“Has anybody ever seen the Sword?” Dayel asked suddenly. The others shook their heads negatively. “Maybe there is no Sword.”
“Oh, I think that the Sword exists, all right,” Durin declared quickly. “But once we get it, what do we do with it? What can Shea do against the power of the Warlock Lord, even with the Sword of Shannara?”
“I think we must trust to Allanon to answer that when the time comes,” another voice said.
The new voice came from behind the five, and they turned around sharply, breathing an audible sigh of relief when it was Balinor who appeared. Even as he watched the Prince of Callahorn stroll over to them, Shea wondered to himself why it was that they all still felt an unspoken fear of Allanon. The borderman smiled a greeting to Shea and Flick and seated himself with the others.
“Well, it appears that our hardships in coming through the Pass of Jade were worth it after all. I’m glad to see that you’re all right.”
“I’m sorry about Hendel.” Shea sounded awkward to himself. “I know he was a close friend.”
“It was a calculated risk that the situation demanded,” replied Balinor softly. “He knew what he was doing and what the chances were. He did it for all of us.”
“What happens next?” asked Flick after a moment.
“We wait for Allanon to decide on our route for the last leg of the journey,” replied Balinor. “Incidentally, I meant what I said about trusting him. He is a great man, a good man, though it may appear otherwise at times. He tells us what he feels we ought to know, but believe me, he does the worrying for us all. Do not be too quick to judge him.”
“You know that he hasn’t told us everything,” Menion stated simply.
“I am certain he has told us only part of the tale.” Balinor nodded. “But he is the only one who realized the threat to the four lands in the first place. We owe him a great deal, and the very least of that is a little trust.”
The others nodded slowly in agreement, more for the reason that they all respected the borderman than because they felt convinced by his
reassurances. This was especially true of Menion, who recognized that Balinor was a man of great courage, the kind of man whom Menion looked to as a leader. They spoke no more on the matter, but turned to a further discussion of the Stors, their history as a branch of the Gnome nations and their long, abiding friendship with Allanon. The sun was setting when the tall historian appeared unexpectedly and joined them by the Blue Pond.
“After I am finished with you I want the Valemen back in bed for a few hours’ rest. It probably wouldn’t hurt the rest of you to get some sleep as well. We will leave this place some time around midnight.”
“Isn’t this a little sudden after the wounds Shea and Flick received?” Menion asked cautiously.
“That cannot be helped, highlander.” The grim face seemed black even in the fading sunlight. “We are all running out of time. If word of our mission, or even our presence in this part of the Anar, reaches the Warlock Lord, he will try to move the Sword immediately, and without it this journey is pointless.”
“Flick and I can make it,” Shea declared resolutely.
“What will be the route?” Balinor asked.
“We will cross the Rabb Plains tonight, a march of about four hours. If we are lucky, we will not be caught out in the open, although I am quite sure the Skull Bearers will still be searching for both Shea and myself. We can only hope they haven’t managed to trace us into the Anar. I hadn’t told you before, because you had enough to concern you, but any use of the Elfstones pinpoints our position to Brona and his hunters. The mystical power of the stones can be detected by any creature of the spirit world, warning him that sorcery similar to his own is being used.”
“Then, when we used the Elfstones in the Mist Marsh …” Flick began in horror.
“You told the Skull Bearers exactly where you were,” Allanon finished with that infuriating smile. “If you hadn’t lost yourselves in the mist and the Black Oaks, they might have had you right there.”
Shea felt a sudden chill sweep over him as he recalled how close they had felt to death at the time, little realizing how much danger they were really in from the creatures they feared the most.
“If you knew that use of the stones would attract the spirit creatures, then why didn’t you tell us?” demanded Shea angrily. “Why did you give them to us to use for protection when you knew what would happen?”
“You were cautioned, my young friend,” came the slow, growling response that always indicated Allanon’s temper was shortening. “Without them, you would have been at the mercy of other equally dangerous elements. Besides, they are protection enough in themselves against the winged ones.”
He waved off further questions, indicating that the subject was closed, causing Shea to become even more suspicious and angered. A watchful Durin saw all the signs and placed a restraining hand on the young Valeman’s shoulder, shaking his head in warning.
“If we may return to the matter at hand,” Allanon continued on a more even tone, “let me explain further the chosen route for the next few days—without interruption. The journey across the Rabb Plains will put us at the foot of the Dragon’s Teeth at daybreak. Those mountains offer all the protection we need from anyone searching for us. But the real problem is getting over them and down the other side to the forests surrounding Paranor. All the known passes through the Dragon’s Teeth will be closely guarded by the allies of the Warlock Lord, and any attempt to scale those peaks without using one of the passes would get half of us killed. So we’ll go through the mountains by a different route, one that they won’t be guarding.”
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Balinor in astonishment. “You don’t plan to take us through the Tomb of the Kings!”
“There is no other alternative open to us if we wish to avoid being discovered. We can enter the Hall of Kings at sunrise and be completely through the mountains and outside Paranor by sundown without the guards at the passes being any the wiser.”
“But the stories say no one has ever gotten through those caverns alive!” insisted Durin, coming quickly to Balinor’s aid in discounting the suggested plan. “None of us is afraid of the living, but the spirits of the dead inhabit those caves and only the dead may pass through unharmed. No living person has ever done it!”
Balinor nodded his head slowly in agreement, while the others looked on anxiously. Menion and the Valemen had never even heard of the place of which the others seemed so deathly afraid. Allanon was actually grinning strangely at Durin’s last comment, his eyes dark beneath the heavy brows, his white teeth showing in menacing fashion.
“You are not entirely correct, Durin,” he replied after a minute. “I have been through the Hall of Kings, and I tell you that it can be done. It is not a journey to be made without risk. The caverns are indeed inhabited by the spirits of the dead, and it is on this that Brona relies to prevent the entry of humans. But my power should be sufficient to protect us.”
Menion Leah had no idea what it was about the caverns that could cause even a man like Balinor to have second thoughts, but whatever it was, he felt there was a good reason to fear it. Moreover he was through questioning what he had called old wives’ tales and foolish legends, since the encounters in the Mist Marsh and the Wolfsktaag. What really concerned him now was what sort of powers the man who proposed to lead
them through the caves of the Dragon’s Teeth might possess that could protect them from spirits.
“The entire journey has been a calculated risk.” Allanon was speaking once again. “We all knew what the dangers were before we began it. Are you ready to turn back at this point, or do we see the matter through to the end?”
“We will follow you,” Balinor declared after only a moment’s hesitation. “You knew we would. The risk is worth it if we can lay our hands on the Sword.”
Allanon smiled slightly, his deep-set eyes traveling over the faces of the others, meeting each gaze piercingly, coming to rest at last on Shea. The Valeman stared back unfalteringly, though his heart felt twinges of fear and uncertainty as those eyes bored into his innermost thoughts, seemingly aware of every secret doubt the Valeman had tried to conceal.
“Very well.” Allanon nodded darkly. “Go now and rest.”
He turned abruptly and walked back toward the Stor village. Balinor hastened after the departing figure, apparently wishing to ask something further. The others watched both until they were out of sight. Then, for the first time, Shea realized it was almost dark, the sun sinking slowly beneath the horizon and the twilight a soft white light in the deepening purple sky. For a moment no one moved, and then silently they climbed to their feet and retired to the peaceful village to sleep until the appointed hour of midnight.
It seemed to Shea that he had just fallen asleep when he felt the rough grip of a strong hand shaking him awake. A moment later, the sharp glare of a burning torch flickered through the darkened room, causing him to squint protectively while his sleep-filled eyes adjusted to this new light. Through a mist of sleep, he saw the determined face of Menion Leah, the anxious eyes telling him that the hour had come for them to depart. He rose unsteadily in the cold night air and, after a moment’s hesitation, hastened to dress. Flick was already awake and half dressed, the stolid face a welcome sight in the eerie silence of midnight. Shea felt strong once again, strong enough to make the long march across the Rabb Plains to the Dragon’s Teeth and beyond if necessary—anything to reach the end of the journey.
Minutes later, the three companions were making their way through the sleeping Stor village to meet the other members of the company. The darkened houses were black, squarish bulks in the dim light of a night sky which was moonless and screened by a heavy blanket of clouds that moved sluggishly toward some undetermined destination. It was a good night to travel in the open, and Shea felt reassured by the idea that any searching
emissaries of the Warlock Lord would have a very difficult time spotting them. As they walked, he found that he could barely detect the tread of their light hunting boots on the damp earth. Everything seemed to be working in their favor.
When they reached the western boundary of Storlock, they found the others waiting, except for Allanon. Durin and Dayel appeared like empty forms in the blackness, their slight figures only shadows as they paced wordlessly, listening to the sounds of the night. Passing close to them at one point, Shea was struck by the distinctive Elven features, the strange pointed ears and the pencil-thin eyebrows arching upward onto the forehead. He wondered if other humans looked at him the way he now looked at the Elven brothers. Were they truly different creatures? He wondered again about the history behind the Elf people, the history that Allanon had referred to once as remarkable, but had never described further. Their history was his own; he knew now what he had always suspected. It was something he wanted to know more about, perhaps if only better to understand his own heritage and the tale of the Sword of Shannara.
He looked over to the tall, broad figure of Balinor standing like a statue to one side, his face featureless in the dark. Balinor was unquestionably the most reassuring thing about the whole expedition. There was something very durable about the borderman, a quality of indestructibility that lent itself freely to all of the members of the company and gave them courage. Even Allanon did not inspire them in quite this way, although Shea felt that he was easily the more powerful of the two. Perhaps Allanon, in his seemingly infinite awareness of all matters, knew what Balinor did for other men and had brought him along for precisely that reason.
“Quite so, Shea.” The soft voice was so close to his ear that the Valeman leaped violently in surprise as the black-cloaked wanderer strolled past him and motioned the others to his side. “The journey must be made while we have the cover of the night. Stay together and keep your eyes on the men ahead. There will be no talking.”
Without further greeting, the dark giant led them into the Anar Forests along a narrow trail that ran directly west out of Storlock. Shea fell into step behind Menion, his heart still in his throat from the fright he had received, his mind racing madly back over the past encounters with the strange man, wondering if what he had suspected all along were true after all. In any event, he would keep his thoughts to himself any time Allanon was close, however difficult that task might prove to be.
The company reached the western edges of the Anar Forests and the beginning of the Rabb Plains sooner than Shea had expected. Despite the blackness of the night sky, the Valemen could sense the presence of the
Dragon’s Teeth looming in the distance; without speaking, they looked at one another briefly, then turned back to peer anxiously into the darkness. Allanon led them across the empty plainland without pausing and without slackening the pace. The Plains were completely flat, totally free of natural obstructions and visibly lifeless. The only things growing were small scrub trees and bits of scattered brush that were bare and skeletonlike in appearance. The floor of the plain was hard-packed earth, so dry in parts that it split apart in long, jagged crevices. Nothing moved about the travelers as they marched in silence, their eyes and ears alert to anything out of the ordinary. At one point, when they were almost three hours into the Rabb Plains, Dayel brought them up with a quick gesture, indicating that he had heard something behind them, far back in the blackness. They crouched soundless and immobile for several long minutes, but nothing happened. At last Allanon shrugged and motioned them back into line, and they resumed their march.
They reached the Dragon’s Teeth just before daybreak, the night sky still black and clouded as they halted at the foot of the forbidding mountains that spread upward across their path like monstrous spikes on an iron gate. Both Shea and Flick felt strong, even after the long march, and quickly indicated to the others that they were ready to continue without a rest. Allanon seemed eager to move on immediately, almost as if he were determined to keep an appointment. He took them straight into the treacherous-looking mountains along a pebble-strewn trail that wound gently upward into what appeared to be a pocket in the face of the cliffs. Flick found himself looking up at the peaks on either side of the trail as he walked, craning his stout neck at right angles to catch occasional glimpses of the jagged tips. The Dragon’s Teeth seemed an appropriate name.