Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

There were hidden rocks and thorn–tipped plants scattered through the soft grasses, and soon his feet were cut and bleeding freely. But he didn’t feel the pain and he raced onward. The vast plains alone were witness to the strange race between the huge, lumbering hunters and the shadowlike quarry as they labored southward through the driving rains and the chilling wind. They ran without hearing, without seeing, without feeling through the panoramic emptiness, and there was nothing to break the terrible silence but the rush of the gusting wind in the runners’ ears. It became a lonely, fearful ordeal of survival — a trial of spirit and stamina that demanded from the youthful Prince of Leah his final, complete reserve of strength.

Time ceased to exist for the fleeing highlander as he forced his legs to move when the muscles had long since passed the normal end of endurance — and still there was no river. He no longer looked back to see if the Trolls were closing. He could sense their presence, hear their labored breathing in his mind; they must be closing the distance rapidly. He had to run faster! He had to reach the river and free Shea…

In his near exhaustion, he unconsciously referred to the person wrapped in the bundle as his friend. He had known immediately upon grasping the mysterious prisoner that he was small and slight of build. There was no reason to believe it might not be the missing Valeman. The bundled captive was awake and moving awkwardly as the highlander ran, speaking in muffled phrases to which Menion replied in short, gasping assurances that they were close to safety.

The rain suddenly intensified in force until it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction, and the sodden plains turned quickly into a grass–tipped marsh. Then Menion fell over a water–covered root and tumbled headlong into the muddied grass, his precious burden falling in a struggling heap beside him. Bruised and exhausted, the highlander raised himself to his hands and knees, the great sword held ready, and looked back for his pursuers. To his relief, they were nowhere in sight. In the heavy rain and fog, they had momentarily lost him. But even the limited visibility would only slow them down for a few minutes and then… Menion shook his head sharply to clear the haze of rain and weariness from his eyes, then crawled quickly to the water–logged heap of clothing that bound the struggling prisoner. Whoever was in that hunting cloak was in good enough shape to run beside him, and Menion’s strength was nearly gone. He knew he could carry the added weight no farther.

Awkwardly, hardly aware of what he was doing, the highlander sawed at the tough bonds with his sword. It had to be Shea, his mind told him over and over, it had to be Shea. The Trolls and that stranger had gone to so much trouble not to be seen, had been so secretive… The bonds snapped as the sword finally severed them. It had to be Shea! The ropes unwound and the cloak flew back as the person within struggled into the open air.

An astonished Menion Leah wiped the rain from his blinking eyes and stared. He had rescued a woman!

A woman! Why would the Northlanders kidnap a woman? Menion stared through the pouring rain into the clear blue eyes that blinked back at him uncertainly. She was no ordinary woman in any case. She was strikingly beautiful — deeply browned skin covering the finely formed features of the rounded face, a slim graceful figure clothed in a silky material, and her hair…! He had never seen anything like it. Even wetted and plastered against her face by the driving rain, falling shoulder length and lower in long, wistful strands, the strange color showed through the grayness of the morning in a deep reddish hue. For a moment he gazed at her in a half–conscious trance, then the throbbing pain from his cut and bleeding feet recalled him to his present situation and the grave danger still facing them.

Quickly he climbed back to his feet, wincing with the pressure on his exposed soles, the weariness flooding through him until he thought he would collapse in total exhaustion. His mind battled fiercely for several long moments as he swayed almost drunkenly, bracing himself on the great sword. The frightened face of the girl — yes, she could still be called a girl, he thought suddenly — peered up at him out of a gray haze. Then she was on her feet next to him, holding him up, talking to him in low, distant tones. He shook his head and nodded stupidly.

«It’s all right now, I’m all right.» The words sounded garbled as he spoke. «Run for the river — we have to reach Kern.»

They began moving again through the mist and the rain, walking rapidly, at times staggering on the uncertain footing of the marshy grasslands. Menion felt his head begin to clear and his strength return as they walked, the girl next to him, her hands locked onto his arm, half holding onto him for her own support, half helping to support him. His keen eyes searched the gloom about them for some sign of the prowling Trolls, certain that they were not too far away. Then abruptly his ears picked up a new sound, the pounding, rushing throb of the Mermidon, its rain–filled waters overflowing the lowland banks as it swept southward toward Kern. The, girl heard it, too, and gripped his arm tightly in encouragement.

Moments later they stood on the crest of the small rise that ran parallel with the north bank. The swift river had long since flooded its low banks and was continuing to rise. Menion had no idea where they stood in relation to Kern, but he realized that if they crossed at the wrong point, they would miss the island entirely. The girl seemed to recognize the problem; taking his arm, she began moving downstream along the low rise, peering across the river into the gloom. Menion let her lead him without question, his own eyes casting about anxiously for some sign of the pursuing Trolls. The rain had begun to slacken and the mist was beginning to clear. It would not be long before the storm would end and visibility return, leaving the two revealed to the persistent hunters. They had to chance a crossing quickly.

Menion did not know how long the young woman led him along the river’s edge, but at last she halted and indicated in hurried gestures a small skiff drawn up against the grassy embankment. Quickly the highlander strapped the sword of Leah to his back, and together the two pushed off into the swift waters of the Mermidon. The river was icy and the shock of the extreme cold from the spray of the foam–tipped waves jarred Menion to the bone. He rowed fiercely across the swift current as it swept them downriver with terrific force, frequently turning them about completely as they fought to reach the other side. It was a wild, careening battle between river and man that seemed to go on endlessly, and at last everything became hazy and numb in Menion’s mind.

What happened in the end was never clear to him. He was vaguely aware of hands reaching to pull him from the skiff to a grassy bank where he collapsed in a breathless stupor. He heard the girl’s soft voice speaking to him, and then there was blackness and numbness all about him as he lapsed into unconsciousness. He drifted in and out of darkness and sleep, plagued by an uneasy sense of danger that prodded at his tired mind and demanded that he rise and stand ready. But his body could not respond, and finally he dropped off into a deep slumber.

When he awoke, it was still light out and the rain was falling in a slow, steady drizzle through deep, gray skies. He lay in the warmth and comfort of a bed, dry and rested, his torn feet cleaned and bandaged, and the terrible race to escape the Northlanders behind him. The slow rain beat peacefully on the paned glass windows that let in the daylight through the wood and stone walls. He glanced idly around the finely furnished chamber; realizing quickly that this was not the home of an average citizen, but of royalty. There were insignia and crests on the woodwork that Menion knew to belong to the kings of Callahorn. For a moment the highlander lay quietly and studied the room in silent leisure, allowing the sleep to disperse and his rested mind to awaken fully. He saw a dry set of clothes lying on a chair near the bed, and was just about to rise to dress when the door opened and an elderly serving woman appeared, carrying a tray of steaming food. Nodding politely and smiling, she hastened to the bed with the tray and deposited it on the highlander’s lap, propping him up with pillows and urging him to eat it all while it was still hot. Strangely, she reminded Menion of his own mother, a kind, fussy woman who had died when he was twelve. The serving lady lingered until he had taken the first bite, then turned away and went out again, closing the door quietly behind her.