Brin was pale as she leaned forward. “Are you saying that it has begun all over again? That there is another Warlock Lord and other Skull Bearers?”
Allanon shook his head. “These men were not Druids as were Brona and his followers, nor has the same amount of time elapsed since their subversion. But the magic subverts all who tamper with it. The difference is in the nature of the change wrought. Each time, the change is different.”
Brin shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Different,” Allanon repeated. “Magic, good or evil, adapts to the user and the user to it. Last time, the creatures born of its touch flew . . .”
The sentence was left hanging. His listeners exchanged quick glances.
“And this time?” Rone asked.
The black eyes narrowed. “This time the evil walks.”
“Mord Wraiths!” Jair breathed sharply.
Allanon nodded. “A Gnome term for ‘black walker.’ They are another form of the same evil. The Ildatch has shaped them as it shaped Brona and his followers, victims of the magic, slaves to the power. They are lost to the world of men, given over to the dark.”
“Then the rumors are true after all,” Rone Leah murmured. His gray eyes sought Brin’s. “I didn’t tell you this before, because I didn’t see any purpose in worrying you needlessly, but I was told by travelers passing through Leah that the walkers have come west from the Silver River country. That’s why, when Jair suggested that we go camping beyond the Vale . . .”
“Mord Wraiths come this far?” Allanon interrupted hurriedly. There was sudden concern in his voice. “How long ago, Prince of Leah?”
Rone shook his head doubtfully. “Several days, perhaps. Just before I came to the Vale.”
“Then there is less time than I thought.” The lines on the Druid’s forehead deepened.
“But what are they doing here?” Jair wanted to know.
Allanon lifted his dark face. “Looking for me, I suspect.”
Silence echoed through the darkened house. No one spoke; the Druid’s eyes held them fixed.
“Listen well. The Mord Wraith stronghold lies deep within the Eastland, high in the mountains they call the Ravenshorn. It is a massive, aged fortress built by Trolls in the Second War of the Races. It is called Graymark. The fortress sits atop the rim of a wall of peaks surrounding a deep valley. It is within this valley that the Ildatch has been concealed.”
He took a deep breath. “Ten days earlier, I was at the rim of the valley, determined to go down into it, seize the book of the dark magic from its hiding place, and see it destroyed. The book is the source of the Mord Wraiths’ power. Destroy the book, and the power is lost, the threat ended. And this threat—ah, let me tell you something of this threat. The Mord Wraiths have not been idle since the fall of their Master. Six months ago, the border wars between the Gnomes and the Dwarves flared up once more. For years the two nations have fought over the forests of the Anar, so a resumption of their dispute surprised no one at first. But this time, unknown to most, there is a difference in the nature of the struggle. The Gnomes are being guided by the hand of the Mord Wraiths. Scattered and beaten at the fall of the Warlock Lord, the Gnome tribes have been enslaved anew by the dark magic, this time under the rule of the Wraiths. And the magic gives strength to the Gnomes that they would not otherwise have. Thus the Dwarves have been driven steadily south since the border wars resumed. The threat is grave. Recently the Silver River began to turn foul, poisoned by the dark magic. The land it feeds begins to die. When that happens, the Dwarves will die also, and the whole of the Eastland will be lost. Elves from the Westland and Bordermen from Callahorn have gone to the aid of the Dwarves, but the help they bring is not enough to withstand the Mord Wraiths’ magic. Only the destruction of the Ildatch will stop what is happening.”
He turned suddenly to Brin. “Remember the stories of your father, told him by his father, told to his father by Shea Ohmsford, of the advance of the Warlock Lord into the Southland? As the evil one came, a darkness fell over everything. A shadow cast itself across the land and all beneath it withered and died. Nothing lived in that shadow that was not part of the evil. It begins again, Valegirl—this time in the Anar.”
He looked away. “Ten days ago, I stood at the walls of Graymark, intent upon finding and destroying the Ildatch. It was then that I discovered what the Mord Wraiths had done. Using the dark magic, the Mord Wraiths had grown within the valley a swamp-forest that would protect the book, a Maelmord in the faerie language, a barrier of such evil that it would crush and devour anything that attempted to enter and did not belong. Understand—this dark wood lives, it breathes, it thinks. Nothing can pass through it. I tried, but even the considerable power that I wield was not enough. The Maelmord repulsed me, and the Mord Wraiths discovered my presence. I was pursued, but I was able to escape. And now they search for me, knowing . . .”
He trailed off momentarily. Brin glanced quickly at Rone, who was looking unhappier by the minute.
“If they’re searching for you, they’ll eventually come here, won’t they?” The highlander took advantage of the pause in the Druid’s narration.
“Eventually, yes. But that will happen regardless of whether or not they follow me now. Understand, sooner or later they will seek to eliminate any threat to their power over the races. Surely you see that the Ohmsford family constitutes such a threat.”
“Because of Shea Ohmsford and the Sword of Shannara?” Brin asked.
“Indirectly, yes. The Mord Wraiths are not creatures of illusion as was the Warlock Lord, so the Sword cannot harm them. The Elfstones, perhaps. That magic is a force to be reckoned with, and the Wraiths will have heard of Wil Ohmsford’s quest for the Bloodfire.” He paused. “But the real threat to them is the wishsong.”
“The wishsong?” Brin was dumbfounded. “But the wishsong is just a toy! It hasn’t the power of the Elfstones! Why would that be a threat to these monsters? Why would they be afraid of something as harmless as that?”
“Harmless?” Allanon’s eyes flickered momentarily, then closed as if to hide something. The Druid’s dark face was expressionless, and suddenly Brin was really afraid.
“Allanon, why are you here?” she asked once more, struggling to keep her hands from shaking.
The Druid’s eyes lifted again. On the table before him, the oil lamp’s thin flame sputtered. “I want you to come with me into the Eastland to the Mord Wraiths’ keep. I want you to use the wishsong to gain passage into the Maelmord—to find the Ildatch and bring it to me to be destroyed.”
His listeners stared at him speechlessly.
“How?” Jair asked finally.
“The wishsong can subvert even the dark magic,” Allanon replied. “It can alter behavior in any living thing. Even the Maelmord can be made to accept Brin. The wishsong can gain passage for her as one who belongs.”
Jair’s eyes widened in astonishment. “The wishsong can do all that?”
But Brin was shaking her head. “The wishsong is just a toy,” she repeated.
“Is it? Or is that simply the way in which you have used it?” The Druid shook his head slowly. “No, Brin Ohmsford, the wishsong is Elven magic, and it possesses the power of Elven magic. You do not see that yet, but I tell you it is so.”
“I don’t care what it is or isn’t, Brin’s not going!” Rone looked angry. “You cannot ask her to do something this dangerous!”
Allanon remained impassive. “I do not have a choice, Prince of Leah. No more choice than I had in asking Shea Ohmsford to go in search of the Sword of Shannara nor Wil Ohmsford to go in quest of the Bloodfire. The legacy of Elven magic that was passed first to Jerle Shannara belongs now to the Ohmsfords. I wish as you do that it were different. We might as well wish that night were day. The wishsong belongs to Brin, and now she must use it.”
“Brin, listen to me.” Rone turned to the Valegirl. “There is more to the rumors than I have told you. They also speak of what the Mord Wraiths have done to men, of eyes and tongues gone, of minds emptied of all life, and of fire that burns to the bone. I discounted all that until now. I thought it little more than the late-night fireside tales of drunken men. But the Druid makes me think differently. You can’t go with him. You can’t.”
“The rumors of which you speak are true,” Allanon acknowledged softly. “There is danger. You may even die.” He paused. “But what are we to do if you do not come? Will you hide and hope the Mord Wraiths forget about you? Will you ask the Dwarves to protect you? What happens when they are gone? As with the Warlock Lord, the evil will then come into this land. It will spread until there is no one left to resist it.”
Jair reached for his sister’s arm. “Brin, if we have to go, at least there will be two of us . . .”
“There will most certainly not be two of us!” she contradicted him instantly. “Whatever happens, you are staying right here!”
“We’re all staying right here.” Rone faced the Druid. “We’re not going—any of us. You will have to find another way.”
Allanon shook his head. “I cannot, Prince of Leah. There is no other way.”
They were silent then. Brin slumped back in her chair, confused and more than a little frightened. She felt trapped by the sense of necessity that the Druid created within her, by the tangle of obligations he had thrust upon her. They spun in her mind; as they spun, the same thought kept coming back, over and over. The wishsong is only a toy. Elven magic, yes—but still a toy! Harmless! No weapon against an evil that even Allanon could not overcome! Yet her father had always been afraid of the magic. He had warned against its use, cautioning that it was not a thing to be played with. And she herself had determined to discourage Jair’s use of the wishsong . . .
“Allanon,” she said quietly. The lean face turned. “I have used the wishsong only to change appearance in small ways—to change the turning of leaves or the blooming of flowers. Little things. Even that, I have not done for many months. How can the wishsong be used to change an evil as great as this forest that guards the Ildatch?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “I will teach you.”
She nodded slowly. “My father has always discouraged any use of the magic. He has warned against relying upon it because once he did so, and it changed his life. If he were here, Allanon, he would do as Rone has done and advise me to tell you no. If fact, he would order me to tell you no.”
The craggy face reflected new weariness. “I know, Valegirl”
“My father came back from the Westland, from the quest for the Bloodfire, and he put away the Elfstones forever,” she continued, trying to think her way through her confusion as she spoke. “He told me once that he knew even then that the Elven magic had changed him, though he did not see how. He made a promise to himself that he would never use the Elfstones again.”
“I know this as well.”
“And still you ask me to come with you?”
“I do.”
“Without my being able to consult him first? Without being able to wait for his return? Without even an attempt at an explanation to him?”
The Druid looked suddenly angry. “I will make this easy for you, Brin Ohmsford. I ask nothing of you that is fair or reasonable, nothing of which your father would approve. I ask that you risk everything on little more than my word that it is necessary that you do so. I ask trust where there is probably little reason to trust. I ask all this and give nothing back. Nothing.”
He leaned forward then, half-rising from his chair, his face dark and menacing. “But I tell you this. If you think the matter through, you will see that, despite any argument you can put forth against it, you must still come with me!”
Even Rone did not choose to contradict him this time. The Druid held his position for a moment longer, dark robes spread wide as he braced himself on the table. Then slowly he settled back. There was a worn look to him now, a kind of silent desperation. It was not characteristic of the Allanon Brin’s father had described to her so often, and she was frightened by that.
“I will think the matter through as you ask,” she agreed, her voice almost a whisper. “But I need this night at least. I have to try to sort through . . . my feelings.”
Allanon seemed to hesitate a moment, then nodded. “We will talk again in the morning. Consider well, Brin Ohmsford.”
He started to rise and suddenly Jair was on his feet before him, his Elven face flushed. “Well, what about me? What about my feelings in this? If Brin goes, so do I! I’m not being left behind!”
“Jair, you can forget . . . !” Brin started to object, but Allanon cut her short with a glance. He rose and came around the table to stand before her brother.
“You have courage,” he said softly, one hand coming up to rest on the Valeman’s slender shoulder. “But yours is not the magic that I need on this journey. Your magic is illusion, and illusion will not get us past the Maelmord.”
“But you might be wrong,” Jair insisted. “Besides, I want to help!”
Allanon nodded. “You shall help. There is something that you must do while Brin and I are gone. You must be responsible for the safety of your parents, for seeing to it that the Mord Wraiths do not find them before I have destroyed the Ildatch. You must use the wishsong to protect them if the dark ones come looking. Will you do that?”
Brin did not care much for the Druid’s assumption that it was already decided that she would be going with him into the Eastland, and she cared even less for the suggestion that Jair ought to use the Elven magic as a weapon.
“I will do it if I must,” Jair was saying, a grudging tone in his voice. “But I would rather come with you.”
Allanon’s hand dropped from his shoulder. “Another time, Jair.”
“It may be another time for me as well,” Brin announced pointedly. “Nothing has been determined yet, Allanon.”
The dark face turned slowly. “There will be no other time for you, Brin,” he said softly. “Your time is here. You must come with me. You will see that by morning.”
Nodding once, he started past them toward the front entry, dark robes wrapped close.
“Where are you going, Allanon?” the Valegirl called after him.