Terry Brooks - Terry Brooks - Paladins of Shannara - Allanon's Quest (Short Story)

Finally, their numbers reduced by more than half, they turned and fled into the fields and the surrounding countryside, the desire to fight gone out of them.

Allanon clung to one of the uprights supporting the porch roof, watching them flee. Derrivanian’s help had been worth nothing. He would have to go back and start over. Once he healed, of course. Once he felt strong enough to do so.

Dizziness washed through him, and a glance down at his robes reinforced his suspicion that he was losing blood rapidly. He pressed gently against the knife wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, using a thin skein of healing magic to help close the ragged opening.

He was engaged in that effort when the Skull Bearer appeared.

He didn’t see it at first, but he heard the slow beating of its wings. Then it was swinging around from behind the farmhouse, making no effort to disguise its coming, settling in slow, insolent fashion onto the corpse-strewn yard in front of the porch. Black-scaled from head to foot, and long-limbed in a way that made its crooked arms and legs seem all out of proportion, it was warded by the cape of its huge wings. Eyes, bright and expectant, glittered from beneath a heavy brow that shadowed its roughhewn face.

“Druid,” it hissed at him.

“You arranged all this,” Allanon replied, making it a statement of fact.

“I did.”

“Why go to such trouble?”

The other’s breathing was deep and rough, as if its lungs could not manage to draw in enough air. “Because the Master wishes it. Because it pleases me. Do you know what you have done this day? You have put an end to your last chance at preventing our return.”

Allanon stared, uncertain what the creature was saying.

“The man lying at your feet, the one you used to shield yourself? He is Weir, and he is the last of the Shannara. The last hope you had. We would have killed him ourselves, but you saved us the trouble.”

Allanon felt despair fill him—what had he been manipulated into doing?—but his expression never changed. “Is this your hope, creature? I think a man who sold his services to the Warlock Lord was never the Shannara we needed, and killing him is of no importance.” But doubt still nagged at him. What if the man had been an innocent, trapped, like himself, by the Warlock Lord’s forces? What if his last hope truly was gone?

The great wings drew close about the dark body. “Think what you wish. It matters not the least to me. But your end draws near, Allanon. Like the man lying at your feet, you are the last of your kind. Time will not save you.”

“Do you intend to finish what your assassins started?” Allanon asked the Skull Bearer. “Because your power lessens in daylight, does it not?”

The other hissed at him. “Why bother to kill you? I have come to bear witness to your misery. You hide it well, but your despair is revealed nevertheless. You hoped this man would save your people, but now that cannot happen. Worse still is the way it was accomplished. You were betrayed, Druid. The one who sent you gave you over to me. Think on that. Then do with him what you will.”

The Skull Bearer spread its wings and began to lift away, circling upward into the sky.

“My brothers and I will return for you soon, Allanon!” it called back to him. “Watch for us!”

Then the creature was gone, and the Druid was alone.

Allanon chose not to spend the night in the farmhouse even though his knife wound was serious enough that it would be wiser to stay where he was. But with dead men all around him and the prospect of the Skull Bearer changing its mind and making a return trip—perhaps with others for company—the Druid decided it was better to put a little distance between himself and the day’s events. Using his magic to strengthen himself as best he could and setting course for friendlier ground, he mounted his horse and rode south into the forests of the Elven Westland and found refuge with friends in a small outpost miles from anything.

There he allowed his wounds to be treated by the wife’s practiced hands and took to bed, where he slept undisturbed for thirty hours. Then he rose to wash himself and eat and drink for the first time in two days, and went back to bed.

It took four days of rest, traditional healing skills, and Druid magic before he was fit enough to travel again. At the end of that time, as dawn broke and the day began, he reclaimed his horse, bid his friends farewell, and set out for Archer Trace.

His plans for Derrivanian were still unformed. He understood his options, and he knew that, when the time came, he would have to choose among them. But his thoughts were dark and tinged with anger, and he did not want to get too close to them until he understood for certain what had happened. It was too easy to conclude that he already understood everything. But he had believed that once before, when going in search of Weir, and it had almost been the death of him. This time he would be more circumspect and less resolute about what he thought he knew.

He rode through the day at a steady pace, but he made frequent stops to rest and took time to eat and drink and replenish the magic that healed his wounds. He breathed in the spring air, feeling warmth in its breezes, the first hint of summer’s approach. It was a time of rebirth in the world, the yearly beginnings of new life and fresh possibility. He wanted to feel just a little of that, wanted to hold it in his heart and draw from its strength.

Twilight approached as he came to the edge of Archer Trace and turned down the roadway that would lead to the cottage of Eldra Derrivanian. He no longer bothered to consider what he was going to do, even though it was not yet decided. He would know when he faced the man. His instincts and his intellect would show him the way. He was a Druid, after all, and a Druid always knew.

He reined in his horse at the gate bearing the rooster carving, left it tied to the fence, and walked to the door of the cottage. Derrivanian opened the door before Allanon reached it.

“You’re alive,” the old man said, and in the tone of his voice, Allanon detected an unexpected note of relief.

They stood on the porch staring at each other. “Why did you give me up to them like that?” Allanon asked finally.

Derrivanian shook his head. “I wasn’t offered a choice. Come in. I will tell you everything.”

They entered Derrivanian’s home, which looked exactly the same as it had when the Druid had visited the last time—counters and dusty furniture cluttered with pieces of clothing and unwashed dishes, mattress and bedding shoved into one corner, and the bedroom door closed.

The old man beckoned the Druid to the kitchen table, asked if his guest would like a glass of ale and, on receiving a negative answer, turned his back to pour one for himself. He studied the glass a moment, then returned to the table. Once again, the two men sat across from each other in the mix of fading daylight and approaching night.

“I did not want you to be killed,” Derrivanian said.

“That’s very reassuring.” Allanon kept his voice steady even though he was seething. “But if you didn’t want me killed, why did you put me in that situation? You aren’t pretending you didn’t know what they would do, are you?”

The old man shook his head. “No, I knew exactly what they intended. The Skull Bearer told me when it came to find me several weeks ago. I don’t know how it found me, but it did. It explained very carefully what I was to do and why I should do it. It told me that if I failed, Collice would die. If I did as I was told, she would be allowed to live. That was the choice I was given.”