Terry Brooks - Paladins of Shannara - The Black Irix (Short Story)

Panamon seemed to take his words to heart. On the following day, he went out of his way to speak with Flick, telling him how much help he expected he would be to them and how pleased he was to have him along. Flick was clearly doubtful at first, but after a while he began to respond to the other’s efforts, and the ride north immediately became more pleasant for everyone.

During their travels, they had seen almost no one. By the time they reached the banks of the River Lethe and the Knife Edge Mountains came into view through a screen of mist and gray, the country had turned so barren that it seemed impossible anyone or anything could possibly find a way to subsist. The landscape was composed of rock and dirt and grasses that were so dried out and prickly, they cut like knives if you brushed up against them.

That was all you could see in any direction.

There was nothing out there. Anywhere.

Except for the Harrgs.

At least Panamon knew what they were and was prepared for them when they appeared. The travelers were camped on the evening of the fifth day, their horses tethered, their fire built, and the night black and silent around them. But moon and stars lit the blasted terrain surrounding them so they could see the squat shapes when they began to close in.

“What’s that?” Shea asked, the first to catch sight of the creatures moving at the edges of the firelight like vague and indistinct shadows.

“Harrgs,” Panamon answered casually. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t move?” Flick asked in disbelief, getting a good look at what they were facing now as the creatures edged close enough to be seen clearly. They not only sounded like pigs, snuffling and grunting, but they looked like pigs—pigs with tusks and huge, hairy bodies and mean little eyes. There were at least a dozen of them, moving back and forth like phantoms.

“What are those?” Shea whispered.

“Feral pigs, of a sort. Boars, really. They live here; this is their country. They eat those sharp-edged grasses, mostly. But they’re omnivores, so we don’t want to take chances. Quiet, now.”

He was fumbling beneath his cloak in the pouch he always wore strapped about his waist, digging in it.

The Harrgs were getting close. Very close. Shea and Flick edged nearer the fire, scooting like startled crabs. “Panamon,” Shea hissed.

A second later the thief leapt to his feet and flung what appeared to be a handful of pebbles at the Harrgs. The creatures backed off a few steps, hesitant yet undeterred. Then one or two of them inched forward, sniffing loudly. A moment later Shea and Flick could hear the sound of chewing.

But only a heartbeat after that the night silence was filled with the sounds of agonized squealing and snorting as one or more of the Harrgs went wild, leaping and charging about, sending the others into a frenzy that ended with all of them racing away into the darkness.

Panamon brushed off his hands. “Pepper root. The Harrgs can’t stand it. I disguised the smell so they would eat it, knowing they will eat just about anything. They won’t be back. Not that we were in any real danger from them.”

“Those tusks suggest otherwise,” Flick pointed out.

“Well, yes, perhaps they do,” the thief conceded. “But Harrgs are not hunters; they’re opportunists. They were more curious about us than anything.”

He came back to where they were still crouched by the fire and sat down again. The night air had turned chilly with the deepening of the darkness, and he rubbed his hands briskly.

“Cold,” he said.

“How do you happen to know so much about Harrgs?” Shea asked.

Panamon shrugged. “I know a few things.”

“It was fortunate you knew about this one, wasn’t it?”

Panamon did not miss the implication. He shrugged. “I knew about the Harrgs because I’ve run into them before.” He cleared his throat and spit. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to leave any further discussion of the subject until morning. I am tired, and I need my rest.”

Shea and Flick exchanged a quick glance as the thief picked up his blanket, found a suitable piece of hard ground, lay down with his back to them, and went to sleep.

He needs his rest , Flick mouthed to Shea and rolled his eyes.

* * *

The morning dawned gray and sullen, the weather typical for the Northland and the country of the Skull Kingdom. No matter that the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers were dead and gone; the weather never changed. After eating breakfast and packing their gear—and at Panamon’s urging—Shea reached inside his tunic and brought out the Elfstones to attempt to locate the Black Irix. While he hadn’t said anything about it to his brother or Panamon, he had experimented with the Stones about a year ago after returning home, just because he wanted to know if he could still command the magic. He had gone deep into the woods before using them, then chosen a simple task—finding out what his father was doing back in Shady Vale.

He had gone through the process of forming in his mind a clear image of his father’s face, and the magic of the Elfstones had warmed within his hand and then rushed swiftly through his body, filling him with their presence and an awareness of their power. Moments later the familiar blue light had materialized and begun to weave its way through the trees, back to his home and to where his father sat eating his lunch within the inn’s kitchen. It illuminated the scene for several long moments, then vanished once more.

Shea had his answer. He could still summon the magic if he needed to. He could still wield the Elfstones’ power. Satisfied, he had pocketed the Stones, taken them back to Shady Vale, hidden them away again, and not employed them since.

So this morning marked only his second attempt at using them since the search for the Sword of Shannara ended, but he had every reason to believe there would be no difficulty. He felt a certain amount of pressure from having Panamon standing right next to him, though not enough to rattle him. He pictured the Irix as he remembered it, called up the magic, then watched as it exploded from the Stones and rocketed away across the flats in a brilliant streak of blue light. It found the Knife Edge first and then a huge, pitted stone fortress that was walled about and defended by armed guards. Then it slipped inside and passed down a series of corridors, through several doors, and ended inside a sleeping chamber.

Once there, it swept the floor to where a broad woven rug decorated the center of the room, burrowed through the rug to a stone slab and beneath the slab to an iron vault embedded in the mountain bedrock, and finally inside the vault.

There, amid collections of gemstones and small chests of gold, silver, and ivory, lay the Black Irix. He saw the image clearly—as did Flick and Panamon—and then it vanished, and the light from the Elfstones with it.

Shea closed his fist about the Stones and looked at Panamon for confirmation. “Now we know for certain,” the thief said. “All we need to do is complete our journey.”

This was too much for Flick. “That’s all, is it? Just ride a little farther, find a way to get inside an impregnable fortress, avoid being seen by any of perhaps a hundred guards, slip down to what likely is Kestra Chule’s own bedchamber, open that vault embedded in the floor, and help ourselves to the Irix? Really? That’s all?”

“Yes, it doesn’t look quite as easy as you make it sound,” Shea agreed.

Panamon was already loading his gear on his horse, only half listening to them. “That’s because you’re making assumptions you shouldn’t. For example, we don’t have to find a way into Kestra Chule’s stronghold and we don’t have to avoid being seen.” He looked back over his shoulder. “We are invited guests.”