“What kind of person is Eventine?” Flick was asking as Shea joined the group. “I’ve always heard that he is considered the greatest of the Elven kings, respected by everyone. What is he really like?”
Durin smiled broadly and Dayel laughed merrily at the question, finding it somehow amusing and unexpected.
“What can we say about our own cousin?”
“He is a great King,” responded Durin seriously after a few moments. “Very young for a king, the other monarchs and leaders would say. But he has foresight, and most important of all, he gets things done before the time for doing them has passed. He holds the love and esteem of all the Elven people. They would follow him anywhere, do anything he asked, which is fortunate for all of us. The elders of our council would prefer to ignore the other lands, to try to remain isolated. Sheer foolishness, but they’re afraid of another war. Only Eventine stands against them and that policy. He knows that the only way to avoid the war they all fear is to strike first and cut off the head of the army which threatens. That is one reason why this mission is so important—to see that this invasion is checked before it has time to develop into a full-scale war.”
Menion had sauntered over from the other side of the small campsite and seated himself with them just in time to hear the last comment.
“What do you know of the Sword of Shannara?” he asked curiously.
“Very little actually,” admitted Dayel, “although for us it’s a matter of history rather than legend. The Sword has always represented a promise to the Elven people that they need never again fear the creatures from the spirit world. It was always assumed that the threat was finished with the conclusion of the Second War of the Races, so no one really concerned himself with the fact that the entire House of Shannara died out over the years, except for a few such as Shea whom no one knew about. Eventine’s family, our family, became rulers almost a hundred years ago—the Elessedils. The Sword remained at Paranor, forgotten by nearly everyone until now.”
“What is the power of the Sword?” persisted Menion, a little too eagerly to suit Flick, who shot Shea a warning glance.
“I don’t know the answer to that question,” Dayel admitted and looked to Durin who shrugged in response and shook his head. “Only Allanon seems to know that.”
They all looked momentarily toward the tall figure seated in earnest conversation with Balinor across the clearing. Then Durin turned to the others.
“It is fortunate that we have Shea, a son of the House of Shannara. He will be able to unlock the secret of the Sword’s power once we have it in our possession, and with that power we can strike at the Dark Lord before he can create the war that would destroy us.”
“If we get the Sword, you mean,” corrected Shea quickly. Durin acknowledged this comment with a short laugh of agreement and a reassuring nod.
“There s still something about all this that doesn’t set right,” Menion declared quietly, rising abruptly and moving off to find a place to sleep. Shea watched him go and found himself in agreement with the highlander, but was unable to see what they could hope to do about their dissatisfaction. Right now he felt that there was so little hope of their succeeding in their quest to regain the sword that for the moment he would concentrate on simply completing the journey to Paranor. For now, he did not even want to think about what might happen after that.
The company was awake and back on the winding path with the breaking of the dawn, led by a watchful Hendel. The Dwarf moved them along at a rapid pace through the mass of great trees and heavy foliage that had grown increasingly dense as they penetrated deeper into the Anar. The trail was beginning to slope upward, an indication that they were approaching the mountains that ran the length of the central Anar. At some point farther north they would be forced to cross these broad peaks in order to reach the plains to the west that lay between them and the halls of Paranor. Tension began to mount as they moved more deeply into the domain of the Gnome people. They began to experience the unpleasant sensation that someone was constantly watching them, hidden in the denseness of the forest, waiting for the right moment to strike. Only Hendel seemed unconcerned as he led them, his own fears apparently eased by his familiarity with the terrain. No one spoke as they marched, all eyes searching the silent forest about them.
About midday, the path turned sharply upward and the company began to climb. The trees now grew farther apart and the scrub foliage was less congested. The sky became clearly visible through the trees, a deep blue unbroken by even the faintest trace of a cloud wisp. The sun was warm and bright, shining bravely through the scattered trees to light the whole of the forest. Rocks began to appear in small dusters and they could see the land ahead rise in tall peaks and jutting ridges that signaled the beginning of the southern sector of the mountains in the central Anar. The air became steadily cooler as they climbed and breathing became more difficult. After several hours, the company reached the edge of a very dense forest of dead pines, clustered so closely that it was impossible to see for more than twenty or thirty feet ahead at any one place. On both sides of their path, tall, slab-rock cliffs rose hundreds of feet into the air and peaked against the blueness of the afternoon sky. The forest stretched several hundred yards in either direction, ending at the cliff walls. At the edge of the pines, Hendel called a brief halt and spoke for several minutes with Menion, pointing to the forest and then the cliffs, apparently questioning something. Allanon joined them, then motioned the remainder of the company to gather around in a close circle.
“The mountains we are about to cross into are the Wolfsktaag, a no-man’s-land for both Dwarf and Gnome,” Hendel explained quietly. “We chose this way because there was less chance of meeting up with a Gnome hunting patrol, something that would certainly result in a pitched battle. The Wolfsktaag Mountains are said to be inhabited by creatures from another world—a good joke, isn’t it?”
“Get to the point,” Allanon broke in.
“The point is,” Hendel continued, seemingly oblivious of the dark historian, “we were spotted about fifteen minutes back by one or possibly two Gnome scouts. There may be more around, we can’t be certain—the highlander says he saw signs of a large party. In any event, the scouts will report us and bring back help in a hurry, so we’ll have to move fast.”
“Worse than that!” declared Menion quickly. “Those signs said there are Gnomes ahead of us somewhere—through those trees or in them.”
“Maybe so, maybe not, highlander,” Hendel cut back in sharply. “These trees run like this for almost a mile and the cliffs continue on both sides, but narrow sharply beyond the forest to form the Pass of Noose, the entrance to the Wolfsktaag. That is the way we have to go. To try any other route would cost us two more days, and we would be risking an almost certain run-in with Gnomes.”
“Enough debate,” Allanon said fiercely. “Let’s move out quickly. Once we reach the other side of the pass, we’ll be in the mountains. The Gnomes will not follow us there.”
“Encouraging, I’m sure,” muttered Flick under his breath.
The company moved into the thickly clustered trees of the pine forest, following one another in single file, weaving among the rough, disjointed trunks. Dead needles lay in heaps over the whole of the earthen forest floor, creating a soft matting on which the passing of feet made no sound. The white-bark trees rose tall and lean, touching near their skeletal tops like some intricate spider web, lacing the blueness of the clear sky in fascinating designs. The party wound steadily forward through the maze of trunks and limbs behind Hendel, who chose their route quickly and without hesitation. They had not gone more than several hundred yards when Durin brought them up sharply and motioned for silence, looking questioningly about, apparently searching the air for something.