Terry Brooks - First King of Shannara

Spray flew from the Hadeshorn in a bright geyser, diamonds against the black velvet night.

The shade began to recede.

—Do not forget—

Bremen lifted his hand in a futile effort to slow the other’s departure. “Wait!”

—A price for each—

The old man shook his head in confusion. A price for each? Each what? For whom?

—Remember—

Then the Hadeshorn boiled anew, and the ghost sank slowly back into the churning waters, drawing down with it all of the brighter, smaller spirits that had accompanied it. Down they went in a rush of spray and mist, amid- cries and whimpers from the dead, back to the netherworld from which they had come. Water exploded in a massive column as they disappeared, breaking apart the silence and dead air in a frightening explosion.

Then the storm came flooding in, with wind and rain, with thunder and lightning, hammering into the old man. Bremen went down with the blow, felled in an instant.

Eyes open and staring, he lay senseless at the water’s edge.

Mareth reached him first. The men were larger and stronger, but her footing was surer on the damp, slippery rock, and she fairly flew across its polished surface. She knelt immediately and cradled the old man in her arms. Rain poured down relentlessly, peeking the now smooth, quiet surface of the Hadeshorn, washing down the black, glistening carpet of the valley, turning the dawn light hazy and vague. It soaked through Mareth’s cloak to her skin, chilling her, but she ignored it, her small features twisting in concentration. Her face lifted to the darkened skies and her eyes closed. The other three slowed as they reached her, uncertain what was happening. Her arms tightened about Bremen. Then she shuddered violently and slumped forward, and the men rushed ahead to catch her. Kinson lifted her away from Bremen, while Tay picked up the old man, and in a knot they fought their way back through the downpour and out of the Valley of Shale.

Once clear, they found shelter in a grotto they had passed on their way in. There they laid the girl and the old man on the stone floor and wrapped them in their cloaks. There was no wood for a fire, so they were forced to remain sodden and chilled, waiting out the rain. Kinson checked for heartbeat and pulse and found both strong. After a time, the old man came awake, then almost immediately after, the girl. The three watchers crowded around Bremen to ask what had happened, but the old man shook his head and told them he did not wish to speak just yet. They left him reluctantly and moved away again.

Kinson paused beside Mareth, thinking to ask what she had done to Bremen—for it seemed clear that she had done something—but she glanced up at him and turned away immediately, so he abandoned the attempt.

The day brightened marginally, and the rains moved on. Kinson shared the food he carried with the others. Only Bremen would not eat. The old man seemed to have retreated somewhere deep inside himself—or perhaps he was still somewhere back within that valley—staring at nothing, his seamed, weathered face an expressionless mask. Kinson watched him for a time, searching for some sign of what he was thinking, failing in his effort to do so.

Finally the old man looked up as if just discovering they were there and wondering why, then beckoned them to sit close to him.

When they were settled, he told them of his meeting with the shade of Galaphile and of the four visions he had been shown.

“I could not decide what the visions meant,” he concluded, his voice weary and rough-edged in the silence. “Were they simply prophecies of what is to come, a future already decided? Were they the promise of what might be if certain things were done? Why were these particular visions selected by the shade? What response is expected of me? All these questions, left unanswered.”

“What price are you being asked to pay for your involvement in all of this?” Kinson muttered darkly. “Don’t forget that one.”

Bremen smiled. “I have asked to be involved, Kinson. I have put myself in the position of being protector of the Races and destroyer of the Warlock Lord, and I do not have the right to ask what it will cost me if my efforts succeed.

“Still,” he sighed, “I believe I understand something now of what is required of me. But I will need help from all of you.” He looked at them in turn. “I must ask you to put yourselves in great danger, I’m afraid.”

Risca snorted. “Thank goodness. I was beginning to think nothing at all would come of this adventure. Tell us what we must do.”

“Yes, best to get started with this journey,” Tay agreed, leaning forward eagerly.

Bremen nodded, gratitude reflected in his eyes. “We are agreed that the Warlock Lord must be stopped before he subjugates all of the Races. We know that he has tried and failed once already, but that this time he is stronger and more dangerous. I told you that because of this I believe he will attempt to destroy the Druids at Paranor. The first vision suggests that I was right.” He paused. “I am afraid perhaps that it has already come to pass.”

There was a long silence as the others exchanged wary glances.

“You think the Druids are all dead?” Tay asked softly.

Bremen nodded. “I think it is a possibility. I hope I am wrong. In any event, whether they are dead or not, I must retrieve the Eilt Druin in accordance with the first vision. The visions taken together make it clear that the medallion is the key to forging a weapon that will destroy Brona. A sword, a blade of special power, of magic that the Warlock Lord cannot withstand.”

“What magic?” Kinson asked at once.

“I don’t know yet.” Bremen smiled anew, shaking his head. “I know hardly anything beyond the fact that a weapon is needed and if the vision is to be believed, the weapon must be a sword.”

“And that you must find the man who will wield it,” Tay added.

“A man whose face you were not shown.”

“But the last vision, that dark image of the Hadeshorn and the boy with the strange eyes...” Mareth began worriedly.

“Must wait until its time.” Bremen cut her short, though not harshly. His gaze settled on her face, searching. “Things reveal themselves as they will, Mareth. We cannot rush them. And we cannot allow ourselves to be constrained by our concern for them.”

“So what are you asking us to do?” Tay pressed.

Bremen faced him. “We must separate, Tay. I want you to return to the Elves and ask Courtann Ballindarroch to mount an expedition to search out the Black Elfstone. In some way the Stone is critical to our efforts to destroy Brona. The visions suggest as much. The winged hunters already search for it. They must not be allowed to find it. The Elf King must be persuaded to support us in this. We have the particulars of the vision to help us. Use what it has shown us and recover the Stone before the Warlock Lord.”

He turned to Risca. “I need you to travel to Raybur and the Dwarves at Culhaven. The armies of the Warlock Lord march east, and I believe they will strike there next. The Dwarves must make themselves ready to defend against an attack and must hold until help can be sent. You must use your special skills to see that they do so. Tay will speak with Ballindarroch to ask the Elves to join forces with the Dwarves. If they do so, they will be a match for the Troll army that Brona relies upon.”

He paused. “But mostly we must gain time to forge the weapon that will destroy Brona. Kinson, Mareth, and I will return to Paranor and discover whether the vision of its fall is true. I will seek to gain possession of the Eilt Druin.”

“If he still lives, Athabasca will not give it up,” Risca declared. “You know that.”