Muten lumbered mindlessly toward them, unaffected by the tremors. Panamon climbed shakenly to his feet, pulling Shea after him.
«The whole pass is coming down,” lie stated quietly. «We don’t have time to argue. I can take care of myself — just as I did long before I met you or Keltset. Now I want you to run — get clear of this pass!»
He put one hand on the Valeman’s slim shoulder and gently shoved him away. Shea took several steps backward and hesitated, bringing the Sword of Shannara up almost threateningly. Panamon Creel’s broad face showed a flicker of surprise, and then the familiar devilish grin appeared and the eyes turned to fire.
«We’ll meet again, Shea Ohmsford. You watch for me.»
He waved the piked hand once in farewell, and turned to meet the advancing Muten. Shea stared after him momentarily. His fading eyesight must be fooling him — for an instant it seemed that the scarlet thief was not limping after all. Then the heavy tremors rippled through the mountain pass still another time, and the Valeman broke for the safety of the foothills. Slipping and stumbling through the loose rock and earth, dodging the cascade of stone and debris that tumbled from the heights of the Knife Edge into the narrow canyon, he ran on alone.
Chapter Thirty–Four
The afternoon was almost gone. Sunlight slipped in long, hazy streamers through the drifting white clouds, settling with warm touches over the barren, empty Northland terrain. Here and there the light fell providently on small patches of green — the first signs of a permanent life that one day soon would flourish in this earth that had lain parched and desolate for so many years. In the distance, the blunted tips of the shattered Knife Edge broke starkly against the northern horizon, and from the devastated valley beyond, the dust still hung suspended above the ruins of the Skull Kingdom.
Shea seemed to appear out of nowhere, wandering aimlessly through the tangle of ravines and ridges that carved out the foothills immediately below the Knife Edge. Half–blind and completely exhausted, the tattered figure was barely recognizable. He came toward Allanon without seeing him, both hands gripping tightly the silver– handled sword. For just an instant, the Druid stared speechlessly at the strange spectacle of the stumbling, ragged swordsman. Then with a sharp cry of relief, he rushed forward to gather in the thin, battered frame of Shea Ohmsford, and held him close.
The Valeman was asleep for a long time, and when he came awake again, it was night. He was lying in the shelter of a rock–encrusted overhang that opened into a deep, wide–bottomed ravine. A small wood fire crackled peacefully, lending added warmth to the cloak that was wrapped tightly about him. His troubled vision had begun to clear, and he found himself staring up into a bright, starlit night sky that stretched canopylike from ridge top to ridge top above him. He smiled in spite of himself. He could imagine himself in Shady Vale once again. A moment later Allanon’s dark shadow moved into the dim firelight.
«Are you feeling better?» the Druid asked in greeting and seated himself. There was something strange about Allanon. He seemed more human, less forbidding, and there was an unusual warmth in his voice.
Shea nodded. «How did you find me?»
«You found me. Don’t you remember anything?»
«No, none of it — nothing after…» Shea paused hesitantly. «Was there anybody… did you see anybody else?»
Allanon studied his anxious expression for a moment, as if debating his answer, then shook his dark face.
«You were alone.»
Shea felt something catch in his throat, and he lay back in the, warmth of the blankets, swallowing hard. So Panamon, too, was gone. Somehow, he had not expected it to end like this.
«Are you all right?» the Druid’s deep voice reached out to him in the darkness. «Would you like to eat something now? I think it would be good for you if you did.»
«Yes.» Shea pushed himself up into a sitting position, the cloak still wrapped protectively about him. By the fire, Allanon was pouring soup into a small bowl. The aroma reached out to him invitingly, and he breathed it in. Then suddenly he thought of the Sword of Shannara and looked for it in the darkness. He saw it almost immediately, lying next to him, the bright metal gleaming faintly. As an afterthought, he felt through the pockets of his tunic for the Elfstones. He could not find them. Panicked, he began searching desperately through his clothing for the little pouch, but the result was the same. It was gone. A sinking sensation gripped him, and he lay back weakly for a moment. Perhaps Allanon…
«Allanon, I can’t find the Elfstones,” he said quickly. «Did you…?»
The Druid moved over to his side and handed him the steaming bowl of soup and a small wooden spoon. His face was an impenetrable black shadow.
«No, Shea. You must have lost them when you fled the Knife Edge.» He saw the crestfallen look on the other’s face and reached over to pat the slim shoulder reassuringly. «There’s no point in worrying about them now. The stones have served their purpose. I want you to eat something and go back to sleep — you need to rest.»
Mechanically, Shea sipped at the soup, unable to forget quite so easily the loss of the Elfstones. They had been with him from the beginning, protecting him every step of the way. Several times, they had saved his life. How could he have been so careless? He thought back for a moment, trying vainly to remember where he might have lost them, but it was useless. It could have happened anytime.
«I’m sorry about the Elfstones,” he apologized quietly, feeling that he had to say something more.
Allanon shrugged and smiled faintly. He seemed weary and somehow older as he seated himself beside the Valeman.
«Maybe they’ll turn up later.»
Shea finished the bowl in silence, and Allanon refilled it without being asked. The warm liquid relaxed the still weary Valeman, and a numbing drowsiness began to seep slowly through his body. He was falling asleep again. It would have been so easy to give in to the feeling, but he could not. There were still too many things bothering him, too many unanswered questions. He wanted those answers now from the one man who could give them to him. He deserved that much after everything he had been through.
He struggled to a sitting position, aware that Allanon was watching him closely from out of the darkness beyond the little fire. In the distance, the sharp cry of a night bird broke through the deep silence. Shea paused in spite of himself. Life was coming back to the Northland — after so long. He placed the bowl of soup on the ground next, to him and turned to Allanon.
«Can we talk awhile?»
The Druid nodded silently.
«Why didn’t you tell me the truth about the Sword?» the Valeman asked softly. «Why didn’t you?»
«I told you all that you needed to know.» Allanon’s dark face was impassive. «The Sword itself told you the rest.»
Shea stared at him incredulously.
«It was necessary for you to learn the secret of the Sword of Shannara for yourself,” the Druid continued gently. «It was not something that I could explain to you — it was something that you had to experience. You had to learn to accept the truth about yourself first before the Sword could be of any use to you as a talisman against the Warlock Lord. It was a process in which I could not involve myself directly.»
«Well, could you not at least have told me why the Sword would destroy Brona?» Shea persisted.
«And what would that have done to you, Shea?»
The Valeman frowned. «I don’t understand.»
«If I had told you everything that it was in my power to tell you about the Sword — remembering now that you would not have the benefit of hindsight, as you do now, to enlighten you — would that have helped you in practical terms? Would you have been able to continue your search for the Sword? Would you have been able to draw the Sword against Brona, knowing that it would do no more than reveal to him the truth about himself? Would you have even believed me when I said that such a simple thing would destroy a monster with the power of the Warlock Lord?»
