Paladins of Shannara: The Black Irix (Short Story) by Terry Brooks Page B
Authors: Terry Brooks
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healed, that it wasn’t a temporary cure. His day stretched ahead of him, filled
with upkeep tasks—patching the porch roof and repairing the hinges on the side kitchen
door after he finished hauling in the wood—all of it providing him with a feeling
of satisfaction at being able to do something that four months earlier he wouldn’t
have. Every day he celebrated his recovery, still remembering how sick he had been.
Flick had driven the wagon out to the miller’s to haul back sacks of grain and would
not return before late afternoon. On the morrow, they would go fishing in the Rappahalladran
River, the day their own to do with as they wished. The air was pungent with the smell
of dying leaves and smoke from fires, the sun warm on his shoulders, and the birdsong
bright and cheerful. It was a good day.
Then he saw the rider approaching. Not on the main road leading into the village and
past the houses and businesses that formed the bulk of the community’s buildings,
but through the woods behind the inn. The rider was sitting casually astride his mount,
letting the horse pick its way through the trees, but his eyes were on the boy. Shea
thought afterward that he probably knew right away who it was, but couldn’t bring
himself to admit it. Instead, he simply stopped where he was, a stack of wood cradled
in his arms, and stared in disbelief.
It was Panamon Creel.
When he had first met him, the thief and adventurer had been clad all in scarlet—a
bold, open challenge to convention and expectation alike. Now he wore woodsman’s garb,
all browns and grays, with the exception of the scarves tied about his arms and waist,
blood redand sleek, a reminder of the old days. His mount was big and strong, a warhorse from
the look of it, with long legs that suggested it could run fast as well as far. Weapons
sheathed and belted dangled from the horse and the man, strapped here and there—some
fully visible, others apparent only from their distinctive shapes beneath clothing
and his saddle pack.
He rode up to Shea and stopped. “Well met, Shea Ohmsford,” he said, swinging down
to stand before him.
“Panamon Creel,” Shea replied in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.
“I should have sent word I was coming. But it is always more fun to show up unexpectedly.
I trust I am not unwelcome here?”
“Not you,” the boy said. “Not ever.”
“Well, then, don’t stand there with your mouth open—show some enthusiasm!”
Shea dropped the wood with a clatter, rushed past the fallen logs, and hugged the
other to him, pounding his back happily. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
It had been over a year and a half since the culmination of the events leading to
Shea’s discovery and use of the Sword of Shannara against the Warlock Lord—an effort
that would never have been successful if not for Panamon Creel. In the aftermath of
Shea’s flight from the Skull Kingdom, he had been forced to leave his friend behind
and thought him forever lost. But Panamon had turned up again weeks later in Shady
Vale, alive and well, eager to recount the tales of those earlier days and to learn
the truth about what had really happened, for much of it had been hidden from him.
Now he was back again—the bad penny returned, the clever trickster everyone so mistrusted,
but who had saved Shea’s life over and over and about whom he could never think badly.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink for a thirsty traveler in that establishment
of yours, would you?” the thief asked, grinning. “I’ve come far and ridden hard, and
I’ve a very parched throat.”
“Come along,” Shea invited, picking up the scattered chunks of wood once more and
starting for the inn. “You can tie up the horse out back and come inside for a glass
of ale.”
“Or two, perhaps?” the other pressed, one eyebrow cocked.
He hadn’t changed, Shea thought. He never
with upkeep tasks—patching the porch roof and repairing the hinges on the side kitchen
door after he finished hauling in the wood—all of it providing him with a feeling
of satisfaction at being able to do something that four months earlier he wouldn’t
have. Every day he celebrated his recovery, still remembering how sick he had been.
Flick had driven the wagon out to the miller’s to haul back sacks of grain and would
not return before late afternoon. On the morrow, they would go fishing in the Rappahalladran
River, the day their own to do with as they wished. The air was pungent with the smell
of dying leaves and smoke from fires, the sun warm on his shoulders, and the birdsong
bright and cheerful. It was a good day.
Then he saw the rider approaching. Not on the main road leading into the village and
past the houses and businesses that formed the bulk of the community’s buildings,
but through the woods behind the inn. The rider was sitting casually astride his mount,
letting the horse pick its way through the trees, but his eyes were on the boy. Shea
thought afterward that he probably knew right away who it was, but couldn’t bring
himself to admit it. Instead, he simply stopped where he was, a stack of wood cradled
in his arms, and stared in disbelief.
It was Panamon Creel.
When he had first met him, the thief and adventurer had been clad all in scarlet—a
bold, open challenge to convention and expectation alike. Now he wore woodsman’s garb,
all browns and grays, with the exception of the scarves tied about his arms and waist,
blood redand sleek, a reminder of the old days. His mount was big and strong, a warhorse from
the look of it, with long legs that suggested it could run fast as well as far. Weapons
sheathed and belted dangled from the horse and the man, strapped here and there—some
fully visible, others apparent only from their distinctive shapes beneath clothing
and his saddle pack.
He rode up to Shea and stopped. “Well met, Shea Ohmsford,” he said, swinging down
to stand before him.
“Panamon Creel,” Shea replied in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.
“I should have sent word I was coming. But it is always more fun to show up unexpectedly.
I trust I am not unwelcome here?”
“Not you,” the boy said. “Not ever.”
“Well, then, don’t stand there with your mouth open—show some enthusiasm!”
Shea dropped the wood with a clatter, rushed past the fallen logs, and hugged the
other to him, pounding his back happily. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
It had been over a year and a half since the culmination of the events leading to
Shea’s discovery and use of the Sword of Shannara against the Warlock Lord—an effort
that would never have been successful if not for Panamon Creel. In the aftermath of
Shea’s flight from the Skull Kingdom, he had been forced to leave his friend behind
and thought him forever lost. But Panamon had turned up again weeks later in Shady
Vale, alive and well, eager to recount the tales of those earlier days and to learn
the truth about what had really happened, for much of it had been hidden from him.
Now he was back again—the bad penny returned, the clever trickster everyone so mistrusted,
but who had saved Shea’s life over and over and about whom he could never think badly.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink for a thirsty traveler in that establishment
of yours, would you?” the thief asked, grinning. “I’ve come far and ridden hard, and
I’ve a very parched throat.”
“Come along,” Shea invited, picking up the scattered chunks of wood once more and
starting for the inn. “You can tie up the horse out back and come inside for a glass
of ale.”
“Or two, perhaps?” the other pressed, one eyebrow cocked.
He hadn’t changed, Shea thought. He never
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