The Wishsong of Shannara by Terry Brooks Page B

Slanter nodded. The Gnome let his gaze shift back to Jair. Slowly he pulled clear the hood of his forest cloak. Rough, broken features dominated his broad face. Cruel eyes studied the Valeman dispassionately, probing.
    “What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
    “Jair Ohmsford,” Jair answered at once.
    “What was the Druid doing at your home?”
    Jair hesitated, trying to decide what he should say. Something unpleasant flickered in the Gnome’s eyes. With a sudden snap of his hands he brought the cudgel about, sweeping the Valeman’s feet from beneath him. Jair fell hard, the breath knocked from his body. The Gnome stood over him silently, then reached down, seized the front of his tunic and pulled him back to his feet.
    “What was the Druid doing in your home?”
    Jair swallowed, trying to hide his fear. “He came to find my father,” he lied.
    “Why?”
    “My father is the holder of Elfstones. Allanon will use them as a weapon against the Mord Wraiths.”
    There was an endless moment of silence. Jair did not even breathe. If Slanter had found the Elfstones in his tunic, the lie was already discovered and he was finished. He waited, eyes fixed on the Gnome.
    “Where are they now, the Druid and your father?” the other said finally.
    Jair exhaled. “Gone east.” He hesitated, then added, “My mother and sister are visiting in the villages south of the Vale. I was supposed to wait at the inn for their return.”
    The Gnome grunted noncommittally. I’ve got to try to protect them, Jair thought. Spilk was watching him carefully. He did not look away. You can’t tell that I’m lying, he thought. You can’t.
    Then a gnarled finger lifted from the cudgel. “Do you do magic?”
    “I  . . .” Jair glanced at the dark faces about him.
    The cudgel came up, a quick, sharp blow that caught Jair across the knees, throwing him to the earth once more. The Gnome smiled, eyes hard. He yanked Jair back to his feet.
    “Answer me—do you do magic?”
    Jair nodded wordlessly, mute with pain. He could barely stand.
    “Show me,” the Gnome ordered.
    “Spilk.” Slanter’s voice broke softly through the sudden silence. “You might want to reconsider that request.”
    Spilk glanced briefly at Slanter, then dismissed him. His eyes returned to Jair. “Show me.”
    Jair hesitated. Again the cudgel came up. Even though Jair was ready this time, he could not move fast enough to avoid the blow. It caught him alongside the face. Pain exploded in his head, and tears flooded his eyes. He dropped to his knees, but Spilk’s thick hands knotted in his tunic and once more he was hauled to his feet.
    “Show me!” the Gnome demanded.
    Then anger flooded through Jair—anger so intense that it burned. He gave no thought to what he did next; he simply acted. A quick, muted cry broke from his lips and turned abruptly to a frightening hiss. Instantly Spilk was covered with huge gray spiders. The Gnome Sedt shrieked in dismay, tearing frantically at the great hairy insects, falling back from Jair. The Gnomes behind him scattered, spears and cudgels hammering downward as they sought to keep the spiders from their own bodies. The Sedt went down under a flurry of blows, thrashing upon the forest earth, trying to dislodge the terrible things that clung so tenaciously to him, his cries filling the morning air.
    Jair sang a moment longer and then quit. Had he not been bound hand and foot or had he not been dizzy still from the blows struck by Spilk, he would have taken advantage of the confusion the wishsong’s use had created to attempt an escape. But Slanter had made certain he could not run. As the anger left him he grew silent.
    For a few seconds Spilk continued to roll upon the ground, tearing at himself. Then abruptly he realized that the spiders were gone. Slowly he came to his knees, his breathing harsh and ragged, his battered face twisting until his eyes found Jair. He surged to his feet with a howl and threw himself at the