was the weather. If it rained, they would never find the trail. Even if the weather stayed favorable for them, the sudden wind storms that blew across the Streleheim would have the same effect as a rainfall, erasing all traces of anyone’s passage. Flick, dutifully bringing up the rear, walked in abject silence, hoping against hope that they would find some sign of Shea, but fearful that he had seen the last of his brother.
By noonday, the barren plains were shimmering with the blistering heat of the white–hot sun, and the three travelers walked as close to the forest edge as possible to take advantage of small patches of shade from the great trees. Allanon alone seemed unperturbed by the fearful heat, his dark face calm and relaxed in the scorching sunlight, free from even the slightest trace of perspiration. Flick felt ready to collapse at any moment, and even the durable Menion Leah was beginning to feel ill. His sharp eyes were dry and blurred, and his senses were starting to play tricks on him. He was seeing things that weren’t there, hearing and smelling images formed by his muddled brain in the seething flatlands ahead.
At last the two Southlanders could go no farther, and their tall leader called a brief halt, leading them into the cooling shade of the forest. In silence they ate a small, tasteless meal of bread and dried meats. Flick wanted to ask the Druid more about Shea’s chances of surviving alone in that desolate land, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice the questions. The answers were all too apparent. He felt strangely alone now that the others were gone. He had never felt close to Allanon, always plagued by nagging doubts about the Druid’s strange powers. The mystic remained a giant shadowy figure, as mysterious and deadly as the Skull Bearers that pursued them so relentlessly. He remained a personification of the deathless spirit of Bremen that had risen from the nether world in the Valley of Shale. He was power and wisdom of such magnitude that he didn’t seem a part of Flick’s mortal world; he was more a part of the Warlock Lord’s domain, that black, frightful corner of the mortal mind where fear is master and reason cannot penetrate.
Flick could not forget the terrible battle between the great mystic and the treacherous Skull creature which had resulted in a fiery climax in the flames of the furnace beneath the Druids’ Keep. Yet Allanon had saved himself; he had survived what no other man could have survived. It was more than merely uncanny — it was terrifying. Balinor alone had seemed able to deal with the giant leader, but now he was gone, and Flick felt very alone and vulnerable.
Menion Leah felt even less certain of himself. He was not really afraid of the powerful Druid, but he was aware that the giant did not think much of him and had brought him along primarily because Shea had wanted him. Shea had believed in the Prince of Leah when even Flick had doubted the adventurer’s motives. But Shea was gone now. Menion felt he had only to anger the Druid once more and the unpredictable mystic would dispose of him for good. So he ate quietly and said nothing, believing that for the moment discretion was the better part of valor.
When the silent meal was concluded, the Druid motioned them to their feet. Again they marched eastward along the fringes of the forest, their faces bathed in the withering heat of the sun, their tired eyes scanning the barren plains for the missing Shea. This time they walked for only fifteen minutes before they found signs of something out of the ordinary. Menion spotted the tracks almost immediately. A large number of Gnomes had passed that way several days earlier, booted and undoubtedly armed. They followed the tracks northward for about half a mile. Upon topping a small rise of ground, they found the remains of the Gnomes and Elves who had died in battle. The decaying bodies lay where they had fallen, still untouched and unburied, less than a hundred yards from the rise. The three walked slowly down into the graveyard of bleached bones and rotting flesh, the terrible stench rising to their nostrils in sickening waves. Flick could go no farther, and stopped where he was to watch the other two walk into the midst of the dead bodies.
Allanon wandered in silent contemplation through the fallen men, studying discarded weapons and standards, glancing only briefly at the dead. Menion discovered a fresh set of tracks almost immediately and began moving mechanically about the battlefield, his eyes fixed on the dusty earth. Flick could not tell exactly what was going on from his distant vantage point, but it appeared that the highlander retraced his own steps several times, casting about for traces of new trails, the thin hands shading his reddened eyes. Finally, he turned southward toward the forest and began strolling slowly back toward Flick, his head lowered thoughtfully. He stopped at a large clump of bushes and dropped to one knee, apparently observing something of interest. Momentarily forgetting his distaste for the battlefield and its corpses, the curious Valeman hastened forward. He had just reached the kneeling man’s side when Allanon, standing in the center of the battlefield, let out a shout of astonishment. The two men paused and watched silently while the tall black figure peered downward for a moment as if to be certain, then turned and moved toward them in long strides. The mystic’s dark face was flushed with excitement when he reached them, and they were relieved to see the familiar mocking smile slowly spread into a wide grin.
«Amazing! It’s amazing indeed. Our young friend is more resourceful than I had imagined. Up there, I found a small pile of ashes — all that remains of one of the Skull Bearers. Nothing mortal destroyed that creature; it was the power of the Elfstones!»
«Then Shea has been here ahead of us!» exclaimed Flick hopefully.
«No other has the power to use the stones.» Allanon nodded assuringly. «There are signs of a terrific battle, tracks that show Shea was not alone. But I cannot tell whether those who were with him were friends or enemies. Nor can I tell if the creature of the north was destroyed during or after the battle between Gnome and Elf. What have you found, highlander?»
«A lot of false trails left by a very intelligent Troll,” Menion responded wryly. «It’s impossible for me to tell much from all the footprints, but I am sure that a large Rock Troll was among the prior occupants of this field. He left his tracks all over it but none of them lead anywhere. There are indications that some sort of scuffle took place within these bushes, though. See the bent branches and newly fallen leaves? But more important, there are footprints of a small man. They could be Shea’s.»
«Do you think he was captured by the Troll?» Flick queried fearfully.
Menion smiled at his concern and shrugged.
«If he could handle one of those Skull creatures, then I doubt he would have much trouble with an ordinary Troll.»
«The Elfstones are no protection against mortal creatures,” Allanon pointed out chillingly. «Is there any dear indication which way this Troll went?»
Menion shook his head negatively.
«To be certain, we would have had to find the tracks right away. These tracks are at least a day old. The Troll knew what he was doing when he left. We could search forever and never be sure which way he went.»
Flick felt his heart sink at this news. If Shea had been taken by this mysterious creature, then it appeared they had reached another dead end.
«I found something else,” Allanon announced after a moment. «I found a broken standard from the house of Elessedil — Eventine’s personal banner. He may have been present at the battle. He may have been taken prisoner or even killed. It seems possible that the slain Gnomes were attempting to escape from Paranor with the Sword and were intercepted by the Elf King and his warriors. If so, then Eventine, Shea and the Sword may all be in the hands of the enemy.»
«I’m sure of one thing,” Menion declared quickly. «Those Troll footprints and this battle in the bushes took place yesterday, while the battle between the Gnomes and Elves is several days old.»
«Yes… yes, you’re right, of course,” the Druid agreed thoughtfully. «There has been a sequence of events taking place that we can’t piece together from the little we know. I’m afraid we won’t find all the answers here.»
«What do we do now?» Flick asked anxiously.
«There are tracks leading westward across the Streleheim,” Allanon mused thoughtfully, gazing in that direction as he spoke. «The tracks are blurred, but they may have been made by survivors of this battle…»
He looked questioningly at the silent Menion Leah for his opinion.
«Our mysterious Troll did not go that way,” Menion stated worriedly. «He would not bother with a lot of false trails if he were going to leave a clear one when he left! I don’t like it.»
«Do we have any choice?» Allanon persisted. «The only clear set of tracks leaving this battleground leads westward. We’ll have to follow them and hope for the best.»
Flick thought that such optimism was unwarranted in view of the hard facts of the situation and found the comments out of character for the grim Druid. Still, it seemed they had little choice in the matter. Perhaps whoever had made those tracks could tell them something about Shea. The little Valeman turned to Menion and nodded his
