Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

Near midday on the fourth day, the rain lessened from a steady downpour to a muggy drizzle mixed with heavy fog and a sticky, humid heat that left everyone thoroughly disgruntled and uncomfortable. The crowd at the inn began to thin out as the men left to return to their jobs, and soon Shea and Flick were occupied with repairs and general cleaning chores. The storm had smashed shutters and torn the wooden shingles from the roof, scattering them all about the surrounding premises. Large leaks had developed in the roof and walls of the inn wings, and the small tool shed in the rear of the Ohmsford property had been all but flattened by a falling elm, uprooted by the force of the storm. The young men spent several days patching up leaks, repairing the roof, and replacing lost or broken shingles and shutters. It was tedious work, and time dragged by slowly.

After ten days, the rains ceased altogether, the huge clouds rolled on, and the dark sky cleared and brightened into a friendly light blue streaked with trailing white clouds. The expected floods did not come, and as the Valemen returned to their fields, the warm sun reappeared and the land of the valley began to dry from soggy mud to solid earth, spattered here and there by small puddles of murky water that sat defiantly upon an always thirsty land. Eventually even the puddles disappeared and the valley was as it had been — the fury of the passing storm only a dim memory.

Shea and Flick, in the process of rebuilding the smashed tool shed, their other repair work on the inn complete, heard snatches of conversation from Valemen and inn guests about the heavy rain. No one could ever remember a storm of such ferocity at that particular time of the year in the Vale. It was equivalent to a winter windstorm, the kind that caught unsuspecting travelers in the great mountains to the north and swept them from the passes and the cliff trails, never to be seen again. Its sudden appearance caused everyone in the hamlet to pause and reflect once again on the continuing rumors of strange happenings far to the North.

The brothers paid close attention to such talks, but they learned nothing of interest. Often they spoke quietly together about Allanon and the strange tale he had told them of Shea’s heritage. A pragmatic Flick had long since dismissed the whole business as either foolishness or a bad joke. Shea listened tolerantly, though he was less willing than his brother to shrug the matter off. Yet while he was unwilling to dismiss the tale, he was at the same time unable to accept it. He felt there was too much still hidden from him, too much about Allanon that neither Flick nor he knew. Until he had all the facts, he was content to let the matter lie. He kept the pouch containing the Elfstones close to him at all times. While Flick mumbled on, usually several times a day, about his foolishness in carrying the stones and believing that anything Allanon had told them was true, Shea carefully watched all strangers passing through the Vale, eagerly perusing their belongings for any sign of a Skull marking. But as time passed, he observed nothing and eventually felt obliged to scratch the whole matter off as an experience in the fine art of gullibility.

Nothing occurred to change Shea’s mind on the matter until one afternoon more than three weeks after Allanon’s abrupt departure. The brothers had been out all day cutting shingles for the inn roof, and it was almost evening by the time they returned. Their father was sitting in his favorite seat at the long kitchen counter when they entered, his broad face bent over a steaming plate of food. He greeted his sons with a wave of his hand.

«A letter came for you while you were gone, Shea,” he informed them, holding out a long, white folded sheet of paper. «It’s marked Leah.»

Shea let out an exclamation of surprise and reached eagerly for the letter. Flick groaned audibly.

«I knew it, I knew it; it was too good to be true,” he muttered. «The biggest wastrel in the entire Southland has decided it’s time we suffered some more. Tear up the letter, Shea.»

But Shea had already opened the sealed sheet of paper and was scanning its contents, totally disregarding Flick’s comments. The latter shrugged in disgust and collapsed on a stool next to his father, who had returned to his evening meal.

«He wants to know where we’ve been hiding,” laughed Shea. «He wants us to come see him as soon as we can.»

«Oh, sure,” muttered Flick. «He’s probably in trouble and needs someone to blame it on. Why don’t we just jump off the nearest cliff? You remember what happened the last time Menion Leah invited us to visit? We were lost in the Black Oaks for days and nearly devoured by wolves! I’ll never forget that little adventure. The Shades will get me before I accept another invitation from him!»

His brother laughed and clapped an arm around Flick’s broad shoulders.

«You are envious because Menion is the son of kings and able to live any way he chooses.»

«A kingdom the size of a puddle,” was the quick retort. «And royal blood is cheap stuff these days. Look at your own…»

He caught himself and clamped his mouth shut quickly. Both shot hurried glances at their father, but he apparently hadn’t heard and was still absorbed in eating. Flick shrugged apologetically; and Shea smiled at his brother encouragingly.

«There’s a man in the inn looking for you, Shea,” Curzad Ohmsford announced suddenly, looking up at him. «He mentioned that tall stranger that was here several weeks back when he asked for you. Never seen him before in the Vale. He’s out in the main lounge now.»

Flick stood up slowly, fear gripping at him. Shea was momentarily caught off balance by the message, but motioned hurriedly to his brother, who was about to speak. If this new stranger were an enemy, he had to find out quickly. He clutched at his shirt pocket, reassuring himself that the Elfstones were still there.

«What does the man look like?» he asked quickly, unable to think of any other way of finding out about the Skull mark.

«Can’t really say, son,” was the muffled reply as his father continued to chew on his dinner, face bent to the plate. «He’s wrapped in a long green forest cloak. Just rode in this afternoon — beautiful horse. He was very anxious to find you. Better go see what he wants right away.»

«Did you see any markings?» asked the exasperated Flick.

His father stopped chewing and looked up with a puzzled frown…

«What are you talking about? Would you be satisfied if I presented you with a chalk drawing? What’s wrong with you anyway?»

«It’s nothing, really,” interjected Shea quickly. «Flick was just wondering if… if the man looked anything like Allanon… You remember?»

«Oh, yes,” his father smiled knowingly, as Flick suppressed a swallow of relief. «No, I didn’t notice any real similarity, though this man is big, too. I did see a long scar running down the right cheek — probably from a knife cut.»

Shea nodded his thanks and quickly pulled Flick after him as he moved out to the hallway and started for the main lounge. They hurried to the wide double doors and halted breathlessly. Cautiously, Shea pushed one door open a crack and peered into the crowded lounge area. For a moment he saw nothing but the ordinary faces of the usual customers and average Vale travelers, but a moment later he started back, and let the door swing shut as he faced the anxious Flick.

«He’s out there, near the front corner by the fireplace. I can’t tell who he is or what he looks like from here; he’s wrapped in the green cloak, just as Father said. We’ve got to get closer.»

«Out there?» gasped Flick. «Have you lost your mind? He would spot you in a second if he knows who he’s looking for.»