Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

Allanon wandered in silent contemplation through the fallen men, studying discarded weapons and standards, glancing only briefly at the dead. Menion discovered a fresh set of tracks almost immediately and began moving mechanically about the battlefield, his eyes fixed on the dusty earth. Flick could not tell exactly what was going on from his distant vantage point, but it appeared that the highlander retraced his own steps several times, casting about for traces of new trails, the thin hands shading his reddened eyes. Finally, he turned southward toward the forest and began strolling slowly back toward Flick, his head lowered thoughtfully. He stopped at a large clump of bushes and dropped to one knee, apparently observing something of interest. Momentarily forgetting his distaste for the battlefield and its corpses, the curious Valeman hastened forward. He had just reached the kneeling man’s side when Allanon, standing in the center of the battlefield, let out a shout of astonishment. The two men paused and watched silently while the tall black figure peered downward for a moment as if to be certain, then turned and moved toward them in long strides. The mystic’s dark face was flushed with excitement when he reached them, and they were relieved to see the familiar mocking smile slowly spread into a wide grin.

«Amazing! It’s amazing indeed. Our young friend is more resourceful than I had imagined. Up there, I found a small pile of ashes — all that remains of one of the Skull Bearers. Nothing mortal destroyed that creature; it was the power of the Elfstones!»

«Then Shea has been here ahead of us!» exclaimed Flick hopefully.

«No other has the power to use the stones.» Allanon nodded assuringly. «There are signs of a terrific battle, tracks that show Shea was not alone. But I cannot tell whether those who were with him were friends or enemies. Nor can I tell if the creature of the north was destroyed during or after the battle between Gnome and Elf. What have you found, highlander?»

«A lot of false trails left by a very intelligent Troll,” Menion responded wryly. «It’s impossible for me to tell much from all the footprints, but I am sure that a large Rock Troll was among the prior occupants of this field. He left his tracks all over it but none of them lead anywhere. There are indications that some sort of scuffle took place within these bushes, though. See the bent branches and newly fallen leaves? But more important, there are footprints of a small man. They could be Shea’s.»

«Do you think he was captured by the Troll?» Flick queried fearfully.

Menion smiled at his concern and shrugged.

«If he could handle one of those Skull creatures, then I doubt he would have much trouble with an ordinary Troll.»

«The Elfstones are no protection against mortal creatures,” Allanon pointed out chillingly. «Is there any dear indication which way this Troll went?»

Menion shook his head negatively.

«To be certain, we would have had to find the tracks right away. These tracks are at least a day old. The Troll knew what he was doing when he left. We could search forever and never be sure which way he went.»

Flick felt his heart sink at this news. If Shea had been taken by this mysterious creature, then it appeared they had reached another dead end.

«I found something else,” Allanon announced after a moment. «I found a broken standard from the house of Elessedil — Eventine’s personal banner. He may have been present at the battle. He may have been taken prisoner or even killed. It seems possible that the slain Gnomes were attempting to escape from Paranor with the Sword and were intercepted by the Elf King and his warriors. If so, then Eventine, Shea and the Sword may all be in the hands of the enemy.»

«I’m sure of one thing,” Menion declared quickly. «Those Troll footprints and this battle in the bushes took place yesterday, while the battle between the Gnomes and Elves is several days old.»

«Yes… yes, you’re right, of course,” the Druid agreed thoughtfully. «There has been a sequence of events taking place that we can’t piece together from the little we know. I’m afraid we won’t find all the answers here.»

«What do we do now?» Flick asked anxiously.

«There are tracks leading westward across the Streleheim,” Allanon mused thoughtfully, gazing in that direction as he spoke. «The tracks are blurred, but they may have been made by survivors of this battle…»

He looked questioningly at the silent Menion Leah for his opinion.

«Our mysterious Troll did not go that way,” Menion stated worriedly. «He would not bother with a lot of false trails if he were going to leave a clear one when he left! I don’t like it.»

«Do we have any choice?» Allanon persisted. «The only clear set of tracks leaving this battleground leads westward. We’ll have to follow them and hope for the best.»

Flick thought that such optimism was unwarranted in view of the hard facts of the situation and found the comments out of character for the grim Druid. Still, it seemed they had little choice in the matter. Perhaps whoever had made those tracks could tell them something about Shea. The little Valeman turned to Menion and nodded his willingness to follow the Druid’s advice, noting the look of consternation clouding the highlander’s lean features. Clearly Menion was not happy with the decision, convinced that there was another trail to be found that would tell them more about the Troll and the slain Skull creature. Allanon beckoned to them, and retracing their steps they began the long march back across the Streleheim Plains to the lands west of Paranor. Flick cast one final look at the field of slain men, their carcasses rotting slowly in the boiling heat of the sun, shunned by man and nature in senseless death. He shook his broad head. Perhaps this was the way it would end for them all.

The three travelers walked steadily westward for the remainder of the day. They spoke little, lost in private thoughts, their eyes following almost carelessly the blurred trail before them as they watched the brilliant sun turn red in the horizon and die into evening. When it was too dark to continue, Allanon directed them into the bordering forests where they made camp for the night. The trio had reached a point near the northwestern sector of the dreaded Impregnable Forest and they were once again in danger of discovery by Gnome hunting parties or prowling wolf packs. The resolute Druid explained that, while they were in some danger of discovery, he believed the search for them would have been abandoned by this time in favor of more urgent matters. As a necessary precaution, they would light no fire and would keep constant watch through the night for the wolves. Flick silently prayed that the wolf packs would not venture this close to the plainland, but would keep to the dark interior of the woods, closer to the Druids’ Keep. They ate a brief, tasteless meal and quickly turned in for the night. Menion offered to stand the first watch. Flick was asleep in moments, but it seemed he had slept for only an instant when the highlander awoke him for his turn as guard. About midnight, Allanon approached without a sound and ordered Flick to go back to sleep. The Valeman had been guarding for only about an hour, but he did as he was told without arguing.

When Flick and Menion awoke again, it was dawn. In the faint red and yellow slivers of sunlight which crept slowly into the shadowed forest, they saw the giant Druid resting peacefully against a tall elm as he stared at them. The tall, dark figure seemed almost a part of the forest, sitting there motionlessly, the deep eyes black in the caverns beneath the great brow. They knew that Allanon must have stood guard over them all night without sleep. It seemed impossible that he could be rested, yet he rose without stretching, the grim face relaxed and alert. They ate a quick breakfast and marched out of the forest onto the Streleheim once more. A moment later they halted in shocked disbelief. All about them, the skies were clear and faintly blue in the new light of day, the sun rising in blinding brilliance above the mountain ranges far to the east. But to the north stood a gigantic, towering wall of darkness against the skyline, as if all the ominous thunderclouds of the earth had been massed together and piled one on top of the next to form a black wall of gloom. The wall rose into the air until it was lost in the curving atmosphere of the earth’s horizon, and it stretched across all of the rugged Northland, huge, dark, and terrible — its center the kingdom of the Warlock Lord. It seemed to foreshadow the relentless, inevitable approach of an endless night.