Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

Shea did not believe the thief was serious, but his voice sounded as if he were in deadly earnest. The terrified Gnome gulped and held forth his hands in a final desperate cry for mercy. He whined and cried so that Shea finally became almost embarrassed for him. Panamon made no move, but only sat there staring into the unfortunate fellow’s horror–stricken face.

«No, no, I beg you, don’t kill me,” the frantic Gnome pleaded, his wide green eyes shifting from one face to the next. «Please, please let me live — I can be of use to you — I can help! I can tell you about the Sword of Shannara! I can even get it for you.»

Shea started involuntarily at the unexpected mention of the Sword, and he placed a restraining hand on Panamon’s wide shoulder.

«So you can tell us about the Sword, can you?» The icy voice of the thief sounded only slightly interested, and he ignored Shea completely. «What can you tell us?»

The wiry yellow frame relaxed slightly, and the eyes returned to normal size, shifting about eagerly, seizing on any chance to stay alive. Yet Shea saw something else there, something he could not quite define. It was almost a fervid cunning, revealed as the Gnome momentarily relaxed his carefully masked feelings. A second later it was gone, replaced by a look of total subjugation and helplessness.

«I can lead you to the Sword if you wish,” he whispered harshly as if he were afraid someone would hear. «I can take you to where it is — if you let me live!»

Panamon moved the sharp iron tip of his piked hand back from the throat of the cringing Gnome, leaving just a small trace of blood on the yellow neck. Keltset had not moved and gave no indication that he had any interest in what was happening. Shea wanted to warn Panamon how important that Gnome might be if there was even the slightest chance of finding the Sword of Shannara, but he realized the thief preferred to keep the captive Gnome guessing. The Valeman could not be sure how much Panamon Creel knew about the legend; so far, he had shown little concern with the races generally and had not indicated he knew anything about the history of the Sword of Shannara. The grim features of the thief relaxed briefly and a faint smile crossed his lips as he eyed the still quivering captive.

«Is this Sword valuable, Gnome?» he queried easily, almost slyly. «Can I sell it for gold?»

«It is priceless to the right people,” the other promised, nodding eagerly. «There are those who would pay anything, give anything to get possession of it. In the Northland…»

He ceased talking abruptly, afraid that he had already said too much. Panamon smiled wolfishly and nodded to Shea.

«This Gnome says it could be worth money to us,” he mocked quietly, «and the Gnome wouldn’t lie, would you, Gnome?» The yellow head shook vehemently. «Well, then, perhaps we should let you live long enough to prove you have something of value to barter for your worthless hide. I wouldn’t want to throw away a chance to make money simply to satisfy my inborn desire to cut the throat of a Gnome when I get one within my grasp. What do you think, Gnome?»

«You understand perfectly, you know my value,” whined the little fellow, fawning at the knees of the smiling thief. «I can help; I can make you rich. You can count on me.»

Panamon was smiling broadly now, his big frame relaxed and his good hand on the Gnome’s small shoulder as if they were old friends. He patted the stooped shoulder a few times, as if to put the captive at ease, and nodded reassuringly, looking from the Gnome to Keltset to Shea and back again for several long seconds.

«Tell us what you’re doing way out here by yourself, Gnome,” Panamon urged a moment later. «By the way, what are you called?»

«I am Orl Fane, a warrior of the Pelle tribe of the upper Anar,” he answered eagerly. «I… I was on a courier mission from Paranor when I came upon this battlefield. They were all dead, all of them, and there was nothing I could do. Then I heard you and I hid. I was afraid you were… Elves.»

He paused and looked fearfully at Shea, noting the youth’s Elven features with dismay. Shea made no move, but waited to see what Panamon would do. Panamon just looked understandingly at the Gnome and smiled in friendly fashion.

«Orl Fane — of the Pelle tribe,” the tall thief repeated slowly. «A great tribe of hunters, brave men.» He shook his head as if deeply regretting something and turned again to the mystified Gnome. «Orl Fane, if we are going to be of any service to one another, we must have mutual trust. Lies can only hinder the purpose binding our new partnership. There was a Pelle standard on the battlefield — the standard of your tribe in the Gnome nation. You must have been with them when they fought.»

The Gnome stood speechless, a mixture of fear and doubt creeping slowly back into his shifting green eyes. Panamon continued to smile easily at him.

«Just look at yourself Orl Fane — covered with specks of blood and a bad cut on your forehead at the hairline. Why hide the truth from us? You had to be here, isn’t that right?» The persuasive voice coaxed a quick nod out of the other, and Panamon laughed almost merrily. «Of course you were here, Orl Fane. And when you were set upon by the Elf people, you fought until you were wounded, perhaps knocked unconscious, eh, and you lay here until just before we came along. That’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it?»

«Yes, that’s the truth,” the Gnome agreed eagerly now.

«No, that’s not the truth!»

There was a moment of stunned silence. Panamon was still smiling, and Orl Fane was caught between emotions, a trace of doubt still in eyes, a half–smile forming on his lips. Shea looked at both curiously, unable to follow exactly what was happening.

«Listen to me, you lying little rodent.» The smile was gone from Panamon’s face, the features hardened as he spoke, the voice cold and menacing once more. «You have lied from the beginning! A member of the Pelle would wear their insignia you wear none. You weren’t wounded in battle; that little scratch on your forehead is nothing! You are a scavenger — a deserter, aren’t you? Aren’t you?»

The thief had seized the terrified Gnome by the front of his hunting tunic and was shaking him so hard that Shea could hear his teeth rattle with the force. The wiry captive was struggling to catch his breath, gasping in disbelief at this sudden turn of events.

«Yes, yes!» The admission was throttled out of him at last, and Panamon released him with a quick thrust backward into the grip of the watchful Keltset.

«A deserter from your own people.» Panamon spat the words out in distaste. «The lowest form of life that walks or crawls is a deserter. You’ve been scavenging this battlefield for valuables from the dead. Where are they, Orl Fane? Shea, check in those bushes where he was hiding.»

As Shea moved toward the brush, the struggling Gnome let out the most frightful shriek of dismay imaginable, causing the youth to believe Keltset had twisted his neck off. But Panamon just smiled and nodded for the Valeman to proceed, certain now that the Gnome had indeed hidden something in the bushes. Shea pushed his way past the thick branches into the center of the clump, searching carefully for any sign of a cache. The ground and the limbs in the center were badly torn up from the struggle between Keltset and the Gnome, and there was nothing immediately visible. He hunted about unsuccessfully for several minutes. He was just about to give up, when his eye caught a glimpse of something half buried at the far end of the bushes beneath leaves, branches, and dirt. Using his short hunting knife and his hands, he quickly uncovered a long sack containing metal objects that rattled against one another as he worked. He called out to Panamon that he had discovered something, which immediately set off another series of whining cries from the distraught captive. When the sack was uncovered, he pulled it out of the brush into the fading afternoon sunlight and dropped it before the others. Orl Fane was in a frenzy by this time, and Keltset was forced to use both hands just to hold him.