The Elfstones of Shannara

Chapter Thirty–Seven

The old man hummed softly to himself as he sat in the cane–backed rocker and stared out into the darkening forest. Far to the west beyond the wall of trees that locked tightly about the clearing in which he sat, beyond the valley of the Wilderun and the mountains that ringed it, the sun slipped beneath the earth’s horizon and the day’s light faded into dusk. It was the old man’s favorite time of day, the midday heat cooling into evening shadow, the sunset coloring the far skyline crimson ‘and purple, then deepening into blue night. From atop the ridge line, where the woodland trees broke apart enough to permit glimpses of sky, moon, and stars through a screen of limbs and trunks, the air smelled clean for a time, freed of the damp and mustiness that clung to it through the swelter of the day, and the leaves of the forest whispered in a soft, slow nighttime wind. It was as if, for those few moments, the Wilderun were like any other country, and a man might look upon it, as an old and intimate friend.

The old man looked often upon the valley that way, more now than at any other time of the day or night perhaps, but always with that same sense of deep and abiding loyalty few others could ever feel as he, but few others knew the valley as he had come to know it. Oh, it was treacherous, hard and filled with dangers to snare and destroy a man. There were creatures within the Wilderun the like of which could be found in no other place this side of a midnight campfire legend, told with hushed whispers and frightened looks. There was death here, death that came with the passing of every hour, harsh, cruel, and certain. It was a, land of hunter and hunted, each living creature a bit of both, and the old man had seen the best and worst of each in the sixty years that he had made the valley his home. He drummed his fingers on the rocker’s arms and thought back dreamily It was sixty years since he had first come to the Wilderun — a long time, yet barely gone. This had been his home for all those years, and it was a home that a man could respect — not simply another place with houses and people all crowded close, safe, secure, and senselessly dull, but a place of solitude and depth, of challenge and heart, a place to which only a few would ever come because only those few would ever belong. A few like himself, he thought, and now only he remained of those who had once come into the valley. All the rest were gone, claimed by the wilderness, buried somewhere deep within her earth. Of course there were those fools that huddled like frightened dogs within the ragged shacks of Grimpen Ward, cheating and robbing each other and any other fool that might venture into their midst. But the valley was not theirs and never would be, for they had no understanding of what the valley was about nor any wish to learn. They might as well be locked within the closet of some castle for all it meant to any claim that they were its lords and ladies.

Crazy, they called him — those fools in Grimpen Ward. Crazy to live in this wilderness, an old man alone. He grinned crookedly at the thought. Madness peculiar to its owner, perhaps; but he would choose his own over theirs.

«Drifter,” he called gruffly, and the monstrous black dog that stretched at his feet came awake and rose, a giant animal that had the look of both wolf and bear, its massive body bristling with hair, its muzzle yawning wide.

«Hey, you.» The old man grunted, and the dog came over, dropping its great head onto its master’s lap, waiting for its ears to be scratched.

The old man obliged. Somewhere in the growing dark, a scream sounded, quick and piercing, to linger in the sudden stillness as a fading echo, then die. Drifter looked up quickly. The old man nodded. Swamp cat. A big one. Something had crossed its path and paid the price.

His gaze wandered idly, picking out familiar shapes and forms in the half–light. Behind him sat the but in which he lived, a small but solid structure, built of logs and shingles caulked with mortar. A shed and well sat just back of the hut, and a fenced closure that held his mule, and a workbench and lumber. He liked to whittle and carve, liked it well enough that much of his day was spent shaping and honing the wood he took from the great trees about the clearing into odds and ends that it pleased him to look upon. Worthless, he supposed, to everyone but himself, but then he didn’t care much about anyone else, so that was all right. He saw little enough of people and little enough was more than enough, and he didn’t look to give them reasons to seek him out. Drifter was all the company he needed. And those worthless cats that wandered about looking for new places to sleep and table scraps, as if they were no better than common scavengers. And the mule, a dumb but dependable creature.

He stretched and rose. The sun was down and the night sky was laced with stars and moonlight. It was time to fix something to eat for himself and the dog. He looked momentarily toward the tripod and kettle which sat atop a small cooking file several yards in front of him. Yesterday’s soup, and precious little of that — enough, maybe, for one more meal.

He moved toward the fire, shaking his head. He was a smallish man, old and bent, his stick–thin frame clothed in a ragged shirt and half–pants. White hair ringed his bald head in a thin fringe of snow that ran down the length of a roundish jaw to a beard spotted with soot and bits of sawdust. Brown, wrinkled skin covered his tough old body like leather, and his eyes were barely visible through lids that pouched and drooped. He walked with a sort of hunching motion, as if he had just come awake and, finding his muscles cramped with sleep, was attempting to work out the stiffness.

He halted, beside the kettle and stared down into it, trying to decide what he might do to improve the appeal of its contents. It was at that moment that he heard the approach of the horses and wagon, distant still, lost in the dark somewhere up the trail from his hut, winding uncertainly toward him. He turned and stared into the night, waiting. At his side, Drifter growled in an unfriendly manner, and the old man gave him a warning cuff. The minutes slipped away, and the sounds drew closer. Finally a line of shadows emerged from the dusk, winding down over the crest of the rise fronting the clearing — a single wagon with horses in trace and half a dozen riders in tow. The old man’s mood soured the moment he saw the wagon. He knew it well enough, knew it to be Rover, knew it to belong to that rogue Cephelo. He spat to one side with distaste and thought seriously about loosing Drifter on the bunch of them.

The riders and wagon halted just inside the fringes of the clearing. Cephelo’s dark form dismounted and came forward. When he reached the old man, the Rover’s wide–brimmed hat swept down in greeting.

«Well met, Hebel. Good evening to you.»

The old man snorted. «Cephelo. What do you want?»

Cephelo looked shocked. «Hebel, Hebel, this is no greeting for two who have done as much for one another as we. This is no greeting for men who have shared the hardships and misfortunes of humankind. Hello, now.»

The Rover took the old man’s hand and shook it firmly. Hebel neither resisted nor aided the effort.

«Ah, you look well.» Cephelo smiled disarmingly. «The high country is good for the aches and pains of age, I imagine.»

«Aches and pains of age, is it?» Hebel spat and wrinkled his nose. «What are you selling, Cephelo — some cure–all for the infirm?»

Cephelo glanced back at those who had come with him and shrugged apologetically. «You are most unkind, Hebel, most unkind.»

The old man followed his gaze. «What have you done with the rest of your pack? Have they taken up with some other thief?»

This time the Rover’s face darkened slightly. «I have sent them on ahead. They follow the main roadway east to await my coming in the Tirfing. I am here with these few on a matter of some importance. Might we talk a bit?»

«You’re here, aren’t you?» Hebel pointed out. «Talk all you want.»

«And share your fire?»

Hebel shrugged. «I don’t have the food to feed you all — wouldn’t if I did. Maybe you brought something with you, huh?»

Cephelo gave an exaggerated sigh. «We did. Tonight you shall share our dinner.»

He called back to the others. The riders dismounted and began caring for the horses. An old woman had been driving the wagon in the company of a young couple. She climbed down now, removed provisions and cookware from the rear of the wagon, and shuffled wordlessly to the cooking fire. The two who sat with her hesitated momentarily, then came forward at Cephelo’s invitation. They were joined by a slim, dark–haired girl who had been one of the riders.

Hebel turned away wordlessly and reseated himself in the rocker. There was something peculiar about the two who had come down off the wagon seat, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was. They looked like Rovers and yet at the same time they didn’t. He watched them approach with Cephelo and the dark–haired girl. All four seated themselves on the grass about the old man — the dark–haired girl slipping suggestively close to the young man and giving him a bold wink.

«My daughter, Eretria.» Cephelo shot the girl an irritated look as’ he introduced her. «These two are Elves.»

«I’m not blind,” Hebel snapped, recognizing now why they appeared to be something more than Rovers. «What are they doing with you?»

«We have undertaken a quest,” the Rover announced.

Hebel leaned forward. «A quest? With you?» He glanced at the young man, his aged face wrinkling. «You seem like a bright sort. What made you decide to take up with him?»

«He requires a guide through this miserable country,” Cephelo answered for him — rather too quickly, Hebel thought. «Why is it, Hebel, that you insist on making this forsaken wilderness your home? One day I’ll pass by and find your bones, old man, and all because you were too stubborn to take your worthless hide to safer regions.»

«Much you’d care,” Hebel grunted. «For a man such as myself, this land is as safe as any other. I know it, know what walks and breathes and hunts it, know how to keep my distance and when to show my teeth. I’ll outlive you, Rover — mark my words on that.» He pushed back in the rocker, watching Drifter’s dark shadow settle in behind him. «What do you want with me?»

Cephelo shrugged. «A bit of talk, just as I’ve said.»

Hebel laughed hoarsely. «A bit of talk? Come now, Cephelo — what do you want? Don’t waste my time — there isn’t that much of it left.»

«For myself, nothing. For these young Elflings, something of the knowledge stored in that balding old pate. It has taken me a great deal of effort to reach you up here, but there are causes that merit special…»

Hebel had heard enough. «What are you cooking over there?» He allowed himself to be distracted by the smell of the food simmering in the cooking kettle. «What’s in there?»

«How should I know?» Cephelo snapped, irritated by the old man’s seeming inattention.

«Beef, I think. Beef and vegetables.» Hebel rubbed his weathered hands. «I think we should eat before we talk. Got some of that Rover ale with you, Cephelo?»

So they ate plates of stew, day–old bread, dried fruit, and nuts, with glasses of ale to wash it all down. Not much was said while they ate, though a considerable number of glances were exchanged, and those glances told Hebel a good deal more about the situation than whatever words his visitors might have spoken. The Elves, he decided, were there because they had run out of choices in the matter. They cared nothing more for Cephelo and his band than he did. Cephelo, of course, was there because there was something in all of this for him, but what that might be would undoubtedly be kept carefully concealed. It was the dark–haired girl, the Rover’s daughter, who puzzled him most. The way she looked at that Elf lad told him something of what she was about, yet there was more to her than that, more than she was willing to let on. The old man grew, increasingly curious as to what it might be.

At last the food was gone and the ale was drunk. Hebel produced a long pipe, struck flint and tinder to its contents, and puffed a broad wreath of smoke into the night air. Cephelo tried again.

«This young Elf and his sister need your help. They have already come a long way, but they won’t be able to go any further if you don’t give them that help. I told them, of course, that you would.»

The old man snorted. He knew this game. «Don’t like Elves. They think they’re too good for this country, for people like me.» He lifted one eyebrow. «Don’t like Rovers either, as you well know. Like them even less than Elves.»

Eretria smirked. «There seems to be a lot you don’t like.»

«Shut your mouth!» Cephelo snapped, his face darkening. Eretria went still and Hebel saw the anger in her eyes.

He chuckled softly. «I don’t blame you, girl.» He looked at Cephelo. «What will you give me if I help the Elflings, Rover? An even trade now, if you want what I know.»

Cephelo glowered. «Do not try my patience too severely, Hebel.»

«Ha! Will you cut my throat? See, what words you find then! Now speak again — what will you give me?»

«Clothes, bedding, leather, silk — I don’t care.» The Rover brushed aside the question stiffly.

«I got all that.» Hebel spat.

Cephelo controlled himself only with a monumental effort. «Well, what is it that you want, then? Speak up, old man!»

From behind the rocker, Drifter growled in warning. Hebel reached back and gave the dog a cuff.

«Knives,” he announced. «Half a dozen good blades. An axe head and wedges. Two dozen arrows, ashwood and feathered. And a cutting stone.»

The big man nodded, looking less than pleased. «Done, thief. Now give me something back for all that.»

Hebel shrugged. «What is it you want to know?»

Cephelo pointed at the young man. «The Elfling is a Healer. He looks for a root that produces a rare medicine. His books of healing say that it can be found here, within the Wilderun, in a place called Safehold.»

There was a long moment of silence as the Rover and the old man stared at each other and the others waited.

«Well?» Cephelo demanded finally.

«Well what?» the old man snapped.

«Safehold! Where is it?»

Hebel grinned crookedly. «Right where it’s always been, I imagine.» He saw the surprise in the other’s face. «I know the name, Rover. An old name, forgotten by everyone but me, I’d guess. Tombs of some sort — catacombs beneath a mountain.»

«That’s it!» The young man came to his feet, hip face flushed. Then he saw that everyone was staring at him and he sat down again quickly. «At least that is the way that the books described it,” he added lamely.

«Did they now?» Hebel rocked back, puffing. «Did they speak as well of the Hollows?»

The young man shook his head and glanced at the Elf girl, who shook her head as well. It was Cephelo who leaned forward sharply, his eyes narrowing.

«You mean that Safehold lies within the Hollows, old man?»

There was an edge to Cephelo’s voice that did not escape Hebel. Cephelo was frightened.

Hebel chuckled. «Within the Hollows. Do you still seek Safehold, Rover?»

The young man hunched forward. «Where can the Hollows be found?»

«South, a day’s walk,” the old man answered It was time to put an end to this foolishness. «Deep and dark they are, Elfling — a pit in which anything that drops falls from sight and is lost forever. Death, Elfling. Nothing that goes into the Hollows comes out again. Those who live there choose to keep it so.»

The young man shook his head. «I do not understand.»

Eretria muttered something under her breath, her eyes darting quickly to the face of the young Elf. She knew, Hebel saw. His voice dropped to a whisper.

«The Witch Sisters, Elfling. Morag and Mallenroh. The Hollows belong to them and to the things they make to serve them — things of Witch power.»

«But where within the Hollows lies Safehold?» the other persisted. «You spoke of a mountain…?»

«Spire’s Reach — a solitary peak that rises up out of the Hollows like an arm stretched forth from death’s grave. There lies Safehold.» The old man paused, shrugging. «Or so it was once. I have not been to the Hollows myself in many, many years.» He shook his head. «No one goes there anymore.»

The young man nodded slowly. «Tell me something of these Witch Sisters.»

Hebel’s eyes narrowed. «Morag and Mallenroh — the last of their kind. Once, Elfling, there were many such as they — now there are but two. Some say they were the handmaidens of the Warlock Lord. Some say they were here long before even he. Power to match that of the Druids, some say.» He spread his hands. «The truth is hidden with them — seek it if you wish. The loss of another Elf, more or less, means nothing to me.»

He laughed sharply, choking a bit until he lifted his cup and drank down a swallow or two of ale. His thin frame bent forward as he sought the young man’s eyes.

«Sisters, they are, Morag and Mallenroh. Blood sisters. But there is a great hate between them, a hate from some wrong suffered long ago — real or imagined I could not say, nor anyone else I’d guess. But they war within the Hollows, Elfling — Morag holds the east, Mallenroh the west, each trying to destroy the other, each trying to seize for herself her sister’s land and power. And at the center of the Hollows, just between the two, stands Spire’s Reach — and there, Safehold.»

«Have you seen Safehold?»

«I? Not I. The Hollows belong to the Sisters; the valley is room enough for me.» Hebel rocked back, remembering. «Once, so many years ago that I no longer care to count, I hunted along the rim of the Hollows. Foolish it was, but I was still of a mind to know the whole of the land that I had chosen for my home, and the stories were but stories. For days I hunted within the shadow of the Hollows, seeing nothing. Then one night as I slept, alone but for the dimming embers of my campfire, she came to me — Mallenroh, tall and like some creature from a dream, gray hair long and woven with nightshade, her face the face of Mistress Death. She came to me, told me she felt the need to speak to one of human blood, one such as I. All the rest of the night she talked and told me of herself and her sister Morag and of the war they fought to own the Hollows.»

He was lost in the memory now, his voice distant and soft. «In the morning she was gone, almost as if she had never been. I never saw her again, of course, not from that moment to this. I might have thought it all imagined, not real at all, except that she took some part of me with her — some bit of life I’d suppose you’d say.»

He shook his head slowly. «Most of what she told me scattered like the fragments of some dream. But I remember her words of Safehold, Elfling. Catacombs beneath the arm of Spire’s Reach, she said. A place from another age where some strange magic had once been done. So old it was that even the Sisters did not know its meaning. She told me that, did Mallenroh. I remember… that much, at least.»

He was silent then, thinking back on what had been. Even after all these years, the memory of her was as clear as the faces of those who sat about him. Mallenroh! Strange, he thought, that he should remember her so well.

The young man was speaking quietly, his hand touching the edge of the rocker.

«You remember enough, Hebel.»

The old man looked at the Elf in surprise, not understanding. Then he saw in the other’s eyes what he intended. He meant to go there, Hebel realized. He meant to go into the Hollows. Impulsively he leaned down.

«Do not go,” he whispered, his head shaking slowly. «Do not go.»

The young man smiled faintly. «I must, if Cephelo is to have his reward.»

The Rover said nothing, his dark face inscrutable. Eretria glanced sharply at him, then turned back to the young man.

«Healer, do not do this,” she begged. «Listen to what the old man has said. The Hollows are no place for you. Seek your medicine elsewhere.»

The Elf shook his head. «There is nowhere else. Let it alone, Eretria. ”

For an instant, the Rover girl’s entire body seemed to go taut, her dark face flushing with emotions that struggled to break free. Yet she held them carefully in check, rising to her feet and staring down at him coldly.

«You are a fool,” she announced, and stalked away into the dark.

Hebel watched the young man, saw his eyes follow after Eretria as she went from them. The Elven girl did not look, her strange green eyes introspective and all but lost in the shadow of her long hair as it fell forward about her child’s face.

«Is this root so important?» the old man asked wonderingly, not just to the young man, but to the girl as well. «Can it not be found another place?»

«Let them be.» Cephelo spoke up suddenly, his dark eyes slipping from face to face. «The decision is theirs to make and they have made it.»

Hebel frowned. «So quick to send them to their deaths, Rover? What then of this reward of which the Elfling speaks?»

Cephelo laughed. «Rewards are given and taken away by the whims of fortune, old man. Where one is lost, another is gained. The Elfling must do what he chooses, he and his sister. We have no right to pass judgment.»

«We have to go.» The Elven girl spoke softly, for the first time since they had been seated, looking deep into the old man’s eyes.

«Well, then.» Cephelo rose. «Enough said of the matter. The evening is not yet done and there is good Rover ale to be drunk. Share it with me, friends. We shall talk of the times that have been, rather than guess at what might yet be. Hebel, you shall hear what those fools that people Grimpen Ward have done of late — madness the like of which only men such as you and I can truly appreciate.»

He called sharply to the old woman, who scurried to his side with a flask of ale. Several more of the Rovers drifted over to join them, and Cephelo poured freely from the flask into the cups of all. Laughing and joking, he began a series of wild–eyed stories of places he had probably never been and people he had certainly never met. Bold and easy was the Rover, his talk filling the night with the laughter of his people and the clink of their glasses raised in salute. Hebel listened with distrust. Cephelo had been too quick to disparage his warning, to the Elflings and to disclaim interest in the supposed reward that would come, it seemed, only if the young Elf found the medicine he sought and returned again. Too quick by far, he thought for the Rover knew as well as he that no one had ever returned from the Hollows.

He rocked slowly in his cane–backed chair, one hand dropping idly to find Drifter’s shaggy head. What more warning could he give this Elf, he wondered? What could he say that he had not already said to discourage his foolishness? Perhaps nothing; the lad seemed determined that he must go.

He wondered then if the Elfling would meet Mallenroh as he had done so many years ago; thinking that he might, he envied him.

It was a short time later when Wil Ohmsford rose from the company of revelers and walked to the well that sat just back of the old man’s hut. Amberle already slept, wrapped in blankets close to the fire, exhausted, it seemed, from the day’s journey and the events leading up to it. He also was experiencing an unusual drowsiness, though he had drunk little of the Rover ale. The cold water might help, he thought, and a good nights sleep after. He had just taken a long drink from a metal cup hooked to the well–bucket’s chain when Eretria stepped from the shadows to stand before him.

«I do not understand you, Healer,” she said bluntly.

He replaced the cup within the bucket and seated himself an the stone wall of the well. This was Eretria’s first appearance since she had called him a fool in front of the others.

«I went to a considerable amount of trouble to save your life back in Grimpen Ward,” she continued. «It was not easy persuading Cephelo that he should allow me to help you — not easy at all. Now it seems that my efforts were wasted. I might as well have let those cutthroats have you, you and this Elven girl you pretend is your sister. Despite the warnings you have been given, you insist on going into the Hollows. I want to know why. Has Cephelo anything to do with this? I don’t know what bargain you struck with him, but nothing he promised — even if he were of a mind to deliver, which I doubt he is — would be worth the risk that you take.»

«Cephelo has nothing to do with it,” Wil replied quietly.

«If he has threatened you in any way, I would stand with you against him,” the girl declared firmly. «I would help you.»

«I know that. But Cephelo has no part in the decision.»

«Then why? Why must you do this?»

The Valeman looked down. «The medicine that is needed for…»

«Don’t lie to me!» Eretria dropped next to him on the well wall, her dark dace angry. «Cephelo may believe that nonsense about roots and medicines, but he reads only the truth of your words, Healer, and not the truth of your eyes. You may disguise the first, but never the second. This girl is not your sister; she is your charge, a responsibility that you, clearly hold dear. It is not roots and medicines you seek; but something more. What is it then that lies within the Hollows?»

Wil looked up slowly to meet her gaze and hold it. For a long moment he stared at her without replying. She reached out impulsively, her hands grasping his.

«I would never betray you. Never.»

He smiled faintly «Perhaps that is the one thing about you of which I am certain, Eretria. I will tell you this. There is a danger that threatens this land — that threatens all the Lands. The thing that will protect against it can be found only in Safehold. Amberle and I have been sent to find it.»

The Rover girl’s eyes were filled with fire. «Then let me go with you. Take me with you now as you should have taken me before.»

Wil sighed. «How can I do that? You have just finished telling me that I am a fool for insisting on going into the Hollows. Now you would have me treat you as a fool as well. No. Your place is with your people — at least for now. Better than you continue east, far from the Westland and what may come.»

«Healer, I am to be sold by that devil who masquerades as my father the moment we reach the larger Southland cities!» Her voice was hard, brittle. «Am I to see myself as better off with that fate than any that you might encounter? Take me with you!»

«Eretria…»

«Hear me out! I know something of this country, for the Rovers have traveled it since the time of my birth. I may know something that could help you. If not, at least I will be no hindrance to you. I can take care of myself — better than your Elven girl. I ask nothing of you, Healer, that you would not ask of me were our positions reversed. You must let me come!»

«Eretria, even if I were to agree to this, Cephelo would never let you go.»

«Cephelo would not know until it was too late to do anything about it.» Her voice was quick and excited. «Take me with you, Healer. Say yes to me.»

He almost did. She was so wonderfully beautiful that it would have been hard to refuse her anything under normal circumstances. But now, seated next to him, her eyes bright with anticipation, there was a desperation in her words that moved him. She was frightened of Cephelo and what he would do with her. She would not beg, the Valeman knew, but she would come as close to that as possible if it would persuade him to help her get free.

But the Hollows were death, the old man had said. No one went into the Hollows. It would be difficult enough looking after Amberle; and despite what Eretria had said about taking care of herself, Wil knew that, if she were permitted to come with them, he would worry for her just as he worried for the Elven girl.

He shook his head slowly. «I can’t, Eretria. I can’t.»

There was a long moment of silence as she stared at him, disbelief and anger shading her eyes, the excitement and expectation fading. Slowly she rose.

«Though I have saved your life, you will not save mine. Very well.» She stepped back from him, tears streaking her face. «Twice you have spurned me, Wil Ohmsford. You will not get the chance to do so again.»

She wheeled and started away, only to stop again a dozen paces on.

«There will come a time, Healer, I promise you, when you will wish that you had not been so quick to refuse me aid.»

Then she was gone, lost in the night shadows as the Valeman stared after her. He remained where he was for a time, wishing desperately that things might be different than they were, wishing that there were some sensible way that he might give to her the help she needed.

Then at last he rose, the drowsiness growing, and stumbled off to sleep.