had come for them weeks ago in

Varfleet and hunted them ever since across the length and breadth

of the Four Lands.

The First Seeker moved to within a few feet of Coil and

stopped. His craggy face was calm and reassuring. "Are you

rested?"

"That's a stupid question," Coil answered before he could

think better of it. ' 'Where's my brother?''

Rimmer Dall shrugged. "I don't know. When I last saw him

he was carrying the Sword of Shannara from its vault."

Coil stared. "You were there—inside?"

"I was."

"And you let Par take the Sword of Shannara? You just let

him walk away with it?"

"Why not? It belongs to him."

"You want me to believe," Coil said carefully, "that you

don't care if he has possession of the Sword, that it doesn't

matter to you?"

"Not in the way you think."

Coil paused. "So you let Par go, but you took me prisoner.

Is that right?"

"It is."

CoU shook his head. "Why?"

"To protect you."

Coil laughed. "From what? Freedom of choice?"

' 'From your brother.''

"From Par? You must think me the biggest fool who ever

lived!"

The big man folded his arms across his chest comfortably.

"To be honest with you, there is more to it than just offering

you protection. You are a prisoner for another reason as well.

Sooner or later, your brother will come looking for you. When

he does, I want another chance to talk with him. Keeping you

here assures me that I will have that chance."

"What really happened," Coil snapped angrily, "is that you

78                              The Druid of Shannara

caught me, but Par escaped! He found the Sword of Shannara

and slipped past you somehow and now you're using me as bait

to trap him. Well, it won't work. Par's smarter than that."

Rimmer Dall shook his head. "If I was able to capture you

at the entrance to the vault, how is it that your brother managed

to escape? Answer me that?'' He waited a moment, then moved

over to the table with its wooden chairs and seated himself. "I '11

tell you the truth of things. Coil Ohmsford, if you'll give me a

chance. Will you?"

Coil studied the other's face wordlessly for a moment, then

shrugged. What did he have to lose? He stayed where he was,

standing, deliberately measuring the distance between them.

Rimmer Dall nodded. "Let's begin with the Shadowen. The

Shadowen are not what you have been led to believe. They are

not monsters, not wraiths whose only purpose is to destroy the

Races, whose very presence has sickened the Four Lands. They

are victims, for the most part. They are men, women and chil-

dren who possess some measure of the faerie magic. They are

the result of man's evolution through generations in which the

magic was used. The Federation hunts them like animals. You

saw the poor creatures trapped within the Pit. Do you know

what they are? They are Shadowen whom the Federation has

imprisoned and starved into madness, changing them so that

they have become worse than animals. You saw as well the

woodswoman and the giant on your journey to Culhaven. What

they are is not their fault."

The gloved hand lifted quickly as Coil started to speak.

"Valeman, hear me out. You wonder how it is that I know so

much about you. I will explain if you will just be patient."

The hand came down again. "I became First Seeker in order

to hunt the Shadowen—not to harm or imprison them, but to

warn them, to get them to safety. That was why I came to you

in Varfleet—to see that you and your brother were protected. I

did not have the chance to do so. I have been searching for you

ever since to explain what I know. I thought that you might

return to the Vale and so placed your parents under my protec-

tion. I believed that if I could reach you first, before the Feder-

ation found you in some other way, you would be safe.''

"I don't believe any of this," Coil interjected coldly.

Rimmer Dall ignored him. "Valeman, you have been lied to

from the beginning. That old man, the one who calls himself

Cogline, told you the Shadowen were the enemy. The shade of

Allanon warned you at the Hadeshom in the Valley of Shale that

The Druid of Shannara 79

the Shadowen must be destroyed. Retrieve the lost magics of the

old world, you were advised. Find the Sword of Shannara. Find

the missing Elfstones. Find lost Paranor and bring back the

Druids. But were you told what any of this would accomplish?

Of course not. Because the truth of the matter is that you are

not supposed to know. If you did, you would abandon this busi-

ness at once. The Druids care nothing for you and your kin and

never have. They are interested only in regaining the power they

lost when Allanon died. Bring them back, restore their magics,

and they will again control the destiny of the Races. This is what

they work for. Coil Ohmsford. The Federation, unwittingly, ig-

norantly, helps them. The Shadowen provide the perfect victim

for both to prey upon. Your uncle recognized the truth of things.

He saw that Allanon sought to manipulate him, to induce him

to undertake a quest that would benefit no one. He warned you

all; he refused to be part of the Druid madness. He was right.

The danger is far greater than you realize."

He leaned forward. "I told all of this to your brother when

he came into the vault after the Sword of Shannara. I was waiting

there for him—had been waiting in fact for several days. I knew

he would come back for the Sword. He had to; he couldn't help

himself. That's what having the magic does to you. I know. I

have the magic, too."

He stood up suddenly, and Coil shrank back in alarm. The

black-clad body began to shimmer in the gloom as if translu-

cent. Then it seemed to come apart, and Coil heard himself

gasp. The dark form of a Shadowen lifted slowly out of Rimmer

Dall's body, red eyes glinting, hung suspended in the air for a

moment, and settled back again.

The First Seeker smiled coldly. "I am a Shadowen, you see.

All of the Seekers are Shadowen. Ironic, isn't it? The Federation

doesn't know. They believe us ordinary men, nothing more,

men who serve their twisted interests, who seek as they do to

rid the land of magic. They are fools. Magic isn't the enemy of

the people. They are. And the Druids. And any who would keep

men and women from being who and what they must."

One finger pointed at Coil like a dagger. "I told this to your

brother, and I told him one thing more. I told him that he, too,

is a Shadowen. Ah, you still don't believe me, do you? But

listen, now. Par Ohmsford is in truth a Shadowen, whether either

of you cares to admit it or not. So is Walker Boh. So is any-

one who possesses real magic. That's what we are, all of us—

Shadowen. We are sane, rational, and for the most part ordinary

80                              The Druid of Shannara

men, women, and children until we become hunted and impris-

oned and driven mad by fools like the Federation. Then the

magic overwhelms us and we become animals, like the woods-

woman and the giant, like the things in the Pit."

Coil was shaking his head steadily. "No. This is all a lie."

"How is it that I know so much about you, do you think?"

Rimmer Dall persisted, his voice maddeningly calm, even now.

"I know all about your flight south down the Mermidon, your

encounters with the woodswoman and the old man, how you

met with that Highlander and persuaded him to join you, how

you journeyed to Culhaven, then to Hearthstone, and finally to

the Hadeshom. I know of the Dwarves and Walker Boh. I know

of your cousin Wren Ohmsford. I know of the outlaws and Pad-

ishar Creel and the girl and all the rest. I knew when you were

going down into the Pit and tried to have you stopped. I knew

that you would return and waited there for you. How, Valeman?

Tell me."

"A spy in the outlaw camp," Coil answered, suddenly un-

sure.

"Who?"

Coil hesitated. "I don't know."

"Then I will tell you. The spy was your brother."

Coil stared.

"Your brother, though he didn't realize it. Par is a Shadowen,

and I sometimes know what other Shadowen think. When they

use their magic, my own responds. It reveals to me their

thoughts. When your brother used the wishsong, it let me know

what he was thinking. That was how I found you. But Par's use

of his magic alerted others as well. Enemies. That was why the

Gnawl tracked you in the Wolfsktaag and the Spider Gnomes at

Hearthstone.

"Think, Valeman! All that has befallen you has been the

result of your own doing. I did not seek to harm you in Tyrsis.

It was Par's decision to go down into the Pit that brought you to

grief. I did not withhold the Sword of Shannara. Yes, I kept it

hidden—but only to force Par to come to me so that I might save

him."

Coil stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Rimmer Dall's pale eyes were intense. "I told you that the

reason I brought you here was to protect you from your brother.

I spoke the truth. The magic of a Shadowen is as two-edged as

any sword. You have surely thought the same thing many times.

It can be either salvation or curse. It can work to help or to hurt.

The Druid of Shannara 81

But it is more complicated than that. A Shadowen can be af-

fected by the stresses that use of the magic demands, particularly

when he is threatened or hunted. The magic can grow frayed; it

can escape. Remember the creatures in the Pit? Remember those

you encountered on your travels? What do you think happened

to them? Your brother has the wishsong as his magic. But the

wishsong is only a thin shell covering the magic that lies be-

neath—a magic more powerful than your brother imagines. It

begins to grow stronger as he runs and hides and tries to keep

himself safe. If I don't reach him in time, if he continues to

ignore my warnings, that magic will consume him."

A long silence followed. Coil reflected silently. He remem-

bered Par telling him that he believed the magic of the wishsong

was capable of doing much more than creating images, that he

could feel it seeking a release. He remembered the way it had

responded during their first venture into the Pit, casting a light

through the gloom, illuminating the scroll of the vault. He

thought of the creatures trapped there, become monsters and

demons.

He wondered, just for an instant, if Rimmer Dall might not

be telling him the truth.

The First Seeker came forward a single step and stopped.

"Think about it. Coil Ohmsford," he suggested softly. He was

big and dark against the gloom and frightening to look at. But

his voice was reassuring. "Reason it through. You will have

time enough to do so. I intend that you remain here until your

brother comes looking for you or he uses his magic. One way

or the other, I have to find him and warn him. I have to protect

you both and those with whom you will eventually come in

contact. Help me. We must find a way to reach your brother.

We must try. I know you don't believe me now, but that will

change."

Coil shook his head. "I don't think so."

Outside, distant and low, thunder rumbled and faded into the

hissing of the rain. "So many lies have been told to you by

others," Rimmer Dall said. "In time, you will see."

He moved back toward the cell door and stopped. ' 'You have

been kept in this room long enough. You may leave during the

day. Just knock on the door when you wish to go out. Go down

to the exercise yard and practice with the weapons. Someone

will be there to help you. You should have some training. You

need to leam better how to protect yourself. Make no mistake,

though. You cannot leave. At night you will be locked in again.

82                              The Druid of Shannara

I wish it could be otherwise, but it cannot. Too much is at

stake."

He paused. "I have a short visit to make, a journey of several

days. Another requires my attention. When I return, we will talk

again."

He seemed to consider Coil for a long moment, as if mea-

suring him for something, then turned, and went out the way he

had come. Coil watched him go, then walked back to the shut-

tered window and stood looking out again into the rain.

He slept poorly that night, plagued by dreams of dark things

that bore his brother's face, haunted when he came awake by

what he had been told. Nonsense, was his first thought. Lies.

But his instincts told him that some part of it, at least, was true—

and that, in turn, suggested the unpleasant possibility that it

might all be. Par a Shadowen. The magic a weapon that could

destroy him. Both of them threatened by dark forces beyond

their understanding or control.

He no longer knew what to believe.

When he woke, he rapped on the door. A black-cloaked

Seeker released him and walked him down to the exercise yard.

Another, a gruff fellow with a shaven head and knots and scars

all over him, offered to spar with him. Using padded cudgels,

they trained through the morning. Coil sweated and strained. It

felt good to make use of his body again.

Later, alone in his cell, the afternoon clearing as the clouds

thinned and sunshine broke through to the distant south, he

evaluated his new situation. He was a prisoner still, but not so

much so. He was no longer confined to a single room. He had

been offered the means to stay fit and strong. He did not feel as

threatened.

Whether or not Rimmer Dall was playirg mind games with

him remained to be seen, of course. In any case, the First Seeker

had made a mistake. He had given Coil Ohmsford the oppor-

tunity to explore Southwatch.

And the further opportunity to find a way to escape.

IX

Walker Boh languished at Hearthstone in a prison far

more forbidding than the one that had secured

Morgan Lean. He had returned from Storlock

filled with a fiery determination to cure the sickness that at-

tacked him, to drive from his body the poison that the Asphinx

had injected into it, and to heal himself as even the Stors could

not. Within a week he had changed completely, grown dispirited

and bitter, frightened that his hopes had been in vain, that he

could not save himself after all. His days were long, heat-filled

stretches of time in which he wandered the valley lost in thought,

desperately trying to reason out what form of magic it would

take to stem the poison's flow. His nights were empty and brood-

ing, the dark hours expended in a silent, futile effort to imple-

ment his ideas.

Nothing worked.

He tried a little of everything. He began with a series of mind

sets, inward delvings of his own magic that were designed to

dissolve, break apart, turn back, or at least slow the poison's

advance. None of these occurred. He used channeling of the

magic in the form of an assault, the equivalent of an inner sum-

moning of the fire that he sometimes used to protect and defend.

The channeling could not seem to find a ready source; it scat-

tered and lost its potency. He attempted spells and conjurings

from the lore he had accumulated over the years, both that which

was innate and that he had been taught. All failed. He resorted

finally to the chemicals and powders that Cogline relied upon,

the sciences of the old world brought into the new. He attacked

the stone ruin of his arm and tried to bum it to the flesh so that

cauterization might take place. He tried healing potions that

were absorbed through the skin and permeated the stone. He

83

[                              The Druid of Shannara

used magnetic and electric fields. He used antitoxins. These,

too, failed. The poison was too strong. It could not be over-

come. It continued to work its way through his system, slowly

killing him.

Rumor stayed at his side almost constantly, trailing silently

after him on his long daytime walks, stretching out next to him

in the darkness of his room as he struggled in vain to employ

the magic in a way that would allow hiro to survive. The giant

moor cat seemed to sense what was happening to Walker; it

watched him as if fearful he might disappear at any moment, as

if by watching closely it might somehow protect against this

unseen thing that threatened. The luminous yellow eyes were

always there, regarding him with intelligence and concern, and

Walker found himself staring into them hopefully, searching for

the answers he could find nowhere else.

Cogline, too, did what he could to help Walker in his strug-

gle. Like the moor cat, he kept watch, albeit at a somewhat

greater distance, afraid that Walker would not tolerate it if he

came too close or stayed too long. There was still an antagonism

between the two that would not be dispelled. It was difficult for

them to remain in each other's presence for more than a few

minutes at a time. Cogline offered what advice he could, mixing

powders and potions at Walker's request, administering salves

and healing medicines, suggesting forms of magic he thought

might help. Mostly he provided what little reassurance he could

that an antidote would be found.

Walker, though he would not admit it to the other, was grate-

ful for that reassurance. For the first time in many years, he did

not want to be alone. He had never given much thought to his

own death, always convinced it was still far away and he would

be prepared for it in any case when it arrived. He discovered

now that he had been wrong on both counts. He was angry and

frightened and confused; his emotions careened about inside

him like stones tossed in a wagon bed, the debris of some emp-

tied load. He fought to maintain his sense of balance, a belief

in himself, some small measure of hope, but without the steady-

ing presence of Cogline he would have been lost. The old man's

face and voice, his movements, his idiosyncrasies, all so famil-

iar, were handholds on the cliff to which Walker Boh clung, and

they kept him from dropping away completely. He had known

Cogline a long time; in the absence of Par and Coil, and to a

lesser extent Wren, Cogline was his only link with the past—a

past that he had in turn scorned, reviled, and finally cast away

The Druid of Shannara                              85

entirely, a past he was now desperate to regain as it was his link

to the use of the magic that could save him. Had he not been so

quick to disparage it, so anxious to be rid of its influence, had

he taken more time to understand it, to learn from it, to master

it and make it serve his needs, he might not be struggling so

hard now to stay alive.

But the past is always irretrievable, and so Walker Boh found

it here. Yet there was some comfort to be taken from the con-

tinued presence of the old man who had given him what under-

standing of the magic he had. With his future become so

shockingly uncertain, he discovered a strange and compelling

need to reach out to those things that remained his from the

past. The most immediate of those was Cogline.

Cogline had come to him during the second year of his soli-

tary life at Hearthstone. Risse had been dead fifteen years, Ken-

ner five. He had been on his own ever since despite the efforts

of Jaralan and Mirianna Ohmsford to make him a part of their

family, an outcast from everyone because his magic would not

let him be otherwise. While it had disappeared with the coming

of age of all the Ohmsfords since Brin, it did not do so in him.

Rather, it grew stronger, more insistent, more uncontrollable.

It was bad enough when he lived in Shady Vale; it became

intolerable at Hearthstone. It began to manifest itself in new

ways—unwanted perceptions, strange foresights, harsh sensory

recognition, and frightening exhibitions of raw power that

threatened to shatter him. He could not seem to master them.

He didn't understand them to begin with and therefore could not

find a way to decipher their workings. It was best that he was

alone; no one would have been safe around him. He found his

sanity slipping away.

Cogline changed everything. He came out of the trees one

afternoon, materializing from the mist that spilled down off the

Wolfsktaag at autumn's close, a little old man with robes that

hung precariously on his stick frame, wild unkempt hair, and

sharp knowing eyes.'Rumor was with him, a massive, immu-

table black presence that seemed to foreshadow the change that

was to come into the Dark Uncle's life. Cogline related to Walker

the history of his life from the days of Bremen and the Druid

Council to the present, a thousand years of time. It was a

straightforward telling that did not beg for acceptance but de-

manded it. Strangely enough. Walker complied. He sensed that

this wild and improbable tale was the truth. He knew the stories

86 The Druid of Shannara

of Cogline from the time of Brin Ohmsford, and this old man

was exactly who and what the stories had described.

"I was sleeping the Druid sleep," Cogline explained at one

point, "or I would have come sooner. I had not thought it was

time yet, but the magic that resides within you, brought to life

with your arrival at manhood, tells me that it is. Allanon planned

it so when he gave the blood trust to Brin; there would come a

time when the magic would be needed again and one among the

Ohmsfords would be required to wield it. I think that perhaps

you are meant to be that one, Walker. If so, you will need my

help in understanding how the magic works."

Walker was filled with misgivings, but recognized that the

old man might be able to show him how to bring the magic

under control. He needed that control desperately. He was will-

ing to take a chance that Cogline could give it to him.

Cogline stayed with him for the better part of three years. He

revealed to Walker as a teacher to a student the lore of the Dru-

ids, the keys that would unlock the doors of understanding. He

taught the ways of Bremen and Allanon, of going within to

harness the magic's raw power, of working mind sets so that the

power could be channeled and not loosed haphazardly. Walker

had some knowledge to begin with; he had lived with the magic

for many years and learned something of the self-denial and

restraint that was necessary to survive its demands. Cogline

expanded on that knowledge, advancing it into areas that Walker

had not thought to go, instructing on methods he had not be-

lieved possible. Slowly, gradually. Walker began to find that the

magic no longer governed his life; unpredictability gave way to

self-control. Walker began to master himself.

Cogline instructed on the sciences of the old world as well,

the chemicals and potions that he had developed and utilized

over the years, the powders that burned through metal and ex-

ploded like fire, and the solutions that changed the form of both

liquids and solids. Another set of doors opened for Walker; he

discovered an entirely different form of power. His curiosity was

such that he began to explore a combining of the two—old world

and new world, a blending of magic and science that no one had

ever successfully tried. He proceeded slowly, cautiously, deter-

mined that he would not become another of the victims that the

power had claimed over the years, from the men of the old world

who had brought about the Great Wars to the rebel Druid Brona,

his Skull Bearers, and the Mord Wraiths who had sparked the

Wars of the Races.

The Druid of Shannara                              87

Then for some reason his thinking changed. Perhaps it was

the exhilaration he felt when wielding the magic. Perhaps it was

the insatiable need to know more. Whatever it was, he came to

believe that complete mastery over the magic was not possible,

that no matter how diligently he went about protecting himself

against its adverse effects, the power would eventually claim

him. His attitude toward using it reversed itself overnight. He

tried to back away from it, to thrust it from him. His dilemma

was enormous; he sought to distance himself from the magic

yet could not do so successfully because it was an integral part

of him. Cogline saw what was happening and tried to reason

with him. Walker refused to listen, wondering all of a sudden

why it was that Cogline had come to him in the first place, no

longer believing it was simply to help. An effort was being made

to manipulate him, a Druidic conspiracy that could be traced all

the way back to the time of Shea Ohmsford. He would not be a

part of it. He quarreled with Cogline, then fought. In the end,

Cogline went away.

He came back, of course, over the years. But Walker would

no longer accept instruction on use of the magic, fearing that

further knowledge would result in an erosion of the control he

had worked so hard to gain, that enhancement would lead to

usurpation. Better simply to rely on what understanding he had,

limited but manageable, and keep apart from the Races as he

had planned from the first. Cogline could come and go, they

could maintain their uneasy alliance, but he would not give him-

self over to the ways of Druids or once-Druids or anyone else.

He would be his own person until the end.

And now that end had come, and he was no longer so sure

of the path he had chosen to take. Death had arrived to claim

him, and had he not distanced himself so from the magic he

might have delayed its arrival a bit longer. Admission of the

possibility required swallowing a bitter dose of pride. It was

harsh to second-guess himself so, but it could not be avoided.

Walker Boh had never in his life shied away from the truth; he

refused to begin doing so now.

On the second week of his return from Storlock, sitting before

the fire in the early evening hours, the pain or his sickness a

constant reminder of things left undone, he said to Cogline, who

was somewhere in the shadows behind rummaging through the

books he kept at the cottage for his own use, "Come sit with

me, old man."

He said it kindly, wearily, and Cogline came without argu-

88                              The Druid of Shannara

ment, seating himself at Walker's elbow. Together they stared

into the fire's bright glow.

"I am dying," Walker said after a time. "I have tried every-

thing to dispel the poison, and nothing has worked. Even my

magic has failed. And your science. We have to accept what that

means. I intend to keep working to prevent it, but it seems that

I will not survive." He shifted his arm uncomfortably against

his side, a stone weight that worked relentlessly to pull him

down, to make an end of him. "There are things I need to say

to you before I die."

Cogline turned toward him and started to speak, but Walker

shook his head. "I have embittered myself against you without

reasonable cause. I have been unkind to you when you have

been more than kind to me. I am sorry for that."

He looked at the old man. "I was afraid of what the magic

would do to me if I continued to give myself over to it; I am still

afraid. I have not changed my thinking completely. I still believe

that the Druids use the Ohmsfords for their own purposes, that

they tell us what they wish and direct us as they choose. It is a

hard thing for me to accept, that I should be made their cat's-

paw. But I was wrong to judge you one of them. Your purpose

has not been theirs. It has been your own."

"As much as any purpose is mine and not one of circum-

stance and fate," Cogline said, and his face was sad. "We use

so many words to describe what happens to us, and it all amounts

to the same thing. We live out our lives as we are meant to live

them—with some choice, with some chance, but mostly as a

result of the persons we are." He shook his head. "Who is to

say that I am any freer of the Druids and their manipulations

than you, Walker? Allanon came to me in the same way as he

did to you, young Par and Wren, and made me his. I cannot

claim otherwise."

Walker nodded. "Nevertheless, I have been harsh with you

and I wish I had not been. I wanted you to be the enemy because

you were a flesh-and-blood person, not a Druid dead and gone

or an unseen magic, and I could strike out at you. I wanted you

to be the source of the fear I felt. It made things easier for me if

I thought of you that way.''

Cogline shrugged. "Do not apologize. The magic is a diffi-

cult burden for any to bear, but more so for you." He paused.

"I don't believe you will ever be free of it."

"Except in death," Walker said.

"If death comes as swiftly as you think it will." The old eyes

The Druid of Shannara 89

blinked. "Would Allanon establish a trust that could be thwarted

so easily? Would he risk a complete undoing of his work on the

chance that you might die too soon?"

Walker hesitated. "Even Druids can be wrong in their judg-

ments."

' 'In this judgment?''

' 'Perhaps the timing was wrong. Another besides myself was

meant to possess the magic beyond youth. I am the mistaken

recipient. Cogline, what can possibly save me now? What is

there left to try?"

The old man shook his head. "I do not know. Walker. But I

sense that there is something."

They were silent then. Rumor, stretched out comfortably be-

fore the fire, lifted his head to check on Walker, and then let it

drop again. The wood in the fireplace snapped loudly, and a

whiff of smoke tinged the air of the room.

"So you think the Druids are not finished with me yet?"

Walker said finally. "You think they will not let me give up my

life?"

Cogline did not reply at once. Then he said,' 'I think you will

determine what is to become of you. Walker. I have always

thought that. What you lack is the ability to recognize what you

are meant to do. Or at least an acceptance of it."

Walker felt a chill run through him. The old man's words

echoed AUanon's. He knew what they meant. That he was to

acknowledge that Brin Ohmsford's trust was meant for him, that

he was to don the magic's armor and go forth into battle—like

some invincible warrior brought forth out of time. That he was

to destroy the Shadowen.

A dying man?

How?

The silence returned, and this time he did not break it.

Three days later Walker's condition took a turn for the worse.

The medicines of the Store and the ministerings of Cogline sud-

denly gave way before the onslaught of the poison. Walker woke

feverish and sick, barely able to rise. He ate breakfast, walked

out onto the porch to enjoy the warmth of the sun, and collapsed.

He remembered only snatches of what happened for several

days after that. Cogline put him back to bed and bathed him

with cold cloths while the poison's fever raged within him, an

unquenchable fire. He drank liquids but could not eat. He

dreamed constantly. An endless mirage of vile, frightening crea-

90                              The Druid of Shannara

tures paraded themselves before him, threatening him as he stood

helpless, stripping him of his sanity. He fought back against

them as best he could, but he lacked the necessary weapons. What-

ever he brought to bear the monsters withstood. In the end, he

simply gave himself over to them and drafted in black sleep.

From time to time he came awake and when he did so Cogline

was always there. It was the old man's reassuring presence that

saved him once again, a lifeline to which he clung, pulling him

back from the oblivion into which he might otherwise have been

swept. The gnarled hands reached out to him, sometimes grip-

ping as if to hold him fast, sometimes stroking as if he were a

child in need of comfort. The familiar voice soothed him, speak-

ing words without meaning but filled with warmth. He could

feel the other beside him, always near, waiting for him to wake.

"You are not meant to die, Walker Boh," he thought he heard

more than once, though he could not be certain.

Sometimes he saw the old man's face bending close, leathery

skin wrinkled and seamed, wispy hair and beard gray and di-

sheveled, eyes bright and filled with understanding. He could

smell the other, a forest tree with ancient limbs and trunk, but

leaves as fresh and new as spring. When the sickness threatened

to overwhelm him, Cogline was there to lift him free. It was

because of the old man that he did not give up, that he fought

back against the effects of the poison and willed himself to re-

cover.

On the fourth day he awoke at midday and took some soup.

The poison had been arrested temporarily, the medicines and

ministerings and Walker's own will to survive taking command

once more. Walker forced himself to explore the devastation of

his shattered arm. The poison had progressed. His arm was

turned to stone almost to the shoulder.

He wept that night in rage and frustration. Before he fell

asleep he was aware of Cogline standing over him, a fragile

presence against the vast, inexorable dark, telling him quietly

that all would be well.

He awoke again in the slow, aimless hours between midnight

and dawn when time seems to have lost its way. It was instinct

that woke him, a sense that something was impossibly wrong.

He struggled up on one elbow, weak and disoriented, unable to

pinpoint the source of his trepidation. An odd, unidentifiable

sound rose out of the night's stillness, a buzz of activity from

somewhere without that sleep and sickness rendered indistinct.

The Druid of Shannara                              91

His breathing was ragged as he pushed himself into a sitting

position, shivering beneath his bedclothes against the chill of

the air.

Light flared sharply, suddenly visible through the breaks in

his curtained window.

He heard voices. No, he thought anxiously. Not voices. Gut-

tural, inhuman sounds.

It took what strength he had to crawl from the bedside to the

window, working his way slowly and painfully through fatigue

and fever. He kept still, aware of a need for caution, sensing

that he should not reveal himself. Without, the sounds had risen,

and an overpowering smell of decay had descended over every-

thing.

Groping, he found the windowsill before him and pulled

himself level with its edge.

What he saw through the part in the curtains turned his stom-

ach to ice.

Cogline awoke when Rumor nudged him with his face, a

rough, urgent shove that brought the old man upright instantly.

He had not gone to bed until well after midnight, buried in his

books of old-worid science, fighting to discover some means by

which Walker Boh's life could be saved. Eventually he had fallen

asleep in his chair before the fire, the book he was perusing still

open in his lap, and it was there mat Rumor found him.

"Confound it, cat," he muttered.

His first thought was that something had happened to Walker.

Then he heard the sounds, faint still, but growing louder. Growls

and snaris and hisses. Animal sounds. And no effort being made

to disguise their coming.

He pushed himself to his feet, taking a moment to wipe the

sleep from his eyes. A single lamp burned at the dining table;

the fire in the hearth had gone out. Cogline drew his robes close

and shuffled toward the front door, uneasy, anxious to discover

what was happening. Rumor went with him, moving ahead. The

fur along the ridge of his back bristled, and his muzzle was

drawn back to expose his teeth. Whatever was out there, me

moor cat didn't like it.

Cogline opened the door and stepped out onto the covered

porch that fronted the cottage. The sky was clear and depthless.

Moonlight flooded down through the trees, bathing the valley

in white luminescence. The air was cool and brought Cogline

fully awake. He stopped at the edge of the porch and stared.

92                              The Druid of Shannara

Dozens of pairs of tiny red lights blinked at him from out of the

shadows of the forest, a vast scattering of delicate scariet blos-

soms that shone in the black. They were everywhere, it seemed,

ringing the cottage and its clearing.

Cogline squinted to better make them out. Then he realized

that they were eyes.

He jumped as something moved amid the eyes. It was a man

dressed in a black uniform with'the silver insignia of a wolf's

head sewn on his breast. Cogline saw him clearly as he stepped

into the moonlight, big and rawboned with a face that was hol-

lowed and pitted and eyes that were empty of life.

Rimmer Dall, he thought at once and experienced a terrible

sinking feeling.

"Old man," the other said, and his voice was a grating whis-

per.

Cogline did not respond, staring fixedly at the other, forcing

himself to keep from looking to his right, to where the window

to Walker's bedroom stood open, to where Walker slept. Fear

and anger raced through him, and a voice within screamed

at him to run, to flee for his life. Quickly, it warned. Wake

Walker. Help him escape!

But he knew it was already too late for that.

He had known for some time now that it would be.

"We are here for you, old man," whispered Rimmer Dall,

"my friends and I." He motioned, and the creatures with him

began to edge into the light, one after another, horrors all, Shad-

owen. Some were misshapen creatures like the woodswoman he

had chased from the camp of Par and Coil Ohmsford weeks ago;

some had the look of dogs or wolves, bent down on all fours,

covered with hair, their faces twisted into animal muzzles, teeth

and claws showing. The sounds they made suggested that they

were anxious to feed.

"Failures,'' their leader said. ' 'Men who could not rise above

their weaknesses. They serve a better purpose now." He came

forward a step. "You are the last, old man—the last who stands

against me. All the Shannara children are gone, swept from the

earth. You are all that remains, a poor once-Druid with no one

to save him."

The lines that etched Cogline's face deepened. "Is that so?"

he said. "Killed them all, did you?" Rimmer Dall stared at

him. Not half a chance of it, Cogline decided instantly. The

truth is he hasn't killed a one, just wants me to think he has.

The Druid of Shannara                              93

"And you came all this way to tell me about it, did you?" he

said.

"I came to put an end to you," Rimmer Dall replied.

Well, there you have it, the old man thought. Whatever the

First Seeker had managed to do about the Shannara children, it

wasn't enough; so now he had come after Cogline as well, easier

prey, perhaps. The old man almost smiled. To think it had all

come down to this. Well, it wasn't as if he hadn't known. Al-

lanon had warned him weeks ago, warned him in fact when he'd

summoned him to retrieve the Druid History from Paranor. Oh,

he hadn't told Walker, of course. He had thought about it, but

hadn't done it. There just didn't seem to be any point. Know

this, Cogline, the shade had intoned, deep-voiced, prophetic. /

have read the netherworld signs; your time in this world is nearly

finished. Death stalks you and she is an implacable huntress.

When next you see the face of Rimmer Dall, she will have found

you. Remember, then. When that time comes, take back the

Druid History from Walker Boh and hold it to you as if it were

your life. Do not release it. Do not give it up. Remember, Cog-

line.

Remember.

Cogline collected his thoughts. The Druid History rested

within a niche in the stone fireplace inside the cottage, right

where Walker had hidden it.

Remember.

He sighed wearily, resignedly. He'd asked questions, of course,

but the shade had given no answers. Very like Allanon. It was

enough that Cogline knew what was coming, it seemed. It wasn't

necessary that he know the particulars.

Rumor snarled, his fur standing on end all over. He was

crouched protectively before the old man, and Cogline knew

there was no way to save the big cat. Rumor would never leave

him. He shook his head. Well. An odd sense of calm settled

over mm. His thoughts were quite clear. The Shadowen had

come for him; they knew nothing at all about Walker Boh being

there. That was the way he intended to keep it.

His brow furrowed. Would the Druid History, if he could

reach it, aid him in this?

His eyes found Rimmer Dall's. This time he did smile. "I

don't think there's enough of you to do the job," he said.

His arm swept up and silver dust flew at the First Seeker,

bursting into flame as it struck him. Rimmer Dall screamed in

fury and staggered away, and the creatures with him attacked.

94 The Druid of Shannara

They came at Cogline from everywhere, but Rumor met them

with a lunge, stopped them short of the porch and tore the fore-

most to pieces. Cogline flung handfuls of the silver dust at his

would-be destroyers and whole lines of them were set ablaze.

The Shadowen screeched and howled, blundering into one an-

other as they sought first to attack, then to escape. Bodies lurched

wildly through the moonlight, filling the clearing with burning

limbs. They began attacking each other/They died by the doz-

ens. Easy prey, do they think! Cogline experienced a wild, per-

verse elation as he flung back his robes and sent the night

exploding into white brilliance.

For an impossible moment, he thought he might actually sur-

vive.

But then Rimmer Dall reappeared, too powerful to be over-

come by Cogline's small magic, and lashed out with fire of his

own at the creatures he commanded, at his dogs and wolves and

half-humans, at his near-mindless brutes. The Shadowen-kind,

terrified of him, attacked in a renewed frenzy of hate and anger.

This time they would not be driven off. Rumor savaged the first

wave, quick and huge amid their smaller forms, and then they

were all over him, a maelstrom of teeth and claws. Cogline

could do nothing to help the gallant cat; even with the silver dust

exploding all through them, the Shadowen came on. Rumor

slowly began to give ground.

Despairing, Cogline used the last of his powder, dashing

handfuls to the earth, igniting a wall of flame that for just an

instant brought a halt to the beasts' advance. Swiftly he darted

inside and snatched the Druid History from its hiding place.

Now we 'II see.

He barely made the front door again before me Shadowen-kind

were through the wall of fire and on him. He heard Rimmer Dall

screaming at them. He felt Rumor press back against him pro-

tectively. There was nowhere to run and no point in trying, so

he simply stood his ground, clutching the book to his chest, a

scarecrow in tattered robes before a whirlwind. His attackers

came on. When they had their hands on him, as his body was

about to be ripped apart, he felt the rune markings on the book

flare to life. Brilliant white fire burst forth, and everything within

fifty feet was consumed.

/(remains now for you. Walker, was Cogline's last thought.

He disappeared in the flames.

The Druid of Shannara                              95

The final explosion threw Walker clear of the curtained win-

dow an instant before it was engulfed in flame. Even so, his face

and hair were singed and his clothes were left steaming. He lay

in a heap as the fire licked its way across the ceiling of his room.

He ignored it, no longer caring what happened. He had been

helpless to aid Cogline and Rumor, too weak to summon the

magic, too weak even to rise and stand with them against the

Shadowen, too weak to do anything but hang there on that win-

dow ledge and watch.

Useless! He screamed the word silently in his mind, rage and

grief washing through him.

He lurched to his knees in desperation and peered out through

the flames. Cogline and Rumor were gone. Rimmer Dall and

what remained of the Shadowen-kind were melting back into

the forest. He stared after them momentarily, and then his

strength left him and he collapsed again.

Useless!

The fire's heat intensified about him. Timbers crashed down,

fiery brands splintering off and searing his skin. His body jerked

in pain, his stone arm an anchor that dragged against the wooden

floor. His fate was assured, he realized. Another minute or two

and he would be consumed. No one would come for him. No

one even knew he was here. The old man and the giant moor

cat had concealed his presence from the Shadowen; they had

given up their lives to do so. . . .

He shuddered as an image of Rimmer Dall's face appeared

in his mind, the dead eyes looking at him appraisingly.

He decided he did not want to die.

Almost without realizing what he was doing, he began to

crawl.

x

I uickening found him two days later. Pe Ell and Mor-

gan Leah were with her, drawn on by the mystery of

who and what she was, by her promise that they were

needed to recover the talisman that she insisted she had been

sent to find, by curiosity, by passion, and by a dozen other things

that neither could begin to define. They had made the journey

north out of Culhaven in three days' time, traveling openly and

on foot along the Rabb where it bordered on the Anar, safely

west of the Wolfsktaag and the dark things that lived there. Se-

crecy seemed the least of Quickening's concerns. She had cho-

sen to depart in daylight rather than under cover of darkness,

having told her band of would-be followers that they must re-

main behind and continue her work to help restore the health of

the land, and she had kept to the open plains the entire way up

the forestline. While Morgan Leah had been relieved that he

would not have to venture into the Wolfsktaag again, he had

been certain that Federation patrols along the Rabb would at-

tempt to detain them. Curiously, that did not happen. They were

seen more than once and approached, but each time the patrols

got close they suddenly veered away. It was almost as if they

had decided they were mistaken—as if they had decided that

they hadn't seen anything after all.

It was nearing dusk when the three finally arrived at Hearth-

stone, the men footsore, sweaty, and vaguely disgruntled by the

quick pace the girl had set and the fact that she could maintain

it seemingly without effort. They had bypassed Storiock, crossed

through the Pass of Jade and come down the Chard Rush into

Darklin Reach. The sun was behind them, dropping quickly

toward the rim of the mountains, and the skies ahead were

sharply etched by the light. A column of thick black smoke rose

96

The Druid ofShannara 97

before them like a snake. They could see the smoke long before

they were able to determine its source. They watched it lift into

the darkening eastern skies and dissipate, and Morgan Leah

began to worry. Quickening said nothing, but it seemed to the

Highlander that her face grew more intense. By the time they

reached the rim of the valley and there was no longer any doubt,

the girl's face looked stricken.

They followed the smoke to the ruins of the cottage. Charred

rubble was all that remained; the fire that had consumed it was

so hot that it was still burning in spots, wood and ash glowing

red, sending the black smoke curling skyward. The clearing

about it was seared and lifeless, and huge knots of earth had

been exploded away. It looked as if two great armies had fought

a war in the space of a hundred yards. There was nothing left

that was recognizable. Bits and pieces were scattered about of

what once might have been something human, but it was im-

possible to tell. Even Pe EU, who was usually so careful not to

reveal anything of what he was thinking, stared.

"The Shadowen were here," Quickening said, and that

brought both men about to search the shadows of the forest

behind them, until she added, "But they are gone now and will

not return."

At the girl's direction, they searched the clearing for Walker

Boh. Morgan's heart sank. He had been hoping that Walker was

not there, that the Shadowen attack had been for some other

reason. Nothing could have survived this, he thought. He

watched Pe Ell kick halfheartedly at piles of rubble, clearly of

the same mind. Morgan did not like the man. He didn't trust

him; he didn't understand him. Despite the fact that Pe Ell had

saved him from the Federation prisons, Morgan couldn't bring

himself to feel any friendship toward the other. Pe EU had res-

cued him at Quickening's request; he wouldn't have lifted a

finger if the girl hadn't asked. He had already told Morgan as

much; he had made a point of telling him. Who he was remained

a mystery, but the Highlander didn't mink anything good would

come of his being there. Even now, picking his way across the

blackened clearing, he had the look of a cat in search of some-

thing to play with.

Quickening found Walker Boh moments later, calling out ur-

gently to the other two when she did. How she determined where

he was hiding was anyone's guess. He was unconscious and

buried several feet beneath the earth. Pe Ell and Morgan dug

him free, discovering when they did that he had apparently been

98                              The Druid of Shannara

trapped in an underground passageway that led from the cottage

to the edge of the forest. Although the passageway had col-

lapsed, probably during the Shadowen attack, sufficient air had

been able to reach him to allow him to survive. They pulled him

into the failing light, and Morgan saw the remains of his arm,

the lower part gone entirely, a stone stub protruding from the

shoulder. Walker's breathing was faint and shallow, his skin

drawn and white. At first, the Highlander didn't think he was

even alive.

They laid him carefully on the ground, brushed the dirt from

his face, and Quickening knelt next to him. Her two hands

reached out to take his one. She held it a moment, and his eyes

flickered open. Morgan drew back. He had never seen Walker's

eyes like this; they were terrifying to look into, filled with dark

madness.

"Don't let me die," the Dark Uncle whispered harshly.

The girl touched his face and he was instantly asleep. Morgan

took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. Walker Boh wasn't

asking for help out of fear; he was asking out of rage.

They made camp beside the ruins of the cottage that night,

backed into the shelter of the trees as the light gave way to

darkness. Quickening had a fire built close to where Walker Boh

lay sleeping and she took up a position at his side and did not

move. Sometimes she held his hand; sometimes she stroked

him. Morgan and Pe Ell were forgotten. She did not seem to

have need of them or wish that they intrude, so the Highlander

built a second fire some distance away and prepared dinner from

the supplies they carried—bread, some dried meat, cheese, and

fruit. He offered some to the girl, but she shook her head and

he moved away. He ate alone. Pe Ell took his food off into the

dark.

After a time Quickening lay down next to Walker Boh and

went to sleep, her body pressed close against his. Morgan

watched stone-faced, a surge of jealousy sweeping through him

at the thought that the Dark Uncle should be so close to her. He

studied her face in the firelight, the curve of her body, the soft-

ness of her. She was so beautiful. He could not explain the effect

she had on him; he did not think he could refuse her anything.

It wasn't that he had a reasonable hope that she felt for him as

he did for her—or even that she felt anything for him. It was the

need she roused in him. He should not have come with her once

he had escaped the prisons and made certain that Granny Elise

and Auntie Jilt were safe. He should have gone after the Vale-

The Druid of Shannara                              99

men, after Par and Coil Ohmsford. He had promised himself

more than once while lying in the darkness and filth of that

Federation cell that if he ever got free, he would. Yet here he

was, chasing off into the deep Anar after this girl, searching out

a talisman she said existed but hadn't once described, caught up

with the enigmatic Pe Ell and now Walker Boh. It baffled him,

but he didn't question it. He was there because he wanted to be

there. He was there because the moment he had met Quickening

he had fallen hopelessly in love with her.

He watched her until it hurt, then forced himself to look

away. He was surprised when he saw Pe Ell standing back in

the shadows at the edge of the trees watching too.

He was surprised again moments later when the other man

came over to sit next to him by the fire. Pe Ell made it seem the

most natural thing in the worid, as if there had been no distance

kept between them before, as if they were companions and not

strangers. Hatchet-faced, as lean as a wire's shadow, he was not

much more than a gathering of lines and angles that threatened

to disappear in the dark. He sat cross-legged, his thin frame

relaxed, hunched down, his mouth breaking into a faint smile

as he saw Morgan frown. "You don't trust me," he said. "You

shouldn't."

Morgan said, "Why not?"

"Because you don't know me and you never trust anyone you

don't know. You don't trust most of those you do either. That's

just the way it is. Tell me, Highlander. Why do you think I'm

here?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know either. I would be willing to bet that it is the

same with you. We're here, you and I, because the girl tells us

she needs us, but we really don't know what she means. It's just

that we can't bring ourselves to tell her no." Pe Ell seemed to

be explaining things as much to himself as to Morgan. He

glanced Quickening's way briefly, nodding. "She's beautiful,

isn't she? How can you say no to someone who looks like that?

But it's more, because she has something inside as well, some-

thing special even in this world. She has magic, the strongest

kind of magic. She brings dead things back to life—like the

Gardens, like that one over there."

He looked back at Morgan.' 'We all want to touch that magic,

to feel it through her. That's what I think. Maybe we can, if

we're lucky. But if the Shadowen are involved in this, if there

are things as bad as that to be dealt with, why then we're going

100                             The Druid of Shannara

to have to look out for one another. So you don't have to trust

me or me you—maybe we shouldn't—but we have to watch each

other's backs. Do you agree?"

Morgan wasn't sure whether he did or not, but he nodded

anyway. What he thought was that Pe EU didn't seem the kind

who relied on anyone to watch his back. Or who watched anyone

else's back either, for that matter.

"Do you know what I am?" P& Ell asked softly, looking

down into the fire. "I am a craftsman. I get myself in and out

of places without anyone knowing. I move things aside that don't

want to be moved. I make people disappear." He looked up.

"I have a little magic of my own. You do, too, don't you?"

Morgan shook his head, cautious. "There's the man with the

magic," he offered, indicating Walker Boh.

Pe Ell smiled doubtfully. "Doesn't seem to have done him

much good against the Shadowen."

"It might have kept him alive."

"Barely, it appears. And what use is he to us with that arm?"

Pe Ell folded his hands carefully. "Tell me. What can he do

with his magic?"

Morgan didn't like the question. "He can do a lot of what

you do. Ask him yourself when he's better."

"If he gets better." Pe EU stood up smoothly, an effortless

motion that caught Morgan by surprise. Quick, the Highlander

thought. Much quicker than me. The other was looking at him.

"I sense the magic in you, Highlander. I want you to tell me

about it sometime. Later, when we've traveled together a bit

longer, when we know each other a little better. When you trust

me."

He moved away into the shadows at the fire's edge, spread

his blanket on the ground, and rolled into it. He was asleep

almost at once.

Morgan sat staring at him for a moment, thinking it would be

a long time before he trusted that one. Pe Ell smiled easily

enough, but it seemed that only his mouth wanted to participate

in the act. Morgan thought about what the man had said about

himself, trying to make sense of it. Get in and out of places

without being seen? Move things that don't want to be moved?

Make people disappear? What sort of double-talk was that?

The fire burned low and everyone around him slept. Morgan

thought about the past for a moment, about his friends who were

dead or disappeared, about the inexorable flow of events that

was dragging him along in its wake. Mostly he thought about

The Druid of Shannara                             101

the girl who said she was the daughter of the King of the Silver

River. Quickening. He wondered about her.

What was she going to ask of him?

What was he going to be able to give?

Walker Boh came awake at sunrise, rising up from the black

pit of his unconsciousness. His eyes blinked open to find the

giri peering down at him. Her hands were on his face, her fingers

cool and soft against his skin, and it seemed that she drew him

up with no more effort than it would require to lift a feather.

"Walker Boh." She spoke his name gently.

She seemed strangely familiar to him although he was certain

they had never met. He tried to speak and found he couldn't.

Something forbade it, a sense of wonder at the exquisite beauty

of her, at the feelings she invoked within him. He found her like

the earth, filled with strange magic that was simple and complex

at once, a vessel of elements, of soil, air, and water, a part of

everything that gave life. He saw her differently than Morgan

Leah and Pe Ell, though he couldn't know that yet. He was not

drawn to her as a lover or a protector; he had no wish to possess

her. Rather, there was an affinity between them that transcended

passion and need. There were bonds of immediate understand-

ing that united them as emotions never could. Walker recog-

nized the existence of those bonds even without being able to

define them. This girl was something of what he had struggled

all his life to be. This girl was a reflection of his dreams.

"Look at me," she said.

His eyes locked on her. She took her fingers from his face

and moved them to the shattered remnants of his arm, to the

stone stump that hung inert and lifeless from his shoulder. Her

fingers reached within his clothing, stroking his skin, working

their way to where the skin hardened into stone. He flinched at

her touch, not wanting her to feel the sickness in him, or to

discover the corruption of his flesh. But her fingers persisted;

her eyes did not look away.

Then he gasped as everything disappeared in a white-hot flash

of pain. For an instant he saw the Hall of Kings again, the crypts

of the dead, the stone slab with its rune markings, the black hole

beneath, and the flash of movement as the Asphinx struck. After

that he was floating, and there were only her eyes, black and

depthless, folding him in a wave of sweet relief. The pain dis-

appeared, drawing out of him in a red mist that dissipated into

the air. He felt a weight lift away from him and he was at peace.

102                             The Druid of Shannara

He might have slept for a time then; he was not certain. When

he opened his eyes again, the girl was there beside him, looking

down at him, and the dawn's light was faint and distant through

the tips of the trees. He swallowed against the dryness in his

mouth and throat, and she gave him water to drink from a skin.

He was aware of Morgan Leah staring openmouthed at him from

one side, his lean brown face a mask of disbelief. There was

another man next to him, one he didn't.know, hard-faced and

cunning. They had both been there when the girl found him, he

remembered. What were they seeing now that so astonished

them?

Then he realized that something was different. His arm felt

lighter, freer. There was no pain. He used what little strength

he had to raise his head and look down at himself. His clothes

had been pulled away from his shoulder, revealing pink, healed

flesh where the stone wreckage of his sickness had been re-

moved.

His arm was gone.

So, too, was the poison of the Asphinx.

What did he feel? His emotions jumbled together within him.

He stared at the girl and tried unsuccessfully to speak.

She looked down at him, serene and perfect. "I am Quick-

ening," she said. "I am the daughter of the King of the Silver

River. Look into my eyes and discover me."

He did as he was told, and she touched him. Instantly he saw

what Morgan Leah had seen before him, what Pe Ell had wit-

nessed—the coming of Quickening into Culhaven and the res-

urrection of the Meade Gardens out of ash and dust. He felt the

wonder of the miracle and he knew instinctively that she was

who she claimed. She possessed magic that defied belief, magic

that could salvage the most pitiful of life's wreckage. When the

images were gone, he was struck again by the unexplainable

sense of kinship he felt for her.

"You are well again. Walker Boh," she told him. "The sick-

ness will trouble you no more. Sleep now, for I have great need

of you."

She touched him once and he drifted away.

He awoke again at midday, ravenous with hunger, dry with

thirst. Quickening was there to give him food and water and to

help him sit up. He felt stronger now, more the man he had been

before his encounter with the Asphinx, able to think clearly

again for the first time in weeks. His relief at being free of the

The Druid of Shannara 103

poison of the Asphinx, at simply being alive for that matter,

warred with his rage at what Rimmer Dall and the Shadowen

bad done to Cogline and Rumor. Just an old man and a both-

ersome cat, he had called them. He looked out across the clear-

ing at the devastation. The girl did not ask him what had

happened; she merely touched him and knew. All the images of

that night's tragic events returned in a flood of memories that

left him shaking and close to tears. She touched him again, to

comfort and reassure, but he did not cry. He would not let him-

self. He kept his grief inside, walled away behind his determi-

nation to find and destroy those responsible.

Quickening said to him, away from Morgan Leah and the one

she named Pe Ell, "You cannot give way to what you feel,

Walker Boh. If you pursue the Shadowen now, they will destroy

you. You lack the wisdom and the strength to overcome them.

You will find both only through me."

Then, before he could respond, she called the other two over,

seated them before her, and said, ' 'I will tell you now of the

need I have of you.'' She looked at them in turn and then seemed

to look beyond. "A long time ago, in an age before Mankind,

before the faerie wars, before everything you know, there were

many like my father. They were the first of the faerie creatures,

given life by the Word, given dominion over the land. Theirs

was a trust to preserve and protect, and while they could, they

did. But the world changed with the fading of the faerie creatures

and the rise of Man. The evolution of the world took away al-

most everything that had existed in the beginning including those

like my father. One by one, they died away, lost in the passing

of die years and the changes of the world. The Great Wars de-

stroyed many of them. The Wars of the Races destroyed more.

Finally, there was only my father, a legend by now, the faerie

Lord they called the King of the Silver River."

Her face lifted. "Except that my father was not alone as he

believed. There was another. Even my father did not know of

him at first, believing that all his kindred had died out long ago,

that he alone had survived. My father was wrong. Another like

himself still lived, changed so markedly as to now be all but

unrecognizable. All of the first faeries drew their magic from

the elements of the land. My father's strength derived from the

rivers and lakes, from the waters that fed the earth. He built his

Gardens to nourish them, to give them life, and draw life back

again. His brother, the one he did not know had survived along

with him, took his magic from the earth's stone. Where my

104                             The Druid of Shannara

father found strength in fluidity and change, his brother found

strength in constancy and immutability."

She paused. "His name is Uhl Belk. He is the Stone King.

He had no name in the old days; none of my father's kindred

did. There was no need for names. My father was given his

name by the people of the land; he did not ask for it. Uhl Belk

took his name out of fear. He took it because he felt that only

in having a name could he be certain of surviving. A name

implied permanency, he believed. Permanency became every-

thing for him. All around him, the world was changing, the old

dying out, giving way to the new. He could not accept that he

must change, for like the stone from which he drew his strength,

he was unyielding. To survive, he embedded himself deeper in

the ways that had sustained him for so long, burrowing into the

earth on which he relied. He hid while the Great Wars destroyed

almost everything. He hid again when the wars of magic, the

Wars of the Races, threatened to do the same. He took his name

and wrapped himself in stone. Like my father, his world was

reduced to almost nothing, to a tiny bit of existence that was all

his magic could protect. He clung to it desperately while the

wars of Mankind raged through the centuries and he waited for

a measure of sanity to return.

"But, unlike my father, Uhl Belk put aside the trust that the

Word had given him. He lost sight of his purpose in his struggle

to survive; he became convinced that simply to exist at whatever

cost was all that mattered. His pledge to preserve and protect

the land was forgotten; his promise to care for the land's life lost

meaning. He hoarded and built upon his magic with one thought

in mind—that when he grew strong enough he would make cer-

tain that his existence would never be threatened by anything or

anyone again."

Quickening's eyes glanced down and lifted again, filled with

wonder. "Uhl Belk is master of Eldwist, a finger of land far

north and east above the Chamal Mountains where the Eastland

ends at the Tiderace. After centuries of hiding, he has come

forth to claim the world of Men for his own. He does this through

his magic, which grows in strength as he applies it. He applies

it indiscriminately to the land—the soil, the waters, the trees,

the creatures that take nourishment from them. He turns every-

thing to stone and takes back such magic as will make him

stronger still. The whole of Eldwist is stone and the land about

begins to turn as well. The Tiderace holds him captive for now

because it is huge, and even Uhl Belk's magic is not yet suffi-

The Druid of Shannara                              105

cient to overcome an ocean. But Eldwist connects to the East-

land at its tip, and nothing prevents the magic's poison from

spreading south. Except my father.''

"And the Shadowen," Morgan Leah added.

"No, Morgan," she said, and it did not escape any of them

that she called him by his first name alone. "The Shadowen are

not Uhl Belk's enemy. My father alone seeks to preserve the

Four Lands. The Shadowen, like the Stone King, would see the

Lands made over in a way that would leave them unrecogniz-

able—barren and stripped of life. The Shadowen and Uhl Belk

leave each other alone because neither has anything to fear from

the other. One day that may change, but by then it will no longer

matter to any of us."

She looked at Walker. ' 'Think of your arm, Walker Boh. The

poison that claimed it is Uhl Belk's. The Asphinx belonged to

him. Whatever living thing the Stone King or his creatures touch

becomes as your arm did—hard and lifeless. That is the source

of Uhl Belk's power, that constancy, that changelessness."

"Why did he choose to poison me?" Walker asked.

Her silver hair caught a ray of sunlight and shimmered in

momentary brilliance. She shook the light away. "He stole a

Druid talisman from the Hall of Kings, and he wanted to be

certain that whoever discovered the theft would die before he

could do anything about it. You were simply unlucky enough to

be that one. The Druids, when they lived, were strong enough

to challenge Uhl Belk. He waited until they were all gone to

come forth again. His only enemy now is my father."

Her dark eyes shifted to Pe Ell. "Uhl Belk seeks to consume

the land and to do so he must destroy my father. My father sends

me forth to prevent that. I cannot do so without your help. I

need you to come north with me into Eldwist. Once there, we

must find and recover from the Stone King the talisman he stole

from the Hall of Kings, from the Druids. That talisman is called

the Black Elfstone. As long as he possesses it, Uhl Belk is

invincible. We must take it away from him."

Pe Ell's long, narrow face remained expressionless. "How

are we supposed to do that?'' he asked.

"You will find a way," the girl said, looking at each of them

in turn. "My father said you would, that you possess the means.

But it will take all three of you to succeed. Each of you has the

magic that is required; we have not spoken of it, but it is so. All

three magics are needed. All three of you must go."

"All three." Pe Ell glanced doubtfully at Walker and Mor-

106                             The Druid of Shannara

gan. "What is it that this Black Elfstone does? What son of

magic does it possess?''

Walker leaned forward to hear her answer, and Quickening's

black eyes fixed on him. "It steals away the power of other

magics. It swallows them up and makes them its own."

There was stunned silence. Walker had never heard of such

magic. Even in the old Druid legends, there was no mention of

it. He thought about the words contained in the Druid History

that Cogline had brought to him, the words that described how

Paranor could be restored:

Once removed, Paranor shall remain lost to the worid of men

for the whole of time, sealed away and invincible within its

casting. One magic alone has the power to return it—that

singular Elfstone which is colored Black and was conceived

by the faerie people of the old world in the manner and form

of all Elfstones, combining nevertheless in one stone alone

the necessary properties of heart, mind, and body. Whoso-

ever shall have cause and right shall wield it to its proper end.

He had memorized the words before hiding the book in a

crevice in the fireplace of the cottage before departing for the

Hall of Kings. The words explained something of how the Black

Elfstone could be used to bring back Paranor. If Druid magic

had sealed it away, the Black Elfstone would negate the magic

and restore the Keep. Walker frowned. That seemed awfully

easy. Worse, the power of such a magic suggested that once

employed, nothing could defeat it. Why would the Druids take

the chance that something so powerful would fall into the hands

of an enemy like Uhl Belk?

On the other hand, they had done what they could to protect

it, he supposed. Almost no one could have retrieved it from the

Hall of Kings. Or even known it was there. How had the Stone

King discovered it? he wondered.

"If the Black Elfstone can take away other magics," Pe EU

said suddenly, putting an end to Walker's musings, "how can

anything overcome it? Our own magic, any magic, will be use-

less against it."

"Especially mine, since I don't have any," Morgan spoke up

suddenly, causing all of them to glance sharply at him. "At

least, not enough to bother about."

"Is there something you can do to help us against the Stone

The Druid of Shannara                             107

King?" Walker asked. "Can you make use of your own magic

in some way?"

"No," the girl said, and they went silent, staring at her. "My

magic is useless until you have regained possession of the Black

Elfstone from Uhl Belk. Nor must he be allowed to discover

who I am. If he should, he would make a quick end of me. I

will go with you and advise you when I can. I will help if pos-

sible. But I cannot use my magic—not the smallest amount, not

for even the shortest time."

"But you think that we can?" Pe Ell demanded incredu-

lously.

' 'The Stone King will find your magic of no consequence; he

will not feel threatened by you."

Pe Ell's face assumed such a black look that Walker was

momentarily distracted from wondering what it was that Quick-

ening was hiding from them. He was certain now that she was

hiding something. Not lying to them, he didn't think that But

there was definitely something she wasn't telling them. The

problem was, he hadn't the faintest idea what.

She said then, "There is another reason that you should help

me." Her eyes held them. "All things are possible if you come

with me. Walker Boh. I have driven the poison from your body

and made you well. I have healed your arm, but I cannot make

you whole again. Come with me in search of the Black Elfstone

and you will find a way to do so. Morgan Leah. You would

restore the magic of your shattered Sword. Come with me. Pe

Ell. You would seek out magic greater than that of the Shad-

owen. Come with me. My father tells me that together you pos-

sess the keys that will unlock all of these secrets. My father

knows what is possible. He would not lie."

Her face lifted toward them.' 'The Four Lands and her people

are threatened by the Shadowen; but no more so than by Uhl

Belk. The means of ending one threat shall be found through

ending the other. The Black Elfstone is the talisman that shall

enable the ending of both. I know you cannot yet understand

that; I know I cannot explain it to you. I do not know how you

shall fare in this quest. But I shall go with you, live or die with

you, succeed or fail with you. We shall be bound forever by

what happens."

As we are somehow bound already, Walker thought to himself

and wondered anew why the feeling persisted.

Silence crystallized about them. No one wanted to break its

shell. There were questions yet unasked and answers yet un-

108                             The Druid of Shannara

given; there were doubts and misgivings and fears to be con-

quered. A future that had been settled for them all not a week

gone now stretched ahead, a dark and uncertain pathway that

would take them where it chose. Uhl Belk, the Stone King,

waited at the end of that path, and they were going to seek him

out. It was already decided. Without anyone having said so, it

was resolved. Such was the strength of Quickening's magic, the

magic she exercised over the lives of others, a magic that not

only restored life to what was believed dead and gone but also

liberated hopes and dreams in the living.

It was like that now.

Morgan Lean was thinking what it would be like to have the

Sword of Lean restored to him. He was remembering how it felt

when its magic was his to command. Pe Ell was thinking what

it would be like to have possession of a weapon that no one

could stand against. He was remembering how it felt when he

used the Stiehl. He was wondering if this would be the same.

But Walker Boh was thinking not so much of himself as of

the Black Elfstone. It remained the key to all the locked doors.

Could Paranor be restored; could the Druids be brought back

again? Allanon's charge to him, part of what must be done if

the Shadowen were to be destroyed. And now, for the first time

since the dreams had come to him, he wanted them destroyed.

More, he wanted to be the one to do it.

He looked into Quickening's black eyes, and it seemed as if

she could read his thoughts. A Druid trick. A faerie gift.

And suddenly, shockingly, he remembered where he had seen

her before.

He went to her later that night to tell her. It took him a long

time to decide to do so. It would have been easier to say nothing

because in speaking he risked jeopardizing both his newfound

friendship with her and his participation in the journey to Eld-

wist. But keeping silent would have been the same as lying, and

he could not bring himself to do that. So he waited until Morgan

and Pe Ell were slumbering, until the night was cloaked in

blackness and time's passage slowed to a crawl, and he rose

soundlessly from beneath his blankets, still aching and stiff from

his ordeal, and crossed the fire-lit clearing to where she waited,

As he passed the ruins of the cottage, he glanced over. Ear-

lier, while it was still light, he had searched the smoldering

ashes for the missing Druid History. He had found nothing.

Quickening was not asleep; he knew she wouldn't be. She

The Druid of Shannara                             109

was sitting in the shadow of a massive fir where the trees that

ringed the clearing were farthest from the sleepers. He was still

weak and could not go far, but he did not wish to speak to her

where the other two might hear. She seemed to sense this; she

rose as he approached and went with him wordlessly into the

forest. When they were a safe distance away, she slowed and

faced him.

' 'What would you tell me. Walker Boh?'' she asked and pulled

him down with her onto the cool matting of the woodland floor.

It took him a moment to speak. He felt that odd kinship to

her without yet understanding why, and it almost changed his

mind, making him frightened of the words he had come to say

and of the reaction they would cause.

"Quickening," he said finally, and the sound of her name

coming from his lips stopped him anew. He tightened his re-

solve. "I was given a book of the Druid Histories by Cogline

before he died. The book was destroyed in the fire. There was

a passage in the book that said that the Black Elfstone is a Druid

magic and possesses the power to bring back disappeared Par-

anor. That is the charge I was given by the shade of AUanon

when I went to speak with him at the Hadeshom some weeks

ago—to restore Paranor and the Druids to the Pour Lands. It

was a charge that Cogline urged me to accept. He brought the

Druid History to me to convince me it could be done."

"I know this," she said softly.

Her black eyes threatened to swallow him up, and he forced

himself to look away. "I doubted him," he continued, the words

coming harder now. "I questioned his purpose in telling me,

accused him of serving the interests of the Druids. I wanted

nothing to do with any of them. But my curiosity about the Black

Elfstone persuaded me to pursue the matter anyway, even after

he was gone. I decided to try to find out where the Elfstone was

hidden. I went to see the Grimpond."

He looked up at her again and kept his gaze steady. "I was

shown three visions. All three were of me. In the first I stood

before the others in the company that had journeyed to the

Hadeshom to meet with the shade of Allanon and declared that

I would sooner cut off my hand than help bring back the Druids.

The vision mocked what I had said and showed me with my

hand already gone. And now it is gone indeed. My hand and

my arm both."

His voice was shaking. "The third vision is of no importance

here. But in the second vision I stood at the crest of a ridgeline

110 The Druid of Shannara

that looked out over the world. A giri was with me. She lost her

balance and reached for me. When she did, I thrust her away,

and she fell. That girl. Quickening, was you."

He waited for her response, the silence filling the space be-

tween them until it seemed to Walker as if nothing separated

them. Quickening did not speak. She kept her eyes fixed on him,

her features swept clean of expression.

"Surely you know of the Grimpond!" he exclaimed to her

finally in exasperation.

Then he saw her blink and realized that she had been thinking

of something else entirely. "It is an exiled spirit," she said.

"One that riddles and lies, but speaks a measure of truth as

well, hiding it in devious ways. It did so with the first vision.

My arm is gone. I would not have the same thing happen with

your life!''

She smiled faintly then, just a trace of movement at the cor-

ners of her mouth. ' 'You will not hurt me. Walker Boh. Are you

worried that you must?''

"The vision," he repeated.

' "The vision is that and nothing more,'' she interrupted gently.

"Visions are as much illusion as truth. Visions tell us of pos-

sibilities and do not speak in absolutes. We are not bound by

them; they do not govern what is to be. Especially those of a

creature like the Grimpond. It teases with falsehoods; it de-

ceives. Do you fear it. Walker Boh? No, not you. Nor I. My

father tells me what is to be and that is enough. You will bring

no harm to me."

Walker's face felt pmched and tight. "He might be mistaken

in what he says; he might not see everything that is to be."

Quickening shook her head, reached out her slim hand, and

touched his own. "You will be my protector on this journey,

Walker Boh—all three of you, for as long as is necessary. Do

not worry. I will be safe with you."

Walker shook his head. "I could remain behind ..."

Her hand lifted quickly to his mouth and touched it as if to

wipe away some new poison. "No." The word was sheathed

in iron. "I will be safe if you are with me; I will be in danger

only if you are not. You must come."

He stared at her doubtfully. "Can you tell me anything of

what I am expected to do?''

She shook her head.

"Or of the means by which I am to claim the Black Elfstone

fromUMBelk?"

The Dhlid of Shannara                            111

Again, no, firmly.

' 'Or even how I am to protect you when I have but one arm

and... ?"

"No."

He let his body sag; he was suddenly very weary. The dark-

ness was a cloak of doubt and indecision that hung about him

in suffocating folds. "I am half a man," he whispered. "I have

lost faith in who and what I am, in the promises I made to

myself, in the tasks I set myself. I have been dragged about by

Druid dreams and charges in which I do not believe. I have been

stripped of my two closest friends, my home, and my sense of

worth. I was the strongest of those who went to meet with Al-

lanon, the one the others relied upon; now I am the weakest,

barely able to stand on my own two feet. I cannot be as quick

as you to dismiss the Grimpond's visions. I have been wrongly

confident too many times. Now I must question everything."

"Walker Boh," she said.

He stared at her wonderingly as she reached out for him and

brought him to his feet. "You will be strong again—but only if

you believe."

She was so close he could feel the heat of her reaching out to

him through the cool night air. "You are like me," she said

quietly. ' 'You have sensed as much already, though you fail to

understand why it is so. It is because we are, before all other

things, creatures of the magic we wield. The magic defines us,

shapes us, and makes us who we are. For both of us, it is a

birthright we cannot escape. You would protect me by telling

me of this vision, by taking away the danger that your presence

poses if the vision should be true. But, Walker Boh, we are

bound in such a way that despite any vision's telling we cannot

separate ourselves and survive. Do you not feel it? We must pick

up the thread of this trail that leads to Eldwist and Uhl Belk and

me Black Elfstone and follow it to its end. Visions of what might

be cannot be allowed to deter us. Fears of our future cannot be

permitted to intrude."

She paused. "Magic, Walker Boh. Magic governs my life's

purpose, the magic given to me by my father. Can you say that

it is any different for you?"

It wasn't a question she put to him; it was a statement of fact,

of indisputable truth. He took a deep breath. "No," he ac-

knowledged. "I cannot."

"We can neither deny it nor run from it, can we?"

"No."

112 The Druid of Shannara

"We have this in common—this, and separate charges to find

the Black Elfstone and preserve the Four Lands, yours from the

shade of Allanon, mine from my father. Beyond that, nothing

matters. All paths lead to the Druid talisman." She lifted her

face into the faint trailers of light that seeped downward through

the trees from the starlit skies. "We must go in search of it

together, Walker Boh."

She was so positive in her statement, so certain of what she

said. Walker met her gaze, still filled with the doubts and fears

she had urged him to cast aside, but comforted now in her sense

of purpose and her strength of will. Once he had possessed both

in equal measure. It made him ashamed and angry that he no

longer did. He remembered Par Ohmsford's determination to do

what was right, to find a use for his gift of magic. He thought

of his own unspoken promise to the ghosts of Cogline and Ru-

mor. He was still wary of the Grimpond's vision, but Quick-

ening was right. He could not let it dissuade him from his quest.

He looked at her and nodded. A measure of determination

returned. "We will not speak of the Grimpond's vision again,"

he promised.

"Not until there is need," she replied.

She took him by the arm and led him back through the dark-

ened forest to sleep.

XI

Par Ohmsford's strength returned to him slowly Two

weeks passed while he lay bedded in the Mole's under-

ground lair, a gaunt and motionless skeleton draped in

old linen, dappled by a mingling of shadows and candlelight,

and surrounded by the strange, changeless faces of the Mole's

adopted children. Time had no meaning at first, for he was

lost to anything remotely connected with the real world. Then

The Druid of Shannara                             113

the madness faded, and he began to come back to him-

self. The days and nights took on definition. Damson Rhee

and the Mole became recognizable. The blur of darkness and

light sharpened to reveal the shapes and forms of the subter-

ranean rooms in which he rested. The stuffed castoffs grew

familiar once more, button noses and eyes, thread-sewn

mouths, worn cloth limbs and bodies. He was able to give

them names. Words assumed meaning out of idle talk. There

was nourishment and there was sleep.

Mostly, though, there were the memories. They tracked him

through sleep and waking alike, wraiths that hovered at the edge

of his thoughts, anxious to sting and bite. There were memories

of the Pit, the Shadowen, Rimmer Dall, and the Sword of Shan-

nara, but mostly of Coll.

He could not forgive himself. Coil was dead because of him—

not simply because he had struck the fatal blow, the killing

stroke of his wishsong's magic, not because he had failed to

adequately protect his brother from the packs of Shadowen that

roamed the Pit while he was engaged with Rimmer Dall, not

for any of this, but because he had from the first, from the

moment they had fled Varfleet and the Seekers, thought only of

himself. His need to know the truth about the wishsong, the

Sword of Shannara, the charges of Allanon, the purpose of the

magic—this was what had mattered. He had sacrificed every-

thing to discover that truth, and in the end that sacrifice had

included his brother.

Damson Rhee strove mightily to persuade him otherwise, see-

ing his torment and instinctively recognizing its cause.

"He wanted to be there with you, Par," she would tell him,

over and over, her face bent dose, her red hair tumbling down

about her slender shoulders, her voice soft and gentle. "It was

his choice. He loved you enough that it could not have been

otherwise. You did your best to keep him from coming, to keep

him safe. But there was that in Coil that would not be compro-

mised. A sense of what's right, what's necessary. He was deter-

mined to protect you from the dangers you both knew waited.

He gave his life to keep you safe, don't you see? Don't be so

quick to steal away what that sacrifice meant by insisting it was

your fault. There were choices and he made them. He was strong-

willed, and you could not have changed his mind even had you

tried harder than you did. He understood. Par. He recognized

the purpose and need in what you do. You believed that was

114                             The Druid of Shannara

true before; you must believe it now. Coil did. Don't let his

death have been for nothing."

But Coil's death might have been for exactly that, he feared,

and the fear chased after him in his darkest thoughts. Exactly

what had his brother's death accomplished? What did he have

to show for it? The Sword of Shannara? Yes, he had gained

possession of the legendary blade of his Erven-blooded ances-

tors, the talisman the shade of Allanon had sent him to find.

And what use was it? It had failed utterly as a weapon against

Rimmer Dall, even after the First Seeker had revealed himself

as a Shadowen. If the Sword was a necessary magic as Allanon

had claimed, why hadn't it destroyed his greatest enemy? Worse,

if Dall were to be believed, the Sword of Shannara could have

been his simply for the asking. There was no need for their

agonizing, destructive descent into the Pit—no need, then, for

the death of Coll.

And no purpose to it either if Rimmer Dall was right about

one thing more—mat Par Ohmsford, like himself, was a Shad-

owen. For if Par were the very thing they were fighting to protect

the Four Lands against. . .

If Coil had died to save a Shadowen . . .

Unthinkable? He was no longer sure.

So the memories plagued him, bitter and terrible, and he was

awash in a slew of anguish and disbelief and anger. He fought

through that morass, struggled to keep himself afloat, to breathe,

to survive. The fever disappeared, the starkness of his emotions

softened, the edges dulled, and the aching of his heart and body

scarred and healed.

He rose at the end of the two weeks' time, determined to lie

about no longer, and began to walk short distances within the

Mole's dark quarters. He washed at the basin, dressed, and took

his meals at the table. He navigated the lair end to end, doorway

to doorway, testing himself, feeling his way through his weak-

ness. He pushed back the memories; he kept them carefully at

bay. He did so mostly through simple motion. Doing something,

anything, helped to keep him from dwelling so much on what

was over and done. He made note of the smells and tastes that

hung upon the trapped air. He studied the texture of the ruined

furniture, of the various discards of the upper world, and of the

walls and floors themselves. His resolution stiffened. He was

alive and there was a reason for it. He shifted in and out of the

candlelight and shadows, a ghost impelled by an inner vision.

Even when he was too tired to move about further he was

The Druid of Shannara 115

reluctant to rest. He spent hours seated on the edge of his bed

examining the Sword of Shannara, pondering its mystery.

Why had it failed to respond to him when he had touched its

blade to Rimmer Dall?

"Is it possible," Damson asked him at one point, her voice

cautious, "that you have been deceived in some way and that

this is not the Sword of Shannara?''

He thought carefully before he answered. "When I saw it in

the vault. Damson, and then when I touched it, I knew it was

the Sword. I was certain of it. I have sung the story of it so many

times, pictured it so often. There was no doubt in my mind."

He shook his head slowly. "I still feel it to be so."

She nodded. She was seated next to him on the bed, legs

folded beneath her, green eyes intense. "But your anticipation

of finding it might have colored your judgment. Par. You might

have wanted it so badly that you allowed yourself to be fooled.''

"It might have happened like that, yes," he agreed. "Then.

But now, as well? Look at the blade. See here. The handle is

worn, aged—yet the blade shines like new. Like Morgan's

sword—magic protects it. And see the carving of the torch with

its flame ..."

His enthusiasm trailed off with a sigh. He saw the doubt mir-

rored in her eyes. "Yet it doesn't work, it's true. It doesn't do a

thing. I hold it, and it seems right, what it should be—and it

doesn't do anything, give back anything, or let me feel even the

slightest hint of its magic. So how can it be the Sword? "

"Counter-magic," the Mole said solemnly. He was crouched

in a comer of the room close to them, almost invisible in the

shadows. "A mask that hides." He stretched his face with his

hands to change its shape.

Par looked at him and nodded. "A concealment of some

kind. Yes, Mole. It might be. I have considered the possibility.

But what magic exists that is strong enough to suppress that of

the Sword of Shannara? How could the Shadowen produce such

a magic? And if they could, why not simply use it to destroy the

blade? And shouldn't I be able to break past any counter-magic

if I am the rightful bearer of the Sword?"

The Mole regarded him solemnly, voiceless. Damson gave

no reply.

"I don't understand," he whispered softly. "I don't under-

stand what's wrong."

He wondered, too, at how willingly Rimmer Dall had let him

depart with the Sword. If it were truly the weapon it was sup-

216                             The Druid of Shannara

posed to be, the weapon that could destroy the Shadowen, Dall

would surely not have let Par Ohmsford have it. Yet he had given

it to the Valeman without argument, almost with encouragement

in fact, telling him instead that what he had been told of the

Shadowen and the Sword was a lie.

And then virtually proved it by demonstrating that the touch

of the Sword would not harm him.

Par wandered the Mole's quarters with the blade in hand,

hefting it, balancing it, working to invoke the magic that lay

within. Yet the secret of the Sword of Shannara continued to

elude him.

Periodically Damson left their underground concealment and

went up into the streets ofTyrsis. It was odd to think of an entire

city existing just overhead, just beyond sight and sound, with

people and buildings, sunlight and fresh air. Par longed to go

with her, but she wisely counseled against it. He lacked strength

yet for such an undertaking, and the Federation was still search-

ing.

A week after Par had left his sickbed and begun moving about

on his own. Damson returned with disquieting news.

"Some weeks ago,'' she advised, "the Federation discovered

the location of the Jut. A spy in the outlaw camp apparently

betrayed it. An army was dispatched from lyrsis to penetrate

the Parma Key and lay siege. The siege was successful. The Jut

fell. It was taken close to the time. Par, when you escaped the

Pit." She paused. "Everyone found there was killed."

Par caught his breath. "Everyone?"

"So the Federation claims. The Movement, it says, is fin-

ished."

There was momentary silence. They sat at the Mole's long

table surrounded by his voiceless, unseeing children, saucers

and cups set before them. It had become a midaftemoon ritual.

' 'More tea, lovely Damson?'' the Mole asked softly, his furry

face poking up from the table's edge. She nodded without taking

her eyes from Par.

Par frowned. "You don't seem distressed by this," he re-

sponded finally.

"I think it odd that it took weeks for word of this victory to

reach the city."

"So it isn't true, then?"

She bit into one of the crackers that the Mole had provided

for them and chewed. "It may be true that the Jut was taken.

But I know Padishar Creel. It doesn't seem likely that he would

The Druid of Shannara 117

let himself be trapped in his own lair. He's much too clever for

that. More to the point, friends of the Movement here in the city

with whom I spoke tell me that line soldiers with the army claim

they killed almost no one, several dozen at most, and those were

already dead when the Jut's summit was breached. What hap-

pened, then, to the others? There were three hundred men in

that camp. Besides, if the Federation really had Padishar Creel,

they'd spike his head atop the city gates to prove it."

"But there's no message from Padishar?"

She shook her head.

"And no word of Morgan or Steff or any of the others?''

She shook her head again. "They've vanished."

"So." He let the word hang.

She smiled ruefully. They finished their tea without speaking.

The following day, his body stronger, his mind determined,

Par again announced that he wanted to go up into Tyrsis. He

had been shut away long enough; he needed to see something

of his own world again. He needed to feel sunlight on his skin

and breathe fresh air. Besides, as long as he remained hidden

away, nothing was being accomplished. It was time for him to

do something.

Damson objected strongly, pointing out that he was not yet

fully recovered and that it was extremely dangerous for him to

go anywhere. The Federation knew who he was now; his de-

scription was everywhere. After his escape from the Pit, Seekers

had begun searching the lower levels of the old palace and dis-

covered the tunnels leading in. Now they were searching the

tunnels as well. There were miles of tunnel and sewer to search,

but the risk of discovery remained. For now, it was best to lie

low.

In the end, they compromised. Par would be allowed to go

into the tunnels close at hand as long as he was in the company

of Damson or the Mole. He would not go aboveground, even

for a moment. He would go where he was told and do what he

was advised. But at least he would be out of his sickrooms. Par

agreed.

He began his exploration eagerly, studying the lay of the tun-

nels as he trailed after Damson and the Mole, mapping it all out

carefully in his mind. He tired quickly the first day and had to

return early. He was stronger the second and continued to im-

prove. He began to grow comfortable with his understanding of

how the tunnels and sewers wove together—enough so that he

believed he could find his way to the surface on his own should

118                             The Druid of Shannara

the need arise. The Mole advised him cautiously, watched him

with intense, glittery eyes, and nodded in satisfaction. Damson

stayed close, her hands constantly touching him, as if to shield

against danger. He smiled inwardly at their protectiveness.

A week passed away. He was much better now, almost com-

pletely recovered. More than a month had elapsed since he had

been carried beneath the city of Tyrsis and placed in hiding. He

thought constantly of leaving, of picking up again the threads of

his life.

At the same time he found himself wondering where he would

begin.

In the end the decision was made for him.

It was late afternoon ten days after he had begun his explo-

ration of the tunnels surrounding the Mole's lair. He was seated

on the edge of his bed, once again examining the Sword of

Shannara. Damson had gone up to the city to see what news she

could learn of Padishar and the Federation. The Mole was a

furtive shadow as he passed from room to room, straightening,

arranging, and fussing with his possessions. Teatime had come

and gone without the girl, and the Mole was unsettled. Par might

have been if he had allowed himself to dwell on the matter, but

as it was he was consumed with something else. His memory

of the events surrounding the discovery of the Sword of Shan-

nara and the death of Coil was still incomplete, the fragments

piecing themselves back in place only intermittently as he re-

covered to form a complete picture. Now and then a new piece

would recall itself. One did so now.

It had to do with the wishsong, actually. He remembered all

too clearly how his magic had gathered within him, summoned

on its own almost, when Coil—the thing that had been Coil-

threatened him. Then, after Coil was gone and the others of the

Shadowen in the Pit came for him, the wishsong had given him

a naming sword, a weapon unlike anything the magic had ever

produced. It had destroyed the Shadowen effortlessly. For a few

moments he had been possessed, infused with fury and mad-

ness, driven beyond any semblance of reason. He remembered

how that had felt. But there was something more, something he

had forgotten completely until now. When the Shadowen were

destroyed and he had reached down to retrieve the Sword of

Shannara from where it had fallen, the Sword had burned him—

had seared his hand like fire. And instantly his own magic had

died, and he had been unable to summon it again.

The Druid of Shannara 119

Why had the Sword of Shannara done that? What had hap-

pened to produce such a reaction?

He was pondering this, trying to make it fit with what little

he knew of the mystery of the Sword, when Damson burst

through the entry to the Mole's subterranean refuge, long hair

disheveled, her breathing quick and frightened.

"Federation soldiers!" she announced, rushing up to Par,

pulling him to his feet. "Dozens of them, hunting through the

sewers, making a thorough sweep! Not at the palace, but here.

I barely slipped in ahead of them. I don't know if someone

betrayed us or if I was simply seen. But they have found the

entry down and they're coming!'' She paused, steadying herself.

"If we stay, they will find us. We have to get out right away."

Par slung the Sword of Shannara over his shoulder and began

shoving his few possessions into a sling pack. His thoughts scat-

tered. He had been anxious to leave, but not like this.

"Mole!" Damson called out, and the furry fellow skittered

quickly up to her. "You have to come with us. They will find

you as well."

But the Mole shook his head solemnly, and his voice was

calm. "No, beautiful Damson. This is my home. I will stay."

Damson knelt hurriedly. "You can't do that. Mole. You will

be in great danger. These men will hurt you."

Par hurried over. "Come with us. Mole. Please. It is our

fault that you are threatened."

The Mole regarded him quizzically. "I chose to bring you

here. I chose to care for you. I did it for Damson—but for myself

as well. I like you. I like how you make . . . lovely Damson

feel."

Par saw Damson flush out of the comer of his eye and kept

his gaze focused on the Mole.' 'None of that matters now. What

matters is that we are your friends, and friends look out for one

another. You have to come with us."

"I will not go back into the world above," the Mole insisted

quietly. "This is my home. I must look out for it. What of my

children? What ofChalt and little Lida and Westra and Everlind?

Would you have me leave them?"

"Bring them, if you must!" Par was growing desperate.

"We will help you find a new home,'' Damson added quickly.

But the Mole shook his head stubbornly. "The world up there

wants nothing to do with any of us. We do not belong there,

lovely Damson. We belong down here. Do not worry for us. We

know these tunnels. There are places to hide where we will

120 The Druid of Shannara

never be found. We will go to them if we must." He paused.

"You could come with us, both of you. You would be safe."

Damson rose, her brow furrowed. "It will be enough if you

are safe. Mole. We have brought too much danger already into

your life. Just promise me that you will go to one of these hiding

places now. Take your children and stay there until this hunt is

finished and the tunnels are safe again. Promise me."

The Mole nodded. "I promise, sweet Damson."

Damson flew to gather her own possessions, then joined Par

at the entryway. The Mole stood looking at them from out of

the shadows, little more than a pair of glittering eyes lost in the

jumble of discarded goods and faint candlelight.

Damson shouldered her pack. "Goodbye, Mole," she called

softly, then lowered her pack, walked to where he waited, and

reached down to embrace him. When she returned to Par, she

was crying.

"I owe you my life. Mole," Par told him. "Thank you for

everything you have done for me."

One small hand lifted in a faint wave.

' 'Remember your promise!'' Damson warned almost angrily.

"Hide yourself!"

Then they were through the entry and into the tunnel beyond,

slipping soundlessly ahead. Damson carried no torch, but in-

stead produced one of the strange stones that glowed when

warmed by her hand. She used its small, sure light to guide

them, opening her fingers to provide direction, closing them

again to protect against discovery. They moved swiftly away

from the Mole's lair, down one tunnel and into another, then up

a metal ladder and into a pit.

From somewhere distant, they heard the sound of boots

scraping.

Damson led Par away from the sound, along a tunnel that was

dank and slick with moisture. Already the temperature was ris-

ing and the air filling with sewer smells. Rats skittered about in

the dark recesses, and water trickled along the crevices of the

rock. They wound their way steadily through the maze. Voices

reached them once, unfocused, indistinct. Damson ignored

them.

They arrived at a joining of several sewer ways, a ringed pit

with water collecting in a deep, shadowed well. A central con-

vergence, Par thought. He was breathing heavily, his strength

failing already in the face of this sudden activity. The muscles

The Druid of Shannara                             121

of his legs and back ached, and he stretched himself gingerly to

relieve them.

Damson glanced back at him, concern mirrored in her eyes.

She hesitated, then guided him forward.

The voices rose again, closer now, coming from more than

one direction. Torchlight flared behind them. Damson took Par

up another ladder and into a tunnel that was so narrow they were

forced to crawl to get through. Dampness and filth soaked into

Par's clothing and clung to his skin. He forced himself to breathe

through his mouth and then only when he could hold his breath

no longer.

They emerged at the beginning of a wider tunnel, this one

trenched down its middle so that there were stone walkways to

either side of where the sewer water flowed. A pair of smaller

tunnels intersected. There was a flicker of torchlight in each.

Damson hurried on. They rounded a bend and found torchlight

waiting ahead as well. Damson stopped, shoving Par back

against the rock wall.

When she faced him, there was a hint of desperation in her

eyes. "The only way out," she whispered, her mouth close to

his ear, "lies ahead. If we go back, we'll be trapped."

She stepped back so that she could see his response. He

glanced past her to the lights, approaching rapidly now, and

heard the thudding of boots and the first hint of voices. Fear

welled within and threatened to drown him. It felt as if the

Federation had been hunting him forever; it seemed that the

hunting would never stop. So many times he had escaped cap-

ture. It could not go on. Sooner or later his luck was going to

run out. He had barely survived the Pit and the Shadowen. He

was worn and sick at heart and he just wanted to be left alone.

But the Federation would never leave him alone; the cycle was

endless.

For an instant despair claimed him completely. Then abruptly

he thought of Coll. He remembered his vow that someone would

pay for what had become of his brother. Anger replaced the

despair instantly. No, he would not be taken prisoner, he swore

silently. He would not be given over to Rimmer Dall.

He thought momentarily to summon the magic that had aided

him in the Pit, to call forth that fiery sword that would cut his

enemies to pieces. He brushed the impulse aside. It was too

much power to face again so soon and still with so little under-

standing. Cunning, not brute force, was needed here. He re-

membered suddenly how he had escaped from the Federation

The Druid of Shannara

that night in the People's Park. Pulling Damson after him, he

hastened to a shadowed niche in the tunnel wall formed by the

bracing. Crouched in the darkness with the girl, he put a finger

to his lips and signaled for her to remain still.

The Federation soldiers approached, five strong, torches lifted

to provide sufficient light for their search, the metal of their

weapons glinting. Par took a deep ^breath and slipped down

within himself. He would have only one chance. Just one.

He waited until they were almost upon them, then used the

wishsong. He kept it tightly in check, taking no chances with

what it might do, carefully controlling its release. He cast a net

about the soldiers of whispered warnings, a hint of something

that disturbed the waters of the sewer farther ahead, a shadowy

movement. He infused them with a need to hurry if they were

to catch it.

Almost as one, the soldiers broke into a run and hastened

past without looking. The Valeman and the girl pressed back

against the tunnel rock, breathless. In moments the soldiers were

gone.

Slowly Damson and Par came back to their feet. Then Dam-

son reached out impulsively and hugged the Valeman. "You are

well again, Par Ohmsford," she whispered, and kissed him.

"This way, now. We're almost free."

They hurried down the passageway, crossed a confluent, and

entered a dry well. The torches and boots and voices had re-

ceded into silence. There was a ladder leading up. Damson went

first, pausing at the top to push up against a trapdoor. Twilight

seeped through the crack. She listened, peered about, then

climbed through. Par followed.

They stood within a shed, slat-walled and closed away. A

single door led out. Damson moved to it, opened it cautiously

and with Par in tow stepped out.

The city of Tyrsis rose around them, fortress walls, spiraled

towers, jumbled buildings of stone and wood. The air was thick

with smells and sounds. It was early evening, the day gone west,

the city's people turned homeward. Life was slow and weary in

the stillness of the summer heat. Overhead the sky was turning

to black velvet, and stars were beginning to spread like scattered

bits of crystal. A wondrously bright full moon beamed cold

white light across the world.

Par Ohmsford smiled, the aches forgotten, his fears momen-

tarily behind him. He adjusted the weight of the Sword of Shan-

nara across his shoulders. It felt good to be alive.

123

The Druid of Shannara

Damson reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently.

Together they turned down the street and disappeared into the

night.

XII

uickening kept her little company at Hearthstone for

several days to allow Walker Boh to regain his

strength. It returned quickly, the healing process

augmented as much by the girl's small touches and sudden

smiles, by the very fact of her presence, as by nature's hand.

There was magic all about her, an invisible aura that surrounded

her, that reached out to everything with which she came in con-

tact, and that restored and renewed with a thoroughness and

rapidity that was astounding. Walker grew strong again almost

overnight, the effects of his poisoning gone into memory, to

some small extent at least joined by the pain of losing Cogline

and Rumor. The haunted look disappeared from his eyes, and

he was able to put away his anger and his fear, to lock them in

a small dark comer of his mind where they would not disturb

him and yet not be forgotten when the time came to remember.

His determination returned, his confidence, his sense of purpose

and resolve, and he became more like the Dark Uncle of old.

His magic aided him in his recovery, but it was Quickening who

provided the impetus, moment by moment, a warmth that out-

shone the sun.

She did more. The clearing where the cottage had stood be-

came cleansed of its scars and bums, and the signs of the battle

with the Shadowen slowly disappeared. Grasses and flowers

blossomed and filled the emptiness, swatches of color and

patches of fragrance that soothed and comforted. Even the ruins

of the cottage settled into dust and at last faded from view com-

124                             The Druid of Shannara

pletely. It seemed that whenever she chose she could make the

world over again.

Morgan Leah began to talk to Walker when Pe Ell was not

around, the Highlander still uneasy, admitting to Walker that he

was not certain yet who the other really was or why Quickening

had brought him along. Morgan had grown since Walker had

seen him last. Brash and full of himself when he had first come

to Hearthstone, he seemed subdued'now, more controlled, a

cautious man without lacking courage, a well-reasoned man.

Walker liked him better for it and thought that the events that

had conspired to separate him from the Ohmsfords and bring

him to Culhaven had done much to mature him. The Highlander

told Walker what had befallen Par and Coil, of their joining

Padishar Creel and the Movement, their journey to Tyrsis and

attempts to recover the Sword of Shannara from the Pit, their

battles with the Shadowen, and their separation and separate

escapes. He told Walker of the Federation assault on the Jut,

Teel's betrayal, her death and Steff's, and the outlaw's flight

north.

"She gave us all away. Walker," Morgan declared when he

had finished his narrative. "She gave up Granny and Auntie in

Culhaven, the Dwarves working with the Resistance that she

knew about, everyone. She must have given Cogline up as well."

But Walker did not believe so. The Shadowen had known of

Cogline and Hearthstone since Par had been kidnapped from

the valley by Spider Gnomes some months earlier. The Shad-

owen could have come for Cogline at any time, and they had

not chosen to do so until now. Rimmer Dall had told Cogline

before he killed him that the old man was the last who stood

against the Shadowen, and that meant that he believed Cogline

had become a threat. More worrisome to him than how Rimmer

Dall had found them was the First Seeker's claim that the chil-

dren of Shannara were all dead. Obviously he was mistaken

about Walker, but what of Par and Wren, the others of the Shan-

nara line dispatched by the shade of Allanon in search of those

things lost and disappeared that would supposedly save the Pour

Lands? Was Rimmer Dall mistaken about them as well or had

they, too, gone the way of Cogline? He hadn't the means to

discover the truth and he kept what he was thinking to himself.

There was no point in saying anything to Morgan Leah, who

was already struggling with the imagined consequences of his

decision to follow after Quickening.

"I know I should not be here," he told Walker in confidence

The Druid of Shannara                             125

one afternoon. They were sitting within the shade of an aged

white oak, listening to and watching the songbirds that darted

overhead. "I kept my word to Steff and saw to the safety of

Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. But this! What of my promise to

Par and Coil that I would protect them? I shouldn't be here; I

should be back in Tyrsis looking for them!"

But Walker said, "No, Highlander, you should not. What

good could you do even if you found them? How much help

would you be against the Shadowen? You have a chance here to

do something far more important—indeed, a need, if Quick-

ening is right in what she says. Perhaps, too, you may find a

way to restore the magic to your Sword, just as I may find a way

to restore my arm. Slim hopes for those of us with pragmatic

minds, yet hopes nevertheless. We feel her need, Highlander,

and we respond to it; we are her children, aren't we? I think we

cannot dismiss such stirrings so easily. For now at least, we

belong with her."

He had come to believe that, swayed by his midnight talk

with Quickening when he had told her of the Grimpond's vision

and his fear that it would come to pass, won over by her insis-

tence and determination that it would not. Morgan Leah was no

less thoroughly bound, mesmerized by her beauty, chained by

his longings, drawn to her in ways he could not begin to under-

stand but could not deny. For each of the three, the attraction to

Quickening was different. Morgan's was physical, a fascination

with the look and movement of her, with the exquisite line and

curve of her face and body, and with a loveliness that tran-

scended anything he had ever known or even imagined. Walker's

was more ethereal, a sense of kinship with her born of their

common birthright of magic, an understanding of the ways in

which she was compelled to think and act because of it, a bind-

ing together through a common chain of links where each link

was a shared experience of reasoning grown out of the magic's

lure.

Pe Ell's purpose in coming was the most difficult to discern.

He called himself an artist, at various times of sleight-of-hand

and escape, but he was clearly something more. That he was

extremely dangerous was no mystery to anyone, yet he kept any

truths about himself carefully concealed. He seldom spoke to

any of them, even to Quickening, though he was as attracted to

her as either Walker or Morgan and looked after her as carefully

as they. But Pe Ell's attraction was more that of a man for his

possessions than a man for his lover or a kindred spirit. He

226                             The Druid of Shannara

seemed drawn to Quickening in the way of a craftsman to some-

thing he has created and offers up as evidence of his skill. It was

an attitude that Walker found difficult to understand, for Pe Ell

had been brought along in the same way as the rest of them and

had done nothing to make Quickening who or what she was.

Yet the feeling persisted in him that Pe Ell viewed the girl as his

own and when the time was right he would attempt to possess

her.

The days of the week played themselves out until finally

Quickening decided Walker was well enough to travel, and the

company of four departed Hearthstone. Traveling afoot, for the

country would permit nothing better, they journeyed north

through Darklin Reach and the forests of the Anar along the

western edge of Toffer Ridge to the Rabb, crossed where the

waters narrowed, and proceeded on toward the Chamals. Prog-

ress was slow because the country was heavily wooded, choked

with scrub and slashed by ravines and ridges, and they were

forced constantly to alter their direction of travel away from their

intended course to find passable terrain. The weather was good,

however, warm days of sunshine and soft breezes, the summer's.

close, a slow, lazy winding down of hours that made every day

seem welcome and endless. There was sickness even this far

north, wilting and poisoning of the earth and its life, yet not as

advanced as in the middle sections of the Four Lands, and the

smells and tastes, the sights and sounds, were mostly fresh and

new and unfouled. Streams were clear and forests green, and

the life within both seemed unaffected by the gathering darkness

with which the Shadowen threatened to blanket everything.

Nights were spent camped in wooded clearings by ponds or

streams that provided fresh water and often fish for a meal, and

there was talk now and then between the men, even by Pe Ell.

It was Quickening who remained reticent, who kept herself apart

when the day's travel was completed, who secluded herself back

in the shadows, away from the firelight and the presence of the

other three. It wasn't that she disdained them or hid from them;

it was more that she needed the solitude. The wall went up early

in their travels, an invisible distancing that she established the

first night out and did not relinquish after. The three she had

brought with her did not question, but instead watched her and

each other surreptitiously and waited to see what would tran-

spire. When nothing did, thrown together by her forced sepa-

ration from them, they began to loosen up in each other's

presence and to speak. Morgan would have talked in any case,

The Druid of Shannara                             127

an open and relaxed youth who enjoyed stories and the company

of others. It was different with Walker and Pe Ell, both of whom

were by nature and practice guarded and cautious. Conversa-

tions frequently became small battlegrounds between the two

with each attempting to discover what secrets the other hid and

neither willing to reveal anything about himself. They used their

talk as a screen, careful to keep the conversation away from

anything that really mattered.

They all speculated now and again on where they were going

and what they were going to do when they got there. Those

conversations ended quickly every time. No one would discuss

what sort of magic he possessed, though Walker and Morgan

already had some idea of each other's strengths, and no one

would advance any plan of action for retrieving the talisman.

They fenced with each other like swordsmen, probing for

strengths and weaknesses, feinting with their questions and their

suggestions, and trying to discover what sort of iron fortified the

others. Walker and Pe Ell made little progress with each other,

and while it became clear enough that Morgan was there be-

cause of the magic contained in the Sword of Leah it was im-

possible to leam anything substantive with the weapon shattered.

Pe Ell, particularly, asked questions over and over again about

what it was the Sword of Leah could do, what sort of materials

it could penetrate, and how much power it contained. Morgan

used all of his considerable talents to be both charming and

confusing with his answers and to give the impression that the

magic could do either anything or nothing. Eventually, Pe Ell

left him alone.

The close of the first week of travel brought them north above

the Anar to the foothills leading into the Chamals where for

days thereafter they journeyed, always in the shadow of the

mountains as they wound their way northeast toward the Tide-

race. By now, they were beyond the lands any of them knew.

Neither Morgan nor Pe Ell had ever been north of the Upper

Anar, and Walker had not gone farther than the lower regions

of the Chamals. In any case, it was Quickening who led them,

seemingly unperturbed by the fact that she knew less of the

country than any of them, responding to some inner voice that

none of them could hear, to instincts that none of them could

feel. She admitted that she did not know exactly where she was

going, that she could sense enough to lead them for now, but

that eventually they would have to cross the Chamals, and then

she would be lost as the mountains would prove unfathomable

128 The Druid of Shannara

to her. Eldwist lay beyond the Chamals, and they would have

to have help in finding it.

"Have you the magic for that. Walker?" Pe Ell teased when

she finished, but Walker only smiled and wondered the same

thing.

Rain caught up with them as the second week ended and

followed them relentlessly into the third, dampening their trail,

their packs and clothing, and their spirits. Clouds massed over-

head along the line of the peaks and refused to budge, dark and

persistent. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed against the

wall of the mountains as if giants were playing shadow games

with their hands. There were not many travelers this far north;

most of those they encountered were Trolls. Few spoke and

fewer still had anything useful to tell. There were several passes

that led through the mountains a day or two ahead, all of them

beginning at a town high in the foothills called Rampling Steep.

Yes, some of the passes led all the way east to the Tiderace. No,

they had never heard of Eldwist.

"Makes you wonder if it really exists," Pe Ell muttered,

persisting in his role as agitator, a smile creasing his narrow

face, cold and empty and devoid of humor.' 'Makes you think.''

That night, two days short of the completion of their third

week of travel, he broached the subject in a manner that left no

one in doubt as to his feelings. The rains were still falling, a

gray haze that chilled and numbed the senses, and tempers had

grown short.

' 'This town, Rampling Steep,'' he began, an edge to his voice

that brought them all around in the stillness of the twilight,

"that's where we lose any idea of where we're going, isn't it?"

He asked the question of Quickening, who made no response.

"We're lost after that, and I don't like being lost. Maybe it's

time we talked a bit more about this whole business."

"What would you know, Pe Ell?" the girl asked quietly,

unperturbed.

"You haven't told us enough about what lies ahead," he said.

"I think you should. Now."

She shook her head. "You ask for answers I do not have to

give. I have to discover them as well.''

"I don't believe that," he said, shaking his head for empha-

sis, his voice low and hard. Morgan Leah was looking at him

with undisguised irritation and Walker Boh was on his feet. "I

know something about people, even ones who have the magic

The Druid of Shannara                             129

like yourself and I know when they're telling me everything they

know and when they're not. You're not. You better do so."

"Or you might turn around and go back?" Morgan chal-

lenged sharply.

Pe Ell looked at him expressionlessly.

"Why don't you do that, Pe Ell? Why don't you?"

Pe Ell rose, his eyes flat and seemingly disinterested. Morgan

stood up with him. But Quickening stepped forward, coming

swiftly between them, moving to separate them without seeming

to mean to do so, but as if she sought only to face Pe Ell. She

stood before him, small and vulnerable, silver hair swept back

as she tilted her face to his. He frowned and for a moment

looked as if he felt threatened and might lash out. Whip-thin

and sinewy, he curled back like a snake. But she did not move,

either toward him or away, and the tension slowly went out of

him.

"You must trust me," she told him softly, speaking to him

as if he were the only other person alive in all the world, holding

him spellbound by the force of her voice, the intensity of her

black eyes, and the closeness of her body. "What there is to

know of Uhl Belk and Eldwist, I have told you. What there is

to know of the Black Elfstone, I have told you. As much, at

least, as I am given to know. Yes, there are things I keep from

you just as you keep things from me. That is the way of all living

creatures, Pe Ell. You cannot begrudge me my secrets when you

have your own. I keep nothing back that will harm you. That is

the best I can do."

The lean man stared down at her without speaking, every-

thing closed away behind his eyes where his thoughts were at

work.

"When we reach Rampling Steep, we will seek help in find-

ing our way," she continued, her voice still barely above a whis-

per, yet bell-clear and certain. "Eldwist will be known and

someone will point the way.''

And to the surprise of both Walker and Morgan Leah, Pe Ell

simply nodded and stepped away. He did not speak again that

night to any of them. He seemed to have forgotten they existed.

The following day they reached a broad roadway leading west

into the foothills and turned onto it. The roadway wound ahead

snakelike into the light and then into shadow when the sun

dropped behind the peaks of the Chamals. Night descended and

they camped beneath the stars, the first clear sky in many days.

They talked quietly as the evening meal was consumed, a sense

130                             The Druid of Shannara

of balance restored with the passing of the rains. No mention

was made of the previous night's events. Pe Ell seemed satisfied

with what Quickening had told him, although she had told him

almost nothing. It was the way in which she had spoken to him,

Walker thought on reflection. It was the way she employed her

magic to turn aside his suspicion and anger.

They set out again early the following morning, traveling

northeast once more, the sunrise bright and wanning. By late

afternoon they had climbed high into the foothills, close against

the base of the mountains. By sunset they had arrived at the

town of Rampling Steep.

The light was nearly gone by then, a dim glow from behind

the mountains west that colored the skyline in shades of gold

and silver. Rampling Steep was hunkered down in a deep pool

of shadows, cupped in a shallow basin at the foot of the peaks

where the forest trees began to thin and scatter into isolated

clumps between the ridges of mountain rock. The buildings of

the town were a sorry bunch, ramshackle structures built of

stone foundations and wooden walls and roofs with windows

and doors all shuttered and barred and closed away like the eyes

of frightened children. There was a single street that wound

between them as if looking for a way out. The buildings of the

town crouched down on either side save for a handful of shacks

and cottages that were settled back on the high ground like

careless sentries. Everything was desperately in need of repair.

Boards from walls were broken and hung loose, roofing shingles

had slipped away, and porch fronts sagged and buckled. Slivers

of light crept through cracks and crevices. There were teams of

horses hitched to wagons pulled up close against the buildings,

each looking a little more ruined than the one before, and shad-

owed figures on two legs moved between them like wraiths.

As the company drew nearer Walker saw that the figures were

mostly Trolls, great, hulking figures in the twilight, their bark-

like faces impossible to read. A few glanced at the four as they

passed down the roadway, but none bothered to speak or to give

a second look. The sound of voices reached out to them now,

disembodied grunts and mutterings and laughter that the dilap-

idated walls could not keep in. But despite the talk and the

laughter and the movement of men, Rampling Steep had an

empty feel to it, as if it had long ago been abandoned by the

living.

Quickening took them up the roadway without pausing,

glancing neither left nor right, as sure of herself now as she had

The Druid of Shannara                             131

been from the start. Morgan followed no more than a step be-

hind, staying close, keeping watch, being protective although

there was probably no need for him to do so. Pe Ell had drifted

out to the right, distancing himself. Walker trailed.

There was a series of ale houses at the center of Rampling

Steep, and it appeared that everyone had gathered there. Music

came from some, and men lurched and swaggered through the

doors, passing in and out of the light in faceless anonymity. A

few women passed as well, worn and hard looking. Rampling

Steep appeared to be a place of ending rather than beginning.

Quickening took them into the first of the ale houses and

asked the keeper if he knew of someone who could guide them

through the mountains to Eldwist. She asked the question as if

there were nothing unusual about it. She was oblivious to the

stir her presence caused, to the stares that were directed at her

from every quarter, and to the dark hunger that lay behind a

good many of the eyes that fixed upon her, or at least she seemed

to be. Perhaps, Walker thought, as he watched her, it was all

simply of no consequence to her. He saw that no one tried to

approach and no one threatened. Morgan stood protectively at

her back, facing that unfriendly, rapacious gathering—as if one

man could make a difference if they should decide to do some-

thing—but it was not the Highlander that deterred them or Walker

or even the forbidding Pe Ell. It was the girl, a creature so

stunning that like a thing out of some wild imagining it could

not be disturbed for fear it would prove false. The men gathered

in the ale house watched, that crowd of wild-eyed men, not quite

believing but not willing to prove themselves wrong.

There was nothing to be learned at the first ale house, so they

moved on to the next. No one followed. The scenario of the first

ale house was repeated at the second, this one smaller and closer

inside, the smoke of pipes and the smell of bodies thicker and

more pungent. There were Trolls, Gnomes, Dwarves, and Men

in Rampling Steep, all drinking and talking together as if it were

the natural order of things, as if what was happening in the rest

of the Four Lands was of no importance here. Walker studied

their faces dispassionately, their eyes when their faces told him

nothing, and found them secretive and scared, the faces and

eyes of men who lived with hardship and disappointment yet

ignored both because to do otherwise would mean they could

not survive. Some seemed dangerous, a few even desperate. But

there was an order to life in Rampling Steep as there was in most

places, and not much happened to disturb that order. Strangers

132                             The Druid of Shannara

came and went, even ones as striking as Quickening, and life

went on nevertheless. Quickening was something like a falling

star—it happened a few times and you were lucky if you saw it

but you didn't do anything to change your life because of it.

They moved on to a third ale house and then a fourth. At each

ale house, the answers to Quickening's questions were the same.

No one knew anything of Eldwist and Uhl Belk and no one

wanted to. There were maybe eight drinking houses in all along

the roadway, most offering beds upstairs and supplies from

storerooms out back, a few doubling as trading stations or ex-

changes. Because Rampling Steep was the only town for days

in either direction that fronted the lower side of the Chamals

and because it was situated where the trails leading down out of

the mountains converged, a lot of traffic passed through, trap-

pers and traders mostly, but others as well. Every ale house was

filled and most gathered were temporary or sometime residents

on their way to or from somewhere else. There was talk of all

sorts, of business and politics, of roads traveled and wonders

seen, of the people and places that made up the Four Lands.

Walker listened without appearing to and thought that Pe Ell

was doing the same.

At the fifth ale house they visited—Walker never even noticed

the name—they finally got the response they were looking for.

The keeper was a big, ruddy-complexioned fellow with a scarred

face and a ready smile. He sized up Quickening in a way that

made even Walker uncomfortable. Then he suggested that the

girl should take a room with him for a few days, just to see if

maybe she might like the town enough to stay. That brought

Morgan Lean about with fire in his eyes, but Quickening

screened him away with a slight shifting of her body, met the

keeper's bold stare, and replied that she wasn't interested. The

keeper did not press the suggestion. Instead, to everyone's

amazement in the face of the rejection he had just been handed,

he told her that the man she was seeking was down the street at

the Skinned Cat. His name, he said, was Homer Dees.

They went back out into the night, leaving the keeper looking

as if he wasn't at all sure what he had just done. The look was

telling. Quickening had that gift; it was the essence of her magic.

She could turn you around before you realized it. She could

make you reveal yourself in ways you had never intended. She

could make you want to please her. It was the kind of thing a

beautiful woman could make a man do, but with Quickening it

was something far more than her beauty that disarmed you. It

The Druid of Shannara 133

was the creature within, the elemental that seemed human but

was far more, an embodiment of magic that Walker thought

reflected the father who had made her. He knew the stories of

the King of the Silver River. When you met him, you told him

what he wished to know and you did not dissemble. His pres-

ence alone was enough to make you want to tell him. Walker

had seen how Morgan and Pe EU and the men in the ale houses

responded to her. And he as well. She was most certainly her

father's child.

They found the Skinned Cat at the far end of the town, tucked

back within the shadow of several massive, ancient shagbarks.

It was a large, rambling structure that creaked and groaned sim-

ply from the movement of the men and women inside and

seemed to hang together mostly out of stubbornness. It was

as crowded as the others, but there was more space to fill and it

had been divided along its walls into nooks and partitions to

make it feel less bamlike. Lights were scattered about like dis-

tant friends reaching out through the gloom, and the patrons

were gathered in knots at the serving bar and about long tables

and benches. Heads turned at their entrance as they had turned

at the other ale houses, and eyes watched. Quickening moved

to find the keeper, who listened and pointed to the back of the

room. There was a man sitting at a table there, alone in a shad-

owed nook, hunched over and faceless, pushed away from the

light and the crowd.

The four walked over to stand before him.

"Homer Dees," Quickening said in that silken voice.

Massive hands brought an ale mug slowly away from a

bearded mouth and back to the tabletop, and a large, shaggy

head lifted. The man was huge, a great old bear of a fellow with

the better part of his years behind him. There was hair all over

him, on his forearms and the backs of his hands, at his throat

and on his chest, and on his head and face, grown over him so

completely that except for his eyes and nose his features were

obscured almost entirely. It was impossible to guess how old he

was, but the hair was silver gray, the skin beneath it wrinkled

and browned and mottled, and the fingers gnarled like old roots.

' 'I might be," he rumbled truculently from out of some giant's

cave. His eyes were riveted on the girl.

"My name is Quickening," she said. "These are my com-

panions. We search for a place called Eldwist and a man named

Uhl Belk. We are told you know of both.''

'' You were told wrong."

134                             The Druid of Shannara

"Can you take us there?" she asked, ignoring his response.

"I just said . . ."

"Can you take us there?" she repeated.

The big man stared at her without speaking, without moving,

with no hint of what he was thinking. He was like a huge, settled

rock that had survived ages of weathering and erosion and found

them to be little more than a passing breeze. "Who are you?"

he asked finally. "Who, other than your name?"

Quickening did not hesitate. "I am the daughter of the King

of the Silver River. Do you know of him, Homer Dees?"

The other nodded slowly. "Yes, I know him. And maybe you

are who you say. And maybe I am who you think. Maybe I even

know about Eldwist and Uhl Belk. Maybe I'm the only one who

knows—the only one who's still alive to tell about it. Maybe I

can even do what you ask and take you there. But I don't see the

point. Sit."

He gestured at a scattering of empty chairs, and the four

seated themselves across the table from him. He looked at the

men in turn, then his eyes returned to the girl. "You don't look

as if you're someone who doesn't know what they're doing. Why

would you want to find Uhl Belk?"

Quickening's black eyes were fathomless, intense. "Uhl Belk

stole something that doesn't belong to him. It must be re-

turned."

Homer Dees snorted derisively. "You plan to steal it back,

do you? Or just ask him to return it? Do you know anything

about Belk? I do."

"He stole a talisman from the Druids."

Dees hesitated. His bearded face twitched as he chewed on

something imaginary. "Girl, nobody who goes into Eldwist ever

comes out again. Nobody except me, and I was just plain lucky.

There's things there that nothing can stand against. Belk, he's

an old thing, come out of some other age, full of dark magic

and evil. You won't ever take anything away from him, and he

won't ever give anything back.''

"Those who are with me are stronger than Uhl Belk,'' Quick-

ening said. "They have magic as well, and theirs will overcome

his. My father says it will be so. These three," and she named

them each in turn, "will prevail."

As she spoke their names, Homer Dees let his eyes shift to

identify each, passing over their faces quickly, pausing only

once—so briefly that Walker wasn't sure at first that there had

been a pause at all—on Pe Ell.

The Druid of Shannara                             135

Then he said, "These are men. Uhl Belk is something more.

You can't kill him like an ordinary man. You probably can't

even find him. He'll find you and by then it will be too late."

He snapped his fingers and sat back.

Quickening eyed him momentarily across the table, then

reached out impulsively and touched the table's wooden surface.

Instantly a splinter curled up, a slender stem forming, leafing

out and finally flowering with tiny bluebells. Quickening's smile

was as magical as her touch. "Show us the way into Eldwist,

Homer Dees," she said.

The old man wet his lips. "It will take more than flowers to

do in Belk," he said.

"Perhaps not," she whispered, and Walker had the feeling

that for a moment she had gone somewhere else entirely.

"Wouldn't you like to come with us and see?"

Dees shook his head.' 'I didn't get old being stupid,'' he said.

He thought a moment, then sat forward again. "It was ten years

ago when I went into Eldwist. I'd found it some time before

that, but I knew it was dangerous and I wasn't about to go in

there alone. I kept thinking about it though, wondering what

was in there, because finding out about things is what I do. I've

been a Tracker, a soldier, a hunter, everything there is to be,

and it all comes down to finding out what's what. So I kept

wondering about Eldwist, about what was in there, all those old

buildings, all that stone, everywhere you looked. I went back

finally because I couldn't stand not knowing anymore. I took a

dozen men with me, lucky thirteen of us. We thought we'd find

something of value in there, a place as secret and old as that.

We knew what it was called; there's been legends about it for

years in the high country, over on the other side of the mountains

where some of us had been. The Trolls know it. It's a penin-

sula—just a narrow strip of land, all rock, jutting out into the

middle of the Tiderace. We went out there one morning, the

thirteen of us. Full of life. By dawn of the next day, the other

twelve were dead, and I was running like a scared deer!','

He hunched his shoulders. "You don't want to go there," he

said. "You don't want anything to do with Eldwist and Uhl

Belk."

He picked up his mug, drained it, and slammed it down pur-

posefully. The sound brought the keeper immediately, a fresh

drink in hand, and away again just as quickly. Dees never looked

at him, his eyes still fixed on Quickening, The evening was

wearing on toward midnight by now, but few among the ale-

136                             The Druid of Shannara

house customers had drifted away. They clustered as they had

since sunset, since long before in some cases, their talk more

liquid and disjointed than earlier and their posture more relaxed.

Time had lost its hold on them momentarily, victims of all forms

of strife and misadventure, refugees huddled within the shelter

of their intoxication and their loose companionship. Dees was

not one of them; Walker Boh doubted that,he ever would be.

Quickening stirred. "Homer Dees," she said, saying his

name as if she were examining it, a young girl trying on an old

man's identity. "If you do nothing, Uhl Belk will come for

you."

For the first time, Dees looked startled.

"In time, he will come," Quickening continued, her voice

both gentle and sad. "He advances his kingdom beyond what it

was and it grows more swiftly with the passing of time. If he is

not stopped, if his power is not lessened, sooner or later he will

reach you."

"I'll be long dead," the old man said, but he didn't sound

sure.

Quickening smiled, magical once again, something perfect

and wondrous. "There are mysteries that you will never solve

because you will not have the chance," she said. "That is not

the case with Uhl Belk. You are a man who has spent his life

finding out about things. Would you stop doing so now? How

will you know which of us is right about Uhl Belk if you do

not come with us? Do so, Homer Dees. Show us the way into

Eldwist. Make this journey.''

Dees was silent for a long time, thinking it through. Then he

said, "I would like to believe that monster could be undone by

something . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Do you need to?" the girl asked softly.

Dees frowned, then smiled, a great, gap-toothed grin that

wreathed his broad face in weathered lines. "Never have," he

said and laughed. The grin disappeared. "This is a hard walk

we're talking about, not some stroll across the street. The passes

are tough going any time of the year and once we're over and

beyond, we'll be on our own. No help over there. Nothing but

Trolls, and they don't care spit about outsiders. Nothing to help

us but us. Truth is, none of you look strong enough to make

it."

"We might be stronger than you think," Morgan Lean said

quietly.

Dees eyed him critically. "You'll have to be," he said. "A

The Druid of Shannara                             137

lot stronger." Then he sighed. "Well, well. Come to this, has

it? Me, an old man, about to go out into the far reaches one

more time." He chuckled softly and looked back at Quickening.

"You have a way about you, I'll say that. Talk a nut right out of

its shell. Even a hard old nut like me. Well, well."

He shoved his chair back from the table and came to his feet.

He was even bigger standing than he had been sitting, like some

pitted wall that refused to fall down even after years of enduring

adverse weather. He stood before them, hunched over and hoary

looking, his big arms hanging loose, and his eyes squinting as

if he had just come into the light.

"All right, I'll take you," he announced, leaning forward to

emphasize his decision, keeping his voice low and even. "I'll

take you because it's true that I haven't seen everything or found

all the answers and what's life for if not to keep trying—even

when I don't believe that trying will be enough. You meet me

back here at sunrise, and I'll give you a list of what you need

and where to find it. You do the gathering, I'll do the organizing.

We'll give it a try. Who knows? Maybe some of us will even

make it back."

He paused and looked at them as if seeing them for the first

time. There was a hint of laughter around the edges of his voice

as he said, "Won't it be a good joke on Belk if you really do

have the stronger magic?"

Then he eased his way out from behind the table, shambled

across the room and out the door, and disappeared into the

night.

XIII

omer Dees was as good as his word, meeting them

early the next morning to direct preparations for the

journey that would take them across the Chamals and

138                             The Druid of Shannara

into Eldwist. He met them at the door of the rooming house on

which they had finally settled for their night's lodgings, a creaky

two-storied rambler that in former times had been first a resi-

dence then later a store, and without bothering to explain how

he had found them provided a list of supplies they would need

and directions on where to obtain them. He was even more

rumpled and bearish seeming than he had been the previous

night, wider than the door he stood befdre and hunched over

like some sodden jungle shrub. He muttered and grumbled, and

his instructions were delivered as if he were suffering from too

much drink. Pe Ell thought him a worthless sot, and Morgan

Lean found him just plain unpleasant. Because they could see

that Quickening expected it, they accepted their instructions

wordlessly. A little of Homer Dees went a long way. But Walker

Boh saw something different. To begin with, he had worried

enough the previous night about Dees to take Quickening aside

after the old man's departure and suggest to her that maybe this

wasn't the man they were looking for. After all, what did they

know about Dees beyond what he had told them? Even if he

actually had gone into Eldwist, that was ten years ago. What if

he had since forgotten the way? What if he remembered just

enough to get them hopelessly lost? But Quickening had assured

him in that way she had of dispelling all doubt that Homer Dees

was the man they needed. Now, as he listened to the old Tracker,

he was inclined to agree. Walker had made a good many jour-

neys in his time and he understood the kinds of preparations that

were required. It was clear that Dees understood as well. For

all of his gruff talk and his grizzled look. Homer Dees knew

what he was doing.

The preparation time passed quickly. Walker, Morgan, and

Pe Ell gathered together the foodstuffs, bedding, canvases,

ropes, climbing tools, cooking implements, clothing, and sur-

vival gear that Dees had sent them to find. Dees himself ar-

ranged for pack animals, shaggy mules that could carry the

heavy loads they would need and weather the mountain storms.

They brought everything to an old stable situated at the north

end of Rampling Steep, a building that seemed to serve Dees as

both workshop and home. He lived in the tack room and when

he wasn't issuing orders or checking on their efforts to carry

them out he kept himself there.

Quickening was even more reclusive. When she wasn't with

them, which was most of the time, they had no idea where she

was. She seemed to drift in the manner of an errant cloud, more

The Druid of Shannara                             139

shadow than substance. She might have walked the woodlands

away from the town, for she would have been more comfortable

there. She might have simply hidden away. Wherever she went,

she disappeared with the completeness of the sun at day's end,

and they missed her as much. Only when she returned did they

feel warmed again. She spoke to them each day, always singly,

never together. She gave them a measure of herself, some small

reassurance that they could not quite define but not mistake

either. Had she been someone else, they would have suspected

her of game playing. But she was Quickening, the daughter of

the King of the Silver River, and there was no time or wish or

even need for games in her life. She transcended such behavior,

and while they did not fully understand her and sensed that

perhaps they never would, they were convinced that deception

and betrayal were beyond her. Her presence alone kept them

together, bound them to her so that they would not turn away.

She was incandescent, a creature of overpowering brilliance, so

magical that they were as captivated by her as they would have

been by a rainbow's arc. She caused them to look for her every-

where. They watched for her to appear and when she did found

themselves beguiled anew. They waited for her to speak to them,

to touch them, for even the briefest look. She spun them in the

vortex of her being, and even as they found themselves spell-

bound they yearned for it to go on. They watched each other

like hawks, uncertain of their roles in her plans, of their uses,

and of their needs. They fought to learn something of her that

would belong only to them and they measured the time they

spent with her as if it were gold dust.

Yet they were not entirely without doubts or misgivings. In

the secrecy of their most private thoughts they still worried—

about her wisdom in selecting them, about her foresight in the

quest they had agreed to undertake, and about whether wanting

to be near her was sufficient reason for them to go on.

Pe Ell's ruminations were the most intense. He had come on

this journey in the first place because the girl intrigued him,

because she was different from the others he had been sent to

kill, because he wanted to learn as much about her as he could

before he used the Stiehl, and because he wanted to discover,

too, if this talisman of which she spoke, this Black Elfstone,

was as powerful as she believed and if so whether he could make

it his own. It had annoyed him when she had insisted on bringing

along the brash Highlander and the tall, pale one-armed man.

He would have preferred that they go alone, because in truth he

140                             The Druid of Shannara

believed that he was all she would need. Yet he had held his

tongue and remained patient, convinced that the other two would

cause him no problem.

But now there was Homer Dees to contend with as well, and

there was something about this old man that bothered Pe Ell. It

was odd that Dees should trouble him like this; he seemed a

worthless old coot. The source of his discomfort, he supposed,

was the fact that he was beginning to feel crowded. How many

more did the giri intend to add to their little company? Soon, he

would be stumbling over cripples and misfits at every turn, none

of them worth even the small effort it would eventually require

to eliminate them. Pe Ell was a loner; he did not like groups.

Yet the girl persisted in swelling their number and all for a rather

vague purpose. Her magic seemed almost limitless; she could

do things no one else could, not even him. He was convinced

that despite her protestations to the contrary her magic was suf-

ficient to guide them into Eldwist. Once there, she had no need

of anyone but him. What was the purpose then of including the

others?

Two nights earlier, just before the rains had ended, Pe Ell had

confronted her out of frustration and discontent, intending to

force from her the truth of the matter. Quickening had turned

him aside somehow, calmed him, stripping him of his determi-

nation to unmask her. The experience had left him perplexed at

the ease with which she had manipulated him, and for a time

afterward he had thought simply to kill her and be done with it.

He had discovered her purpose, hadn't he? Why not do as Rim-

mer Dall had advised and be finished with this business, forget

the Black Elfstone, and leave these fools to chase after it without

him? He had decided to wait. Now he was glad he had. For as

he considered the irritating presence of Dees and the others, he

began to think that he understood their purpose. Quickening

had brought them to serve as a diversion, nothing more. After

all, what other service could they provide? One's strength was

contained in a broken sword, the other's in a broken body. What

were such paltry magics compared to that of the Stiehl? Wasn't

he the assassin, the master killer, the one whose magic could

bring down anything? That was most certainly why she had

brought him. She had never said as much, but he knew it was

so. Rimmer Dall had been wrong to think she would not rec-

ognize what he was. Quickening, with her formidable insight

and intuition, would not have missed such an obvious truth.

Which was why she had brought him, of course—why she had

The Druid of Shannara                             141

come to him before any of the others. She needed him to kill

Belk; he was the only one who could. She needed the magic of

the Stiehl. The others. Dees included, were so much kindling

to be thrown into the fire. In the end, she would have to depend

on him.

Morgan Leah, if Pe Ell had bothered to ask him, might have

agreed. He was the youngest and despite his brash attitude the

most insecure. He was still closer to being a boy than a grown

man, a fact he was forced to admit to himself if to no one else.

He had traveled fewer places and done fewer things. He knew

less about practically everything. Almost the whole of his life

had been spent in the Highlands of Leah, and although he had

found ways to make occupation of his homeland unpleasant for

the Federation officials who sought to govern, he had done little

else of note. He was hopelessly in love with Quickening and he

had nothing to offer her. The Sword of Leah was the weapon

she needed in her quest for the Black Elfstone, the talisman

whose magic could defeat Uhl Belk. Yet the Sword had lost the

better part of its magic when it had shattered against the rune-

marked doors leading from the Pit, and what remained was

insufficient and, worse, unpredictable. Without it, he did not

see how he would be of much use in this business. Perhaps

Quickening was right when she said he might regain the Sword's

magic if he went with her. But what would happen if she were

threatened before then? Who among them would protect her?

He had only a shattered Sword. Walker Boh, without his arm,

seemed less formidable than he had before, a man in search of

himself. Homer Dees was old and gray. Only Pe EU, with his

still secret magic and enigmatic ways, seemed capable of de-

fending the daughter of the King of the Silver River.

Nevertheless Morgan was detemiined to continue the quest.

He was not entirely certain why. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps

a stubborn refusal to give up on himself. Whatever it was, it

kept alive a dim hope that somehow he would prove useful to

this strange and wondrous girl he had fallen in love with, that

he would somehow be able to protect her against whatever

threatened, and that with time and patience he would discover

a way to restore the magic to the Sword of Leah. He worked

diligently at the tasks Homer Dees gave him to aid in outfitting

the little company for its journey north, trying a little harder

most times than the others. He thought of Quickening con-

stantly, playing with images of her in his mind. She was a gift,

he knew. She was the possibility of everything he had always

142 The Druid of Shannara

hoped might one day be. It was more than the fact that she was

beautiful, or the look or feel or way of her, or that she had

rescued him from the Federation prisons or restored the Meade

Gardens to the Dwarves of Culhaven. It was what he sensed lay

between them, an intangible bond different than that linking her

to the others. It was there when she spoke to him, when she

called him by his first name as she did not do with the others.

It was there in the way she looked at him. It was something

incredibly precious.

He made up his mind that he would not let it go, whatever it

was, whatever it might turn out to be. It became, to his surprise

and even his joy, the most important thing in his life.

Walker Boh had hold of something as well, but it was not as

easily identifiable. As with Morgan's determination to love and

Pe Ell's to kill, there was a bond that linked him to Quickening.

There was that strange kinship between them, that sharing of

magics that gave them insights into each other no one else pos-

sessed. Like the Highlander, and the assassin, he believed his

relationship with her different than that of the others, more per-

sonal and important, more lasting. He did not feel love for her

as Morgan did and he had no wish to possess her like Pe Ell.

What he needed was to understand her magic because in doing

so he was convinced he would come to understand his own.

The dilemma lay in determining whether or not this was a

good idea. It was not enough that his need was compelling; the

deaths of Cogline and Rumor had made it that. He knew that he

needed to understand the magic if he were to destroy the Shad-

owen. But he was frightened still of the consequences of such

knowledge. With the magic, there was always a price. He had

been intrigued with it since he had discovered he possessed it—

and frightened of it as well. Fear and curiosity had pulled him

in two directions all his life. It had been so when his father had

told him of his legacy, when he had struggled unsuccessfully to

make his home with the people of Shady Vale, when Cogline

had come to him and offered to teach him how the magic worked,

and when he had learned of the existence of the Black Elfstone

from the pages of the Druid History and known that the charge

given him by the shade of Allanon might be fulfilled. It was

always the same. It was so now.

He had worried for a time that he had lost the magic entirely,

that it had been destroyed by the poison of the Asphinx. But

with the healing of his arm, his sense of himself had returned

and with it an awareness that the magic had survived. He had

The Druid of Shannara                             143

tested it on this journey in little ways. He knew it was there, for

example, when something within him reacted to Quickening's

presence, to the way she used her own magic to bind Morgan

and Pe Ell and himself to her, and to the effect she had on others.

It was there, too, in the way he sensed things. He had caught

the hesitation in the look Homer Dees gave Pe Ell—just a hint

of recognition. He could feel the interaction between the mem-

bers of the company and Quickening, a sense of the feelings

that lay just beneath the surface of the looks and words they

exchanged. He had insight, intuition, and foreknowledge in some

cases. There was no doubt. The magic was still there.

Yet it was weakened and no longer the formidable weapon it

had once been. That gave Walker pause. Here was an opportu-

nity to move away from its influence, from the shadow it cast

upon his life, from the legacy of Brin Ohmsford and the Druids,

and from everything that had made him the Dark Uncle. If he

did not probe, there would be no hurt. The magic would lie

dormant, he believed, if it were not stirred. If left alone, it might

let him break free.

But without it the Shadowen would be left free as well. And

what purpose would it serve to make this journey into Eldwist

and confront Uhl Belk if he did not intend to employ the magic?

What use would he ever make of the Black Elfstone?

So they prowled within cages of their own making. Walker

Boh and Morgan Leah and Pe Ell, suspicious cats with sharp

eyes and hungry looks, their minds made up as to what they

would do in the days that lay ahead and at the same time still

quizzing themselves to make certain. They kept each other's

company without ever getting close. Supplies were gathered and

packs assembled, and the time passed quickly. Homer Dees

seemed satisfied, but he was the only one. The other three chafed

against the constraints of their uncertainty, impatience, and doubt

despite their resolve to do otherwise, and nothing they could do

or think would relieve them. There was a darkness that lay ahead,

building upon itself like a stormcloud, and they could not see

what waited beyond. They could see it rising up before them

like a wall, a coming together of event and circumstance, an

explosion of magic and raw strength, a revelation of need and

purpose. Black and impenetrable, it would seek to devour them.

When it did, they sensed, not everyone would survive.

Three days later they departed Rampling Steep. They went

out at sunrise, the skies thick with clouds that scraped against

the mountains and shut away the light. The smell of rain was in

144                             The Druid of Shannara

the air, and the wind was sharp and chill as it swept down off

the peaks. The town slept as they climbed away from it, hun-

kered down against the dark like a frightened animal, closed

and still. A few forgotten oil lamps burned on porches and

through the cracks of windows, but the people did not stir. As

Walker Boh passed into the rocks he looked back momentarily

at the cluster of colorless buildings and was reminded of locust

shells, hollow and abandoned and fascinatingly ugly.

The rain began at midday and continued for a week without

stopping. At times it slowed to a drizzle but never quit com-

pletely. The clouds remained locked in place overhead, thunder

rumbled all about, and lightning flashed in the distance. They

were cold and wet, and there was nothing they could do to

relieve their discomfort. The foothills were forested lower down,

but bare at the higher elevations. The wind swept over them

unhindered and without the sun's warmth remained frost-edged

and chill. Homer Dees set a steady pace, but the company could

not travel rapidly while afoot and with mules in tow, and prog-

ress was slow. At night they slept beneath canvas shelters that

kept the rain off and were able to strip away their wet clothing

and wrap themselves in blankets. But there was no wood for a

fire and the dampness persisted. They woke cramped and cold

each morning, ate because it was necessary, and pressed ahead.

The foothills gave way to mountains after several days, and

the path became less certain. The trail they had been following,

broad and clear before, disappeared completely. Dees took them

into a maze of ridges and defiles, along the rims of broad slides,

and around massive boulders that would have dwarfed the build-

ings of Rampling Steep. The slope steepened dangerously, and

they were forced to watch their footing at every turn. The clouds

swept downward, filling the air with clinging moisture that

sought to envelop them, that twisted about the rocks like some

huge, substanceless worm, its skin a damp ooze. Thunder

crashed, and it seemed as if they were at its center. Rain de-

scended in torrents. They lost sight of everything that lay be-

hind, and they could not discern what waited ahead.

Without Dees to guide them, they would have been lost. The

Chamals swallowed them as an ocean would a stone. Everything

looked the same. Cliffs were impassable walls through the mist

and rain, canyons dropped into vast chasms of black emptiness,

and the mountains spread away in a seemingly endless huddle

of snowcapped peaks. It was so cold their skin grew numb. At

times the rain turned to sleet and even to snow. They wrapped

The Druid of Shannara 145

themselves in great cloaks and heavy boots and trudged on. -

Through it all Homer Dees remained steady and certain, a great

shaggy presence they quickly learned to rely upon. He was at

home in the mountains, comfortable despite the forbidding cli-

mate and terrain, at peace with himself. He hummed as he went,

lost in private reveries of other times and places. He paused now

and then to point something out that they would not have oth-

erwise seen, determined that nothing should be missed. That he

understood the Chamals was clear from the beginning; that he

loved them soon became apparent. He spoke freely of that love,

of the mix ofwildness and serenity he found there, and of their

vastness and permanency. His deep voice rumbled and shook

as if filled with the tremors of the storms and the wind. He told

stories of what life was like in the Chamals and he gave them a

part of himself in the telling.

He gained no converts, however—except, perhaps, for Quick-

ening, who as usual gave no indication of what she was thinking.

The other three simply grumbled now and again, kept a studied

silence the rest of the time, and fought a hopeless battle to ignore

their discomfort. The mountains would never be their home; the

mountains were simply a barrier they needed to get past. They

labored stoically and waited for the journey to come to an end.

It did not do so. Instead it went on rather as if it were a lost

dog searching for its master, the scent firmly in mind, yet dis-

tracted by other smells. The rains diminished and finally passed,

but the air stayed frosty, the wind continued to buffet them, and

the mountains stretched on. The men, the girl, and the animals

trudged forward, shoved and pushed by the weather and the

land. Midway through the second week Dees said they were

starting down, but there was no way of knowing if that were

true; nothing in the rocks and scrub about them indicated it was

so. Wherever they looked, the Charnals were still there.

Twelve days out they were caught in a snowstorm high in a

mountain pass and nearly died. The storm came on them so

quickly that even Dees was caught by surprise. He quickly roped

them together and because there was no shelter to be found in

the pass he was forced to take them through. The air became a

sheet of impenetrable white and everything about them disap-

peared. Their feet and hands began to freeze. The mules broke

away in terror when part of the slope slid away, braying and

stumbling past the frantic men until they tumbled over the

mountainside and were lost. Only one was saved, and it carried

no food.

The Druid of Shannara

They found shelter, survived the storm, and pushed on. Even

Dees, who had shown himself to be the most durable among

them, was beginning to tire. The remaining mule had to be

destroyed the next day when it stepped in a snow-covered crev-

ice and broke its leg. The heavy weather gear had been lost, and

they were reduced to backpacks which contained a meager por-

tion of food and water, some rope, and not much else.

That night the temperature plummeted. They would have fro-

zen if Dees had not managed to find wood for a fire. They sat

huddled together all night, pushed close to the flames, rubbing

their hands and feet, talking to stay awake, afraid if they didn't

they would die in their sleep. It was an odd tableau, the five

of them settled back within the rocks, crouched close together

about the tiny blaze, still wary of one another, protective of

themselves, and forced to share space and time and circum-

stance. Yet the words they spoke revealed them, not so much

for what was said as for how and when and why. It drew them

together in a strange sort of way, bonding them as not much else

could, and while the closeness that developed was more physical

than emotional and decidedly limited in any case, it at least left

them with a sense of fellowship that had been missing before.

The weather improved after that, the clouds breaking up and

drifting on, the sun returning to warm the air, and the snow and

rain disappearing at last. The Chamals began to thin ahead of

them, and there was no mistaking the fact that they had begun

their descent. Trees returned, a scattering at first, then whole

groves, and finally forests for as far as the eye could see, spilling

down into distant valleys. They were able to fish and hunt game

for food, to sleep in warm arbors, and to wake dry and rested.

Spirits improved.

Then, fifteen days out of Rampling Steep, they arrived at the

Spikes.

They stood for a long time on a ridgeline and looked down

onto the valley. It was nearing midday, the sun bright, the air

warm and sweet smelling. The valley was broad and deep and

shadowed by mountains that rose about it on either side. It was

shaped like a runnel, wide mouth at the south end and narrow

at the north where it disappeared into a line of distant hills. Trees

grew thick upon its floor, but down its middle a jagged ridgeline

rose, and the trees there had suffered a blight that had left them

stripped of their foliage, bare trunks and branches jutting up-

ward like the hackles on the back of a cornered animal.

The Druid of Shannara                             147

Like spikes, Morgan Lean thought.

He glanced at Homer Dees.' 'What's down there?'' he asked.

His attitude toward the old Tracker had changed during the past

two weeks. He no longer thought of him as an unpleasant old

man. It had taken him longer than Walker Boh, but he had come

to recognize that Dees was a thorough professional, better at

what he did than anyone the Highlander had ever encountered.

Morgan would have liked to be just half as good. He had begun

paying attention to what the old man said and did.

Dees shrugged. "I don't know. It's been ten years since I

passed this way.'' Dees, for his part, liked Morgan's enthusiasm

and willingness to work. He liked the fact that Morgan wasn't

afraid to learn. He narrowed his brows thoughtfully as he re-

turned the other's glance. "I'm just being careful, Highlander."

They studied the valley some more.

"Something is down there," Pe Ell said quietly.

No one disputed him. Pe Ell had remained the most secretive

among them, yet they knew enough of him by now to trust his

instincts.

"We have to pass this way," Dees said finally, "or skirt the

mountains on one side or the other. If we do that, we'll lose a

week's time.''

They continued their vigil for long moments without speak-

ing, thinking the matter through separately, until finally Homer

Dees said, "Let's get on with it."

They worked their way downward, discovering a pathway that

led directly toward the center of the valley and the barren ridge.

They moved quietly. Dees leading. Quickening behind him,

Morgan, Walker, and Pe Ell bringing up the rear. They passed

out of sunlight into shadow, and the air turned cool. The valley

rose up to meet them and for a time swallowed them up. Then

the trail lifted onto the ridgeline, and they found themselves in

the midst of the blighted trees. Morgan studied the lifeless skel-

etons fora time, the blackening of the bark, the wilting of leaves

and buds where there were any to be seen at all, and turned

instinctively to look at Walker. The Dark Uncle's pale, drawn

face lifted, and the hard eyes stared back at him. They were both

thinking the same thing. The Spikes had been sickened in the

same way as the rest of the land. The Shadowen were at work

here, too.

They crossed a band of sunlight that had slipped through a

break in the peaks and then dipped downward into a hollow. It

was abnormally still there, a pool of silence that magnified the

148                             The Druid of Shannara

sound of their footsteps as they worked their way ahead. Morgan

had grown increasingly edgy, reminded of his encounter with

the Shadowen on the journey to Culhaven with the Ohmsfords.

His nose tested the air for the rank smell that would warn of the

other's presence, and his ears strained to catch even the smallest

sound. Dees moved ahead purposefully, Quickening's long hair

a slender bit of silver trailing after. Neither exhibited any sign

of hesitation. Yet there was tension in all of them'; Morgan could

feel it.

They passed out of the hollow and back onto the open ridge.

For a time they were high enough above the trees that Morgan

could see the valley from end to end. They were more than

halfway through now, approaching the narrow end of the runnel

where the mountains split apart and the trees thinned with the

beginning of the hills beyond. Morgan's edginess began to dis-

sipate and he found himself thinking of home, of the Highlands

of Leah, and of the countryside he had grown up in. He missed

the Highlands, he realized—much more than he would have

expected. It was one thing to say that his home no longer be-

longed to him because the Federation occupied it; it was another

to make himself believe it. Like Par Ohmsford, he lived with

the hope that things might one day change.

The trail dipped downward again and another hollow ap-

peared, this one shaggy with brush and scrub that had filled the

gaps left with the passing of the trees. They moved into it, shov-

ing their way past brambles and stickers, angling for the open

spaces where the trail wound ahead. Shadows lay thick across

the hollow as the light began to creep westward. The forests

about them formed a wall of dark silence.

They had just entered a clearing at the center of the hollow

when Quickening suddenly slowed. "Stand still," she said.

They did so instantly, looking first at her, then at the brush

all about them. Something was moving. Figures began to detach

themselves, breaking their concealment, moving into the light.

There were hundreds of them—small, squat creatures with hairy,

gnarled limbs and bony features. They looked as if they had

grown out of the scrub, so like it were they, and it was only the

short pants and weapons that seemed to separate the two. The

weapons were formidable—short spears and strangely shaped

throwing implements with razor edges. The creatures held them

threateningly as they advanced.

"Urdas," Homer Dees said quietly. "Don't move."

The Druid of Shannara                             149

No one did, not even Pe Ell who was crouched in much the

same way as the creatures who menaced him.

"Who are they?" Morgan asked of Dees, at the same time

backing protectively toward Quickening.

"Gnomes," the other said. "With a little Troll thrown in.

No one has ever been sure of the exact mix. You don't find them

anywhere south of the Chamals. They're Northlanders as much

as the Trolls. Tribal like the Gnomes. Very dangerous."

The Urdas were all about them now, closing off any chance

of escape. They had thickly muscled bodies with short, pow-

erful legs and long arms, and their faces were blunt and expres-

sionless. Morgan tried to read something of what they might be

thinking in their yellow eyes, but failed.

Then he noticed that they were all looking at Quickening.

"What do we do?" he asked Dees in an anxious whisper,

worried now.

Dees shook his head.

The Urdas moved to within a dozen feet of the company and

stopped. They did not threaten; they did not speak. They simply

stood there, watching Quickening for the most part, but waiting

as -well.

Waiting/or what? Morgan asked himself silently.

And at almost the same moment the brush parted, and a

golden-haired man stepped into view. Instantly the Urdas

dropped to one knee, heads bowed in recognition. The golden-

haired man looked at the five beleaguered members of the sur-

rounded company and smiled.

"The King has come," he said brightly. "Long live the

King."

XIV

Would you lay down your weapons, please?" the

man called out to them cheerfully. ' 'Just put them

on the ground in front of you. Don't worry. You

can pick them up again in a moment."

He sang:

"Nothing given freely is ever given up.

It will be given back to you

Through others' love and trust.''

The five from Rampling Steep stared at him.

"Please?" he said. "It will make things so much easier if

you do."

Dees glanced at the others, shrugged, and did as he was

asked. Neither Walker nor Quickening carried any weapons.

Morgan hesitated. Pe Ell didn't move at all.

"This is only for the purpose of demonstrating your friend-

ship," the man went on encouragingly. "If you don't lay down

your weapons, my subjects won't allow me to approach. I'll

have to keep shouting at you from over here.''

He sang:

' 'High, low, wherever we may go,

I'll have to keep on shouting out to you.''

Morgan, after a sharp glance from Dees, complied. It was

hard to tell what Pe Ell might have done if Quickening hadn't

turned to him and whispered, "Do as he says.'' Pe Ell hesitated

even then before unstrapping his broadsword. The look on his

hard face was unmistakable. The broadsword notwithstanding,

250

The Druid ofShannara 151

Morgan was willing to bet that Pe EU still had a weapon con-

cealed on him somewhere.

"Much better," the stranger announced. "Now step back a

pace. There!" He beckoned, and the Urdas came quickly to

their feet. He was a man of average height and build, his move-

ments quick and energetic, and his clean-shaven face handsome

beneath his long blond hair. His blue eyes twinkled. He gestured

at the Urdas and then at the weapons on the ground. The odd-

looking creatures muttered agreeably and heads began to nod.

He sang again, a short piece that the Urdas seemed to recognize,

his voice full and rich, his handsome face beaming. When he

finished, the circle parted to let him pass. He came directly up

to Quickening, bowed low before her, took her hand in his own

and kissed it. "My lady," he said.

He sang:

' 'Five travelers crossed field and stream

And Eastland forests wide.

They crossed the Chamal Mountain range

To gain the Northland side.

Tra-la-la-diddie-oh-day.

Five travelers came from afar

And entered Urda Land.

They braved the dangers of the Spikes

To meet King Carisman.

Tra-la-la-diddie-oh-day.''

He bowed to Quickening again. "That is my name, Lady.

Carisman. And yours?"

Quickening gave it to him and those of her companions as

well. She seemed unconcerned that he knew. "Are you indeed

a king?" she asked.

Carisman beamed. "Oh, yes, Lady. I am king of the Urdas,

lord of all those you now survey and many, many more. To be

honest, I did not seek out the job. It was thrust upon me, as

they say. But come now. Time enough to tell that tale later. Pick

up your weapons—carefully, of course. We mustn't alarm my

subjects; they are very protective of me. I shall take you to my

palace and we shall talk and drink wine and eat exotic fruits and

fishes. Come now, come. It shall be a royal feast!"

Dees tried to say something, but Carisman was gone as swiftly

as a feather caught by the wind, dancing away, singing some

152                             The Druid of Shannara

new song, and beckoning them to follow. The Tracker, Morgan,

and Pe Ell retrieved their weapons and with Walker and Quick-

ening in tow, started after. Urdas surrounded them on all sides,

not pressing m on them, but staying uncomfortably close nev-

ertheless. The odd creatures did not speak, but merely gestured

to one another, their eyes shifting from Carisman to the travel-

ers, inquisitive and cautious. Morgan returned the gaze of those

closest and tried a smile. They did not smile back.

The gathering went down off the Spikes into the forested

valley below, west of the ridgeline where the shadows were

deepest. There was a narrow trail that wound through the trees,

and the procession followed it dutifully, Carisman in the lead,

singing as he went. Morgan had encountered some odd char-

acters in his time, but Carisman struck him as odder than most.

He could not help wondering why anyone, even the Urdas, would

make this fellow their king.

Dees had dropped back a pace to walk with him, and he asked

the old Tracker. "As I said, a tribal folk. Superstitious, like

most Gnomes. Believe in spirits and wraiths and other non-

sense. ''

"But Carisman?" Morgan questioned.

Dees shook his head. "I admit I can't figure it. Urdas usually

don't want anything to do with ouflanders. This one seems goofy

as a week-old loon, but he's obviously found some way of gain-

ing their respect. I never heard of him before this. Don't think

anyone has."

Morgan peered over the heads of the Urdas at the prancing

Carisman. "He seems harmless enough."

Dees snorted. "He probably is. Anyway, it isn't him you have

to worry about.''

They worked their way west toward the wall of the mountains,

daylight fading rapidly now, dusk spreading until the whole of

the forestland was enveloped. Morgan and Dees continued to

exchange comments, but the other three kept their thoughts to

themselves. Walker and Pe Ell were gaunt shadows. Quickening

a burst of sunlight. The Urdas filtered out about them, appearing

and disappearing in the heavy brush, strung out ahead, behind,

and to either side. Carisman's words had suggested that they

were guests, but Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they

were really prisoners.

After a little more than a mile, the trail ended at a clearing in

which the village of the Urdas was settled. A stockade had been

built to protect the village from raiders, and its gates opened

The Druid of Shannara                             153

now to let the hunters and those they shepherded pass through.

A sea of women, children, and old people waited within, bony-

faced and staring, their voices a low, inaudible buzz. The village

consisted of a cluster of small huts and open-sided shelters sur-

rounding a lodge constructed of notched logs and a shingled

roof. Trees grew inside the stockade, shading the village and

providing supports fortreeways and lifts. There were wells scat-

tered about and smokehouses for curing meat. The Urdas, it

appeared, had at least rudimentary skills.

The five from Rampling Steep were taken to the main lodge

and led to a platform on which a rough-hewn chair draped with

a garland of fresh flowers was situated. Carisman seated himself

ceremoniously and beckoned his guests to take their places next

to him on mats. Morgan and the others did as they were asked,

keeping a wary eye on the Urdas, a large number of whom

entered as well and took seats on the floor below the platform.

When everyone was settled, Carisman came to his feet and sang

some more, this time in a tongue that Morgan found impossible

to identify. When he was finished, a handful of Urda women

began to bring out platters of food.

Carisman sat down. "I have to sing to get them to do any-

thing," he confided. "It is so tedious sometimes."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Homer Dees asked

bluntly. "Where did you come from?"

"Ah," Carisman said with a sigh.

He sang:

"There was a young twiesmith from Rampling,

Who felt it was time to take wing.

He decided to hike,

North into the Spikes,

To the Urdas, who made him their king!"

He grimaced. "Not very original, I'm afraid. Let me ti\

again."

He sang:

"Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,

There are worlds to discover more 'n what meets the eye.

Far reaches to travel and people to see,

Wonders to gaze on and lives for to lead,

A million adventures to try.

154                             The Druid of Shannara

Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,

A tunesmith 's a man who must sing for to fly.

He searches the byways/or songs telling truth,

Seeks out hidden meanings and offers of proof,

Of the reasons for being alive.

Come hither, my fellows, and lady, come nigh,

For life's to be found in the rivers and skies.

In the forests and mountains that lie far away,

In the creatures that frolic and gambol and play,

And beg me my songs to apply.''

' 'Considerably better, don't you think?'' he asked them, blue

eyes darting from one face to the next, anxiously seeking their

approval.

"A tunesmith, are you?" Dees grunted. "From Rampling

Steep?"

"Well, by way of Rampling Steep. I was there a day or so

once several years back." Carisman looked sheepish. "The

rhyme works, so I use it." He brightened. "But a tunesmith,

yes. All my life. I have the gift of song and the wit to make use

of it. I have talent."

"But why are you here, Carisman?" Quickening pressed.

Carisman seemed to melt. "Lady, chance has brought me to

this place and time and even to you. I have traveled the better

part of the Four Lands, searching out the songs that would give

wings to my music. There is a restlessness in me that will not

let me stay in any one place for very long. I have had my chances

to do so, and even ladies who wished to keep me—though none

was as beautiful as you. But I keep moving. I wandered first

west, then east, and finally north. I passed through Rampling

Steep and found myself wondering what lay beyond. Finally I

set out across the mountains to see."

"And survived?" Homer Dees asked incredulously.

"Just barely. I have a sense of things; it comes from my

music, I think. I was well provisioned, for I had traveled in

rough country before. I found my way by listening to my heart.

I had the good fortune of encountering favorable weather.

When I was finally across—exhausted and close to starving, I

admit—I was found by the Urdas. Not knowing what else to do,

I sang for them. They were enchanted by my music and they

made me their king.''

The Druid of Shannara 155

"Enchanted by limericks and snippets of rhyme?" Dees re-

fused to let go of his skepticism. "A bold claim, Carisman."

Carisman grinned boyishly. ' 'Oh, I don't claim to be a better

man than any other."

He sang:

' Wo matter how high or lofty the throne,

What sits on it is the same as your own."

He brushed the matter aside. "Eat now, you must be very

hungry after your journey. There is as much food and drink as

you want. And tell me what brings you here. No one from the

Southland ever comes this far north—not even the trappers. I

never see anyone except Trolls and Gnomes. What brings you?''

Quickening told him that they were on a quest, that they had

come in search of a talisman. It was more than Morgan would

have revealed, but it seemed to matter little to Carisman, who

did not even bother asking what the talisman was or why they

needed it but only wanted to know if Quickening could teach

him any new songs. Carisman was quick and bright, yet his

focus was quixotic and narrow. He was like a child, inquisitive

and distracted and full of the wonder of things. He seemed to

genuinely need approval. Quickening was the most responsive,

so he concentrated his attention on her and included the others

in his conversation mostly by implication. Morgan listened dis-

interestedly as he ate, then noticed that Walker wasn't listening

at all, that he was studying the Urdas below the platform. Mor-

gan began studying them as well. After a time he saw that they

were seated in carefully defined groups, and that the foremost

group consisted of a mixed gathering of old and young men to

whom all the others deferred. Chiefs, thought Morgan at once.

They were talking intently among themselves, glancing now

and then at the six seated on the platform, but otherwise ignoring

them. Something was being decided, without Carisman.

Morgan grew nervous.

The meal ended and the empty plates were carried away.

There was a sustained clapping from the Urdas, and Carisman

rose to his feet with a sigh. He sang once more, but this time

the song was different. This time it was studied and intricate, a

finely wrought piece of music filled with nuances and subtleties

that transcended the tune. Carisman's voice filled the lodge, it

soared and swept aside everything that separated it from the

senses, reaching down through the body to embrace and cradle

256 The Druid of Shannara

the heart. Morgan was astounded. He had never been so af-

fected—not even by the music of the wishsong. Par Ohmsford

could capture your feeling for and sense of history in his song,

but Carisman could capture your soul.

When the tunesmith was finished, there was utter silence.

Slowly he sat down again, momentarily lost in himself, still

caught up in what he had sung. Then the Urdas began thumping

their hands on their knees approvingly.

Quickening said, "That was beautiful, Carisman."

"Thank you. Lady," he replied, sheepish again. "I have a

talent for more than limericks, you see."

The silver-haired girl looked suddenly at Walker. "Did you

find it beautiful, Walker Boh? "

The pale face inclined in thought. "It makes me wonder why

someone who possesses such abilities chooses to share them

with so few." The dark eyes fixed Carisman.

The tunesmith squirmed uncomfortably. "Well." The words

suddenly would not seem to come.

"Especially since you said yourself that there is a restlessness

in you that will not allow you to stay in one place. Yet you stay

here among the Urdas."

Carisman looked down at his hands.

"They will not let you leave, will they?" Walker said quietly.

Carisman looked as if he would sink into the earth. "No,"

he admitted reluctantly. ' 'For all that I am, a king notwithstand-

ing, I remain a captive. I am allowed to be king only so long as

I sing my songs. The Urdas keep me because they believe my

song is magic."

"And so it is," Quickening murmured so softly that only

Morgan, seated next to her, heard.

"What about us?" Dees demanded sharply. He shifted his

bulk menacingly. ' 'Are we captives as well? Have you brought

us here as guests or prisoners, King Carisman? Or do you even

have a say in the matter?"

"Oh, no!" the tunesmith exclaimed, clearly distraught. "I

mean, yes, I have a say in the matter. And, no, you are not

prisoners. I need only speak with the council, those men gath-

ered there below us." He pointed to the group that Walker and

Morgan had been observing earlier. Then he hesitated as he

caught the black look on Pe Ell's face and came hurriedly to his

feet. "I shall speak to them at once. If need be, I shall sing. A

special song. You shall not remain here any longer than you

wish, I promise. Lady, believe me, please. Friends."

The Druid of Shannara                              157

He rushed from the platform and knelt next to the members

of the Urda council, addressing them earnestly. The five who

waited to discover whether they were guests or prisoners looked

at one another.

"I don't think he can do anything to help us," Homer Dees

muttered.

Pe Ell edged forward. "If I put a knife to his throat they will

release us quick enough.''

"Or kill us on the spot," Dees replied with a hiss. The two

glared at each other.

' 'Let him have his chance,'' Walker Boh said, looking calmly

at the assemblage. His face was unreadable.

"Yes," Quickening agreed softly. "Patience."

They sat silently after that until Carisman returned, detaching

himself from the council, stepping back onto the platform to

face them. His face told them everything. "I. . .1 have to ask

you to stay the night," he said, struggling to get the words out,

discomforted beyond measure. "The council wishes to ... de-

bate the matter a bit. Just a formality, you understand. I simply

require a little time ..."

He trailed off uncertainly. He had positioned himself as far

as possible from Pe Ell. Morgan held his breath. He didn't think

the distance separating the two offered the tunesmith much pro-

tection. He found himself wondering, almost in fascination, what

Pe Ell would do, what he could in fact do against so many.

He would not find out on this occasion. Quickening smiled

reassuringly at Carisman and said, "We will wait."

They were taken to one of the larger huts and given mats and

blankets for sleeping. The door was closed behind them, but

not locked. Morgan didn't think it mattered either way. The hut

sat in the center of the village, and the village was enclosed by

the stockade and filled with Urdas. He had taken the trouble of

asking Dees about the strange creatures during dinner. Dees had

told him that they were a tribe of hunters. The weapons they

carried were designed to bring down even the swiftest game.

Two-legged intruders, he said, would not prove much of a chal-

lenge.

Pe Ell stood looking out through chinks in the hut's mud

walls. "They are not going to let us leave," he said. No one

spoke. "It doesn't matter what that play-king says, they'll try to

keep us. We had better get away tonight."

Dees sat back heavily against one wall. "You make it sound

as if leaving were an option."

158                             The Druid of Shannara

Pe Ell turned. ' 'I can leave whenever I choose. No prison can

hold me."

He said it so matter-of-facdy that the others, save Quicken-

ing, just stared at him. Quickening was looking off into space.

"There is magic in his song," she said.

Morgan remembered her saying something like that before.

"Real magic?'' he asked.

' 'Close enough to be called so. I do not understand its source;

I am not even certain what it can do. But a form of magic nev-

ertheless. He is more than an ordinary tunesmith."

"Yes," Pe Ell agreed. "He is a fool."

"We might think you one as well if you persist in suggesting

we can get out of here without him," Homer Dees snapped.

Pe Ell wheeled on him. There was such rage in his face that

Dees came to his feet much more quickly than Morgan would

have thought possible. Walker Boh, a dark figure at the hut's far

end, turned slowly. Pe Ell seemed to consider his options, then

stalked to where Quickening stood looking at him from beside

Morgan. It was all the Highlander could do to stand his ground.

Pe Ell's black look dismissed him with barely a flicker of a

glance and fell instead on the girl.

"What do we need any of them for?" he whispered, his voice

a hiss of fury. "I came because you asked me to; I could easily

have chosen otherwise."

"I know that," she said.

' 'You know what I am.'' He bent close, his gaunt face hawk-

like above her, his lean body taut. "You know I have the magic

you need. I have all the magic you need. Be done with them.

Let us go on alone.''

Around him, the room seemed to have turned to stone, the

others frozen into statues that could only observe and never act.

Morgan Leah's hand moved a fraction of an inch toward his

sword, then stopped. He would never be quick enough, he knew.

Pe Ell would kill him before he could pull the blade clear.

Quickening seemed completely unafraid. "It is not yet time

for you and I, Pe Ell,'' she whispered back, her voice soothing,

cool. Her eyes searched his. "You must wait until it is."

Morgan did not understand what she was saying and he was

reasonably certain that Pe EU didn't either. The narrow face

pinched and the hard eyes flickered. He seemed to be deciding

something.

"My father alone has the gift of foresight," Quickening said

softly.' 'He has foreseen that I shall have need of all of you when

The Druid of Shannara 159

we find Uhl Belk. So it shall be—even though you might wish

it otherwise, Pe Ell. Even though."

Pe Ell shook his head slowly. "No, girl. You are wrong. It

shall be as I choose. Just as it always is." He studied her mo-

mentarily, then shrugged. "Nevertheless, what difference does

it make? Another day, another week, it shall all come out the

same in the end. Keep these others with you if you wish. At

least for now."

He turned and moved away by himself, settling into a dark-

ened comer.

The others stared after him in silence.

Night descended and the village of the Urdas grew quiet as

its inhabitants drifted off to sleep. The five from Rampling Steep

huddled within the darkened confines of their shelter, separated

from each other by the privacy of their thoughts. Homer Dees

slept. Walker Boh was a shapeless bundle in the shadows, un-

moving. Morgan Leah sat next to Quickening, neither speaking,

eyes closed against the faint light of moon and stars that pene-

trated from without.

Pe Ell watched them all and raged silently against circum-

stance and his own stupidity.

What was wrong with him? he wondered bleakly. Losing his

temper like that, exposing himself, nearly ruining his chance of

accomplishing what he had set out to do. He was always in

control. Always! But not this time, not when he was giving way

to frustration and impatience, threatening the girl and all of her

precious charges as if he were some schoolboy bully.

He was calm now, able to analyze what he had done, to sift

through his emotions and sort out his mistakes. There were

many of both. And it was the girl who was responsible, who

undid him each time, he knew. She was the bane of his exis-

tence, an irritation and an attraction pulling him in opposite

directions, a creature of beauty and life and magic that he would

never understand until the moment he killed her. His yearning

to do so grew stronger all the time, and it was becoming increas-

ingly difficult to restrain. Yet he knew he must if he expected to

gain possession of the Black Elfstone. The difficulty was in

knowing how to withstand his obsession for her in the mean-

time. She incensed him, enflamed him, and left him twisted

inside like fine wire. Everything that seemed obvious and un-

complicated to him appeared to be just the opposite to her. She

insisted on having these fools accompany them—the one-armed

260                             The Druid of Shannara

man, the Highlander, and the old Tracker. Shades! Useless/oils!

How much longer would he have to tolerate them?

He felt the anger begin again and moved quickly to quell it.

Patience. Her word, not his—but he had better try it on for size.

He listened to the sounds of the Urdas without, the

guards, more than a dozen of them, crouched down in the

darkness about the hut. He couldn't see them, but he could

feel their presence. His instincts told him they were there.

There was no sign of the tunesmith yet—not that it made

any difference. The Urdas weren't about to set them free.

5"o many intrusions on what really matters!

His sharp eyes fixed momentarily on Dees. That old man. He

was the worst of the lot, the hardest to figure out. There was

something about him . . .

He caught himself again. Be patient. Wait. Events would un-

doubtedly continue to conspire to force him to do otherwise,

but he must overcome them. He must remain m control.

Except that it was so difficult here. This was not his country,

these were not his people, and the familiarity of surroundings

and behavior, of people and customs that he had always been

able to rely upon before was missing here. He was scaling a cliff

he had never seen before and the footing was treacherous.

Perhaps staying in control this time would prove impossible.

He shook his head uneasily. The thought stayed with him and

would not be dispelled.

It was after midnight when Carisman reappeared. Quickening

brought Morgan awake with a touch of her hand to his cheek.

He came to his feet and found the others already standing. The

door unlatched and opened, and the tunesmith slipped inside.

"Ah, you are awake. Good." He moved at once to stand next

to Quickening, hesitant to speak, uncertain in their presence,

like a boy forced to confess something he would prefer to keep

secret.

"What has the council decided, Carisman?" Quickening

prodded him gently, taking his arm and bringing him about to

face her.

The tunesmith shook his head "Lady, the best and the worst,

I am afraid." He glanced at the others. "All of you are free to

go when you choose." He turned back to Quickening. "Except

you."

Morgan remembered at once the way the Urdas had looked

The Druid of Shannara                             161

at Quickening, recalling their fascination with her. "Why?" he

demanded heatedly. "Why isn't she released as well?"

Carisman swallowed. "My subjects find her beautiful. They

think she may be magic, like myself. They . . . wish her to

marry me."

"Well now, this is an inventive tale!" Homer Dees snapped,

his bristled face screwing up in disbelief.

Morgan seized Cansman by the tunic front. "I have seen the

way you look at her, tunesmith! This is your idea!"

"No, no, I swear it is not!" the other cried in dismay, his

handsome face contorted in horror. "I would never do such a

thing! The Urdas ..."

"The Urdas couldn't care less about..."

"Let him go, Morgan," Quickening said, interrupting, her

voice low and steady. Morgan released his gnp and stepped back

instantly. "He speaks the truth," she said. "This is not his

doing."

Pe Ell had shoved forward like a knife blade. "It doesn't

matter whose doing it is." His eyes fixed Carisman. "She goes

with us."

Cansman's face went pale, and his eyes shifted anxiously

from one determined face to the next. "They won't let her," he

whispered, his gaze dropping. "And if they don't, she will end

up like me."

He sang:

"Long ago, in times gone by, there was a fair, fair maiden.

She wandered fields and forest glens,

With all the world her haven.

A mighty Lord a fancy took, demanded that she wed him.

When she refused, he took her home,

And locked her in his dungeon.

She pined away for what she'd lost, a life beyond her prison.

She promised everything she owned,

If she could have her freedom.

A fairy imp her plea did hear and quickly broke the door in.

Yet freed her not as she had asked,

But claimed her his possession.

The moral is: If you offer to give up everything,

Be prepared to keep nothing. "

162 The Druid of Shannara

Homer Dees threw up his hands in exasperation. "What is it

you are trying to say, Carisman?" he snapped.

"That your choices often undo you. That seeking everything

sometimes costs you everything." It was Walker Boh who an-

swered. "Carisman thought that in becoming a king he would

find freedom and has instead found only shackles."

"Yes," the tunesmith breathed, sadness flooding his finely

chiseled features. "I don't belong here any more than Quick-

ening. If you would take her when you go, then you must take

me as well!"

"No!" Pe Ell cried instantly.

"Lady," the tunesmith begged. "Please. I have been here

for almost five years now—not just several as I claimed. I am

caged as surely as that maiden in my song. If you do not take

me with you, I shall be kept captive until I die!"

Quickening shook her head. "It is dangerous where we go,

Carisman. Far more dangerous than it is here. You would not

be safe."

Carisman's voice shook. "It doesn't matter! I want to be

free!"

"No!" Pe Ell repeated, circling away like a cat. "Think,

girl! Yet another fool to burden us? Why not an army of them,

then? Shades!"

Morgan Leah was tired of being called a fool and was about

to say so when Walker Boh caught him firmly by the arm and

shook his head. Morgan frowned angrily, but gave way.

"What do you know of the country north, Carisman?" Hor-

ner Dees asked suddenly, his bulk backing the tunesmith away.

"Ever been there?"

Carisman shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter what's there.

It is away from here." His eyes darted furtively. "Besides, you

have to take me. You can't get away if I don't show you how."

That stopped them. Everyone turned. "What do you mean?"

Dees asked cautiously.

' 'I mean that you will be dead a dozen times over without my

help," the tunesmith said.

He sang:

"Sticks and stones will break your bones,

But only if the spears don't.

There's traps and snares placed everywhere,

And none to warn if I don't.

Fiddle-de-diddle-de-de."

The Druid of Shannara                             163

Pe Ell had him by the throat so quickly that no one else had

time to intervene. "You'll tell everything you know before I'm

done with you or wish you had!'' he threatened furiously.

But Carisman held steady, even forced back as he was, the

hard eyes inches from his own. "Never," he gasped. "Unless

. . . you agree ... to take me with you."

His face lost all its color as Pe Ell's hand tightened. Morgan

and Homer Dees glanced uncertainly at each other and then at

Quickening, hesitating in spite of themselves. It was Walker Boh

who stepped in. He moved behind Pe Ell and touched him in a

manner they could not see. The gaunt man jerked back, his face

rigid with surprise. Walker was quickly by him, his arm coming

about Carisman and lifting him away.

Pe Ell whirled, cold rage in his eyes. Morgan was certain he

was going to attack Walker, and nothing good could come of

that. But Pe Ell surprised him. Instead of striking out, he simply

stared at Walker a moment and then turned away, his face sud-

denly an expressionless mask.

Quickening spoke, diverting them. "Carisman," she said.

' 'Do you know a way out of here?''

Carisman nodded, swallowing to speak. "Yes, Lady."

"Will you show it to us?"

"If you agree to take me with you, yes." He was bargaining

now, but he seemed confident.

"Perhaps it would be enough if we helped you escape the

village?"

"No, Lady. I would lose my way and they would bring me

back again. I must go to wherever it is that you are going—far

away from here. Perhaps," he said brightly, "I may turn out to

be of some use to you."

When pigsfty, Morgan thought uncharitably.

Quickening seemed undecided, strange for her. She looked

questioningly at Homer Dees.

"He's right about the Urdas bringing him back," the old

Tracker agreed. "Us, too, if we aren't quick enough. Or smart

enough."

Morgan saw Pe Ell and Walker Boh glaring at each other from

opposite comers of the hut—harsh, dark wraiths come from

exacting worlds, their silent looks full of warning. Who would

survive a confrontation between those two? And how could the

company survive while they were at such odds?

Then suddenly an idea occurred to him.' 'Your magic. Quick-

ening!" he burst out impulsively. "We can use your magic to

164                             The Druid of Shannara

escape! You can control all that grows within the earth. That is

enough to make the Urdas give way. With or without Carisman,

we have your magic!''

But Quickening shook her head and for an instant she seemed

almost to dissolve. "No, Morgan. We have crossed the Chamals

into the country of Uhl Belk, and I cannot use my magic again

until after we find the talisman. The Stone King must not dis-

cover who I am. If I use the magic, he will kn6w.''

The hut went silent again. "Who is the Stone King?" Car-

isman asked, and they all looked at him.

"I say we take him," Homer Dees said finally, bluff and to

the point as always. His bulky figure shifted. "If he really can

get us out of here, that is."

"Take him," Morgan agreed. He grinned. "I like the idea

of having a king on our side as well—even if all he can do is

makeup songs."

Quickening glanced at the silent antagonists behind her. Pe

Ell shrugged his indifference. Walker Boh said nothing.

"We will take you, Carisman," Quickening said, "though I

am afraid to guess what this choice might cost you."

Carisman shook his head emphatically.' 'No price is too great,

Lady, I promise you." The tunesmith was elated.

Quickening moved toward the door. "The night flies. Let us

hurry."

Carisman held up his hand. "Not that way, Lady."

She turned. "There is another?"

"Indeed." He was beaming mischievously. "As it happens,

I am standing on it."

v

ffSF1— he Spikes and the lands surrounding were filled with

[•    tribes of Urdas and other species of Gnomes and

^^W" Trolls. Since they were all constantly at war with one

another, they kept their villages fortified. A lot of hard lessons

had been learned over the years, and one of them was that a

stockade needed more than one way out. Carisman's bunch had

dug tunnels beneath the village that opened through hidden trap-

doors into the forests beyond. If the village were threatened by

a prolonged siege or by an army of overwhelming numbers, the

inhabitants still had a means of escape.

One of the entrances to ihe tunnels that lay inside the village

was under the floor of the hut in which the five from Rampling

Steep had been placed. Carisman showed them where it lay,

buried a good foot beneath the earthen floor, sealed so tightly

by weather and time that it took Homer Dees and Morgan work-

ing together to pull it free. It had clearly never seen use and

perhaps been all but forgotten. In any case, it was a way out and

the company was quick to seize upon it.

"I would feel better about this if we had a light,'' Dees mut-

tered as he stood looking down into the blackness.

' 'Here,'' Walker Boh whispered impatiently, moving forward

to take his place. He slipped down into the blackness where the

walls of the tunnel shielded his actions and made a snapping

motion with his fingers. Light blazed up about his hand, an aura

of brightness that had no visible source. The Dark Uncle has at

least a little of his magic left, Morgan thought.

"Carisman, is there more than one passage down here?"

Walker's voice sounded hollow. The tunesmith nodded. "Then

stay close to me and tell me how we are to go."

They dropped into the hole one by one, Carisman following

265

166                             The Druid of Shannara

Walker, Quickening and Morgan after them. Dees and Pe Ell

last. It was black in the tunnel, even with Walker's light, and

the air was close and full of earth smells. The tunnel ran in a

straight line, then branched in three directions. Carisman took

them right. It branched again, and this time he took them left.

They had gone far enough, Morgan thought, that they must be

beyond the stockade walls. Still the tunnel continued. Tree roots

penetrated its walls, tangling their arms and feet, slowing their

progress. At times the roots grew so thick that they had to be

severed to permit passage. Even when the passageway was com-

pletely clear, it was hard for Homer Dees to fit through. He

grunted and huffed and pushed ahead determmedly. Other tun-

nels intersected and passed on. Dirt and silt from their move-

ments began to choke the air, and it grew hard to breathe.

Morgan buried his face in his tunic sleeve and would not allow

himself to think about what would happen if the tunnel walls

collapsed.

After what seemed an impossibly long time they slowed and

then stopped altogether. "Yes, this is it," Morgan heard Car-

isman say to Walker. He listened as the two struggled to free

the trapdoor that sealed them in. They labored in wordless si-

lence, grunting, digging, and shifting about in the cramped

space. Morgan and the others crouched down in the blackness

and waited.

It took them almost as long to loosen the trapdoor as it had

to navigate the tunnel. When it finally fell back, fresh air rushed

in and the six scrambled up into the night. They found them-

selves in a heavily wooded glen, the limbs of the trees grown so

thick overhead that the sky was masked almost completely.

They stood wordlessly for a moment, breathing in the clean

air, and then Dees pushed forward. "Which way to the Spikes?"

he whispered anxiously to Carisman.

Carisman pointed and Dees started away, but Pe Ell reached

out hurriedly and yanked him back.' 'Wait!'' he warned.' 'There

will be a watch!''

He gave the old Tracker a withering look, motioned them all

down and melted into the trees. Morgan sank back against the

trunk of a massive fir, and the others became vague shadows

through the screen of its shaggy limbs. He closed his eyes wea-

rily. It seemed days since he had rested properly. He thought

about how good it would feel to sleep.

But a touch on his shoulder brought him awake again almost

immediately. "Easy, Highlander," Walker Boh whispered. The

The Druid of Shannara                             167

tall man slid down next to Morgan, dark eyes searching his own.

"You tread on dangerous ground these days, Morgan Lean. You

had better watch where you step."

Morgan blinked. "What do you mean?"

Walker's face inclined slightly, and Morgan could see the

lines of tension and strain that creased it. "Pe Ell. Stay away

from him. Don't taunt him, don't challenge him. Have as little

to do with him as you can. If he chooses, he can strike you down

faster than a snake in hiding.''

The words were spoken in a whisper that was harsh and chill-

ing in its certainty, a brittle promise of death. Morgan swallowed

what he was feeling and nodded. "Who is he. Walker? Do you

know?"

The Dark Uncle glanced away and back again. "Sometimes

I am able to sense things by touching. Sometimes I can learn

another's secrets by doing nothing more than brushing up against

him. It happened that way when I took Carisman away from Pe

Ell. He has killed. Many times. He has done so intentionally

rather than in self-defense. He enjoys it. I expect he is an assas-

sin."

A pale hand reached up to hold a startled Morgan in place.

"Listen, now. He conceals a weapon of immense power beneath

his clothing. The weapon he carries is magic. It is what he uses

to kill."

"Magic?" Morgan's voice quivered in surprise despite his

effort to keep it steady. His mind raced. "Does Quickening

know?''

"She chose him, Highlander. She chose us all. She told us

we possessed magic. She told us our magic was needed. Of

course, she knows."

Morgan was aghast. "She deliberately brought an assassin?

Is this how she plans to regain the Black Elfstone?"

Walker stared fixedly at him. "I think not," he said finally.

"But I can't be sure."

Morgan slumped back in disbelief. "Walker, what are we

doing here? Why has she brought us?" Walker did not respond.

' 'I don't know for the life of me why I agreed to come. Or maybe

I do. I am drawn to her, I admit; I am enchanted by her. But

what sort of reason is that? I shouldn't be here. I should be back

in Tyrsis searching for Par and Coll."

' 'We have had this discussion,'' Walker reminded him gently.

"I know. But I keep questioning myself. Especially now. Pe

Ell is an assassin; what do we have to do with such a man? Does

168

The Druid of Shannara

Quickening think us all the same? Does she think we are all

killers of other men? Is that the use to which we are to be put?

I cannot believe it!"

"Morgan." Walker spoke his name to calm him, then eased

back against the tree until their heads were almost touching.

Something in the way the Dark Uncle's body was bent reminded

Morgan for a moment of how broken he had been when they had

found him amid the ruins of his cottage at Hearthstone. "There

is more to this than what you know," Walker whispered. "Or I,

for that matter. I can sense things but not see them clearly. Quick-

ening has a purpose beyond what she reveals. She is the daughter

of the King of the Silver River—do not forget that. She has for-

bidden insight. She has magic that transcends any that we have

ever seen. But she is vulnerable as well. She must walk a careful

path in her quest. I think that we are here in part, at least, to see

that she is able to keep to that path."

Morgan thought it over a moment and nodded, listening to

the stillness of the night about them, staring out through the

boughs of the old fir at the shadowy figures beyond, picking out

Quickenmg's slim, ethereal form, a slender bit of movement that

the night might swallow with no more than a slight shifting of

the light.

Walker's voice tightened. "I have been shown a vision of

her—a vision as frightening as any I have ever experienced. The

vision told me that she will die. I warned her of this before we

left Hearthstone; I told her that perhaps I should not come. But

she insisted. So I came." He glanced over. "It is the same with

all of us. We came because we knew we must. Don't try to

understand why that is, Morgan. Just accept it."

Morgan sighed, lost in the tangle of his feelings and his needs,

wishing for things that could never be, for a past that was lost

and a future he could not determine. He thought of how far

things had gone since the Ohmsfords had come to him in Leah,

of how different they all now were.

Walker Boh rose, a rustle of movement in the silence. "Re-

member what I said, Highlander. Stay away from Pe Ell."

He pushed through the curtain of branches without looking

back. Morgan Leah stared after him.

Pe Ell was gone a long time. When he returned, he spoke

only to Homer Dees. "It is safe now, old man," he advised

softly. "Lead on."

They departed the glen wordlessly, following Carisman as he

The Druid of Shannara                             169

led them back toward the ridgeline, a silent procession of wraiths

in the forest night. No one challenged them, and Morgan was

certain that no one would. Pe Ell had seen to that.

It was still dark when they again caught sight of the Spikes.

They climbed to the crest of the ridgeline and turned north. Dees

moved them forward at a rapid pace, the pathway clear, the spine

of the land bare and open to the light of moon and stars, empty

save where the skeletal trees threw the spindly shadow of their

trunks and branches crosswise against the earth like spiders'

webs. They followed the Spikes through the narrow end of the

valley's funnel and turned upward into the hills beyond. Day-

break was beginning to approach, a faint lightening of the skies

east. Dees moved them faster still. No one had to bother asking

why.

By the time the sun crested the mountains they were far

enough into the hills that they could no longer see the valley at

all. They found a stream of clear water and stopped to drink.

Sweat ran down their faces and their breathing was labored.

"Look ahead," Homer Dees said, pointing. A line of peaks

jutted into the sky. "That's the north edge of the Chamals, the

last we have to cross. There's a dozen passes that lead over and

the Urdas can't know which one we will take. It's all rock up

there, hard to track anything."

"Hard for you, you mean," Pe Ell suggested unkindly. "Not

necessarily hard for them.''

"They won't go out of their mountains." Dees ignored him.

"Once we're across, we'll be safe."

They hauled themselves back to their feet and went on. The

sun climbed into the cloudless sky, a brilliant ball of white fire

that turned the earth beneath into a furnace. It was the hottest

Morgan could remember it being since he had left Culhaven.

The hills rose toward the mountains, and the trees began to give

way to scrub and brush. Once Dees thought he saw something

moving in the forestlands far behind them, and once they heard

a wailing sound that Carisman claimed was Urda horns. But

midday came and went, and there was no sign of pursuit.

Then clouds began to move in from the west, a large threat-

ening bank of black thunderheads. Morgan slapped at the gnats

that flew against his sweat-streaked face. There would be a storm

soon.

They stopped again as midaftemoon approached, exhausted

from their flight and hungry now as well. There was little to eat,

just some roots and wild vegetables and fresh water. Homer

170                              The Dry id o/ Shannara

Dees went off to scout ahead, and Pe Ell decided to backtrack

to a bluff that would let him study the land behind. Walker sat

by himself. Carisman began speaking with Quickening again

about his music, insistent upon her undivided attention. Morgan

studied the tunesmith's handsome features, his shock of blond

hair, and his uninhibited gestures and was annoyed. Rather than

show what he was feeling, the Highlander moved into the shade

of a spindly pine and faced away.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the clouds pushed up

against the mountains. The sky was a peculiar mix of sunshine

and darkness. The heat was still oppressive, a suffocating blan-

ket as it pressed down against the earth. Morgan buried his face

in his hands and closed his eyes.

Both Homer Dees and Pe Ell were back quickly. The former

advised that the passage that would take them across the last of

the Chamals lay less than an hour ahead. The latter reported

that the Urdas were after them in force.

"More than a hundred," he announced, fixing them with

those hard, unreadable eyes. "Right on our heels."

They resumed their march at once, pressing ahead more

quickly, a sense of urgency driving them now that had not been

present before. No one had expected the Urdas to catch up with

them this fast, certainly not before they were across the moun-

tains. If they were forced to stand and fight here, they knew,

they were finished.

They worked their way upward into the rocks, scrambling

through huge fields of boulders and down narrow defiles, strug-

gling to keep their footing on slides that threatened to send them

careening away into jagged, bottomless fissures. The clouds

scraped over the mountain peaks and filled the skies from ho-

rizon to horizon. Heavy drops of rain began to fall, spattering

against the earth and their heated skin. Darkness settled over

everything, an ominous black that echoed with the sound of

thunder as it rolled across the empty, barren rock. Dusk was

approaching, and Morgan was certain they would be caught in

the mountains at nightfall, a decidedly unpleasant prospect. His

entire body ached, but he forced himself to keep going. He

glanced ahead to Carisman and saw that the tunesmith was in

worse shape, stumbling and falling regularly, gasping for breath.

Fighting back against his own exhaustion, he caught up with the

other man, put an arm about him, and helped him to go on.

They had just gained the head of the pass that Dees had been

shepherding them toward when they caught sight of the Urdas.

The Druid of Shannara                             171

The rugged, shaggy creatures appeared out of the rocks behind

them, still more than a mile off, but charging ahead as if mad-

dened, screaming and crying out, shaking their weapons with

an unmistakable promise of what they would do with those they

were pursuing when they finally caught up with them. The com-

pany, after no more than a moment's hesitation, fled into the

pass.

The pass was a knife cut that sliced upward through the cliffs,

a narrow passageway filled with twists and turns. The company

spread out, snaking its way forward. The rain began to fall in

earnest now, turning from a slow spattering into a heavy down-

pour. The footing became slippery, and tiny streams began to

flow down out of the rocks, cutting away at the earth beneath

their feet. They passed from the shadow of the cliffs and found

themselves on a barren slope that angled left into a high-walled

defile that was as black as night. Wind blew across the slope in

frenzied gusts that sent silt flying into their faces. Morgan let go

of Carisman and brought his cloak across his head to protect

himself.

It required a tremendous effort to gain the defile, the wind

beating against them so hard that they could progress only a

little at a time. As they reached the darkened opening, the Urdas

reappeared, very close now, come that last mile all too quickly.

Darts, lances, and the razor-sharp throwing implements whizzed

through the air, falling uncomfortably close. Hurriedly the com-

pany charged into the passageway and the protection of its walls.

Here, the rain descended in torrents and the light was almost

extinguished. Jagged rock edges jutted out from the floor and

walls of the narrow corridor and cut and scraped them as they

passed. Time slowed to a standstill in the howl of wind and the

roll of the thunder, and it seemed as if they would never get

free. Morgan moved ahead to be with Quickening, determined

to see that she was protected.

When they finally worked their way clear of the defile, they

found themselves standing on a ledge that ran along a seam

midway down a towering cliff face that dropped away into a

gorge through which the waters of the Rabb raged in a churning,

white-foamed maelstrom. Dees took them onto the ledge with-

out hesitation, shouting something back that was meant to be

encouraging but was lost in the sound of the storm. The line

spread out along the broken seam, Dees in the lead, Carisman,

Quickening, Morgan, and Walker Boh following, and Pe Ell

172                             The Druid of Shannara

last. The rain fell in sheets, the wind tore at them, and the sound

of the river's rush was an impenetrable wall of sound.

When the foremost of the Urdas appeared at the mouth of the

defile, no one saw. It wasn't until their weapons began to shatter

against the rocks about the fleeing company that anyone realized

they were there. A dart nicked Pe Ell's shoulder and spun him

about, but he kept his footing and struggled on. The others

began to advance more quickly, trying desperately to distance

themselves from their pursuers, hastening along the ledge,

booted feet slipping and sliding dangerously. Morgan glanced

back and saw Walker Boh turn and throw something into the

storm. Instantly the air flared with silver light. Darts and lances

that were hurled into the brightness fell harmlessly away. The

Urdas, frightened by the Dark Uncle's magic, fell back into the

defile.

Ahead, the ledge broadened slightly and sloped downward.

The far side of the mountains came into view, a sweeping stretch

of forested hills that ran into the distance until it disappeared

into a wall of clouds and rain. The Rabb churned below, cutting

back on itself, rushing eastward through the rocks. The trail

followed its bend, some fifty feet above its banks, the barren

rock giving way to the beginnings of earth and scrub.

Morgan looked around one final time and saw that the Urdas

were not following. Either Walker had frightened them off, or

Homer Dees had been right about them not leaving their moun-

tains.

He turned back.

In the next instant the entire cliff face was rocked with tremors

as parts of it gave way under the relentless pounding of the wind

and rain. The trail in from of him, an entire section of earth and

rock, disappeared completely and took Quickening with it. She

fell back against the slope, grasping. But there was nothing to

hold on to, and she began to slide in a cloud of silt and gravel

toward the river. Carisman, directly in front of her, almost went,

too, but managed to throw himself forward far enough to clutch

a tangle of roots from some mountain scrub and was saved.

Morgan was directly behind. He saw that Quickening could

not save herself and that there was no one who could reach her.

He didn't hesitate. He jumped from the crumbling trail into the

gap, hurtling down the mountainside after her, the trailing shouts

of his companions disappearing almost instantly. He struck the

waters of the Rabb with jarring force, went under, and came up

again gasping in shock at the cold. He caught a flash of Quick-

The Druid of Shannara                             173

ening's silver hair bobbing in a shower of white foam a few feet

away, swam to her, seized her clothing, and drew her to him.

Then the current had them both, and they were swept away

XVI

It was all that Morgan Leah could do to keep himself and

Quickening afloat in the churning river, and while he might

have considered trying to swim for shore if he had been

unencumbered he gave no thought of doing so here. Quickening

was awake and able to lend some assistance to his effort, but it

was mostly Morgan's strength that kept them away from the

rocks and out of the deep eddies that might have pulled them

down. As it was, the river took them pretty much where it chose.

It was swollen by the rains and overflowing its banks, and its

surface waters were white with foam and spray against the dark-

ness of the skies and land. The storm continued to rage, thunder

rumbling down the canyon depths, lightning flashing against the

distant peaks, and the rains falling in heavy sheets. The cliff

face they had tumbled down disappeared from view almost im-

mediately and with it their companions. The Rabb twisted and

turned through the mountain rocks, and soon they lost any sense

of where they were.

After a time a tree that had been knocked into the river washed

by and they caught hold of it and let it carry them along. They

were able to rest a bit then, clutching the slippery trunk side by

side, doing what they could to protect their bodies from the

rocks and debris, searching the river and the shoreline for a

means to extract themselves. They did not bother trying to speak;

they were too exhausted to expend the effort and the river would

likely have drowned out their words in any case. They simply

exchanged glances and concentrated on staying together.

Eventually the river broadened, tumbling down out of the

174                               TTie Druid o/ Shannara

peaks into the hill country north, emptying into a forested basin

where it pooled before being swept into a second channel that

carried it south again. There was an island in the center of the

basin, and the tree they were riding ran aground against it, spin-

ning and bumping along its banks. Morgan and Quickening

shoved away from their make-do raft and stumbled wearily

ashore. Exhausted, their clothing hanging in tatters, they crawled

through weeds and grasses for the shelter of the trees that grew

there, a cluster of hardwoods dominated by a pair of monstrous

old elms. Streams of water eddied and pooled on the ground

about them as they fought their way along the island's rain-

soaked banks, and the wind howled around their ears. Lightning

struck the mainland shore nearby with a thunderous crack, and

they flattened themselves while the thunder rolled past.

At last they gained the trees, grateful to discover that it was

comparatively dry beneath the canopy of limbs and sheltered

against the wind. They stumbled to the base of the largest of the

elms and collapsed, sprawling next to each other on the ground,

gasping for breath. They lay without moving for a time, letting

their strength return. Then, after exchanging a long look that

conveyed their unspoken agreement to do so, they pulled them-

selves upright against the elm's rough trunk and sat shoulder to

shoulder, staring out into the rain.

"Are you all right?" Morgan asked her.

It was the first thing either of them had said. She nodded

wordlessly. Morgan checked himself carefully for injuries, and

finding none, sighed and leaned back—relieved, weary, cold,

and unexplainably hungry and thirsty, too, despite being

drenched. But there was nothing to eat or drink, so there was

no point in thinking about it.

He glanced over again. "I don't suppose you could do any-

thing about a fire, could you?'' She shook her head. ' 'Can't use

magic of any kind, huh? Ah, well. Where's Walker Boh when

you need him?'' He tried to sound flippant and failed. He sighed.

She reached over and let her hand rest on his, and it warmed

him despite his discomfort. He lifted his arm and placed it about

her shoulders, easing her close. It brought them both some small

measure of warmth. Her silver hair was against his cheek, and

her smell was in his nostrils, a mix of earth and forest and

something else that was sweet and compelling.

"They won't find us until this storm ends," she said.

Morgan nodded. "If then. There won't be any trail to follow.

The Druid of Shannara                             175

Just the river." He frowned. "Where are we, anyway? North

or south of where we went into the river?''

"North and east," she advised.

"You know that?"

She nodded. He could feel her breathing, the slight movement

of her body against him. He was shivering, but having her close

like this seemed to make up for it. He closed his eyes.

"You didn't have to come after me," she said suddenly. She

sounded uncomfortable. "I would have been all right."

He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. "I was due for a

bath."

"You could have been hurt, Morgan."

"Not me. I've already survived attacks by Shadowen, Fed-

eration soldiers, Creepers, and other things I'd just as soon for-

get about. A fall into a river isn't going to hurt me."

The wind gusted sharply, howling through the branches of

the trees, and they glanced skyward to listen. When the sound

died away, they could hear the rush of the river again as it

pounded against the shoreline.

Morgan hunched down within his sodden clothing. "When

this storm blows itself out, we can swim to the mainland, get

off this island. The river is too rough to try it now. And we're

too tired to make the attempt in any case. But that's all right.

We're safe enough right here. Just a little damp."

He realized that he was talking just to be doing something

and went still again. Quickening did not respond. He could

almost feel her thinking, but he hadn't a clue as to what she was

thinking about. He closed his eyes again and let his breathing

slow. He wondered what had become of the others. Had they

managed to make it safely down that trail or had the collapse of

the ledge trapped Walker and Pe Ell on the upper slope? He

tried to envision the Dark Uncle and the assassin trapped with

each other and failed.

It was growing dark now, dusk chasing away what little light

remained, and shadows began to spread across the island in

widening black stains. The rains were slowing, the sounds of

thunder and wind receding in the distance, and the storm was

beginning to pass. The air was not cooling as Morgan had ex-

pected, but instead was growing warm again, thick with the

smells of heat and humidity. Just as well, he thought. They were

too cold as it was. He thought about what it would feel like to

be warm and dry again, to be secluded in his hunting lodge in

176                             The Druid of Shannara

the Highlands with hot broth and a fire, seated on the floor with

the Ohmsfords, swapping lies of what had never been.

Or seated perhaps with Quickening, saying nothing because

speaking wasn 't necessary and just being together was enough,

just touching . . .

The ache of what he was feeling filled him with both longing

and fear. He wanted it to continue, wanted it to be there always,

and at the same time he did not understand it and was certain

that it would betray him.

"Are you awake?" he asked her, anxious suddenly for the

sound of her voice.

"Yes," she replied.

He took a deep breath and breathed out slowly. "I have been

thinking about why I 'm here,'' he said.' 'Wondering about it since

Culhaven. I haven't any magic anymore—not really. All I ever

had was contained in the Sword ofLeah, and now it's broken and

what magic remains is small and probably won't be of much help

to you. So there's just me, and I. . ."He stopped. "I just don't

know what it is that you expect of me, I guess.''

"Nothing," she answered softly.

' 'Nothing?'' He could not keep the incredulity from his voice.

"Only what you are able and wish to give," she answered

vaguely.

"But I thought that the King of the Silver River said ..."

He stopped. "I thought that your father said I was needed. Isn't

that what you said? That he told you we were needed, all of

us?"

"He did not say what it was that you were to do, Morgan.

He told me to bring you with me in my search for the talisman

and that you would know what to do, that we all would." She

lifted away slightly and turned to look at him. "If I could tell

you more, I would."

He scowled at her, frustrated with the evasiveness of her an-

swers, with the uncertainty he was feeling. "Would you?"

She almost smiled. Even rain-streaked and soiled by the riv-

er's waters, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He tried to speak and failed. He simply sat there, mute and

staring.

"Morgan," she said softly. "My father sees things that are

hidden from all others. He tells me what I must know of these

things, and I trust him enough to believe that what he tells me

is enough. You are here because I need you. It has something

to do with the magic of your Sword. I was told by my father and

The Druid of Shannara                             1 77

told you in turn that you will have a chance to make the Sword

whole again. Perhaps then it will serve us both in a way we

cannot foresee."

"And Pe Ell?" he pressed, determined now to know every-

thing.

"PeEU?"

' 'Walker says he is an assassin—that he, too, carries a weapon

of magic, a weapon that kills/'

She studied him for a long moment before she said, "That is

true."

"And he is needed, too?"

"Morgan." His name was spoken as a caution.

"Tell me. Please."

Her perfect features lowered into shadow and lifted again,

filled with sadness. "Pe Ell is needed. His purpose, as yours,

must reveal itself."

Morgan hesitated, trying to decide what to ask next, desper-

ate to learn the truth but unwilling to risk losing her by crossing

into territory in which he was not welcome.

His face tightened. "I would not like to think that I had been

brought along for the same reason as Pe Ell," he said finally.

"I am not like him."

"I know that," she said. She hesitated, wrestling with some

inner demon. "I believe that each of you—Walker Boh in-

cluded—is here for a different reason, to serve a different pur-

pose. That is my sense of things."

He nodded, anxious to believe her, finding it impossible not

to do so. He said, "I just wish I understood more."

She reached up and touched his cheek with her fingers, letting

them slide down his jaw to his neck and lift away again. "It will

be all right," she said.

She lay back again, folding into him, and he felt his frustra-

tion and doubt begin to fade. He let them go without a fight,

content just to hold the girl. It was dark now, daylight gone into

the west, night settled comfortably over the land. The storm had

moved east, and the rains had been reduced to mist. The clouds

were still thick overhead but empty now of thunder, and a blan-

ket of stillness lay across the land as if to cover a child preparing

for sleep. In the invisible distance the Rabb continued to chum,

a sullen, now sluggish flow that lulled and soothed with its

wash. Morgan peered into the night without seeing, finding its

opaque curtain lowered to enclose him, to wrap about him as if

178                             The Druid of Shannara

an invisible shroud. He breathed the clean air and let his thoughts

drift free.

"I could eat something," he mused after a time. "If there

were anything to eat.''

Quickening rose without speaking, took his hands in hers,

and pulled him up after her. Together, they walked into the

darkness, picking their way through the damp grasses. She was

able to see as he could not and led the way with a sureness that

defied him. After a time she found roots and berries that they

could eat and a plant that when properly cut yielded fresh water.

They ate and drank what they found, crouched silently next to

each other, saying nothing. When they were finished, she took

him out to the riverbank where they sat in silence watching the

Rabb flow past in the dim, mysterious half-light, a murky sheen

of movement against the darker mainland.

A light breeze blew into Morgan's face, filled with the rich

scent of flowers and grasses. His clothes were still damp, but

he was no longer chilled. The air was warm, and he felt strangely

light-headed.

"It is like this sometimes in the Highlands," he told her.

"Warm and filled with earth smells after a summer storm, the

nights so long you think they might never end and wish they

wouldn't." He laughed. "I used to sit up with Par and Coil

Ohmsford on nights like this. I'd tell them that if a man wished

hard enough for it, he could just. . . melt into the darkness like

a snowflake into skin, just disappear into it, and then stay as

long as he liked."

He glanced over to judge her reaction. She was still beside

him, lost in thought. He brought his knees up to his chest and

wrapped his arms around them. A part of him wanted to melt

into this night so that it would go on forever, wanted to take her

with him, away from the world about them. It was a foolish

wish.

"Morgan," she said finally, turning. "I envy you your past.

I have none."

He smiled. "Of course you ..."

"No," she interrupted him. "I am an elemental. Do you

know what that means? I am not human. I was created by magic.

I was made from the earth of the Gardens. My father's hand

shaped me. I was born full-grown, a woman without ever having

been a child. My purpose in being has been determined by my

father, and I have no say in what that purpose is to be. I am not

saddened by this because it is all I know. But my instincts, my

The Druid of Shannara                             179

human feelings, tell me there is more, and I wish that it were

mine as it has been yours. I sense the pleasure you take in re-

membering. I sense the joy."

Morgan was speechless. He had known she was magic, that

she possessed magic, but it had never occurred to him that she

might not be ... He caught himself. Might not be what? As

real as he was? As human? But she was, wasn't she? Despite

what she thought, she was. She felt and looked and talked and

acted human. What else was there? Her father had fashioned

her in the image of humans. Wasn't that enough? His eyes swept

over her. It was enough for him, he decided. It was more than

enough.

He reached out to stroke her hand. "I admit I don't know

anything about how you were made. Quickening. Or even any-

thing about elementals. But you are human. I believe that. I

would know if you weren't. As for not having any past, a past

is nothing more than the memories you acquire, and that's some-

thing you're doing right now, acquiring memories—even if

they're not the most pleasant in the world."

She smiled at the idea. "The ones of you will always be

pleasant, Morgan Leah," she said.

He held her gaze. Then he leaned forward and kissed her,

just a brief touching of their lips, and lifted away. She looked at

him through those black, penetrating eyes. There was fear mir-

rored there, and he saw it.

"What frightens you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "That you make me feel so much."

He felt himself treading on dangerous ground, but went for-

ward nevertheless. ' 'You asked me before why I came after you

when you fell. The truth is, I had to. I am in love with you."

Her face lost all expression. "You cannot be in love with

me," she whispered.

He smiled bleakly. "I 'm afraid I have no choice in the matter.

This isn't something I can help."

She looked at him for a long time and then shuddered. "Nor

can I help what I feel for you. But while you are certain of your

feelings, mine simply confuse me. I do not know what to do

with them. I have my father's purpose to fulfill, and my feelings

for you and yours for me cannot be allowed to interfere with

that."

"They don't have to," he said, taking her hands firmly now.

' 'They can just be there.''

180                             The Druid of Shannara

Her silver hair shimmered as she shook her head. "I think

not. Not feelings such as these."

He kissed her again and this time she kissed him back. He

breathed her in as if she were a flower. He had never felt so

certain about anything in his life as how he felt about her.

She broke the kiss and drew away. "Morgan," she said,

speaking his name as if it were a plea.

They rose and went back through the damp grasses to the

sheltering trees, to the elm where they had waited out the storm

earlier, and sank down again by its roughened trunk. They held

each other as children might when frightened and alone, pro-

tecting against nameless terrors that waited just beyond the

bounds of their consciousness, that stalked their dreams and

threatened their sleep.

"My father told me as I left the Gardens of my birth that there

were things he could not protect me against," she whispered.

Her face was close against Morgan's, soft and smooth, her breath

warm. "He was not speaking of the dangers that would threaten

me—of Uhl Belk and the things that live in Eldwist or even of

the Shadowen. He was speaking of this."

Morgan stroked her hair gently. "There isn't much of any-

thing that you can do to protect against your feelings."

"I can close them away," she answered.

He nodded. "If you must. But I will tell you first that I am

not capable of closing my feelings away. Even if my life de-

pended on it, I could not do so. It doesn't make any difference

who you are or even what you are. Elemental or something else.

I don't care how you were made or why. I love you. Quickening.

I think I did from the first moment I saw you, from the first

words you spoke. I can't change that, no matter what else you

ask of me. I don't even want to try.''

She turned in his arms, and her face lifted to find his. Then

she kissed him and kept on kissing him until everything around

them disappeared.

When they woke the next morning the sun was cresting the

horizon of a cloudless blue sky. Birds sang and the air was warm

and sweet. They rose and walked to the riverbank and found the

Rabb slow-moving and placid once more.

Morgan Leah looked at Quickening, at the curve of her body,

the wild flow of her silver hair, the softness of her face, and the

smile that came to his face was fierce and unbidden. "I love

you," he whispered.

The Druid of Shannara                             181

She smiled back at him. "And I love you, Morgan Leah. I

will never love anyone again in my life the way I love you."

They plunged into the river. Rested now, they swam easily

the distance that separated the island from the mainland. On

gaining the far shore, they stood together for a moment looking

back, and Morgan fought to contain the sadness that welled up

within him. The island and their solitude and last night were

lost to him except as memories. They were going back into the

world of Uhl Belk and the Black Elf stone.

They walked south along the river's edge for several hours

before encountering the others. It was Carisman who spied them

first as he wandered the edge of a bluff, and he cried out in

delight, summoning the rest. Down the steep slope he raced,

blond hair flying, handsome features flushed. He skidded the

last several yards on his backside, bounded up, and raced to

intercept them. Throwing himself at Quickening's feet, he burst

into song.

He sang:

' 'Found are the sheep who have strayed from the/old,

Saved are the lambs from the wolves and the cold,

Wandering far, they have yet found their way,

Now, pray we all, they are here for to stay.

Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, tra-la-la!"

It was a ridiculous song, but it made Morgan smile neverthe-

less. In moments, the others had joined them as well, gaunt Pe

Ell, his dark anger at having lost Quickening giving way to relief

that she had been found again; bearish Homer Dees, gruffly

trying to put the entire incident behind them; and the enigmatic

Walker Boh, his face an inscrutable mask as he complimented

Morgan on his rescue. All the while, an exuberant Carisman

danced and sang, filling the air with his music.

When the reunion finally concluded the company resumed its

journey, moving away from the Chamals and into the forestlands

north. Somewhere far ahead, Eldwist waited. The sun climbed

into the sky and hung there, brightening and warming the lands

beneath as if determined to erase all traces of yesterday's storm.

Morgan walked next to Quickening, picking his way through

the slowly evaporating puddles and streams. They didn't speak.

They didn't even look at each other. After a time, he felt her

hand take his.

At her touch, the memories flooded through him.

I 3.

XVII

^"y"" hey walked north for five days through the country

»    beyond the Chamals, a land that was green and gently

^^^ rolling, carpeted by long grasses and fields of wild-

flowers, dotted by forests of fir, aspen, and spruce. Rivers and

streams meandered in silver ribbons from the mountains and

bluffs, pooling in lakes, shimmering in the sunlight like mirrors,

and sending a flurry of cooling breezes from their shores. It was

easier journeying here than it had been through the mountains;

the terrain was far less steep, the footing sure, and the weather

mild. The days were sun-filled, the nights warm and sweet

smelling. The skies stretched away from horizon to horizon,

broad and empty and blue. It rained only once, a slow and gentle

dampening of trees and grasses that passed almost unnoticed.

The spirits of the company were high; anticipation of what lay

ahead was tempered by renewed confidence and a sense of well-

being. Doubts lay half-forgotten in the dark grottos to which

they had been consigned. There was strength and quickness in

their steps. The passage of the hours chipped away at uncertain

temperaments with slow, steady precision and like a stonecut-

ter's chisel etched and shaped until the rough edges vanished

and only the smooth surface of agreeable companionship re-

mained.

Even Walker Boh and Pe Ell called an unspoken truce. It

could never be argued reasonably that they showed even the

remotest inclination toward establishing a friendship, but they

kept apart amiably enough, each maintaining a studied indiffer-

ence to the other's presence. As for the remainder of the com-

pany, constancy was the behavioral norm. Homer Dees

continued reticent and gruff, Carisman kept them all entertained

with stories and songs, and Morgan and Quickening feinted and

182

The Druid of Shannara                             183

boxed with glances and gestures in a lovers' dance that was a

mystery to everyone but them. There was in all of them, save

perhaps Carisman, an undercurrent of wariness and stealth.

Carisman, it seemed, was incapable of showing more than one

face. But the others were circumspect in their dark times, anx-

ious to keep their doubts and fears at bay, hopeful that some mix

of luck and determination would prove sufficient to carry them

through to the journey's end.

The beginning of that end came the following day with a

gradual change in the character of the land. The green that had

brightened the forests and hills south began to fade to gray.

Flowers disappeared. Grasses withered and dried. Trees that

should have been fully leafed and vibrant were stunted and bare.

The birds that had flown in dazzling bursts of color and song

just a mile south were missing here along with small game and

the larger hoofed and homed animals. It was as if a blight had

fallen over everything, stripping the land of its life.

They stood at the crest of a rise at midmoming and looked

out over the desolation that stretched away before them.

"Shadowen," Morgan Leah declared darkly.

But Quickening shook her silvery head and replied, "Uhl

Belk."

It grew worse by midday and worse still by nightfall. It was

bad enough when the land was sickened; now it turned com-

pletely dead. All trace of grasses and leaves disappeared. Even

the smallest bit of scrub disdained to grow. Trunks lifted their

skeletal limbs skyward as if searching for protection, as if be-

seeching for it. The country appeared to have been so thor-

oughly ravaged that nothing dared grow back, a vast wilderness

gone empty and stark and friendless. Dust rose in dry puff's from

their boots as they stalked the dead ground, the earth's poisoned

breath. Nothing moved about them, above them, beneath them—

not animals, not birds, not even insects. There was no water.

The air had a flat, metallic taste and smell to it. Clouds began

to gather again, small wisps at first, then a solid bank that hung

above the earth like a shroud.

They camped that night in a forest ofdeadwood where the air

was so still they could hear each other breathe. The wood would

not bum, so they had no fire. Light from a mix of elements in

the earth reflected off the ceiling of clouds and cast the shadows

of the trees across their huddled forms in clinging webs.

"We'll be there by nightfall tomorrow," Homer Dees said

as they sat facing each other in the stillness. "Eldwist."

184                             The Druid of Shannara

Dark stares were his only reply.

Uhl Belk's presence became palpable after that. He huddled

next to them there in the fading dusk, slept with them that night,

and walked with them when they set out the following day. His

breath was what they breathed, his silence their own. They could

feel him beckoning, reaching out to gather them in. No one said

so, but Uhl Belk was there.

By midday, the land had turned to stone. It was as if the whole

of it, sickened and withered and gone lifeless, had been washed

of every color but gray and in the process petrified. It was all

preserved perfectly, like a giant piece of sculpture. Trunks and

limbs, scrub and grasses, rocks and earth— everything as far as

the eye could see had been turned to stone. It was a starkly

chilling landscape that despite its coldness radiated an oddly

compelling beauty. The company from Rampling Steep found

itself entranced. Perhaps it was the solidity that drew them, the

sense that here was something lasting and enduring and some-

how perfectly wrought. The ravages of time, the changing of

the seasons, the most determined efforts of man—it seemed as

if none of these could affect what had been done here.

Homer Dees nodded and the members of the company went

forward.

A haze hung about them as they walked across this tapestry

of frozen time, and it was only with difficulty that they were

able, after several hours, to distinguish something else shim-

mering in the distance. It was a vast body of water, as gray as

the land they passed through, blending into its bleakness, a

backdrop merging starkly into earth and sky as if the transition

were meaningless.

They had reached the Tiderace.

Twin peaks came into view as well, jagged rock spirals that

lifted starkly against the horizon. It was apparent that the peaks

were their destination.

Now and again the earth beneath them rumbled ominously,

tremors reverberating as if the land were a carpet that some giant

had taken in his hands and shaken. There was nothing about the

tremors to indicate their source. But Homer Dees knew some-

thing. Morgan saw it in the way his bearded face tightened down

against his chest and fear slipped into his eyes.

After a time the land about them began to narrow on either

side and the Tiderace to close about, and they were left with a

shrinking corridor of rock upon which to walk. The corridor

was taking them directly toward the peaks, a ramp that might at

The Druid of Shannara                             185

its end drop them into the sea. The temperature cooled, and

there was moisture in the air that clung to their skin in faint

droplets. Their booted feet were strangely noiseless as they trod

the hard surface of the rock, climbing steadily into a haze. Soon

they became a line of shadows in the approaching dusk. Dees

led, ancient, massive, and steady. Morgan followed with Quick-

ening, the tall Highlander's face lined with wariness, the girl's

smooth and calm. Handsome Carisman hummed beneath his

breath while his gaze shifted about him as rapidly as a bird's.

Walker Boh floated behind, pale and introspective within his

long cloak. Pe Ell brought up the rear, his stalker's eyes seeing

everything.

The ramp began to break apart before them, an escarpment

out of which strange rock formations rose against the light. They

might have been carvings of some sort save for the fact that they

lacked any recognizable form. Like pillars that had been hewn

apart by weather's angry hand over thousands of years, they

jutted and angled in bizarre shapes and images, the mindless

visions of a madman. The company passed between them, anx-

ious in their shadow, and hurried on.

They arrived finally at the peaks. There was a rift between

them, a break so deep and narrow that it appeared to have been

formed by some cataclysm that had split apart what had once

been a single peak to form the two. They loomed to either side,

spirals of rock that thrust into the clouds as if to pin them fast.

Beyond, the skies were murky and misted, and the waters of the

Tiderace crashed and rumbled against the rocky shores.

Homer Dees moved ahead and the others followed until all

had been enveloped in shadows. The air was chill and unmoving

in the gap, and the distant shrieks of seabirds echoed shrilly.

What sort of creatures besides those of the sea could possibly

live here? Morgan Leah wondered uneasily. He drew his sword.

His whole body was rigid with tension, and he strained to catch

some sign of the danger he sensed threatening them. Dees was

hunched forward like an animal at hunt, and the three behind

the Highlander were ghosts without substance. Only Quicken-

ing seemed unaffected, her head held high, her eyes alert as she

scanned the rock, the skies, the gray that shrouded everything.

Morgan swallowed against the dry ness in his throat. What is

it that waits for us?

The walls of the break seemed to join overhead, and they

were left momentarily in utter blackness with only the thin line

of the passageway ahead to give them reassurance that they had

The Druid of Shannara

not been entombed. Then the walls receded again, and the light

returned. The rift opened into a valley that lay cradled between

the peaks. Shallow, rutted, choked with the husks of trees and

brush and with boulders many times the size of any man, it was

an ugly catchall for nature's refuse and time's discards. Skele-

tons lay everywhere, vast piles of them, all sizes and shapes,

scattered without suggestion of what creatures they might once

have been.

Homer Dees brought them to a halt.' 'This is Bone Hollow,''

he said quietly. "This is the gateway to Eldwist. Over there,

across the Hollow, through the gap in the peaks, Eldwist be-

gins."

The others crowded forward for a better look. Walker Boh

stiffened. "There's something down there."

Dees nodded. "Found that out the hard way ten years ago,"

he said. "It's called a Koden. It's the Stone King's watchdog.

You see it?"

They looked and saw nothing, even Pe Ell. Dees seated him-

self ponderously on a rock. "You won't either. Not until it has

you. And it won't matter much by then, will it? You could ask

any of those poor creatures down there if they still had tongues

and the stuff of life to use them.''

Morgan scuffed his boot on a piece of deadwood as he lis-

tened. The deadwood was heavy and unyielding. Stone. Morgan

looked at it as if understanding for the first time. Stone. Every-

thing underfoot, everything surrounding them, everything for as

far as the eye could see—it was all stone.

'' Kodens are a kind of bear, "Dees was saying. '' Big fellows,

live up in the cold regions north of the mountains, keep pretty

much to themselves. Very unpredictable under any conditions.

But this one?" He made his nod an enigmatic gesture. "He's a

monster.''

"Huge?" Morgan asked.

"A monster," Dees emphasized. "Not just in size, High-

lander. This thing isn't a Koden anymore. You can recognize it

for what it's supposed to be, but just barely. Belk did something

to it. Blinded it, for one thing. It can't see. But its ears are so

sharp it can hear a pin drop.''

"So it knows we are here,'' Walker mused, edging past Dees

for a closer look at the Hollow. His eyes were dark and intro-

spective.

"Has for quite a while, I'd guess. It's down there waiting for

us to try to get past."

The Druid of Shannara                             187

"If it's still there at all," Pe Ell said. "It's been a long time

since you were here, old man. By now it might be dead and

gone."

Dees looked at him mildly.' 'Why don't you go on down there

and take a look?"

Pe Ell gave him that lopsided, chilling smile.

The old Tracker turned away, his gaze shifting to the Hollow.

"Ten years since I saw it and I still can't forget it," he whis-

pered. He shook his grizzled head. "Something like that you

don't ever forget."

"Maybe Pe Ell is right; maybe it is dead by now," Morgan

suggested hopefully. He glanced at Quickening and found her

staring fixedly at Walker.

"Not this thing," Dees insisted.

"Well, why can't we see it if it's all that big and ugly?"

Carisman asked, peering cautiously over Morgan's shoulder.

Dees chuckled. His eyes narrowed. "You can't see it because

it looks like everything else down there—like stone, all gray and

hard, just another chunk of rock. Look for yourself. One of

those mounds, one of those boulders, something that's down

there that doesn't look like anything—that's it. Just lying there,

perfectly still. Waiting."

"Waiting," Carisman echoed.

He sang:

"Down in the valley, the valley of stone.

The Koden lies -waiting amid shattered bone.

Amid all its victims,

Within its gray home,

The Koden lies waiting to make you its own.''

"Be still, tunesmith," Pe Ell said, a warning edge to his

voice. He scowled at Dees. "You got past this thing before, if

we're to believe what you tell us. How?"

Dees laughed aloud. "I was lucky, of course! I had twelve

other men with me and we just walked right in, fools to the last.

It couldn't get us all, not once we started running. No, it had to

settle for three. That was going in. Coming out, it only got one.

Of course, there were just two of us left by then. I was the one

it missed."

Pe Ell stared at him expressionlessly. "Like you said, old

man—lucky for you."

Dees rose, as bearish as any Koden Morgan might have imag-

188 The Druid of Shannara

ined, sullen and forbidding when he set his face as he did now.

He faced Pe Ell as if he meant to have at him. Then he said,

"There's all sorts of luck. Some you've got and some you

make. Some you carry with you and some you pick up along

the way. You're going to need all kinds of it getting in and out

of Eldwist. The Koden, he's a thing you wouldn't want to dream

about on your worst night. But let me tell you something. After

you see what else is down there, what lies beyond Bone Hollow,

you won't have to worry about the Koden anymore. Because the

dreams you'll have on your worst nights after that will be con-

cerned with other things!"

Pe Ell's shrug was scornful and indifferent. "Dreams are for

frightened old men, Homer Dees."

Dees glared at him. "Brave words now."

"I can see it," Walker Boh said suddenly.

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it silenced the others

instantly and brought them about to face him. The Dark Uncle

was staring out across the broken desolation of the Hollow,

seemingly unaware that he had spoken.

' 'The Koden?'' Dees asked sharply. He came forward a step.

"Where?" Pe Ell asked.

Walker's gesture was obscure. Morgan looked anyway and

saw nothing. He glanced at the others. None of them appeared

to be able to find it either. But Walker Boh was paying no atten-

tion to any of them. He seemed instead to be listening for some-

thing.

"If you really can see it, point it out to me," Pe Ell said

finally, his voice carefully neutral.

Walker did not respond. He continued to stare.' 'It feels ..."

he began and stopped.

"Walker?" Quickening whispered and touched his arm.

The pale countenance shifted away from the Hollow at last

and the dark eyes found her own. "I must find it," he said. He

glanced at each of them in turn. ' 'Wait here until I call for you.''

Morgan started to object, but there was something in the other

man's eyes that stopped him from doing so.

Instead, he watched silently with the others as the Dark Uncle

walked alone into Bone Hollow.

The day was still, the air windless, and nothing moved in the

ragged expanse of the Hollow save Walker Boh. He crossed the

broken stone in silence, a ghost who made no sound and left no

mark. There were times in the past few weeks when he had

The Druid of Shannara                             189

thought himself little more. He had almost died from the poison

of the Asphinx and again from the attack of the Shadowen at

Hearthstone. A part of him had surely died with the loss of his

arm, another part with the failure of his magic to cure his sick-

ness. A part of him had died with Cogline. He had been empty

and lost on this journey, compelled to come by his rage at the

Shadowen, his fear at being left alone, and his wish to discover

the secrets of Uhl Belk and the Black Elfstone. Even Quicken-

ing, despite ministering to his needs, both physical and emo-

tional, had not been strong enough to give him back to himself.

He had been a hollow thing, bereft of any sense of who and

what he was supposed to be, reduced to undertaking this quest

in the faint hope that he would discover his purpose in the world.

And now, here within this vast, desolate stretch of land, where

fears and doubts and weaknesses were felt most keenly, Walker

Boh thought he had a chance to come alive again.

It was the presence of the Koden that triggered this hope.

Until now the magic had been curiously silent within him, a

worn and tired thing that had failed repeatedly and at last seemed

to have given up. To be sure, it was there still to protect him

when he was threatened, to frighten off the Urdas when they

came too close, to deflect their hurled weapons. Yet this was a

poor and sorry use when he remembered what it had once been

able to do. What of the empathy it had given him with other

living things? What of his sense of emotions and thoughts? What

of the knowledge that had always just seemed to come to him?

What of the glimpses of what was to be? All of these had de-

serted him, gone away as surely as his old world, his life with

Cogline and Rumor at Hearthstone. Once he had wished it would

be so, that the magic would disappear and he would be left in

peace, a man like any other. But it had become increasingly

clear to him on this journey, his sense of who and what he was

heightened by the passing of Cogline and his own physical and

emotional devastation, that his wish had been foolish. He would

never be like other men, and he would never be at peace without

the magic. He could not change who and what he was; Cogline

had known that and told him so. On this journey he had discov-

ered it was true.

He needed the magic.

He required it.

Now he would test whether or not he could still call it his

own. He had sensed the presence of the Koden before Pe Ell

had. He had sensed what it was before Homer Dees had de-

190 The Druid of Shannara

scribed it. Amid the strewn rock, hunched down and silent, it

had reached out to him as creatures once had when he ap-

proached. He could feel the Koden call to him. Walker Boh was

not certain of its purpose in doing so, yet knew he must respond.

It was more than the creature's need that he was answering; it

was also his own.

He moved directly through the jumble of boulders and pet-

rified wood to where the Koden waited. It had not moved, not

even an inch, since the company had arrived. But Walker knew

where it lay concealed nevertheless, for its presence had brought

the magic awake again. It was an unexpected, exhilarating, and

strangely comforting experience to have the power within him

stir to life, to discover that it was not lost as he had believed,

but merely misplaced.

Or suppressed, he chided harshly. Certainly he had worked

hard at denying it even existed.

Mist curled through the rocks, tendrils of white that formed

strange shapes and patterns against the gray of the land. Par

distant, beyond and below the peaks and the valley they cradled,

Walker could hear the crash of the ocean waters against the

shoreline, a dull booming that resonated through the silence.

He slowed, conscious now that the Koden was just ahead, un-

able to dispel entirely his apprehension that he was being lured

to his doom, that the magic would not protect him, and he would

be killed. Would it matter if he was? he wondered suddenly. He

brushed the thought away. Within, he could feel the magic bum-

ing like a fire stoked to life.

He came down from between two boulders into a depression,

and the Koden rose up before him, cat-quick. It seemed to ma-

terialize out of the earth, as if the dust that lay upon the rock

" had suddenly come together to give it form. It was huge and old

and grizzled, three times his own size, with great shaggy limbs

and ragged yellow claws that curied down to grip the rock. It

lifted onto its hind legs to show itself to him, and its twisted

snout huffed and opened to reveal a glistening row of teeth.

Sightless white eyes peered down at him. Walker stood his

ground, his life a slender thread that a single swipe of one huge

paw could sever. He saw that the Koden's head and body had

been distorted by some dark magic to make the creature appear

more grotesque and that the symmetry of shape that had once

given grace to its power had been stripped away.

Speak to me, thought Walker Boh.

The Koden blinked its eyes and dropped down so close that

The Druid of Shannara                             191

the huge muzzle was no more than inches from the Dark Uncle's

face. Walker forced himself to meet the creature's empty gaze.

He could feel the hot, fetid breath.

Tell me, he thought.

There was an instant's time when he was certain that he was

going to die, that the magic had failed him entirely, that the

Koden would reach out and strike him down. He waited for

the clav/s to rend him, for the end to come. Then he heard the

creature answer him, the guttural sounds of its own language

captured and transformed by the magic.

Help me, the Koden said.

A flush of warmth filled Walker. Life returned to him in a

way he found difficult to describe, as if he had been reborn and

could believe in himself again. A nicker of a smile crossed his

face. The magic was still his.

He reached out slowly with his good arm and touched the

Koden on its muzzle, feeling beneath his fingertips more than

the roughness of its hide and fur, finding as well the spirit of the

creature that was trapped beneath. The Dark Uncle read its his-

tory in that touch and felt its pain. He stepped close to study its

massive, scarred body, no longer frightened by its size or its

ugliness or its ability to destroy. It was a prisoner, he saw-

frightened, angered, bewildered, and despairing in the manner

of all prisoners, wanting only to be free.

"I will make you so," Walker Boh whispered.

He looked to discover how the Koden was bound and found

nothing. Where were the chains that shackled it? He circled the

beast, testing the weight and texture of the air and earth. The

great head swung about, seeking to follow him, the eyes fixed

and staring. Walker completed his circuit and stopped, frown-

ing. He had found the invisible lines of magic that the Stone

King had fashioned and he knew what it would take to set the

creature free. The Koden was a prisoner of its mutation. It would

have to be changed back into a bear again, into the creature it

had been, and the stigma of Uhl Belk's touch cleansed. But

Walker hadn't the magic for that. Only Quickening possessed

such power, magic strong enough to bring back the Meade Gar-

dens out of the ashes of the past, to restore what once was, and

she had already said she could not use her magic again until the

Black Elfstone was recovered. Walker stood looking at the Ko-

den helplessly, trying to decide if there were anything he could

do. The beast shifted to face him, its great, ragged bulk a shim-

mer of rock dust against the landscape.

192 The Druid of Shannara

Walker reached out once more, and his fingers rested on the

Koden's muzzle. His thoughts became words. Let us pass, and

we will find a way to set you free.

The Koden stared out at him from the prison of its ruined

body, sightless eyes hard and empty. Go, it said.

Walker lifted his hand away long enough to beckon his com-

panions forward, then placed it back again. The others of the

company came hesitantly. Quickening in the lead, then Morgan

Lean, Homer Dees, Carisman, and Pe Ell. He watched them

pass without comment, his arm outstretched, his hand steady.

He caught a glimpse of what was in their eyes, a strange mix of

emotions, understanding in Quickening's alone, fear and awe

and disbelief in the rest. Then they were past. They walked from

the rubble of Bone Hollow to the break in the cliffs beyond

which they turned to wait for him.

Walker took his hand away and saw the Koden tremble. Its

mouth gaped wide, and it appeared to cry out soundlessly. Then

it wheeled away from him and lumbered down into the rocks.

"I won't forget," the Dark Uncle called after it.

The emptiness he felt made him shiver. Pulling his cloak

close, he walked from the Hollow.

Morgan and the others, all but Quickening, asked Walker Boh

when he reached them what had happened. How had he man-

aged to charm the Koden so that they could pasj? But the Dark

Uncle refused to answer their questions. He would say only that

the creature was a prisoner of the Stone King's magic and must

be freed, that he had given his promise.

"Since you made the promise, you can worry about keeping

it,'' Pe Ell declared irritably, anxious to dismiss the matter of

the Koden now that the danger was behind them.

"We'll have trouble enough keeping ourselves free of the

Stone King's magic," Homer Dees agreed.

Carisman was already skipping ahead, and Morgan suddenly

found himself facing Walker Boh with no reply to give. It was

Quickening who spoke instead, saying, "If you gave your prom-

ise, Walker Boh, then it must be kept.'' She did not, however,

say how.

They turned away from Bone Hollow and passed into the

break that opened out through the peaks to the Tiderace. The

passage was shadowed and dark in the fading afternoon light,

and a chill, rough-edged wind blew down off the slopes of the

cliffs above, thrusting into them like a giant hand, shoving them

The Druid of Shannara                             193

relentlessly ahead. The sun had dropped into the horizon west,

caught in a web of clouds that turned its light scarlet and gold.

The smell of salt water, fish, and kelp filled the air, sharp and

pungent.

Morgan glanced back once or twice at Walker Boh, still

amazed at how he had been able to keep the Koden from at-

tacking them, to walk right up to it as he had and touch it without

coming to harm. He recalled the stories of the Dark Uncle, of

the man before he had suffered the bite of the Asphinx and the

loss of Cogline and Rumor, the man who had taught Par Ohms-

ford not to be frightened of the power of the Elven magic. Until

now, he had thought Walker Boh crippled by the Shadowen at-

tack on Hearthstone. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Perhaps

he had been wrong. And if wrong about Walker, why not wrong

about himself as well? Perhaps the Sword of Leah could be made

whole again and his own magic restored. Perhaps there was a

chance for all of them, just as Quickening had suggested.

The defile opened suddenly before them, the shadows which

had caged them brightened into gray, misty light, and they

peeked through a narrow window in the cliffs. The Tiderace

spread away below in an endless expanse, its waters roiling and

white-capped as they churned toward the shoreline. The com-

pany moved ahead, back into the shadows. The trail they fol-

lowed began to descend, to twist and turn through the rocks,

damp and treacherous from the mist and the ocean spray. The

walls split apart once more, this time forming ragged columns

of stone that permitted brief glimpses of sky and sea. Underfoot,

the rock was loose, and it felt as if everything was on the verge

of breaking up.

Then they turned onto a slide so steep that they were forced

to descend sitting and found themselves in a narrow passageway

that curled ahead into a tunnel. They stooped to pass through,

for the tunnel was filled with jagged rock edges. At its far end,

the walls fell away, and the tunnel opened onto a shelf that lifted

toward the sky. The company moved onto the shelf, discovered

a pathway, and climbed to where it ended at a rampart formed

of stone blocks.

They stood at the edge of the rampart and looked down.

Morgan felt his stomach lurch. From where they stood, the land

dropped away to a narrow isthmus that jutted into the sea. Con-

nected to the isthmus was a peninsula, broad and ragged about

the edges, formed all of cliffs against which the waters of the

Tiderace pounded relentlessly. Atop the cliffs sat a city of tow-

—a_

194                            The Druid of Shannam

ering stone buildings. The buildings were not of this time, but

of the old world, of the age before the Great Wars destroyed the

order of things and the new Races were bom. They rose hundreds

of feet into the air, smooth and symmetrical and lined with

banks of windows that yawned blackly against the gray light.

Everything was set close together, so that the city had the look

of a gathering of monstrous stone obelisks grown out of the

rock. Seabirds wheeled and circled about the buildings, crying

out mournfully in the failing light.

"Eldwist," Homer Dees announced.

Par west, the sun was sinking into the waters of the sea, losing

its brightness and its color with the coming of night, the scarlet

and gold fading to silver. The wind howled down off the cliffs

behind them in a steady crescendo, and it felt as if even the

pinnacle of rock on which they stood was being shaken. They

huddled together against its thrust and the fall of night and

watched raptly as Eldwist turned black with shadow. The wind

howled through the city as well, down the canyons of its streets,

across the drops of its cliffs. Morgan was chilled by the sound

of it. Eldwist was empty and dead. There was only its stone,

hard and unyielding, unchanging and fixed.        /

Homer Dees called out to them over the sound of the wind

as he turned away. He led them back to where a set of steps had

been carved into the cliff face to lead downward to the city. The

steps ran back against the wall, angling through the crevices and

nooks, twisting once more into shadow. Night closed about as

they descended, the sun disappearing, the stars winking into

view in a sky that was clear and bright. Moonlight reflected off

the Tiderace, and Morgan could see the stark, jutting peaks of

the city lifting off the rocks. Mist rose in gauzy trailers, and

Eldwist took on a surrealistic look—as if come out of time and

legend. The seabirds flew away, the sound of their cries fading

into silence. Soon there was only the roll of the waves as they

slapped against the rocky shores.

At the base of the stairs they found an alcove sheltered by the

rocks. Homer Dees brought them to a halt. "No sense in trying

to go farther," he advised, sounding weary. The wind did not

reach them here, and he talked in a normal tone of voice. "Too

dangerous to try to go in at night. There's a Creeper down

there ..."

"A Creeper?" Morgan, who had been examining bits of grass

and shrub that were perfectly preserved in stone, looked up

sharply.

The Druid of Shannam                            195

"Yes, Highlander," the other continued. "A thing that

sweeps the streets of the city after dark, gathering up any stray

bits and pieces of living refuse ..."

A rumbling within the earth cut short the rest of what he was

about to say. The source of the rumbling was Eldwist, and the

members of the company turned quickly to look. The city stood

framed against the night sky, all black save for where the light

reflected off the stone. It was larger and more forbidding when

viewed from below, Morgan thought as he peered into its shad-

ows. More impenetrable . . .

Something huge surged out of the dark recesses he searched,

a thing of such monstrous size as to give the momentary illusion

that it dwarfed even the buildings. It rose from between the

monoliths as if kindred, all bulk and weight, but long and sin-

ewy like a snake as well, stone blocks turned momentarily liquid

to reshape and re-form. Then jaws gaped wide—Morgan could

see the jagged edge of the teeth clearly against the backdrop of

the moon—and they heard a horrifying cry, like a strangled

cough. The earth reverberated with that cry, and the members

of the company from Ramplmg Steep dropped into a protective

crouch—all but Quickening, who remained erect, as if she alone

were strong enough to withstand this nightmare.

A second later it was gone, dropping away as quickly and

smoothly as it had come, the rumble of its passing hanging

faintly in the air.

"That was no Creeper," Morgan whispered.

"And it wasn't here ten years ago either," a white-faced Hor-

nerDees whispered back. "I'd bet on it."

"No," Quickening said softly, turning to face them now. Her

companions came slowly to their feet. "It is newly born," she

said, "barely five years old. It is still a baby."

"A baby!" Morgan exclaimed incredulously.

Quickening nodded. "Yes, Morgan Leah. It is called the Maw

Grint." She smiled sadly. "It is Uhl Belk's child."

XVIII

^^B" he six that formed the company from Rampling Steep

»    spent the remainder of the night huddled in the shelter

^^^ of the cliffs, crouched silently in the darkness, hidden

away from the Maw Grint and whatever other horrors lay in wait

within Eldwist. They built no fire—indeed, there was no wood

to be gathered for one—and they ate sparingly of their meager

food. Food and water would be a problem in the days to come

since there was little of either to be found in this country of

stone. Pish would become the staple of their diet; a small stream

of rainwater that tumbled down off the rocks behind would

quench their thirst. If the fish proved elusive or the stream dried

up, they would be in serious trouble.

No one slept much in the aftermath of the Maw Grint's ap-

pearance. For a long while no one even tried. Their uneasiness

was palpable as they waited out the night. Quickening used that

time to relate to the others what she knew of the Stone King's

child.

"My father told me of the Maw Grint when he sent me forth

from his Gardens," she began, her black eyes distant as she

spoke, her silver hair gleaming brightly in the moonlight. They

sat in a half-circle, their backs settled protectively against the

rocks, their eyes shifting warily from time to time toward the

forbidding shadow of the city. All was silent now, the Maw

Grint disappeared as mysteriously as it had come, the seabirds

gone to roost, and the wind faded away.

Quickening's voice was carefully hushed. "As I am the child

of the King of the Silver River, so the Maw Grint is the child of

Uhl Belk. Both of us were made by the magic, each to serve a

father's needs. We are elementals, beings of earth's life, born

296

The Druid of Shannara                             197

out of the soil and not of woman's flesh. We are much the same,

the Maw Grint and I."

It was such a bizarre statement that it was all Morgan Leah

could do to keep from attacking it. He refrained from doing so

only because there was nothing to be gained by voicing an ob-

jection and diverting the narration from its intended course.

"The Maw Grint was created to serve a single purpose,"

Quickening went on. "Eldwist is a city of the old world, one

which escaped the devastation of the Great Wars. The city and

the land on which it is settled mark the kingdom of Uhl Belk,

his haven, his fortress against all encroachment of the world

beyond. For a while, they were enough. He was content to bur-

row in his stone, to remain secluded. But his appetite for power

and his fear of losing it were constant obsessions. In the end,

they consumed him. He became convinced that if he did not

change the world without, it would eventually change him. He

determined to extend his kingdom south. But to do so he would

have to leave the safety of Eldwist, and that was unacceptable.

Like my father, his magic grows weaker the farther he travels

from its source. Uhl Belk refused to take such a risk. Instead,

he created the Maw Grint and sent his child in his place.

"The Maw Grint," she whispered, "once looked like me. It

was human in form and walked the land as I do. It possessed a

part of its father's magic as I do. But whereas I was given power

to heal the land, the Maw Grint was given power to turn it to

stone. A simple touching was all it took. By touching it fed

upon the earth and all that lived and grew upon it, and every-

thing was changed to stone.

"But Uhl Belk grew impatient with his child, for the trans-

formation of the lands surrounding was not proceeding quickly

enough to suit him. Surrounded by the waters of the Tiderace,

which his magic could not affect, he was trapped upon this

finger of land with only the way south open to him and only the

Maw Grint to widen the corridor. The Stone King infused his

child with increasingly greater amounts of his own magic, anx-

ious for quicker and more extensive results. The Maw Grint

began to change form as a result of the infusions of power, to

transform itself into something more adaptable to what its father

demanded. It became moielike. It began to tunnel into the earth,

finding that change came quicker from beneath than above. It

grew in size as it fed and changed again. It became a massive

slug, a burrowing worm of immense proportions."

She paused. ' 'It also went mad. Too much power, too quickly

198                             The Druid of Shannara

fed, and it lost its sanity. It evolved from a thinking, reasoning

creature to one so mindless that it knew only to feed. It swept

into the land south, burrowing deeper and deeper. The land

changed quickly then, but the Maw Grint changed more quickly

yet. And then one day Uhl Belk lost control of his child com-

pletely."

She glanced at the dark silhouette of the city and back again.

"The Maw Grint began to hunt its father when it was not feeding

off the land, aware of the power that the Stone King possessed

and eager to usurp it. Uhl Belk discovered that he had fashioned

a two-edged sword. On the one hand, the Maw Gnnt was tun-

neling into the Four Lands and changing them to stone. On the

other, it was tunneling beneath Eldwist as well, searching for a

way to destroy him. So powerful had the Maw Grint grown that

father and son were evenly matched. The Stone King was in

danger of being dispatched by his own weapon."

"Couldn't he simply change his son back again?" Carisman

asked, wide-eyed. "Couldn't he use the magic to restore him to

what he was?"

Quickening shook her head. "Not by the time he thought to

do anything. By then it was too late. The Maw Grint would not

let itself be changed—even though, my father tells me, a part of

it realized the horror of what it had become and longed for

release. That part, it seems, was too weak to act."

"So now it burrows the earth and sorrows over its fate," the

tunesmith murmured.

He sang:

"Made in the shape of humankind,

To serve the Stone King's dark design,

The Maw Grint tunnels 'neath the land,

A horror wrought by father's hand,

Become a monster out of need,

With no true hope of being freed,

It hunts."

"Hunts, indeed," Morgan Leah echoed. "Hunts us, proba-

bly."

Quickening shook her head. "It isn't even aware that we ex-

ist, Morgan. We are too small, too insignificant to catch its

attention. Until we choose to use magic, of course. Then it will

know.''

The Druid of Shannara                             199

There was a studied silence. "What was it doing when we

saw it tonight?'' Homer Dees asked finally.

"Crying out what it feels—its rage, frustration, hatred, and

madness." She paused. "Its pain."

'' Like the Koden, it is a prisoner of the Stone King's magic,''

Walker Boh said. His sharp eyes fixed the girl. "And somehow

Uhl Belk has managed to keep that magic his own, hasn't he?"

"He has gained possession of the Black Elfstone," she re-

plied. "He went out from Eldwist long enough to steal it from

the Hall of Kings and replace it with the Asphinx. He took it

back into his keep and used it against his child. Possession of

the Elven magic shifted the balance of power back to Uhl Belk.

Even the Maw Grint was not powerful enough to defeat the

Stone."

"A magic that can negate the power of other magics," Pe

EU recited thoughtfully. "A magic that can turn them to its own

use.''

' 'The Maw Grint still threatens its father, but it cannot over-

come the Elfstone. It lives because Uhl Belk wishes it to con-

tinue feeding on the land, to continue transforming living matter

to stone. The Maw Grint is a useful, if dangerous, slave. By

night, it tunnels the earth. By day, it sleeps. Like the Koden, it

is blind—made so by the magic and the nature of what it does,

burrowing within darkness, seldom seeing light." She looked

again toward the city. ' Tt will probably never know we are here

if we are careful."

"So all we have to do is to steal the Elfstone.'' Pe Ell smiled.

"Steal the Elfstone and let father and son feed on each other.

Nothing complicated about it, is there?" He glanced sharply at

Quickening. "Is there?"

She met his gaze without flinching, but did not answer. Pe

Ell's smile turned cold as he leaned back into the shadows,

There was a moment of strained silence, and then Morgan

said to Homer Dees, "What about this Creeper you men-

tioned?"

Dees was looking sullen as well. He leaned forward ponder-

ously, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Maybe the girl can tell

you more about it than me," he answered quietly. "I've a feel-

ing there's a great deal she knows and isn't telling."

Quickening's face was devoid of expression, coldly perfect as

she faced the old Tracker. "I know what my father told me,

Homer Dees—nothing more.''

200                             The Druid of Shannara

' 'King of the Silver River, Lord of the Gardens of Life,'' Pe

Ell growled from the shadows. "Keeper of dark secrets."

"As you say, there is a Creeper in the city of Eldwist,"

Quickening went on, ignoring Pe Ell, her eyes on Dees. "Uhl

Belk calls it the Rake. The Rake has been there for many years,

a scavenger of living things serving the needs of its master. It

comes out after dark and sweeps the streets and walkways of the

city clean. We will have to be careful to avoid it when we go

in."

"I've seen it at work," Dees grunted. "It took half a dozen

of us on the first pass ten years ago, another two shortly after.

It's big and quick." He was remembering now, and his anger at

Quickening seemed to dissipate. He shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't know. It hunts you out, finds you, finishes you. Goes

into the buildings if it needs to. Did then, anyway.''

"So it would be wise for us to find the Black Elfstone quickly,

wouldn't it?" Pe Ell whispered.

They fell silent then, and after a few moments drifted away

from each other into the shadows. They spent the remainder of

the night attempting to sleep. Morgan dozed, but never for long.

Walker was seated at the edge of the rocks watching the city

when the Highlander nodded off and was still there when he

woke. They were all tired and disheveled—all but Quickening.

She stood fresh and new in the weak light of the morning sun-

rise, as beautiful as in the moment of their first meeting. Morgan

found himself disturbed by the fact. In that way, certainly, she

was something more than ordinary. He watched her, then looked

quickly away when she turned toward him, afraid she would

see. It bothered him to think that there might be differences

between them after all and, worse, that those differences might

be substantial.

They ate breakfast with the same lack of interest with which

they had eaten dinner the night before. The land was a stark and

ominous presence that watched them through hidden eyes. Fog

hung across the peninsula, rising from the cliffs on which the

city rested to the peaks of the tallest towers, giving the impres-

sion that Eldwist sat within the clouds. The seabirds had re-

turned, gulls, puffins, and terns, wheeling and calling out above

the dark waters of the Tiderace. A dampness had settled into

the air with dawn's coming, and the water beaded on the faces

of the six.

Having been warned by Dees of what lay ahead, they gath-

ered rainwater from pools high in the rocks, wrapped what little

The Druid of Shannara                             201

food they still possessed against the wet, and set out to cross the

isthmus.

It took them longer than they expected. The distance was

short, but the path was treacherous. The rock was crisscrossed

with crevices, its surface broken apart by ancient upheavals,

damp and slick beneath their feet from the ocean's constant

pounding. The wind gusted sharply, blowing spray in their faces,

chilling their skin. Progress was slow. The sun remained a hazy

white ball behind the low-hanging clouds, and the land ahead

was filled with shadows. Eldwist rose before them, a cluster of

vague shapes, dark and forbidding and silent. They watched it

grow larger as they neared, rising steadily into the bleak skies,

the sound of the wind echoing mournfully through its canyons.

Sometimes, as they walked, they could feel a rumbling be-

neath their feet, far distant, but ominously familiar. Apparently

the Maw Grint didn't always sleep during the daylight hours.

Midday neared. The isthmus, which had been so narrow at

points that the rock dropped away to either side of where they

walked into dark cauldrons and whirlpools, broadened finally

onto the peninsula and the outskirts of the city. The cliffs on

which Eldwist had been built lifted before them, and the com-

pany was forced to climb a broad escarpment. Winding through

a jumble of monstrous boulders along a pathway littered with

loose stone, with their feet constantly sliding out from under

them, they struggled resolutely ahead.

It took them the better part of two hours to gain the heights.

By then the sun was already arcing west.

They paused to catch their breath at the city's edge, standing

together at the end of a stone street that ran between rows of

towering, vacant-windowed buildings and narrowed steadily un-

til it disappeared into mist and shadow. Morgan Leah had never

seen a city such as this one, the buildings flat and smooth, all

constructed of stone, all symmetrically arranged like squares on

a checkerboard. Broken rock littered the street, but beneath the

rubble he could see the hard, even surface. It seemed as if it ran

on forever, as if it had no end, a long, narrow corridor that

disappeared only when the mist grew too thick for the eye to

penetrate.

They began to walk it, a slow and cautious passage, spreading

out along its corridor, listening and watching like cats at hunt.

Other streets bisected it from out of the maze of tall buildings,

these in turn disappearing right and left into shadow. There were

no protective walls about Eldwist, no watchtowers or battle-

202 The Druid of Shannara

ments or gates, only the buildings and the streets that fronted

them. There appeared to be nothing living there. The streets

and buildings came and went as the company pressed deeper,

and the only sounds were those of the ocean and the wind and

the seabirds. The birds flew overhead, the only sign of move-

ment, winging their way past the caps of the buildings, down

into the streets, across intersections and catwalks. Some roosted

on the window ledges high overhead. After a time, Morgan saw

that some of those he had believed roosting had been turned to

stone.

Much of the debris that lay strewn about had once been some-

thing other than stone although most of it was not unrecogniz-

able. Odd-looking poles stood at every street comer, and it was

possible to surmise that these might have once been some form

of lamps. The carcass of a monstrous carriage lay on its side

against one building, a machine whose bones had been stripped

of their flesh. Scattered pieces of engines had survived time and

weather, gear wheels and cylinders, flywheels and tanks. All

had turned to stone. There were no growing things, no trees or

shrubs, or even the smallest blade of grass.

They looked inside a few of the buildings and found the rooms

cavernous and empty. Stairways ran upward into the stone shells,

and they climbed one set all the way to the top so that they could

look out across Eldwist and orient themselves. It was impossible

to tell much, even as little as where the city began and ended.

Clouds and mist obscured everything, revealing only glimpses

of facings and roofs in a sea of swirling gray.

They did sight an odd dome at Eldwist's center, a structure

unlike the tall obelisks that formed the balance of the city, and

they chose to explore it next.

But coming down again into the streets they lost their sense

of direction and turned the wrong way. They walked for the

better part of an hour before deciding they had made a mistake;

then they were forced to climb the stairs of another building in

order to regain their bearings.

While they were doing so, the sun set. None of them had

been paying any attention to how quickly the daylight had been

fading.

When they emerged from their climb they were stunned to

find the city in darkness.

"We'd better find a place to hide right now," Homer Dees

admonished, glancing around uneasily. ' 'The Rake will be out

soon if it isn't already. It if finds us unprotected ..."

The Druid of Shannara                             203

He didn't have to finish the thought. For a moment they stared

wordlessly at one another. None of them had bothered looking

for a nighttime shelter.

Then Walker Boh said, "There was a small building several

streets back with no windows on the lower levels, a small entry,

a maze of corridors and rooms inside—like a warren."

"Safe enough for the moment," Pe Ell muttered, already

heading down the street.

They began to backtrack through the city. It was so dark by

now that they could barely find their way. The buildings loomed

to either side in a wall made more solid by the thickening of the

mist. The seabirds had again gone to roost, and the sound of

ocean and wind had faded into a distant lull. The city was un-

comfortably still.

Beneath them, the stone shell of the earth rumbled and shook.

"Something's awake and hungry," Pe Ell murmured and

smiled coldly at Carisman.

The tunesmith laughed nervously, his handsome face white

and drawn.

He sang:

' 'Slip away, slip away, slip away home,

Run for your bedcovers, no more to roam,

Steal away quick from the things of the night,

Keep yourself hidden and well out of sight. "

They crossed an intersection that was flooded with pale

moonlight that had found a break in the clouds and was stream-

ing down in a splash of white fire. Pe Ell stopped abruptly,

bringing the rest of them up short as well, listened for a moment,

shook his head, and moved on. The rumbling beneath them

came and went, sometimes close, sometimes far, never in

one spot at any given time, seemingly all around. Morgan

Leah peered ahead through mist and shadows. Was this the

same street they had been on before? It didn't look quite the

same . . .

There was a loud click. Pe Ell, still in the lead, catapulted

backward, careening into Homer Dees and Quickening, who

were closest, the force of his thrust knocking them both from

their feet. They tumbled down in a heap, inches from the edge

of a gaping hole that had opened in the street.

"Get back against the buildings!" he snapped, leaping to his

204 The Druid of Shannara

feet and sweeping Quickening up with him as he raced from the

chasm's edge.

The others were only a step behind. Another section of the

street gave way, this one behind them, falling with a crash into

blackness. The rumbling beneath crescendoed into a roar that

deafened them, and they could hear the passing of something

massive below. Morgan crouched deep within a shadowed al-

cove, pressed up against the stone wall, fighting to keep from

screaming against his fear. The Maw Grint! He saw Homer

Dees next to him, his bearded face all but invisible as it turned

away into the shadows. The thunder of the monster moving

below peaked and then began to fade. Seconds later, it was

gone.

The members of the little company came out of hiding then,

one after another, white-faced and staring. They moved cau-

tiously into the street, then started violently as the holes in the

streets closed up again, the fallen sections lifting smoothly back

into place.

' 'Trapdoors!" Pe Ell spat. There was fear and loathing in his

face. Morgan caught sight of something white in his hand, a

knife of some sort, its metal bright and shining. Then it was

gone.

Pe Ell released Quickening from his grasp and turned away

from them, moving back along the street, this time staying well

up on the walkways that fronted the buildings. Wordlessly, eyes

darting from one pool of shadows to the next, the others fol-

lowed. They hastened down the walkway in single file, crossed

the next intersection the same way, and hurried on. The rum-

bling sounded again, but far away now. The streets about them

were quiet and empty once more.

Morgan Leah was still shaking. Those trapdoors had been

placed there either to snare intruders or to let the Maw Grint

into the city. Probably both. He swallowed against the dryness

in his throat. They had been careless back there. They had better

not be so again.

A heavy wall of mist blocked the way forward. Pe Ell hesi-

tated as they approached it, then stopped. He looked back at

Walker Boh, his eyes hard and penetrating. Some unspoken

communication passed between them, a shared look that Mor-

gan found almost feral. Walker glanced right. Pe Ell, after a

moment's hesitation, turned that way.

They walked ahead, slowly now, listening to the silence again.

The mist was all about them, fallen out of the clouds, seeped

The Druid of Shannara 205

up from the stone, and come out of nowhere to envelop them.

They moved with their hands stretched out to brush against the

walls of the buildings for reassurance. Pe Ell was studying the

path ahead carefully, aware now that the city was probably one

vast collection of traps, that any part of the stone could drop

away beneath their feet without warning.

Ahead, the mist began to clear.

Morgan thought he heard something, then decided he hadn't

heard it, that he had sensed it instead. What?

They emerged from the shadow of the building next to them

and the answer was waiting. The Rake stood in the center of the

street, a huge, splay-legged metal monster with dozens of ten-

tacles and feelers, pincers that gaped from its maw, and a whip-

like tail. It was a Creeper like the one the outlaws of the

Movement had faced at the Jut, comprised of metal and flesh, a

hybrid nightmare of machine and insect. Except that this one

was much bigger.

And much quicker. It came for them so fast that it was almost

upon them before they had begun to scatter. Its wide, bent legs

skittered like a centipede's. Tentacles swept out in a flurry of

movement, the sound of metal scraping against stone a horrid

rasp. The tentacles caught Dees and Carisman almost instantly,

wrapping about them as they tried to flee. Pe Ell shoved Quick-

ening across the walkway toward an open doorway, feinted as

if to rush the monster, then darted away. Morgan drew his sword

and would have attacked, having lost all sense of what he was

doing at the thought of Quickening in danger, when Walker Boh

caught hold of him and threw him back against the wall.

"Get inside!" the Dark Uncle cried, motioning toward a set

of massive stone doors that gaped open.

Then Walker Boh threw back his cloak and his single arm

came up. The Rake was almost on top of him when the arm

lowered and a sheet of white light ignited. Morgan shrank back

against the wall, blinded. He heard a harsh shriek and realized

it was the Creeper. His vision cleared enough to see the crea-

ture's metal arms windmilling violently and caught a glimpse of

Carisman and Homer Dees running from it. Then he was seized

in an iron grip and thrust back through the black opening of the

doorway.

It was Pe Ell who had yanked him inside. Quickening was

already there. The white light of Walker's magic still burned

through the darkness without, and they could hear the Rake

thrashing against the building, the force of its attack so violent

206                             The Druid of Shannara

that stone chips were scattered everywhere. Walker burst into

view, Carisman and Homer Dees running before him, stunned but

freed. They stumbled across the floor and fell, then regained their

feet instantly as the Rake tore the giant entry doors from their

hinges, ripped the stone facing apart and shoved inside.

There was a broad staircase leading upward behind them, and

they bolted for it. The Rake came after them, staggering slightly.

If Walker's magic had done nothing else, it had momentarily

disoriented the beast. Its tentacles lashed out wildly in an effort

to snare its prey. The six dashed up the stairs. A single whiplash

movement from below brought one arm across the steps before

them, but Pe Ell's strange knife flashed into view, slicing across

the arm and all but severing it. The arm withdrew. They raced

upward, springing from one landing to the next, fleeing without

looking back.

Finally, at a landing ten floors up, Walker brought them to a

ragged halt. Behind them there was only silence. They stood in

a knot, their breathing ragged as they listened.

"Perhaps it's given up," Carisman whispered, sounding

hopeful.

"Not that thing," Homer Dees replied, his voice a muffled

rasp as he fought to catch his breath. "That thing won't ever

quit. I've seen what it can do."

Pe Ell thrust forward. "Since you claim to know so much

about it, tell us what it might do here!" he snarled.

Dees shook his bearish head obstinately. "I don't know. We

never made it as far as the buildings last time." Then he shud-

dered. "Shades! I can still feel those arms coming tight about

me!" He glanced sideways at Quickening. "I should never have

let you talk me into coming back here!"

"Hsssst!" Walker Boh was standing at the top of the stairs,

head cocked. "There's something . . ."he started to say and

stopped.

Pe Ell was next to him in a moment, crouched next to the

stair railing. Suddenly he jerked upright. "It's outside!" he

snarled and whirled about.

The once-glassed floor-to-ceiling latticework shattered into

pieces across the landing as the Rake clawed its way in. Morgan

was aghast. While the company had looked for it to come up

the stairs, the Rake had climbed the wall!

For a second time, it almost had them. Tentacles whipped

across the small space and knocked most of them from their

feet. Pe Ell was too quick for it, however, and the strange knife

The Druid of Shannara 207

materialized in his hand, shredding the nearest arm. The Creeper

flinched away, then came for him. But the diversion had given

Walker Boh time to act. A fistful of Cogline's black powder

appeared in his hand. He threw it at the beast and fire exploded

forth.

The company raced up the stairs once more—one floor, two,

three. Behind them, the Creeper thrashed against the fire. Then

everything went still. They could no longer hear it; but they all

knew where it was. There were openings through the walls on

each floor where the windows had fallen away over the years.

The Creeper could attack through any of them. It would keep

coming after them, and sooner or later it would have them.

"We'll have to stand and fight!" Morgan cried out to the

others, snatching free his broadsword.

' 'Do that and we'll all die, Highlander!'' Homer Dees shouted

back.

Then Pe Ell brought them up short, lunging ahead and wheel-

ing to face them. "Back down those stairs, the bunch of you!

Now! Stay close and I'll see you out of this!"

No one stopped to argue, not even Walker. They retraced

their steps in a rush, descending in leaps and bounds, eyes on

the window openings at each floor. Two flights down they caught

a glimpse of the Rake as it pulled itself level with the frame.

Tentacles snaked out, falling short. As they darted away, they

could hear the monstrous thing reverse itself against the stone

and start after them.

Another three flights, still far from the ground, Pe Ell brought

them to a halt once more. "Here! This is the spot!" He pushed

them down a long, high-ceilinged corridor. Behind them, the

Rake gained the landing and lumbered swiftly in pursuit. The

creature seemed to elongate as it came, changing the shape of

its body to allow it access. Morgan was terrified. This Creeper

could adapt to any situation. Narrow passageways and long

climbs were not nearly enough to stop it.

At the end of the corridor was an enclosed catwalk that crossed

over to another building. "Get across as fast as you can!" Pe

Ell snapped.

Morgan and the others did as they were told. But the High-

lander despaired of escape this way. Narrow as the catwalk might

be, it would not stop the Rake.

He reached the other side and turned with the others. Pe Ell

was kneeling at the far end of the walk where it joined to the

other building and sawing at the stone bracing with his strange

208                             The Druid of Shannara

knife. Morgan stared. Had Pe Ell lost his mind? Did he actually

think his knife—any knife—could cut through stone? The Rake

was almost on top of him before he was back on his feet. Cat-

quick, he darted across the walk. He reached them just as the

Rake eased into view, snakelike now as it entered the narrow

tunnel opening.

And then the impossible happened. The bracing that Pe Ell

had been sawing snapped and gave way. The catwalk lurched

downward, held momentarily, then collapsed completely be-

neath the weight of the Rake. Down it plunged to the street,

shattering into fragments, dust and debris rising to mix with the

mist and the night.

The six from Rampling Steep stared downward, waiting. Then

they heard something—a scraping movement, the sound of metal

on stone.

"It's not dead!" Dees whispered in horror.

They stepped back hurriedly from the opening and slipped

down to the ground floor, exiting from a door on the far side

of the building onto the street. With Pe Ell and Walker in the

lead, they made their way silently through the dark. Behind

them, they could hear the Creeper beginning to search again.

Less than five blocks away they came upon the building

Walker Boh had been seeking, a squat, virtually windowless

bunker. They entered with anxious backward glances and peered

about. It was indeed a warren, a maze of rooms and corridors

with several sets of stairs and half a dozen entries. They climbed

four stories, settled themselves in a central room away from any

windows, and crouched down to wait.

The minutes passed and the Rake did not appear. An hour

came and went. They ate a cold meal and settled back. No one

slept.

In the silence, their breathing was the only sound.

Toward dawn, Morgan Leah grew restless. He found himself

thinking of Pe Ell's knife, a blade that could cut through

stone. The knife intrigued him. Like Pe Ell's presence on this

journey, it was an unsolved mystery. The Highlander took a deep

breath. Despite Walker's warning to stay clear of the man, he

decided to see what he could learn. Climbing to his feet he moved

to the darkened comer where the other sat with his back to the

wall. He could see Pe Ell's eyes track him as he approached.

"What do you want?" Pe Ell asked coldly.

Morgan crouched down in front of him, hesitating in spite of

The Druid of Shannara                             209

his resolve.' 'I was curious about your knife,'' he admitted after

a moment.

Their voices were barely audible whispers in the stillness. In

the darkened room, no one else could hear.

Pe Ell's smile was cold. "You are, are you?"

"We all saw what it did."

Pe Ell had the knife out instantly, the blade held inches from

Morgan's nose. Morgan held his breath and did not move.' 'The

only thing you need to know about this," Pe EU swore, "is that

it can kill you before you can blink. You. Your one-armed friend.

Anyone."

Morgan swallowed hard. "Even the Stone King?" He forced

the question out, angry with himself for being frightened.

The blade disappeared back into the shadows. "Let me tell

you something. The girl says you have magic about you. I don't

believe it. You have nothing. One-arm is the only one among

you who has magic, and his magic doesn't do anything! It doesn't

kill. He doesn't kill. I can see it in his eyes. None of you matters

in this business, whether you know it or not. You're nothing but

a pack of fools."

He jabbed at Morgan with his finger. "Don't get in my way,

Highlander. Any of you. And don't expect me to save you the

next time that Creeper comes hunting. I'm all done with the lot

of you." He withdrew his hand scornfully. "Now get away from

me."

Morgan retreated wordlessly. He glanced briefly at Walker as

he went, ashamed he had ignored the other's warning about Pe

EU. It was impossible to tell if the Dark Uncle had been watch-

ing. Dees and Carisman were asleep. Quickening was a face-

less, barely distinguishable shadow.

Morgan sat cross-legged in a comer by himself, seething. He

had learned nothing. All he had done was humiliate himself.

His mouth tightened. One day he would have the use of his

sword again. One day he would find a way to make it whole and

recapture its magic—just as Quickening had said he would.

Then he would deal with Pe Ell.

He made himself a promise of it.

XIX

^f11^ he company emerged from its concealment at day-

»    break. Clouds masked the skies over Eldwist from ho-

^^^ rizon to horizon, morning's arrival bleak and gray. A

faint brightening of the damp, misty air was the best that dawn

could manage, and night's shadows merely retreated into the

city's alcoves and nooks to await their mistress' return.

There was no sign of the Rake. The six from Rampling Steep

scanned the gloom cautiously. The buildings rose about them,

massive and silent. The streets stretched away, canyons of stone.

The only sounds were the howl of the wind, the crashing of the

ocean, and the cries of the high-flying seabirds. The only move-

ments were their own.

"As if it were never here," Homer Dees muttered as he

shouldered his way past Morgan. "As if it were all a dream."

They began the search again for Uhl Belk. Rain fell through

a curtain of smoky mist that tasted and smelled of the sea, and

they were soaked through in minutes. A damp sheen settled

across the stone walkways and streets, the walls of the buildings,

the rubble and debris, a coating that mirrored the gloom and the

shadows and played tricks with the light. The wind blew in sharp

gusts, darting out of hiding at comers and alleyways, racing

down the city's corridors with shrieks of delight, chasing itself

endlessly. The morning wore on, a slow grinding of gears in

some vast machine that could only be heard in the mind and felt

in the wearing of the spirit. Time stole from them, they sensed.

Time was a thief.

They found no trace of the Stone King. The city was vast and

filled with hiding places, and even if they were sixty instead of

six a thorough search could take weeks. None of them had any

idea where to look for Uhl Belk or, worse, any idea what he

210

The Druid of Shannam                            211

looked like. Even Quickening could oner no help. Her father

had not told her how the Stone King might appear. Did he look

as they did? Was he human in form? Was he large or small?

Morgan asked these questions as they trudged through the

gloom, keeping well back on the walkways, close to the building

walls. No one knew. They were searching for a ghost.

Midday passed. The buildings and streets of the city came

and went in an endless procession of obelisks and gleaming

black ribbons. The rain lessened, then increased. Thunder rum-

bled overhead, slow and ominous. The six ate a cold meal and

drank a little in the dank, shadowed entry of one of the buildings

while the rain turned into a downpour that flooded the streets

with several inches of churning water. They peered outside and

watched as me water gathered and flowed in small rivers to stone

drains that swallowed it up.

They resumed walking when the rainfall lessened again and

shortly afterward came upon the strange dome they had seen

from the top of the building they had climbed the previous day.

It sat amid the stone spires, a monstrous shell, its surface pitted

and worn and cracked. They walked its circumference, searched

for an entry, and found none. There were no doors, no stairs,

no windows, nor openings of any kind. There were alcoves and

niches and insets of varying sizes and shapes that gave its armor

a sculpted look, but no way in or out. There were no footholds

or ladders tha^ would allow them to climb to its top. It was

impossible to determine what it might have been used for. It sat

there in the gloom and damp and defied them.

Mindful of time's rapid passing after yesterday's debacle, they

returned early to their shelter. No one had much to say. They

sat in the growing darkness, mostly apart from each other, mostly

silent, and kept their thoughts to themselves.

There had been no sign of either the Maw Grint or the Rake

that day. Nightfall brought them both out. They heard the Rake

first, a skittering of metal legs on the stone street below, passing

by without stopping as they held their collective breath. The

Maw Grint came later, the sound of its approach a low rumbling

that quickly became a roar. The monster burst forth, howling as

it rose into the night. It was uncomfortably close; the stone of

the building in which they hid shook with its cry. Then, just as

quickly as it had come, it was gone again. No one made any

attempt to try to catch a glimpse of it. Everyone stayed carefully

put.

They slept better that night, perhaps because they were grow-

212 The Druid of Shannara

ing used to the city's night sounds, perhaps because they were

so exhausted. They posted a watch and took turns standing it.

The watch proved uneventful.

For three days afterward they continued their search. Fog and

mist and rain hunted with them, persistent and unwelcome, and

the city haunted their dreams. Eldwist was a stone forest filled

with shadows and secrets, its towering buildings the trees that

hemmed them in and closed them about. But unlike the green,

living forests of the lands south the city was empty and lifeless.

The girl and the men could form no affinity with Eldwist; they

were trespassers here, unwanted and alone. Everything about

the world in which they hunted was hard and unyielding. There

were no recognizable signs, no familiar markings, and no

changes in color or shape or smell or taste that would reveal to

them even the smallest clue. There was only the enigma of the

stone.

It began to affect the little company despite its resolve. Con-

versation diminished, tempers grew short, and there was a

growing uncertainty as to what they were about. Homer Dees

became more sullen and taciturn, his skills as a Tracker rendered

useless, his experience from ten years previous used up. Pe Ell

continued to distance himself, his eyes suspicious, his move-

ments furtive and tense, a prowling cat at the edges of a jungle

determined not to be brought to bay. Carisman quit singing

almost completely. Morgan Leah found himself jumping at the

smallest sound and was preoccupied with thoughts of the magic

he had lost when the Sword of Leah had shattered. Walker Boh

was a voiceless ghost, pale and aloof, floating through the gloom

as if at any moment he might simply fade away.

Even Quickening changed. It was barely perceptible, a faint

blurring of her exquisite beauty, an odd shading of her voice

and movements, and a vague weariness in her eyes. Morgan,

ever aware of what the girl was about, thought that he alone

could tell.

But once, as they paused in their search in the shadow of a

carriage husk. Walker Boh eased down beside the Highlander

and whispered, "This city consumes us, Morgan Leah. Can you

feel it? It has a life beyond what we understand, an extension of

the Stone King's will, and it feeds on us. The magic is all about.

If we do not find Uhl Belk soon, we will be in danger of being

swallowed up entirely. Do you see? Even Quickening is af-

fected."

And she was, of course. Walker drifted away again, and Mor-

The Druid of Shannara                             213

gan was left to wonder to what end they had been brought here.

So much effort expended to reach this place and it all seemed

for nothing. They were being drained of life, sapped of energy

and purpose and will. He thought to speak of it to Quickening,

but changed his mind. She knew what was happening. She al-

ways did. When it was time to do something, she would do it.

But it was Walker Boh who acted first. The fourth day of their

hunt for the Stone King had concluded in the same manner as

the previous three, without any of them having found even the

smallest trace of their quarry. They were huddled in the shadows

of their latest shelter; Pe Ell had insisted they change buildings

in an effort to avoid discovery by the Rake, who still hunted

them each night. They had not eaten a hot meal or enjoyed a

fire's warmth since their arrival in Eldwist, and their water sup-

ply was in need of replenishing. Footsore and discouraged, they

sat mired in silence.

"We need to search the tunnels beneath the city," the Dark

Uncle said suddenly, his soft voice distant and cold.

The others looked up. "What tunnels?" Carisman wearily

asked. The tunesmith, less fit than the others, was losing

strength.

"The ones that honeycomb the rock beneath the buildings,"

Walker answered. "There are many of them. I have seen the

stairways leading down from the streets."

Bearish Homer Dees shook his shaggy head. "You forget.

The Maw Grint is down there."

"Yes. Somewhere. But it is a huge, blind worm. It won't even

know of us if we're careful. And if the Maw Grint hides within

the earth, maybe the Stone King hides there as well."

Morgan nodded. "Why not? They might both be worms.

Maybe both are blind. Maybe neither likes the light. Goodness

knows, there will be little enough of it down there. I think it is

a good idea."

"Yes," Quickening agreed without looking at any of them.

Pe Ell stirred in the shadows and said nothing. The others

muttered their assent. The darkness of their refuge went quickly

still again.

That night Quickening slept next to Morgan Leah, something

she had not done since their arrival in Eldwist. She came to him

unexpectedly and burrowed close, as if she feared something

would attempt to steal her away. Morgan reached around and

held her for a time, listening to the sound of her breathing,

feeling the pulse of her body against his own. She did not speak.

214                             The Druid of Shannara

After a time, he fell asleep holding her. When he awoke, she

was gone again.

At dawn they departed their shelter and entered the catacombs

beneath the city. A stairwell leading down from the building

next to the one in which they were housed placed them on the

first level. Other stairs ran deeper into the rock, spiraling down

black holes of stone into emptiness. The tunnels on the first

level were shaped from stone blocks and rails sat on beds of

stone and cross ties as they disappeared into the dark. All had

been turned to stone. There was no light beneath the city, so

Walker Boh used one of Cogline's powders to coat the head of

a narrow wedge of stone and create a firebrand. They moved

ahead into the tunnels, following the line of the rails as they

wound through the darkness. The rails passed platforms and

other stairs leading up and down, and the tunnels branched and

diverged. The air smelled musty, and loose stone crunched be-

neath their feet. After a time they came upon a giant carriage

that lay upon its side, its wheels grooved to fit the rails, but

broken and splintered now and fused to the axle and body by

the magic's transformation. Once this carriage had ridden the

rails, propelled in some mysterious way, carrying people of the

old world from building to building, and from street to street.

The members of the company paused momentarily to gaze upon

the wreck, then hurried on.

There were other carriages along the way, once an entire

chamber full of them, some still seated upon the rails, some

fallen and smashed along the way. There were piles of debris

fallen by the rails that could not be identified and bits and pieces

of what had been iron benches on the platforms they passed.

Once or twice they ascended the stairs back to the streets of the

city to regain their bearings before going down again. Below,

far from where they walked, they could hear the rumble of the

Maw Grint. Farther down still there was the sound of the ocean.

After several hours of exploring the network of tunnels with-

out encountering any sign of the Stone King, Pe Ell brought

them up short. "This is a waste of time," he said. "There's

nothing to be found at this level. We need to go farther down."

Walker Boh glanced at Quickening, then nodded. Morgan

caught sight of the looks on the faces of Carisman and Homer

Dees and decided the same look was probably on his own.

They descended to the next level, winding down the stairwell

into a maze of sewers. The sewers were empty and dry, but

there was no mistaking what they had once been. The pipes that

The Druid of Shannara                             215

formed them were more than twenty feet high. Like everything

else, they had been turned to stone. The company began follow-

ing them, the light of Walker's makeshift torch a silver flare

against the black, and the sound of their boots thudding harshly

in the stillness. Not more than a hundred yards from where they

had entered the sewers, a giant hole had been torn in the side of

the stone pipe, shattering it apart as if it were paper. Something

massive had burrowed through the rock and out again, some-

thing so huge that the sewer pipe had been no more than a blade

of grass in its path.

From down the black emptiness of the burrowed tunnel came

the rumble of the Maw Grint. The company crossed quickly

through the rubble-strewn opening and continued on.

For two hours they wandered the sewers beneath the city,

searching in vain for the lair of the Stone King. They twisted

and wound about, and soon any sense of direction was irretriev-

ably lost. There were fewer stairs leading up from this level,

and many of them were nothing more than ladders hammered

into the walls of drains. They came across the burrowings of the

Maw Grint several times in the course of their hunt, the massive,

jagged openings ripping upward through the earth and then dis-

appearing down into it again, chasms of blackness large enough

to swallow whole buildings. Morgan Leah stared into those

chasms, realized they must honeycomb the peninsula rock, and

wondered why the entire city didn't simply collapse into them.

Shortly after midday they stopped to rest and eat. They found

a set of steps leading up to the first level and climbed to where

an abandoned platform offered a set of battered stone benches.

Seated there. Walker's odd torch planted in the rubble so that its

light spilled over them like a halo, they stared wordlessly into

the shadows.

Morgan finished before the others and moved over to where

a thin shaft of daylight knifed down a stairwell leading to the

streets of the city. He seated himself and stared upward, thinking

of better times and places, wondering despondently if he would

ever find them again.

Carisman came over to sit beside him. "It would be nice to

see the sun again," the tunesmith mused and smiled faintly as

Morgan glanced over. "Even for just a moment."

He sang:

"Darkness is for bats and cats and frightened little mice,

It's not for those of us who find the sunshine rather nice,

226                             The Druid of Shannara

So stay away from Eldwist's murk and take this good advice,

Go someplace where your skin is warm instead of cold as

ice."

He grinned rather sadly. "Isn't that a terrible piece of dog-

gerel? It must be the worst song I've ever composed."

' 'Where did you come from, Carisman?'' Morgan asked him.

"I mean, before the Urdas and Rampling Steep. Where is your

home?"

Carisman shook his head. "Anywhere. Everywhere. I call

wherever I am my home, and I have been most places. I have

been traveling since I was old enough to walk.''

' 'Do you have a family?''

"No. Not that I know about." Carisman drew his knees up

to his chest and hugged them. "If I am to die here, there is no

one who will wonder what has become of me."

Morgan snorted. "You're not going to die. None of us are.

Not if we're careful." The intensity of Carisman's gaze made

him uncomfortable. ' 'I have a family. A father and mother back

in the Highlands. Two younger brothers as well. I haven't seen

them now in weeks."

Carisman's handsome face brightened. "I traveled the High-

lands some years back. It was beautiful country, the hills all

purple and silver in the early light, almost red when the sun set.

It was quiet up there, so still you could hear the sound of the

birds when they called out from far away." He rocked slightly.

"I could have been happy there if I had stayed."

Morgan studied him a moment, watched him stare off into

space, caught up in some inner vision. "I plan to go back when

we're done with this business," he said. "Why don't you come

home with me?"

Carisman stared at him. "Would that be all right? I would

like that."

Morgan nodded. "Consider it done. But let's not have any

more talk about dying.''

They were silent for a moment before Carisman said, "Do

you know that the closest thing I ever had to a family was the

Urdas? Despite the fact that they kept me prisoner, they took

care of me. Cared about me, too. And I cared about them. Like

a family. Strange."

Morgan thought about his own family for a moment, his fa-

ther and mother and brothers. He remembered their faces, the

sound oftheir voices, the way they moved and acted. That led

The Druid of Shannara                             217

him to think of the Valemen, Par and Coll. Where were they?

Then he thought of Steff, dead several weeks now, already be-

coming a memory, fading into the history of his past. He thought

of the promise he had made to his friend—that if he found a

magic that could aid the Dwarves in their struggle to be free

again, he would use it—against the Federation—against the

Shadowen. A rush of determination surged through him and

dissipated again. Maybe the Black Elfstone would prove to be

the weapon he needed. If it could negate other magics, if it were

indeed powerful enough to bring back disappeared Paranor by

counteracting the spell of magic that bound it...

"They liked the music, you know, but it was more than just

that," Carisman was saying. "I think they liked me as well.

They were a lot like children in need of a father. They wanted

to hear all about the world beyond their valley, about the Four

Lands and the peoples that lived there. Most of them had never

been anywhere beyond the Spikes. I had been everywhere."

"Except here," Morgan said with a smile.

But Carisman only looked away. "I wish I had never come

here," he said.

The company resumed its search of the sewers ofEldwist and

continued to find them empty of life. They discovered nothing—

not the smallest burrowing rodent, not a bat, not even the insects

that normally thrived underground. There was no sign of Uhl

Belk. There was only the stone that marked his passing. They

wandered for several hours and then began to retrace their steps.

Daylight would be gone shortly, and they had no intention of

being caught outside when the Rake began its nocturnal scav-

enging.

"It may be, however, that it doesn't come down into the

tunnels," Walker Boh mused.

But no one wanted to find out, so they kept moving. They

followed the twisting catacombs, recrossed the burrowings of

the Maw Grint, and pushed steadily ahead through the darkness.

Grunting and huffing were the only sounds to be heard. Tension

lined their faces. Their eyes reflected their discouragement and

discontent. No one spoke. What they were thinking needed no

words.

Then Walker brought them to a sudden halt and pointed off

into the gloom. There was an opening in the tunnel, one that

they had somehow missed earlier, smaller than the sewers and

virtually invisible in the dimness. Walker crouched down to peer

inside, then disappeared into the dark.

218                             The Druid of Shannara

A moment later he returned. "There is a cavern and a stair-

well leading down," he reported. "It appears there is yet

another set of tunnels below.''

They followed him through the opening to the chamber be-

yond, a cave whose walls and floors were studded with jagged

projections and rent with deep clefts. They found the stairwell

and looked down into its gloom. It was impossible to see any-

thing. They exchanged uneasy glanceS. Wordlessly, Walker

moved to the head of the stairs. Holding the makeshift torch out

in front of him, he started down. After a moment's hesitation,

the others followed.

The stairs descended a long way, ragged and slick with mois-

ture. The smell of the Tiderace was present here, and they could

hear the trickle of seawater in the blackness. When they reached

the end of the stairs, they found themselves standing in the mid-

dle of a broad, high tunnel in which the rock was crystallized

and massive stone icicles hung from the ceiling in clusters, drip-

ping water into black pools. Walker turned right, and the com-

pany moved ahead. The dampness chilled the air to ice, and the

six pulled their cloaks tightly about them for warmth. Echoes of

their footsteps reverberated through the stone corridor, chasing

the silence.

Then suddenly there was something else, a sort of squealing

that reminded Morgan Leah of a rusted iron lever being shifted

after a long period of disuse. The members of the company

stopped as one at its sound and stood in the faint silver glow of

the torchlight, listening. The squealing continued; it was com-

ing from somewhere behind them.

"Come,'' Walker Boh said sharply and began hurrying ahead.

The others hastened after, spurred on by the unexpected urgency

in his voice. Walker had recognized something in the sound that

they had not. Morgan glanced over his shoulder as he went.

What was back there?

They crossed a shallow stream of water that tumbled from a

fissure in the rock wall, and Walker turned, motioning the rest

of them past. The squealing sound was deafening now and com-

ing closer. The Dark Uncle passed the torch to Morgan word-

lessly, then lifted his arm and threw something into the black.

A white fire flared to life, and the tunnel behind them was sud-

denly filled with light.

Morgan gasped. There were rats everywhere, a churning,

scrambling mass of furred bodies. But these rats were giants.

grown to three and four times their normal size, all claws and

The Druid of Shannara                             219

teeth. Their eyes were white and sightless, like everything else

the company had encountered in Eldwist, and their bodies were

sleek with the dampness of the sea. They looked ravenous. And

maddened. They poured out of the rocks and came for the men

and the girl.

"Run!" Walker cried, snatching the torch back from Mor-

gan.

And run they did, charging frantically through the darkness

with the sound of the squealing chasing after them in gathering

waves, struggling to keep at the edges of the torchlight as they

fought to escape the horror that pursued. The tunnel rose and

fell in ragged slopes, and the rocks cut and scraped at them.

They fell repeatedly, scrambled up again, and ran on.

A ladder! That was all that Morgan Leah could think. We 've

got to find a ladder!

But there was none. There were only the rock walls, the

streams and pools of seawater, and the rats. And themselves,

trapped.

Then from somewhere ahead came a new sound, the booming

of waves against a shoreline, the pounding of the ocean against

land.

They broke from the blackness of the tunnel into a faint,

silvery brightness and staggered to a ragged halt. Before them

a cliff dropped sharply into the Tiderace. The ocean churned

and swirled below, crashing into the rocks, foaming white as it

spilled over them. They were in an underground cavern so mas-

sive that its farthest reaches were lost in mist and shadow. Day-

light spilled through clefts in the rock where the ocean had

breached the wall. Other tunnels opened into the cavern as well,

black holes far to the right and left. All were unreachable. The

cliffs to either side were impassable. The drop below led to the

rocks and the roiling sea. The only way left was back the way

they had come.

Through the rats.

The rats were almost on top of the company now, their squeals

rising up to overwhelm the thunder of the ocean's waters, their

masses filling the lower half of the tunnel as they bit and clawed

ahead. Morgan yanked out his broadsword, knowing even as he

did so how futile the weapon would be. Pe Ell had moved to

one side, clear of the others, and his strange silver knife was in

his hand. Dees and Carisman were backed to the edge of the

drop, crouched as if to jump.

220 The Druid of Shannara

Quickening stepped forward beside Morgan, her beautiful

face strangely calm, her hands steady on his arm.

Then Walker Boh cast aside his torch and hurled a fistful of

black powder into the horde of rats. Fire exploded everywhere,

and the first rank was incinerated. But there were hundreds more

behind that one, thousands of churning dark bodies. Claws

scraped madly on the rocks, seeking to find a grip. Teeth and

sightless eyes gleamed. The rats came on.

"Walker!" Morgan cried out desperately and shoved Quick-

ening behind him.

But it wasn't the Dark Uncle who responded to Morgan's

plea, or Pe Ell, or Homer Dees, or even Quickening. It was

Carisman, the tunesmith.

He rushed forward, pushing past Morgan and Quickening,

coming up beside Walker just as the rats burst through the tunnel

opening onto the narrow ledge. Lifting his wondrous voice, he

began to sing. It was a song that was different than any they had

ever heard; it scraped like the rub of metal on stone, shrieked

like the tearing of wood, and broke through the thunder of the

ocean and the squeal of the rats to fill the cavern with its sound.

"Come to me!" Quickening cried out to the rest of them.

They bunched close at once, even Pe Ell, flattening them-

selves against one another as the tunesmith continued to sing.

The rats poured out of the tunnel and swept toward them in a

wave of struggling bodies. But then the wave split apart, flowing

to either side of the tunesmith, passing by without touching any

of them. Something in Carisman's song was turning them away.

They twisted to either side, a churning mass. Onward they

scrambled, heedless of everything, whether fleeing or being

called it was impossible to tell, and tumbled into the sea.

Moments later, the last of them had been swallowed up or

swept away. Carisman went still, then collapsed into Morgan's

arms. The Highlander propped him up, and Quickening wiped

cold seawater onto his face with the sleeve of her tunic. The

others glanced about breathlessly, cautiously, scanning the dark

tunnel opening, the empty rock, the waters of the sea.

"It worked," Carisman whispered in surprise as his eyes

fluttered open again. "Did you see? It worked!" He struggled

up and seized Quickening jubilantly by the arms. "I'd read

something about it once, or heard about it maybe, but I had

never thought I would ... I mean, I had never tried such a thing

before! Never! It was a cat song. Lady! A cat song! I didn't

The Druid of Shannara                             221

know what else to do, so I made those horrid rodents think we

were giant cats!"

Everyone stared in disbelief. Only then did Morgan Leah

appreciate how truly miraculous their escape had been.

XX

With the destruction of the rats, they were able to

retrace their steps through the tunnel that had

brought them to the underground cavern, climb

back into the sewers of Eldwist, climb from there to the level of

tunnels above, and finally reach the streets of the city. It was

already growing dark, and they hurried quickly through the de-

scending gloom to gain the safety of their nighttime refuge.

They only just succeeded. The Rake appeared almost at once,

an invisible presence beyond the walls of the building, its ar-

mored legs scraping across the stone below, searching for them

still. They sat huddled silently in the dark listening to it hunt

until it had gone. Walker said he thought the creature could track

by smell, only the rain and the number of trails they had left

was confusing it. Sooner or later it would figure out where they

were hiding.

Exhausted and aching and shaken by what had befallen them,

they ate their dinner in silence and went quickly off to sleep.

The next morning Pe EU, who following their escape from

the tunnels had descended into a mood so black that no one

dared approach him, announced that he was going out on his

own.

"There are too many of us stumbling about to ever find any-

thing," he declared, his voice calm and expressionless, his nar-

row face unreadable. He spoke to Quickening, as if only she

mattered. "If mere truly is a Stone King, he knows by now that

we are here. This is his city; he can hide in it forever if he

222                             The Druid of Shannara

chooses. The only way to find him is to catch him off guard,

sneak up on him, and surprise him. There will be none of that

if we continue to hunt like a pack of dogs.''

Morgan started to intervene, but Walker's fingers closed about

his arm like iron bands.

Pe Ell glanced around. "The rest of you can keep bumbling

about as long as you wish. But you'll do it without me. I've

spent enough time shepherding you around. I should have gone

off on my own from the first. If I had, this business would be

finished by now.'' He turned back to Quickening.' 'When I have

found Uhl Belk and the Black Elfstone, I will come back for

you." He paused, meeting her gaze squarely. "If you are still

alive."

He strode past them contemptuously and disappeared down

the hall. His boots thudded softly on the stairs and faded into

silence.

Homer Dees spit. "We're well rid of that one," he muttered.

' 'He is correct, though,'' Walker Boh said, and they all turned

to look at him. "In one respect at least. We must divide our-

selves up into groups if we are ever to complete this search. The

city is too large, and we are too easy to avoid while we stay

together.''

"Two groups then," Dees agreed, nodding his shaggy head.

"No one goes out alone."

' 'Pe Ell doesn't seem worried about hunting alone,'' Morgan

noted.

"He's a predator, sure enough," Dees replied. He looked at

Quickening speculatively. "How about it, girl? Does he have

any chance of finding Belk and the Elfstone on his own?"

But Quickening only said, "He will return."

They seated themselves to work out a strategy, a method by

which the city could be searched from end to end. The buildings

ran mostly north of where they were concealed, so it was de-

cided to divide Eldwist in two with one group taking the east

half and the other the west. The search would concentrate on

the buildings and streets, not the tunnels. If nothing were found

aboveground, they would change their approach.

' 'Pe Ell may be wrong when he says that the Stone King must

know we are here," Quickening said in closing. She brought

her slender fingers up in a quick, birdlike movement. "We are

insignificant in his eyes, and he may not yet have even noticed

us. We are the reason he keeps the Rake in service. Besides, the

Maw Grint occupies his time."

The Druid of Shannara 223

"How do we divide ourselves up?" Carisman asked.

' 'You will go with me,'' Quickening answered at once.' 'And

Walker Boh."

Morgan was surprised. He had expected her to choose him.

The disappointment he felt cut deeply. He started to dispute her

choice, but her black eyes fixed him with such intensity that he

went instantly still. Whatever her reasons for making this deci-

sion, she did not want it questioned.

"That leaves you and me, Highlander," Homer Dees grunted

and clapped one heavy hand on Morgan's shoulder. ' "Think we

can manage to disappoint Pe Ell and keep our skins whole?"

His sudden laugh was so infectious that Morgan found him-

self smiling in response. "I'd bet on it," he replied.

They gathered up their gear and went down into the street.

Sheets of gloom draped the buildings, hung from skies thick

with clouds and mist. The air was damp and chill, and their

breath exhaled in a haze of white. They wished each other well

and began moving off in separate directions, Morgan and Hor-

ner Dees going west, Quickening, Walker, and Carisman east.

"Take care of yourself, Morgan," Quickening whispered,

her exquisite face a mix of shadow and light beneath the sweep

of her silver hair. She touched him softly on the shoulder and

hurried after Walker Boh.

"Tra-la-la-la, a-hunting we will go!" Carisman sang merrily

as they disappeared.

Rain began to fall in a steady drizzle. Morgan and Homer

Dees slogged ahead with their cloaks pulled tightly about their

shoulders and their heads bent. They had agreed that they would

follow the street to its end, until they were at the edge of the

city, then turn north to track the peninsula's shoreline. There

had been little enough found within the core of the city; perhaps

there was something outside—particularly if the Stone King's

magic was ineffective against water. They kept to the walkways

and glanced cautiously down the darkened corridors of the side-

streets they passed. Rainwater collected on the city's stone skin

in puddles and streams, shimmering darkly in the gloom. Sea-

birds huddled in nooks and crevices, waiting out the storm. In

the shadows, nothing moved.

It was nearing midmoming when they reached the Tiderace,

the land ending in cliffs which dropped hundreds of feet into the

sea. Craggy outcroppings of rock rose out of the churning wa-

ters, worn and pitted. Waves crashed against the cliffs, the sound

of their pounding mixing with the wind as it swept off the water

224                             The Druid of Shannara

in a rising howl. Morgan and Dees melted back into the shelter

of the outer buildings, seeking to protect themselves. Rain and

ocean spray soaked them quickly through, and they were soon

shivering beneath their clothes. For two hours they skirted the

city's western boundaries without finding anything. By midday,

when they stopped to eat, they were disgruntled and worn.

"There's nothing to be found out here, Highlander," Dees

observed, chewing on a bit of dried beef—his last. "Just the sea

and the wind and those confounded birds, shrieking and calling

like madwomen.''

Morgan nodded without answering. He was trying to de-

cide whether he could eat a seabird if he had to. Their food

supplies were almost exhausted. Soon they would be forced

to hunt. What else was there besides those birds? Fish, he

decided firmly. The birds looked too rangy and tough.

"You miss the Highlands?" Dees asked him suddenly.

"Sometimes.'' He thought about his home and smiled faintly.

"All the time."

"Me, too, and I haven't seen them in years. Thought they

were the most beautiful piece of work nature ever made. I liked

how they made me feel when I was in them."

"Carisman said he liked it there, too. He said he liked the

quiet."

"The quiet. Yes, I remember how quiet it was in those hills."

They had found shelter in a building's shadowed entry. The big

man shifted himself away from a widening stain where the rain

had trickled down the wall and collected on the steps where they

were seated, backs to the wall, facing out into the weather.

He leaned forward. "Let me tell you something," he said

softly. "I know this fellow, Pe Ell."

Morgan looked over, intrigued. "From where?"

"From before. Long before. Almost twenty years. He was

just a kid then; I was already old." Dees chuckled darkly. "Some

kid. A killer even then. An assassin right from the beginning—

as if that was what he was born to be and he couldn't ever be

anything else but." He shook his grizzled head. "I knew him.

I knew it was bad luck if you crossed nun.''

"Did you?"

"Cross him? Me? No, not me. I know well enough who to

stand up to and who to back away from. Always have. That's

how I've stayed alive. Pe Ell is the kind who once he takes a

dislike to you will keep coming till you're dead. Doesn't matter

how long it takes him or how he gets the job done. He'll just

The Druid of Shannara 225

keep at it." He pointed at Morgan. "You better understand

something. I don't know what he's doing here. I don't know

why the girl brought him. But he's no friend to any of you. You

know what he is? He's a Federation assassin. Their best, in fact.

He's Rimmer Dall's favorite boy."

Morgan froze, the blood draining from his face. "That can't

be."

"Can and is," Dees said emphatically. "Unless things have

changed from how they used to be, and I doubt they have."

Morgan shook his head in disbelief. "How do you know all

this. Homer?"

Homer Dees smiled, a wide, hungry grin. "Funny thing about

that. I remember him even though he doesn't remember me. I

can see it in his eyes. He's trying to figure out what it is I know

that he doesn't. Have you seen the way he looks at me? Trying

to figure it out. Been too long, I guess. He's killed too many

men, has too many faces in his past to remember many of them.

Me, I been gone a long time. I don't have so many ghosts to

worry about." He paused. "Truth is, Highlander, I was one of

them myself."

"One of them?" Morgan asked quietly.

The other gave a sharp laugh, like a bark. "I was with the

Federation! I tracked for them!"

As quick as that Morgan Leah's perception of Homer Dees

changed. The big, bearish fellow was no longer just a gruff, old

Tracker whose best days were behind him; he was no longer

even a friend. Morgan started to back away and then realized

there was nowhere to back to. He reached for his broadsword.

"Highlander!" Dees snapped, freezing him. The big man

clenched one massive fist, then relaxed it. "Like I said, that was

long ago. I been gone from those people twenty years. Settle

back. You haven't any reason to fear me."

He placed his hands in his lap, palms up. "Anyway, that's

how I came to see the Highlands, believe it or not—in the service

of the Federation. I was tracking Dwarf rebels for them, hunting

the Rainbow Lake and Silver River country. Never found much.

Dwarves are like foxes; they go to ground quick as a wink when

they know they're being hunted." He smiled unexpectedly. "I

didn't try very hard in any case. It was a worthless sort of job."

Morgan released his grip on the broadsword and sat back

again.

"I was with them long enough to find out about Pe Ell," the

other went on, and now his eyes were distant and troubled. "I

226                             The Druid of Shannara

knew most of what was happening back then. Rimmer Dall had

me slated to be a Seeker. Can you imagine? Me? I thought that

wolf's head stuff was nonsense. But I learned about Pe Ell while

Dall was working on me. Saw him come and go once, when he

didn't know it. Dall arranged for me to see because he liked

putting one over on Pe Ell. It was a sort of game with the two

of them, each trying to show up the other. Anyway, I saw him

and heard what he did. A few others heard things, too. Everyone

knew to stay away from him.''

He sighed. "Just a little while after that, I quit the bunch of

them. Left when no one was looking, came north through the

Easfland, traveled about until I reached Rampling Steep, and

decided that was where I'd live. Away from the madness south,

the Federation, the Seekers, all of it."

"All of it?" Morgan repeated doubtfully, still trying to de-

cide what to make of Homer Dees. "Even the Shadowen?"

Dees blinked. "What do you know of the Shadowen, Morgan

Leah?"

Morgan leaned forward. Windblown mist had left Homer's

face damp and shining, and droplets of water clung to his hair

and beard. "I want to know something from you first. Why are

you telling me all this?"

The other's smile was strangely gentle. "Because I want you

to know about Pe Ell, and you can't know about him without

knowing about me. I like you, Highlander. You remind me a

little of myself when I was your age—kind of reckless and head-

strong, not afraid of anything. I don't want there to be secrets

about me that might come out in a bad way. Like if Pe Ell should

remember who I am. I want you for a friend and ally. I don't

trust anyone else."

Morgan studied him wordlessly for a moment. "You might

do better with someone else."

"I'll chance it. Now, how about it? I've answered your ques-

tion. You tell me how you know about the Shadowen."

Morgan drew up his knees and hugged them to his chest,

making up his mind. Finally, he said, "My best friend was a

Dwarf named Steff. He was with the Resistance. The woman he

loved was a Shadowen, and she killed him. I killed her."

Homer Dees arched his eyebrows quizzically. "I was given

to understand that nothing but magic could kill those things."

Morgan reached down and drew out the shattered end of the

Sword of Leah. "There was magic in this Sword once," he said.

"Allanon put it there himself—three hundred years ago. I broke

The Druid of Shannara                             227

it during a battle with the Shadowen in Tyrsis before the start of

all this. Even so, there was still enough magic left to avenge

Steff and save myself." He studied the blade speculadvely, hefted

it, waited in vain to feel its warmth, then looked back at Dees.

"Maybe there's still some. Anyway, that's why Quickening

brought me along. This Sword. She said there was a chance it

could be restored."

Homer Dees frowned. "Are you to use it against Belk then?''

"I don't know," Morgan admitted. "I haven't been told any-

thing except that it could be made whole again.'' He slipped the

broken blade back into its scabbard. "Promises," he said and

sighed.

"She seems like the kind who keeps hers," the other ob-

served after a moment's thought. "Magic to find magic. Magic

to prevail over magic. Us against the Stone King." He shook

his head. "It's too complicated for me. You just be sure you

remember what I said about Pe EU. You can't turn your back on

him. And you mustn't go up against him either. You leave that

tome."

"You?" Morgan declared in surprise.

"That's right. Me. Or Walker Boh. One-armed or not, he's a

match for Pe Ell or I've misjudged him completely. You con-

centrate on keeping the girl safe." He paused. "Shouldn't be

too hard, considering how you feel about each other."

Morgan flushed in spite of himself. "It's mostly me that's

feeling anything," he muttered awkwardly.

"She's the prettiest thing I've ever seen," the old man said,

smiling at the other's discomfort. "I don't know what she is,

human or elemental or what, but she can charm the boots right

off you. She looks at you, that face softens, she speaks the way

she does, and you'll do anything for her. I should know. I wasn't

ever going to come back to this place and here I am. She's done

it to all of us."

Morgan nodded. "Even to Pe Ell. He's as much hers as the

rest of us."

But Dees shook his head. "I don't know, Highlander. You

look careful next chance you get. He's hers, but he isn't. She

walks a fine line with that one. He could turn quick as a cat.

That's why I tell you to look after her. You remember what he

is. He's not here to do us any favors. He's here for himself.

Sooner or later, he'll revert to form."

"I think so, too," Morgan agreed.

The Druid ofShannara

Dees gave a satisfied smirk. "But it won't be so easy for him

now, will it? Because we'll be watching."

They packed up, tightened their cloaks against the weather,

and stepped back out into the downpour. They continued to

follow the shoreline as the afternoon lengthened, reaching the

northernmost point of the peninsula without finding anything,

and turned back again into the city. The rain finally ended,

changing to a fine mist that hung like smokfi against the gray

sky and buildings. The air warmed. Shadows yawned and

stretched in alleyways and nooks like waking spirits, and steam

rose off the streets.

From somewhere underground the rumble of the Maw Grint

sounded, a distant thunder that shook the earth.

"I'm beginning to think we're not ever going to find any-

thing," Homer Dees muttered at one point.

They followed the dark corridors of the streets and searched

the brume that lay all about, the doorways and windows that

gaped open like mouths in search of food, and the flat, glistening

walkways and passages. Everywhere the city lay abandoned and

dead, stripped of life and filled with hollow, empty sounds. It

walled them away with its stone and its silence; it wrapped about

them with such persistence that despite memory and reason it

seemed that the world beyond must have fallen away and that

Eldwist was all that remained.

They grew weary with the approach of evening; the sameness

of their surroundings dulled their senses and wore against their

resistance. They began to stray a bit, to wander closer to the

walkway's edge, to look upward more often at the stone heights

that loomed all about, and to give themselves over to a danger-

ous and persistent wish that something— anything— would hap-

pen. Their boredom was acute, their sense of being unable to

change or affect the things about them maddening. They had

been in Eldwist almost a week. How much longer would they

be forced to remain?

Ahead, the street deadended. They rounded the comer of the

building they were following and discovered that the street wid-

ened into a square. At the square's center was an odd depression

with steps leading down on all sides to a basin from which a

statue rose, a winged figure with streamers and ribbons trailing

from its body. Almost without thinking, they turned into the

square, beguiled by its look, so different from anything else they

had seen. A park, they thought to themselves without speaking.

What was it doing here?

The Druid of Shannara 229

They were halfway across the street when they heard the catch

that secured the trapdoor beneath them release.

They had no chance of saving themselves. They were stand-

ing in the center of the door when it dropped, and they plunged

into the void beneath. They fell a long way, struck the side of a

chute, and began to slide head-downward. The chute was rough,

its surface littered with loose rock that cut and bit into their

faces and hands. They clawed frantically in an attempt to slow

their descent, heedless of the pain. Boots and knees dug in;

hands and fingers grasped. The slide broadened and its slope

decreased. They quit rolling, flattened themselves in a spread-

eagle position, and came to a grinding halt.

Morgan lifted his head gingerly and peered about. He lay

facedown on a slab of rock that stretched so far away into the

shadows on either side that he could not see its end. Loose rock

lay upon the slide like a carpet, bits and pieces of it still tumbling

away. There was a faint glimmer of light from somewhere above,

a narrow shaft that sought in vain to penetrate the gloom, so

thin that it barely reached to where Morgan lay. He forced him-

self to look down. Homer Dees lay some twenty feet below him

on his right, sprawled on his back with his arms and legs thrown

wide, unmoving. Farther down, like a giant, hungry mouth, was

a chasm of impenetrable blackness.

Morgan swallowed against the dust in his throat. "Homer?"

he whispered hoarsely.

"Here," the other said, his voice a faint rasp.

"Are you all right?"

There was a grunt. "Nothing broken, I think."

Morgan took a moment to look about. All he could see was

the slide, the shaft of light above, and the chasm below. "Can

you move?'' he called down softly.

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of rocks

clattering away into the dark. "No," the reply came. "I'm too

fat and old, Highlander. If I try to get up to you, I'll start sliding

and won't be able to stop."

Morgan heard the strain in his voice. And the fear. Dees was

helpless, laying on that loose rock like a leaf on glass; even the

slightest movement would send him spinning away into the void.

Me, too, if I make any attempt to help, the Highlander thought

darkly.

Yet he knew that he had to try.

He took a deep breath and brought his hand up slowly to his

mouth. A shower of loose rock rattled away, but his body stayed

230                             The Druid of Shannara

in place on the slide. He brushed at the silt on his lips and closed

his eyes, thinking. There was a rope in his backpack, a thin,

strong coil, some fifty feet of it. His eyes opened again. Could

he find a way to fasten it to something and haul himself up?

A familiar rumbling shook the earth, rising from below, shak-

ing the carpet of rock about him so that small showers of it slid

into the abyss. There was a thunderous huffing and a great, long

sigh as if an enormous amount of air was being released.

Morgan Lean glanced down, cold to the bone. In the depths

below, right beneath where they hung, the Maw Grint lay sleep-

ing.

Morgan looked up again quickly. His breath came in short,

frantic gasps, and he had to struggle to overcome an almost

overpowering urge to claw his way out of there as fast as he

could. The Maw Grint. That close. It was huge beyond belief;

even his vague glimpse of it had been enough to tell him that.

He couldn't begin to guess how much of it there was, where it

began and ended, how far it stretched away.

He gripped at the rock until his hands hurt, fighting back

against his fear and nausea. He had to get out of there! He had

to find a way!

Almost without thinking about what he was doing, he reached

beneath his stomach and began working free the broken remains

of the Sword of Leah. It was a slow, agonizing process, for he

was unable to lift up without fear of beginning his slide down

again. And now, more than he had ever wanted anything, he did

not want that.

"Don't try to move, Homer!" he called down softly, his

voice dry and rough. "Stay where you are!"

There was no response. Morgan inched the Sword of Leah

clear of its scabbard and out from under him, bringing it level

with his face. The polished metal surface of the broken blade

glittered brightly in the faint light. He pushed it above his head

with one hand, then reached up with the other until he could

grip it firmly with both. Turning the jagged end of the blade

downward, he began to slide it into the rock. He felt it bite into

the stone slab beneath.

Please! he begged.

Jamming the Sword of Leah into the stone, he hauled himself

up. The blade held, and he pulled his face level with its handle.

Bits of rock fell away beneath him, tumbling and sliding into

the void. The Maw Grint did not stir.

Morgan freed the Sword, reached upward to jam it into the

The Druid of Shannara                             231

rock again, gripped it with every ounce of strength he pos-

sessed, and pulled himself level once more. He closed his eyes

and lay next to it panting, then felt a rush of heat surge through

his body. The magic? He opened his eyes quickly to see, search-

ing the Sword's gleaming length. Nothing.

Holding himself in place with one hand, he used the other to

dive into his pack and secure the length of rope and a grappling

hook. A handful of cooking implements and a blanket worked

free in the process and fell onto the chute. Ignoring them, the

Highlander slipped the rope about his waist and shoulders and

tied it in a harness.

"Homer!" he whispered.

The old Tracker looked up, and Morgan threw the rope to

him. It fell across his body, and he seized it with both hands.

He started to slip almost immediately, swinging over until he

was beneath Morgan. Then the rope went taut, catching him.

The shock to Morgan's body was staggering, an immense,

wrenching weight that threatened to pull him down. But he had

both hands fastened once more on the Sword of Leah, and the

blade held firm.

"Climb to me!" he whispered down harshly.

Homer Dees began to do so, slowly, torturously, hand over

hand up the rope and the slide. As he passed the cooking im-

plements and blanket that had fallen from Morgan's pack, he

kicked them free, and they tumbled farther down in a shower of

rock.

This time the Maw Grint coughed and came awake.

It grunted, a huffing sound that reverberated against the stone

walls. It lifted itself, its massive body thudding against the walls

of the tunnel in which it slept, shaking the earth violently. It

rolled and pitched and began to move. Morgan hung on to the

pommel of his sword, and Dees clung to the slender rope, both

gritting their teeth against the strain on muscle and bone. The

Maw Grint shook itself, and Tracker and Highlander could hear

a spraying sound and then a hiss of steam.

The Maw Grint slid away into the black and the sound of its

passing faded. Morgan and Dees looked down cautiously.

An odd, greenish stain was working its way up the stone of

the chute, just visible at the far edge of the shaft of light several

dozen feet below Dees. It glistened darkly and steamed like a

fire advancing through brush. They watched as it reached the

blanket that had fallen from Morgan's pack. When it touched it,

the rough wool turned instantly to stone.

232                             The Druid of Shannara

Homer Dees began climbing again at once, a furious assault

on the loose stone of the slide. When he was almost to Morgan,

the Highlander stopped him, beckoned for slack on the rope,

and began his own ascent, jamming the Sword blade down into

the rock, pulling himself up, jamming and pulling, over and

over again.

They went on that way for what seemed an endless span of

time. Daylight beckoned them, drawing them like a beacon to-

ward the surface of the city and safety. Sweat ran down Morgan's

face and body until he was drenched in it. His breathing grew

labored, and his entire body was wracked with pain. It grew so

bad at one point that he thought he must quit. But he could not.

Below, the stain continued to advance, the poison given off by

the Maw Grint's body solidifying everything in its path. The

blanket went first, then the handful of cooking implements that

hadn't fallen into the abyss. Soon there was nothing left save

Morgan and Homer Dees.

And it was gaining steadily on them.

They struggled on, hauling themselves upward foot by foot.

Morgan's mind closed down on his thoughts like an iron lid on

a trunk of useless relics, and all of his efforts became concen-

trated on the climb. As he labored, he felt the heat spread through

him once more, stronger this time, more insistent. He could feel

it turning inside him like an auger, boring and twisting at the

core of his being. It reached from head to heels and back again,

from fingers to toes, through the muscles and bone and blood,

until it was all he knew. At some point—he never knew exactly

when—he looked at the Sword of Leah and saw it glowing as

bright as day, the white fire of its magic burning through the

shadows. Still there, he thought in furious determination. Still

mine!

Then suddenly there was a ladder, rungs lining the walls of

the chute above him, rising up from the darkness of their prison

toward the fading daylight and the city. The light, he saw, came

from a narrow airshaft. He scrambled toward it, jamming, haul-

ing, releasing, starting all over again. He heard Homer Dees

calling to him from below, his hoarse voice almost a sob, and

looked down long enough to see the poison of the Maw Grint

inches from the old Tracker's boots. He reached down impul-

sively with one hand and calling on a strength he didn't know

he possessed, hauled upward on the rope, pulling Dees clear.

The other kicked and scrambled toward him, bearded face a

mask of dust and sweat. Morgan's hand released the rope and

The Druid of Shannara                             233

closed over the bottommost rung of the ladder. Dees continued

to climb, digging his boots into the loose stone. The light was

failing quickly now, gone gray already, slipping rapidly into

darkness. Below, the Maw Grint's muffled roar shook the earth.

Then they were both on the ladder, scrambling upward, feet

and hands gripping, bodies pressing against the stone. Morgan

jammed the Sword of Leah back into his belt, safely in place.

Still magic!

They burst from the airshaft into the street and fell on the

walkway in exhaustion. Together, they crawled to the doorway

of the nearest building and collapsed in the cool of its shadows.

"I knew ... I was right... in wanting you for a friend,"

Homer Dees gasped.

He reached over, this great bearish man, and pulled the High-

lander close. Morgan Leah could feel him shake.

XXI

Pe EU spent the day sleeping.

After he walked out on Quickening and the others of

the little company from Rampling Steep he went di-

rectly to a building less than a block away that he had chosen

for himself two days earlier. Rounding the corner of the building

so that he was out of sight of anyone who might be watching,

he entered through a side door, climbed the stairs one floor,

followed the hallways to the front of the building, and turned

into a large, well-lighted chamber with windows that ran almost

floor to ceiling and opened on the street below and the buildings

across, one of which was where his once-companions were pres-

ently hiding.

He permitted himself a brief smile. They were such a pack

of fools.

Pe Ell had a plan. He believed, as Quickening did, that the

234                             The Druid of Shannara

Stone King was hidden somewhere in the city. He did not believe

the others of the company would find him even if they searched

from now until next summer. He alone could do so. Pe Ell was

a hunter by instinct and experience; the others were something

less—each to a varying degree, but all hopeless. He had not lied

when he told them he would be better off on his own. He would.

Homer Dees was a Tracker, but a Tracker's skills were useless

in a city of stone. Carisman arid Morgan Leah had no skills

worth talking about. Quickening disdained the use of her

magic—maybe with good reason, although he wasn't convinced

of that yet. The only one who might have been useful to him

was Walker Boh. But the man with one arm was his most dan-

gerous enemy, and he did not want to have to worry about

watching his back.

His plan was simple. The key to finding Uhl Belk was the

Rake. The Creeper was the Stone King's house pet, a giant

watchdog that kept his city free of intruders. He turned it loose

at night, and it swept the streets and buildings clean. What it

missed one night, it went after the next. But only at night, not

during the day. Why was that? Pe Ell asked himself. And the

answer was obvious. Because like everything else that served

the Stone King, willingly or not, it could not see. It hunted by

using its other senses. The night was its natural ally. Daylight

might even hinder it.

Where did it go during the day? Pe Ell then asked. Again, the

answer seemed obvious. Like any house pet, it went back to its

master. That meant that if Pe EU could manage to follow the

Rake to its daytime lair he had a good chance of finding the

Stone King.

Pe EU thought he could do so. The night was his ally as well;

he had done most of his own hunting in the dark. His own senses

were as sharp as those of the Creeper. He could hunt the Rake

as easily as the Rake could hunt him. The Rake was a monster;

there was no point in thinking he stood a chance against such a

beast in a face-to-face confrontation, even with the aid of the

Stiehl. But Pe Ell could be a shadow when he chose, and nothing

could bring him to bay. He would take his chances; he would

play cat and mouse with the Rake. Pe Ell was feeling many

things, but fear wasn't one of them. He had a healthy respect

for the Creeper, but he was not frightened of it. After all, he

was the smarter of the two.

Come nightfall, he would prove it.

So he slept the daylight hours away, stretched out of sight just

The Druid of Shannara                             235

beneath the windows where he could feel the faint, hazy sunlight

on his face and hear the sounds of anyone or anything passing

in the street below.

When it grew dark, the shadows cooling the air to a damp

chill, the light fading away, he rose and supped down the stairs

and out the door. He stood listening in the gloom for a long

time. He had not heard the others of the company return from

their daytime hunt; that was odd. Perhaps they had come into

their shelter through another door, but he thought he would have

heard them nevertheless. For a moment he considered stealing

in for a quick look, but abandoned the idea almost immediately.

What happened to them had nothing to do with him. Even

Quickening no longer mattered as much. Now that he was away

from her, he discovered, she had lost something of her hold over

him. She was just a girl he had been sent to kill, and kill her he

would if she was still alive when he returned from his night's

hunt.

He would kill them all.

The cries of the seabirds were distant and mournful in the

evening stillness, faint whimpers carried on the ocean wind. He

could hear the dull pounding of the waters of the Tiderace against

Eldwist's shores and the low rumble of the Maw Grint some-

where deep beneath the city.

He could not hear the Creeper.

He waited until it was as black as it would get, the skies

obscured by clouds and mist, the gloom settled down about the

buildings, spinning shadow webs. He had listened to and iden-

tified all of the dark's sounds by then; they were as familiar as

the beating of his pulse. He began to move, just another shadow

in the night. He slipped down the streets in quick, cautious

dartings that carried him from one pool of darkness to the next.

He did not carry any weapon but the Stiehl, and the Stiehl was

safely sheathed within the covering of his pants. The only weap-

ons he needed right now were instinct and stealth.

He found a juncture of streets where he could crouch in wait

within a deeply shadowed entry that opened out of a tunnel

stairwell and gave him a clear view of everything for almost two

blocks. He settled himself back against the stone centerpost and

waited.

Almost immediately, he began thinking of the girl.

Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River-

she was a maddening puzzle who stirred such conflicting feel-

ings within him that he could barely begin to sort them out. It

236                            The Druid of Shannam

would have been better simply to brush them all aside and do

as Rimmer Dall had said he must—kill her. Yet he could not

quite bring himself to do so. It was more than defiance of Dall

and his contmued attempts to subvert him to the Shadowen cause,

more than his determination that he would handle matters in his

own way; it was the doubt and hesitation she roused in him, the

feeling that somehow he wasn't as much in control of matters

as he believed, that she knew things about him he did not. Se-

crets—she was a harborer of so many. If he killed her, those

secrets would be lost forever.

He pictured her in his mind as he had done for so many nights

during their journey north. He could visualize the perfection of

her features, the way the light's movement across her face and

body made every aspect seem more stunning than the one be-

fore. He could hear the music in her voice. He could feel her

touch. She was real and impossible at once: an elemental by her

own admission, a thing made of magic, yet human as well. Pe

Ell was a man whose respect for life had long since been dead-

ened by his killings. He was a professional assassin who had

never failed. He did not understand losing. He was a wall that

could not be breached; he was unapproachable by others save

for those brief moments he chose to tolerate their presence.

But Quickening—this strange, ephemeral girl—threatened all

of that. She had it in her, he believed, to ruin everything he was

and in the end to destroy him. He didn't know how, but he

believed it was so. She had the power to undo him. He should

have been anxious to kill her then, to do as Rimmer Dall had

asked. Instead, he was intrigued. He had never encountered

anyone until now who he felt might threaten him. He wanted to

rid himself of that threat; yet he wanted to get close to it first.

He stared out into the streets of Eldwist, down the corridors

between the silent, towering buildings, and into the tunnels of

endless gloom, unbothered by the seeming contradiction in his

wants. The shadows reached out to him and drew him close. He

was as much at home here as he had been at Southwatch, a part

of the night, the emptiness, the solitude, the presence of death

and absence of life. How little difference there was, he mar-

veled, between the kingdoms of Uhl Belk and the Shadowen.

He relaxed. He belonged in the anonymity of darkness.

It was she and those who stayed with her that required the

light.

He thought of them momentarily. It was a way to pass the

The Druid of Shannam                            23 7

time. He pictured each as he had pictured Quickening and con-

sidered the potential of each as a threat to him.

Carisman. He dismissed the tunesmith almost immediately.

Homer Dees. What was it about that old man that bothered

him so? He hated the way the bearish Tracker looked at him, as

if seeing right through skin and bone. He reflected on it mo-

mentarily, then shrugged it away. Dees was used up. He wielded

no magic.

Morgan Leah. He disliked the Highlander because he was so

obviously Quickening's favorite. She might even love him in her

own way, although he doubted she was capable of real feeling-

net her—not the elemental daughter of the King of the Silver

River. She was simply using him as she was using them all, her

reasons her own, carefully concealed. The Highlander was young

and rash and probably would find a way to kill himself before

he became a real problem.

That left Walker Boh.

As always, Pe Ell took an extra measure of time to ponder

him. Walker Boh was an enigma. He had magic, but he didn't

seem comfortable using it. Quickening had practically raised

him from the dead, yet he seemed almost uninterested in living.

He was preoccupied with matters of his own, things that he kept

hidden deep down inside, secrets as puzzling as those of the

girl. Walker Boh had a sense of things that surprised Pe Ell; he

might even be prescient. Once, some years ago, Pe Ell had heard

of a man who lived in the Eastland and could commune with

animals and read the changes in the Lands before they came to

pass. This man, perhaps? He was said to be a formidable op-

ponent; the Gnomes were terrified of him.

Pe Ell rocked forward slowly and clasped his hands together.

He would have to be especially careful of One-arm, he knew.

Pe Ell wasn't frightened of Walker Boh, but neither was Walker

Boh frightened of him.

Yet.

The minutes drifted away, the night deepened, and the streets

remained empty and still. Pe Ell waited patiently, knowing the

Rake would eventually come as it had come each night, search-

ing for their hiding place, seeking them out, and determined to

exterminate them as it had been trained to do. Tonight would be

no exception.

He let himself consider for a time the implications of having

possession of a magic like the Black Elfstone—a magic that

could negate all other magics. Once he had it in his grasp—as

238                             The Druid of Shannara

he eventually would—what would he do with it? His narrow,

sharp features crinkled with amusement. He would use it against

Rimmer Dall for starters. He would use it to negate Dall's own

magic. He would slip into Southwatch, find the First Seeker,

and put an end to him. Rimmer Dall had grown more annoying

than useful; Pe Ell no longer cared to tolerate him. It was time

to sever their partnership once and for all. After that, he might

use the talisman against the rest of the Shadowen, perhaps make

himself their leader. Except that he really didn't want anything

to do with them. Better, perhaps, simply to eliminate them all-

or as many as he could reach. He smiled expectantly. That would

be an interesting challenge.

He leaned back contentedly in the shadows of his shelter. He

would have to learn how to use the magic of the Elfstone first,

of course. Would that prove difficult? Would he have to rely on

Quickening to instruct him? Would he have to find a way to keep

her alive awhile longer? He shivered with anticipation. The so-

lution would present itself when it was time. For now, he must

concentrate on gaining possession of the Elfstone.

Almost an hour passed before he finally heard the approach

of the Rake. The Creeper came from the east, its metal .legs

scraping softly on the stone as it slipped through the gloom. It

came right toward Pe Ell, and the assassin melted back into the

darkness of the stairwell until his eyes were level with the street.

The creature looked enormous from this angle, its immense

body balanced on iron-encased legs, its whiplike tail curled and

ready, and its tentacles outstretched and sweeping the damp air

like feelers. Steam rose from its iron shell, the heat of its body

reacting to the cool air, condensation forming and dripping onto

the street. It sent its tentacles snaking into doorways and win-

dows, along the gutters below the walkways, down the sewers,

and into the wrecks of the ancient skeletons of the toppled stone

carriages. For an instant Pe Ell thought the beast would spy him

out, but then something caught the Creeper's attention and it

scuttled past and disappeared into the night.

Pe Ell waited until he could just barely hear it, then slipped

from his hiding place in pursuit.

He tracked the Rake for the remainder of the night, down

streets and alleyways, through the foyers and halls of massive

old buildings, and along the edges of the cliffs that bounded the

city west and north. The Creeper went everywhere, a beast at

hunt, constantly on the move. Pe Ell stalked it relentlessly. Most

of the time he could only hear it, not see it. He had to be very

The Druid of Shannara                             239

sure he did not get too close. If he did, the creature would sense

his presence and come after him. Pe Ell made himself a part of

the shadows, just another piece of an endless stone landscape,

a thing of vapor and nonbeing that not even the Rake could

detect. He kept on the walkways and close to the building walls,

avoided the streets and their maze of trapdoors, and stayed clear

of any open spaces. He did not hurry; he kept his pace steady.

Playing cat and mouse required a careful exercise of patience.

And then suddenly, near dawn, the Rake disappeared. He had

glimpsed it only minutes earlier as it skittered away down a

street in the central section of the city, rather close to where the

others of the company were hiding. He could hear its legs and

tentacles scrape, its body turn, and then there was nothing. Si-

lence. Pe Ell slowed, stopped, and listened. Still there was noth-

ing. He moved ahead cautiously, following a narrow alleyway

until it emerged into a street. Still concealed within the shadows

of the alleyway, he peered out. Left, the street tunneled into the

gloom past rows of buildings that stretched skyward, flat faced

and unrevealing. Right, the street was bisected by a cross street

and bracketed by twin towers with huge, shadowed foyers that

disappeared into complete blackness.

Pe Ell searched the street both ways, listened again, and be-

gan to fume. How could he have lost it so suddenly? How could

it have just disappeared?

He was aware again of a brightening of the air, a hint of the

sun's pending emergence into the world beyond the clouds and

mist and gloom of Eldwist. It was daybreak. The Rake would

go into hiding now. Perhaps it already had. Pe Ell frowned, then

scanned the impenetrable shadows of the buildings across the

way. Was that its hiding place? he wondered.

He started from his own concealment for a look when that

sixth sense he relied upon so heavily warned him what was

happening. The Rake was in hiding all right, but not for the

reason he had first imagined. It was in hiding because it was

setting a trap. It knew the intruders were still loose in the city,

somewhere close. It knew they would have to kill it or it would

kill them. So on the chance that they had followed, it had set a

trap. It was waiting now to see if anything fell into it.

Pe EU felt a rush of cold determination surge through him as

he shrank back into the gloom of the alleyway. Cat and mouse,

that's all it was. He smiled and waited.

Long minutes passed and there was only silence. Pe Ell con-

tinued to wait.

240                            The Druid of Shannam

Then abruptly the Rake emerged from the shadows of the

building across the street to the left, dancing almost gracefully

into view, body poised. Pe Ell held his breath as the monster

tested the air, turning slowly about. Satisfied, it moved on. Pe

Ell exhaled slowly and followed.

It was growing brighter now, and the night air evolved into a

sort of gray haze that reflected the dampness so that it became

even more difficult to see what lay ahead. Yet Pe Ell did not

slow, relying on his hearing to warn him of any danger, always

conscious of the sound of the Rake moving ahead. It was no

longer worrying about pursuit. Its night's work was finished; it

was headed home.

To the lair of the Stone King, Pe Ell thought, impatient for

the first time since his hunt had begun.

He caught up with the Rake as it slowed before a flat-sided

building with a shadowed alcove thirty feet high and twice that

across. The Rake's feelers probed the stone at the top of the

alcove, and a section of the wall within swung silently away,

lifting into the gloom. Without a backward glance, the Rake

slipped through the opening. When it was inside, the wall swung

back into place.

Got you! Pe Ell thought fiercely.

Nevertheless, he stood where he was for almost an hour af-

terward, waiting to see if anything else would happen, making

certain that this was not another trap. When he was sure that it

was safe, he emerged and darted along the edge of the buildings,

following the walkways until he stood before the hidden entry.

He took a long time to study it. The stone facing was flat and

smooth. He could trace the seams of the opening from within

the frame of the alcove, but he would never have noticed the

door without first knowing it was there. Far above him, just

visible against the gray of the stone, he could detect a kind "of

lever. A release, he thought triumphantly. A way in.

He stood there for a while longer, thinking. Then he moved

away, searching the buildings across the street for a hiding place.

Once safely concealed, he would sit down and figure out a way

to trip that lever. Then he would sleep again until it was dark.

When night came, he would wake and wait for the Rake to go

out.

When it did, he would go in.

XXII

Night lay across the Wesdand in a humid, airless pall,

the heat of the day lingering with sullen determina-

tion long after the sun's fiery ball had disappeared

into the horizon. Darkness disdained to offer even the smallest

measure of relief, empty of cool breezes, devoid of any sugges-

tion of a drop in the temperature. The day's swelter was rooted

in the earth, a stubborn presence that would not be dispelled,

breathing fire out of its concealment like an underground dragon.

Insects buzzed and hummed and flew in erratic, random bursts.

Trees were heat-ravaged giants, drooping and exhausted. A full

moon crawled across the southern horizon, gibbous and shim-

mering against the haze. The only sounds that broke the stillness

were those dredged from the throats of hunted creatures an in-

stant before their hunters silenced them forever.

Even on the hottest of nights, the game of life and death

played on.

Wren Ohmsford and the big Rover Garth turned their horses

down the rutted trail that led into the town of Grimpen Ward. It

had taken them a week to journey there from the Tirfing, navi-

gating hidden passes of the Irrybis that only the Rovers knew,

following the trails of the Wilderun north and west, shying well

clear of the treacherous Shroudslip, winding at last over Whistle

Ridge and down into the dank mire of the Westland's most in-

famous lair.

When there was nowhere else to run or hide, it was said,

there was always Grimpen Ward. Thieves, cutthroats, and mis-

fits of all sorts came to the outlaw town to find refuge. Walled

away by the Irrybis and the Rock Spur, swallowed up by the

teeming jungle of the Wilderun, Grimpen Ward was a haven for

renegades of every ilk.

241

242 The Druid of Shannara

It was also a deathtrap from which few escaped, a pit of vipers

preying on one another because there was no one else, devour-

ing their own kind with callous indifference and misguided

amusement, feeding in a frenzy of need and boredom. Of those

who came to Grimpen Ward seeking to stay alive, most ended

up disappointed.

The town grew visible through the trees, and Wren and Garth

slowed. Lights burned through the window glass of buildings

black with grime, their shutters sagging and broken, their walls

and roofs and porches so battered and ravaged by time and

neglect that they seemed in immediate danger of collapse. Doors

stood ajar in a futile effort to dispel the heat trapped within.

Laughter broke sharply against the forest silence, rough, forced,

desperate. Glasses clinked and sometimes shattered. Now and

again, a scream sounded, solitary and disembodied.

Wren glanced at Garth and then signed, We 'II leave the horses

hidden here. Garth nodded. They turned their mounts into the

trees, rode them some distance from the road until a suitable

clearing was found, and tethered them in a stand of birch.

"Softly," Wren whispered, fingers moving.

They worked their way back to the roadway and continued

down. Dust rose from beneath their boots and settled in a dark

sheen on their faces. They had been riding all day, a slow jour-

ney through impossible heat, unable to force the pace without

risking the health of their horses. The Wildenm was a morass

of midsummer dampness and decay, the wood of the forests

rotting into mulch, the ground soft and yielding and treacher-

ous, the streams and drinking pools dried or poisoned, and the

air a furnace that parched and withered. No matter how terrible

the heat might be in other parts of the Four Lands, it was always

twice as bad here. A stagnant, inhospitable cesspool, the Wilde-

run had long been regarded as a place to which the discards of

the population of the Four Lands were welcome.

Bands of Rovers frequently came to Grimpen Ward to barter

and trade. Accustomed to the vagaries and treacheries of Men,

outsiders themselves from society, branded outlaws and trouble-

makers everywhere, the Rovers were right at home. Even so,

they traveled in tight-knit families and relied on strength of num-

bers to keep themselves safe. Seldom did they venture into

Grimpen Ward alone as Wren and Garth were doing.

A chance encounter with a small family of corn traders had

persuaded the girl and her giant protector to accept the nsk. Just

a day after Garth's unsuccessful attempt to backtrack and trap

The Druid of Shannara 243

their shadow, they had come upon an old man and his sons and

their wives traveling north out of the passes, returning from a

journey through the Pit. Eating with them, sharing tales. Wren

had asked simply out of habit if any among them knew of the

fate of the Westland Elves, and the old man had smiled, broken-

toothed and wintry, and nodded.

"Not me, giri, you understand," he had rasped softly, chew-

ing at the end of the pipe he smoked, his gray eyes squinting

against the light. "But at the Iron Feather m Gnmpen Ward they

be an old woman that does. The Addershag, she's called. Haven't

spoke to her myself, for I don't frequent the ale houses of the

Ward, but word has it the old woman knows the tale. A seer,

they say. Queer as sin, maybe mad." He'd leaned into the fire's

glow. "They's making use of her someway, I hear. A pack of

them snakes. Making her give them secrets to take others'

money." He shook his head. "We stayed clear."

Later, they had talked it over, Wren and Garth, when the

family was asleep and they were left alone. The reasons to stay

out of the Wilderun were clear enough; but there were reasons

to go in as well. For one, there was the matter of their shadow.

It was back there still, just out of view and reach, carefully

hidden away like the threat of winter's coming. They could not

catch it and despite all their efforts and skill they could not shake

it. It clung to them, a trailing spider's web floating invisibly in

their wake. The Wilderun, they reflected, might be less to its

taste and might, with a bit of luck, bring it to grief.

For another, of course, there was the indisputable fact that

this was the first instance since Wren had started asking about

the Elves that she had received a positive response. It seemed

unreasonable not to test its merit.

So they had come, just the two of them, defying the odds,

determined to see what sort of resolution a visit to Grimpen

Ward would bring. Now, a week's journey later, they were about

to find out.

They passed down through the center of the town, eyes quick

but thorough in their hunt. Ale houses came and went, and there

was no Iron Feather. Men lurched past them, and a handful of

women, tough and hard all, reeking of ale and the stale smell

of sweat. The shouts and laughter grew louder, and even Garth

seemed to sense how frantic they were, his rough face grim-set

and fierce. Several of the men approached Wren, drunken, un-

seeing, anxious for money or pleasure, blind to the danger that

mirrored in Garth's eyes. The big Rover shoved them away.

244                             The Druid of Shannara

At a juncture of cross-streets. Wren caught sight of a cluster

of Rovers working their way back toward their wagons at the

end of an unlit road. She hailed them down and asked if they

knew of the Iron Feather. One made a face and pointed. The

band hurried off without comment. Wren and Garth continued

on.

They found the ale house in the center of Grimpen Ward, a

sprawling ramshackle structure framed of splitting boards and

rusting nails, the veranda fronting painted a gansh red and blue.

Wide double doors were tied open with short lengths of rope;

within, a crush of men sang and drank against a long bar and

about trestle benches. Wren and Garth stepped inside, peering

through the haze of heat and smoke. A few heads turned; eyes

stared momentarily and looked away again. No one wanted to

meet Garth's gaze. Wren moved up to the bar, caught the atten-

tion of the server, and signaled for ale. The server, a narrow-

faced man with sure, steady hands brought the mugs over and

waited for his money.

' 'Do you know a woman called the Addershag?'' Wren asked

him.

Expressionless, the man shook his head, accepted his money,

and walked away. Wren watched him stop and whisper some-

thing to another man. The man slipped away. Wren sipped at

her mug, found the ale unpleasantly warm, and moved down

the serving bar, repeating her question as she went. No one

knew of the Addershag. One grinned, leered, and made an un-

imaginative suggestion. Then he saw Garth and hurried off. Wren

continued on. A second man reached out at her, and she flicked

his arm away. When he reached again, she brought the heel of

her hand into his face so hard he was knocked unconscious. She

stepped around him, anxious to be done with this business. It

was dangerous to continue on, even with Garth to protect her.

She reached the end of the serving bar and slowed. At the

very back of the room a group of men occupied a table in the

shadows. One of them beckoned, waited until he was certain

she had seen, then beckoned again. She hesitated, then moved

forward, pushing through the crowd. Garth at her back. She

came up to the table and stopped when she was just out of reach

of the men seated there. They were a rough bunch—dirty, un-

shaven, their skin the color of paste, their eyes ferretlike and

dangerous. Ale mugs sat before them, sweating.

The man who had beckoned said, "Who is it you're looking

for, girl?"

The Druid of Shannara                             245

"A seer called the Addershag," she answered and then

waited, certain that he already knew who she was looking for

and probably where she would look.

"What do you want with her?"

"I want to ask her about the Elves."

The man snorted. "There aren't any Elves."

Wren waited.

The man eased forward in his chair. He was thick-featured,

and his eyes were empty of feeling. ' 'Suppose I decided to help

you. Just suppose. Would you do something for me in turn?"

The man studied her face a moment and grinned insolently.

"Not that. I just want you to talk to her for me, ask her some-

thing. I can tell what you are by your clothes. You're a Rover.

See, the Addershag is a Rover, too." He paused. "Didn't know

that, did you? Well, she doesn't feel like talking to us, but she

might feel different about you, one of her own.'' His gaze on

her was hard and sullen. All pretense was gone now, the game

under way. "So if I take you to her, then you have to ask a

question or two for me. That a deal?"

Wren knew already that the man was planning to kill her. It

was simply a question of how and when he and his friends would

try. But she also knew he might really be able to take her to the

Addershag. She weighed the risks and rewards momentarily,

then said, "Agreed. But my friend goes with me."

' 'Whatever you say.'' The man smirked.' 'Course, my friends

go, too. So I'll feel safe. Everyone goes."

Wren looked at the man appraisingly. Heavyset, muscular, an

experienced cutthroat. The others the same. If they got her in a

tight place . . .

"Garth," she said, looking back at him. She signed quickly,

screening her movements from the men at the table. Garth nod-

ded. She turned back to the table. "I'm ready."

The speaker rose, the others with him, an anxious, hungry-

looking bunch. There was no mistaking what they were about.

The speaker began ambling along the rear wall toward a door

leading out. Wren followed, cautious, alert. Garth was a step

behind; the remainder of the table trailed. They passed through

the door into an empty hall and continued toward a back en-

trance. The sounds of the ale house disappeared abruptly as the

door closed.

The man spoke over his shoulder. "I want to know how she

reads the gaming cards like she does. How she reads the dice

roll. I want to know how she can see what the players are think-

246                             The Druid of Shannara

ing." He grinned. "Something for you, girl; something for me.

I have to make a living, too."

He stopped unexpectedly before a side door, and Wren tensed.

But the man ignored her, reaching into his pocket to extract a

key. He inserted it in the lock and twisted. The lock released

with a click and the door swung open. There were stairs beyond

leading down. The man groped inside and brought forth an oil

lamp, lit it, and handed it to Wren.

"She's in the cellar," he said, motioning through the door.

"That's where we're keeping her for the moment. You talk to

her. Take your friend if you want. We'll wait here." His smile

was hard and unpleasant. "Just don't come back up without

something to trade for my helping you out. Understand?"

The men with him had crowded up behind them, and the reek

of them filled the narrow hall. Wren could hear the ragged sound

of their breathing.

She moved close to the speaker and put her face inches from

his own. "What I understand is that Garth will remain here with

you." She held his gaze. "Just in case."

He shrugged uncomfortably. Wren nodded to Garth, indicat-

ing the door and the gathering of men. Then holding the lamp

before her, she started down the steps.

It was a shadowy descent. The stairway wound along a dirt

wall shored up with timbers, the earth smell thick and pungent

It was cooler here, if only marginally. Insects skittered from

underfoot. Strands of webbing brushed her face. The steps an-

gled left along a second wall and ended. The cellar opened up

before her in the lamplight.

An old woman sat slumped against the far wall, almost lost

in the gloom. Her body was a dried husk, and her face had

withered into a maze of lines and furrows. Ragged white hair

tumbled down about her frail shoulders, and her gnarled hands

were clasped before her. She wore a cloth shift and old boots.

Wren approached and knelt before her. The ancient head lifted,

revealing eyes that were milky and fixed. The old woman was

blind.

Wren placed the oil lamp on the floor beside her. "Are you

the seer they call the Addershag, old mother?" she asked softly.

The staring eyes blinked and a thin voice rasped, "Who

wishes to know? Tell me your name."

' 'My name is Wren Ohmsford.''

The white head tilted, shifting toward the stairway and the

door above. "Are you with them?"

The Druid of Shannara                             247

Wren shook her head. "I'm with myself. And a companion.

Both of us are Rovers.''

Aged hands reached out to touch her face, exploring its lines

and hollows, scraping along me girl's skin like dried leaves.

Wren did not move. The hands withdrew.

"You are an Elf."

"I have Elven blood."

"An Elf!" The old woman's voice was rough and insistent,

a hiss against the silence of the ale house cellar. The wrinkled

face cocked to one side as if reflecting. "I am the Addershag. I

am the seer of the future and what it holds, the teller of truths.

What do you wish of me?"

Wren rocked back slightly on the heels of her boots. "I am

searching for the Wesdand Elves. I was told a week ago that you

might know where to find them—if they still exist."

The Addershag cackled softly. "Oh, they exist, all right. They

do indeed. But it's not to everyone they show themselves—to

none at all in many years. Is it so important to you. Elf-girl,

that you see them? Do you search them out because you have

need of your own kind?" The milky eyes stared unseeing at

Wren's face. "No, not you. Despite your blood, you're a Rover

before everything, and a Rover has need of no one. Yours is the

life of the wanderer, free to travel any path you choose, and you

glory in it." She grinned, nearly toothless. "Why, then?"

' 'Because it is a charge I have been given—a charge I have

chosen to accept," Wren answered carefully.

"A charge, is it?" The lines and furrows of the old woman's

face deepened. "Bend close to me, Elf-girl."

Wren hesitated, then leaned forward tentatively. The Adder-

shag's hands came up again, the fingers exploring. They passed

once more across Wren's face, then down her neck to her body.

When they touched the front of the girl's blouse, they jerked

back as if burned and the old woman gasped. "Magic!" she

howled.

Wren started, then seized the other's wrists impulsively.

"What magic? What are you saying?"

But the Addershag shook her head violently, her lips clamped

shut, and her head sunk into her shrunken breast. Wren held her

a moment longer, then let her go.

"Elf-girl," the old woman whispered then, "who sends you

in search of the Westland Elves?''

Wren took a deep breath against her fears and answered,' 'The

shade of Allanon.''

248                             The Druid of Shannara

The aged head lifted with a snap. "Allanon!" She breathed

the name like a curse. "So! A Druid's charge, is it? Very well.

Listen to me, then. Go south through the Wilderun, cross the

Irrybis and follow the coast of the Blue Divide. When you have

reached the caves of the Rocs, build a fire and keep it burning

three days and nights. One will come who can help you. Do you

understand?"

"Yes," Wren replied, wondering at the same time if she re-

ally did. Rocs, did the old woman say? Weren't they supposed

to have been a form of giant coastal bird?

"Beware, Elf-girl," the other warned, a stick-thin hand lift-

ing. ' 'I see danger ahead for you, hard times, and treachery and

evil beyond imagining. My visions are in my head, truths that

haunt me with their madness. Heed me, then. Keep your own

counsel, girl. Trust no one!"

She gestured violently, then slumped back again, her blind

gaze fixed and hard. Wren glanced down the length of her body

and started. The Addershag's worn dress had slipped back from

her boots to reveal an iron chain and clamp fastened to her leg.

Wren reached out and took the aged hands in her own. "Old

mother," she said gently. "Let me get you free of this place.

My friend and I can help you, if you'll let us. There is no reason

for you to remain a prisoner.''

"A prisoner? Ha!" The Addershag lurched forward, teeth

bared like an animal at bay. "What I look and what I am are

two very different things!"

' 'But the chain ..."

"Holds me not an instant longer than I wish!" A wicked

smile creased the wrinkled face until its features almost disap-

peared. "Those men, those fools—they take me by force and

chain me in this cellar and wait for me to do their bidding!'' Her

voice lowered. "They are small, greedy men, and all that inter-

ests them is the wealth of others. I could give them what they

want; I could do their bidding and be gone. But this is a game

that interests me. I like the teasing of them. I like the sound of

their whining. I let them keep me for a time because it amuses

me. And when I am done being entertained. Elf-girl, when I

tire of them and decide again to be free, why . . . this!"

Her stick hands freed themselves, then twisted sharply before

Wren's eyes and were transformed into writhing snakes, tongues

darting, fangs bared, hissing into the silence. Wren jerked away,

shielding her face. When she looked again, the snakes had dis-

appeared.

The Druid of Shannara 249

She swallowed against her fear. "Were . . . they real?" she

asked thickly, her face flushed and hot.

The Addershag smiled with dark promise. "Go, now," she

whispered, shrinking back into the shadows. "Take what I told

you and use it as you will. And guard yourself closely, Elf-giri.

Beware."

Wren hesitated, pondering whether she should ask answers

to the rush of questions that flooded through her. She decided

against it. She picked up the oil lamp and rose. "Goodbye, old

mother," she said.

She went back through the darkness, squinting into the light

of the oil lamp to find the stairs, feeling the sightless gaze of the

Addershag follow after her. She climbed the steps swiftly and

slipped back through the cellar doorway into the ale house hall.

Garth was waiting for her, facing the knot of men who had

come with them from the front room. The sounds of the ale

house filtered through the closed door beyond, muffled and rau-

cous. The eyes of the men glittered. She could sense their hun-

ger.

"What did the old woman tell you?" the leader snapped.

Wren lifted the oil lamp to shed a wider circle of light and

shook her head. "Nothing. She doesn't know of the Elves or if

she does, she keeps it to herself. As for gaming, she won't say

a word about that either." She paused. "She doesn't seem any

kind of a seer to me. I think she's mad."

Anger reflected in the other man's eyes. "What a poor liar

you are, girl."

Wren's expression did not change. "I'll give you some good

advice, cutthroat. Let her go. It might save your life.''

A knife appeared in the other's hand, a glint of metal come

out of nowhere. "But not yours ..."

He didn't finish because Wren had already slammed the oil

lamp onto the hallway floor before him, shattering the glass,

spilling the oil across the wood, exploding the flames every-

where. Fire raced across the wooden planks and up the walls.

The speaker caught fire, shrieked, and stumbled back into the

unwilling arms of his fellows. Garth and Wren fled the other

way, reaching the backdoor in seconds. Shoulder lowered. Garth

hammered into the wooden barrier and it flew from its hinges

as if made of paper. The girl and the big Rover burst through

the opening into the night, howls of rage and fear chasing after

them. Down between the buildings of the town they raced, swift

250                             The Druid of Shannara

and silent, and moments later emerged back onto the main street

of Grimpen Ward.

They slowed to a walk, glanced back, and listened. Nothing.

The shouts and laughter of the ale houses nearest them drowned

out what lay behind. There was no sign of fire. There was no

indication of pursuit.

Side by side. Wren and Garth walked back up the roadway in

the direction they had come, moving through the revelers, the

heat and the gloom, calm and unhurried.

' 'We're going south to the Blue Divide,'' Wren announced as

they reached the edge of the town, signing the words.

Garth nodded and made no response.

Swiftly they disappeared into the night.

XXIII

When Walker Boh, Quickening, and Carisman left

Morgan and Homer Dees, they traveled only a

short distance east through the darkened streets of

Eldwist before slowing to a halt. Walker and the girl faced each

other. Neither had said anything about stopping; it was as if they

had read each other's mind. Carisman looked from one face to

the other in confusion.

"You know where the Stone King is hiding," Quickening

said. She made it a statement of fact.

' 'I think I do," Walker answered. He stared into the depthless

black eyes and marveled at the assurance he found there. "Did

you sense that when you chose to come with me?"

She nodded. "When he is found, I must be there."

She didn't explain her reasoning, and Walker didn't ask. He

glanced into the distance, trying futilely to penetrate the gloom,

to see beyond the mist and darkness, and to find something of

what he was meant to do. But there was nothing to be found out

I

The Druid of Shannara                             251

there, of course. The answers to his questions lay somewhere

within.

"I believe the Stone King hides within the dome," he said

quietly. "I suspected as much when we were there several

days ago. There appear to be no entrances, yet as I touched

the stone and walked about the walls I sensed life. There was

a presence that I could not explain. Then, yesterday, when we

were beneath the earth, trapped in that underground cavern, I

again sensed that presence—only it was above us this time. I

took a quick calculation when we emerged from the tunnels.

The dome is seated directly above the cavern."

He stopped momentarily and glanced about. "Eldwist is the

creation of its master. Uhl Belk has made this city of the old

worid his own, changing to stone what wasn't already, expand-

ing his domain outward symmetrically where the land allows it.

The dome sits centermost, a hub in a wheel of streets and build-

ings, walls and wreckage."

His pale face turned to meet hers. "Uhl Belk is there."

He could almost see the life brighten in her eyes. "Then we

must go to meet him," she said.

They started off again, following the walkway to the end of

the block and then turning abruptly north. Walker led, keeping

them carefully back from the streets, against the walls of the

buildings, clear of the open spaces, and away from the danger

of trapdoors. Neither he nor Quickening spoke; Carisman

hummed softly. They watched the gloom like hawks, listened

for strange sounds, and smelled and tasted the damp, stale air

warily. A brief rain caught up with them and left them shedding

water from their cloaks and hoods, their feet chilled within their

boots.

Walker Boh thought of home. He had done so increasingly of

late, driven by the constant, unrelenting pressure of being

hemmed about by the city's stone and darkness to seek out

something of what had once been pleasant and healing. For a

time he had sought to banish all thoughts of Hearthstone; its

memories cut at him like broken glass. The cottage that he had

adopted as his home had been burned to the ground in the battle

with the Shadowen. Cogline and Rumor had died there. He had

barely escaped dying himself, and keeping his life had cost him

his arm. He had once believed himself invulnerable to the intru-

sions of the outside world. He had been vain and foolish enough

to boast that what lay beyond Hearthstone presented no danger

to him. He had denied the dreams that Allanon had sent him

252 The Druid of Shannara

from the spirit worid, the pleas that Par Ohmsford had extended

for his help, and in the end the charge he had been given to go

in search of Paranor and the Druids. He had encased himself in

imaginary walls and believed himself secure. When those walls

began collapsing, he had found that they could not be replaced

and those things he had thought secure were lost.

Yet there were older memories of Hearthstone that tran-

scended the recent tragedies. There-were all those years when

he had lived in peace in the valley, the seasons when the world

outside did not intrude and there was time enough for every-

thing. There were the smells of flowers, trees, and freshwater

springs; the sounds of birds in early spring and insects on warm

summer nights; the taste of dawn on a clear autumn morning;

the feeling of serenity that came with the setting sun and the fall

of night. He could reach back beyond the past few weeks and

find peace in those memories. He did so now because they were

all he had left to draw on.

Yet even his strongest memories provided only a momentary

haven. The harsh inevitabilities of the present pressed in about

him and would not be banished. He might escape for brief mo-

ments into the past, into the world that had sheltered him for a

time before he was swept away by the tide of events he had

sought foolishly to ignore. Escape might soothe and strengthen

the spirit, but it was transitory and unresolving. His mind darted

away into his memories only to find the past forever beyond his

reach and the present forever at hand. He was struggling with

his life, he discovered. He was adrift, a castaway fighting to

keep afloat amid the wreckage of his confusion and doubt. He

could almost feel himself sinking.

They reached the dome at midmoming and began their search.

Working together, not willing to separate if there was any chance

at all that the Stone King waited within, they began to explore

the dome's surface, walking its circumference, feeling along its

walls, and searching even the ground it sat upon. It was perfectly

formed, although its ageing shell was pitted and cracked, rising

several hundred feet into the air at its peak, spreading from wall

to wall several hundred feet more. Depressions that had the look

of giant thumbprints decorated the dome's peak along its upper

surface, laid open like the petals of a flower, separated by bands

of stone that curved downward to the foundation. Niches and

alcoves indented its walls at ground level, offering no way in-

side, leading nowhere. Sculpted designs marked its stone, most

of them almost completely worn away by time's passage, no

The Druid of Shannara 253

longer decipherable, the runes of a world that had long since

passed away.

"I can feel a presence still," Walker Boh said, slowing, fold-

ing his cloak about him. He glanced skyward. It was raining

again, a slow, persistent drizzle. "There's something here.

Something."

Quickening stood close beside him. "Magic," she whis-

pered.

He stared at her, surprised that she had been so quick to

recognize a truth that had eluded him.' 'It is so," he murmured.

His hand stretched forth, searching. "All about, in the stone

itself."

"He is here," Quickening whispered.

Carisman stepped forward and stroked the wall tentatively.

His handsome brow furrowed. "Why does he not respond?

Shouldn't he come out long enough to see what we want?"

"He may not even know we are here. He may not care."

Quickening's soft face lifted. "He may even be sleeping."

Carisman frowned. "Then perhaps a song is needed to wake

him up!"

He sang:

"Awake, awake, oh aged King of Stone,

Come forth from your enfolding lair,

We wait without, a worn and tired band,

So lacking in all hope and care.

Awake, awake, oh aged King of Stone,

Be not afraid of what we bring,

'Tis nothing more than finite spirit,

A measure of the song I sing.

Awake, awake, oh aged King of Stone,

You who have seen all passing time,

Share with us weak and mortal creatures,

The truths and secrets of Mankind. "

His song ended, and he stood looking expectantly at the broad

expanse of the dome. There was no response. He glanced at

Quickening and Walker and shrugged. "Not his choice of mu-

sic, perhaps. I shall think of another."

They moved away from the dome and into the shelter of an

entry in a building that sat adjacent. Seating themselves with

254 The Druid of Shannara

their backs to the wall so that they could look out at the dome,

they pooled from their backpacks a collection of old bread and

dried fruit for their lunch. They ate silently, staring out from the

shadows into the gray rain.

' 'We are almost out of food,'' Walker said after a time.' 'And

water. We will have to forage soon."

Carisman brightened. "I shall fish for us. I was a very good

fisherman once—although I only fished for pleasure. It was a

pleasing way to pass the time and compose. Walker Boh, what

did you do before you came north?"

Walker hesitated, surprised by the question, unprepared to

give an answer. What did he do? he asked himself. "I was a

caretaker," he decided finally.

"Of what?" Carisman pressed, interested.

"Of a cottage and the land about it," he said softly, remem-

bering.

"Of an entire valley and all the creatures that lived within

it," Quickening declared, her eyes drawing Carisman's.

"Walker Boh preserved life in the manner of the Elves of old.

He gave of himself to replenish the land.''

Walker stared at her, surprised once again. "It was a poor

effort," he suggested awkwardly.

"I will not permit you to be the judge of that," the girl re-

plied. "It is for others to determine how successful you have

been in your work. You are too harsh in your criticism and lack

the necessary distancing to be fair and impartial.'' She paused,

studying him, her black eyes calm and reasoning. "I believe it

will be judged mat you did all that you could."

They both knew what she was talking about. Walker was

strangely warmed by her words, and once again he experienced

that sense of kinship. He nodded without responding and con-

tinued to eat.

When they had finished their meal they stood facing the dome

once more, debating what approach to take next.

"Perhaps there is something to be seen from above," Quick-

ening suggested. "An opening through the top of the dome or

an aberration in the stone that would suggest a way in.''

Walker glanced about. There was an ornate building less than

a block distant that opened at its top into a belltower and gave

a clear view of the dome below. They crossed to it cautiously,

forever wary of trapdoors, and gained its entrance. Sculptures

of winged angels and robed figures decorated its walls and ceil-

ings. They moved inside cautiously. The central chamber was

The Druid of Shannara                             255

vast, the glass of its windows long disintegrated, the furnishings

turned to dust. They found the stairway leading to the belltower

and began to climb. The stairs had fallen away in spots, and

only the bracing remained. They maneuvered along its spans,

working their way upward. Floors came and went, most ragged

with holes and cluttered with debris, all turned to stone, their

collapse preserved in perfect relief.

They gained the belltower without difficulty and walked to

the windows facing out. The city of Eldwist spread away on all

sides, misted and gray, filled with the shadows of daylight's

passing and night's approach. The rain had diminished, and the

buildings rose like stone sentries across the span of the penin-

sula. The clouds had lifted slightly, and the choppy slate surface

of the Tiderace and the ragged cliffs of the mainland beyond the

isthmus could be seen in snatches through gaps in the lines of

stone walls.

The dome sat directly below them, as closed and unrevealing

at its top as it had been at its bottom. There was nothing to see,

no hint of an opening, no suggestion of a way in. Nonetheless,

they studied it for some time, hoping to discover something they

had missed.

In the midst of their study a horn sounded, startling them.

"Urdas!" Carisman cried.

Walker and Quickening looked at each other in surprise, but

Carisman had already dashed to the south window of the tower

and was peering in the direction of the isthmus and the cliffs

leading down.

"It must be them; that is their call!" he shouted, excitement

and concern reflecting in his voice. He shaded his eyes against

the glare of the dampened stone. "There! Do you see them?"

Walker and Quickening hastened to join him. The tunesmith

was pointing to where the stairway descending the cliffs from

the overlook was barely visible through the mist. There were

glimpses of movement to be seen on the stairs, small, hunched

figures crouched low as if to hide even from the shadows. Urdas,

Walker recognized, and they were coming down.

"What is it that they think they are doing!" Carisman ex-

claimed, obviously upset. "They cannot come here!"

The Urdas faded into a patch of fog and were lost from view.

Carisman wheeled on his companions, stricken. "If they are

not stopped, they will all be killed!"

"The Urdas are no longer your responsibility, Carisman,"

Walker Boh declared softly. "You are no longer their king."

256                             The Druid of Shannara

Carisman looked unconvinced. "They are children, Walker!

They have no understanding of what lives down here. The Rake

or the Maw Grint, either one will destroy them. I can't imagine

how they slipped past the Koden ..."

' 'In the same way as Homer Dees did ten years ago,'' Walker

cut him short. "With a sacrifice of lives. And still they come

ahead. They are not as worried about themselves, it appears, as

you are."

Carisman wheeled on Quickening. "Lady, you've seen the

way they react to things. What do they know of the Stone King

and his magic? If they are not stopped ..."

Quickening seized his arms and held them. "No, Carisman.

Walker Boh is right. The Urdas are dangerous to you now as

well."

But Carisman shook his head vehemently. "No, Lady. Never

to me. They were my family before I abandoned them."

"They were your captors!"

"They cared for me and protected me in the only way they

knew how. Lady, what am I to do? They have come here to find

me! Why else would they be taking such a risk? I think they

have never come so far away from home. They are here because

they think you stole me away. Can I abandon them a second

time, this time to die for a mistake that I can prevent them from

making?" Carisman pulled free, slowly, gently. "I have to go

to them. I have to warn them."

"Carisman ..."

The tunesmith was already backing toward the belltower

stairs. ' 'I have been an orphan of the storm all of my life, blown

from one island to the next, never with family or home, always

in search of somewhere to belong and someone to belong to.

The Urdas gave me what I have of both, little as it may seem to

you. I cannot let them die needlessly."

He turned and started quickly down the stairs. Quickening

and Walker exchanged wordless glances and hurried after.

They caught up with him on the street below. "We'll come

with you then," Walker said.

Carisman whirled about at once. "No, no, Walker! You can-

not show yourselves to them! If you do, they might think I am

threatened by you—perhaps even that I am a prisoner! They

might attack, and you could be hurt! No. Let me deal with them.

I know them; I can talk with them, explain what has happened,

and turn them back before it is too late." His handsome features

crinkled with worry. "Please, Walker? Lady?"

The Druid of Shannara                             257

There was nothing more to be said. Carisman had made up

his mind and would not allow them to change it. As a final

concession they demanded that they be allowed to accompany

him at least as far as was reasonable to assure that they would

be close at hand in case of trouble. Carisman was reluctant to

agree even to that much, concerned that he was taking them

away from work that was more important, that he was delaying

their search for the Stone King. Both Quickening and Walker

refused to argue the point. They walked in silence, single file

along the walkways, down the tunneled streets, traveling south

through the city. He would meet the Urdas at the city's south

edge, Carisman told them, sweeping back his blond hair, squar-

ing himself for his encounter. Walker found him odd and heroic

at once, a strange parody of a man aspiring to reality yet unable

quite to grasp it. Give thought to what you are doing, he begged

the tunesmith at one point. But Carisman's answering smile was

cheerfully beguiling and filled with certainty. He had done all

the thinking he cared to do.

When they neared the boundaries of the city, the rocky flats

of the isthmus peeking through the gaps in the buildings, Car-

isman brought them to a halt.

' 'Wait for me here,'' he told them firmly. Then he made them

promise not to follow after him. "Do not show yourselves; it

will only frighten the Urdas. Give me a little time. I am certain

I can make them understand. As I said, my friends—they are

like children."

He clasped their hands in farewell and walked on. He turned

at one point to make certain they were doing as he had asked,

then waved back to them. His handsome face was smiling and

assured. They watched the mist curl about him, gather him up,

and finally cause him to disappear.

Walker glanced at the buildings surrounding them, chose a

suitable one, and steered Quickening toward it. They entered,

climbed the stairs to the top floor, and found a room where a

bank of windows gaped open to the south. From there they could

watch the Urdas approach. The gnarled figures were strung out

along the isthmus, making their way cautiously past the crevices

and ruts. There were perhaps twenty of them, several obviously

injured.

They watched until the Urdas reached the edge of the city

and disappeared into the shadow of the buildings.

Walker shook his head. "I find myself wishing we had not

agreed to this. Carisman is almost a child himself. I cannot help

258                             The Druid of Shannara

thinking he would have been better off not coming with us at

all."

"He chose to come," Quickening reminded him. Her face

tilted into the light, out of a striping of shadows. "He wanted

to be free. Walker Boh. Coming with us, even here, was better

than staying behind."

Walker glanced through the windows a final time. The stone

of the isthmus flats and the streets bslow glistened with the

damp, empty and still. He could hear the distant thunder of the

ocean, the cries of the seabirds, and the rushing of the wind

down the cliffs. He felt alone.

"I wonder sometimes how many like Carisman there are,"

he said finally. "Orphans, as he called himself. How many left

to roam the land, made outcasts by Federation rule, their magic

not the gift it was intended to be, but a curse they must disguise

if they would keep their lives.''

Quickening seated herself against the wall and studied him.

"A great many, Walker Boh. Like Carisman. Like yourself."

He eased down beside her, folding his cloak about him, lifting

his pale face toward the light. ' 'I was not thinking of myself.''

"Then you must do so," she said simply. "You must become

aware."

He stared at her. "Aware of what?"

"Of the possibilities of your life. Of the reasons for being

who you are. If you were an elemental, you would understand.

I was given life for a specific purpose. It would be terrifying to

exist without that purpose. Is it not so for you?"

Walker felt his face tighten. "I have purpose in my life."

Her smile was unexpected and dazzling. "No, Walker Boh,

you do not. You have thrust from you any sense of purpose and

made yourself an outcast twice over—first, for having been born

with the legacy ofBrin Ohmsford's magic, and second, for hav-

ing fallen heir to her trust. You deny who and what you are.

When I healed your arm, I read your life. Tell me this is not

so."

He took a deep breath. "Why is it that I feel we are so much

alike. Quickening? It is neither love nor friendship. It is some-

thing in between. Am I joined to you somehow?"

' 'It is our magic, Walker Boh.''

"No," he said quickly. "It is something more."

Her beautiful face masked all traces of the emotion that flick-

ered in her eyes. "It is what we have come here to do."

"To find the Stone King and take back from him the stolen

The Druid of Shannara 259

Black Elfstone. Somehow." Walker nodded solemnly. "And

for me, to regain the use of my arm. And for Morgan Leah, to

regain the magic of the Sword of Leah. All somehow. I have

listened to your explanations. Is it true that you have not been

told how any of this is to be accomplished? Or are there secrets

that you hide from us as Pe Ell charges?"

"Walker Boh," she said softly. "You turn my questions into

your own and ask of me what I would ask of you. We both keep

something of the truth at bay. It cannot be so for much longer.

I will make a bargain with you. When you are ready to confront

your truth, I shall confront mine."

Walker struggled to understand. "I no longer fear the magic

I was born with," he said, studying the lines of her face, tracing

its curves and angles as if she were in danger of disappearing

before he could secure a memory of her. "I listened once to my

nephew Par Ohmsford admonish me that the magic was a gift

and not a curse. I scorned him. I was frightened of the impli-

cations of having the magic. I feared ..."

He caught himself, an iron grip that tightened on his voice

and thoughts instantly. A shadow of something terrifying had

shown itself to him, a shadow that had grown familiar to him

over the years. It had no face. but it spoke with the voices of

Allanon and Cogline and his father and even himself. It whis-

pered of history and need and the laws of Mankind. He thrust

it away violently.

Quickening leaned forward and with gentle fingers touched

his face. "I fear only that you will continue to deny yourself,"

she whispered. "Until it is too late."

"Quickening ..."

Her fingers moved across his mouth, silencing him. "There

is a scheme to life, to all of its various happenings and events,

to everything we do within the time allotted to us. We can un-

derstand that scheme if we let ourselves, if we do not become

frightened of knowing. Knowledge is not enough if there is not

also acceptance of that knowledge. Anyone can give you knowl-

edge, Walker Boh, but only you can learn how to accept it. That

must come from within. So it is that my father has sent me to

summon you and Pe Ell and Morgan Leah to Eldwist; so it is

that the combination of your magics shall free the Black Elfstone

and begin me healing process of the Lands. I know that this is

to be. In time, I shall know how. But I must be ready to accept

its truths when that happens. It is so as well for you."

"I will. . ."

260                             The Druid of Shannara

"No, you will not be ready. Walker," she anticipated him,

"if you continue to deny truths already known to you. That is

what you must realize. Now speak no more of it to me. Only

think on what I have said."

She turned away. It was not a rebuff; she did not intend it that

way. It was a simple breaking off, an ending of talk, done not

to chastise but to allow him space in which to explore himself.

He sat staring at her for a time, then turned introspective. He

gave himself over to the images her words conjured. He found

himself thinking of other voices in other times, of the world he

had come from with its false measure of worth, its fears of the

unknown, its subjugation to a government and rules it did not

wish to comprehend. Bring back the Druids and Paranor, Al-

lanon had charged him. And would that begin a changing back

of the world, of the Four Lands, into what they had been? And

would that make things better? He doubted, but he found his

doubts founded more in a lack of understanding than in his fears.

What was he to do? He was to recover the Black Elfstone, cany

it to disappeared Paranor, and somehow, in some way, bring

back the Keep. Yet what would that accomplish? Cogline was

gone. All of the Druids were gone. There was no one . . .

But himself.

No! He almost screamed the word aloud. It bore the face of

the thing he feared, the thing he struggled so hard to keep from

himself. It was the terrifying possibility that had scratched and

clawed around the edges of his self-imposed shield for as long

as he could remember.

He would not take up the Druid cause!

Yet he was Brin Ohmsford's last descendent. He was bearer

of the trust that had been left to her by Allanon. Not in your

lifetime. Keep it safe for generations to come. One day it will be

needed again. Words from the distant past, spoken by the Druid's

shade after death, haunting, unfulfilled.

/ haven't the magic! he wailed in desperation, in denial. Why

should it be me? Why?

But he already knew. Need. Because there was need. It was

the answer that Allanon had given to all of the Ohmsfords, to

each of them, year after year, generation after generation. Al-

ways.

He wrestled with the specter of his destiny in the silence of

his thoughts. The moments lengthened. Finally he heard Quick-

ening say, "It grows dark. Walker Boh."

He glanced up, saw the failing of the light as dusk ap-

The Druid of Shannara                             261

proached. He climbed to his feet and peered south into the flats.

The isthmus was empty. There was no sign of the Urdas.

"It's been too long," he muttered and started for the stairs.

They descended quickly, emerged from the building, and be-

gan following the walkway south toward the city's edge. Shad-

ows were already spreading into dark pools, the light chased

west to the fringes of the horizon. The seabirds had gone to

roost, and the pounding of the ocean had faded to a distant

moan. The stone beneath their feet echoed faintly with their

footsteps as if whispering secrets to break the silence.

They reached the fringe of the city and slowed, proceeding

more cautiously now, searching the gloom for any signs of dan-

ger. There was no movement to be found. The mist curled its

damp tendrils through vacant windows and down sewer grates,

and there was a sense of a hidden presence at work. Ahead, the

isthmus flats stretched out into the darkness, broken and ragged

and lifeless.

They stepped clear of the building walls and stopped.

Carisman's body was slumped against a pillar of rock at the

end of the street, pinned fast by a dozen spears. He had been

dead for some time, the blood from his wounds washed away

by the rain.

It appeared that the Urdas had gone back the way they had

come.

They had taken Carisman's head with them.

Even children can be dangerous, Walker Boh thought bleakly.

He reached over for Quickening's hand and locked it in his

own. He tried to imagine what Carisman's thoughts had been

when he realized his family had disowned him. He tried to tell

himself that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

Quickening moved close to him. They stood staring at the

dead tunesmifh wordlessly for a moment more, then turned and

walked back into the city.

XXIV

^y— hey did not return to their normal place of conceal-

tt    ment that night; it was already dusk when they de-

^9^ parted the flats and the distance back through the city

was too great to cover safely. Instead, they found a building

close at hand, a low, squat structure with winding, narrow halls

and rooms with doors opening through at both ends to provide

a choice of escape routes if the Rake should appear. Settled deep

within the stone interior of the building, shut away with barely

enough light to see each other at arm's length, they ate their

dinner of dried fruits and vegetables, stale bread, and a little

water and tried to banish the ghost of Carisman from their pres-

ence. The dead tunesmith surfaced in memories, in unspoken

words, and in the faint, soft roll of the ocean's distant waters.

His face blossomed in the shadows they cast, and his voice

whispered in the sound of their breathing. Walker Boh regarded

Quickening without seeing her; his thoughts were of Carisman

and of how he had let the tunesmith go when he could have

stopped him from doing so. When Quickening touched him on

the arm, he was barely aware of the pressure of her fingers.

When she read his thoughts in the touch, he was oblivious. He

felt drained and empty and impossibly alone.

Later, while she slept, he grew aware of her again. His self-

reproach had exhausted itself, his sorrow had dried up; Caris-

man's shade was banished, consigned at last to the place and

time in which it belonged. He sat in a box of darkness, the stone

of the walls and ceiling and floor pressing in around him, the

silence a blanket that would suffocate him, time the instrument

by which he measured the approach of his own death. Could it

be far away now for any of them? He watched the girl sleeping

next to him, watched the rise and fall of her breast as she

262

The Druid of Shannara 263

breathed, turned on her side, her face cradled in the crook of

her arm, her silver hair fanned back in a sweep of brightness.

He watched the slow, steady beat of her pulse along the slim

column of her throat, searched the hollows of her face where

the shadows draped and pooled, and traced the line of her body

within the covering of clothes that failed to hide its perfection.

She was a fragile bit of life whatever her magic, and he could

not escape the feeling that despite the confidence she evidenced

in her father and the command with which she had brought them

north she was in peril. The feeling was elusive and difficult to

credit, but it took life in his instincts and his prescience, born

of the magic that he had inherited from Brin Ohmsford, magic

that still ebbed and flowed within him as the tide of his belief in

himself rose and fell. He could not disregard it. Quickening was

at risk, and he did not know how to save her.

The night deepened and still he did not sleep. They were all

at risk, of course. What he sensed of danger to the daughter of

the King of the Silver River was possibly no more than what he

sensed of danger to them all. It had caught up with Carisman.

It would eventually catch up with Quickening as well. Perhaps

what he feared was not that Quickening would die, but that she

would die before she revealed the secrets she knew. There were

many, he suspected. That she hid them so completely infuriated

him. He was surprised at the anger his realization provoked.

Quickening had brought him face to face with the darkest of his

fears and then left him to stand alone against it. His entire life

had been shadowed by his apprehension that Allanon's myste-

rious trust to the Ohmsfords, given over three hundred years ago

to Brin and passed unused from generation to generation, might

somehow require fulfillment by him. He had lived with the spec-

ter of it since childhood, aware of its existence as all of his

family had been, finding it a ghost that would not be banished,

that instead grew more substantial with the passing of the years.

The magic of the Ohmsfords was alive in him as it had not been

in his ancestors. The dreams of Allanon had come only to him.

Cogline had made him his student and taught him the history of

his art and of the Druid cause. Allanon had told him to go in

search of the Druids and lost Paranor.

He shivered. Each step took him closer to the inevitable. The

trust had been held for him. The phantom that had haunted him

all these years had revealed a terrifying face.

He was to take the Black Elfstone and bring back Paranor.

He was to become the next Druid.

264 The Druid of Shannara

He could have laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea if he

had not been so frightened of it. He despised what the Druids

had done to the Ohmsfords; he saw them as sinister and self-

serving manipulators. He had spent his life trying to rid himself

of their curse. But it was more than that. Allanon was gone—

the last of the real Druids. Cogline was gone—the last of those

who had studied the art. He was alone; who was to teach him

what a Druid must know? Was he to divine the study of magic

somehow? Was he to teach himself? And how many years would

that take? How many centuries? If the magic of the Druids was

required to combat the Shadowen, such magic could not be

drawn leisurely from the Histories and the tomes that had taught

all the Druids who had gone before. Time did not permit it.

He clenched his teeth. It was foolish to think that he could

become a Druid, even if he were willing, even if he wished it,

even if the specter he had feared so for all these years turned out

to be himself.

Foolish!

Walker's eyes glittered as he searched the shadows of the

room for an escape from his distress. Where were the answers

that he needed? Did Quickening hide those answers? Were they

a part of the truths she concealed? Did she know what was to

become of him? He started to reach for her, intending to shake

her awake. Then he caught himself and drew back. No, he rea-

soned. Her knowledge was as small and imperfect as his own.

With Quickening, it was more a sensing of possibilities, a di-

vining of what might be, a prescience like his own. It was a part

of the reason he felt her to be kindred; there was that sharing of

abilities and uses of the magics they wielded. He forced his

thoughts to slow and his mind to open and he gazed upon her

as if his eyes might swallow her up. He felt something warm

and generous touch him, her sleep presence, unbidden and re-

vealed. It reminded him of his mother's when he was small and

still in need of her reassurance and comfort. She was in some

way a rendering of his future self. She opened him up to the

possibilities of what he might be. He saw the colors of his life,

the textures and the patterns that might be woven, and the styles

that might be tried. He was cloth to be cut and shaped, but he

lacked the tools and understanding. Quickening was doing what

she could to give him both.

He dozed then for a time, still upright against the chamber

wall, his legs and arms folded tightly together against his body,

his face tilted forward into his cloak. When he came awake

The Druid of Shannara                             265

again, Quickening was looking at him. They studied each other

wordlessly for a moment, each searching the other's eyes, seek-

ing out some reading of the other's needs.

"You are afraid, Walker Boh," the girl said finally.

Walker almost smiled. "Yes, Quickening. I have been afraid

forever. Afraid of this—of what is happening now—all of my

life. I have run from it, hidden from it, wished it away, begged

that it would disappear. I have fought to contain it. Exercising

a strict and unyielding control over my life was the technique

that seemed to work best. If I could dictate my own fate, then

it could have no power over me. The past would be left for

others; the present would belong to me."

He let his legs unfold and straightened them gingerly before

him. "The Druids have affected the lives of so many of the

Ohmsfords, of the children of Shannara, for generations. We

have been used by them; we have been made over to serve their

causes. They have changed what we are. They have made us

slaves of the magic rather than simply wielders. They have al-

tered the composition of our minds and bodies and spirits; they

have subverted us. And still they are not satisfied. Look at what

they expect of us now! Look at what is expected of me! I am to

transcend the role of slave and become master. I am to take up

the Black Elfstone—a magic I do not begin to understand. I am

to use it to bring back lost Paranor. And even that is not enough.

I am to bring back the Druids as well. But there are no Druids.

There is only me. And if there is only me, then ..."

He choked on the words. His resolve faltered. His patience

failed him. His anger returned, a raw and bitter echo in the

silence.

"Tell me!" he begged, trying to contain his urgency.

"But I do not know," she whispered.

"You must!"

"Walker. . ."

There were tears in his eyes.' 'I cannot be what Allanon wants

me to be—what he demands that I be! I cannot!" He took a

quick, harsh breath to steady himself. "Do you see. Quicken-

ing? If I am to bring back the Druids by becoming one, if I must

because there is no other way that the Races can survive the

Shadowen, must I then be as they once were? Must I take control

of the lives of those I profess to help, those others who are

Ohmsfords, Par and Coil and Wren? For how many generations

yet to come? If I am to be a Druid, must I do this? Can I do

anything else?"

266                             The Druid of Shannara

' 'Walker Boh.'' When she spoke his name her voice was soft

and compelling. "You will be what you must, but you will still

be yourself. You are not trapped in some spider's web of Druid

magic that has predetermined your life, that has fated you to be

but one way and one way only. There is always a choice. Al-

ways."

He had the sudden sense that she was talking of something

else completely. Her perfect face strained against some inner

torment, and she paused to reshape it, chasing quickly the fur-

rows and lines. ' 'You are frightened of your fate without know-

ing what it is to be. You are paralyzed by doubts and misgivings

that are of your own making. Much has happened to you, Da±

Uncle, and it is enough to make any man doubt. You have lost

loved ones, your home, a part of your body and spirit. You have

seen the specter of a childhood fear take form and threaten to

become real. You are far from everything you know. But you

must not despair."

His eyes were haunted. "But I do. I am adrift. Quickening.

I feel myself slipping away completely.''

She reached out her hand and took his own. "Then cling to

me, Walker Boh. And let me cling to you. If we keep hold of

each other, the drifting will stop."

She moved against him, her silver hair spilling across his dark

cloak as her head lowered into his chest. She did not speak, but

simply rested there, still holding his hand, her warmth mixing

with his own. He lowered his chin to her hair and closed his

eyes.

He slept then, and there were no dreams or sudden wakings,

only a gentle cradling by soft, invisible threads that held him

firm. His drifting ceased, just as she had promised it would. He

was no longer plagued by troubling and uncertain visions; he

was left at peace. Calm enfolded him, soothing and comforting.

It had a woman's hands, and the hands belonged to Quickening.

He woke again at daybreak, easing from the chilly stone floor

to his feet as his eyes adjusted to the thin gray light. From be-

yond the maze of rooms and corridors that buffered him from

the outside world, he could hear the soft patter of rain. Quick-

ening was gone. Vaguely worried, he searched until he found

her standing at a bank of windows on the north wall, staring out

into the haze. The stone buildings and streets shimmered wedy,

reflecting their own images in grotesque parody, mirroring their

deadness. Eldwist greeted the new day as a corpse, sightless and

stiff. It stretched away into the distance, rows of buildings, rib-

The Druid of Shannara                             267

bons of streets, a symmetry of design and construction that was

flat and hard and empty of life. Walker stood next to Quickening

and felt the oppressiveness of the city close about him.

Her black eyes shifted to find his own, her mane of silver hair

the sole brightness in the gloom. "I held you as tightly as I

could, Walker Boh," she told him. "Was it enough?"

He took a moment to answer. The stump of his missing arm

ached and the joints of his body were stiff and slow to respond.

He felt himself to be a large shell in which his spirit had shriveled

to the size of a pebble. Yet he was strangely resolved.

"I am reminded ofCarisman," he said finally, "determined

to be free at any cost. I would be free as well. Of my fears and

doubts. Of myself. Of what I might become. That cannot be

until I have learned the secret of the Black Elfstone and the truth

behind the dreams of the shade of Allanon."

Quickening's faint smile surprised him. "I would be free,

too," she said softly. She seemed anxious to explain, then looked

quickly away. "We must find Uhl Belk," she said instead.

They departed their shelter and went out into the rain. They

walked the silent streets of Eldwist north through the shadows

and gloom, hunched within the protection of their forest cloaks,

lost in their private thoughts.

Quickening said, "Eldwist is a land in midwinter waiting for

spring. She is layered in stone as other parts of the earth at times

are layered in snow. Can you feel her patience? There are seeds

planted, and when the snow melts those seeds can be brought

to bloom."

Walker wasn't sure what she was talking about. "There is

only stone in Eldwist, Quickening. It runs deep and long, from

shore to shore, the length and breadth of the peninsula. There

are no seeds here, nothing of the woodlands or the fields, no

trees, no flowers, no grasses. Only Uhl Belk and the monsters

that serve him. And us."

"Eldwist is a lie," she said.

"Whose lie?" he asked. But she wouldn't answer.

They followed the street for close to an hour, keeping care-

fully to the walkways, listening for the sound of anything mov-

ing. Except for the steady patter of the rain, there was only

silence. Even the Maw Grint slept, it seemed. Water pooled and

was channeled into streams, and it swept down the gutters in

sluggish torrents that eddied and splashed and washed away the

silt and dust the wind had blown in. The buildings watched in

mute and indifferent testimony, unfeeling sentinels. Clouds and

268                            The Druid of Shannam

mist mixed and descended to wrap them about, easing steadily

downward until they scraped the earth. Things began to disap-

pear, towers first, then entire walls, then bits and pieces of the

streets themselves. Walker and Quickening felt a changing in

the world, as if a presence had been loosed. Phantasms came

out to play, dark shadows risen from the earth to dance at the

edges of their vision, never entirely real, never quite completely

formed. Eyes watched, peering'downward from the heights,

staring upward through the stone. Fingers brushed at their skin,

droplets of rain, trailers of mist, and something more. Walker

let himself become one with what he was feeling, an old trick,

a blending of self with external sensations, all to gain a small

measure of insight into the origin of what was unseen. He could

sense a presence after a time, dark, brooding, ancient, a thing

of vast power. He could hear it breathing. He could almost see

its eyes.

"Walker," Quickening whispered.

A figure appeared out of the haze before them, cloaked and

hooded as they were and uncomfortably close. Walker stepped

in front of Quickening and stopped. The figure stopped as well.

Wordlessly, they faced each other. Then the clouds shifted,

changing the slant of the light, the shadows re-formed, and a

voice called out uncertainly. "Quickening?"

Walker Boh started forward again. It was Morgan Lean.

They clasped hands on meeting, and Quickening hugged the

sodden and disheveled Highlander close, kissing his face pas-

sionately. Walker watched without speaking, already aware of

the attraction shared by the two, surprised that Quickening would

allow it to be. He watched the way her eyes closed when Morgan

held her and thought he understood. She was letting herself feel

because it was all still new. She was no older than the time of

her creation, and even if her father had given her human feelings

she would not have experienced them firsthand until now. He

felt an odd twinge of sadness for her. She was trying so hard to

live.

' 'Walker.'' Morgan moved over to him, one arm still wrapped

about the girl. "I've been searching everywhere. I thought

something had happened to you as well."

He told them what had befallen Homer Dees and himself,

how they had been snared by the trapdoor and tumbled onto the

slide, and how they had found themselves confronted by the

horror of the Maw Grint slumbering directly below. His eyes

were fierce and bright as he struggled to describe how he had

The Druid of Shannara

269

somehow managed to release the magic of the Sword of Leah

once again, magic he had feared lost. With its aid they had

escaped. They had taken refuge for the night close by, then made

their way at dawn to where they had left the others of the little

company. But the building had been empty and there had been

no sign of anyone's return. Worried for Quickening—for all of

them, he hastened to add—he had left Dees to keep watch for

them in case they returned and gone hunting alone.

"Homer Dees was prepared to come as well, but I refused

to allow it. The truth is, he would never move again if he could

arrange it—at least not until it was time to leave this place."

The Highlander smiled broadly. "He's had enough of Eldwist

and its traps; he wants the ale house at Rampling Steep again!"

He paused then, looking past them speculatively.' 'Where's Car-

isman?"

It was their turn to speak, and Quickening did so, her voice

steady and strangely comforting as she related the events that

had led to the death of the tunesmith. Even so, Morgan Leah's

face was lined with despair and anger by the time she had fin-

ished.

"He never understood anything, did he?" the Highlander

said, the emotions he was holding inside threatening to choke

him. "He just never understood! He thought his music was a

cure for everything. Shades!''

He looked away a moment, shielding his expression, hands

clasped on his hips defiantly, as if stubbornness might somehow

change what had happened. "Where do we go now?" he asked

finally.

Walker glanced at Quickening. "We believe that Uhl Belk

hides within the dome." The giri spoke for him. "We were

looking for a way in when the Urdas appeared. We are returning

to continue the search."

Morgan turned, his face set. "Then I am coming with you.

Homer will be better off resting right where he is. We can rejoin

him at nightfall." The look he gave them was almost defiant.

"That's the way it should be anyway. Just the three of us."

"Come if you wish, Morgan," Quickening soothed, and

Walker nodded without comment.

They resumed walking, three rain-soaked figures nearly lost

in the mist and shadows. Walker led, a lean and white-faced

ghost against the gloom, leader now because Quickening had

moved a step back to be with Morgan, content to follow. He

hunched his narrow shoulders against the weather, felt the bite

The Druid of Shannara

270

of the wind as it gusted momentarily, and felt the emptiness

inside threaten to engulf him. He reached into that emptiness

and tried to secure some part of his magic, a strength he could

rely upon. It eluded him, like a snake in flight. He peered ahead

through the thin curtain of the rain and watched me shadows

chase after the light. The specter of his fate leered at him, a

faint shimmer in a pool of water, a wisp of fog in a doorway, a

darkening of stone where the dampness reflected like a mirror.

In each instance, it wore the face of Allanon.

The street ended, and the dark bulk of the dome lifted before

them like the shell of some sleeping crustacean. The three

stepped down off the walkway and crossed to stand before it,

dwarfed by its size. Walker stared at the dome without speaking,

aware that Morgan and Quickening were waiting on him, con-

scious that something else was waiting on him as well. It. The

presence he had sensed before was back again, stronger here,

readier, more assured. And watching. Silently watching. Walker

did not move. He felt eyes all around him, as if there were

nowhere he might run that he could not be seen. The stone of

the city was a hand that cradled him yet might close without

warning to crush out his life. The presence wanted him to know

that. It wanted him to know how insignificant he was, how futile

his quest, and how purposeless his life. It bore down on him,

pressed about like the mist and rain. Go home, he heard it whis-

per. Leave while you can.

He did not leave. He did not even step away. He had faced

enough threats in his time, enough dark things that roamed the

land, to know when he was being tested. The effort was not a

crushing one; it was teasing and fey, as if designed to insinuate

an opposite effect than the one indicated. Don't really leave, it

seemed to say. Just remember that you were asked.

Walker Boh stepped forward to where the wall was broadest

between the bands of stone. Death brushed up against him, a

soft sprinkle of rain caught in the wind. It was odd, but he

sensed Cogline close beside him, the old man's ghost risen

from the ashes of Hearthstone, come to watch his student prac-

tice the craft he had taught him, come perhaps to judge how

well he performed. You will never be free of the magic, he could

hear the other say. He stared momentarily at the pitted, worn

surface of the wall, watching the rainwater snake downward

along its irregular paths, silver streamers that glistened like

strands of Quickening's hair. He reached down again within

himself for the magic and this time fastened on it. He drew its

The Druid of Shannara

271

strength about him like armor, banded himself with it as if to

match the stone of the shell before him, then reached out with

his one remaining hand and pressed his fingers to the wall.

He felt the magic rise within him, flowing hot like fire, ex-

tending from his chest to his arm to the tips of his fingers to ...

There was a shudder, and the stone before him drew back,

flinching away as if human flesh that had been burned. There

was a long, deep groan that was the sound of stone grating on

stone and a thin shriek as if a life had been pressed between.

Quickening crouched like a startled bird, her silver hair flung

back, her eyes bright and strangely alive. Morgan Leah drew

out the broadsword strapped across his back in a single swift

motion.

The wall before them opened—not as a door would swing

wide or a panel lift, but as a cloth torn asunder. It opened,

stretched wide from foundation to apex, a mouth that sought to

feed. When it was twenty feet across, it stopped, immobile once

more, the stone edges smooth and fixed, imbued with the look

of a doorway that had always been there and clearly belonged.

A way in, thought Walker Boh. Exactly what they had come

searching for.

Quickening and Morgan Leah stood beside him expectantly.

He did not look at either of them. He kept his eyes focused on

the opening before him, on the darkness within, on its sea of

impenetrable shadows. He searched and listened, but nothing

revealed itself.

Still, he knew what waited.

Carisman's voice sang softly in his mind. Come right in, said

the spider to thefty.

With the giri and the Highlander flanking him, Walker Boh

complied.

XXV

Shadows enveloped them almost immediately, layers of

darkness that began less than a dozen feet inside the

opening to the dome and entirely concealed everything

that lay beyond. They slowed on Walker's lead, waiting for

their eyes to adjust, listening to the hollow echoes of their

booted feet fade into the silence. Then there was only the

sound of their breathing. Behind them, the faint gray daylight

was a slender thread connecting them to the world without,

and an instant later it was severed. Stone grated on stone once

more, and the opening that had admitted them disappeared.

No one moved to prevent it from happening; indeed, they

had all expected as much. They stood together in the silence

that followed, each conscious of the reassuring presence of

the others, each straining to hear the sound of any foreign

movement, each waiting for some small measure of sight to

return. The sense of emptiness was complete. The interior of

the dome had the feel of a monstrous tomb in which nothing

living had walked in centuries. The air had a stale and musty

smell, devoid of any recognizable scents, and it was cold, a

bone-biting chill that entered through the mouth and nostrils

and worked its way instantly to the pit of the stomach and

lodged there. They began to shiver almost immediately. Even

in the impenetrable darkness it seemed to Walker Boh that

he could see the clouding of his breath.

The seconds dragged by, heartbeats in the unbroken stillness.

The three waited patiently. Something would happen. Someone

would appear. Unless they had been brought into the dome to

be killed. Walker speculated in the silence of his thoughts. But

he didn't think that was the case. In fact, he no longer believed

as he had in the beginning that there was any active effort being

272

The Druid of Shannara 273

made to eliminate them. The character of their relationship with

Eldwist suggested on close study that the city functioned in an

impersonal way to rid itself of intruders, but that it did not exert

any special effort if it immediately failed. Eldwist did not rely

on speed; it relied on the law of averages. Sooner or later in-

truders would make a mistake. They would grow incautious and

either the trapdoors or the Rake would claim them. Walker was

willing to wager that Quickening had guessed right, that until

very recently the Stone King hadn't even been aware of their

presence—or if he had, hadn't bothered himself about it. It

wasn't until Walker had used magic against the shell of his en-

closure that he had roused himself. Not even using magic against

the Rake had made any difference to him. But now. Walker

believed, he was curious—and that was why they had been

brought inside . . .

Walker caught himself. He had missed something. Nothing

was going to happen if they just stood there in the darkness, not

if they waited all that day and all the next. The Stone King had

brought them inside for a reason. He had brought them inside

to see what they would do.

Or, perhaps, could do.

He reached out with his good arm to grip first Morgan and

then Quickening and bent their heads gently to press close against

his own. "Whatever happens. Quickening," he whispered,

speaking only to the girl, his voice so soft it was barely audible,

"remember your vow to do nothing to reveal that you have any

use of the magic."

Then he released them, stepped away, brought up his hand,

snapped his fingers, and sparked a single silver flame to life.

They looked about. They were standing in a tunnel that ran

forward a short distance to an opening. Holding the flame before

him. Walker led them forward. When they reached the tunnel's

end, he extinguished the flame, summoned his magic a second

time, and sent a scattering of silver fire into the darkness.

Walker inhaled sharply. The shower of light flew into the

unknown, soaring through the shadows, chasing them as it went,

and rising until everything about them lay revealed. They stood

at the entrance to a vast rotunda, an arena ringed by row upon

row of seats that lifted away into the gloom. The roof of the

dome stretched high overhead, its rafters of stone arcing down-

ward from peak to foundation. Lines of stairs ran upward to the

rows of seats, and railings encircled the arena. The arena and

stands, like the rafters, were stone, ancient and worn by time,

274                             The Druid of Shannara

hard and flat against the darkness that cloaked them. A string of

shadowed tunnels similar to the one that had admitted them

opened through the stands, black holes that burrowed and dis-

appeared.

At the very center of the arena stood a massive stone statue,

rough-hewn and barely recognizable, of a man hunched over in

thought.

Walker let the fire settle in place, its light extending. The

dome was vast and empty, silent save for the sound of their

footfalls, seemingly bereft of any life but their own. Out of the

comer of his eye he saw Morgan start forward and reached out

quickly to hold him back. Quickening moved over to take the

Highlander's arm protectively in her own. Walker's gaze swept

the arena, the black tunnels that opened onto it, the stands that

surrounded it, the rafters and ceiling, and then the arena again.

He stopped when he reached the statue. Nothing moved. But

there was something there. He could feel it, more strongly now

than before, the same presence he had sensed when he had stood

without.

He started forward, slowly, cautiously. Morgan and Quick-

ening trailed. He was momentarily in command of matters now,

Quickening's deference in some way become an acknowledg-

ment of her need. She was not to use magic. She was to rely on

him. He discovered an unexpected strength of resolution in the

fact that he had made her dependent on him. There was no time

now for drifting, for self-doubts and fears, or for the uncertain-

ties of who and what he was meant to be. A fiery determination

burned through him. It was better this way, he realized, better

to be in command, to accept responsibility for what was to hap-

pen. It had always been that way. At that moment he understood

for the first time in his life that it always would.

The statue loomed directly before them, a massive chunk of -

stone that seemed to defy the light Walker had evoked to defuse

the darkness. The thinker faced away from them, a gnarled and

lumpish form, kneeling half-seated and half-slumped, one arm

folded across his stomach, the second closed to a fist and cocked

to brace his chin. It might have been intended that there be a

cloak thrown about him or he might simply have been covered

with hair; it was impossible to discern. There was no writing

on the base he rested upon; indeed, it was a rather awkward

pedestal that seemed to join the legs of the statue to the dome's

floor as if the rock had simply melted away once upon a distant

time.

The Druid of Shannara                             275

They reached the statue and began to circle it. The face came

slowly into view. It was a monster's face, ravaged and peeked,

a mass of protuberances and knots, all misshapen in the manner

of a sculpture partially formed and then abandoned. Eyes of

stone stared blankly from beneath a glowering brow. There was

horror written in the statue's features; there were demons cap-

tured in the shaping that could never be dislodged. Walker

glanced away uneasily to search again the dome's shadows. The

silence winked back at him.

Suddenly Quickening stopped, freezing in place like a star-

tled deer. "Walker," she whispered, her voice a low hiss.

She was looking at the statue. Walker wheeled catlike to fol-

low her gaze.

The eyes of the statue had shifted to fix on him.

He heard Morgan's blade clear its sheath in a rasp of metal.

The statue's misshapen head began moving, the stone grating

eerily as it shifted, not breaking off or cracking, but rearranging

somehow, as if become both solid and liquid. The grating ech-

oed through the hollow shell of the dome like the shifting of

massive mountain boulders in a slide. Arms moved and shoul-

ders followed. The torso swiveled, the stone rubbing and grind-

ing until the short hairs on Walker's neck were rigid.

Then it spoke, mouth opening, stone rubbing on stone.

—Who are you—

Walker did not reply, so astonished at what he was seeing

that he could not manage to answer. He simply stood there,

dumbfounded. The statue was alive, a thing of stone, frighten-

ingly shaped by a madman's hand, lacking blood and flesh, yet

somehow alive.

In the next instant he realized what he was seeing and even

then he could not speak the creature's name. It was Quickening

who spoke for him.

"Uhl Belk," she whispered.

—Who are you—

Quickening stepped forward, looking tiny and insignificant

in the shadow of the Stone King, her silver hair swept back.

"I am called Quickening," she replied. Her voice, surpris-

ingly strong and steady, reverberated through the stillness.

"These are my companions, Walker Boh and Morgan Lean. We

have come to Eldwist to ask you to return the Black Elfetone."

The head shifted slightly, stone crackling and grinding.

—The Black Hfetone belongs to me—

"No, Uhl Belk. It belongs to the Druids. You stole it from

2 76                              T?ie Druid o/ Shannam

them. You stole it from the Hall of Kings and brought it into

Eldwist. Now you must give it back."

There was a long pause before the Stone King spoke again.

—Who are you—

"I am no one."

—Have you magic to use against me—

"No."

—What of these others, do they have magic—

"Only a little. Morgan Leah once had use of a sword given

him by the Druids which possessed the magic of the Hadeshom.

But it is broken now, the blade shattered, and its magic failed.

Walker Boh once had the use of magic he inherited from his

ancestors, from the Elven house of Shannara. But he lost the

use of most of that magic when he suffered damage to his arm

and his spirit. He has yet to gain it back. No, they have no magic

that can harm you."

Walker was so astonished he could barely credit what he was

hearing. In a matter of seconds, Quickening had undone them

completely. She had revealed not only what it was that they had

come to find but also that they lacked any reasonable chance of

gaining possession of it. She had admitted that they were vir-

tually powerless against this spirit creature, that they were un-

able to force it to comply with their demands. She had removed

even the possibility that they might run a bluff. What was she

thinking?

Uhl Belk was apparently wondering the same thing.

—I am to give up the Black Elfstone simply because you ask

me to do so, give it up to three mortals of finite lives, a girl with

no magic, a one-armed man, and a swordsman with a broken

blade-

"It is necessary, Uhl Belk.''

—I determine what is necessary in the Kingdom of Eldwist;

I am the law and the power that enforces that law; there is no

right but mine and therefore no necessity but mine; who would

dare say no to me; not any of you; you are as insignificant as

the dust that blows across the surface of my skin and washes

into the sea—

He paused.

—The Black Elfstone is mine—

Quickening did not respond this time, but simply continued

to stare into the Stone King's scarred eyes. Uhl Belk's massive

body shifted again, moving as if mired in quicksand, the stone

The Druid of Shannara                             277

grinding resolutely, a wheel of time and certainty given the skin

of substance.

—You—

He pointed to Walker, a finger straightening.

—The Asphinx claimed a part of you; I can sense its stink

upon your body; yet somehow you still live; are you a Druid—

"No," Quickening answered instantly. "He is a messenger

of the Druids, sent by them to recover the Black Elfstone. His

Elven magic saved him from the poison of the Asphinx. His

claim to the Black Elfstone is the rightful one, granted him by

the Druids."

—The Druids are all dead-

Quickening said nothing, waiting for the Stone King, stand-

ing fearlessly beneath him. A sudden movement of one massive

arm and she would be crushed. She seemed unconcerned.

Walker glanced quickly at Morgan, but the Highlander's eyes

were on the face of Uhl Belk, transfixed by the ugliness of it,

hypnotized by the power he saw there. He wondered what he

was expected to do. Anything? He wondered suddenly what he

was doing there at all.

Then the Stone King spoke again, a slow rasping in the si-

lence.

—I have been alive forever and I will live on long after you

are dust; I was created by the Word and I have survived all that

were given life with me save one and that one will soon be gone

as well; I care nothing for the world in which I exist save for the

preservation of that over which I was given dominion—eternal

stone; it is stone that weathers all things, that is unchanging and

fixed and therefore as close to perfection as life can achieve; I

am the giver of stone to the world and the architect of what is to

become; I use all necessary means to see that my purpose is

fulfilled; therefore I took the Black Elfstone and made it mine—

The dome echoed with his words, and then the echoes died

away into silence. The shadows were lengthening already as

Walker's light began slowly to fail, the magic fading. Walker

felt the futility of what they were about. Morgan's sword arm

had lowered uselessly to his side; what purpose was there in

trying to employ a weapon of iron against something as ancient

and immutable as this? Only Quickening seemed to believe there

was any hope.

—The Druids were as nothing compared to me; their precau-

tions to hide and protect their magic were futile; I left the As-

phinx to show my disdain for what they had attempted to do;

278                             The Druid of Shannara

they were believers in the laws of nature and evolution, foolish

purveyors of the creed of change; they died and left nothing;

stone is the only element of the earth's body that endures, and

I shall live in that stone forever—

"Constant," Quickening whispered.

-Yes-

"Etemal."

—Yes—

"But what of your trust, Uhl Belk? What of that? You have

disdained to be that which you were created—a balancing force,

a preservationist of the world as it was created to be." Her voice

was low and compelling, a web weaving images that seemed to

take form and shimmer in the dead air before her. "I was told

your story. You were given life to preserve life; that was the trust

given you by the Word. Stone preserves nothing of life. You

were not instructed to transform, yet you have taken it upon

yourself to subvert everything, to alter forever the composition

of life upon the land, to change living matter to stone—all this

to create an extension of who and what you are. And look what

it has done to you."

She braced herself against the anger already forming on the

Stone King's brow. "Give back the Black Elfstone, Uhl Belk.

Let us help you become free again."

The massive stone creature shifted on his bed of rock, joints

grating, the sounds cracking through the arena as if some invis-

ible audience sought to respond. Uhl Belk spoke, and his voice

had a new and frightening edge to it.

—You are more than you pretend to be; I am not deceived;

yet it does not matter; I care nothing for who you are or what

you want; I admitted you to me so that I might examine you;

the magic with which you touched me caught my attention and

made me curious as to who you might be; but I need nothing

from you; I need nothing from any living thing; I am complete;

think of me as the land on which you walk and you as the tiniest

of fleas that live upon me; if you should become a bother I will

eliminate you in an instant; if you should survive this day you

will probably not survive another—

The great brow knitted, and the gnarled face re-formed its

ridges and lines.

—What am I if not the whole of your existence; look about

you and I am everything you see; look where you stand within

Eldwist and I am everything you touch; I have made myself so;

The Druid of Shannara

279

I have made myself one with the land I create; I am free of all

else and shall ever be-

Suddenly Walker Boh understood. Uhl Belk wasn't a living

thing in the conventional sense of the words. He was a spirit in

the same way as the King of the Silver River. He was more than

the statue that crouched before them. He was everything they

walked upon; he was the entire Kingdom of Eldwist. The stone

was his skin, he had said—a part of his living self. He had found

a way to infuse himself into everything he created, ensuring his

permanency in a way that nothing else could.

But that meant he was a prisoner as well. That was why he

didn't rise to greet them or come hunting for them or involve

himself directly in any way in what they were about. That was

why his legs were sunk down into the stone. Mobility was be-

yond him, an indulgence meant for lesser creatures. He had

evolved into something greater; he had evolved into his own

world. And it held him trapped.

"But you are not free, are you?" Quickening questioned

boldly, as if reading Walker's thoughts. ' 'If you were, you would

give us the Black Elfstone, for you would have no real need of

it." Her voice was hard and insistent. "But you cannot do that,

can you, Uhl Belk? You need the Black Elfstone to stay alive.

Without it, the Maw Grint would have you.''

—No—

"Without it, the Maw Grint would destroy you."

—No—

"Without it. . ."

—No—

A stone fist crashed downward, barely missing the girl, shat-

tering a portion of the ground next to her, sending jagged cracks

along its surface for a hundred yards in every direction. The

Stone King shuddered as if stricken.

"The Maw Grint is your child, Uhl Belk," Quickening con-

tinued, ramrod straight before him, as if it were she who had

the size and the power and not the Stone King. ' 'But your child

does not obey you."

—You know nothing; the Maw Grint is an extension of me,

as is everything in Eldwist an extension of me; it has no life

except what I would give; it serves my purpose and no other,

turning the lands adjoining and all that live within them to stone,

the permanency of myself—

The girl's black eyes were bright and quick. "And the Black

Elfstone?"

The Druid of Shannara

280

The Stone King's voice was resonant with some strange mix

of emotions that refused to be identified.

—The Black Elfstone allows—-

The jagged mouth ground closed and the Stone King hunched

down into himself, limbs and body knotting together as though

they might disappear into a single massive rock.

"Allows?" Quickening breathed softly.

The flat, empty eyes lifted.

—Watch—

The word reverberated like a splitting of the Stone King's

soul. Rock grated and ground once more, and the wall of the

dome behind them parted. Gray, hazy daylight spilled through

as if to flee the steady curtain of rain that fell without. Clouds

and mist drifted past, bending and twisting about the buildings

that loomed beyond, cloaking them as if they were a gathering

of frozen giants set patiently at watch. An eerie wail burst from

the Stone King's mouth and it filled the emptiness of the city

with a sound like a thin sheet of metal vibrating in the wind. It

rose and died quickly, but its echo lingered as if it would last

forever.

—Watch—

They heard the Maw Grint before they saw it, its approach

signaled by a rumble deep beneath the city's streets that rose

steadily as the creature neared, a low growl building to a roar

that jolted everything and brought the three from Rampling

Steep to their knees. The Maw Grint burst into view, shat-

tering apart the stone that was Uhl Belk's skin, splitting it wide

just beyond the wall of the dome, just without the opening

through which they stared wide-eyed and helpless. They could

see the Stone King flinch with pain. The Maw Grint rose and

seemed to keep rising, a leviathan of impossible size that dwarfed

even the buildings themselves, swaying like a snake, a loath-

some cross between burrowing worm and serpent, as black as

pitch with foul liquid oozing from a rock-encrusted body, eye-

less, headless, its mouth a sucking hole that seemed intent on

drinking first the rain and then the air itself. It shot into view

with a suddenness that was terrifying and filled the void of the

dome's opening like a wave of darkness that would collapse it

completely.

Walker Boh went cold with disbelief and horror. The Maw

Grint wasn't real; it was impossible even to imagine such a

thing. For the first time in his life he wanted to run. He watched

Morgan Leah stagger back and drop to his knees. He watched

The Druid of Shannara

281

Quickening freeze in place. He felt himself lose strength and

only barely managed to keep from falling. The Maw Grint

writhed against the skyline, a great spineless mass of black ooze

that nothing could withstand.

Yet the Stone King did not waver. A thick, gnarled hand

lifted, the one that had cradled his chin when they had thought

him a statue, and the fingers slowly began to open. Light burst

forth—yet it was light the like of which none of them had ever

seen. It sprayed in all directions at first and did not illuminate

in the manner of ordinary light but instead turned everything it

touched dark.

This is not light. Walker Boh realized as he fought to hold

back a flood of sensations that threatened to overwhelm him.

This is the absence of light!

Then the fingers of the Stone King spread wide, and they

could see what he held. It was a perfectly formed gemstone, its

center as black and impenetrable as night. The stone glittered

as it reflected the thin streamers of gray daylight and let not even

the smallest trace pass within. It looked tiny cradled in Uhl

Belk's massive stone palm, but the darkness it cast stretched

away into the farthest comers of the dome, into the deepest

recesses, seeking out and enveloping the whole of Walker's scat-

tered luminescence so that in a matter of seconds the only light

remaining came from the rent in the dome's stone skin.

Walker Boh felt his own magic stir within him in recognition.

They had found the Black Elfstone.

Uhl Belk cried out then, a thundering howl that rose above

even the sounds of the Maw Grint's coming, of the wind and the

rain and the sea far beyond, and he thrust the Black Elfstone

before him. The blackness gathered and tightened into a single

band that shot forward to strike the Maw Grint. The Maw Grint

did not resist. Instead, it simply hung there, transfixed. It shud-

dered—pained and pleasured both somehow, wracked with feel-

ings that the humans crouched before it could only imagine. It

twisted, and the blackness twisted in response. The blackness

spread, widening, flowing out, then back again, until the Stone

King was enveloped as well. They could hear him groan, then

sob, again with feelings that were mixed in some veiled way,

not clearly defined and not meant to be. The Elfstone's magic

joined them, father and son, monsters each, a substanceless lock

that bound them as surely as iron chains.

What is happening ? Walker Boh wondered. What is the magic

doing to them ?

282 The Druid of Shannara

Then the nonlight disappeared, a line of shadow feeling,

steadily dissipating like ink soaking into and through white net-

ting, the air brightening until the daylight returned and the link

between the Stone King and the Maw Grint had vanished. The

Maw Grint sank from sight, oozing back into the earth. The

hole that it had made closed after it, the stone knitting into place,

as smooth and hard as before, leaving the street whole again,

creating the illusion that nothing at allliad happened. The rain

washed away all traces of the creature's coming, streams of wa-

ter loosening the greenish film of poison secreted from its body

and carrying it from sight.

Uhl Belk's fingers closed once more about the Black Elfstone,

his eyes lidded, his face transformed in a way that Walker could

not describe, as if he had been made over somehow, created

anew. Yet he was more frightening looking than'ever, his fea-

tures harsher, less human, and more a part of the rock that

encased him. He withdrew the Elfstone, his hand clasping it

tightly to his body. His voice rumbled.

—Do you see—

They did not, not even Quickening. The puzzlement in her

dark eyes was evident. They stood mute before the Stone King,

all three, feeling tiny and uncertain.

"What has happened to you, Uhl Belk?" the girl asked fi-

nally.

Rain hammered down, and the wind ripped through the

dome's rent.

—Go—

The massive pitted head began to turn away, the stone grating

ominously.

' 'You must give us the Black Elfstone!'' Quickening shouted.

—The Black Elfstone is mine—

"The Shadowen will take it from you—just as you took it

from the Druids!"

Uhl Belk's voice was weary, disinterested.

—The Shadowen are children; you are all children; you do

not concern me; nothing that you do can harm or affect me; look

at me; I am as old as the world and I shall last as long; you shall

be gone in the blink of an eye; take yourselves out of my city;

if you remain, if you come to me again, if I am disturbed by

you in any way, I shall summon the Rake to dispose of you and

you shall be swept away at once—

The floor rippled beneath them, a shudder that sent them

tumbling backward toward the opening in the wall. The Stone

The Druid of Shannara                             283

King had flinched the way an animal would in an effort to shed

itself of some bothersome insect. Walker Boh rose, pulling

Quickening back with him, beckoning to Morgan. There was

nothing to be gained by staying. They would not have the Black

Elfstone this day—if indeed ever. Uhl Belk was a creature

evolved far beyond any other. He was right; what could they do

that would harm or affect him?

Yet Quickening seemed unconvinced. "It is you who shall

be swept away!" she shouted as they backed through the open-

ing into the street. She was shaking. "Listen to me, Uhl Belk!"

The craggy face was turned again into shadow, the massive

shoulders hunched down, the thinker's pose resumed. There

was no response.

Standing outside in the rain they watched the wall seal over,

the skin knit, the rent fade away as if it had never been. In

moments the dome was an impenetrable shell once more.

Morgan moved to place his hands on Quickening's shoulders.

The girl seemed unaware of him, a thing of stone herself. The

Highlander leaned close and began whispering.

Walker Boh moved away from them. When he was alone, he

turned once again to face Uhl Belk's haven. A fire consumed

him and at the same time he felt detached. He was there and he

was not. He realized that he no longer knew himself. He had

become an enigma he could not solve. His thoughts tightened

like a cinched cord. The Stone King was an enemy that none of

them could defeat. He was not simply ruler of a city; he was the

city itself. Uhl Belk had become Eldwist. He was a whole world,

and no one could change an entire world. Not Allanon or Cog-

line or all of the Druids put together.

Rain streamed down his face. No one.

Yet he already knew that he was going to try.

XXVI

Fe Ell had changed his mind twice before finally settling

the matter. Now he slipped down the darkening street

and ducked into the doorway of the building in which

the others had concealed themselves with his misgivings com-

fortably stowed. Rain dripped from his cloak, staining the stone

of the stairs he followed, tracking his progress in a steady, me-

andering trail. He paused at the landing to listen, heard nothing,

and went on. The others were probably out searching. There or

not, it made no difference to him. Sooner or later, they would

return. He could wait.

He passed down the hallway without bothering to conceal his

approach and stalked through the doorway of their hiding place.

At first glance the room appeared empty, but his instincts warned

him instantly that he was being watched and he stopped a dozen

feet through. Shadows dappled the room in strange patterns,

clustered about haphazardly as if stray children chased inside by

the weather. The patter of the rain sounded steadily in the silence

as Pe Ell stood waiting.

Then Homer Dees appeared, slipping noiselessly from the

shadows of a doorway to one side, moving with a grace and

ease that belied his bulky frame. He was scratched and bruised

and his clothing was torn. He looked as if some animal had

gotten hold of him. He fixed Pe Ell with his grizzled look, as

rough and suspicious as ever, an ageing bear come face-to-face

with a familiar enemy.

"You constantly amaze me," Pe Ell said, meaning it, still

curious about this troublesome old man.

Dees stopped, keeping his distance. "Thought we'd seen the

last of you," he growled.

"Did you, now?" Pe Ell smiled disarmingly, then moved

284

The Druid of Shannara                              285

across the room to where a collection of withered fruits sat

drying in a makeshift bowl. He picked one up and took a bite.

It was bitter tasting, but edible. "Where are the others?"

"Out and about," Dees answered. "What difference does it

make to you?"

Pe Ell shed his damp cloak and seated himself. ' 'None. What

happened to you?"

"I fell down a hole. Now what do you want?"

Pe Ell's smile stayed in place. "A little help."

It was difficult to tell if Homer Dees was surprised or not; he

managed to keep his face from showing anything but seemed at

a momentary loss for a response. He hunched down a few inches,

as if settling himself against an attack, studied Pe Ell wordlessly,

then shook his head.

"I know you, Pe Ell," he declared softly. "I remember you

from the old days, from the time you were just beginning. I was

with the Federation then, a Tracker, and I knew you. Rimmer

Dall had plans for me as well; but I decided not to go along with

them. I saw you once or twice, saw you come and go, heard the

rumors about you." He paused. "I just want you to know."

Pe Ell finished the fruit and tossed the pit aside. He wasn't

sure how he felt about this unexpected revelation. He guessed

it really didn't matter. At least now he had an inkling of what it

was that bothered him so about Dees.

"I don't remember you," he said finally. "Not that it mat-

ters." The hatchet face inclined away from the light. "Just so

we understand each other, Rimmer Dall's plans for me didn't

work out quite as he expected either. I do what I choose. I always

have."

Dees rugged face nodded. "You kill people."

Pe Ell shrugged. "Sometimes. Are you frightened?"

The other man shook his head. "Not of you."

"Good. Then if we've finished with that topic of conversa-

tion, let's move back to the other. I need a little help. Care to

lend me some?"

Homer Dees stood mute a moment, then moved over to seat

himself. He settled down with a grunt and stared at Pe Ell with-

out speaking, apparently assessing the offer. That was fine with

Pe Ell. He had thought the matter through carefully before com-

ing back, weighing the pros and cons of abandoning his plan of

entering the Rake's shelter alone, of seeking assistance in deter-

mining whether or not the Stone King hid within. He had noth-

286                             The Druid of Shannara

ing to hide, no intention to deceive. It was always best to take a

straightforward approach when you could.

Dees stirred. "I don't trust you."

Pe Ell laughed tonelessly.' 'I once told the Highlander he was

a fool if he did. I don't care if you trust me; I'm not asking for

your trust. I'm asking for your help."

Dees was intrigued despite himself. "What sort of help?"

Pe Ell hid his satisfaction. "Last night I tracked the Rake to

its lair. I watched it enter, saw where it hides. I believe it likely

that where the Rake hides, the Stone King hides as well. When

the Rake goes out tonight to patrol the streets of the city, I intend

to go in fora look."

He shifted forward, bringing Dees into the circle of his con-

fidence. "There is a catch that releases a door through which

the Rake passes. If I trip it, I should be able to go in. The trouble

is, what if the door closes behind me? How will I get out?"

Dees rubbed his bearded chin, digging at the thick whiskers

as though they itched. "So you want someone to watch your

back for you."

"It seems like a good idea. I had planned to go in alone, to

confront the Stone King, kill him if need be, and take the Stone.

That's still my plan, but I don't want to have to worry about the

Rake crawling up my back when I'm not watching."

"So you want me to watch for you."

"Afraid?"

"You keep asking that. Fact is, I should be asking you. Why

should you trust me? I don't like you, Pe Ell. I'd be just as happy

if the Rake would get you. That makes me a poor choice for this

job, don't you think?"

Pe Ell unfolded his legs and stretched his lean body back

against the wall. "Not necessarily. You don't have to like me. I

don't have to like you. And I don't. But we both want the same

thing—the Black Elfstone. We want to help the girl. Doesn't

seem likely either of us can do much alone—although I have a

better chance than you do. The point is, if you give your word

that you will keep watch for me, I think that's what you'll do.

Because your word means something to you, doesn't it?"

Dees laughed dryly. "Don't tell me you're about to make a

plea to my sense of honor. I don't think I could stomach that.''

Pe Ell quit smiling. "I have my own code of honor, old man,

and it means every bit as much to me as yours does to you. If I

give my word, I keep it. That's more than most can say. I'm

telling you I'll watch out for you if you watch out for me—just

The Druid of Shannara                             287

until this business is finished. After that, we each go back to

watching out for ourselves." He cocked his head. "Time is

slipping away. We have to be in place by sunset. Are you coming

or not?"

Homer Dees took a long time to answer. Pe Ell would have

been surprised and suspicious if he had not. Whatever else Dees

was, he was an honest man, and Pe Ell was certain he would

not enter into an arrangement he did not think he could abide

by. Pe Ell trusted Dees; he wouldn't have asked the old man to

watch his back if he didn't. Moreover, he thought Dees capable,

the best choice of all, in some ways, not inexperienced like the

Highlander or flighty like Carisman. Nor was he unpredictable

like Walker Boh. Dees was nothing more nor less than what he

appeared to be.

"I told the Highlander about you," Dees announced, watch-

ing. "He's told the others by now."

Pe Ell shrugged once more. "I don't care about that." And

he didn't.

Dees hunched his heavy frame forward, squinting into the

faint gray light. ' 'If we get possession of the Stone, either of us,

we bring it back to the girl. Your word."

Pe Ell smiled in spite of himself. "You would accept my

word, old man?"

Dees' features were hard and certain. "If you try to break it,

I'll find a way to make you sorry you did."

Pe Ell believed him. Homer Dees, for all of being old and

used up, for the weathered look of him and the wear of the years,

would be a dangerous adversary. A Tracker, a woodsman, and

a hunter. Dees had kept himself alive for a long time. He might

not be Pe Ell's equal in a face-to-face confrontation, but there

were other ways to kill a man. Pe EU smiled inwardly. Who

should know better than he?

Pe Ell reached out his hand and waited for the old man to

take it. "We have a bargain," he said. Their hands tightened,

held momentarily and broke. Pe Ell came to his feet like a cat.

"Now let's be off."

They went out the door of the room and down the stairs again,

Pe Ell leading. The gloom without had thickened, the darkness

growing steadily as nightfall approached. They hunched their

cloaked shoulders against the rain and started away. Pe Ell's

thoughts drifted to his bargain. It had been an easy one to make.

He would return the Elfstone to the girl because not to do so

288                             The Druid of Shannara

would be to risk losing her completely and to face an eternity of

being tracked by all of them.

Never leave your enemies alive to follow after you, he thought.

Better to kill them when you had the chance.

Daylight was fading rapidly by the time Walker, Morgan, and

Quickening approached the building Pe Ell and Homer Dees

had vacated less than an hour earlier. The rain was falling stead-

ily, a dark curtain that shaded the tall, somber buildings of the

city, that masked away the skies and the mountains and the sea.

Morgan walked with his arm protectively encircling the girl's

shoulders, his head lowered to hers, two shadowed and hooded

figures against the mist. Walker stayed apart, leaving them to

each other. He saw how Quickening leaned into the Highlander.

She seemed to welcome his embrace, an uncharacteristic re-

sponse. Something had happened to her during the confronta-

tion with the Stone King that he had missed, and he was only

now beginning to make sense of what it was.

A thick stream of rainwater clogged the gutter ahead, block-

ing the walkway's end like a moat, and he was forced to move

outside and around it. He was leading still, choosing their path,

his cloaked form darkened by rain and gloom. A wraith, per-

haps, he thought. A Grimpond, he corrected. He had not thought

of the Grimpond for a long time, the memory too painful to

retrieve from the comer of his mind to which he had confined

it. It was the Grimpond with its twisted riddles who had led him

to the Hall of Kings and his encounter with the Asphinx. It was

the Grimpond who had cost him his arm, his spirit, and some-

thing of what he had been. Wounded in body and spirit—that

was how he saw himself. It would make the Grimpond glad if

it knew.

He lifted his face momentarily and let the rain wash over it,

cooling his skin. He hadn't thought it possible to be so hot in

such dank weather.

It was the Grimpond's visions, of course, that haunted him—

the three dark and enigmatic glimpses of the future, not accurate

necessarily, lies twisted into half-truths, truths shaded by lies,

but real. The first had already come to pass; he had sworn he

would cut off his hand before he would take up the Druid cause

and that was exactly what he had done. Then he had taken up

the cause anyway. Ironic, poetic, terrifying.

The second vision was of Quickening. The third . . .

His good hand clenched. The truth was, he never got beyond

The Druid of Shannara                             289

thinking about the second. Quickening. In some way, he would

fail her. She would reach out to him for help, he would have the

chance to save her from falling, and he would let her die. He

would stand there and watch her tumble away into some dark

abyss. That was the Grimpond's vision. That was what would

come to pass unless he could find a way to prevent it.

He had not, of course, been able to prevent the first.

Disgust filled him, and he banished his memory of the Grim-

pond back to the distant comer from which it had been set loose.

The Grimpond, he reminded himself, was itself a lie. But, then,

wasn't he a lie as well? Wasn't that what he had become, so

determined to keep himself clear of Druid machinations, so

ready to disdain all use of the magic except that which served

to sustain his own narrow beliefs, and so certain that he could

be master of his own destiny? He had lied to himself repeatedly,

deceived himself knowingly, pretended all things, and made his

life a travesty. He was mired in his misconceptions and preten-

ses. He was doing what he had sworn he would never do—the

work of the Druids, the recovery of their magic, the undertaking

of their will. Worse, he was committed to a course of action

which could only result in his destruction—a confrontation with

the Stone King to take back the Black Elfstone. Why? He was

clinging to this course of action as if it were the only thing that

would stop his drifting, as if it were all that was left that would

keep him from drowning, the only choice that remained.

Surely it was not.

He peered through the damp at the city and realized again

how much he missed the forestlands of Hearthstone. It was more

than the city's stone, its harsh and oppressive feel, its constant

mist and rain. There was no color in Eldwist, nothing to wash

clean his sight, to brighten and warm his spirit. There were only

shadings of gray, a blurring of shadows layered one upon an-

other. He felt himself in some way a mirror of the city. Perhaps

Uhl Belk was changing him just as he changed the land, draining

off the colors of his life, reducing him to something as hard and

lifeless as stone. How far could the Stone King reach? he won-

dered. How deep into your soul? Was there any limit? Could he

stretch his arms out all the way to Daridin Reach and Hearth-

stone? Could he find a human heart? In time, probably. And

time was nothing to a creature that had lived so long.

They crossed to the front entry of their after-dark refuge and

began to climb the stairs. Because Walker led, he saw the stains

of rainwater preceding him on the stone steps that his own trail-

290                            The Druid of Shannam

ing dampness masked to those following. Someone had entered

and gone out again recently. Homer Dees? But Dees was sup-

posedly already there and waiting for their return.

They moved down the maze of hallways to the room which

served as their base of operations. The room was empty. Walk-

er's eyes swept the trail of dampness to the shadows of the doors

exiting through each wall; his ears probed the quiet. He crossed

to where someone had seated himself and eaten.

His instincts triggered unexpectedly.

He could almost smell Pe Ell.

"Homer? Where are you?" Morgan was peering into other

rooms and corridors, calling for the old Tracker. Walker met

Quickening's gaze and said nothing. The Highlander ducked out

momentarily, then back in again. "He said he would wait right

here. I don't understand."

"He must have changed his mind," Walker offered quietly.

Morgan looked unconvinced. "I think I'll take a look

around."

He went out the door they had come through, leaving the

Dark Uncle and the daughter of the King of the Silver River

staring at each other in the gloom.

"Pe Ell was here," she said, her black eyes locked on his.

He let the fire of her gaze warm him; he felt that familiar

sense of kinship, of shared magics. "I don't sense a struggle,"

he said. "There is no blood, no disruption."

Quickening nodded soberly and waited. When he didn't speak

further, she crossed to stand before him. "What are you think-

ing, Walker Boh?" she asked, discomfort in her eyes. "What

have you been thinking all the way back, so lost within

yourself?"

Her hands reached out to take his arm, to hold it tight. Her

face lifted and the silver hair tumbled back, bathed in the weak

gray light. "Tell me."

He felt himself laid bare, a thin, rumpled, battered life with

barely enough strength remaining to keep from crumbling en-

tirely. The ache in him stretched from his severed limb to his

heart, physical and emotional both, an all-encompassing wave

that threatened to sweep him away.

"Quickening." He spoke her name softly, and the sound of

it seemed to steady him. "I was thinking you are more human

than you would admit."

Puzzlement flashed across her perfect features.

He smiled, sad, ironic. "I might be a poor judge of such

The Druid of Shamara                          291

things, less responsive than I should be, a refugee from years of

growing up a boy with no friends and few companions, of living

alone too much. But I see something of myself in you. You are

frightened by the feelings you have discovered in yourself. You

admit to possessing the human emotions your father endowed

you with when he created you, but you disdain to accept what

you perceive to be their consequences. You love the High-

lander—yet you try to mask it. You shut it away. You despise Pe

Ell—yet you play with him as a lure would a fish. You grapple

with your emotions, yet refuse to acknowledge them. You work

so hard to hide from your feelings."

Her eyes searched his. "I am still learning."

"Reluctantly. When you confronted the Stone King, you were

quick to state what had brought you. You told him everything;

you hid nothing. There was no attempt at deception or ruse. Yet

when Uhl Belk refused your demand—as you surely knew he

would—you grew angry, almost. . ." He searched for the word.

"Almost frantic," he finished. "It was the first time I can re-

member when you allowed your feelings to surface openly, with-

out concern for who might witness them."

He saw a nicker of understanding in her eyes. "Your anger

was real, Quickening. It was a measure of your pain. I think you

wanted Uhl Belk to give you the Black Elfstone because of

something you believe will happen if he does not. Is that so?"

She hesitated, torn, then let her breath escape slowly, wearily.

"Yes."

"You believe that we will gain the Elfstone. I know that you

do. You believe it because your father told you it would be so.''

"Yes."

"But you also believe, as he told you, that it will require the

magics of those you brought with you to secure it. No amount

of talking, no manner of persuasion, will convince Uhl Belk to

give it up. Yet you felt you had to try."

Her eyes were stricken. "I am frightened ..." Her voice

caught.

He bent close. "Of what? Tell me."

Morgan Leah appeared in the doorway. He slowed, watched

Walker Boh draw back from Quickening, and completed his

entrance. "Nothing," he said. "No sign of Homer. It's dark

out now; the Rake will be about. I'll have to postpone any

search until tomorrow." He came up to them and stopped. "Is

something wrong?" he asked quietly.

"No," said Quickening.

292                             The Druid of Shannara

"Yes, "said Walker.

Morgan stared. "Which is it?"

Walker Boh felt the shadows of the room close about, as if

darkness had descended all at once, intending to trap them there.

They stood facing one another across a void, the Highlander,

the Dark Uncle, and the girl. There was a sense of having reached

an expected crossroads, of now having to choose a path which

offered no return, of having to make a decision from which there

was no retreat.

"The Stone King ..." Quickening began in a whisper.

"We're going back for the Black Elfstone," Walker Boh fin-

ished.

Barely a mile away, at a window two floors up in a building

fronting the lair of the Rake, Pe Ell and Homer Dees waited for

the Creeper to emerge. They had been in position for some time,

settled carefully back in the shadows with the patience of ex-

perienced hunters. The rain had stopped finally, turned to mist

as the air cooled and stilled. A thin vapor rose off the stone of

the streets in wisps that curled upward like snakes. From some-

where deep underground came the faint rumble of the Maw

Grint awakening.

Pe Ell was thinking of the men he had killed. It was strange,

but he could no longer remember who they were. For a time he

had kept count, first out of curiosity, later out of habit, but even-

tually the number had grown so large and the passing of time so

great that he simply lost track. Faces that had been clear in the

beginning began to merge and then to fade altogether. Now it

seemed he could remember only the first and the last clearly.

The fact that his victims had lost all sense of identity was

disconcerting. It suggested that he was losing the sharpness of

mind that his work required. It suggested that he was losing

interest.

He stared into the blackness of the night and felt an unfamiliar

weariness engulf him.

He forced the weariness away irritably. It would be different,

he promised himself, when he killed the girl. He might forget

the faces of these others from Rampling Steep, the one-armed

man, the Highlander, the tunesmith, and the old Tracker; after

all, killing them was nothing more than a matter of necessity.

But he would never forget Quickening. Killing her was a matter

of pride. Even now he could visualize her as clearly as if she

were seated next to him, the soft curve and sweep of the skin

The Druid of Shannara 293

over her bones, the tilting of her face when she spoke, the way

her eyes drew you in, the weave and sway of her hands when

they moved. Surely she was the most wondrous of creatures,

spellbinding in a way that defied explanation. Hers was the magic

of the King of the Silver River and therefore as old as the begin-

ning of life. He wanted to drink in that magic when he killed

her; he believed he could. Once he had done so, she would be

a part of him, living inside, a presence stronger than even the

most indelible memory, stirring within him as nothing else

could.

Homer Dees shifted softly beside him, relieving cramped

muscles. Still wrapped in his private thoughts, Pe Ell did not

glance over. He kept his eyes fixed on the flat surface of the

hidden entry across the street. The shadows that cloaked it re-

mained still and unmoving.

What would happen when he slid the blade of the Stiehl into

her body? he wondered. What would he see in those depthless

black eyes? What would he feel? The anticipation of the moment

burned through him like fire. He had not thought of killing her

for some time, waiting because he had no other choice if he

was to secure the Black Elfstone, letting events take matters

where they would. But the moment was close now, he be-

lieved. Once he had gained entry into the lair of the Rake,

once he had discovered the hiding place of the Stone King,

once he had secured possession of the Black Elfstone and

disposed of Homer Dees . . .

He jerked upright.

Despite his readiness he was startled when across the way the

stone panel lifted and the Rake emerged. He quickly dispensed

with all further thoughts of Quickening. The Creeper's dark body

glimmered where thin streamers of starlight managed to pene-

trate the blanket of clouds and reflect off the plates of armor.

The monster stepped through the entry, then paused momen-

tarily as if something had alarmed it. Feelers lifted and probed

the air tentatively; the whiplike tail curled and snapped. The two

in hiding shrank lower into the shadows. The Creeper remained

motionless a moment longer, then, apparently satisfied, reached

back and triggered the release overhead. The stone panel slid

silently into place. The Rake turned and scuttled away into the

mist and gloom, its iron legs scraping the stone like trailing

chains.

Pe Ell waited until he was certain it was gone, then motioned

for Homer Dees to follow him. Together they supped down to

294                             The Druid of Shannara

the street, crossed, and stood before the Rake's lair. Dees pro-

duced the rope and grappling hook he was carrying and flung

them toward a stone outcropping that projected above the secret

entry. The grappling hook caught with a dull clank and held.

Dees tested the rope, nodded, and passed the end to Pe Ell. Pe

Ell climbed effortlessly, hand over hand, until he was level with

the release. He triggered it, and the entry panel began to lift. Pe

Ell dropped down quickly and with Homer Dees beside him,

watched the black cave of the building's interior open into view.

Cautiously, they edged forward.

The entry ran back into deep shadow. Faint gray light slipped

through the building's upper windows, seeped downward

through gaps in the ruined floors, and illuminated small patches

of the blackness. There was no sound from within. There was

no movement.

Pe Ell turned to Dees. "Watch the street," he whispered.

"Whistle if there's trouble."

He moved into the blackness, fading into it as comfortably as

if he were one of its shadows. He was immediately at home,

confident within its cloaking, his eyes and ears adjusting to its

sweep. The walls of the building were bare and worn with age,

damp in places where the rain had seeped through the mortar

and run down the stone, tall and rigid against the faint light. Pe

Ell slipped ahead, picking his way slowly, cautiously, waiting

for something to show itself. He sensed nothing; the building

seemed empty.

Something crunched underfoot, startling him. He peered

down into the blackness. Bones littered the floor, hundreds of

them, the remains of creatures the Rake had gathered in its

nightly sweeps and carried back to its lair to consume.

The entry turned down a vast corridor to a larger hall and

ended. No doors opened in, no passageways led out. The hall

had once been an inner court and rose hundreds of feet through

the building to a domed ceiling speckled with strange light pat-

terns and the slow movement of shadows thrown by the clouds.

The hall was silent. Pe Ell stared about in distress. He knew at

once that there was nothing to discover—not the Stone King,

not the Black Elfstone. He had guessed wrong. Anger and dis-

appointment welled up within him, forcing him to continue his

search even after he knew it was pointless. He started toward

the far wall, scanning the mortared seams, the lines of floor and

ceiling, desperate to find something.

Then Homer Dees whistled.

The Druid of Shannara                             295

At almost the same moment Pe Ell heard the soft scrape of

metal on stone.

He wheeled instantly and darted back through the darkened

hall. The Rake had returned. There was no reason for it to have

done so unless it had detected them. How? His mind raced,

clawing back the layers of confusion. The Rake was blind, it

relied on its other senses. It could not have seen them. Could it

have smelled them? He had his answer instantly. Their scent

about the doorway had alerted it; that was why it had paused. It

had pretended to go out, waited, then circled back.

Pe Ell raged at his own stupidity. If he didn't get out of there

at once, he would be trapped.

He burst into the darkened entry just in time to discover that

he was too late. Through the raised door he caught a glimpse of

the Rake rounding the comer of the building across the way,

moving as fast as its metal legs would carry it toward its lair.

The rope and Homer Dees were gone. Pe Ell melted into the

darkest section of one wall, sliding forward soundlessly. He had

to reach the entrance and get past the Creeper before it triggered

the release. If he failed, he would be caught in the creature's

lair. Even the Stiehl would not be enough to save him then.

The Rake rumbled up to the opening, iron claws rasping, and

tentacles lashing out against the stone walls, beginning its probe

within. Pe Ell slipped the Stiehl free of its sheath and crouched

down against the dark. He would have to be quick. He was oddly

calm, the way he was before a kill. He watched the monster fill

the opening and start to move through.

At once he was up and running. The Rake sensed him in-

stantly, its instincts even keener than Pe Ell's. A tentacle lashed

out and caught him, inches from the door. The Stiehl whipped

up, severing the limb, freeing the assassin once more. The Rake

wheeled about, huffing. Pe EU tried to run, but there were snak-

ing arms everywhere.

Then the grappling hook shot out of the darkness behind the

advancing Creeper, wrapping about its back legs. The rope se-

curing it went taut, and the monster was jerked backward. Its

limbs flailed, and its claws dug in. For a moment its attention

was diverted. That moment was enough. Pe Ell was past it in a

split second, racing into the street, darting to safety. Almost

immediately Homer Dees was running beside him, his bearish

form laboring from the strain. Behind them, they heard the rope

snap and the Rake start after in pursuit.

296                             The Druid of Shannara

"Here!" Dees yelled, pulling Pe Ell left into a gaping door-

way.

They ran through an entry, up several flights of stairs, down

a hall, and out onto a back ramp that crossed to another building.

The Creeper lumbered behind, smashing everything that blocked

its way. The men hastened into the building at the end of the

ramp and down a second set of stairs to the street again. The

sounds of pursuit were beginning to fade. They slowed, rounded

a comer, peered cautiously down the empty street, then fol-

lowed the walkway south several blocks to where a cluster of

smaller buildings offered an impassable warren into which they

quickly crept. Safe within, they slid down wearily, backs to the

wall, side by side, breathing heavily in the stillness.

"I thought you'd run," Pe Ell said, gasping.

Dees grunted, shook his head. "I would have, but I gave my

word. What do we do now?''

Pe Ell's body steamed with sweat, but deep inside a cold fury

was building. He could still feel the Rake's tentacle wrapped

about his body. He could still feel it beginning to squeeze. He

experienced such revulsion that he could barely keep from

screaming aloud.

Nothing had ever come so close to killing him.

He turned to Homer Dees, watched the rough, bearded face

furrow, the eyes glitter. Pe Ell's voice was chilly with rage. "You

can do what you wish, old man," he whispered. "But I'm going

back and kill that thing."

XXVII

organ Leah was appalled.' 'What do you mean we're

going back?" he demanded of Walker Boh. He was

not just appalled; he was terrified. "Who gave you

The Druid of Shannara

297

the right to decide anything. Walker? Quickening is leader of

this company, not you!"

"Morgan," the girl said softly. She tried to take his hand,

but he stepped quickly away.

"No. I want this settled. What's going on here? I leave the

room for just a moment, just long enough to make sure Homer

isn't. . . and when I come back I find you close enough to. . ."

He choked on the words, his brown face flushing as the impact

of what he was saying caught up with him. "I. . ."

"Morgan, listen to me," Quickening finished. "We have to

recover the Black Elfstone. We have to."

The Highlander's fists clenched helplessly. He was aware of

how foolish he looked, how young. He made a studied effort to

control himself. "If we go back there. Quickening, we will be

killed. We didn't know what we were up against before; now

we do. Uhl Belk is too much for us. We all saw the same thing—

a creature changed into something only vaguely human, ar-

mored in stone, and capable of brushing us aside like we were

nothing. He's part of the land itself! How do we fight something

like that? He'll swallow us whole before we have a chance even

to get close!"

He forced his breathing to slow. "And that's only if he doesn't

call the Maw Grint or the Rake first. We can't stand up to them

let alone him. Think about it, will you? What if he chooses to

use the Elfstone against us! Then what do we do—you without

any magic at all that you can use, me with a broken sword that's

lost most of its magic, and Walker with ... I don't know, what?

With what. Walker? What are you?"

The Dark Uncle was unfazed by the attack, his pale face

expressionless, his eyes steady as they fixed on the Highlander.

"I am what I always was, Morgan Leah."

"Less an arm!" Morgan snapped and regretted it immedi-

ately. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." ,

"But it is true," the other replied quietly.

Morgan looked away awkwardly for a moment, then back

again. "Look at us," he whispered. "We're barely alive. We've

trekked all the way to the end of the world and it's just about

finished us. Carisman's already dead. Maybe Homer Dees as

well. We're beaten up. We look like scarecrows. We haven't had

a bath in weeks, unless you want to count getting rained on.

We're dressed in rags. We've been running and hiding so long

we don't know how to fight anymore. We're caught in this gray,

dismal world where all we see is stone and rain and mist. I hate

298                             The Druid of Shannara

this place. I want to see trees and grass and living things again.

I don't want to die here. I especially don't want to die when

there is no reason for it! And that's exactly what will happen if

we go looking for the Stone King. Tell me. Walker, what chance

do we have?"

To his surprise. Walker Boh said, "A better chance than you

think. Sit down a minute and listen.''

Morgan hesitated, suspicion mirrored in his'eyes. Then slowly

he sat, his anger and frustration momentarily spent. He allowed

Quickening to move next to him again, to wrap her arms about

him. He let the heat of her body soak through him.

Walker Boh crossed his legs before him and pulled his dark

cloak close. "It is true that we appear to be little more than

beggars off some Southland city street, that we have nothing

with which to threaten Uhl Belk, that we are as insignificant to

him as the smallest insects that crawl upon the land. But that

appearance may be an illusion we can use. It may give us the

chance we need to defeat him. He sees us as nothing. He does

not fear us. He disdains to worry about us at all. It is possible

that he has already forgotten us. He believes himself invulner-

able. Perhaps we can use that against him,"

The dark eyes were intense. "He is not what he believes,

Highlander. He has evolved beyond the spirit creature he was

bom, beyond anything he was intended to be. I believe he has

evolved even beyond the King of the Silver River. But his evo-

lution has not been a natural one. His evolution has been brought

about by his usage of the Black Elfstone. It is ironic, but the

Druids protected their magic better than Uhl Belk realizes. He

thinks that he stole it easily and uses it without consequence.

But he is wrong. Just by calling up the Elfstone's magic, he is

destroying himself."

Morgan Leah stared. "What are you talking about?"

"Listen to him, Morgan," Quickening cautioned, her soft

face bent close, her dark eyes expectant.

"I did not understand before today what it was that the Black

Elfstone was intended to do," Walker Boh continued, hurrying

now, anxious to complete his explanation. "I was given the

Druid History by Cogline and told to read it. I learned that the

Black Elfstone existed and that its purpose was to release Par-

anor from its spell and return it to the world of men. I learned

from Quickening that the Black Elfstone's magic was conceived

to negate the effects of other magics—thus the magic that sealed

away Paranor could be dispelled. Such power, Highlander! How

The Druid of Shannara 299

could such power exist? I kept wondering if it was possible, and

if possible, why the Druids—who were so careful in such mat-

ters—took no better precautions to protect against its misuse.

After all, the Black Elfstone was the only magic that could re-

store their Keep, that could initiate the process that would re-

store them to power. Would they let that magic slip away so

easily? Would they allow it to be utilized by others, even a crea-

ture as powerful as Uhl Belk?

"I knew, of course, that they would not. But how could they

prevent it? Today I discovered the answer to that question. I

watched the Stone King summon the Maw Grint; I watched

what passed between father and son. Did you see it? When Uhl

Belk invoked the power of the Stone, there was a binding of the

two, a bringing together. The magic was a catalyst. But what

did it do? I wondered. It seemed to give life to them both. It

was clearly addictive; they reveled in its use. The magic of the

Black Elfstone was stronger than their own in the moment of its

release. It was so strong that they could not resist what it was

doing to them; in fact, they welcomed its coming."

He paused, and his voice lowered to a guarded whisper. The

room's shadows cloaked them like conspirators. "This is what

I believe must happen when the magic is invoked. Yes, it negates

whatever magic it is directed against, just as the Druid History

suggests, just as Quickening was told by her father. It confronts

and steals away that magic's power. But it must do more. It

cannot simply cause the magic to disappear. It cannot take a

magic and change it into air. Something must happen to that

magic. The laws of nature require it. What it does, I believe, is

to absorb and transfer the effects of that other magic to the user

of the Stone. When Uhl Belk turns the Black Elfstone on the

Maw Grint he takes his child's magic and makes it his own; he

takes the poison that transforms the land and its creatures to

stone and alters himself as well. That is why he has evolved as

he has. And perhaps even more important than that, each time

he siphons off a pan of the Maw Grint's magic, Uhl Belk is

brought close again for a few moments to the son he created.

Using the Black Elfstone to share the Maw Grint's magic has

given them a bond they could not otherwise enjoy. They hate

and fear each other, but they need each other as well. They feed

on each other, a giving and taking that only the Black Elfstone

can facilitate. It is as close as they can come to a father/son

relationship. It is the only bond they can share."

He hunched forward. "But it is killing Uhl Belk. It is chang-

300

The Druid of Shannara

ing him to stone entirely. In time, he will disappear into the

stone that encases him. He will become like any other statue—

inanimate. He is doing it to himself without even realizing it.

That is the way the Elfstone works; that is why he was able to

steal it so easily. The Druids didn't care. They knew that anyone

using it would suffer the consequences eventually. Magic cannot

be absorbed without consequence. Uhl Belk is addicted to that

magic. He needs the feeling of transformation, of adding to his

stone body, to his land, to his kingdom of self. He could not

stop now even if he tried.''

"But how does this help us?" Morgan asked, impatient once

more. He hunched forward curiously, caught up in the possibil-

ities that Walker's explanation offered. "Even if you're right,

what difference does it make? You're not suggesting that we

simply wait until Uhl Belk kills himself, are you?''

Walker Boh shook his head. "We haven't time enough for

that. The process may take years. But Uhl Belk is not as invul-

nerable as he believes. He has become largely dependent on the

Black Elfstone, cocooned within his stone keep, changed mostly

to stone himself, interested not so much in what is happening

about him as in the feeding he requires so that his mutation can

continue. He is largely stationary. Did you watch him when he

tried to move? He cannot change positions quickly; he is welded

to the rock of the floor. His magic is old and unused; most of

what he does relates to feeding himself through use of the Stone.

Fear of losing the Black Elfstone, of being deprived of his source

of feeding, and of being left to the questionable mercy of his

maddened child dominates his thinking. He has crippled himself

with his obsessions. That gives us a chance to defeat him."

Morgan studied the other's face wordlessly for several long

moments, thinking the matter through in spite of his reluctance

to believe there was any possibility of succeeding, conscious of

Quickening's eyes on him as he did so. He had always believed

in Walker Boh's ability to reason matters through when others

could not. He was the one who had suggested Par and Coil

Ohmsford go to their uncle when they needed advice in dealing

with the dreams ofAllanon. He was frightened by what the Dark

Uncle was suggesting, but not so big a fool as to discount it

entirely.

Finally he said, "Everything you say may be so. Walker, but

you have forgotten something. We still have to get inside the

dome to have any chance of overcoming Uhl Belk. And he's not

going to invite us in a second time. He's already made that clear.

The Druid of Shannara

301

Since we haven't been able to find a way in on our own, how

are we supposed to get close enough to do anything?"

Walker folded his hands before him thoughtfully. "Uhl Belk

made a mistake when he admitted us to the dome. I was able to

sense things that were hidden from me before, when I was forced

to stand without. I was able to divine the nature of his fortress

keep. He has settled himself above that cavern where the rats

cornered us while we were searching the tunnels, beneath the

city. He places the Tiderace between himself and the Maw

Grint's underground lair. But he miscalculated in doing so. The

constant changing of the tide has worn and eroded portions of

the stone on which he rests."

The Dark Uncle's eyes narrowed. "There is an opening that

leads into the dome from beneath."

Another pair of eyes narrowed as well, these in disbelief as

Homer Dees weighed the implications of Pe Ell's words in the

dark silence of the building in which the two men were crouched.

"Kill it?" he questioned finally, unable to keep himself from

repeating the other's words. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because it's out there!" Pe Ell snapped impatiently, as if

that explained everything.

His stare challenged the Tracker, daring him to object. When

Dees did not respond, Pe Ell bent forward like a hawk at hunt.

"How long have we been in this city, old man—a week, two? I

can't even remember anymore. It seems as if we've been here

forever! One thing I do know. Ever since we arrived, that thing

has been hunting us. Every night, everywhere we go! The Rake,

sweeping up the streets, cleaning up the garbage. Well, I've had

enough!"

He was stiff with rage, fighting back against the memory of

that iron tentacle wrapped about him, struggling to control his

revulsion. When he killed, it was quick and clean. Not a slow

squeezing, not a death that choked and strangled. And nothing

ever touched him. Nothing ever got close.

Not until now.

His failure to find the Stone King in the Rake's lair hadn't

done anything to improve his disposition either. He had been

certain that he would find Uhl Belk and the Black Elfstone.

Instead, he had almost succeeded in getting himself killed.

His knife-blade face was set and raw with feeling. "I won't

be hunted anymore. A Creeper can die like anything else." He

paused. "Think about this. Once it's dead, maybe the Stone

302                             The Druid of Shannara

King will show himself. Maybe he'll come out to see what killed

his watchdog. Then we'll have him!"

Homer Dees did not look convinced. "You're not thinking

straight."

Pe Ell flushed. "Are you frightened once more, old man?"

"Of course. But that doesn't have anything to do with the

matter. The fact is, you're supposed to bp a professional killer,

an assassin. You don't kill without a reason and never without

being sure that the odds are in your favor. I don't see any evi-

dence of that here.''

"Then you're not looking hard enough!" Pe Ell was furious.

"You already have the reason! Haven't you been listening? It

doesn't have to be money and it doesn't have to be someone

else's idea! Do you want to find Uhl Belk or not? As for the

odds, I'll find a way to change them!"

Pe Ell rose and wheeled away momentarily to face the dark.

He shouldn't care one way or the other what this old man thought;

it shouldn't matter in the least. But somehow, for some reason

it did, and he refused to give Dees the satisfaction of thinking

he was somehow misguided. He hated to admit that Homer

Dees might have saved his life, even that he might have helped

him escape. The old man was a thorn in his side that needed

removing. Dees had come out of his past like a ghost, come out

of a time he had thought safely buried. No one alive should know

who he was or what he had done save Rimmer Dall. No one

should be able to talk about him.

He found suddenly that he wanted Homer Dees dead almost

as much as he wanted to dispose of the Rake.

Except that the Rake was the more immediate problem.

He turned back to the old Tracker. "I've wasted enough time

on you," he snapped. "Go back to the others. I don't need your

help."

Homer Dees shrugged. "I wasn't offering it."

Pe Ell started for the door.

"Just out of curiosity," Dees called after him, rising now as

well, "how do you plan to kill it?"

"What difference does it make to you?" Pe Ell called over

his shoulder.

"You don't have a plan, do you?"

Pe EU stopped dead in the doorway, seized by an almost

overpowering urge to finish off the troublesome Dees here and

now. After all, why wait any longer? The others would never

The Druid of Shannara                             303

know. His hand dropped through the crease in his pants to close

about the Stiehl.

"Thing is," Homer Dees said suddenly, "you can't kill the

Rake even if you manage to get close enough to use that blade

of yours."

Pe Ell's fingers released. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that even if you lay in wait for the thing, say you

drop on it from above or sneak up on it from underneath—not

likely, but say that you do—you still can't kill it quick enough.''

The sharp eyes glittered. ' 'Oh, you can cut off a tentacle or two,

maybe sever a leg, or even put out an eye. But that won't kill it.

Where do you stab it that will kill it, Pe Ell? Do you know? I

don't. Before you've taken two cuts, the Rake will have you.

Damage the thing? A Creeper builds itself right back again,

finds spare pieces of metal and puts what it's lost back in place."

Pe Ell smiled—mean, sardonic, empty of warmth. "I'll find

away."

Dees nodded. "Sure you will." He paused deliberately, his

bearish frame shifting, changing his weight from one foot to the

other. In the near darkness, he seemed like a piece of the wall

breaking loose. "But not without a plan."

Pe Ell looked away in disgust, shook his head, then looked

back again. He'd spent too much time trudging about this dismal

city, this tomb of stone and damp. He'd been fighting too long

to keep from being swallowed up in its belly. That coupled with

prolonged exposure to Quickening's magic had eroded his in-

stincts, dulled the edge of his sharpness, and twisted the clear-

ness of his thought. He was at a point where the only thing that

mattered was getting back to where he had started from, to the

world beyond Eldwist, and to the life that he had so fully con-

trolled.

But not without the Black Elfstone. He would not give it up.

And not without Quickening's life. He would not give that up

either.

Meanwhile, Homer Dees was trying to tell him something.

It never hurt to listen. He made himself go very still inside—

everything, right down to his thoughts. "You have a plan of your

own, don't you?" he whispered.

"I might."

"I'm listening."

"Maybe there's something to what you say about killing the

Rake. Maybe that will bring Belk out of hiding. Something has

to be tried." The admission came grudgingly.

The Druid of Shannara

304

"I'm still listening."

' 'It'll take the two of us. Same agreement as before. We look

out for each other until the matter's done. Then it's every man

for himself. Your word.''

"You have it."

Homer Dees shuffled forward until he was right in front of

Pe EU, much closer than Pe EU wanted him, wheezing like he'd

run a mile, grinning through his shaggy beard, big hands knot-

ting into fists.

"What I think we ought to do," he said softly, "is drop the

Rake down a deep hole.''

Morgan Leah stared at Walker Boh wordlessly for a moment,

then shook his head. He was surprised at how calm his voice

sounded. "It won't work. You said yourself that the Stone King

isn't just a moving statue; he's made himself a part of the land.

He's everything in Eldwist. You saw what he did when he finally

decided to let us into the dome and then after, when he sum-

moned the Maw Grint. He just split the rock wall apart. His

own skin. Walker. Don't you think he'll know if we try to climb

through that same skin from beneath? Don't you think he'll be

able to feel it? What do you think will happen to us then?

Squish!"

Morgan made a grinding motion with his palms. A dark flush

crept into his face; he found that he was shaking.

Walker's expression never changed. "What you suggest is

possible, but unlikely. Uhl Belk may be the heart and soul of

the land he has created, but he is also, like it, a thing of stone.

Stone feels nothing, senses nothing. Uhl Belk would not have

even discovered we were here if he had been forced to rely on

his external senses. It was our use of magic that alerted him.

There may remain enough of him that is human to detect in-

truders, but he relies principally on the Rake. If we can avoid

using magic we can enter the dome before he knows what w&

are about."

Morgan started to object, then cut himself short. Quickening

was clutching his arm so hard it hurt. "Morgan,'' she whispereci

urgently. "We can do it. Walker Boh is right. This is our

chance."

' 'Our chance?'' Morgan looked down at her, fighting to keep

his balance as the black eyes threatened to drown him, finding

her impossibly beautiful all over again. "Our chance to do what,

Quickening?" He forced his gaze away from her, fixing on

The Druid of Shannara 305

Walker. "Suppose that you are right about all this, that we can

get into the dome without Belk knowing it. What difference does

it make? What are we supposed to do then? Use our broken

magics, the three of us—a weaponless girl, a one-armed man,

and a man with half a sword? Aren't we right back where we

started with this conversation?"

He ignored Quickening's hands as they pulled at him. "I

won't pretend with you. Walker. You can see what I'm thinking.

You can with everyone. I'm terrified. I admit it. If I had the

Sword of Leah whole again, I would stand a chance against

something like Uhl Belk. But I don't. And I don't have any

innate magic like you and Par. I just have myself. I've stayed

alive this long by accepting my limitations. That's how I was

able to fight the Federation officials who occupy my homeland;

that's how I managed to survive against something far bigger

and stronger. You have to pick and choose your battles. The

Stone King is a monster with monsters to command, and I don't

see how the three of us can do anything about him.''

Quickening was shaking her head. "Morgan ..."

"No," he interrupted quickly, unable to stop himself now.

"Don't say anything. Just listen. I have done everything you

asked. I have given up other responsibilities I should have ful-

filled to come north with you in search of Eldwist and Uhl Belk.

I have stayed with you to find the Black Elfstone. I want you to

succeed in what your father has sent you to do. But I don't know

how that can happen. Quickening. Do you? Can you tell me?"

She moved in front of him, her face lifting. "I can tell you

that it will happen. My father has said it will be so."

"With my magic and Walker's and Pe Ell's. I know. Well,

then, what of Pe Ell? Isn't he supposed to go with us? Don't we

need him if we are to succeed?''

She hesitated before giving her answer. "No. Pe Ell's magic

will be needed later."

"Later. And your own?"

"I have no magic until you recover the Elfstone."

"So it is left to Walker and me."

"Yes."

"Somehow."

"Yes."

Walker Boh stepped forward impatiently, his pale face hard.

"Enough, Highlander. You make it sound as if this were some

mystical process that required divine intervention or the wisdom

of the dead. There is nothing difficult about what we are being

306                             The Druid of Shannara

asked to do. The Stone King holds the Black Elf stone; he must

be made to give it up. We must sneak through the floor of the

dome and surprise him. We must find a way to shock him, to

stun him, to do something that will make him release his grip

on the Stone, then snatch it from him. We don't have to stand

against him in battle; we don't have to slay him. This isn't a

contest of strength; it is a contest of will. And cleverness. We

must be more clever than he."

The Dark Uncle's eyes burned. "We have not come all this

way, Morgan Leah, just to turn around and go back again. We

knew there were no answers to be given to our questions, that

we would have to find a way to do everything that was required.

We have done so. We need do so only one time more. If we

don't, the Elfstone is lost to us. That means that the Four Lands

are lost as well. The Shadowen have won. Cogline and Rumor

died for nothing. Your friend Steffdied for nothing. Is that what

you wish? Is that your intent? Is it, Morgan Leah?"

Morgan pushed past Quickening and seized the front of the

other's cloak. Walker seized his in turn. For an instant they

braced each other without speaking, Morgan's face contorted

with rage. Walker's smooth and intense.

"I am frightened, too, Highlander," Walker Boh said softly.

"I have fears that go far beyond what we are being asked to do

here. I have been charged by the shade of AUanon with using

the Black Elfstone to bring back Paranor and the Druids. If

using the Elfstone on the Maw Grint turns Uhl Belk to stone,

what will using it on disappeared Paranor do to me?''

There was a long, empty silence in which the question hung

skeletal and forbidding against the dark of the room. Then

Walker whispered, "It doesn't matter, you see. I have to find

out.''

Morgan let the other's cloak slip from his fingers. He took a

slow step back. "Why are we doing this?" he whispered in

reply. "Why?"

Walker Boh almost smiled. "You know why, Morgan Leah.

Because there is no one else."

Morgan laughed in spite of himself. "Brave soldiers? Or

fools?"

"Maybe both. And maybe we are just stubborn."

"That sounds right." Morgan sighed wearily, pushing back

the oppressiveness of the dark and damp, fighting through his

sense of futility. "I just think there should be more answers than

there are."

The Druid of Shannara                             307

Walker nodded. "There should. Instead, there are only rea-

sons and they will have to suffice."

Morgan's mind spun with memories of the past, of his friends

missing and dead, of his struggle to stay alive, and of the myriad

quests that had taken him from his home in the Highlands and

brought him at last to this farthest comer of the world. So much

had happened, most of it beyond his control. He felt small and

helpless in the face of those events, a tiny bit of refuse afloat in

the ocean, carried on tides and by whim. He was sick and worn;

he wanted some form of resolution. Perhaps only death was

resolution enough.

"Let me speak with him," he heard Quickening say.

Alone, they knelt at the center of the room in shadow, facing

each other, their faces so close that Morgan could see his re-

flection in her dark eyes. Walker had disappeared. Quickening's

hands reached out to him, and he let her fingers come to rest on

his face, tracing the line of his bones.

"I am in love with you, Morgan Leah," she whispered. "I

want you to know that. It sounds strange to me to say such a

thing. I never thought I would be able to do so. I have fears of

my own, different from yours and Walker Boh's. I am afraid of

being too much alive."

She bent forward and kissed him. "Do you understand what

I mean when I say that? An elemental gains life not out of the

love of a man and a woman for each other but out of magic's

need. I was created to serve a purpose, my father's purpose,

and I was told to be wary of things that would distract me. What

could distract me more, Morgan Leah, than the love I have for

you? I cannot explain that love. I do not understand it. It comes

from the part of me that is human and surfaces despite my efforts

to deny it. What am I to do with this love? I tell myself I must

disdain it. It is ... dangerous. But I cannot give it up because

the feeling of it gives me life. I become more than a thing of

earth and water, more than a bit of clay made whole. I become

real."

He kissed her back, hard and determined, frightened by what

she was telling him, by the sound of the words, by the impli-

cations they carried. He did not want to hear more.

She broke away. "You must listen to me, Morgan. I had

thought to keep to my father's path and not to stray. His advice

seemed sound. But I find now that I cannot heed it. I must love

you. It does not matter what is meant for either of us; we are

not alive if we do not respond to our feelings. So it is that I will

308 The Druid of Shannara

love you in every way that I am able; I will not be frightened

any longer by what that means.''

"Quickening ..."

"But," she said hurriedly, "the path remains clear before us

nevertheless and we must follow it, you and I. We have been

shown where it leads, and we must continue to its end. The

Stone King must be overcome. The Black Elfstone must be

recovered. You and I and Walker Boh must see that these things

are done. We must, Morgan. We must."

He was nodding as she spoke, helpless in the face of her

persistence, his love for her so strong that he would have done

anything she asked despite the gravest reservations. The tears

started in his eyes, but he forced them back, burying his face in

her shoulder, hugging her close. He combed her silver hair with

his fingers; he stroked the curve of her back. He felt her slim

arms go around him, and her body tremble.

"I know," he answered softly.

He thought then of Steff, dying at the hands of the girl he had

loved, thinking her something she was not. Would it be so with

him? he wondered suddenly. He thought, too, of the promise he

had once made his friend, a promise they had all made, Par and

Coil and he, that if any of them found a magic that would help

free the Dwarves, they would do what they could to recover it

and see that it was used. Surely the Black Elfstone was such a

magic.

He felt a calm settle through him, dissipating the anger and

foreboding, the doubt and uncertainty. The path was indeed laid

out for him, and he had never had any choice but to follow it.

"We'll find a way," he whispered to her and felt her own

tears dampen his cheek.

Standing in the blackness of the room beyond. Walker Boh

looked back at the lovers as they embraced and felt the warmth

of their closeness reach out to him like a lost child's tiny hands.

He turned away. There could be no such love for him. He felt

an instant's remorse and brushed it hastily aside. His future was

a shining bit of certainty in the darkness of his present. Some-

times his prescience revealed a cutting edge.

He moved soundlessly through the building until he reached

an open window high above the street and looked down into the

roil of mist and gloom. The world of Eldwist was a maze of

stone obstructions and corridors that glared back at him through

The Druid of Shannara                              309

a hard, wet sheen. It was harsh and certain and pointless and it

reminded him of the direction of his life.

Yet now, at last, his life might become something more.

One puzzle remained. The Highlander had touched on it,

brushed by it in his effort to understand how it was that they

could stand against a being with the power of Uhl Belk. The

puzzle had been with them since the beginning of their journey,

a constant presence, and an enigma that refused to be revealed.

The puzzle was Quickening. The daughter of the King of the

Silver River, created out of the elements of the Garden, given

life out of magic—she was a riddle of words in another tongue.

She had been sent to bring them all into Eldwist. But wouldn't

a summons have done the job as well? Or even a dream? Instead

the King of the Silver River had sent a living, breathing bit of

wonder, a creature so beautiful she defied belief. Why? She was

here for a reason, and it was a reason beyond that which she had

revealed.

Walker Boh felt a dark place inside shiver with the possibili-

ties.

What was it that Quickening had really been sent to do?

At dawn the three left their concealment and went down

into the streets. The rain had ceased to fall, the clouds

had lifted above the peaks of the buildings, and the

light was gray and iron hard. Silence wrapped the bones of

Eldwist like a shroud, the air windless, unmisted, and empty.

Far distant, the ocean was a faint murmur. Their footfalls thud-

ded dully and receded into echoes that seemed to hang like

whispers against the skies. Unsuccessfully, they searched the

city for life. There was no sign of either Homer Dees or Pe Ell.

The Rake had retreated to its daylight lair. The Maw Grint slept

310                             The Druid of Shannara

within the earth. And in his domed fortress, Uhl Belk was a

dark inevitability awaiting confrontation.

Yet Walker Boh was at peace.

He strode before Morgan and Quickening, surprised at the

depth of his tranquility. He had given so much of himself to the

struggle to understand and control the purpose of his life, bat-

tling with the twin specters of legacy and fate. Now all that was

cast aside. Time and events had rushed him forward to this

moment, an implacable whirlwind that would resolve the pur-

pose of his life for him. His meeting with the Stone King would

settle the matter of who and what he was. Either he merited the

charge that the shade of Allanon had given him or he did not.

Either he was meant to possess the Black Elfstone and bring

back Paranor and the Druids or he was not. Either he would

survive Uhl Belk or he would not. He no longer questioned that

his doubt must give way to resolution; he did not choose to mire

himself further in the "what ifs" that had plagued him for so

long. Circumstance had placed him here, and that was enough.

Whether he lived or died, he would finally be free of the past.

Was the Shannara magic alive within him, strong beyond the

loss of his arm to the poison of the Asphinx, powerful enough

to withstand the fury of the Stone King? Was the trust Allanon

had given to Brin Ohmsford meant for him? He would find out.

Knowledge, he thought with an irony that he could not ignore,

was always liberating.

Morgan Leah was less certain.

Half-a-dozen steps back, his hand clasped in Quickening's,

the Highlander was a fragile shell through which fears and mis-

givings darted like trapped flies. In contrast to Walker Boh, he

already knew far too much. He knew that Walker was not the

Dark Uncle of old, that the myth of his invincibility had been

shattered along with his arm, and that he was swept along on

the same tide of prophecies and promises as the rest of them.

He knew that he himself was even less able, a man without a

whole weapon, bereft of the magic that had barely sustained

him through previous encounters with far lesser beings. He knew

that there were only the two of them, that Quickening could not

intervene, that she might share their fate but could not affect it.

He could say that he understood her need to gain possession of

the Black Elfstone, her belief in her father's promises, and her

confidence in them—he could speak the words. He could pray

that they would find some way to survive what they were un-

dertaking, that some miracle would save them. But the fears and

The Druid of Shannara                              311

the misgivings would not be captured by words and prayers;

they would not be allayed by false hope. They darted within like

startled deer, and he could feel the beating of his heart in re-

sponse to their flight.

What would he do, he wondered desperately, when the Stone

King turned those empty eyes on him? Where would he find his

strength?

He glanced covertly at Quickening, at the lines and shadows

of her face, and at the darkly reassuring glitter of her eyes.

But Quickening walked beside him without seeing.

They passed down the empty streets toward the heart of the

city, stalking like cats along the stone ribbon of the walkways,

their backs to the building walls. They could almost feel the

earth beneath them pulse with the Stone King's life; they could

almost hear the sound of his breathing through the hush. An old

god, a spirit, a thing of incomprehensible power—they could

feel his eyes upon them. The minutes slipped away, and the

streets and buildings came and went with a sameness that whis-

pered of ages come and gone and lives before their own that had

passed this way without effect. An oppressive certainty settled

down about them, an unspoken voice, a barely remembered

face, a feathered touch, all designed to persuade them of the

futility of their effort. They felt its presence and reacted, each

differently, each calling up what defenses could be found. No

one turned back. No one gave way. Locked together by their

determination to make an end of this nightmare, they continued

on.

In the east, dawn's faint gray light brightened to a chilly silver

mist that mingled with the clouds and left the city crystallized.

They caught their first glimpse of the dome shortly after and

when Walker Boh, still leading, pressed them back into the shad-

ows of the building they followed as if afraid the dome could

see. He took them back along the walkway and down a second-

ary street, then over and down another, winding this way and

that, twisting about through the maze. They slid along the damp-

ness like a trail of water seeking its lowest level and never

slowed. Their path meandered, but the dome drew closer be-

yond the walls that concealed them.

Finally Walker stopped, head lifting within the cowl of his

dark cloak as if to sniff the air. He was lost within himself,

casting about in the darkness of his mind, the magic working to

lead him to where his eyes could not see. He started out again,

taking them across a street, down an alleyway and out again,

312                             The Druid of Shannara

down another street to where a building entry opened onto a set

of broad stairs. The stairs took them into the earth beneath the

building, a dark and engulfing descent into a cavernous chamber

where dozens of the ancient carriages of the old world sat resting

on their stone tracks. Massive hulks, broken apart by time and

age, the carriages gave the chamber the look of a boneyard.

Light fell across the carcasses in narrow stripes, and dust motes

decorated the air in a thin, choking" haze.

The stairs went farther down, and the three continued their

descent. They entered an anteroom with a circular portal set in

the far wall, stepped through hesitantly, and found themselves

back in the city's sewers. The sewers burrowed in three direc-

tions into the darkness, catacombs wrapped in silence and the

smell of dead things. Walker's good hand lifted and silver light

wrapped about it. He paused once more, as if testing the air.

Then he took them left.

The tunnel swallowed them effortlessly, its stone walls mas-

sive and impenetrable, threatening to hold them fast forever.

Silence was a stealthy, invisible watcher. They heard nothing of

the Maw Grint—not a rumble, not even the tremor of its breath-

ing. Eldwist had the feel of a tomb once more, deserted of life,

a haven for the dead. They stretched ahead in a line, Walker

leading. Quickening next, and Morgan last. No words were ex-

changed, no glances. They kept their eyes on the light that Walker

held forth, on the rock of the tunnel floor they followed, and on

the movement of the shadows they cast.

Walker slowed, then stopped. His lighted hand moved to one

side, then the other. A faint glimmer caught the outline of a dark

opening in the wall left and stairs beyond.

Once again they started down, following damp, slick, rough-

ened steps through a wormhole in the earth. They began to smell

the Tiderace, then to hear the faint roar of its waters against

Eldwist's shore. They listened closely, guardedly for the squeal-

ing of the rats, but it did not come. When they reached the end

of these stairs, Walker took them right into a narrow gap studded

with stone projections honed razor-sharp by nature and time.

They moved slowly, inching their way along, hunched up close

to each other to keep within the circle of the light. The dampness

spread up the walls before them, a dark stain. Things began

moving in the light, skittering away. Morgan caught a glimpse

of what they were. Sea life, he recognized in surprise. Tiny

black crabs. Were they far enough down from Uhl Belk that

such things could live? Were they close enough to the water?

The Druid of Shannara                             313

Then they emerged once more into the subterranean cavern

that lay beneath the city. Rock walls circled away from the ledge

on which they stood and the ocean crashed wildly into the rocks

below. Mist churned overhead, draping the cavern's farthest

reaches with curtains of white. Daylight brightened the shadows

where the rocks were cleft to form small, nearly colorless rain-

bows against the mist.

The ledge ran away to either side, dipping, climbing, jagged

and uneven, disappearing into rock and shadow. Walker Boh

cast both ways, feeling for the presence he knew he would find,

sensing the pulse of its magic. His eyes lifted toward the unseen.

Uhl Belk.

"This way," he said quietly, turning left.

Then the rumble of the Maw Glint's waking sounded, ele-

vating from a stir to a roar, and the whole of Eldwist shook with

fury.

The plan was simple, but then simple plans were the ones

that usually worked best. The only trouble with this one, thought

Pe Ell as he stood in the shadows of the building across from

the Rake's lair, was that he was the one taking all the chances

while Homer Dees remained safe and sound.

The plan, of course, had been the old man's.

Like Quickening, Walker, and Morgan Leah, they had gone

out at dawn, slipping from their refuge back to the streets, greet-

ing the cheerless gray light with squinted eyes and suspicious

frowns. A brief exchange of glances and they had been off, going

first to the Rake's lair, then tracing the route that Pe Ell would

lure the Creeper down. When Dees had satisfied himself that Pe

EU had memorized it, they hooked the old man's harness in

place, checked the leverage on the makeshift pulley, and parted

company.

Pe Ell had backtracked to the Rake's lair, and now there he

stood, waiting.

Stealth and speed were what he would need, first the one,

then the other, and not too much of either—an assassin's tools.

He listened to the silence for a long time, judging the distance

he must cover and measuring the retreat he would make. There

would be no one to help him escape this time if things went

wrong. His narrow face turned this way and that, lifted into the

smell of the sea and the stone, knifed against the mist, sifted

through the instincts that warned him the Creeper was still

awake.

314                             The Druid of Shannara

He smiled his cold, empty smile. The anger was gone. The

anticipation of killing calmed him like Quickening's touch,

soothed him, and gave him peace. He was still and settled within

himself, everything ready, in place, as sharp as the edge of the

Stiehl and as certain.

Noiselessly, he crossed the street to the door of the lair. He

carded the grappling hook and rope firmly in hand. Standing

before the door, he tossed the hook skyward to wrap about the

same stone projection they had used the previous night. The

grappling hook caught with a sharp clang and held. Pe Ell backed

away, waiting. But the door remained closed. The Rake hac

either not heard or was preparing itself for whatever would hap-

pen next. Pe Ell had hoped that the noise of the hook would

bring the beast out and save him the trouble of making the climb.

But he knew that was asking too much.

He took a deep breath. This was where the plan became really

dangerous.

He stepped forward, grasped the rope that dangled from the

grappling hook, and began to climb. He went swiftly, hand over

hand, strong enough that he did not require the use of his legs.

Once up, he gripped the release that triggered the hidden entry

to the lair, yanked violently on it, and immediately dropped

away, skinning down the rope like a cat. The door was already

coming up when he struck the ground. There was a whisper of

sound from within, and he sprang back instantly. A tentacle

barely missed catching him, whistling past his feet. The Rake

was already moving, lumbering forward, a nest of tentacles out

stretched and grasping.

In another instant the door to the lair was completely up. The

Creeper rushed forth, skittering madly, wildly, heedless of the

fact that it was no longer night. Enraged by Pe Ell's invasion, it

gave immediate pursuit. The assassin raced away, darting just

ahead of the maddened beast, racing into the shadows of the

alleyway across the street. The Creeper followed, faster than Pe

EU had expected. For an instant he wondered if he had mis-

judged his chances. But there was no time to ponder the matter

now, and the doubts evaporated in a surge of determination that

propelled him forward.

Down the alleyway he ran and out into the adjoining street

He skidded to a halt. Careful of the traps, he thought. Carefi'3

you don't get caught in one yourself. That was what they had

planned for the Rake, the old man and he—a long drop down a

The Druid of Shannara                              315

deep hole, a drop into the bowels of Eldwist. If he could stay

alive that long.

The Creeper crashed through the entry of the building next

to him, choosing its own route now, almost catching him by

surprise. He barely eluded the closest tentacles, knife thin as he

twisted away, gone almost before the beast could track him. He

darted along the building's edge, the Rake in pursuit. The iron

that armored the creature clanked and grated, thudded and

scraped. He could feel the size of the thing looming over him, an

avalanche waiting to fall. He went through one building, through

a second, and emerged another street over. Close now, just two

blocks more. But the beast?. He turned, searching. He could

hear it coming, but the sound seemed to project from every-

where at once. Where . . . ?

Out from the shadows of a darkly recessed entry the Creeper

tore, iron arms slamming into the earth inches from Pe Ell as

the assassin leaped free. Pe Ell howled in fury and dismay.

So quick!

He wanted to turn and fight, to see the monster react to the

cold iron of the Stiehl as he slashed its body to ribbons. He

wanted to feel the Creeper die. Instead he ran once more, racing

along the stone paths of the city, down the streets, along the

building walls, through shadows and gray light, a wisp of some-

thing darker than night. Tentacles rustled and slithered after

him, catching at doors and windowframes, tearing them apart,

leaving showers of stone dust scattered in their wake. The mas-

sive body hammered and careened, and the legs tore at the walk.

The Rake seemed to pick up speed, coming faster still. If day-

light bothered it, if blindness inhibited it, it showed nothing of

it here. Pe Ell could feel its rage as if it were palpable.

The chase took them down another street and around a final

comer. Pe Ell could sense that he was losing ground. Ahead,

the street deadended at a stone park. A basin of steps led down

to a statue of a winged figure with streamers and ribbons trailing

from its body—and to a trap, the same trap that had snared the

old man and the Highlander days before.

Homer Dees was waiting, secured in his harness, standing at

the edge of the hidden door, bait for the trap. Pe Ell leaped

sideways to a walkway and picked up speed as the Rake rounded

the corner behind him, tentacles whipping. He went past Homer

Dees on the fly, caught a glimpse of his rough face, pale beneath

the heavy beard, and sprang onto the wall where the lines se-

curing the harness were laid. He pulled them taut, hoisting Dees

316                             The Druid of Shannara

out over the hidden pit. He heard the Creeper rumble into the

street, heard Homer Dees yell. The Rake became aware of the

old man, deviated direction slightly, and charged. Dees tried to

backpedal in spite of himself as the juggernaut bore down on

him, metal parts shrieking.

Then the trapdoor dropped open, and the monster began to

fall. It tumbled wildly down the stone ramp, its armored body

rasping. It had been so eager to reach the Tracker that it had

forgotten where it was. Now it was caught, sliding away, dis-

appearing from view. Pe Ell howled with delight.

But suddenly the tentacles lashed out and began snaring stone

projections—a comer of the basin stairs, a section of a crurn

bling wall, anything within reach. The sliding stopped. Dust

rose into the air, obscuring everything. Pe Ell hesitated, forget

ting momentarily to pull in on the harness that secured Dees,

Then he heard the old man scream. Yanking frantically on the.

ropes, he found they would not move. Something was pulling

from the other end, something far stronger than himself. He had

waited too long. The Rake had Homer Dees.

Pe Ell never hesitated. He wasn't thinking of his promise;

keeping his word had never much concerned him. He simply

reacted. He dropped the ropes, leaped from the wall, and raced

through the basin park into the street. He saw the old Tracker

sliding across the stone toward the edge of the drop, hands

grasping and feet kicking, a tentacle wrapped about his stout

body. He caught up with Homer Dees just as the old man was

about to be pulled from view. One slice oftheStiehl severed the

tentacle that bound him; a second severed the ropes of the har-

ness.

"Run!" he screamed, shoving the bulky form away.

A tentacle snaked about him, trying to pin his arms fast. He

twisted, the Stiehl's blade glowing white with magic, and the

tentacle dropped away. Pe Ell raced left, cutting at the tentacles

that secured the Rake, severing its hold. There was dust every-

where, rising into the gray light, mingling with the mist until it

was uncertain where anything lay. Pe Ell was moving on in-

stinct. He darted and skipped through the tangle of arms, hacked

at each, heard the scraping begin again, and the sliding resume.

Then there was a rush of metal and flailing arms and the Rake

was gone. It dropped into the chute and fell, tumbling down

into the chasm. Pe Ell smothered his elation, racing back the

way he had come, searching for Dees. He found him crawling

The Druid of Shannara                              317

weakly along the basin stairs. "Get up!" he cried, hauling him

to his feet in a frenzied lunge, propelling him ahead.

The earth behind them exploded, the street shattering apart,

stone fragments flying everywhere. The two men stumbled and

fell and turned to look.

The remaining pieces of Homer Dees' plan tumbled into

place.

Out of the depths of Eldwist rose the Maw Grint, awakened

by the impact of the Rake's fall, aroused and angered. The mon-

ster roared and shook itself as it lifted skyward, worm body

glistening, all ridges and scales, so huge that it blocked even the

faint gray daylight. The Rake dangled from its mouth, turning

to stone as the poison coated it, its struggles beginning to lessen.

The Maw Grint held it firm a moment, then tossed it as a dog

might a rat. The Rake flew through the air and struck the side

of a building. The wall collapsed with the impact, and the Rake

shattered into pieces.

Back down into the tunnels slid the Maw Grint, its thunder

already fading to silence. Clouds of dust settled in its wake, and

the light brightened to slate.

Impulsively Pe EU reached out and locked hands with Homer

Dees. Their labored breathing was the only sound in the stillness

that followed.

Underground, in the cavern beneath the Stone King's fortress

dome, the rumble of the Maw Grint's waking disappeared into

the pounding of the Tiderace against Eldwist's rocky shores.

Morgan Leah's sun-browned face lifted to peer through the mists.

"What happened?" he whispered.

Walker Boh shook his head, unable to answer. He could still

feel the tremors in the earth, lingering echoes of the monster's

fury. Something had caused it to breach—something beyond

normal waking. The creature's response had been different than

when the Stone King had summoned it, more impatient, more

intense.

"Is it sleeping again?'' the Highlander pressed, anxious now,

concerned with being trapped.

"Yes."

"And him?" Morgan pointed into the mists. "Does he

know?"

Uhl Belk. Walker probed, reaching through the layers of rock

in an effort to discover what might be happening. But he was

too faraway, the stone too secure to be penetrated by his magic.

318                             The Druid of Shannara

Not unless he used his touch, and if he did that the Stone King

would be warned.

"He rests still," Quickening answered unexpectedly. She

came forward to stand next to him, her face smooth and calm,

her eyes distant. The wind mshed into her silver hair and scat-

tered it about her face. She braced against its thrust. "Be at

ease, Morgan. He does not sense the change."

But Walker sensed it, whatever it was, just as the girl had.

Barely perceptible yet, but the effects were beginning to reach

and swell. It was something beyond the passing of time and the

erosion of rock and earth. The wind whispered it, the ground

echoed with it, and the air breathed it. Born of the magic, the

daughter of the King of the Silver River and the Dark Uncle had

both felt its ripple. Only the Highlander was left unaware.

Walker Boh felt a rough, unexpected urgency clutch at

him. Time was slipping away.

"We have to hurry," he said at once, starting away again.

"Quickly, now. Come."

He took them left down the rocky outcropping of the ledge,

across its ragged, slippery surface. They inched along with their

backs to the wall, the ledge no more than several feet wide in

places, the ocean's spray redampening its surface with each

newly broken wave. Beyond where they stood the cavern spread

away like some vast hidden world, and it seemed as if they could

feel the eyes of its invisible inhabitants peering out at them.

The ledge ended at a cave that burrowed into darkness. Walker

Boh lifted the magic of his silver light to the black and a staircase

appeared, winding away, circling upward into the rock.

With Quickening and Morgan following shadowlike, the Dark

Uncle began to climb.

XXIX

When Morgan Leah was a boy he often played in the

crystal-studded caves that lay east of the city. The

caves had been formed centuries earlier, explored

and forgotten by countless generations, their stone floors worn

smooth by the passing of time and feet. They had survived

the Great Wars, the Wars of the Races, the intrusions of liv-

ing creatures of all forms, and even the earth fires that sim-

mered just beneath their surface. The caves were pockets of

bright luminescence, their ceilings thick with stalactites,

floors dotted with pools of clear water and darkly shadowed

sinkholes, and their chambers connected by a maze of nar-

row, twisting tunnels. It was dangerous to go into the caves;

there was a very high risk of becoming lost. But for an

adventure-seeking Highland boy like Morgan Leah, any pros-

pect of risk was simply an attraction.

He found the caves when he was still very small, barely old

enough to venture out on his own. There were a handful of boys

with him when he discovered an entrance, but he was the only

one brave enough to venture in. He went only a short distance

that day, intimidated more than a little; it seemed a very real

possibility that the caves ran to the very center of the earth. But

the lure of that possibility was what called him back in the end,

and before long he was venturing ever farther. He kept his ex-

ploits secret from his parents, as did all the boys; there were

restrictions enough on their lives in those days. He played at

being an explorer, at discovering whole worlds unknown to those

he had left behind. His imagination would soar when he was

inside the caves; he could become anyone and anything. Often

he went into them alone, preferring the freedom he felt when

the other boys were not about to constrict the range of his play-

319

The Druid of Shannara

320

acting, for their presence imposed limits he was not always pre-

pared to accept. Alone, he could have things just as he wished.

It was while he was alone one day, just after the anniversary

of the first year of his marvelous discovery, that he became lost.

He was playing as he always played, oblivious of his progress,

confident in his ability to find his way back because he had done

so every time before, and all of a sudden he didn't know where

he was. The tunnel he followed did not appear familiar; the

caves he encountered had a different, foreign look; the atmo-

sphere became abruptly and chillingly unfriendly. It took him a

while to accept that he was really lost and not simply confused,

and then he simply stopped where he was and waited. He had

no idea what it was that he was waiting for at first, but after a

time it became clear. He was waiting to be swallowed. The

caves had come alive, a sleeping beast that had finally roused

itself long enough to put an end to the boy who thought to trifle

with it. Morgan would remember how he felt at that moment

for the rest of his life. He would remember his sense of despair

as the caves transformed from inanimate rock into a living,

breathing, seeing creature that wrapped all. about him, snake-

like, waiting to see which way he would try to run. Morgan did

not run. He braced himself against the beast, against the way it

hunched down about him. He drew the knife he carried and held

it before him, determined to sell his life dearly. Slowly, without

realizing what he was doing, he disappeared into the character

he had played at being for so many hours. He became someone

else. Somehow that saved him. The beast drew back. He walked

ahead challengingly, and as he did so the strangeness slowly

vanished. He began to recognize something of where he was, a

bit of crystallization here, a tunnel's mouth there, something

else, something more, and all of a sudden he knew where he

was again.

When he emerged from the caves it was night. He had been

lost for several hours—yet it seemed only moments. He wen?

home thinking that the caves had many disguises to put on, bu'.

that if you looked hard enough you could always recognize the

face beneath.

He had been a boy then. Now he was a man and the beliefs

of boyhood had long since slipped away. He had seen too much

of the real world. He knew too many hard truths.

Yet as he climbed the stairs that curled upward through the

rock walls of the cavern beneath Eldwist he was struck by the

similarity of what he felt now and what he had felt then, trapped

The Druid of Shannara                          ,   321

both times in a stone maze from which escape was uncertain.

There was that sense of life in the rock, Uhl Belk's presence,

stirring like a pulse in the silence. There was that sense of being

spied upon, of a beast awakened and set at watch to see which

way he would try to run. The weight of the beast pressed down

upon him, a thing of such size that it could not be measured in

comprehensible terms. A peninsula, a city and beyond, an entire

world— Eldwist was all of these and Uhl Belk was Eldwist. Mor-

gan Leah searched in vain for the disguise that had fooled him

as a boy, for the face that he had once believed hidden beneath.

If he did not find it, he feared, he would never get free.

They ascended in silence, those who had come from Ram-

pling Steep, the only ones left who could face the Stone King.

Morgan was so cold he was shivering, and the cold he felt de-

rived from far more than the chill of the cavern air. He could

feel the sweat bead along his back, and his mind raced with

thoughts of what he would do when the stairs finally came to an

end and they were inside the dome. Draw his sword, the one of

ordinary metal, yet whole? Attack a thing that was nearly im-

mortal with only that? Draw his shattered talisman, a stunted

blade? Attack with that? What? What was it that he was expected

to do?

He watched Quickening move ahead of him, small and deli-

cate against Walker Boh's silver light, a frail bit of flesh and

blood that might in a single sweep of Uhl Belk's stone hand

scatter back into the elements that had formed it. Quickening

gone—he tried to picture it. Fears assailed him anew, darts that

pierced and burned. Why were they doing this? Why should

they even try?

Walker slipped on the mist-dampened steps and grunted in

pain as he struck his knee. They slowed while he righted him-

self, and Morgan waited for Uhl Belk to stir. Hunter and

hunted—but which was which? He wished he had Steff to stand

beside him. He wished for Par Ohmsford, for Padishar Creel.

He wished for any and all of them, for even some tiny part of

them to appear. But wishing was useless. None of them were

there; none of them would come. He was alone.

With this girl he loved, who could not help.

And with Walker Boh.

An unexpected spark of hope flashed inside the Highlander.

Walker Boh. He stared at the cloaked figure leading them, one-

armed, escaped from the Hall of Kings, risen from the ashes of

Hearthstone. A cat with many lives, he thought. The Dark Uncle

322 The Druid of Shannara

of old, evolved perhaps from the invincible figure of the legends,

but a miracle nevertheless, able to defy Druids, spirits, and the

Shadowen and live on. Come here to Eldwist, to fulfill a destiny

promised by the shade of Allanon or to die—that was what

Walker Boh had elected to do. Walker, who had survived every-

thing until now, Morgan reminded himself, was not a man whn

could be killed easily.

So perhaps it was not intended that the Dark Uncle be killed

this time either. And perhaps—just perhaps—some of that im-

mortality might rub off on him.

Ahead, Walker slowed. A flick of his fingers and the silver

light vanished. They stood silently in the dark, waiting, lister.

ing. The blackness lost its impenetrability as their eyes adjusted.

and their surroundings slowly took shape—stairs, ceiling, and

walls, and beyond, an opening.

They had reached the summit of their climb.

Still Walker kept them where they were, motionless. When

Morgan thought he could stand it no longer, they started ahead

once more, slowly, cautiously, one step at a time, shadows

against the gloom. The steps ended and a corridor began. The.'.

passed down its length, invisible and silent save for their thougha

which seemed to Morgan Leah to hang naked and screaming

and bathed in light.

When the corridor ended they stopped again, still concealed

within its protective shadow. Morgan stepped forward for ;-yi

anxious look.

The Stone King's dome opened before them, vast and hazy

and as silent as a tomb. The stands that circled the arena stretchc i

away in symmetrical, stair-step lines, a still life of shadows an;;

half-light that lifted to the ceiling, its highest levels little mor;

than a vague suggestion against the aged stone. Below, the arena

was flat and hard and empty of movement. The giant form '..f

Uhl Belk crouched at its center, turned away so that only -

shading of the rough-hewn face was visible.

Morgan Leah held his breath. The silence of the dome seemed

to whisper the warnings that screamed inside his head.

Walker Boh moved back to stand beside him, and the pale,

hollowed face bent close so that the other's mouth was at h's

ear. "Circle left. I'll go right. When I strike him, be ready, i

shall try to cause him to drop the Stone. Seize hold of it if he

does. Then run. Don't look back. Don't hesitate. Don't stop for

anything." The other's hand seized his wrist and held it. "Fie

swift, Highlander. Be quick."

The Druid of Shannara                             323

Morgan nodded voicelessly. For an instant Quickening's black

eyes met his own. He could not read what he saw there.

Then Walker was gone, slipping from the mouth of the cor-

ridor into the arena, moving to his right along the front wall of

the stands into the gloom. Morgan followed, turning left. He

pushed aside his dread and gave himself over to the Dark Uncle's

command. He passed across the stone like a wraith, quick and

certain, finding a surprising reassurance simply from being in

motion. But his fear persisted, a cornered beast within his skin.

Shadows seemed to circle about him as he went, and the dome's

silence hissed at him in his mind, a voiceless snake. His eyes

fixed on the bulky form at the arena's center; he found himself

searching for even the smallest movement. There was none. Uhl

Belk was carved stone against the gray, still and fixed. Quick,

now, thought Morgan as he went. Quick as light. He saw Walker

at the far side of me arena, a lean and furtive figure, nearly

invisible in the gloom. Another few moments, he thought. And

then . . .

Quickening.

He suddenly realized that in his haste to obey Walker he had

forgotten about the girl. Where was she? He stopped abruptly,

casting about for her without success, scanning the risers, the

tunnels, the shadows that issued from everywhere. He felt some-

thing drop in his chest. Quickening!

Then he saw her—not safely concealed or well back from

where they crept, but fully revealed, striding out from the cor-

ridor into the arena directly toward the massive figure of Uhl

Belk. His breath caught sharply in his throat. What was she

doing?

Quickening!

His cry was silent, but the Stone King seemed to hear, re-

sponding with an almost inaudible grunt, stirring to life, lifting

away from his crouch, beginning to turn . . .

Brilliant white light flared across the canopy of the dome, so

blinding that for an instant even Morgan had to look away. It

was as if the sun had exploded through the clouds, the gray haze,

the stone itself, to set fire to the air imprisoned there. Morgan

saw Walker Boh with his single arm raised, thrust out from his

dark robes, the magic bursting from his fingers. Uhl Belk howled

in surprise, his massive body shuddering, arms raising to shield

his eyes, his stone parts grinding with the effort.

Walker Boh leaped forward then, a shadow against the light,

charging at the Stone King as the latter flailed ponderously at

324                             The Druid of Shannara

the painful brightness. Again his good arm raised, thrusting

forth. An entire bag of Cogline's volatile black powder flew at

Uhl Belk and exploded, hammering into the Stone King. Bits

and pieces of the ragged body shattered into fragments. Fire

burned along his arm to where his fist clenched the Black Elf-

stone.

But still he held the talisman fast.

And suddenly Morgan Leah found that he could not move.

He was frozen where he stood. Just as had happened at the Jut

when the Creeper had gained the heights under cover of dark-

ness and the outlaws of the Movement had gone to meet its

attack, he found himself paralyzed. All his fears and doubts, all

his misgivings and terrors descended on him. They seized him

with their clawed fingers and bound him up as surely as if he

had been wrapped in chains. What could he do? How could he

help? His magic was lost, his Sword blade shattered. He watched

helplessly as Uhl Belk began to turn, to fight past Walker Boh's

assault, and to brush back his magic. The Dark Uncle renewed

his attack, but this time he struck without the element of surprise

to aid him and the Stone King barely flinched. Already the

brightness of Walker's false sun was beginning to fade and the

gray of the dome's true light to return.

Walker Boh's words echoed tauntingly in Morgan's ears.

Be swift, Highlander. Be quick.

Morgan fought through his immobility and wrenched free

from its scabbard the broadsword he wore strapped to his back.

But his fingers refused to hold it; his hands would not obey. The

broadsword slipped away, tumbling to the arena floor with a

hollow clang.

The Stone King's breath hissed as one monstrous hand swept

out to seize Walker Boh and crush the life from him. The Dark

Uncle had gotten too close; there was no chance for him to

escape. Then suddenly he was gone, reappearing first as two

images, then four, and then countless more—Jair Ohmsford's

favorite trick, three centuries ago. The Stone King grabbed at

the images, and the images evaporated at his touch. The true

Walker Boh sprang at the monster, scattered new fire into his

face, and slid nimbly away.

The Stone King howled in rage, clawed at his face, and shook

himself like an animal seeking to rid itself of flies. The whole

of the arena shuddered in response. Fissures opened in jagged

lines across the floor, the stands buckled and snapped, and a

shower of dust and debris descended from the ceiling. Morgan

The Druid of Shannara                             325

lost his footing and fell, the impact of the stone jarring him to

his teeth.

He felt pain, and with the coming of that pain the paralyzing

chains fell away.

The Stone King's fist came up, and the fingers of his hand

began to open. The nonlight of the Elfstone seeped through,

devouring what remained of Walker Boh's fading magic. The

Dark Uncle threw up a screen of fire to slow the magic's ad-

vance, but the nonlight enveloped it in a wave of blackness.

Walker stumbled backward toward the shadows, chased by the

nonlight, harried by the fissures and the cracking of stone.

Another few seconds and he would be trapped.

Then Quickening caught fire.

There was no other way to explain it. Morgan watched it

happen and still couldn't believe what he was seeing. The

daughter of the King of the Silver River, less than twenty feet

away from Uhl Belk by now, standing exposed and unprotected

beneath his shadow, elevated like a creature made of air, until

she was level with the giant's head, then burst into flames. The

fire was golden and pure, its blaze a cloaking of light, flaring

all along her body and limbs, leaving her illuminated as if by

the midday sun. She was, in that instant, more beautiful than

Morgan had ever seen her, radiant and flawless and exquisite

beyond belief. Her silver hair lifted away from her, feathering

outward against the fire, and her eyes glistened black within the

gold. She hung there revealed, all wondrous, impossible magic

come to life.

She is trying to distract him, Morgan realized in disbelief.

She is giving herself away, revealing who she is, in an effort to

distract him from us!

The Stone King turned at the unexpected flaring of light, his

already crumpled face twisting until his features virtually ceased

to exist. The slash of his mouth gaped at the sight of her and his

voice sounded in anguish.

-You—

Uhl Belk forgot about Walker Boh. He forgot about the Dark

Uncle's magic. He forgot about everything but the burning girl.

In a frenzy of grinding stone limbs and joints, he struggled to

reach her, surging up against the stone floor that welded him

fast, grappling futilely for her, then in desperation bringing the

hand that cupped the Black Elfstone to bear against her. His

voice was a terrifying moan become a frenzied roar. The earth

shuddered with the urgency of his need.

326                             The Druid of Shannara

Morgan acted then, finally, desperately, even hopelessly.

Surging back to his feet, his eyes fastened on Qaickening and

on the monster who sought to destroy her, he attacked. He went

without thought, without reason, driven by need and armored

in determination he had not thought he could ever possess. He

raced into the haze of dust and debris, leaping past the fissures

and drops, speeding as if he were carried on the strong autumn

winds of his homeland. One hand dropped to his waist, and he

pulled forth the shattered blade of his ancestors, the jagged rem-

nant of the Sword of Leah.

Though he was not aware of it, the Sword shone white with

magic.

He screamed the battle cry of his homeland. "Leah! Leah!"

He reached the Stone King just as the other became aware of

his presence and the hard, empty eyes began to turn. He sprang

onto a massive bent leg, vaulted forward, seized the arm that

extended the Black Elfstone, and drove the shattered blade of

the Sword of Leah deep into its stone.

Uhl Belk screamed, not in surprise or anger this time, but in

terrifying pain. White fire burst from the shattered blade into

the Stone King's body, lines of flame that penetrated and seared.

Morgan stabbed Uhl Belk again and yet again. The stone hands

trembled and clutched, and the stricken monster shuddered.

The Black Elfstone tumbled from his fingers.

Instantly Morgan yanked free his Sword and scrambled down

in an effort to retrieve it. But the Stone King's damaged arm

blocked his way, swinging toward him like a hammer. He dodged

wildly, desperate to escape its sweep, but it clipped him anyway

and sent him tumbling back, arms and legs flying. He barely

managed to keep hold of his weapon. He caught a brief glimpse

of Quickening, an oddly clear vision, her face bright even though

the magic of her fire had faded. He caught a snatch of dark

motion as Walker Boh appeared next to her out of the shadows.

Then he struck the wall, the force of the blow knocking the

breath from him, jamming the joints of his body so that he

thought he had broken everything. Even so, he refused to stay

down. He staggered back to his feet, dazed and battered, deter-

mined to continue.

But there was nothing more to do. As quickly as that, the

battle was ended. Walker Boh had gained possession of the fallen

Elfstone. He braced the Stone King, the Druid talisman clutched

menacingly in his raised hand. Quickening stood beside him,

returned to herself, the magic she had summoned gone again.

The Druid of Shannara                             327

As his vision slowly cleared, as his sense of balance restored

itself, Morgan saw her again in his mind, all on fire. He was

still astonished at what she had done. Despite her vow she had

used the magic, revealed herself to Uhl Belk, and risked every-

thing to give them a chance to survive.

The questions whispered at him then, insidious tricksters.

Had she known that he would come to save her?

Had she known what his Sword would do?

The gloom of the dome's interior returned again with the

fading of the magic, cloaking Uhl Belk's massive form in

shadow. The Stone King faced them from a cloud of swirling

dust, his body sagging as if melted by the heat of his efforts to

defend himself, still joined to the stone of Eldwist in the chain-

ing that had undone him. Try as he might, he had not been able

to rise and break free. By choosing to become the substance of

his kingdom he had rendered himself virtually immobile. His

face was twisted into something unrecognizable, and when he

spoke there was horror and madness reflected in his voice.

—Give the Elfstone back to me—

They stared up at him, the three from Rampling Steep, and

it seemed none of them could find words to speak.

"No, Uhl Belk," Walker Boh replied finally, his own voice

strained from the effort of his battle. "The Elfstone was never

yours in the first place. It shall not be given back to you now."

—I shall come for you then; I shall take it from you—

"You cannot move from where you stand. You have lost this

battle and with it the Elfstone. Do not think to try and steal it

back.''

—It is mine—

The Dark Uncle did not waiver. "It belongs to the Druids."

Dust geysered from the ravaged face as the creature's breath

exploded in a hiss of despair.

—There are no Druids—

The accusation died away in a grating echo. Walker Boh did

not respond, his face chiseled with emotions that seemed to be

tearing him apart from within. The Stone King's arms rose in a

dramatic gesture.

—Give the Black Elfstone back to me, human, or I shall

command Eldwist to crush the life from you; give the talisman

back now or see yourself destroyed—

"Attack me or those with me," Walker Boh said, "and I

shall turn the Elfstone's magic against this city! I shall summon

power enough to shatter the stone casing that preserves it and

328                             The Druid of Shannara

turn it and you to dust! Do not threaten further, Uhl Belk! The

power is no longer yours!''

The silence that followed was profound. The Stone King's

hand closed into a fist and the sound of grinding rose out of it.

—You cannot command me, human; no one can—

Walker's response was immediate. "Release us, Uhl Belk.

The Black Elfstone is lost to you."

The statue straightened with a groan, and the sound of its

voice was thick with weeping.

—It will come for me; the Maw Grint will come; my son, the

monster I have made will descend upon me, and I shall be forced

to destroy it; only the Black Elfstone kept it at bay; it will see

me old and wearied and believe me without strength to defend

against its hunger; it shall try to devour me—

Depthless hard eyes fixed on Quickening.

—Child of the King of the Silver River, daughter of he who

was my brother once, give thought to what you do; you threaten

to weaken me forever if you steal away the Stone; the Maw

Grint's life is no less dear to me than your own to your father;

without him there can be no expansion of my land, no fulfillment

of my trust; who are you that you should be so quick to take

what is mine; are you completely blind to what I have made;

there is in the stone of my land a changeless beauty that your

father's Gardens will never have; worlds may come and go but

Eldwist will remain; it would be better for all worlds to be so;

your father believes himself right in what he does, but his vision

of life is no clearer than my own; am I not entitled to do what I

see is right as the Word has given me to see right—

"You subvert what you touch, Uhl Belk,'' the girl whispered.

—And you do not; your father does not; all who live within

nature do not; can you pretend otherwise-

Quickening's frail form eased a step closer to the giant, and

the light that had radiated from her before flared anew.

"There is a difference between nurturing life and making it

over," she said. "It was to nurture that you were charged when

given your trust. You have forgotten how to do so."

The Stone King's hand brushed at the particles of light that

floated from her body, an unconscious effort to shield himself.

But then he drew his hand back sharply, the intake of his breath

harsh with pain.

—No—

The word was an anguished cry. He straightened, caught by

some invisible net that wrapped him and held him fast.

The Druid of Shannara 329

—Oh, child; I see you now; I thought that in the Maw Grint

I had created a monster beyond all belief; but your father has

done worse in you—

The rough voice gasped, choked as if it could not make the

words come further.

—Child of change and evolution, you are the ceaseless, quick-

silver motion of water itself; I see in truth what you have been

sent to do; I have indeed been stone too long to have missed it;

I should have realized when you came to me that you were

madness; I am mired in the permanency I sought and have been

as blind as those who serve me; the end of my life is written out

before me by the scripting of my own hand—

' 'Uhl Belk.'' Quickening whispered the name as if it were a

prayer.

—How can you give what has been asked after tasting so

much-

Morgan did not understand what the Stone King was talking

about. He glanced at Quickening and started in surprise. Her

face was stricken with guilt, a mirror of the hidden secrets that

he had always suspected but never wanted to believe she kept.

The Stone King's voice was a low hiss.

—Take yourself from me, child; go into the world again and

do what you must to seal all our fates; your victory over me must

seem hollow and bitter when the price demanded for it is made

so dear-

Walker Boh was staring as well, his mouth shaped with a

frown, his brow furrowed. He did not seem to understand what

Uhl Belk was saying either. Morgan started to ask Quickening

what was happening and hesitated, unsure of himself.

Then Uhl Belk's head jerked up with a sharp crack.

—Listen—

The earth began to shudder, a low rumbling that emanated

from deep within, rising to the surface in gathering waves of

sound. Morgan Leah had heard that rumble before.

—It comes—

The Maw Grint.

Walker began backing away, yelling at Morgan and Quick-

ening to follow. He shouted at the Stone King, "Release us,

Uhl Belk, if you would save yourself! Do so now! Quickly!"

Walker's arm lifted, threatening with the fist that held the

Black Elfstone. Uhl Belk barely seemed to notice. His face had

become more haggard, more collapsed than ever, a parody of

human features, a monster's face grown hideous beyond thought.

330

The Druid of Shannara

The giant's voice hissed like a serpent's through the roar of the

Maw Grint's approach.

—Flee, fools-

There was no anger in the voice—only frustration and emp-

tiness. And something more, Morgan Leah thought in amaze-

ment. There was hope, just a glimmer of it, a recognition beyond

the Highlander's understanding, a seeing of some possibility

that transcended all else.

A section of the dome's massive wall split apart directly

behind them, stone blocks grinding with the movement, gray

daylight spilling through.

-Flee—

Morgan Leah broke for the opening instantly, chased by de-

mons he did not care to see. He felt, rather than saw, the Stone

King watch him go. Quickening and Walker followed. They

gained the opening in a rush and were through, running from

the fury of the Maw Grint's coming, racing away into the gloom.

XXX

It appeared that the Maw Grint had gone mad.

Twice before the three who fled had observed the mon-

ster's coming, once when it had surfaced as they stood cr

the overlook above the city and once when it had been sun

moned by Uhl Belk. There hadn't been a day since they hac.

arrived in Eldwist that they hadn't heard the creature movir.f

through the tunnels below them, astir at the coming of eacc

sunset to prowl with the dark. Each time its approach had been

prefaced with the same unmistakable deep, low rumbling ofthb

earth. Each time the city had trembled in response.

But there had never been anything like this.

The city of Eldwist was like a beast shaking itself awake frcrp

a bad dream. Towers and spires rocked and trembled, shedding

The Druid of Shannara                             331

bits and pieces of loose stone amid a shower of choking dust.

The streets threatened to buckle, stone cracking in jagged fis-

sures, trapdoors dropping away as their catches released, sup-

ports and trestles snapping apart. Whole stairways leading

downward to the tunnels crumbled and disappeared, and sky-

bridges connecting one building to another collapsed. Against

a screen of gray haze and clouds Eldwist shimmered like a van-

ishing mirage.

Racing to escape the Stone King's dome. Walker Boh barely

gained the closest walkway before the tremors drove him to his

knees. He pitched forward, his outstretched arm curling against

his body to protect his hold on the Black Elf stone. He took the

force of the fall on his shoulder, a sharp, jarring blow, and kept

skidding. He struck the wall of the building ahead of him, and

the breath left his body. For a moment he was stunned, bright

pinpricks of light dancing before his eyes. When his vision

cleared he saw Quickening and Morgan sprawled in the street

behind him, knocked from their feet as well.

He rose with an effort and started away again, yelling for them

to follow. As he watched them struggle up, his mind raced. He

had threatened Uhl Belk with the Black Elfstone by saying that

he would invoke its magic against the city if they were not re-

leased. The threat had been an idle one. He could not use the

Elfstone that way without destroying himself. It was fortunate

for them all that Uhl Belk still did not understand how the Druid

magic worked. Even so they were not free yet. What would they

do if the Maw Grint came after them? There was every reason

to believe that it would. The magic of the Black Elfstone had

provided a link between father and son, spirit lord and monster,

that Walker Boh had broken. The Maw Grint already sensed that

break; it had awakened in response. Once it discovered that the

Elfstone was gone, that the Stone King no longer had possession

of it, what was to prevent the beast from giving chase?

Walker Boh grimaced. There wasn't any question as to how

such a chase would end. He couldn't use the Black Elfstone on

the Maw Grint either.

A stone block large enough to bury him crashed into the street

a dozen feet ahead, sending the Dark Uncle sprawling for the

second time. Quickening darted past, her beautiful face oddly

stricken, and raced away into the gloom. Morgan appeared,

reached down as he caught up with Walker, and hauled him

back to his feet. Together they ran on, sidestepping through the

gathering debris, dodging the cracks and fissures.

332                            The Druid of Shannam

"Where are we going?" the Highlander cried out, ducking

his head against the dust and silt.

Walker gestured vaguely. "Out of the city, off the peninsula,

back up on the heights!"

"What about Homer Dees?"

Walker had forgotten the Tracker. He shook his head. "If we

can find him, we'll take him with us! But we can't stop to look!

There isn't time!" He shoved the Elfstone into his tunic and

reached out to grasp the other as they ran. "Highlander, stay

close to Quickening. This matter is not yet resolved! She is in

some danger!''

Morgan's eyes were white against his dust-streaked face.

"What danger. Walker? Do you know something? What was

Uhl Belk talking about back there when he spoke about her

victory being hollow, about the price she was paying? What did

he mean?"

Walker shook his head wordlessly. He didn't know—yet

sensed at the same time that he should, that he was overlooking

something obvious, forgetting something important. The street

yawned open before them, a trapdoor sprung. He yanked the

Highlander aside just in time, pulling him clear, propelling him

back onto the walkway. The roaring of the Maw Grint was fad-

ing slightly now, falling back as the Stone King's fortressed

dome receded into the distance.

"Catch up to her, Highlander!" Walker yelled, shoving him

ahead. ' 'Keep an eye out for Dees! We'll meet back at the build-

ing where we hid ourselves from the Rake!" He glanced over

his shoulder and back again, shouting, "Careful, now! Watch

yourself!"

But Morgan Leah was already gone.

Pe Ell and Homer Dees had only just reached the building to

which the others now fled when the tremors began. Their battle

with the Rake completed, they had come in search of the remain-

der of the company from Rampling Steep, each for his own rep-

sons, neither sharing much of anything with the other. The truce

they had called had ended with the destruction of the Rake, and

they watched each other now with careful, suspicious eyes.

They whirled in surprise as the rumbling began to build,

deeper and more pronounced than at any time before. The city

shuddered in response.

"Something's happened," Homer Dees whispered, his

bearded face lifting. "Something more."

The Druid of Shannam                            333

"It's come awake again," Pe Ell cried with loathing. When

they had left the Maw Grint it was sunk back down into the earth

and gone still.

The street on which they faced shook with the impact of the

creature's rising.

Pe Ell gestured. "Look upstairs. See if anyone is there."

Dees went without argument. Pe Ell stood rooted on the walk

while the city's tremors washed over him. He was taut and hard

within himself, the battle with the Rake still alive inside, driving

through him like the rushing of his blood. Things were coming

together now; he could sense the coalescing of events, the weav-

ing of-the threads of fate of the five from Ramplmg Steep. It

would be over soon, he sensed. It would be finished.

Homer Dees reappeared at the building entry. "No one."

"Then wait here for their return," Pe Ell snapped, starting

quickly away. "I'll look toward the center of the city."

"PeEU!"

The hatchet face turned. "Don't worry, old man. I'll be

back." Perhaps, he added to himself.

He darted into the gloom, leaving the ageing Tracker to call

uselessly after him. Enough of Homer Dees, he thought bitterly.

He was still rankled by the fact that he had saved the bothersome

Tracker from the Rake, that he had acted on instinct rather than

using common sense, that he had risked his life to save a man

he fully intended to kill anyway.

On the other hand his plans for Dees and the other fools who

had come with Quickening were beginning to change. He could

feel those plans settling comfortably into place even now. Ev-

erything always seemed much clearer when he was moving. It

was all well and good to anticipate the event, but circumstances

and needs evolved, and the event did not always turn out as

expected, the coming about of it not always as foreseen. Pe Ell

revised his earlier assessment of the necessity of killing his com-

panions. Quickening, of course, would have to die. He had al-

ready promised Rimmer Dall that he would kill her. More

important, he had promised himself. Quickening's fate was un-

alterable. But why bother with killing the others? Unless they

got in his way by trying to interfere with his plans for the girl,

why expend the effort? If he somehow managed to gain posses-

sion of the Black Elfstone there was no possible harm they could

cause him. And even if he was forced to abandon that part of

his plan—as it now appeared he would have to—the old Tracker,

the one-armed man, the Highlander, and the tunesmith offered

334 The Druid of Shannara

no threat to him. Even if they escaped Eldwist to follow him he

had little to fear. How would they find him? And what would

they do if they did?

No, he need not kill them—though he would, he added, al-

most as an afterthought, if the right opportunity presented itself.

The tremors continued, long and deep, the growl of the earth

protesting the coming of the monster worm. Pe Ell darted this

way and that along the empty walkways, down streets littered

with debris and past buildings weakened by ragged, wicked

cracks that scarred their smooth surface. His sharp eyes searched

the shadows for movement, seeking those who had come with

him or even perhaps some sign of the elusive Stone King. He

hadn't given up completely on the Black Elfstone. There was

still a chance, he told himself. Everything was coming together,

caught in a whirlpool. He could feel it happening . . .

Out of the haze before him raced Quickening, silver hair fly-

ing as she ran, her reed-thin body a quicksilver shadow. Pe Ell

moved to intercept her, catching her about the waist with one

arm before she realized what was happening. She gasped in

surprise, stiffened, and then clung to him.

"Pe Ell," she breathed.

There was something in the way she spoke his name that

surprised him. It was a measure of fear mingled with relief, an

odd combination of dismay and satisfaction. He tightened his

grip instinctively, but she did not try to break away.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

"Coming after me, escaped from Uhl Belk and the Maw

Grint.'' Her black eyes fixed on him. ' 'It is time to leave Eld-

wist, Pe Ell. We found the Stone King and we took the Black

Elfstone away from him—Morgan, Walker Boh, and I."

Pe Ell fought to stay calm. "Then we are indeed finished

with this place." He glanced past her into the gloom. "Who

has the Elfstone now?"

"Walker Boh," she replied.

Pe Ell's jaw tightened. It would have to be Walker Boh, of

course. It would have to be him. How much easier things would

be if the girl had the Stone. He could kill her now, take it from

her, and be gone before any of them knew what had happened.

The one-armed man seemed to stand in his way at every turn,

a shadowy presence he could not quite escape. What would it

take to be rid of him?

He knew, of course, what it would take. He felt his plans

begin to shift back again.

The Druid of Shannara 335

"Quickening!" a voice called out.

It was the Highlander. Pe Ell hesitated, then made up his

mind. He clamped his hand about Quickening's mouth and

hauled her into the shadows. Surprisingly, the girl did not strug-

gle. She was light and yielding, almost weightless in his arms.

It was the first time he had held her since he had carried her

from the Meade Gardens. The feelings she stirred within him

were distractingly soft and pleasant, and he forced them roughly

aside. Later for that, he thought, when he used the Stiehl. . .

Morgan Leah burst into view, pounding along the walkway,

shouting for the girl, searching. Pe Ell held Quickening close

and watched the Highlander run past. A moment later, he was

gone.

Pe Ell released his hand from the girl's mouth, and she turned

to face him. There was neither surprise nor fear in her eyes now;

there was only resignation. "It is almost time for us, Pe Ell,"

she whispered.

A nicker of doubt tugged at his confidence. She was looking

at him in that strange way she had, as if he were transparent to

her, as if everything about him were known. But if everything

were known, she would not be standing there so calmly. She

would be attempting to flee, to call after the Highlander, or to

do something to save herself.

The rumbling beneath the city increased, then faded slightly,

a warning of the slow, inevitable avalanche bearing down on

them.

"Time for us to do what?" he managed hesitantly, unable to

break away from her gaze.

She did not answer. Instead she glanced past him, her black

eyes searching. He turned to stare with her and watched the dark

form of Walker Boh materialize from out of the haze of dust and

gray light.

Unlike the Highlander, the Dark Uncle had seen them.

Pe Ell swung the girl in front of him and unsheathed the Stiehl

from its hiding place, the blade gleaming bright with the magic.

The one-armed man slowed perceptibly, then came on.

"Pe Ell," he whispered softly, as if the name itself were

venomous.

"Stand back from me, Walker Boh," Pe Ell ordered. The

other stopped. "We've seen enough of each other to know what

we are capable of doing. No need to test it. Better that we part

now and go our separate ways. But first give me the Stone."

The tall man stood without moving, seemingly without life,

336                             The Druid of Shannara

eyes fixed on the assassin and his hostage. He appeared to be

weighing something.

Pe EU's smile was sardonic. "Don't be foolish enough to

think you might be quicker than me."

"We might neither of us be quick enough to survive this day.

The Maw Grint comes."

"It will find me gone when it does. Give me the Black Elf-

stone."

"If I do so, will that be enough to satisfy you?" the other

asked quietly, his gaze intense, as if trying to read Pe Ell's

thoughts.

Like the girl, Pe Ell thought. Two of a kind. "Pass it to me,"

he commanded, ignoring the question.

"Release Quickening."

Pe Ell shook his head. "When I am safely away. Then I

promise that I will set her free." Free, forever.

They stood staring at each other wordlessly for a moment,

hard looks filled with unspoken promises, with visions of pos-

sibilities that were dark and forbidding. Then Walker Boh

reached down into his tunic and brought forth the Stone. He

held it out in his palm, dark and glistening. Pe Ell smiled faintly.

The Elfstone was as black as midnight, opaque and depthless,

seamless and unflawed. He had never seen anything like it be-

fore. He could almost feel the magic pulsing within.

"Give it to me," he repeated,

Walker Boh reached down to his belt and worked free a leather

pouch marked with brilliant blue runes. Carefully he used the

fingers of his solitary hand to maneuver the Stone into the pouch

and pull the drawstrings tight. He looked at Pe Ell and said,

"You cannot use the Black Elfstone, Pe Ell. If you try, the magic

will destroy you."

"Life is filled with risks," Pe EU replied. Dust churned in

the air about them, sifted by a faint sea breeze. The stone of the

city shimmered, swept up in the earth's distant rumble, wrapped

in a gauze of mist and clouds. "Toss it to me," he ordered.

"Gently."

He used the hand with the Stiehl to keep tight hold of Quick-

ening. The girl did not stir. She waited passively, her slender

body pressed against him, so compliant she might have been

sleeping. Walker held out the pouch with the Black Elfstone and

carefully lobbed it. Pe Ell caught it and shoved it into his belt,

securing the strings to his buckle.

"Magic belongs to those who are not afraid to use it," he

The Druid of Shannara                             337

offered; smiling, backing cautiously away. "And to those who

can keep it."

Walker Boh stood rock-still against the roiling dust and

tremors. "Beware, Pe Ell. You risk everything."

"Don't come after me. Walker Boh," Pe Ell warned darkly.

"Better for you if you remain here and face the Maw Grint."

With Quickening securely in his grasp he continued to move

away, following the line of the walkway until the other man

vanished into the haze.

Walker Boh remained motionless, staring after the disap-

pearing Pe Ell and Quickening. He was wondering why he had

given up the Black Elfstone so easily. He had not wanted to,

had resolved not to m fact, and had been prepared instead to

attack Pe Ell, to go to the girl's rescue—until he looked into

her eyes and saw something there that stopped him. Even now

he wasn't sure what it was that he had seen. Determination,

resignation, some private insight that transcended his own—

something. Whatever it was, it had changed his mind as surely

as if she had used her magic.

His head lowered and his dark eyes narrowed.

Had she, he wondered, used her magic?

He stood lost in thought. A light dusting of water sprinkled

his face. It was beginning to rain again. He looked up, remem-

bering where he was, what he was about, and hearing again the

thunder caused by the movement of the Maw Grint beneath the

city, feeling the vibration of its coming.

Cogline's voice was a whisper in his ear, reminding him gently

to understand who he was. He had always wondered before.

Now he thought he knew.

He summoned his magic, feeling it rise easily within him,

strong again since his battle with the Stone King, as if that

confrontation had freed him of constraints he had placed upon

himself. It gathered at the center of his being, whirling like a

great wind. The rune markings on the pouch in which the Black

Elfstone rested would be its guide. With barely a lifting of his

head he sent it winging forth in search of Pe Ell.

Then he followed after.

Pe Ell ran, dragging Quickening behind him. She came with-

out resisting, moving obediently to keep pace, saying nothing,

asking nothing, her eyes distant and calm. He glanced back at

her only once and quickly turned away again. What he saw in

338                            The Druid of Shannam

those dark eyes bothered him. She was seeing something that

he could not, something old and immutable, a part of her past

or her future—he wasn't sure which. She was an enigma still,

the one secret he had not yet been able to solve. But soon now

he would, he promised himself. The Stiehl would give him an

answer to what she hid. When her life was fading from her she

would stand revealed. There would, be no secrets then. The

magic would not permit it. Just as it had been with all the others

he had killed, there would be only truth.

He felt the first drops of rain strike his heated face.

He darted left along a cross street, angling away from the

direction Morgan Leah had gone and Walker Boh would follow.

There was no reason to give them any chance of finding him.

He would slip quickly from the city onto the isthmus, cross to

the stairs, gain the heights of the overlook, and then with time

and privacy enough to take full advantage of the moment he

would kill her. Anticipation washed through him. Quickening,

the daughter of the King of the Silver River, the most wondrous

magical creature of all, would be his forever.

Yet the flicker of doubt continued to bum within him. What

was it that bothered him so? He searched for the answer, pausing

briefly as he remembered what she had said about needing their

magics, the magics of all three—the Highlander, Walker Boh,

and himself. All three were required, the King of the Silver

River had proclaimed. That was why she had recruited them,

persuaded them to come, and kept them together through all the

anger and mistrust. But it had been Walker Boh and the High-

lander alone who had discovered the hiding place of Uhl Belk

and secured the Black Elfstone. He had done nothing—except

to destroy the Rake. Was that the use for which his magic had

been intended? Was that the reason for his coming? It didn't

seem enough somehow. It seemed there should be something

more.

Pe Ell slid through the murk ofEldwist's deepening morning,

holding the girl close to him as he went, thinking to himself that

this whole journey had been a puzzle with too many missing

pieces. They had come in search of the Stone King—yet the

others, not Pe Ell, had found him. They had come to retrieve

the Black Elfstone—yet the others, not Pe Ell, had done so. The

magic of the Stiehl was the most deadly magic that any of them

possessed—yet what purpose had it served?

Uneasiness stole through him like a thief, draining his elation

at having both Quickening and the Stone.

The Druid of Shannara                             339

Something was wrong and he didn't know what it was. He

should feel in control of things and he did not.

They passed back onto a roadway leading south, winding

their way down between the buildings, passing through the haze,

two furtive shadows fleeing into light. Pe Ell slowed now, be-

ginning to tire. He peered through the thin curtain of rain that

hung before him, blinking uncertainly. Was this the way he had

intended to come? Somehow, he didn't think so. He glanced

right, then left. Wasn't this street the one he had been trying to

avoid? Confusion filled him. He felt Quickening's eyes on him

but would not allow himself to meet her gaze.

He steered them down another sidestreet and crossed to a

broad plaza dominated by a tiered basin encircled by benches.

some crumbling and split, and the remains of poles from which

flags had once flown. He was working his way left toward an

arched passageway between the buildings, intent on gaming the

open street beyond, a street that would take him directly to the

isthmus, when he heard his name called. He whirled, pulling

the girl close, the blade of the Stiehl coming up to her throat.

Morgan Leah stood across the plaza from him, a lean and

dangerous figure. Pe Ell stared. How had the Highlander found

him? It was chance, he quickly decided. Nothing more. Dismay

grappled with anger. Any misfortune that resulted from this

encounter must not be his.

The Highlander did not appear to know what was happening.

"What are you doing, Pe Ell?" he shouted through the forest

of broken poles.

"What I wish!" Pe Ell responded, but there was a weariness

in his voice that surprised him. "Get away, Highlander. I have

no wish to hurt you. I have what I came for. Your one-armed

friend has given me the Elfstone—here, in this pouch at my belt!

I intend to keep it! If you wish the girl to go free, stand away!"

But Morgan Leah did not move. Haggard-looking and worn,

just a boy really, he seemed both lost and unresolved. Yet he

refused to give way. "Let her go, Pe Ell. Don't hurt her."

His plea was wasted, but Pe Ell managed a tired nod. "Go

back, Highlander. Quickening comes with me."

Morgan Leah seemed to hesitate momentarily, then started

forward. For the first time since he had seized her, Pe Ell felt

Quickening tense. She was worried for the Highlander, he re-

alized. Her concern enraged him. He pulled her back and

brought the Stiehl against her throat, calling to the other man to

stop.

340 The Druid of Shannara

And then suddenly Walker Boh appeared as well, material-

izing out of the gloom, close by Morgan Leah. He stepped for-

ward unhurriedly and grasped the Highlander's arm, pulling him

back. The Highlander struggled, but even with only one arm

the other man was stronger.

' "Think what you are doing, Pe EU!'' Walker Boh called out.

and now there was anger in his voice.

How had the big man caught up to him so quickly? Pe Ell felt

a twinge of uneasiness, a sense that for some unexplainable

reason nothing was going right. He should have been clear of

this madness by now, safely away. He should have had time tc

savor his victory, to speak with me girl before using the Stiehl

to see how much he could learn of her magic. Instead he wa:

being harried unmercifully by the very men he had chosen to

spare. Worse, he was in some danger of being trapped.

"Get away from me!" he shouted, his temper slipping, hi

control draining away. "You risk the girl's life by continuing

this chase! Let me leave now or she dies!"

"Let her go!" the distraught Highlander screamed again. H

had fallen to his knees, still firmly in the grip of the one-arme'

man.

Behind Pe Ell, still too far away to make any difference bu

closing on him steadily, came Homer Dees. The assassin wa

now ringed by his enemies. For the first time in his life he wa

trapped, and he sensed a hint of panic setting in. He jerke -,

Quickening about to face the burly Tracker. "Out of my wa^

old man!" he bellowed.

But Homer Dees simply shook his head. "I don't think sc

Pe Ell. I've backed away from you enough times. I've a stake-

in this business, too. I've given at least as much of myself s

you. Besides, you've done nothing to earn what you claim. You

simply seek to steal. We know who and what you are, all of us

Do as Morgan Leah says. Let the girl go."

Walker Boh's voice rose. "Pe Ell, if the Shadowen sent yc'-

to steal the Elfstone, take it and go. We won't stop you."

"The Shadowen!" Pe Ell laughed, fighting to contain his

rage. "The Shadowen are nothing to me. I do for them what I

wish and nothing more. Do you think I came all this way be-

cause of them? You are a fool!''

' 'Then take the Elfstone for yourself if you must.''

The rage broke free. Caution disappeared in a red mist. "If

I must! Of course, I must! But even the Elfstone isn't the real

reason I came!"

The Druid of Shannara                             341

"Then what is, Pe EU?" Walker Boh asked tightly.

"She is!" Pe EU yanked Quickening around once more, lift-

ing her exquisite face above the point of his knife. "Look at

her, Walker Boh, and teU me that you don't desire her! You

cannot, can you? Your feelings, mine, the Highlander's—they're

all the same! We came on this journey because of her, because

of the way she looked at us and made us feel, because of the

way she wove her magic aU about us! Think of the secrets she

hides! Think of the magic she conceals! I came on this journey

to discover what she is, to claim her. She has belonged to me

from the first moment of her life, and when I am finished here

she shall belong to me always! Yes, the Shadowen sent me, but

it was my choice to come—my choice when I saw what she could

give me! Don't you see? I came to Eldwist to kill her!''

The air went still suddenly, the tremors and the thunder fading

into a vague and distant moan, leaving the assassin's words sharp

and clear against the silence. The stone of the city caught their

sound and held the echo within its walls, a long, endless rever-

beration of dismay.

"I have to discover what she is," Pe Ell whispered, trying

vainly to explain now, unable to think what else to do, stunned

that he had been foolish enough to reveal so much, knowing

they would never let him go now. How had he managed to lose

control of matters so completely? "I have to kill her," he re-

peated, the words sounding harsh and bitter. "That is how the

magic works. It reveals all truths. In taking life, it gives life. To

me. Once the killing is done, Quickening shall be mine for-

ever."

For an instant no one spoke, stunned by the assassin's reve-

lation. Then Homer Dees said slowly, deliberately, "Don't be

stupid, Pe EU. You can't get away from all of us. Let her go."

It was uncertain then exactly what happened next. There was

an explosion of shattered rock as the Maw Grint broke free of

the tunnels and reared skyward against the buildings of the city

somewhere close to where the Stone King hid within his for-

tressed dome. The monster rose like a bloated snake, swaying

against the shroud of mist and damp, huffing as if to catch its

breath, as if the air were being sucked from it. Pe EU started,

feeling the earth begin to shudder so violently that it seemed

Eldwist would be shaken apart.

Then Quickening broke free, slipping from his grasp as if she

were made of air. She turned to him, disdaining to run, standing

right against him, her hands gripping the arm that held the Stiehl,

The Druid of Shannara

her black eyes shackling him as surely as if he were chained.

He could not move; he just stood there, frozen in place. He saw

the symmetry of her face and body as if seeing it for the first

time; he marveled at the perfection of her, at beauty that lay not

just upon the surface of her wondrous form, but ran deep within.

He felt her press forward—or did he? Which was it? He saw her

mouth open with surprise and pain and relief.

He glanced down then and saw that the handle of the Stiehl

was flush against her stomach, the blade buried in her body. He

could not remember stabbing her, yet somehow he had. Con-

fusion and disbelief surged through him. How had this hap-

pened? What of his plan to kill her where and when he chose?

What of his intention to savor the moment of her dying? He

looked quickly into her eyes, desperate to snare what was trapped

there and about to be set free, anxious to capture her magic. He

looked, and what he saw filled him with rage.

Pe EU screamed. As if seeking to hide what he had discov-

ered, he stabbed her again and again, and each rime it was a

frantic, futile attempt to deny what he was seeing. Quickening's

body jerked in response, but her gaze remained steady, and the

visions shimmering in her eyes remained fixed.

Pe Ell understood at last, and with understanding came a

horror against which he had no defense. His thoughts collapsed,

tumbling into a quagmire of despair. He shoved himself free of

the girl and watched her slump to the street in a slow, agonizing

fall, her black eyes never leaving him. He was aware of Morgan

Leah crying out in fury, of Walker Boh racing forward, and of

Homer Dees charging at him from the rear. They did not matter.

Only the girl did. He stepped away, shaking with a cold that

threatened to freeze him in place. Everything he had hoped for

had been stolen from him. Everything he had wanted was lost.

What have I done ?

He wheeled about and began to run. His cold turned abruptly

to fire, but the words buzzed within his mind, a nest of hornets

with sharp and anxious stingers.

What have I done ?

He darted past Homer Dees with a quickness born of fear

and despair, gone so fast that the old Tracker had no chance of

stopping him. The stone street shuddered and quaked and was

slick with rain, but nothing could slow his flight. Gloom

shrouded him with its gray, friendless mantle, and he shrank to

a tiny figure in the shadow of the city's ancient buildings, a speck

of life caught up in a tangle of magic far older and harsher than

The Druid of Shannara                             343

his own. He saw Quickening's face before him. He felt her eyes

watching as the Stiehl entered her body. He heard her sigh with

relief.

Pe EU fled through Eldwist as if possessed.

XXXI

Morgan Leah was the first to reach Quickening. He

broke free of Walker with a strength that surprised

the other, raced across the empty plaza as she tum-

bled to the stone, and caught her up almost before she was done

falling. He knelt to hold her, turned her ashen face into his chest,

and began whispering her name over and over again.

Walker Boh and Homer Dees hurried up from opposite sides,

bent close momentarily, then exchanged a sober glance. The

entire front of Quickening's shirt was soaked with her blood.

Walker straightened and peered through the gloom in me di-

rection Pe Ell had gone. The assassin was already out of sight,

gone into the maze of buildings and streets, fled back toward

the isthmus and the cliffs beyond. Walker remembered the look

he had seen on the other's face—a look filled with horror, dis-

belief, and rage. Killing Quickening clearly hadn't given him

what he had been looking for.

"Walker!"

Morgan Leah's voice was a plea of desperation. Walker

glanced down. "Help her! She's dying!"

Walker looked at the blood on her clothes, at the collapsed,

broken body, at the face with its long hair spilled across the

lovely features like a silver veil. She's dying. He whispered the

words in the silence of his mind, marveling first that such a

thing could be and second that he hadn't recognized much sooner

its inevitability. He stared at the girl, as helpless and despairing

344                             The Druid of Shannara

as the Highlander, but beginning as well to catch a glimmer of

understanding into the reason that it was happening.

"Walker, do something!" Morgan repeated, urgent, stricken.

"Highlander," Homer Dees said in response, taking hold of

his shoulder gently. "What would you have him do?"

"What do you think I would have him do? Use his magic!

Give her the same chance she gave him!"

Walker knelt. His voice was calm, low. "I can't, Morgan. I

haven't the magic she needs.'' He reached out to touch the side

of her throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there, faint, irregular.

He could see her breathing. "She must do what she can to save

herself."

Morgan stared at him momentarily, then began talking again

to Quickening, urging her to wake, to speak to him. His words

were jumbled, desperate, filled with need. The girl stirred slug-

gishly in response.

Walker looked again at Homer Dees. The old man shook his

head slowly.

Then Quickening's eyes opened. They were clear and fright-

ened, filled with pain. "Morgan," she whispered. "Pick me

up. Carry me out of the city.''

Morgan Leah, though he clearly thought to do otherwise, did

not argue the matter. He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her as

if she were weightless. He held her close against himself, infus-

ing her with his warmth, whispering down to her as he went.

Walker and Dees trailed after wordlessly. They moved across

the plaza and into the street down which Pe Ell had fled.

"Stay back on the walkways," Walker cautioned hurriedly,

and Morgan was quick to comply.

They had gone only a short distance when the earth began tc

rumble anew. All of Eldwist shook in response, the buildings

cracking and splitting, shards of stone and clouds of dust tum-

bling down. Walker glanced back toward the heart of the city

The Maw Grint was moving again. Whatever the outcome of its

confrontation with Uhl Belk, it had clearly decided on a new

course of action. Perhaps it had put an end to its parent. Perhaps

it had simply concluded that the Black Elfstone was more im-

portant. In any case, it was coming straight for them. Disdaining

the use of its underground tunnels, it surged down the streets of

Eldwist. Walls shattered and collapsed with its passing. The

poison of its body spit wickedly. The air about it shimmered

and steamed.

Those who remained of the company from Rampling Steep

The Druid of Shannara                             345

began to run southward toward the isthmus, fighting to keep

their balance as the earth beneath them shuddered and quaked.

Trapdoors sprang open all about, jarred loose by the tremors,

and the debris of the crumbling buildings littered the pathway

at every turn. Behind them, the Maw Grint huffed and grunted

with the urgency of its movements and came on. Despite having

to carry Quickening, Morgan set an exhausting pace, and nei-

ther Walker nor Homer Dees could maintain it. The old Tracker

had already fallen fifty paces back by the time they broke clear

of the city, his breathing short and labored, his bulky form lurch-

ing as he struggled to keep up. Walker was between the two,

his own chest constricting with pain, his legs heavy and weak.

He yelled once at Morgan to slow him down, but the Highlander

was deaf to him, the whole of his attention focused on the girl.

Walker glanced back at Dees, at the trembling of the buildings

where the Maw Grint passed, closer to them now than before,

at the shadow the monster cast against the graying light. He did

not think they would escape. He could not help reflecting on

how ironic it was that they were going to be killed for something

they no longer even had.

The moments lengthened impossibly as they fled, receding

into the pounding of their boots on the stone. The waves crashed

against the shores of the isthmus to either side, the spray wash-

ing across then- heated faces. The rocks grew slippery, and they

stumbled and tripped as they ran. The clouds darkened, and it

began to rain again. Walker thought again of the look on Pe Ell's

face when he had stabbed Quickening. He revised his earlier

assessment. What he had seen there was surprise. Pe Ell hadn't

been ready for her to die. Had he even wanted to use the Stiehl?

There was something in the movements of the two immediately

before the stabbing that was troubling. Why hadn't Quickening

simply run? She had been free of him for an instant, yet had

turned back. Into the blade? Deliberately? Walker shivered. Had

she done more than stand there and wait? Had she actually

shoved herself against Pe Ell?

His jumbled thoughts seemed to crystallize, freezing to ice.

Shades! Was that why Pe Ell had been summoned? Pe Ell, the

assassin with magic in his weapon, magic that nothing could

withstand—was that why he was there?

Ahead of him, Morgan Leah reached the base of the cliffs

and the pathway leading up from the isthmus. Without slowing,

he began to climb.

Behind them, the Maw Grint appeared, its monstrous head

346                             The Druid of Shannara

thrusting into view through the ruined buildings, lifting mo-

mentarily to test the air, then surging ahead. It oozed through

the walls of the city like something without bones. It filled the

whole of the isthmus with its bulk, hunching its way forward, a

juggernaut of impossible size.

Walker scrambled up the pathway toward the summit of the

cliffs. Homer Dees still lagging behind. He forced his thoughts

of Quickening and Pe EU. aside. They made no sense. Why

would Quickening want Pe Ell to kill her? Why would she want

to die? There was no reason for any of it. He tried to concentrate

on what he would do to slow the advance of the Maw Grint, He

glanced back once more, watching the massive slug-thing work

its way across the rock. Could he collapse the isthmus beneath

it? No, the rock was too deep. The cliffs on top of it, then? No,

again, it would simply tunnel its way free. Water would slow it,

but all the water was behind them in the Tiderace. Nothing of

Walker's magic or even Cogline's was strong enough to stop the

Maw Grint. Running away was their only choice, and they could

not run for long.

He reached the summit of the cliffs and found Morgan Leah

waiting. The Highlander knelt gasping for breath on the ramp

that overlooked the peninsula and Eldwist, his head lowered.

Quickening was cradled in his arms, her eyes open and alert.

Walker crossed to them and stopped. Quickening's face was

chalk white.

Morgan Leah's eyes lifted. "She won't use her magic," he

whispered in disbelief.

Walker knelt. "Save yourself, Quickening. You have the

power."

She shook her head. Her black eyes glistened as they found

Morgan's. "Listen to me," she said softly, her voice steady. "I

love you. I will always love you and be with you. Remember

that. Remember, too, that I would change things if I could. Now

set me down and rise.''

Morgan shook his head. "No, I want to stay with you ..."

She touched him once on the cheek with her hand, and his

voice trailed off, the sentence left hanging. Wordlessly, he laid

her on the ground and backed away. There were tears running

down his face.

"Take out your Sword, Morgan, and sheath it in the earth.

Do so now.''

Morgan drew out the Sword of Leah, gripped it in both hands,

The Druid of Shannara

347

and jammed it into the rock. His hands remained tightly fixed

about the hilt momentarily, then released.

He looked up slowly. "Don't die, Quickening," he said.

"Remember me," she whispered.

Homer Dees lumbered up beside Walker, panting. "What's

going on?" he asked, bearded face close, rough voice hushed.

"What's she doing?"

Walker shook his head. Her black eyes had shifted to find his.

"Walker," she said, calling him.

He went to her, hearing the sounds of the Maw Grint advanc-

ing below, thinking they must run again, wondering like Dees

what it was that she intended. He knelt beside her.

"Help me up," she said, her words quick and hurried, as if

she sought to give voice to them while she still could. "Walk

me to the edge of the cliffs.''

Walker did not question what she asked. He put his arm about

her waist and lifted her to her feet. She sagged against him

weakly, her body shuddering. He heard Morgan cry out in pro-

test, but a sudden glance from the girl silenced him. Walker held

her up to keep her from falling as he maneuvered her slowly

toward the drop. They reached the edge and stopped. Below,

the Maw Grint hunched across the rock of the isthmus, an ob-

scene cylinder of flesh, body rippling and poison oozing down.

It was more than halfway to them now, its monstrous bulk

steaming, the trail of its poison stretched back across the cause-

way to the city. Eldwist rose raggedly against the skyline, towers

broken off, buildings split apart, walls crumbled and shattered.

Dust and mist formed a screen against the dampness of the rain.

The dome where the Stone King made his lair stood intact.

Quickening turned and her face lifted. For an instant she was

beautiful once more, as alive as she had been when she had

brought Walker back from the dead, when she had restored his

life and driven the poison of the Asphinx from his body. Walker

caught his breath seeing her so, blinking against the momentary

illusion. Her dark eyes fixed him.

"Dark Uncle," she whispered. "When you leave this place,

when you go back into the world of the Four Lands, take with

you the lessons you have learned here. Do not fight against

yourself or what you might be. Simply consider your choices.

Nothing is predetermined. Walker. We can always choose."

She reached up then and touched his face, her fingers cool

against his cheek. Images flooded through him, her thoughts,

her memories, and her knowledge. In an instant's time, she

348                             The Druid of Shannara

revealed herself completely, showing him the secrets she had

kept hidden so carefully during the whole of their journey, the

truth of who and what she was. He cried out as if he had been

burned, staggered by what he saw. He clutched her tightly to

him, and his pale face lowered into her hair in dismay.

Both Morgan and Homer Dees started forward, but Walker

shouted for them to stand where they were. They stopped, hes-

itant, uncertain. Walker half-turned, still holding Quickening

against him, his face an iron mask of concentration. He under-

stood now; he understood everything.

"Walker." She spoke his name again. Her hand brushed him

one final time, and a single image appeared.

It was the Grimpond's second vision.

Her eyes lifted to his. "Let me fall," she said softly.

He saw the vision clearly, himself standing at the summit of

these cliffs with the Four Lands stretched out below and Quick-

ening beside him, her black eyes beseeching as he shoved her

away.

Here. Now. The vision come to pass.

He started to shake his head no, but her eyes stopped him,

her gaze so intense it was threatening.

"Goodbye, Walker," she whispered.

He released her. He held her in the circle of his arm for just

an instant more, then spun her away over the precipice. It was

almost as if someone else was responsible, someone hidden

inside himself, a being over which reason could not prevail. He

heard Homer Dees gasp, horror-stricken. He heard Morgan

scream out in disbelief. They rushed at him in a frenzy, grasped

him roughly, and held him as Quickening tumbled away. They

watched her fall, a small bundle of cloth with her silver hair

streaming out behind her. They watched her shimmer.

Then, incredibly, she began to disintegrate. She came apart

at the edges first, like fraying cloth, bits and pieces scattering

away. Mute, awestruck, the three at the edge of the precipice

stared downward as she disappeared. In seconds she was no

more, her body turned to a dust that sparkled and shone as it

was caught by the wind.

Below, the Maw Grint ceased its advance, its head lifting.

Perhaps it knew what was about to happen; perhaps it even

understood. It made no effort to escape, waiting patiently as the

dust that had been Quickening settled over it. It shuddered then,

cried out once, and began to shrink. It withered rapidly, its bulk

The Druid of Shannara 349

shriveling away, disappearing back into the earth until nothing

remained.

The dust blanketed the isthmus next and the rock began to

change, turning green with grass and moss. Shoots sprang to

life, vibrant and bright. The dust swept on, reaching the pen-

insula and Eldwist, and the transformation continued. Centuries

of Uhl Belk's dark repression were undone in moments. The

stone of the city crumbled—walls, towers, streets, and tunnels

all collapsing. Everything gave way before the power of Quick-

ening's magic, just as it had at the Meade Gardens in Culhaven.

All that had existed before the Stone King had worked his change

was brought to life again. Rocks shifted and reformed. Trees

sprang up, gnarled limbs filled with summer leaves that shone

against the gray skies and water. Patches ofwildflowers bloomed,

not in abundance as in Culhaven, for this had always been a

rugged and unsettled place, but in isolated pockets, vibrant and

rich. Sea grasses and scrub swept overthe broken rock, changing

the face of the land back into a coastal plain. The air came alive

again, filled with the smell of growing things. The deadness of

the land's stone armor faded into memory. Slowly, grudgingly,

Eldwist sank from view, swallowed back into the earth, gone

into the past that had given it birth.

When the transformation was complete, all that remained of

Eldwist was the dome in which the Stone King had entombed

himself—a solitary gray island amid the green of the land.

"There was nothing we could do to save her, Morgan,"

Walker Boh explained softly, bent close to the devastated High-

lander to make certain he could hear. "Quickening came to

Eldwist to die."

They were crouched down together at the edge of the cliffs,

Homer Dees with them, speaking in hushed voices, as if the

silence that had settled over the land in the aftermath of Quick-

ening's transformation was glass that might shatter. Far distant,

the roar of the Tiderace breaking against the shoreline and the

cries of seabirds on the wing were faint and momentary. The

magic had worked its way up the cliffs now and gone past them,

cleansing the rock of the Maw Grint's poison, giving life back

again to the land. Island breezes gusted at the clouds, forming

breaks, and sunshine peeked through guardedly.

Morgan nodded wordlessly, his head purposefully lowered,

his face taut.

Walker glanced at Homer Dees, who nodded encouragingly.

350                             The Druid of Shanriara

"She let me see everything, Highlander, just before she died.

She wanted me to know, so that I could tell you. She touched

me on the cheek as we stood together looking down at Eldwist,

and everything was revealed. All the secrets she kept hidden

from us. All of her carefully guarded mysteries."

He shifted a few inches closer. "Her father created her to

counteract the magic of Uhl Belk. He made her from the ele-

ments of the Gardens where he lived, from the strongest of his

magic. He sent her to Eldwist to die. In a sense, he sent a part

of himself. He really had no other choice. Nothing less would

be sufficient to overcome the Stone King in his own domain.

And Uhl Belk had to be overcome there because he would never

leave Eldwist—could not leave, in fact, although he didn't know

it. He was already a prisoner of his own magic. The Maw Grint

had become Uhl Belk's surrogate, dispatched in his stead to turn

the rest of the Four Lands to stone. But if the King of the Silver

River waited for the monster to get close enough to confront, it

would have grown too huge to stop."

His hand came up to rest on Morgan's shoulder. He felt the

other flinch. "She selected each of us for a purpose, High-

lander—just as she said. You and I were chosen to regain pos-

session of the Black Elfstone, stolen by Belk from the Hall of

Kings. The problem Quickening faced, of course, was that her

magic would not work while Uhl Belk controlled the Elfstone.

As long as he could wield the Druid magic, he could siphon off

her own magic and prevent the necessary transformation fron-i

taking place. He would have done so instantly if he had discov-

ered who she was. He would have turned her to stone. That was

why she couldn't use her magic until the very last."

' 'But she changed the Meade Gardens simply by touching the

earth!" Morgan protested, his voice angry, defiant.

"The Meade Gardens, yes. But Eldwist was far too mon-

strous to change so easily. She could not have done so with a

simple touching. She needed to infuse herself into the rock, to

make herself a part of the land." Walker sighed. "That was

why she chose Pe Ell. The King of the Silver River must have

known or at least sensed that the Shadowen would send someone

to try to stop Quickening. It was no secret who she was or how

she could change things. She was a very real threat. She had to

be eliminated. A Shadowen, it appears now, would lack the

necessary means. So Pe Ell was sent instead. Pe Ell believed

that his purpose was a secret, that killing Quickening was his

own idea. It wasn't. Not ever. It was hers, right from the begin-

The Druid of Shannara                             351

ning. It was the reason she sought him out, because her father

had told her to do so, to take with her to Eldwist the man and

the weapon that could penetrate the armor of her magic and

allow her to transform."

"Why couldn't she simply change by willing it?"

"She was alive, Morgan—as human as you and I. She was

an elemental, but an elemental in human guise. I don't think she

could be anything else in life. It was necessary for her to die

before she could work her magic on Eldwist. No ordinary

weapon could kill her; her body would protect her against com-

mon metals. It required magic equal to her own, the magic of a

weapon like the Stiehl—and the hands and mind of an assassin

like Pe Ell."

Walker's smile was brief, tight. "She summoned us to help

her—because she was told to and because we were needed to

serve a purpose, yes—but because she believed in us, too. If we

had failed her, any of us, even Pe Ell, if we had not done what

she knew we could do, Uhl Belk would have won. There would

have been no transformation of the land. The Maw Grint would

have continued its advance and Uhl Belk's kingdom would have

continued to expand. Combined with the onslaught of the Shad-

owen, everything would have been lost.''

Morgan straightened perceptibly, and his eyes finally lifted.

"She should have told us. Walker. She should have let us know

what she had planned."

Walker shook his head gently. "No, Morgan. That was ex-

actly what she couldn't do. We would not have acted as we did

had we known the truth. Tell me. Wouldn't you have stopped

her? You were in love with her, Highlander. She knew what that

meant."

Morgan stared at him tight-lipped for a moment, then nodded

reluctantly. "You're right. She knew."

"There wasn't any other way. She had to keep her purpose

in coming here a secret.''

"I know. I know." Morgan's breathing was ragged, strained.

"But it hurts anyway. I can almost believe she isn't gone, that

she will find a way to come back somehow." He took a deep

breath. "I need her to come back.''

They were silent then, staring off in separate directions, re-

membering. Walker wondered momentarily if he should tell the

other of the Grimpond's vision, of how he had spoken of that

vision with Quickening yet she had brought him anyway, of how

she must have known from the first how it would end yet had

352 The Druid of Shannara

come nevertheless so that her father's purpose in creating her

could be fulfilled. He decided against it. The Highlander had

heard enough of secrets and hidden plans. There was nothing

to be gained by telling him any more.

"What's become ofBelk, do you think?" Homer Dees' rough

voice broke the silence. "Is he still down there in that dome?

Still alive?"

They looked as one over the cliff edge to where the last vestige

of Eldwist sat amid the newbom green of the peninsula, closed

about and secretive.

"I think a fairy creature like Uhl Belk does not die easily,"

Walker answered, his voice soft, introspective. "But Quicken-

ing holds him fast, a prisoner within a shell, and the land will

not be changed to his liking again any time soon." He paused.

"I think Uhl Belk might go mad when he understands that."

Morgan reached down tentatively and touched a patch of grass

as if searching for something. His fingers brushed the blades

gently. Walker watched him for a moment, then rose. His body

ached, and his spirits were dark and mean. He was starved for

real food, and his thirst seemed unquenchable. His own odyssey

was just beginning, a trek back through the Four Lands in search

of Pe Ell and the stolen Black Elfstone, a second confrontation

to discover who should possess it, and if he survived all that, a

journey to recover disappeared Paranor and the Druids . . .

His thoughts threatened to overwhelm him, to drain the last

of his strength, and he shoved them away.

' 'Come, Highlander,'' Homer Dees urged, reaching down to

take Morgan's shoulders. "She's gone. Be glad we had her for

as long as we did. She was never meant to live in this world.

She was meant for a better use. Take comfort in the fact that she

loved you. That's no small thing."

The big hands gripped tight, and Morgan allowed himself to

be pulled to his feet. He nodded without looking at the other.

When his eyes finally lifted, they were hard and fixed. "I'm

going after Pe Ell."

Homer Dees spat. "We're all going after him, Morgan Leah.

All of us. He won't get away.''

They took one final look down from the heights, then turned

and began walking toward the defile that led back into the moun-

tains. They had gone only a few steps when Morgan stopped

suddenly, remembering, and looked over to where he had left

the Sword of Leah. The Sword was still jammed into the rocks,

its shattered blade buried from sight. Morgan hesitated a mo-

The Druid of Shannara                             353

ment, almost as if thinking to leave the weapon where it was,

to abandon it once and for all. Then he stepped over and fastened

his hands on the hilt. Slowly, he began to pull. And kept pulling,

far longer than he should have needed to.

The blade slid free. Morgan Leah stared. The Sword of Leah

was no longer broken. It was as perfect as it had been on the

day it had been given to him by his father.

"Highlander!" Homer Dees breathed in astonishment.

"She spoke the truth,'' Morgan whispered, letting his fingers

slide along the blade's gleaming surface. He looked at Walker,

incredulous. "How?"

"Her magic," Walker answered, smiling at the look on the

other's face. "She became again the elements of the earth that

were used by her father to create her, among them the metals

that forged the blade of the Sword of Leah. She remade your

talisman in the same way she remade this land. It was her final

act, Highlander. An act of love.''

Morgan's gray eyes burned fiercely. "In a sense then, she's

still with me, isn't she? And she'll stay with me as long as I

keep possession of the Sword." He took a deep breath. "Do

you think the Sword has its magic back again. Walker?''

"I think that the magic comes from you. I think it always

has."

Morgan studied him wordlessly for a moment, then nodded

slowly. He sheathed his weapon carefully in his belt. "I have

my Sword back, but there is still the matter of your arm. What

of that? She said that you, like the blade, would be made whole

again."

Walker thought carefully a moment, then pursed his lips. ' 'In-

deed." With his good hand, he turned Morgan gently toward

the defile. ' 'I am beginning to think, Highlander,'' he said softly,

"that when she spoke of becoming whole, she was not referring

to my arm, but to something else altogether."

Behind them, sunlight spilled down across the Tiderace.

Her eyes!

They stared down at Pe Ell from the empty windows of the

buildings of Eldwist, and when he was free of the city they

peered up from the fissures and clefts of the isthmus rock, and

when he was to the cliffs they peeked out from behind the misted

boulders of the trail leading up. Everywhere he ran, the eyes

followed.

What have I done ?

354                             The Druid of Shannara

He was consumed with despair. He had killed the girl, just

as he had intended; he had gained possession of the Black Elf-

stone. Everything had gone exactly as planned. Except for the

fact that the plan had never been his at all—it had been hers from

the beginning. That was what he had seen in her eyes, the truth

of why he was here and what he had been summoned to do. She

had brought him to Eldwist not to face the Stone King and re-

trieve the Black Elf stone as he had' believed; she had brought

him to kill her.

Shades, to kill her!

He ran blindly, stumbling, sprawling, clawing his way back

to his feet, torn by the realization of how she had used him.

He had never been in control. He had merely deluded himself

into thinking he was. All of his efforts had been wasted. She

had manipulated him from the first—seeking him out in Cul-

haven knowing who and what he was, persuading him to come

with them while letting him think that he was coming because

it was his choice, and keeping him carefully away from the

others, turning him this way and that as her dictates required,

using him! Why? Why had she done it? The question seared

like fire. Why had she wanted to die?

The fire gave way to cold as he saw the eyes wink at him from

left and right and all about. Had it even been his choice at the

end to stab her? He couldn't remember making a conscious

decision to do so. It had almost seemed as if she had impaled

herself—or made his hand move forward those few necessary

inches. Pe Ell had been a puppet for the daughter of the King of

the Silver River all along; perhaps she had pulled the strings that

moved him one final time—and then opened her eyes to him so

that all her secrets could be his.

He tumbled to the ground when he reached the head of the

cliff path, flinging himself into a cleft between the rocks, hud-

dling down, burying his gaunt, ravaged face in his arms, wishing

he could hide, could disappear. He clenched his teeth in fury.

He hoped she was dead! He hoped they were all dead! Tears

streaked his face, the anger and despair working through him,

twisting him inside out. No one had ever done this to him. He

could not stand what he was feeling! He could not tolerate it!

He looked up again, moments later, longer perhaps, aware

suddenly that he was in danger, that the others would be coming

in pursuit. Let them come! he thought savagely. But no, he was

The Druid of Shannara                             355

not ready to face them now. He could barely think. He needed

time to recover himself.

He forced himself back to his feet. All he could think to do

was run and keep running.

He reached the defile leading back through the cliffs, away

from the ramp and any view of that hated city. He could feel

tremors rock the earth and hear the rumble of the Maw Grint.

Rain washed over him, and gray mist descended until it seemed

the clouds were resting atop the land. Pe Ell clutched the leather

bag with its rune markings and its precious contents close against

his chest. The Stiehl rested once again in its sheath on his hip.

He could feel the magic burning into his hands, against his

thigh, hotter than he had ever felt it, fire that might never be

quenched. What had the girl done to him? What had she done?

He fell, and for a moment was unable to rise. All the strength

had left him. He looked down at his hands, seeing the blood

that streaked them. Her blood.

Her face flashed before him out of the gloom, bright and

vibrant, her silver hair flung back, her black eyes . . .

Quickening!

He managed to scramble back to his feet and ran faster still,

slipping wildly, trying to fight against the visions, to regain his

composure, his self-control. But nothing would settle into place,

everything was jumbled and thrown about, madness loosed

within him like a guard dog set free. He had killed her, yes. But

she had made him do it, made him! All those feelings for her,

false from the start, her creations, her twisting of him!

Bone Hollow opened before him, filled with rocks and emp-

tiness. He did not slow. He ran on.

Something was happening behind him. He could feel a

shifting of the tremors, a changing of the winds. He could

feel something cold settling deep within. Magic! A voice

whispered, teasing, insidious. Quickening comes for you! But

Quickening was dead! He howled out loud, pursued by de-

mons that all bore her face.

He stumbled and fell amid a scattering of bleached bones,

shoved himself back to his knees, and realized suddenly where

he was.

Time froze for Pe Ell, and a frightening moment of insight

blossomed within.

The Koden!

Then, abruptly, it had him, its shaggy limbs enfolding him,

its body smelling of age and decay. He could hear the whistle

356                            The Druid of Shannam

of its breath in his ear and could feel the heat of it on his face.

The closeness of the beast was suffocating. He struggled to catch

a glimpse of it and found he could not. It was there, and at the

same time it wasn't. Had it somehow become invisible? He tried

to reach for the handle of the Stiehl, but his fingers would not

respond.

How could this be happening?

He knew suddenly that he was not going to escape. He was

only mildly surprised tdMiscover that he no longer cared.

An instant later, he was dead.

XXXII

Less than an hour later the last three survivors of the

company from Rampling Steep made their way into

Bone Hollow and found Pe Ell's body. It lay midway

through, sprawled loose and uncaring upon the earth, lifeless

gaze fixed upon the distant sky. One hand clutched the rune-

marked leather bag that contained the Black Elfstone. The Stiehl

was still in its sheath.

Walker Boh glanced about curiously. Quickening's magic haa

worked its way through Bone Hollow, changing it so that it was

no longer recognizable. Saw grass and jump weed grew every-

where in tufts that shaded and softened the hard surface of the

rock. Patches of yellow and purple wildflowers bent to find the

sun, and the bones of the dead had faded back into the earth.

Nothing remained of what had been.

"Not a mark on him," Homer Dees muttered, his rough face

creased further by the frown that bent his mouth, his voice won-

dering. He moved forward, bent down to take a close look, then

straightened. "Neck might be broke. Ribs crushed. Something

like that. But nothing that I can see. A little blood on his hands,

but that belongs to the girl. And look. Koden tracks all around,

The Druid of Shannara                             357

everywhere. It had to have caught him. Yet there's not a mark

on his body. How do you like that?"

There was no sign of the Koden. It was gone, disappeared as

if it had never been. Walker tested the air, probed the silence,

closed his eyes to see if he could find the Koden in his mind.

No. Quickening's magic had set it free. As soon as the chains

that bound it were broken, it had gone back into its old world,

become itself again, a bear only, the memories of what had been

done to it already fading. Walker felt a deep sense of satisfaction

settle through him. He had managed to keep his promise after

all.

"Look at his eyes, will you?" Homer Dees was saying.

"Look at the fear in them. He didn't die a happy man, whatever

it was that killed him. He died scared."

"It must have been the Koden," Morgan Lean insisted. He

hung back from the body, unwilling to approach it.

Dees glanced pointedly at him. "You think so? How, then?

What did it do, hug him to death? Must have done it pretty quick

if it did. That knife of his isn't even out of its case. Take a look,

Highlander. What do you see?"

Morgan stepped up hesitantly and stared down. "Nothing,"

he admitted.

"Just as I said." Dees sniffed. "You want me to turn him

over, look there?"

Morgan shook his head. "No." He studied Pe Ell's face a

moment without speaking. "It doesn't matter." Then his eyes

lifted to find Walker's. "I don't know what to feel. Isn't that

odd? I wanted him dead, but I wanted to be the one who killed

him. I know it doesn't matter who did it or how it happened,

but I feel cheated somehow. As if the chance to even things up

had been taken away from me."

"I don't think that's the case, Morgan," the Dark Uncle re-

plied softly. "I don't think the chance was ever yours in the first

place."

The Highlander and the old Tracker stared at him in surprise.

"What are you saying?" Dees snapped.

Walker shrugged. "If I were the King of the Silver River and

it was necessary for me to sacrifice the life of my child to an

assassin's blade, I would make certain her killer did not es-

cape." He shifted his gaze from one face to the other and back

again. "Perhaps the magic that Quickening carried m her body

was meant to serve more than one purpose. Perhaps it did."

There was a long silence as the three contemplated the pros-

The Druid of Shannara

358

pect. "The blood on his hands, you think?" Homer Dees said

finally. "Like a poison?" He shook his head. "Makes as much

sense as anything else.''

Walker Boh reached down and carefully freed the bag with

the Black Elfstone from Pe Ell's rigid fingers. He wiped it clean,

then held it in his open palm for a moment, thinking to himself

how ironic it was that the Elfstone would have been useless to

the assassin. So much effort expended to gain possession of its

magic and all for nothing. Quickening had known. The King of

the Silver River had known. If Pe Ell had known as well, he

would have killed the girl instantly and been done with the mat-

ter. Or would he have remained anyway, so captivated by her

that even then he would not have been able to escape? Walker

Boh wondered.

"What about this?" Homer Dees reached down and un-

strapped the Stiehl from around Pe Ell's thigh. "What do we do

with it?"

"Throw it into the ocean," Morgan said at once. "Or drop

it into the deepest hole you can find.''

It seemed to Walker that he could hear someone else speak-

ing, that the words were unpleasantly familiar ones. Then he

realized he was thinking of himself, remembering what he had

said when Cogline had brought him the Druid History out of

lost Paranor. Another time, another magic, he thought, but the

dangers were always the same.

"Morgan," he said, and the other turned. "If we throw it

away, we risk the possibility that it will be found again—perhaps

by someone as twisted and evil as Pe Ell. Perhaps by someone

worse. The blade needs to be locked away where no one can

ever reach it again." He turned to Homer Dees. "If you give it

to me, I will see that it is."

They stood there for a moment without moving, three worn

and ragged figures in a field of broken stone and new green,

measuring one another. Dees glanced once at Morgan, then

handed the blade to Walker. ' 'I guess we can trust you to keep

your word as well as anyone,'' he offered.

Walker shoved the Stiehl and the Elfstone into the deep pock-

ets of his cloak and hoped it was so.

They walked south the remainder of the day and spent their

first night free of Eldwist on a barren, scrub-grown plain. A day

earlier, the plain had been a part of Uhl Belk's kingdom, infected

by the poison of the Maw Grint, a broken carpet of stone. Even

The Druid of Shannara

359

with nothing more than the scrub to brighten its expanse, it felt

lush and comforting after the deadness of the city. There was

little to eat yet, a few roots and wild vegetables, but mere was

fresh water again, the skies were star filled, and the air was clean

and new. They made a fire and sat up late, talking in low voices

of what they were feeling, remembering in the long silences

what had been.

When morning came they awoke with the sun on their faces,

grateful simply to be alive.

They traveled down again through the high forests and crossed

into the Chamals. Homer Dees took them a different v/ay this

time, carefully avoiding dead Carisman's tribe of Urdas, jour-

neying east of the Spikes. The weather stayed mild, even in the

mountains, and there were no storms or avalanches to cause

them further grief. Food was plentiful again, and they began to

regain their strength. A sense of well-being returned, and the

harshest of their memories softened and faded.

Morgan Leah spoke often of Quickening. It seemed to help

him to speak of her, and both Walker and Homer Dees encour-

aged him to do so. Sometimes the Highlander talked as if she

were still alive, touching the Sword he carried, and gesturing

back to the country they were leaving behind. She was there, he

insisted, and better that she were there than gone completely.

He could sense her presence at times; he was certain of it. He

smiled and joked and slowly began to return to himself.

Homer Dees became his old self almost as quickly, the

haunted look fading from his eyes, the tension disappearing from

his face. The gruffness in his voice lost its edge, and for the first

time in weeks the love he bore for his mountains began to work

its way back into his conversation.

Walker Boh recovered more slowly. He was encased in an

iron shell of fatalistic resignation that had stripped his feelings

nearly bare. He had lost his arm in the Hall of Kings. He had

lost Cogline and Rumor at Hearthstone. He had nearly lost his

life any number of times. Carisman was dead. Quickening was

dead. His vow to refuse the charge that Allanon had given him

was dead. Quickening had been right. There were always

choices. But sometimes the choices were made for you, whether

you wanted it so or not. He might have thought not to be en-

snared by Druid machinations, to turn his life away from Brin

Ohmsford and her legacy of magic. But circumstances and con-

science made that all but impossible. His was a destiny woven

by threads that stretched back in time hundreds, perhaps thou-

360                             The Druid of Shannara

sands, of years, and he could not be free of them, not entirely,

at least. He had thought the matter through since that night in

Eldwist when he had agreed to return with Quickening to the

lair of the Stone King in an effort to recover the Black Elfstone.

He knew that by going he was agreeing that if they were suc-

cessful he would carry the talisman back into the Pour Lands

and attempt to restore Paranor and the Druids—just as Allanon

had charged him.

He knew without having to speak the words what that meant.

Make whatever choice you will. Quickening had advised.

But what choices were left to him? He had determined long

ago to search out the Black Elfstone—perhaps from the moment

he had first discovered its existence while reading the Druid

History; certainly from the time of the death of Cogline. He had

determined as well to discover what its magic would do—and

that meant testing Allanon's charge that Paranor and the Druids

could be restored. He might argue that he had been considering

the matter right up until the moment Eldwist had met its end.

But he knew the truth was otherwise. He knew as well that if

the magic of the Black Elfstone was everything that had been

promised, if it worked as he believed, then Paranor would be

restored. And if that happened, then the Druids would come

back into the Four Lands.

Through him.

Beginning with him.

And that reality provided the only choice left to him, the one

he believed Quickening had wanted him to make—the choice of

who he would be. If it was true that Paranor could be restored

and that he must become the first of the Druids who would keep

it, then he must make certain he did not lose himself in the

process. He must make certain that Walker Boh survived—his

heart, his ideas, his convictions, his misgivings—everything he

was and believed. He must not evolve into the very thing he had

struggled so hard to escape. He must not, in other words, turn

into Allanon. He must not become like the Druids of old—

manipulators, exploiters, dark and secretive conjurers, and hid-

ers of truths. If the Druids must return in order to preserve the

Races, in order to ensure their survival against the dark things

of the world, Shadowen or whatever, then he must make them

as they should be—a better order of Men, of teachers, and of

givers of the power of magic.

That was the choice he could still make—a choice he must

make if he were to keep his sanity.

The Druid of Shannara

361

It took them almost two weeks to reach Rampling Steep,

choosing the longer, safer routes, skirting any possibility of dan-

ger, sheltering when it was dark, and emerging to travel on when

it was light. They came on the mountainside town toward mid-

day, the skies washed with a gray, cloudy haze left by a summer

shower that suggested spun cotton pulled apart by too-anxious

hands. The day was warm and humid, and the buildings of the

town glistened like damp, squat toads hunched down against

the rocks. The three travelers approached as strangers, seeing

the town anew, the first since Eldwist. They slowed as one

as they entered the solitary street that navigated the gathering of

taverns, stables, and trading stores to either side, pausing to look

back into the mountains they had descended, watching momen-

tarily as the runofffrom the storm churned down out of the cliffs

into gullies and streams, the sound a distant rush.

"Time to say goodbye," Homer Dees announced without

preliminaries and stuck out his hand to Morgan.

Morgan stared. There had been no talk of his leaving until

now. "You're not coming on with us?"

The old Tracker snorted. "I'm lucky to be alive, Highlander.

Now you want me to come south? How far do you expect me to

push things?"

Morgan stammered. "I didn't mean ..."

"Fact is, I shouldn't have gone with you the first time." The

other cut him short with a wave of one big hand. "It was the

girl who talked me into it. Couldn't say no to her. And maybe

it was the sense of having left something behind when I fled the

Stone King and his monsters ten years ago. I had to go back to

find it again. So here I am, the only man to have escaped Eldwist

and Uhl Belk twice. Seems to me that's enough for one old

man."

"You would be welcome to come with us. Homer Dees,"

Walker Boh assured him, taking Morgan's part. "You're not as

old as you pretend and twice as able. The Highlander and his

friends can use your experience."

"Yes, Homer," Morgan agreed hurriedly. "What about the

Shadowen? We need you to help fight them. Come with us."

But the old Tracker shook his bearish head stubbornly.

"Highlander, I'll miss you. I owe you my life. I look at you and

see the son I might have had under other circumstances. Now

isn't that something to admit? But I've had enough excitement

in my life and I'm not anxious for any more. I need the dark

quiet of the ale houses. I need the comforts of my own place.

362

The Druid of Shannara

He stuck out his hand once again. "Who's to say that won't

change though? So. Some other time, maybe?"

Morgan clasped the hand in his own. "Any time, Homer."

Then, forsaking the hand, he embraced the old man. Homer

Dees hugged him back.

The journey went swiftly after that, time slipping away almost

magically, the days and nights passing like quicksilver. Walker

and Morgan came down out of the Chamals into the foothills

south and turned west along their threshold toward the Rabb.

They forded the north branch of the river and the land opened

into grasslands that stretched away toward the distant peaks of

the Dragon's Teeth. The days were long and hot, the sun burning

out of cloudless skies as the intemperate weather of the moun-

tains was left behind. Sunrise came early, and daylight stayed

late, and even the nights were warm and bright. The pair en-

countered few travelers and no Federation patrols. The land

grew increasingly infected by the Shadowen sickness, dark

patches that hinted at the spread of the disease, but there was

no sign of the carriers.

At week's end, the Dark Uncle and the Highlander reached

the south entrance to the Jannisson Pass. It was nearing noon,

and the pass stretched away through the juncture of the cliffs of

the Dragon's Teeth and the Chamals, a broad empty corridor

leading north to the Streleheim. It was here that Padishar Creel

had hoped to rally the forces of the Southland Movement, the

Dwarf Resistance, and the Trolls of Axhind and his Kelktic

Rock in an effort to confront and destroy the armies of the Fed-

eration. The wind blew gently across the flats and down through

the pass, and no one stirred.

Morgan Leah cast about wearily, a resigned look on his face.

Walker stood silently beside him for a moment, then put his

hand on the other's shoulder. "Where to now, Highlander?" he

asked softly.

Morgan shrugged and smiled bravely. "South, I suppose, to

Varfleet. I'll try to make contact with Padishar, hope that he's

found Par and Coll. If that fails, I'll go looking for the Valemen

on my own." He paused, studying the other's hard, pale face.

"I guess I know where you're going."

Walker nodded. "To find Paranor."

Morgan took a deep breath. "I know this isn't what you

wanted. Walker."

"No, it isn't."

"I could come with you, if you'd like."

The Druid of Shannara 363

"No, Highlander, you've done enough for others. It is time

to do something for yourself."

Morgan nodded. "Well, I'm not afraid, if that's what you're

thinking. I have the magic of the Sword of Leah again. I might

be of some use."

Walker's fingers tightened on the other's shoulder and then

dropped away. "I don't think anyone can help me where I'm

going. I think I have to help myself as best I can. The Elfstone

will likely be my best protection." He sighed. "Strange how

things work out. If not for Quickening, neither of us would be

doing what he is or even be who he is, would he? She's given us

both a new purpose, a new face, maybe even a new strength.

Don't forget what she gave up for you, Morgan. She loved you. I

think that in whatever way she is able she always will."

"I know."

"Homer Dees said you saved his life. You saved my life as

well. If you hadn't used the Sword, even broken as it was, Uhl

Belk would have killed me. I think Par and Coil Ohmsford could

ask for no better protector. Go after them. See that they are

well. Help them in any way you can.''

"I will."

They clasped hands and held tight for a moment, eyes locked.

"Be careful. Walker," Morgan said.

Walker's smile was faint and ironic. "Until we meet again,

Morgan Leah."

Then Walker turned and walked into the pass, angling through

sunlight into shadow as the rocks closed about. He did not look

back.

For the remainder of that day and the whole of the one fol-

lowing Walker Boh traveled west across the Streleheim, skirting

the dark, ancient forests that lay south, cradled by the peaks of

the Dragon's Teeth. On the third day he turned down, moving

into the shadowed woods, leaving the plains and the sunshine

behind. The trees were massive, towering sentinels set at watch

like soldiers waiting to be sent forth into battle, thick trunks

grown close in camaraderie, and limbs canopied against the

light. These were the forests that for centuries past had sheltered

the Druid's Keep against the world beyond. In the time of Shea

Ohmsford there had been wolves set at watch. Even after, there

had been a wall of thorns that none could penetrate but Allanon

himself. The wolves were gone now, the wall of thorns as well,

364 The Druid of Shannara

and even the Keep itself. Only the trees remained, wrapped in

a deep, pervasive silence.

Walker navigated the trails as if he were a shadow, passing

soundlessly through the sea of trunks, across the carpet of dead

needles, lost in the roil of his increasing indecision. His thoughts

of what he was about to do were jumbled and rough-edged, and

whispers of uncertainty that he had thought safely put to rest

had risen to haunt him once again. All his life he had fought to

escape Brin Ohmsford's legacy; now he was rushing willingly

to embrace it. His decision to do so had been long in coming

and repeatedly questioned. It had resulted from an odd mix of

circumstance, conscience, and deliberation. He had given it as

much thought as he was capable of giving and he was convinced

that he had chosen right. But the prospect of its consequences

was terrifying nevertheless, and the closer he came to discov-

ering them, the deeper grew his misgivings.

By the time he arrived at the heart of the forests and the bluff

on which Paranor had once rested, he was in utter turmoil. He

stood for a long time staring upward at the few stone blocks that

remained of what had once been the outbuildings, at the streak-

ing of red light across the bluff's crest where the sunset cast its

heated, withering glow. In the shimmer of the dying light he

could imagine it was possible to see Paranor rise up against the

coming night, its parapets sharply denned and its towers pierc-

ing the sky's azure crown like spears. He could feel the immen-

sity of the Keep's presence, the sullen bulk of its stone. He could

touch the life of its magic, waiting to be reborn.

He built a fire and sat before it, awaiting the descent of night.

When it was fully dark, he rose and walked again to the bluff's

edge. The stars were pinpricks of brightness overhead, and the

woods about him were anxious with night sounds. He felt for-

eign and alone. He stared upward once more at the crest of die

rise, probing from within with his magic for some sign of what

waited. Nothing revealed itself. Yet the Keep was there; he could

sense its presence in a way that defied explanation. The fact that

his magic failed to substantiate what he already knew made him

even more uneasy. Bring back lost Paranor and the Druids, Al

lanon had said. What would it take to do so? What beyond

possession of the Black Elfstone? There would be more, he

knew. There would have to be.

He slept for a few hours, though sleep did not come easily, a

frail need against the whisper of his fears. He lay awake at first,

his resolve slipping away, eroded and breached. The trappings

The Druid of Shannon^

365

of a lifetime's mistrust ensnared him, working free of the re-

straints under which he had placed them, threatening to take

control of him once again. He forced himself to think of Quick-

ening. What must it have been like for her, knowing what she

was expected to do? How frightened she must have been! Yet

she had sacrificed herself because that was what was needed to

give life back to the land. He took strength in remembering her

courage, and after a time the whispers receded again, and he

fell asleep.

It was already daybreak when he awoke, and he washed and

ate quickly, woodenly, anxious in the shadow of what waited.

When he was done he walked again to the base of the bluff and

stared upward. The sun was behind him, and its light spilled

down upon the bluff's barren summit. Nothing had changed. No

hint of what had been or what might be revealed itself. Paranor

remained lost in time and space and legend.

Walker stepped away, returning to the edge of the trees, safely

back from the bluff. He reached into the deep pockets of his

cloak and lifted free the pouch that contained the Black Elf-

stone. He stared blankly at it, feeling the weight of its power

press against him. His body was stiff and sore; his missing arm

ached. His throat was as dry as autumn leaves. He felt the in-

securities, doubts, and fears begin to rise within him, massing

in a wave that threatened to wash him away.

Quickly, he dumped the Elfstone into his open palm.

He closed his hand instantly, frightened to look into its dark

light. His mind raced. One Stone, one for all, one for heart,

mind, and body—made that way, he believed, because it was

the antithesis of all the other Elfstones created by the creatures

of the old world of faerie, a magic that devoured rather than

expended, one that absorbed rather than released. The Elfstones

that Allanon had given to Shea Ohmsford were a talisman to

defend their holder against whatever dark magic threatened. But

the Black Elfstone was created for another reason entirely—not

to defend, but to enable. It was conceived for a single purpose—

to counteract the magic that had been called forth to spirit away

the Druid's Keep, to bring lost Paranor out of limbo again. It

would do so by consuming that magic—and transferring it into

the body of the Stone's holder—himself. What that would do to

him. Walker could only imagine. He knew that the Stone's pro-

tection against misuse lay in the fact that it would work the same

way no matter who wielded it and for what purpose. That was

what had destroyed Uhl Belk. His absorption of the Maw Glint's

366                             The Druid of Shannara

magic had turned him to stone. Walker's own fate might be

similar, he believed—yet it would also be more complex. But

how? If use of the Black Elfstone restored Paranor, then what

would be the consequence of transference to himself of the magic

that bound the Keep?

Whosoever shall have cause and right shall wield it to its

proper end.

Himself. Yet why? Because Allanon had decreed that it must

be so? Had Allanon told the truth? Or simply a part of the truth?

Or was he gamesplaying once more? What could Walker Boh

believe?

He stood there, solitary, filled with indecision and dread,

wondering what it was that had brought him to this end. He saw

his hand begin to shake.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the whispers broke through his

defenses in a torrent and turned to screams.

No!

He brought the Black Elfstone up almost without thinking,

opened his hand, and thrust the dark gem forth.

Instantly the Elfstone flared to life, its magic a sharp tingling

against his skin. Black light—the nonlight, the engulfing dark-

ness. Whosoever. He watched the light gather before him, build-

ing on itself. Shall have cause and right. The backlash of the

magic rushed through him, shredding doubt and fear, silencing

whispers and screams, filling him with unimaginable power.

Shall wield it to its proper end.

Now!

He sent the black light hurtling forth, a huge tunnel burrow-

ing through the air, swallowing everything in its path, engulfing

substance and space and time. It exploded against the crest of

the empty bluff, and Walker was hammered back as if struck a

blow by an invisible fist. Yet he did not fall. The magic rushed

through him, bracing him, wrapping him in armor. The black

light spread like ink against the sky, rising, broadening, angling

first this way, then that, channeling itself as if there were runnels

to be followed, gutters down which it must flow. It began to

shape. Walker gasped. The light of the Black Elfstone was etch-

ing out the lines of a massive fortress, its parapets and battle-

ments, and its towers and steeples. Walls rose and gates

appeared. The light spread higher against the skies, and the

sunlight was blocked away. Shadows cast down by the castle

enveloped Walker Boh, and he felt himself disappear into them.

Something inside him began to change. He was draining away.

The Druid of Shannara

367

No, rather he was filling up! Something, the magic, was wash-

ing through. The other, he thought, weak before its onslaught,

helpless and suddenly terrified. It was the magic that encased

lost Paranor being drawn down into the Elfstone!

And into him.

His jaw clenched, and his body went rigid. / will not give

way!

The black light flooded the empty spaces of the image atop

the bluff, coloring it, giving it first substance and then life—

Paranor, the Druid's Keep, come back into the world of men,

returned from the dark half-space that had concealed it all these

years. It rose up against the sky, huge and forbidding. The Black

Elfstone dimmed in Walker's hand; the nonlight softened and

then disappeared.

Walker's hoarse cry ended in a groan. He fell to his knees,

wracked with sensations he could not define and riddled with

the magic he had absorbed, feeling it course through him as if

it were his blood. His eyes closed and then slowly opened. He

saw himself shimmering in a haze that stole away the definition

of his features. He looked down m disbelief, then felt himself

go cold. He wasn't really there anymore! He had become a

wraith!

He forced his terror aside and climbed back to his feet, the

Black Elfstone still clutched in his hand. He watched himself

move as if he were someone else, watched the shimmer of his

limbs and body and the shadings that overlapped and gave him

the appearance of being fragmented. Shades, what has been

done to me! He stumbled forward, scrambling to gain the bluff,

to reach its crest, not knowing what else to do. He must gain

Paranor, he sensed. He must get inside.

The climb was long and rugged, and he was gasping for breath

by the time he reached the Keep's iron gates. His body reflected

in a multitude of images, each a little outside of the others. But

he could breathe and move as a normal man; he could feel as

he had before. He took heart from that, and hastened to reach

Paranor's gates. The stone of the Keep was real enough, hard

and rough to his touch—yet forbidding, too, in a way he could

not immediately identify. The gates opened when he leaned into

them, as if he had the strength of a thousand men and could

force anything that stood before him.

He entered cautiously. Shadows enfolded him. He stood in a

well of darkness, and there was a whisper of death all about.

Then something moved within the gloom, detached, and took

368 The Druid of Shannam

shape—a four-legged apparition, hulking and ominous. It was a

moor cat, black as pitch with luminous gold eyes, there and not

there, like Walker himself.

Walker froze. The moor cat looked exactly like . . .

Behind the cat, a man appeared, old and stooped, a translu-

cent ghost, shimmering. As the man drew near, his features

became recognizable.

"At last you've come, Walter," he whispered in an anxious,

hollow voice.

The Dark Uncle felt the last vestiges of his resolve fade away.

The man was Cogline.

XXXIII

W^sef he ]Qng of the Silver River sat in the Gardens that were

[»     his sanctuary and watched the sun melt into the west-

^^^^ em horizon. A stream of clear water trickled across

the rocks at his feet and emptied into a pond from which a

unicorn drank, and a breeze blew softly through the maidenhair,

carrying the scent of lilacs and jonquils. The trees rustled, their

leaves a shimmer of green, and birds sang contented day-end

songs as they settled into place in preparation for the coming of

night.

Beyond, in the world of Men, the heat was sullen and un-

yielding against the fall of darkness, and a pall of weariness

draped the lives of the people of the Four Lands.

So must it be for now.

The eyes that could see everything had seen the death of his

child and the transformation of the land of the Stone King. The

Maw Grint was no more. The city of Eldwist had gone back

into the earth, returned to the elements that had created it, and

the land was green and fertile again. The magic of his child was

rooted deep, a river that flowed invisibly about the solitary dome

The Druid of Shannara                             369

in which Uhl Belk was imprisoned. It would be long before his

brother could emerge into the light again.

Iridescent dragonflies buzzed past him without slowing and

disappeared into the twilight's glow.

Elsewhere, the battle against the Shadowen went on. Walker

Boh had invoked the magic of the Black Elfstone, as AUanon

had charged him, and the Druid's Keep had been summoned

out of the mists that had hidden it for three centuries. What

would the Dark Uncle make, the King of the Silver River won-

dered, of what he found there? West, where the Elves had once

lived. Wren Ohmsford continued her search to discover what

had become of them—and, more important, though she did not

yet realize it, what would become of herself. North, the brothers

Par and Coil Ohmsford struggled toward each other and the

secrets of the Sword of Shannara and the Shadowen magic. There

were those who would help and those who would betray, and all

of the wheels of chance that AUanon had set in motion could

yet be stopped.

The King of the Silver River rose and slipped into the waters

of the pond momentarily, reveling in the cool wetness, letting

himself become one with the flow. Then he emerged and passed

down the Garden pathways, through stands of juniper and hem-

lock onto a hillock ofcentauries and bluebells that reflected gold

about the edges of their petals with the day's fading light. He

paused there, staring out again into the worid beyond.

His daughter had done well, he reflected.

But the thought was strangely bleak and empty. He had cre-

ated an elemental out of the life of his Gardens and sent that

elemental forth to serve his needs. She had been nothing to

him—a daughter in name only, a child merely by designation.

She had been only a momentary reality, and he had never in-

tended that she be anything more.

Yet he missed her. Shaping her as he did, breathing his life

into her, he had brought himself too close. The human feelings

they had shared would not dissolve as easily as their human

forms. She should have meant nothing to him, now that she was

gone. Instead, her absence formed a void he could not seem to

fill.

Quickening.

A child of the elements and his magic, he repeated. He would

do the same again—yet perhaps not so readily. There was some-

thing in the ways of the creatures of the mortal Races that en-

dured beyond the leaving of the flesh. There was a residue of

370                             The Druid of Shannara

their emotions that lingered. He could still hear her voice, see

her face, and feel the touch of her fingers against him. She was

gone from him, yet remained.

Why should it be so?

He sat there as darkness cloaked the land and wondered at

himself.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Here ends Book Two of The Heritage of Shannara. Book Three,

The Elf Queen of Shannara, will reveal more of the mystery of

Cogline and Paranor and chronicle the efforts of Wren Ohmsford

to discover what has become of the missing Westland Elves.

Terry Brooks was born in Dlinois in 1944. He received his under-

graduate degree from Hamilton College, Clinton, New York, where

he majored in English Literature, and his graduate degree from the

School of Law at Washington & Lee University, Lexington, Vir-

ginia. He was a practicing attorney until recently; he has now re-

tired to become a full-time author.

A writer since high school, he published his first novel, The Sword

of Shannara, in 1977 and the sequels The Elfstones of Shannara in

1982 and The Wishsong of Shannara in 1985. Magic Kingdom/or

Sale—Sold! began a best-selling new series for him in 1986. Brooks

presently lives in the Northwest.