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
