The Wishsong of Shannara by Terry Brooks Page A

in the corners where the ropes bound him to the tree so that it would stay fixed. Then he walked over to the fire and kicked it out. In the faint glow of the embers, Jair could see his stocky form as it moved off into the dark.
    “Ah, me—reduced to chasing down Valemen,” the Gnome muttered. “Waste of talent. Not even a Dwarf! At least they could give me a Dwarf to track. Or the Druid again. Bah! Druid’s gone back to help the Dwarves and here I sit, watching this boy  . . .”
    He muttered on a bit more, most of it unintelligible, and then his voice faded away entirely.
    Jair Ohmsford sat alone in the dark and wondered what he was going to do when morning came.
     
    He slept poorly that night, cramped and bruised by the ropes that bound him, haunted by the specter of what lay ahead. Considered from any point of view, his future appeared bleak. He could expect no help from his friends; after all, no one knew where he was. His parents and Brin, Rone, and Allanon all thought him safely housed at the inn at Shady Vale. Nor could he reasonably anticipate much consideration from his captors. Slanter’s reassurances notwithstanding, he did not expect to be released, no matter how many questions he answered. After all, how would he answer questions about the magic? Slanter clearly thought it something he had been taught. Once the Gnomes learned it was not an acquired skill, but a talent he had been born with, they would want to know more. They would take him to the Eastland, to the Mord Wraiths  . . .
    So the night hours passed. He dozed at times, his weariness overcoming his discomfort and his worry—yet never for very long. Then finally, toward morning, exhaustion overtook him, and at last he drifted off to sleep.
    It was not yet dawn when Slanter shook him roughly awake.
    “Get up,” the Gnome ordered. “The others are here.”
    Jair’s eyes blinked open, squinting into the predawn gray that shrouded the highland forest. The air was chill and damp, even with the blanket still wrapped about his body, and a fine fall mist clung about the dark trunks of the fir. It was deathly still, the forest life not yet come awake. Slanter bent over him, loosing the ropes that bound him to the tree. There were no other Gnomes in sight.
    “Where are they?” he asked as the gag was slipped from his mouth.
    “Close. A hundred yards down the slope.” Slanter gripped the Valeman’s tunic front and hauled him to his feet. “No games now. Keep the magic to yourself. I’ve let you loose from the tree so that you might look the part of a man, but I’ll strap you back again if you cross me. Understand?”
    Jair nodded quickly. Ropes still bound his hands and feet, and his limbs were so badly cramped he could barely manage to stand. He stood with his back against the fir, the muscles of his body aching and stiff. Even if he could manage to break free, he couldn’t run far like this. His mind was dizzy with fatigue and sudden fear as he waited for his strength to return. Answer the questions, Slanter had advised. Don’t be foolish. But what answers could he give? What answers would they accept?
    Then abruptly a line of shadowy figures materialized from out of the gloom, trudging heavily through the forest trees. Two, three, half a dozen, eight—Jair watched as one by one they appeared through the mist, bulky forms wrapped in woolen forest cloaks. Gnomes—rugged yellow features glimpsed from within hoods drawn close, thick-fingered hands clasping spears and cudgels. Not a word passed their lips as they filed into the clearing, but sharp eyes fixed on the captive Valeman and there was no friendliness in their gaze.
    “This him?”
    The speaker stood at the forefront of the others. He was powerfully built, his body corded with muscle, his chest massive. He thrust the butt of his cudgel into the forest earth, gripping it with scarred, gnarled fingers, twisting it slowly.
    “Well, is it?”
    The Gnome glanced briefly at Slanter.