an odd time to mend the error of your ways. I know you were up all night. I checked. I just wanted to see if you were all right.»
«I’m fine.» Wil managed a brief smile.
«You don’t look fine. And it’s this weather as much as anything.» Flick rubbed his elbows gingerly. «Confounded rain hasn’t stopped since I got here. It doesn’t bother just old people like me, you know. Bothers everyone even would–be Healers.» He shook his head. «You would be better off back in the Vale.»
Wil nodded absently.
It had been a long time since Shady Vale. For almost two years now he had been living and working in the village of the Stors, learning the art of Healing from the recognized masters of the craft, preparing himself for the time when he might return to the Southland as a Healer, to lend the benefit of his skills to his own people. Unfortunately the whole business of becoming a Healer had proven a source of constant irritation to Flick, though Wil’s grandfather had come to accept it well enough. When the fever had taken Wil’s parents, a very young Wil Ohmsford had bravely resolved that, when he grew older, he would become a Healer. He had told his grandfather and Flick, in a child’s way and with a child’s determination, that he wished to save others from sickness and pain. That was fine, they agreed, thinking it a child’s whim. But his ambition had stayed with him. And when, on reaching manhood, he announced that it was his intention to study, not with the Healers of the Southland, whom he knew to be only adequate in their skills, but with the very best Healers in the Four Lands — with the Stors — their attitude had undergone an abrupt change. Good old Uncle Flick had long ago made up his mind about Gnomes and the Eastland. Even his grandfather had balked. No Southlander had ever studied with the Stors. How could Wil, who did not even speak the language, expect to be taken into their community?
But Wil had gone despite their reservations — only to be taken before the Stor council upon his arrival and told politely but firmly that no one who was not of the village of Storlock had ever been permitted to study with them. He might stay as long as he wished, but he could not become one of them. Wil did not give up. He decided that he must first learn their language, and he spent almost two months doing so. Then he appeared again before the council and again attempted to persuade them, this time speaking to them in their own tongue. He was not successful this time either. Every week for nearly a month after that, he went before the council to plead his cause. He told them everything about himself and his family, everything that had led to his decision to become a Healer — everything that he thought might convince them that he should be allowed to study with them. Something must have worked, because finally, without a word of explanation, he was told that he would be permitted to remain and that they would teach him what they knew. In time, if he proved diligent and capable, he would become a Healer.
He smiled fondly at the memories. How pleased he had been — and his grandfather and Flick, when they had learned of his acceptance, though the latter would never admit it any more than he would admit to the real reason for his disapproval of the whole venture. What really distressed Flick was the distance separating him from Wil. He missed the hunting, fishing, and exploring that they had shared while Wil was growing up. He missed having Wil there in the Vale with him. Flick’s wife had died a long time ago, and they had never had any children of their own. Wil had been his son. Flick had always believed that Wil would stay on in the Vale and manage the inn with Shea and him. Now Wil was gone, settled in Storlock, far from the Vale and his old life, and Wil knew that his uncle simply could not accept the way things had worked out.
«Are you listening to me?» Flick asked suddenly, a frown creasing his bearded face.
«I’m listening,” Wil assured him. He placed a hand gently on his uncle’s shoulder. «Be patient, Uncle Flick. I’ll be back some day. But there is so much to learn yet.»
«Well, it’s you I’m concerned about, not me,” Flick pointed out quickly, his stocky form straightening. «Your grandfather and I can manage just fine without you, but I’m not so sure you can manage without us. Look at you. You push yourself too hard, Wil. You have this stubborn streak in you that seems to have blinded you to the fact that you cannot do everything that you might like to do. You are a normal human being like the rest of us. What do I have to do to get you to see that?»
It appeared that he wanted to say more, but with an effort he stopped himself. «This isn’t the time for it.» He sighed. His hand came to rest on Wil’s. «Why don’t you go to bed? We can talk when you…»
His gray eyes shifted suddenly, and his voice trailed off. Wil turned to follow his gaze. There was movement in the mist — a shadow, dark and solitary. They stared at it curiously, watching it slowly materialize. It became a horse and rider, each blacker than the other. The rider sat bent forward in the saddle, as if quite weary from the ride, dark clothing soaked by the rain and plastered against his tall frame.
A sudden apprehension stole through Wil. This was no Stor that came; indeed, this looked to be no man the like of which he had ever seen.
«It cannot be…» he heard Flick mutter.
His uncle did not finish the thought. He brushed past Wil and stepped to the edge of the porch, bracing himself with an outstretched arm against the rain–slicked railing. Wil moved to stand with him. The horseman was coming directly toward them. So strong was the sense of foreboding that the rider’s approach engendered within him that the Valeman gave momentary consideration to fleeing. Yet he could not flee. He could only wait, eyes fixed on the spectral form.
The rider drew to a halt before the Valemen. His head was lowered, his face hidden within the folds of a dark cowl.
«Hello, Flick.»
The rider’s voice was a deep, low whisper. Wil saw his uncle start.
«Allanon!»
The big man slipped from the back of his horse, but one arm remained hooked about the animal’s neck, as if he could not stand alone. Wil came forward a pace and stopped. Something was clearly wrong.
Allanon’s gaze shifted slowly to meet his own. «Wil Ohmsford?» The Valeman nodded, surprised. «Go quickly and ask the Stors to come…» he began, then sagged downward, barely catching himself in time to keep from collapsing.
Wil came down the porch steps instantly, moving to the Druid’s aid, but stopped as the big man’s hand came up in warning.
«Do as I say, Valeman — go!»
Then Wil saw clearly what the rain had hidden from him before. Allanon’s clothes were deeply stained with blood. Without another word the Valeman bounded back up the roadway toward the center, the weariness and discomfort slipping from him like a dream lost in waking.
Chapter Eight
The Stors took Allanon to the rest center, and although both Wil and Flick sought to accompany the injured Druid, they were told gently but firmly that their assistance was not needed. Enigmatic and silent, Stors and Druid disappeared into the corridors of the center, and the Valemen were left standing in the rain. Since it was apparent that for the moment nothing further would be learned of the Druid’s coming, Wil Ohmsford bade his uncle goodnight and went off to bed.
Later that same day, during the early evening hours, Allanon sent word that he wanted to see both Valemen. Wil received the news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was curious to discover what had befallen the Druid. Stories of Allanon were familiar territory; his grandfather and Flick had told them all a dozen times over. Yet never in those tales had there been mention of injuries like those the big man had suffered in coming to Storlock. Not even the Skull Bearer that had attacked him in the furnace room at Paranor during the search for the Sword of Shannara had done this kind of damage, and Wil wanted to know what manner of creature walked the Four Lands that was more dangerous than the winged servants of the Warlock Lord. On the other hand, he was disturbed by the Druid’s presence in Storlock. It might have been coincidence that Allanon came at a time when he found both Flick and Wil in the village. It might have been by chance that he stumbled upon them rather than the Stors. But Wil did not believe it for a moment. Allanon had come to them deliberately. Why had he done that? And why had he summoned them to this meeting? Wil could understand Allanon’s wish to confer with Flick; after all, they had met before and shared common adventures. By why Wil? The Druid didn’t even know the youngest Ohmsford. Why
