Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

Orl Fane suddenly doubled up laughing, his voice high–pitched and frenzied.

«No, no, they don’t have the Sword,” he shrieked like a fool caught up in his own madness. «No, no, only I can show you the Sword! I can lead you to it. Only I. You can search and you can search and you can search, ha, ha, ha — go ahead. But I know where it is! I know who has it! Only I!»

«I think he’s losing his mind,” Panamon Creel muttered humorlessly, and ordered Keltset to regag the bothersome Gnome. «We’ll find out exactly what he knows in the morning. If he knows anything about the Sword of Shannara, which I seriously doubt, he’ll tell us or wish he had!»

«Do you think he might know who has it?» Shea asked soberly. «That Sword could mean so much, not only to us, but to all the peoples of the four lands. We’ve got to try to find out what he really knows.»

«You bring tears to my eyes with that plea for the people,” Panamon mocked disdainfully. «They can go hang for all I care. They’ve never done anything for me — except travel alone, unarmed, with fat purses, and that’s been all too infrequently.» He looked up at Shea’s disappointed face and shrugged nonchalantly. «Still, I am curious about the Sword, so I might be willing to help you. After all, I owe you a great favor, and I’m not one to forget a favor.»

Keltset finished gagging the babbling Gnome once again and rejoined them next to the small fire. Orl Fane had lapsed into a series of small, shrill laughs coupled with incoherent mumblings that even the cloth gag did not completely muffle. Shea glanced uneasily at the little captive, watching the gnarled yellow body twist about as if possessed by some devil, the dark eyes wide and rolling wildly. Panamon gallantly ignored the moans for a brief time, but at last, losing all patience, leaped to his feet and drew his dagger to cut the Gnome’s tongue out. Orl Fane immediately quieted down and for a while they forgot about him.

«Why do you suppose,” Panamon began after a moment, «that Northland creature believed we were hiding the Sword of Shannara? It was strange he wouldn’t even argue the point. He said he could sense that we had it. How do you explain that?»

Shea thought for a moment and finally shrugged uncertainly.

«It must have been the Elfstones.»

«You may be right,” Panamon agreed slowly, thoughtfully, his good hand rubbing his chin. «I frankly don’t understand any of this. Keltset, what do you think about it.»

The giant Rock Troll regarded them solemnly for a moment and then made several brief signs with his hands. Panamon watched intently, then turned to Shea with a disgusted look.

«He thinks the Sword is very important and that the Warlock Lord is a very great danger to us all.» The thief laughed humorously. «He’s a great help, I must say!»

«The Sword is very important!» Shea repeated, his voice trailing off in the darkness, and they sat quietly, lost in thought.

It was late evening now, the night around them black beyond the faint light of the fire’s reddish embers. The woods were a wall of concealment, shutting them into the little clearing, surrounding them with the sharp sounds of the insect world and the occasional cry of some faraway creature. The sky above showed through the boughs of the great trees in patches of dark blue broken by one or two distant stars. Panamon talked on quietly for a few minutes more as the coals died into ashes. Then he rose, kicking the ashes and grinding them into the earth, bidding good night to his companions with a finality that discouraged further attempts at conversation. Keltset was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping before Shea had even selected a suitable patch of forest earth. The Valeman felt incredibly weary from the strain of the long day’s march and the battle with the Skull Bearer. Dropping his blanket, he lay down on his back, kicked off the hunting boots and stared aimlessly at the blackness above him through which he could just barely discern the limbs of the trees and the shadows of the sky.

Shea thought about all that had happened to him, once again retracing mentally his long, endless journey from Shady Vale. So much of it was still a mystery. He had come so far, endured so much, and still he didn’t know what it was all about. The secret of the Sword of Shannara, the Warlock Lord, his own heritage — it was no clearer now than before. The company was out there somewhere looking for him, led by the secretive, mystic Allanon, who seemed to be the only man with the answers to all the unanswered questions. Why had he not told Shea everything from the beginning? Why had he insisted on giving the company only a piece of the story at a time, always reserving that small bit, always holding back the key to their complete understanding of the unknown power locked in the elusive Sword of Shannara?

He rolled over on his side, peering through the darkness to the sleeping form of Panamon Creel just a few feet away. Beyond and to the other side of the clearing he could hear the heavy breathing of Keltset blending in with the sounds of the forest night. Orl Fane sat with his back straight against the tree to which he was bound, his eyes shining like a cat’s in the dark, unmoving as they stared fixedly at Shea. The Valeman stared back for a moment, unnerved by the Gnome’s gaze, but finally he forced himself to turn the other way and closed his eyes, dropping off to sleep in a matter of seconds. The last thing he remembered was clutching the small bulk of the Elfstones close to his chest within the tunic, wondering if their power would continue to protect him in the days ahead.

Shea was awakened abruptly to the gray light of an early forest morning by a long string of venomous oaths of dismay and frustration from a wrathful Panamon Creel. The thief was stamping about the campsite in absolute fury, shouting and cursing all at the same time. Shea could not decide what had happened right away, and it was several minutes before he had wiped the sleep from his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, squinting wearily in the gloom. He felt as if he had slept no more than a few minutes, his muscles sore and strained, his mind hazy. Panamon continued to storm about the small clearing as Keltset knelt silently next to one of the great oaks. Then Shea realized that Orl Fane was missing. He leaped to his feet and rushed over, suddenly afraid. In a moment his worst fears were realized; the ropes that had bound the crafty Gnome lay in pieces about the base of the huge trunk. The Gnome had escaped, and Shea had lost his one chance to find the missing Sword.

«How did he get away?» Shea demanded angrily. «I thought you tied him up, away from anything that might cut his bonds!»

Panamon Creel looked at him as if he were an idiot, disgust registered all over the flushed countenance.

«Do I look like a complete fool? Of course I tied him up away from any weapons. I even tied him to the confounded tree and had him gagged as an added precaution. Where were you? The little devil didn’t cut these ropes and that gag. He chewed his way through them!»

Now it was Shea’s turn to be amazed.

«I’m dead serious, I assure you,” Panamon continued angrily. «The ropes were chewed through by teeth. Our little rodent friend was more resourceful than I imagined.»

«Or perhaps more desperate,” the Valeman added thoughtfully. «I wonder why he didn’t try to kill us. He had reason enough to hate us.»

«Very uncharitable of you to suggest such a thing,” the other declared in mock disbelief. «I’ll tell you why, though, since you asked. He was terrified that he might be caught in the act. That Gnome was a deserter — a coward of the lowest order. He didn’t have the courage to do anything but run! What is it, Keltset?»

The huge Rock Troll had lumbered silently over to his comrade and made several quick gestures, pointing to the north. Panamon shook his head in disgust.