The Sword of Shannara, Part 1: In the Shadow of the Warlock Lord by Terry Brooks Page B
Authors: Terry Brooks
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was convinced that it would be better for the Valemen if at least one of them kept his guard up and his mouth closed.
Menion Leah listened quietly to the long tale, evincing no visible surprise until the part about Shea’s background, with which he appeared immeasurably pleased. His lean brown face remained for the most part an inscrutable mask, broken only by that perpetual half smile and the small wrinkles at the corners of the sharp gray eyes. He recognized quickly enough why the Valemen had come to him. They could never expect to make it from Leah through the lowlands of Clete and from there through the Black Oaks without assistance from someone who knew the country—someone they could trust. Correction, Menion thought, smiling inwardly—someone Shea could trust. He knew that Flick would never have agreed to come to Leah unless his brother had insisted. There had never been much of a friendship between Flick and himself. Still, they were both here, both willing to seek his help, whatever the reason, and he would never be able to refuse anything to Shea, even where there was risk to his own life.
Shea finished his story and waited patiently for Menion’s response. The highlander seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the half-filled glass of wine at his elbow. When he spoke, his voice was distant.
“The Sword of Shannara. I haven’t heard that story in years—never really believed it was true. Now out of complete obscurity it reappears with my old friend Shea Ohmsford as the heir apparent.Or are you?” His eyes snapped up suddenly. “You could be a red herring, a decoy for these Northland creatures to chase and destroy. How can we be sure about Allanon? From the tale you’ve told me, he seems almost as dangerous as the things hunting you—perhaps even one of them.”
Flick started noticeably at this suggestion, but Shea shook his head firmly.
“I can’t bring myself to believe that. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe not,” continued Menion slowly, inwardly musing over the prospect. “Could be I’m getting old and suspicious. Frankly, this whole story is pretty improbable. If it’s true, you are fortunate to have gotten this far on your own. There are a great many tales of the Northland, of the evil that dwells in the wilderness above the Streleheim Plains—power, they say, beyond the understanding of any mortal being….”
He trailed off for a moment, then sipped gingerly at his wine.
“The Sword of Shannara… just the possibility that the legend might be true is enough to …” He shook his head and grinned openly. “How can I deny myself the chance to find out? You’ll need a guide to get you to the Anar, and I’m your man.”
“I knew you would be.” Shea reached over and gripped his hand in thanks. Flick groaned softly, but managed a feeble smile.
“Now then, let’s see where we stand.” Menion took charge quickly, and Flick went back to drinking wine. “What about these Elfstones? Let’s have a look at them.”
Shea quickly produced the small leather pouch and emptied the contents into his open palm. The three stones sparkled brightly in the torchlight, their blue glow deep and rich. Menion touched one gently and then picked it up.
“They are indeed beautiful,” he acknowledged approvingly. “I don’t know when I’ve seen their like. But how can they help us?”
“I don’t know that yet,” admitted the Valeman reluctantly. “Ionly know what Allanon told us—that the stones were only to be used in emergencies, and that they were very powerful.”
“Well, I hope that he was right,” snorted the other. “I would hate to discover the hard way that he was mistaken. But I suppose we’ll have to live with that possibility.”
He paused for a moment and watched as Shea placed the stones back in the pouch and tucked the leather container into his tunic front. When the Valeman looked up again, he was staring blankly into his wineglass.
“I do know something
Menion Leah listened quietly to the long tale, evincing no visible surprise until the part about Shea’s background, with which he appeared immeasurably pleased. His lean brown face remained for the most part an inscrutable mask, broken only by that perpetual half smile and the small wrinkles at the corners of the sharp gray eyes. He recognized quickly enough why the Valemen had come to him. They could never expect to make it from Leah through the lowlands of Clete and from there through the Black Oaks without assistance from someone who knew the country—someone they could trust. Correction, Menion thought, smiling inwardly—someone Shea could trust. He knew that Flick would never have agreed to come to Leah unless his brother had insisted. There had never been much of a friendship between Flick and himself. Still, they were both here, both willing to seek his help, whatever the reason, and he would never be able to refuse anything to Shea, even where there was risk to his own life.
Shea finished his story and waited patiently for Menion’s response. The highlander seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the half-filled glass of wine at his elbow. When he spoke, his voice was distant.
“The Sword of Shannara. I haven’t heard that story in years—never really believed it was true. Now out of complete obscurity it reappears with my old friend Shea Ohmsford as the heir apparent.Or are you?” His eyes snapped up suddenly. “You could be a red herring, a decoy for these Northland creatures to chase and destroy. How can we be sure about Allanon? From the tale you’ve told me, he seems almost as dangerous as the things hunting you—perhaps even one of them.”
Flick started noticeably at this suggestion, but Shea shook his head firmly.
“I can’t bring myself to believe that. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe not,” continued Menion slowly, inwardly musing over the prospect. “Could be I’m getting old and suspicious. Frankly, this whole story is pretty improbable. If it’s true, you are fortunate to have gotten this far on your own. There are a great many tales of the Northland, of the evil that dwells in the wilderness above the Streleheim Plains—power, they say, beyond the understanding of any mortal being….”
He trailed off for a moment, then sipped gingerly at his wine.
“The Sword of Shannara… just the possibility that the legend might be true is enough to …” He shook his head and grinned openly. “How can I deny myself the chance to find out? You’ll need a guide to get you to the Anar, and I’m your man.”
“I knew you would be.” Shea reached over and gripped his hand in thanks. Flick groaned softly, but managed a feeble smile.
“Now then, let’s see where we stand.” Menion took charge quickly, and Flick went back to drinking wine. “What about these Elfstones? Let’s have a look at them.”
Shea quickly produced the small leather pouch and emptied the contents into his open palm. The three stones sparkled brightly in the torchlight, their blue glow deep and rich. Menion touched one gently and then picked it up.
“They are indeed beautiful,” he acknowledged approvingly. “I don’t know when I’ve seen their like. But how can they help us?”
“I don’t know that yet,” admitted the Valeman reluctantly. “Ionly know what Allanon told us—that the stones were only to be used in emergencies, and that they were very powerful.”
“Well, I hope that he was right,” snorted the other. “I would hate to discover the hard way that he was mistaken. But I suppose we’ll have to live with that possibility.”
He paused for a moment and watched as Shea placed the stones back in the pouch and tucked the leather container into his tunic front. When the Valeman looked up again, he was staring blankly into his wineglass.
“I do know something
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