Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

«Whatever’s in here is certainly important to our little friend.» Panamon grinned at Shea and reached for the sack.

Shea moved to his side and peered over the broad shoulders as Panamon untied the leather thong binding the top and reached eagerly into the dark interior. Changing his mind suddenly, the scarlet thief removed his hand and, grabbing the other end of the sack, turned it upside down and poured the contents onto the open earth. The others stared at the cache, looking from item to item curiously.

«Junk,” growled Panamon Creel after a moment’s consideration. «Just junk. The Gnome is too stupid even to bother with valuable things.»

Shea looked at the contents of the sack without answering. Nothing but assorted daggers, knives, and swords in the collection, some still in their leather sheaths. A few pieces of cheap jewelry sparkled in the sunlight, and there were one or two Gnome coins, practically worthless to anyone but a Gnome. It certainly appeared to be useless junk, but the whining Orl Fane had evidently considered it worth something to him. Shea shook his head in pity for the little Gnome. He had lost everything when he turned deserter, and all he had to show for it were these few worthless pieces of metal and cheap jewelry. Now it seemed certain that he would lose his life as well for having dared to lie to the volatile Panamon Creel.

«Hardly worth dying for, Gnome,” Panamon growled, nodding shortly to Keltset, who raised the heavy mace to finish the hapless fellow.

«No, no, wait, wait a minute, please,” the Gnome cried, his voice edged with a harsh note of desperation. It was the end for him; this was his final plea. «I didn’t lie about the Sword — I swear I didn’t! I can get it for you. Don’t you realize what the Sword of Shannara is worth to the Dark Lord?»

Without thinking, Shea put out a hand to grasp Keltset’s massive arm. The giant Troll seemed to understand. Slowly he lowered the mace and looked curiously at Shea. Panamon Creel opened his mouth angrily and then hesitated. He wanted to learn the truth behind Shea’s presence in the Northland, and the secret of this Sword evidently had much to do with it. He stared momentarily at the Valeman, then turned back to Keltset and shrugged disinterestedly.

«We can always kill you later, Orl Fane, if this is another deception. Put a rope around his worthless neck and bring him along, Keltset. Shea, if you would give me a hand up and an arm to lean on, I think I can make it to the woods. Keltset will keep a close watch over our clever little deserter.»

Shea helped the injured Panamon to his feet and tried to support him as he took a few careful test steps. Keltset tied Orl Fane and placed a length of rope about his neck so that he could be led. The Gnome allowed himself to be bound without complaining, though he was visibly distraught about something. Shea imagined that the fellow was still lying when he said he knew where the Sword could be found and was desperately trying to figure out how he would get free from his captors before they discovered his treachery and killed him. While Shea would not himself kill the Gnome, nor even agree to have it done, nevertheless he felt little compassion for the deceitful creature. Orl Fane was a coward, a deserter, a scavenger — a man without a people or a country. Shea was certain now that the whining, groveling attitude the Gnome had displayed earlier was a carefully studied shield for the crafty, desperate creature that lay hidden beneath. Orl Fane would cut their throats without the slightest compunction if he thought there would be no danger to himself. Shea almost wished that Keltset had ended their worries a few minutes earlier by finishing the fellow. Shea would have felt easier in his own mind.

Panamon signaled that he was ready to proceed toward the woodland, but before they had taken two steps, the whining pleas of Orl Fane had stopped them. The unhappy Gnome refused to go farther if he were not allowed to keep his sack and its treasures. He set up such a stubborn howl of protest that Panamon was again on the verge of bashing in the hateful yellow head.

«What does it matter, Panamon?» Shea finally asked in exasperation. «Let him have his trinkets if it will make him happy. We can get rid of them later after he quiets down.»

Panamon shook his handsome face in dismay, finally nodding his reluctant acquiescence. He was fed up with Orl Fane already.

«Very well, I’ll give in just this once,” the thief agreed. Orl Fane immediately quieted down. «However, if he opens his mouth like that once more, I’ll cut out his tongue. Keltset, you keep him away from that sack. I don’t want him getting hold of one of those weapons long enough to cut himself free and do us in! Worthless blades probably wouldn’t do a neat job of it anyway, and I’d die of blood poisoning.»

Shea had to laugh in spite of himself. They were poor–looking weapons, though he rather fancied the slim broadsword with the extended arm and burning torch cut into the hilt. Even that one was rather gaudy, the cheap gold paint chipped and flecked about the hilt. Like several of the others, it rested in a worn leather sheath so it was difficult to tell what condition the blade might be in. At any rate, it could prove dangerous in the hands of the wily Orl Fane. Keltset hoisted the sack and its contents over one shoulder, and the party continued on its way toward the woodland.

It was a comparatively short hike, but by the time they reached the perimeter of the forest Shea was exhausted from supporting the weight of the injured Panamon. The little group stopped on the thief’s command, as an afterthought, he sent Keltset back to cover their trail and to create a number of false trails that would confuse anyone following. Shea did not object, for although he hoped that Allanon and the others were searching for him, there was a dangerous possibility that patrolling Gnome hunters or, worse still, another Skull Bearer might come across their tracks instead.

After tying the captive Orl Fane to a tree, the Rock Troll backtracked onto the battlefield to erase any sign of their passage in this direction. Panamon collapsed wearily against a broad maple, and the tired Valeman took up a position opposite him, lying peacefully back on a small, grassy knoll, staring absently into the treetops and breathing deeply the forest air. The sun was fading rapidly now with the close of the afternoon and the faint beginnings of evening crept into the western sky in streaks of purple and deep blue. Less than an hour of sunlight remained, and the night would help to hide them from their enemies. Shea fervently wished now for the aid of the company, for the strong, wise leadership and fantastic mystical prowess of Allanon, for the courage of the others — Balinor, Hendel, Durin, Dayel, and the fiery Menion Leah. Most of all he wished Flick were with him — Flick, with his unwavering, unquestioning loyalty and trust. Panamon Creel was a good man to have on his side, but there were no real ties between them. The thief had lived too long by his wits and cunning to understand basic honesty and truth. And what about Keltset — an enigma, even to Panamon?

«Panamon, you said back there you would explain about Keltset,” Shea remarked quietly. «About how the Skull Bearer knew, him.»

For a moment there was no answer, and Shea raised up to see if the man had heard him. Panamon was staring quietly at him.

«Skull Bearer? You seem to know a great deal more about this whole matter than I. You tell me about my giant companion, Shea.»

«That wasn’t the truth you told me when you saved me from those Gnomes, was it?» Shea asked him. «He wasn’t a freak driven from his village by his own people. He didn’t kill them for attacking him, did he?»

Panamon laughed merrily, the pike coming up to scratch the small mustache.