“You caused that scene in there to get Shea to agree to go, didn’t you?” an irate Flick demanded. “That’s the lowest trick I have ever witnessed!”
“Never mind, Flick,” Shea cut him short. “Menion knew what he was doing, and he did the right thing. I would have decided to go anyway—at least I’d like to believe I would. Now we’ve got to forget the past, forget our differences, and stand together for our own preservation.”
“As long as I stand where I can see him,” retorted his brother bitterly.
The door to the conference room opened suddenly and the broad figure of Balinor was silhouetted in the torchlight from within. He surveyed the three men standing just beyond him in the darkness, then closed the door and walked over to them, smiling slightly as he approached.
“I’m glad you decided to come with us, all of you,” he stated simply. “I must add, Shea, that without you, the trip would have been pointless. Without the heir of Jerle Shannara, the Sword is only so much metal.”
“What can you tell us about this magic weapon?” Menion asked quickly.
“I’ll leave that to Allanon,” replied Balinor. “He plans to speak with you here in just a few minutes.”
Menion nodded, inwardly disturbed at the prospect of encountering the tall man again that evening, but curious to hear more about the power of the Sword. Shea and Flick exchanged quick glances. At last they would learn the full story behind what was happening in the Northland.
“Why are you here, Balinor?” Flick asked cautiously, not wishing to pry into the borderman’s personal affairs.
“It’s a rather long story you would not be interested,” replied the other almost sharply, immediately causing Flick to believe he had overstepped his bounds. Balinor saw his chagrined look, and smiled reassuringly. “My family and I have not been on very good terms lately. My younger brother and I had a… disagreement, and I wanted to leave the city for a while. Allanon asked me to accompany him to the Anar. Hendel and others were old friends, so I agreed.”
“Sounds like a familiar tale,” commented Menion dryly. “I’ve had some problems like that myself from time to time.”
Balinor nodded and managed a half smile, but Shea could tell from his eyes that he did not consider this a laughing matter. Whatever had caused him to leave Callahorn was more serious than anything Menion had ever encountered in Leah. Shea quickly changed the subject.
“What can you tell us about Allanon? We seem to be placing an unusual amount of trust in him, and we still know absolutely nothing about the man. Who is he?”
Balinor arched his eyebrows and smiled, amused by the question and at the same time uncertain as to how it should be answered. He walked away from them a little, thinking to himself, and then turned back abruptly and motioned vaguely toward the assembly hall.
“I really don’t know much about Allanon myself,” he admitted frankly. “He travels a great deal, exploring the country, recording in his notes the changes and growth of the land and its people. He’s well known in all the nations—I think he has been everywhere. The extent of his knowledge of this world is extraordinary—most of it isn’t in any book. He is very remarkable…”
“But who is he?” Shea persisted eagerly, feeling that he must learn the true origin of the historian.
“I can’t say for certain, because he has never confided completely even in me, and I am almost like a son to him,” Balinor stated very quietly, so softly in fact that they all moved a bit closer to be certain they missed nothing of what was to follow. “The elders of the Dwarfs and of my own kingdom say that he is the greatest of the Druids, that almost forgotten Council that governed men over a thousand years ago. They say that he is a direct descendant of the Druid Bremen—perhaps even of Galaphile himself. I think there is more than a little truth in that statement, because he went to Paranor often and stayed for long periods, recording his findings in the great record books stored there.”
He paused for a moment and his three listeners glanced at each other, wondering if the grim historian could actually be a direct descendant of the Druids, thinking in awe of the centuries of history behind the man. Shea had suspected before that Allanon was one of the ancient philosopher—teachers known as Druids, and it seemed apparent that the man possessed a greater knowledge of the races and the origins of the threat facing them than did anyone else. He turned back to Balinor, who was speaking again.
“I can’t explain it, but I don’t believe we could be in better company for any peril, even were we to come face to face with the Warlock Lord himself. Though I haven’t one shred of concrete evidence nor even an example to cite you, I’m certain that Allanon’s power is beyond anything we have ever seen. He would be a very, very dangerous enemy.”
“Of that, I haven’t the slightest doubt,” Flick muttered dryly.
Only minutes later, the door of the conference room opened and Allanon stepped quietly into view. In the half-light of the moon, he was huge and forbidding, almost a replica of the dreaded Skull Bearers they feared so much, the dark cape billowing slightly as he moved toward them, his lean face hidden in the depths of the long cowl about his head. They were silent as he approached, wondering what he would tell them, what it would mean for them in the days ahead. Perhaps he knew their thoughts instinctively as he walked up to them, but their eyes could not pierce the mask of inscrutability that cloaked his grim features and sheltered the man buried within. They could only see the sudden glint of his eyes as he stopped before them and looked slowly from one face to the next. A deep silence settled ominously over the little group.
“The time has come for you to learn the full story behind the Sword of Shannara, to learn the history of the races as only I know it to be.” His voice reached out and drew them commandingly to him. “It is essential that Shea should understand, and since the rest of you share the risks involved, you should also know the truth. What you will learn tonight must be kept in confidence until I tell you it no longer matters. This will be hard, but you must do it.”
He motioned for them to follow him and moved away from the clearing, drawing them deeper into the darkness of the trees beyond. When they were several hundred feet into the forest, he turned into a small, almost hidden clearing. He seated himself on the worn stub of an ancient trunk and motioned the others to find a place. They did so quickly and waited in silence as the famous historian gathered his thoughts and prepared to speak.
“A very long time ago,” he began finally, still considering his explanation as he spoke, “before the Great Wars, before the existence of the races as we know them today, the land was—or was thought to be populated only by Man. Civilization had developed even before then for many thousands of years—years of hard toil and learning that brought Man to a point where he was on the verge of mastering the secrets of life itself. It was a fabulous, exciting time to live in, so expansive that much of it would be totally beyond your comprehension were I empowered to draw you the most perfect picture. But while Man worked all those years to discover the secrets of life, he never managed to escape his overpowering fascination for death. It was a constant alternative, even in the most civilized of the nations. Strangely enough, the catalyst of each new discovery was the same endless pursuit—the study of science. Not the science the races know today—not the study of animal life, plant life, the earth and the simple arts. This was a science of machines and power, one that divided itself into infinite fields of exploration, all of which worked toward the same two ends—discovering better ways to live or quicker ways to kill.”