But only a heartbeat after that the night silence was filled with the sounds of agonized squealing and snorting as one or more of the Harrgs went wild, leaping and charging about, sending the others into a frenzy that ended with all of them racing away into the darkness.
Panamon brushed off his hands. “Pepper root. The Harrgs can’t stand it. I disguised the smell so they would eat it, knowing they will eat just about anything. They won’t be back. Not that we were in any real danger from them.”
“Those tusks suggest otherwise,” Flick pointed out.
“Well, yes, perhaps they do,” the thief conceded. “But Harrgs are not hunters; they’re opportunists. They were more curious about us than anything.”
He came back to where they were still crouched by the fire and sat down again. The night air had turned chilly with the deepening of the darkness, and he rubbed his hands briskly.
“Cold,” he said.
“How do you happen to know so much about Harrgs?” Shea asked.
Panamon shrugged. “I know a few things.”
“It was fortunate you knew about this one, wasn’t it?”
Panamon did not miss the implication. He shrugged. “I knew about the Harrgs because I’ve run into them before.” He cleared his throat and spit. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to leave any further discussion of the subject until morning. I am tired, and I need my rest.”
Shea and Flick exchanged a quick glance as the thief picked up his blanket, found a suitable piece of hard ground, lay down with his back to them, and went to sleep.
He needs his rest, Flick mouthed to Shea and rolled his eyes.
* * *
The morning dawned gray and sullen, the weather typical for the Northland and the country of the Skull Kingdom. No matter that the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers were dead and gone; the weather never changed. After eating breakfast and packing their gear–and at Panamon’s urging–Shea reached inside his tunic and brought out the Elfstones to attempt to locate the Black Irix. While he hadn’t said anything about it to his brother or Panamon, he had experimented with the Stones about a year ago after returning home, just because he wanted to know if he could still command the magic. He had gone deep into the woods before using them, then chosen a simple task–finding out what his father was doing back in Shady Vale.
He had gone through the process of forming in his mind a clear image of his father’s face, and the magic of the Elfstones had warmed within his hand and then rushed swiftly through his body, filling him with their presence and an awareness of their power. Moments later the familiar blue light had materialized and begun to weave its way through the trees, back to his home and to where his father sat eating his lunch within the inn’s kitchen. It illuminated the scene for several long moments, then vanished once more.
Shea had his answer. He could still summon the magic if he needed to. He could still wield the Elfstones’ power. Satisfied, he had pocketed the Stones, taken them back to Shady Vale, hidden them away again, and not employed them since.
So this morning marked only his second attempt at using them since the search for the Sword of Shannara ended, but he had every reason to believe there would be no difficulty. He felt a certain amount of pressure from having Panamon standing right next to him, though not enough to rattle him. He pictured the Irix as he remembered it, called up the magic, then watched as it exploded from the Stones and rocketed away across the flats in a brilliant streak of blue light. It found the Knife Edge first and then a huge, pitted stone fortress that was walled about and defended by armed guards. Then it slipped inside and passed down a series of corridors, through several doors, and ended inside a sleeping chamber.
Once there, it swept the floor to where a broad woven rug decorated the center of the room, burrowed through the rug to a stone slab and beneath the slab to an iron vault embedded in the mountain bedrock, and finally inside the vault.
There, amid collections of gemstones and small chests of gold, silver, and ivory, lay the Black Irix. He saw the image clearly–as did Flick and Panamon–and then it vanished, and the light from the Elfstones with it.
Shea closed his fist about the Stones and looked at Panamon for confirmation. “Now we know for certain,” the thief said. “All we need to do is complete our journey.”
This was too much for Flick. “That’s all, is it? Just ride a little farther, find a way to get inside an impregnable fortress, avoid being seen by any of perhaps a hundred guards, slip down to what likely is Kestra Chule’s own bedchamber, open that vault embedded in the floor, and help ourselves to the Irix? Really? That’s all?”
“Yes, it doesn’t look quite as easy as you make it sound,” Shea agreed.
Panamon was already loading his gear on his horse, only half listening to them. “That’s because you’re making assumptions you shouldn’t. For example, we don’t have to find a way into Kestra Chule’s stronghold and we don’t have to avoid being seen.” He looked back over his shoulder. “We are invited guests.”
Shea stared at him, speechless. “What are you talking about?” Flick demanded.
“Kestra Chule and I are longtime acquaintances. I’ve been here many times before, so I simply told him we were coming. Now, mount up.”
He refused to say anything more about it, adding only that after they reached their destination they should just play along and keep their mouths shut. “He doesn’t know the real purpose of our visit, so it might be wise not to give it away.”
They rode all that morning and through the midday, and by early afternoon they had reached the River Lethe and found a worn wooden bridge that spanned a narrows between high bluffs that dropped off into a canyon hundreds of feet deep. The bridge–an ancient structure formed of rotting planks, fraying ropes, and rusted–out iron supports–looked as if it was about to collapse. But Panamon ignored that, urging his horse onto the rickety wooden planking–the entire bridge swaying and creaking as he did so–and crossed without incident. Shea went next, his heart in his throat when one of the struts snapped explosively. Flick went last, his eyes closed the whole way, letting his horse decide if this was worth it or not.
“What’s the point of life without risk; doesn’t risk serve to make life sweeter?” the thief asked them afterward. It was a question neither cared to answer, even if speech had been readily available to them.
The way forward from there to the base of the mountains took another two hours, and that was because gullies and sharp drops had riven the rocky, barren terrain and needed to be carefully navigated. Progress was slow, and even after Kestra Chule’s stronghold came into view, it took considerable time to reach it.
Time the brothers spent pondering the full extent of what they had let themselves in for.
Because the closer they got to the fortress, the more formidable it looked. It was a huge complex to begin with, embedded in the mountainside between two cliffs. Its walls were high and deep, the buildings disappearing far back into the shadow of the cliffs, with each tier set atop a series of rocky elevations that left the stronghold hundreds of feet high. The outer walls were manned, and the ramparts throughout bristled with mounted crossbows and catapults of all shapes and sizes. Massive towers buttressed the ends of those walls, and provided slits cut into the stone for firing on unfortunate attackers.
The whole of the fortress was blackened by ash and soot and pitted by age and weather, yet even where there were signs of erosion the huge stone blocks were so deep and so broad that there was little impact. The gates were ironbound and twenty feet high, their tops spiked and ragged. The guards on the wall wore heavy armor and carried huge pikes.