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

Shea stared at him, speechless. “What are you talking about?” Flick demanded.

“Kestra Chule and I are longtime acquaintances. I’ve been here many times before, so I simply told him we were coming. Now, mount up.”

He refused to say anything more about it, adding only that after they reached their destination they should just play along and keep their mouths shut. “He doesn’t know the real purpose of our visit, so it might be wise not to give it away.”

They rode all that morning and through the midday, and by early afternoon they had reached the River Lethe and found a worn wooden bridge that spanned a narrows between high bluffs that dropped off into a canyon hundreds of feet deep. The bridge—an ancient structure formed of rotting planks, fraying ropes, and rusted-out iron supports—looked as if it was about to collapse. But Panamon ignored that, urging his horse onto the rickety wooden planking—the entire bridge swaying and creaking as he did so—and crossed without incident. Shea went next, his heart in his throat when one of the struts snapped explosively. Flick went last, his eyes closed the whole way, letting his horse decide if this was worth it or not.

“What’s the point of life without risk; doesn’t risk serve to make life sweeter?” the thief asked them afterward. It was a question neither cared to answer, even if speech had been readily available to them.

The way forward from there to the base of the mountains took another two hours, and that was because gullies and sharp drops had riven the rocky, barren terrain and needed to be carefully navigated. Progress was slow, and even after Kestra Chule’s stronghold came into view, it took considerable time to reach it.

Time the brothers spent pondering the full extent of what they had let themselves in for.

Because the closer they got to the fortress, the more formidable it looked. It was a huge complex to begin with, embedded in the mountainside between two cliffs. Its walls were high and deep, the buildings disappearing far back into the shadow of the cliffs, with each tier set atop a series of rocky elevations that left the stronghold hundreds of feet high. The outer walls were manned, and the ramparts throughout bristled with mounted crossbows and catapults of all shapes and sizes. Massive towers buttressed the ends of those walls, and provided slits cut into the stone for firing on unfortunate attackers.

The whole of the fortress was blackened by ash and soot and pitted by age and weather, yet even where there were signs of erosion the huge stone blocks were so deep and so broad that there was little impact. The gates were ironbound and twenty feet high, their tops spiked and ragged. The guards on the wall wore heavy armor and carried huge pikes.

Even an entire army would have trouble getting into this citadel, Shea thought.

Then it occurred to him that getting out might turn out to be every bit as hard as getting in.

“You’re sure about this?” Shea asked Panamon Creel impulsively, but the thief just smiled.

They rode out of the badlands and up to the huge gates, Panamon leading the way and showing no particular concern for what lay ahead. When they arrived at the walls, he called up to the watch to let them enter, giving his name. To the surprise of the Ohmsford brothers, the gates opened almost at once, allowing them to pass through and enter a courtyard where they were met by other guards. They dismounted, and their horses were taken from them and led away. A member of the household staff, clearly identifiable by his more ornate garb, came out to meet them and led them inside.

The interior of the stronghold wasn’t much to look at, consisting for the most part of stone-block walls lacking decoration or softness; hard, bare surfaces were clearly the preferred decor. They passed down countless hallways, climbed dozens of steps, and entered and departed numerous chambers before finally reaching a dining room where they were met by other members of the household staff and taken to seats at a long wooden table. Platters of food were brought, and they were urged by their guide to eat all they wanted. All three were hungry enough not to argue the matter or ask after their host, and they set about consuming everything in sight. Ale was poured and musicians appeared from behind curtains, and all at once it felt like a festive celebration.

“Why are they so happy to see us?” Shea asked Panamon at one point, leaning close so that the attendants wouldn’t hear.

The thief shrugged. “I told you. Chule considers me a friend. He’s trying to make an impression.”

Shea let the matter drop and went back to eating the first good meal they’d enjoyed since leaving the Vale. But just as he was finishing, he noticed that a number of guards from the gates had entered the room and were standing watch at all the doors. A sickening feeling swept through him.

He was about to alert Flick when a small, ferret-faced man with a thick mop of black hair and a heavy mustache entered the room and called out to Panamon in a surprisingly deep voice.

“Well met, old friend!” he boomed. “Welcome, welcome!”

Panamon rose at once and moved out to greet him with arms open wide. Hugs and backslapping followed, and Shea thought it all just a little overdone given what Panamon had come here to do. But he supposed the thief felt it was necessary or he wouldn’t be doing it.

When they finally ended their embrace, Kestra Chule turned to Shea and Flick. “And these are your young friends.” He made it a statement of fact. Smiling broadly, his hands extended, he walked over to greet them. “Welcome to my home. So good of you to come.”

He shook their hands and then looked past them. “Guards,” he called out.

Before they realized what was happening, Shea and Flick had been seized and their wrists bound. Without a word to either of them, Panamon stepped forward, reached into Shea’s tunic, and withdrew the pouch containing the Elfstones.

“Sorry about this, Shea,” he said, hefting the pouch as he smiled at the Valeman. “Some things can’t be helped.”

He turned away and presented the Elfstones to Chule. The other man eagerly loosened the drawstrings and dumped the contents into his hand. “Oh, my! Look at this. The only ones of their kind, and now they belong to me!”

Shea felt a surge of fury on watching the man fondle and caress the Elfstones. But even now he could not bring himself to believe that this had been Panamon’s sole plan. They had been friends for too long, had gone through so much together. He knew Panamon Creel and he trusted him. For Panamon to betray him like this was unthinkable.

“You are the lowest sort of vermin!” Flick was screaming at the thief. “You are worse than any snake!”

“Now, now,” Panamon soothed. “Name-calling is pointless. Best just to accept things for what they are, Flick.”

Shea tried to think. “You know you can’t use them,” he said to Chule. “No one who isn’t an Elf can. You’ve stolen them for nothing.”

“You don’t understand, Shea,” Panamon said. “Kestra doesn’t have any interest in using the Elfstones. He simply wants to add them to his collection of rare artifacts. The Stones are more valuable and unique than the Irix; anyone who is a serious collector would want them for his own.”

“At our expense,” Flick spat at him.

“Unfortunately.”

Chule was dumping the Elfstones back in their pouch as the thief turned to him. “Better make sure you lock those away somewhere safe,” he cautioned. “Others will hear of this and try to find a way to relieve you of them.”

“Oh, I don’t think I have to worry about that,” the other said, grinning. “This is a difficult place to break into. Nevertheless, I will lock them away with my other treasures.”