The Black Irix

* * *

Four months later, with the summer mostly gone and the first signs of an approaching autumn reflected in chilly early mornings and leaves turning color, Shea Ohmsford was hauling wood for use in the big stone fireplace in the tavern’s common room. He did it by hand rather than by cart because he was still proving to himself that he was 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 red and 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 would. In point of fact, he looked exactly the same as the last time the Valeman had seen him–sun–browned face, unruly dark hair with touches of gray at the temples, piercing blue eyes, and a ready smile. A small, thin mustache gave him a rakish look. He was always charming and never predictable. With Panamon, there was always more than what appeared on the surface.

Shea remembered it all, fleeting thoughts that came and went as he walked the other inside and dumped his load of wood in the bin next to the fireplace. Then he walked over to the bar, drew down a couple of tankards of ale, and led his companion over to one of the tables in the mostly empty common room.

Panamon raised his tankard in a salute. “To surviving the bad and enjoying the good.”

Shea clinked his tankard with Panamon’s and drank. “You look as fit as ever.”

“Oh, I am. I don’t age, you know. I prefer to stay just as I was when you first met me. I’ve found that age to be a perfect fit for me, and I have decided to keep it.”

“Nice trick.”

“Magic, of a sort. You can do it, but it takes practice.” He leaned forward. “Rather like using those blue Stones you were carrying around when I went with you into the Northland. Do you remember?”

Shea nodded. “How could I forget?”

“Do you still have those Stones?”

Right away, Shea knew there was a reason for asking that went beyond mere curiosity. But this was Panamon Creel, and it would have been out of character for him not to be hiding something. “I do.”

“You can still use them?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t had reason to try for a while.”

The thief laughed. “Good point. I certainly hope you haven’t. The good life of the Vale is founded on enjoying peace and prosperity, not engaging in life–and–death struggles. You’ve been well, I trust, in the last year or two?”

He hadn’t, of course, and he told Panamon about his struggle to recover from what had happened to him in the Skull Kingdom. Panamon listened and nodded and drank his ale, his eyes bright and interested, his face impassive. When Shea had finished, he suggested another tankard–for himself, since Shea had barely touched his.

Shea refilled the other’s drink from behind the bar and then returned. He glanced around as he did so–a necessary habit when you are an innkeeper’s son–to see if anyone needed anything. He was surprised to find that the room was empty.

“How is Curzad?” Panamon asked as he took his seat. “Your father has always been one of those who look like they might live forever.”

“Just so,” Shea answered. “It was being of his blood, I think, that kept me safe when things looked bad.”

“Yes, the sickness.” Panamon looked about casually. “I confess I came here for a reason, young Shea, beyond the obvious desire to visit an old friend. I have a favor to ask.”

Shea nodded. Now we are getting to it. “Ask it.”

“This may take a few minutes. Bear with me. Are you sure you don’t want a refill before we start? Once I get going, I like to keep going.”

“Just say what you have to say,” the Valeman replied.

Panamon squared himself up and leaned forward. “You will remember that we lost a good friend when we tried to escape from the Warlock Lord. He gave his life for us. He was my companion for many years, but almost to the end of his life he was a mystery to me. We found out together, you and I, the secret he was hiding when we were taken by Rock Trolls. Do you remember all this?”

Shea did, of course. Keltset, the giant Rock Troll, had been with Panamon when they had rescued Shea from Gnome raiders. Then, subsequently, when they were found by members of his own kind, he was placed on trial as a traitor for being in the company of people from a Race with whom his own were at war.

“Keltset,” he said.

“You will remember, as well, then,” Panamon continued, “that you and I were saved from being handed over to the Warlock Lord, and he from being thrown off a cliff, when he revealed he was the holder of the highest honor that can be accorded by the Troll nation to one of their own. He stood there before them and displayed it boldly–a challenge to all to dispute his loyalty and his courage when it was being questioned. That was an unforgettable moment, wasn’t it, Shea?”

The Valeman nodded. Keltset had produced from a leather belt strapped about his waist an iron medallion with a cross embedded in a circle, held it up for all to see, then hung it about his neck in a dramatic display that had stunned all assembled and thereby gained them their freedom.

“Do you remember what that medallion was called?”

“The Black Irix,” Shea answered.

Panamon Creel leaned back in his seat. “It was lost with Keltset when the walls of that mountain passageway collapsed on him. I intend to find it and bring it out.”

Shea stared. “From under a collapsed mountain?”

“No, from wherever Kestra Chule has hidden it.”

The Valeman considered. “Back up a bit. Who is Kestra Chule?”

“A buyer and seller of stolen goods.”

“He has the Black Irix?”

“He does.”

“How did he manage that? How do you even know about this?”

Panamon Creel shrugged. “As to the first, I don’t know. I don’t even know how he found out where it was, let alone how he managed to dig it out. As to the second, I am a thief, as you have pointed out to me a time or two in the past. It is my job to know about such things.”

“So you intend to steal it back from him? Why go to all that trouble for a piece of iron, no matter what it represents?”

“Because,” the other said slowly, drawing out the word, “the Black Irix is immensely valuable. There are perhaps a dozen known Irixes in existence, and most of those are in the hands of the Trolls. You cannot overestimate what a collector would pay to get his hands on one. But it is valuable, as well, because the materials used to make it are extremely rare. You might think it is only a piece of iron, but you would be wrong. An Irix is hammered out from a mix of metals, some used for strength and some to provide special value. Auridium is the most precious of those metals. Do you know of it?”

Shea shook his head. He had never heard of auridium.

“It is so valuable that there is only one known source. It is deep in the Eastland and mined by Dwarves, who trade half of what they acquire to the Trolls in exchange for a wagonful of high–quality weapons. That exchange has been going on for a long time. In any case, half an ounce goes into the making of every Irix. That alone would buy you a small kingdom.”

He exaggerated, but Shea got the point. “So you want to recover the Irix from Kestra Chule. Why don’t you just do so? What do you want with me?”

“As I said,” Panamon replied, “Chule has hidden it.”

“So how does …,” Shea began and then stopped. “Oh, I see. You want me to come with you and use the Elfstones to find it.”

“Because of the conditions under which I will be exercising my particular skills, it would be helpful to know where exactly the Irix is hidden in advance of extracting it. You could tell me that. Or, more to the point, your special Stones could. I am asking this as a favor to someone who has done much for you in the past.”

Shea gave him a look. “Someone whose life you saved on more than one occasion. You forgot that part.”

The other man shrugged. “I was holding it in reserve, in case further persuasion proved necessary.”

“The problem with this request is that I have sworn to one and all–myself included–that I would not take part in another quest, no matter what. I have promised not to leave the Vale again. And after recovering from my sickness, I reaffirmed that vow.”

“Are you saying you will not go with me? Even knowing how much you owe me?”

“I am saying I have made a vow and now you are asking me to break it.”

“For a very good reason.”

“A very good reason for you. But not necessarily for me.”

Panamon sighed. “Shea, consider. You told me you were so sick you almost died, and that you found yourself blessed by your recovery. Of what use is all that if you spend the rest of your life hunkered down in Shady Vale, never venturing farther than its borders, never taking another chance on anything, never risking even once the possibility you might do someone a great service?”

Panamon held up his hand quickly to forestall the Valeman’s next response. “And I am not talking about myself. I am talking about those who loved and cared for Keltset, and who would be made glad beyond words if we were able to recover his Black Irix and return it to them. Does that count for nothing?”

Shea tightened his lips, thinking. “What do you get out of this? Wait! You are planning on returning it, aren’t you? You don’t intend to sell it yourself?”

Panamon looked shocked. “No, I don’t intend to sell it myself! What kind of creature do you think I am? This is Keltset we’re talking about. He saved our lives, and mine more than once! I’m doing this for him. I don’t want Kestra Chule to make his fortune on the death of my friend! I intend that he not make a single coin, and that the Irix go back to Keltset’s people where it belongs!”

“You’re telling me the truth? You’re giving it back?”

“What would you do?”

“What I would do isn’t necessarily what you would do.”

“Don’t play games with this.” Panamon was flushed, angry. “Just answer the question! What would you do?”

They were shouting at each other now, and upon realizing it they went quiet at once. Panamon picked up his tankard and drained it. Then he passed it across the table to Shea who took it without a word, carried it back behind the serving counter one more time, refilled it, and returned.

As he sat down again, he found himself remembering what Flick had said about the woodswoman’s prediction. He hadn’t believed it possible that it would come true. He had thought it funny that it would cause Flick to be so concerned.

Well, he wasn’t laughing now.

“I would do what you are doing,” he said quietly. “How soon do we leave?”