The Sword of Shannara Trilogy (110 page)

“My Uncle Flick taught me to read signs when I hunted the woods about my home in Shady Vale,” he informed her conversationally, his mood considerably improved. “We used to fish and trap the Duln Forests for weeks at a time when I was little. Always thought I might again have need of what I learned someday.”

She nodded impatiently. “What did you find?”

“They’ve gone west, probably just before daybreak.”

“Is that all? Isn’t there some indication of whether or not Artaq is with them?”

“Oh, he’s with them, all right. Back at the shallows, there are signs of a horse going into the river from the other side and coming out again over here. One horse, several men. No mistake, they’ve got him. But we’re going to get him back again.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “You mean you’re going after them?”

“Of course I’m going after them!” He was getting angry all over again. “We’re both going after them.”

“Just you and me, Valeman?” She shook her head. “On foot?”

“We can catch up to them by nightfall. Those wagons are slow.”

“That assumes that we can find them, doesn’t it?”

“There’s no trick to that. At one time, I could track a deer through wilderness timber where there hadn’t been rain for weeks. I think I can manage to track an entire caravan of wagons across open grasslands.”

“I don’t like the sound of this at all,” she announced quietly. “Even if we do find them and they do have Artaq, what are we supposed to do about it?”

“We’ll worry about that when we catch up to them,” he replied evenly.

The Elven girl did not back away. “I think that we should worry about it right now. That’s an entire camp of armed men you’re talking about chasing after. I don’t like what’s happened any better than you do, but that’s hardly sufficient excuse for failing to exercise sound judgment.”

With an effort, Wil held his temper. “I am not about to lose that horse. In the first place, if it weren’t for Artaq, the Demons would have had us, back at Havenstead. He deserves a better fate than spending the rest of his years in the service of those thieves. In the second place, he is the only horse we had and the only horse we are likely to get. Without him, we will be forced to walk the rest of the way to Arborlon. That will take more than a week, and most of that week will be spent crossing these open grasslands. That increases rather substantially the chances of our being discovered by those things still searching for us. And I don’t like the sound of that. We need Artaq.”

“You seem to have made up your mind on this,” she said expressionlessly.

He nodded. “I have. Besides, the Rovers are traveling toward the Westland anyway; at least we’ll be headed in the right direction.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything; she merely looked at him. Then finally she nodded.

“All right, we’ll go after them. I want Artaq back too. But let’s think this through a bit further before we catch up to them. We had better have some sort of plan worked out by then, Valeman.”

He grinned disarmingly. “We will.”

They walked all day through the open grasslands, following the trail of the Rover caravan. It was hot and dry, and the sun beat down on them from out of a cloudless blue sky. They found little shade along the way to relieve them from the heat. What water they carried was soon gone, and they did not run across even a small stream to replenish their supply. By late afternoon, all they could taste in their mouths was the dust of the plains and their thirst. Leg muscles ached and their feet blistered. They spoke to each other only infrequently, conserving their strength, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, watching the sun sink slowly into the horizon ahead of them until all that remained of the day was a dull orange glow above the sweep of the land.

A short time later, it began to darken, the day to disappear into dusk, the dusk into night. Still they walked on, no longer able to find the marks of the wagon wheels in the plains grass, relying now on their sense of direction to keep them moving in a straight line westward. Moon and stars brightened in the night sky, casting down upon the open grasslands their faint light to guide the Valeman and the Elven girl as they moved steadily forward. Dirt and sweat cooled and dried on their bodies, and they felt their clothing stiffen uncomfortably. Neither suggested stopping to the other. Stopping meant admitting they would not catch up to the caravan that night, that they would be forced to go on like this for another day. They kept walking, silent, determined, the girl as much so as the man now, a fact that surprised him and caused him to feel genuine admiration for her spirit.

Then they saw light in the distance ahead, a fire burning through the dark like a beacon, and they realized that they had found the Rovers. Wordlessly, they trudged to within shouting distance of the firelight, watching the peaked roofs of the wagon homes gradually take shape in the night until finally the entire caravan stood revealed, wound into a loose circle as it had been on the banks of the Mermidon.

Wil took hold of Amberle’s arm and gently pulled her down into a crouch.

“We’re going in,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the Rover camp.

She looked at him in disbelief. “That’s your plan?”

“I know something of these people. Just go along with whatever I say, and we’ll be fine.”

Without waiting for her response, he stood up and began walking toward the caravan. The Elven girl stared after him for a moment, then rose to her feet and followed after. As they drew closer to the circled wagons, the faces of the men, women, and children passing within the firelight grew visible. Laughter and bits of conversation became audible and distinct. The Rovers had just finished their evening meal and were visiting casually with one
another. From somewhere within the camp came the soft thrum of a stringed instrument.

Twenty yards from the perimeter of the circle, Wil called out. It surprised Amberle so that she jumped. Within the camp, everyone instantly stopped what was being done, and all heads turned in their direction. There was a sudden scrambling of feet as a handful of men appeared at the gap between the wagons nearest the approaching pair. Wordlessly, the men peered out into the night, the firelight behind them now, leaving them shadowed and faceless. Wil did not slow. He kept walking directly toward them, Amberle a step or two behind. The entire caravan had gone suddenly still.

“Good evening,” Wil said cheerfully as he reached the gathering of Rovers who blocked their passage into the camp.

The men said nothing. In the glimmer of the firelight, the Valeman caught a glimpse of metal blades.

“We saw your fire and we thought you might give us something to drink,” he continued, still smiling. “We’ve been walking since daybreak without water and we’re about worn out.”

Someone pushed his way through the knot of silent men, a tall man in a cloak of forest green and a broad-brimmed hat—the man they had seen at the river.

“Ah, our young travelers from last evening,” he announced quietly and not in greeting.

“Hello again,” Wil responded pleasantly. “I’m afraid we’ve had some very bad luck. We lost our horse during the night—he must have wandered off while we were sleeping. We’ve been walking all day without water and we could use something cool to drink.”

“Indeed.” The big man smiled without warmth. He was tall, well over six feet, lean and rawboned, his dark face shaded with a black beard and mustache that gave his smile an almost menacing appearance. Eyes that looked blacker than the night about them peered out from beneath a lined and weathered brow that sloped into a nose hooked slightly at the bridge. The hand that came up to beckon to the men behind him was ringed on each finger.

“Have water brought,” he ordered, his eyes still on the Valeman. His expression did not change. “Who are you, young friend, and what is your destination?”

“My name is Wil Ohmsford,” the Valeman replied. “This is my sister, Amberle. We’re on our way to Arborlon.”

“Arborlon.” The tall man repeated the name thoughtfully. “Well, you’re Elves, of course—in part, at least. Any fool can see that. But now, you say that you lost your horse. Would you not have been wiser to stay along the Mermidon in your travels, rather than coming straight west as you did?”

Wil smiled some more. “Oh, yes, we thought about that; but you see, it’s important that we reach Arborlon as soon as possible, and walking would take much too long. Of course, we saw you camped across the river from us last night and we saw, too, that you seemed to have a number of very fine horses. We thought that if we could manage to catch up with you by nightfall, we might trade something of value for one of your horses.”

“Something of value?” The big man shrugged. “Possibly. We would have to see what it is that you propose to trade, of course.”

Wil nodded. “Of course.”

An old woman appeared, carrying a pitcher of water and a single wooden cup. She handed these to Wil, who accepted them wordlessly. With the Rovers looking on, he poured some of the water into the cup. He did not offer it to Amberle, who looked at him in surprise as he ignored her completely and drank the water down. Then he poured a second cup and drank it as well. When he was finished, he handed her the empty cup and pitcher without comment.

“You know something of the Way,” the tall man remarked, interest showing in his dark eyes. “You know also that we’re Rovers, then.”

“I have treated Rovers before,” Wil said. “I’m a Healer.”

A quick murmur went through the assemblage, which had grown considerably since the conversation had begun and now consisted of almost the entire camp, some thirty men, women, and children, all dressed colorfully in bright silks with woven ribbons and scarves.

“A Healer? This is unexpected.” The tall man stepped forward, removed his hat with a flourish, and bowed low. Straightening once more, he extended his hand in greeting. “My name is Cephelo. I am Leader of this Family.”

Wil accepted the hand and shook it firmly. Cephelo smiled.

“Well, you mustn’t stand out here while the night grows cold about you. Come with me. Your sister is welcome, too. You both look as if you could do with a bath and something to eat.”

He led the way through the crowd of Rovers into the circle of the wagons. An immense fire burned at the center of the camp, a tripod and iron kettle suspended above it. The glow of the fire reflected off the gaily painted wagons, mixing the rainbow of colors with shadows of the night. Wooden benches sat beneath the wagons, intricately carved and polished, their broad seats cushioned by feather pillows. Brass-handled windows stood open to the light, laced with curtains and strings of beads. On a long table to one side lay an assortment of wicked-looking pikes, swords, and knives, all carefully arranged. Two small boys were diligently oiling the metal blades.

They reached the cooking fire and Cephelo turned abruptly.

“Well now, which shall it be first—a meal or a bath?”

Wil did not even glance at Amberle. “A bath, I think—my sister, as well, if you can spare the water.”

“We can spare it.” Cephelo nodded, then turned. “Eretria!”

There was a whisper of silk, and Wil found himself face to face with the most stunning girl he had ever seen. She was small and delicate, in the manner of Amberle, but without the childlike innocence that marked the Elven girl. Thick, black hair tumbled in ringlets to her shoulders, framing eyes that were dark and secretive. Her face was beautiful, her features perfectly formed and immediately unforgettable. She was wearing high leather boots, dressed in pants and tunic of scarlet silk that failed to hide anything of the woman beneath. Bands of silver flashed on her wrists and neck.

Wil looked at her in astonishment and could not look away.

“My daughter.” Cephelo sounded bored. He motioned toward Amberle. “Take the Elven girl and let her bathe herself.”

Eretria smiled wickedly. “It would be much more interesting to bathe him,” she offered, nodding toward Wil.

“Just do as you’re told,” her father ordered sharply.

Eretria kept her eyes on the Valeman. “Come along, girl,” she invited. She turned and was gone. Amberle followed after, looking none too happy.

Cephelo led Wil to the far side of the encampment where a series of blankets hung across a small area between two of the wagons. Within stood a tub of water. Stepping behind the blankets, Wil stripped off his clothing and laid it neatly on the ground beside him. He was well aware that the Rover was watching everything he removed, looking to see if he possessed anything of value, and he was careful to see to it that the pouch containing the Elfstones did not fall loose from its pocket within his tunic. He began to pour water over himself with a ladle, washing away the dirt and sweat of the day’s travel.

“It is not often that we encounter a Healer who will treat Rovers,” Cephelo said after a moment. “We usually must care for our own.”

“I was trained by the Stors,” Wil answered him. “Their help is given freely.”

“The Stors?” Cephelo was surprised all over again. “But the Stors are all Gnomes.”

The Valeman nodded. “I was an exception.”