The Sword of Shannara

Chapter Twenty

What followed was complete pandemonium. A terrible high–pitched shriek sounded from the bushes and the entire mass of shrubbery shook violently. Panamon struggled wildly to his knees, calling to Shea to throw him the great broadsword which the fear–struck Valeman still clutched tightly in his left hand. Shea stood frozen in place, his other hand clasping the powerful Elfstones in readiness, waiting in terror for the assault that surely would come from the unknown creature in the brush. Panamon finally fell back in hopeless exhaustion, unable to get Shea’s attention and incapable of walking over to where he stood. There were a few more cries from the heavy bushes, some vague thrashing within, and then silence. A moment later the durable Keltset emerged, the heavy mace still held in one lowered hand. In the other was the squirming, twisting body of a Gnome, his neck, held fast in the iron grip of the Troll. The gnarled yellow body appeared childlike next to the huge frame of its captor, the arms and legs moving all at once in different directions like snakes caught by their tails. The Gnome was one of the familiar hunters, clothed in a leather tunic, hunting boots, and sword belt. The sword was missing, and Shea correctly surmised that the struggle in the bushes involved the disarming of the little fellow. Keltset came over to Panamon, who had managed to raise himself back up to a sitting position, and dutifully held forth the struggling captive for inspection.

«Let me go, let me go, curse you!» the thrashing Gnome cried venomously. «You have no right! I have done nothing — I’m not even armed, I tell you. Let me go!»

Panamon Creel looked at the little creature humorously, shaking his head in relief. Finally, as the Gnome continued to plead, the thief burst out laughing.

«What a terrible foe, Keltset! Why, he might have destroyed us all had you not captured him. That must have been a fearful struggle! Ha, ha, I can’t believe it. And we were afraid of another of those winged black monsters!»

Shea was not quite so inclined to be amused by the incident, recalling clearly the close calls the company had already had with the little yellow creatures while traveling through the Anar. They were dangerous and crafty — a foe whom he did not regard as harmless. Panamon looked over and, upon spying the serious countenance, ceased his chiding of the captive and turned his attention to Shea.

«Do not be angry, Shea. It’s more habit than stupidity when I laugh at these things. I laugh at them to stay a sane man. But enough of all this. What do we do with our little friend, eh?»

The Gnome stared fearfully at the no longer laughing man, the large eyes wide as the insistent voice died away to a low whine.

«Please, let me go,” he begged subserviently. «I will go away and say nothing to anyone about you. I will do whatever you say, good friends. Just let me go.»

Keltset still held the hapless Gnome by the scruff of his neck about a foot off the ground in front of Shea and Panamon, and the little fellow was beginning to choke violently from the tight clasp. Seeing the prisoner’s plight, Panamon at last motioned for the Rock Troll to lower his victim to the ground and release his grip. Pausing for a moment’s serious contemplation of the Gnome’s eager plea, the thief looked over at Shea and winked quickly, turning back to the captive sharply and snapping the pike at the end of his left arm up to the yellow throat.

«I can see no reason for permitting you to live, let alone go free, Gnome,” he announced menacingly. «I think it would be best for all concerned if I just cut your throat right here and now. Then none of us would have to worry about you further.»

Shea did not believe the thief was serious, but his voice sounded as if he were in deadly earnest. The terrified Gnome gulped and held forth his hands in a final desperate cry for mercy. He whined and cried so that Shea finally became almost embarrassed for him. Panamon made no move, but only sat there staring into the unfortunate fellow’s horror–stricken face.

«No, no, I beg you, don’t kill me,” the frantic Gnome pleaded, his wide green eyes shifting from one face to the next. «Please, please let me live — I can be of use to you — I can help! I can tell you about the Sword of Shannara! I can even get it for you.»

Shea started involuntarily at the unexpected mention of the Sword, and he placed a restraining hand on Panamon’s wide shoulder.

«So you can tell us about the Sword, can you?» The icy voice of the thief sounded only slightly interested, and he ignored Shea completely. «What can you tell us?»

The wiry yellow frame relaxed slightly, and the eyes returned to normal size, shifting about eagerly, seizing on any chance to stay alive. Yet Shea saw something else there, something he could not quite define. It was almost a fervid cunning, revealed as the Gnome momentarily relaxed his carefully masked feelings. A second later it was gone, replaced by a look of total subjugation and helplessness.

«I can lead you to the Sword if you wish,” he whispered harshly as if he were afraid someone would hear. «I can take you to where it is — if you let me live!»

Panamon moved the sharp iron tip of his piked hand back from the throat of the cringing Gnome, leaving just a small trace of blood on the yellow neck. Keltset had not moved and gave no indication that he had any interest in what was happening. Shea wanted to warn Panamon how important that Gnome might be if there was even the slightest chance of finding the Sword of Shannara, but he realized the thief preferred to keep the captive Gnome guessing. The Valeman could not be sure how much Panamon Creel knew about the legend; so far, he had shown little concern with the races generally and had not indicated he knew anything about the history of the Sword of Shannara. The grim features of the thief relaxed briefly and a faint smile crossed his lips as he eyed the still quivering captive.

«Is this Sword valuable, Gnome?» he queried easily, almost slyly. «Can I sell it for gold?»

«It is priceless to the right people,” the other promised, nodding eagerly. «There are those who would pay anything, give anything to get possession of it. In the Northland…»

He ceased talking abruptly, afraid that he had already said too much. Panamon smiled wolfishly and nodded to Shea.

«This Gnome says it could be worth money to us,” he mocked quietly, «and the Gnome wouldn’t lie, would you, Gnome?» The yellow head shook vehemently. «Well, then, perhaps we should let you live long enough to prove you have something of value to barter for your worthless hide. I wouldn’t want to throw away a chance to make money simply to satisfy my inborn desire to cut the throat of a Gnome when I get one within my grasp. What do you think, Gnome?»

«You understand perfectly, you know my value,” whined the little fellow, fawning at the knees of the smiling thief. «I can help; I can make you rich. You can count on me.»

Panamon was smiling broadly now, his big frame relaxed and his good hand on the Gnome’s small shoulder as if they were old friends. He patted the stooped shoulder a few times, as if to put the captive at ease, and nodded reassuringly, looking from the Gnome to Keltset to Shea and back again for several long seconds.

«Tell us what you’re doing way out here by yourself, Gnome,” Panamon urged a moment later. «By the way, what are you called?»

«I am Orl Fane, a warrior of the Pelle tribe of the upper Anar,” he answered eagerly. «I… I was on a courier mission from Paranor when I came upon this battlefield. They were all dead, all of them, and there was nothing I could do. Then I heard you and I hid. I was afraid you were… Elves.»

He paused and looked fearfully at Shea, noting the youth’s Elven features with dismay. Shea made no move, but waited to see what Panamon would do. Panamon just looked understandingly at the Gnome and smiled in friendly fashion.

«Orl Fane — of the Pelle tribe,” the tall thief repeated slowly. «A great tribe of hunters, brave men.» He shook his head as if deeply regretting something and turned again to the mystified Gnome. «Orl Fane, if we are going to be of any service to one another, we must have mutual trust. Lies can only hinder the purpose binding our new partnership. There was a Pelle standard on the battlefield — the standard of your tribe in the Gnome nation. You must have been with them when they fought.»

The Gnome stood speechless, a mixture of fear and doubt creeping slowly back into his shifting green eyes. Panamon continued to smile easily at him.

«Just look at yourself Orl Fane — covered with specks of blood and a bad cut on your forehead at the hairline. Why hide the truth from us? You had to be here, isn’t that right?» The persuasive voice coaxed a quick nod out of the other, and Panamon laughed almost merrily. «Of course you were here, Orl Fane. And when you were set upon by the Elf people, you fought until you were wounded, perhaps knocked unconscious, eh, and you lay here until just before we came along. That’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it?»

«Yes, that’s the truth,” the Gnome agreed eagerly now.

«No, that’s not the truth!»

There was a moment of stunned silence. Panamon was still smiling, and Orl Fane was caught between emotions, a trace of doubt still in eyes, a half–smile forming on his lips. Shea looked at both curiously, unable to follow exactly what was happening.

«Listen to me, you lying little rodent.» The smile was gone from Panamon’s face, the features hardened as he spoke, the voice cold and menacing once more. «You have lied from the beginning! A member of the Pelle would wear their insignia you wear none. You weren’t wounded in battle; that little scratch on your forehead is nothing! You are a scavenger — a deserter, aren’t you? Aren’t you?»

The thief had seized the terrified Gnome by the front of his hunting tunic and was shaking him so hard that Shea could hear his teeth rattle with the force. The wiry captive was struggling to catch his breath, gasping in disbelief at this sudden turn of events.

«Yes, yes!» The admission was throttled out of him at last, and Panamon released him with a quick thrust backward into the grip of the watchful Keltset.

«A deserter from your own people.» Panamon spat the words out in distaste. «The lowest form of life that walks or crawls is a deserter. You’ve been scavenging this battlefield for valuables from the dead. Where are they, Orl Fane? Shea, check in those bushes where he was hiding.»

As Shea moved toward the brush, the struggling Gnome let out the most frightful shriek of dismay imaginable, causing the youth to believe Keltset had twisted his neck off. But Panamon just smiled and nodded for the Valeman to proceed, certain now that the Gnome had indeed hidden something in the bushes. Shea pushed his way past the thick branches into the center of the clump, searching carefully for any sign of a cache. The ground and the limbs in the center were badly torn up from the struggle between Keltset and the Gnome, and there was nothing immediately visible. He hunted about unsuccessfully for several minutes. He was just about to give up, when his eye caught a glimpse of something half buried at the far end of the bushes beneath leaves, branches, and dirt. Using his short hunting knife and his hands, he quickly uncovered a long sack containing metal objects that rattled against one another as he worked. He called out to Panamon that he had discovered something, which immediately set off another series of whining cries from the distraught captive. When the sack was uncovered, he pulled it out of the brush into the fading afternoon sunlight and dropped it before the others. Orl Fane was in a frenzy by this time, and Keltset was forced to use both hands just to hold him.

«Whatever’s in here is certainly important to our little friend.» Panamon grinned at Shea and reached for the sack.

Shea moved to his side and peered over the broad shoulders as Panamon untied the leather thong binding the top and reached eagerly into the dark interior. Changing his mind suddenly, the scarlet thief removed his hand and, grabbing the other end of the sack, turned it upside down and poured the contents onto the open earth. The others stared at the cache, looking from item to item curiously.

«Junk,” growled Panamon Creel after a moment’s consideration. «Just junk. The Gnome is too stupid even to bother with valuable things.»

Shea looked at the contents of the sack without answering. Nothing but assorted daggers, knives, and swords in the collection, some still in their leather sheaths. A few pieces of cheap jewelry sparkled in the sunlight, and there were one or two Gnome coins, practically worthless to anyone but a Gnome. It certainly appeared to be useless junk, but the whining Orl Fane had evidently considered it worth something to him. Shea shook his head in pity for the little Gnome. He had lost everything when he turned deserter, and all he had to show for it were these few worthless pieces of metal and cheap jewelry. Now it seemed certain that he would lose his life as well for having dared to lie to the volatile Panamon Creel.

«Hardly worth dying for, Gnome,” Panamon growled, nodding shortly to Keltset, who raised the heavy mace to finish the hapless fellow.

«No, no, wait, wait a minute, please,” the Gnome cried, his voice edged with a harsh note of desperation. It was the end for him; this was his final plea. «I didn’t lie about the Sword — I swear I didn’t! I can get it for you. Don’t you realize what the Sword of Shannara is worth to the Dark Lord?»

Without thinking, Shea put out a hand to grasp Keltset’s massive arm. The giant Troll seemed to understand. Slowly he lowered the mace and looked curiously at Shea. Panamon Creel opened his mouth angrily and then hesitated. He wanted to learn the truth behind Shea’s presence in the Northland, and the secret of this Sword evidently had much to do with it. He stared momentarily at the Valeman, then turned back to Keltset and shrugged disinterestedly.

«We can always kill you later, Orl Fane, if this is another deception. Put a rope around his worthless neck and bring him along, Keltset. Shea, if you would give me a hand up and an arm to lean on, I think I can make it to the woods. Keltset will keep a close watch over our clever little deserter.»

Shea helped the injured Panamon to his feet and tried to support him as he took a few careful test steps. Keltset tied Orl Fane and placed a length of rope about his neck so that he could be led. The Gnome allowed himself to be bound without complaining, though he was visibly distraught about something. Shea imagined that the fellow was still lying when he said he knew where the Sword could be found and was desperately trying to figure out how he would get free from his captors before they discovered his treachery and killed him. While Shea would not himself kill the Gnome, nor even agree to have it done, nevertheless he felt little compassion for the deceitful creature. Orl Fane was a coward, a deserter, a scavenger — a man without a people or a country. Shea was certain now that the whining, groveling attitude the Gnome had displayed earlier was a carefully studied shield for the crafty, desperate creature that lay hidden beneath. Orl Fane would cut their throats without the slightest compunction if he thought there would be no danger to himself. Shea almost wished that Keltset had ended their worries a few minutes earlier by finishing the fellow. Shea would have felt easier in his own mind.

Panamon signaled that he was ready to proceed toward the woodland, but before they had taken two steps, the whining pleas of Orl Fane had stopped them. The unhappy Gnome refused to go farther if he were not allowed to keep his sack and its treasures. He set up such a stubborn howl of protest that Panamon was again on the verge of bashing in the hateful yellow head.

«What does it matter, Panamon?» Shea finally asked in exasperation. «Let him have his trinkets if it will make him happy. We can get rid of them later after he quiets down.»

Panamon shook his handsome face in dismay, finally nodding his reluctant acquiescence. He was fed up with Orl Fane already.

«Very well, I’ll give in just this once,” the thief agreed. Orl Fane immediately quieted down. «However, if he opens his mouth like that once more, I’ll cut out his tongue. Keltset, you keep him away from that sack. I don’t want him getting hold of one of those weapons long enough to cut himself free and do us in! Worthless blades probably wouldn’t do a neat job of it anyway, and I’d die of blood poisoning.»

Shea had to laugh in spite of himself. They were poor–looking weapons, though he rather fancied the slim broadsword with the extended arm and burning torch cut into the hilt. Even that one was rather gaudy, the cheap gold paint chipped and flecked about the hilt. Like several of the others, it rested in a worn leather sheath so it was difficult to tell what condition the blade might be in. At any rate, it could prove dangerous in the hands of the wily Orl Fane. Keltset hoisted the sack and its contents over one shoulder, and the party continued on its way toward the woodland.

It was a comparatively short hike, but by the time they reached the perimeter of the forest Shea was exhausted from supporting the weight of the injured Panamon. The little group stopped on the thief’s command, as an afterthought, he sent Keltset back to cover their trail and to create a number of false trails that would confuse anyone following. Shea did not object, for although he hoped that Allanon and the others were searching for him, there was a dangerous possibility that patrolling Gnome hunters or, worse still, another Skull Bearer might come across their tracks instead.

After tying the captive Orl Fane to a tree, the Rock Troll backtracked onto the battlefield to erase any sign of their passage in this direction. Panamon collapsed wearily against a broad maple, and the tired Valeman took up a position opposite him, lying peacefully back on a small, grassy knoll, staring absently into the treetops and breathing deeply the forest air. The sun was fading rapidly now with the close of the afternoon and the faint beginnings of evening crept into the western sky in streaks of purple and deep blue. Less than an hour of sunlight remained, and the night would help to hide them from their enemies. Shea fervently wished now for the aid of the company, for the strong, wise leadership and fantastic mystical prowess of Allanon, for the courage of the others — Balinor, Hendel, Durin, Dayel, and the fiery Menion Leah. Most of all he wished Flick were with him — Flick, with his unwavering, unquestioning loyalty and trust. Panamon Creel was a good man to have on his side, but there were no real ties between them. The thief had lived too long by his wits and cunning to understand basic honesty and truth. And what about Keltset — an enigma, even to Panamon?

«Panamon, you said back there you would explain about Keltset,” Shea remarked quietly. «About how the Skull Bearer knew, him.»

For a moment there was no answer, and Shea raised up to see if the man had heard him. Panamon was staring quietly at him.

«Skull Bearer? You seem to know a great deal more about this whole matter than I. You tell me about my giant companion, Shea.»

«That wasn’t the truth you told me when you saved me from those Gnomes, was it?» Shea asked him. «He wasn’t a freak driven from his village by his own people. He didn’t kill them for attacking him, did he?»

Panamon laughed merrily, the pike coming up to scratch the small mustache.

«Maybe it was the truth. Maybe those things did happen to him. I don’t know. It always seemed to me that something of the sort must have happened to him to make him take up with someone like myself. He’s no thief; I don’t know what he is. But he is my friend — he is that. I didn’t lie to you when I said that.»

«Where did he come from?» Shea asked after a moment’s silence.

«I found him north of here about two months ago. He wandered down out of the Charnal Mountains, battered, beaten, just barely alive. I don’t know what happened to him; he never volunteered the information, and I didn’t ask. He was entitled to keep his past hidden, just as I. I took care of him for several weeks. I knew a little sign language, and he understood it, so we could communicate. I guessed his name from his word signs. We learned a little about each other — only a little. When he was well, I asked him to come along and he agreed. We’ve had some good times, you know. Too bad he’s not really a thief.»

Shea shook his head and chuckled softly at that last remark. Panamon. Creel would probably never change. He didn’t understand any other way of life and didn’t want to. The only people who made any sense to him were those who told the world to hang by its thumbs and took by force what they needed for themselves. Yet friendship remained a prized commodity, even for a thief, and it was something that would not be tossed aside lightly. Even Shea was beginning to feel a strange sort of friendship for the flamboyant Panamon Creel, a friendship that was improbable because their characters and their values were complete opposites. But each had an understanding of what the other felt, though not why he felt it, and there was the experience of the battle shared against a common enemy. Perhaps that was all that anyone ever needed as a basis for friendship.

«How could the Skull creature have known him?» Shea persisted.

Panamon shrugged casually, indicating he neither knew nor cared. The watchful Valeman felt the latter was not the case, and Panamon would very much like to find out the truth behind Keltset’s appearance two months earlier. His hidden past had something to do with the spirit creature’s unexplained recognition of the giant Troll. There had been a trace of fear in those cruel eyes, and Shea found it difficult to imagine how anything mortal could have frightened the powerful Skull Bearer. Panamon had seen it, too, and certainly he must be asking himself the same question.

By the time Keltset rejoined them, it was sundown and the faint rays of the late afternoon sun only barely lit‘ the dark forest. The Troll had carefully erased all signs of their passing from the battlefield, leaving a number of confusing false trails for anyone who attempted to follow. Panamon was feeling well enough to maneuver on his own strength, but requested that Keltset help support him until they reached a suitable campsite because it was becoming dark too quickly for travel. Shea was given the task of leading the docile Orl Fane by the rope leash, a chore he did not relish, but which he accepted without complaint. Again, Panamon tried to leave the worn sack and its contents behind, but Orl Fane was not to be deprived of his treasures so easily. He immediately set up such a howl of anguish that the thief ordered him bound about the mouth until the only sound the hapless Gnome could make was a muffled groan. But when they tried to move into the forest, the desperate captive threw himself on the ground and refused to rise, even when kicked painfully by a thoroughly irate Panamon. Keltset could have carried the Gnome and supported Panamon, too, but that was more trouble than it was worth. Muttering dire threats at the whining Gnome, the thief at last had Keltset pick up the sack, and the four began their journey into the darkening woods.

When it became too dark to tell with any certainty where they were going, Panamon called a halt in a small clearing between giant oaks whose interlocking boughs formed a weblike roof for shelter. Orl Fane was tied to one of the tall oaks while the other three set about building a fire and preparing a meal. When the food was ready, Orl Fane was unfettered long enough to allow him to eat. While Panamon did not know exactly where they were, he felt safe enough to permit a fire, relatively certain that no one would be trailing them at night. He might have felt a little less secure had he known of the dangers of the impenetrable forests that surrounded the dark cliffs of Paranor. As it happened, the four men were in an adjoining forest east of the dangerous woodlands ringing Paranor. The section of woods in which they were camped was seldom traveled by the minions of the Warlock Lord, and there was little possibility that anyone would happen along to discover them. They ate in silence, a hungry and tired group after the long day’s travel. Even the whines of the bothersome Orl Fane were temporarily stilled as the little Gnome ate ravenously, his crafty yellow face bent close to the warmth of the small fire as the dark green eyes shifted warily from one face to the next. Shea paid no attention, concentrating instead on what he should tell Panamon Creel about himself, the company, and most important of all, the Sword of Shannara. He had not made up his mind when dinner was completed. The captive was again bound to the nearest oak and permitted to breathe without the gag after his solemn promise that he would not begin whining and crying again. Then placing himself comfortably close to the dying fire, Panamon turned his attention to the expectant Valeman.

«The time is here, Shea, for you to tell me what you know about all this Sword business,” he began briskly. «No lies, no half–truths, and leave nothing out. I promised my help, but we must have mutual trust — and not the kind I spoke of to this pitiful deserter. I have been fair and open with you. Do likewise for me.»

So Shea told him everything. He didn’t mean to when he started. He wasn’t really sure how much he should tell, but one thing led to another and before he knew it the whole tale was out in the open. He told about the coming of Allanon, and the subsequent appearance of the Skull Bearer which forced the brothers to flee from Shady Vale. He related the events surrounding the journey to Leah and the meeting with Menion, followed by the terrible flight through the Black Oaks to Culhaven, where they joined the rest of the company. He skimmed over the details of the journey to the Dragon’s Teeth, a great part of which was still hazy in his own mind. He concluded by explaining how he had fallen from the Crease into the river and been washed out onto the Rabb Plain where he was captured by the Gnome hunting party. Panamon listened without interruption, his eyes wide in astonishment at the tale. Keltset sat next to him in impenetrable silence, the rough–hewn but intelligent face gazing intently at the little Valeman during the entire narration. Orl Fane shifted about uneasily, groaning and muttering unintelligibly as he listened with the other two, his eyes darting wildly about the campsite as if expecting the Warlock Lord himself at any minute.

«That is the most fantastic tale I have ever heard,” Panamon announced at last. «It’s so incredible that even I find it hard to believe. But I do believe you, Shea. I believe you because I’ve fought that blackwinged monster on the plainlands and because I’ve seen the strange power you have over those Elfstones, as you call them. But this business about the Sword and your being the lost heir of Shannara — I don’t know. Do you believe it yourself?»

«I didn’t at first,” Shea admitted slowly, «but now I don’t know what to think. So much has happened that I can’t decide who or what to believe anymore. In any case, I’ve got to rejoin Allanon and the others. They may even have the Sword by this time. They may have the answer to this whole riddle of my heritage and the power of the Sword.»

Orl Fane suddenly doubled up laughing, his voice high–pitched and frenzied.

«No, no, they don’t have the Sword,” he shrieked like a fool caught up in his own madness. «No, no, only I can show you the Sword! I can lead you to it. Only I. You can search and you can search and you can search, ha, ha, ha — go ahead. But I know where it is! I know who has it! Only I!»

«I think he’s losing his mind,” Panamon Creel muttered humorlessly, and ordered Keltset to regag the bothersome Gnome. «We’ll find out exactly what he knows in the morning. If he knows anything about the Sword of Shannara, which I seriously doubt, he’ll tell us or wish he had!»

«Do you think he might know who has it?» Shea asked soberly. «That Sword could mean so much, not only to us, but to all the peoples of the four lands. We’ve got to try to find out what he really knows.»

«You bring tears to my eyes with that plea for the people,” Panamon mocked disdainfully. «They can go hang for all I care. They’ve never done anything for me — except travel alone, unarmed, with fat purses, and that’s been all too infrequently.» He looked up at Shea’s disappointed face and shrugged nonchalantly. «Still, I am curious about the Sword, so I might be willing to help you. After all, I owe you a great favor, and I’m not one to forget a favor.»

Keltset finished gagging the babbling Gnome once again and rejoined them next to the small fire. Orl Fane had lapsed into a series of small, shrill laughs coupled with incoherent mumblings that even the cloth gag did not completely muffle. Shea glanced uneasily at the little captive, watching the gnarled yellow body twist about as if possessed by some devil, the dark eyes wide and rolling wildly. Panamon gallantly ignored the moans for a brief time, but at last, losing all patience, leaped to his feet and drew his dagger to cut the Gnome’s tongue out. Orl Fane immediately quieted down and for a while they forgot about him.

«Why do you suppose,” Panamon began after a moment, «that Northland creature believed we were hiding the Sword of Shannara? It was strange he wouldn’t even argue the point. He said he could sense that we had it. How do you explain that?»

Shea thought for a moment and finally shrugged uncertainly.

«It must have been the Elfstones.»

«You may be right,” Panamon agreed slowly, thoughtfully, his good hand rubbing his chin. «I frankly don’t understand any of this. Keltset, what do you think about it.»

The giant Rock Troll regarded them solemnly for a moment and then made several brief signs with his hands. Panamon watched intently, then turned to Shea with a disgusted look.

«He thinks the Sword is very important and that the Warlock Lord is a very great danger to us all.» The thief laughed humorously. «He’s a great help, I must say!»

«The Sword is very important!» Shea repeated, his voice trailing off in the darkness, and they sat quietly, lost in thought.

It was late evening now, the night around them black beyond the faint light of the fire’s reddish embers. The woods were a wall of concealment, shutting them into the little clearing, surrounding them with the sharp sounds of the insect world and the occasional cry of some faraway creature. The sky above showed through the boughs of the great trees in patches of dark blue broken by one or two distant stars. Panamon talked on quietly for a few minutes more as the coals died into ashes. Then he rose, kicking the ashes and grinding them into the earth, bidding good night to his companions with a finality that discouraged further attempts at conversation. Keltset was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping before Shea had even selected a suitable patch of forest earth. The Valeman felt incredibly weary from the strain of the long day’s march and the battle with the Skull Bearer. Dropping his blanket, he lay down on his back, kicked off the hunting boots and stared aimlessly at the blackness above him through which he could just barely discern the limbs of the trees and the shadows of the sky.

Shea thought about all that had happened to him, once again retracing mentally his long, endless journey from Shady Vale. So much of it was still a mystery. He had come so far, endured so much, and still he didn’t know what it was all about. The secret of the Sword of Shannara, the Warlock Lord, his own heritage — it was no clearer now than before. The company was out there somewhere looking for him, led by the secretive, mystic Allanon, who seemed to be the only man with the answers to all the unanswered questions. Why had he not told Shea everything from the beginning? Why had he insisted on giving the company only a piece of the story at a time, always reserving that small bit, always holding back the key to their complete understanding of the unknown power locked in the elusive Sword of Shannara?

He rolled over on his side, peering through the darkness to the sleeping form of Panamon Creel just a few feet away. Beyond and to the other side of the clearing he could hear the heavy breathing of Keltset blending in with the sounds of the forest night. Orl Fane sat with his back straight against the tree to which he was bound, his eyes shining like a cat’s in the dark, unmoving as they stared fixedly at Shea. The Valeman stared back for a moment, unnerved by the Gnome’s gaze, but finally he forced himself to turn the other way and closed his eyes, dropping off to sleep in a matter of seconds. The last thing he remembered was clutching the small bulk of the Elfstones close to his chest within the tunic, wondering if their power would continue to protect him in the days ahead.

Shea was awakened abruptly to the gray light of an early forest morning by a long string of venomous oaths of dismay and frustration from a wrathful Panamon Creel. The thief was stamping about the campsite in absolute fury, shouting and cursing all at the same time. Shea could not decide what had happened right away, and it was several minutes before he had wiped the sleep from his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow, squinting wearily in the gloom. He felt as if he had slept no more than a few minutes, his muscles sore and strained, his mind hazy. Panamon continued to storm about the small clearing as Keltset knelt silently next to one of the great oaks. Then Shea realized that Orl Fane was missing. He leaped to his feet and rushed over, suddenly afraid. In a moment his worst fears were realized; the ropes that had bound the crafty Gnome lay in pieces about the base of the huge trunk. The Gnome had escaped, and Shea had lost his one chance to find the missing Sword.

«How did he get away?» Shea demanded angrily. «I thought you tied him up, away from anything that might cut his bonds!»

Panamon Creel looked at him as if he were an idiot, disgust registered all over the flushed countenance.

«Do I look like a complete fool? Of course I tied him up away from any weapons. I even tied him to the confounded tree and had him gagged as an added precaution. Where were you? The little devil didn’t cut these ropes and that gag. He chewed his way through them!»

Now it was Shea’s turn to be amazed.

«I’m dead serious, I assure you,” Panamon continued angrily. «The ropes were chewed through by teeth. Our little rodent friend was more resourceful than I imagined.»

«Or perhaps more desperate,” the Valeman added thoughtfully. «I wonder why he didn’t try to kill us. He had reason enough to hate us.»

«Very uncharitable of you to suggest such a thing,” the other declared in mock disbelief. «I’ll tell you why, though, since you asked. He was terrified that he might be caught in the act. That Gnome was a deserter — a coward of the lowest order. He didn’t have the courage to do anything but run! What is it, Keltset?»

The huge Rock Troll had lumbered silently over to his comrade and made several quick gestures, pointing to the north. Panamon shook his head in disgust.

«The spineless mouse has been gone since early this morning — hours ago. Worse still, the fool fled northward, and it would not be healthy for us to chase him in that country. His own people will probably find him and dispose of him for us. They won’t shelter a deserter. Bah, let him go! We’re better off without him, Shea. He was probably lying about the Sword of Shannara anyway.»

Shea nodded doubtfully, unconvinced that the Gnome had been lying about everything he had told them. As unbalanced as the little fellow had seemed, he had nevertheless appeared certain that he knew where the Sword could be found and who had possession of it. The whole idea that he knew such a secret was unnerving to the Valeman. Suppose he had gone after the Sword? Suppose he knew were it was?

«Forget the whole matter, Shea,” Panamon interjected in resignation. «That Gnome was scared to death of us, his only thought was to escape. The story of the Sword was merely a trick to keep us from killing him until he found the opportunity to escape. Look at this! He left in such a hurry, he even forgot his precious sack.»

For the first time Shea noticed the sack lying partially open at the other side of the clearing. It was strange indeed that Orl Fane should abandon his treasures after going to so much trouble to persuade his captors to bring them along. That useless sack had been so important to him, and yet there it lay forgotten, its contents still visible as small bulks beneath the cloth. Shea walked over to it curiously, staring at it with visible suspicion. He emptied the contents onto the forest earth, the swords and the daggers and the jewelry clattering together as they tumbled out in a heap. Shea stared at them, aware that the giant form of Keltset was at his side, the dark, expressionless face bent next to his. They stood together, studying the Gnome’s abandoned hoard as if somehow it held a mysterious secret. Their companion watched for a few seconds, then muttered in disgust and strolled over to join them, glancing down at the weapons and jewelry.

«Let’s be on our way,” he advised lightly. «We’ve got to find your friends, Shea, and perhaps with their help we can locate this elusive Sword. What are you staring at? You’ve already seen that worthless junk once. It hasn’t changed.»

Then Shea saw it.

«It’s not the same,” he announced slowly. «It’s gone. He’s taken it.»

«What’s gone?» snapped Panamon irritably, kicking at the pile of junk. «What are you talking about?»

«That old sword in the leather scabbard. The one with the arm and the torch.»

Panamon looked quickly at the swords in the little heap, frowning curiously. Keltset straightened abruptly and looked at Shea with those deeply intelligent eyes fixed on the little Valeman. He realized the truth as well.

«So he took one sword,” Panamon growled without stopping to think. «That doesn’t mean he…» He caught himself, his jaw dropping open in dismay, his eyes rolling back in disbelief. «Oh, no! That can’t be — it can’t. You mean he has…?»

He couldn’t finish the thought, but choked on his words. Shea shook his head in quiet despair.

«The Sword of Shannara!»