The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [201]
At the center of the city they found a vast pit into which hurdreds of Dwarves had been thrown and their bodies burned.
“Why didn’t they run?” Mareth asked softly. “Why did they stay? They must have known. They must have been warned.”
Kinson stayed silent. She knew the answer as well as he did. Hope could play you false. He looked off into the distance, across the broad expanse of the ruins. Where were the Dwarves who were still alive? That was the question that needed answering now.
They moved on through the destruction, their pace quickening, for there was nothing left to see that they had not already seen in abundance. The light was fading, and they wanted to be well beyond the ruins when they set their camp for the night. They would find no food or water here. They would find no shelter There was nothing to keep them. They walked on, following the river to where it wound sluggishly out of the deep woods east. Perhaps things would be better farther on, Kinson thought hopefully Perhaps farther on there would be life.
Something scurried through the rubble to one side, causing the Borderman to start. Rats. He had not seen them before, but of course they were there. Other scavengers as well, he supposed. He felt a chill pass through him, triggered by a memory of a time of his boyhood when he had fallen asleep in a cavern he was exploring and had awakened to find rats crawling over him. Death had seemed oddly close in those brief, horrifying moments.
“Kinson!” hissed Mareth suddenly and stopped.
A cloaked figure was standing before them, unmoving. A man it appeared — there was enough of him revealed to determine this much at least. Where he had come from was a mystery. He had simply materialized, as if conjured from the air itself, but he must have been in hiding, waiting for them. He stood close to the riveibank on which they walked, shadowed by the night and the remains of a stone wall. He did not threaten them; he simply stood there, waiting for them to approach.
Kinson and Mareth exchanged a quick glance. The man’s face was concealed in the shadows of his hood and his arms and legs in the folds of his cloak. They could tell nothing of who he was, nothing of his identity.
“Hello,” Mareth ventured softly. She held the staff Bremen had given her like a shield before her.
There was no reply, no movement.
“Who are you?” she pressed.
“Mareth,” the other called to her in a slow, whispery voice.
Kinson stiffened. The voice had the feel of rat’s feet and the presence of death. He was back in that cave again, a boy once more. The voice scraped against his nerve endings like metal on stone.
“Do you know me?” Mareth asked in surprise. The voice did not seem to trouble her.
“I do,” said the other. “We all do, those of us who are your family. We have waited for you, Mareth. We have waited a long time.”
Kinson could hear the catch in her voice. “What are you talking about?” she asked quickly. “Who are you?”
“Perhaps I am the one you have been searching for. Perhaps am he. Would you think harshly of me if I were? Would you be angry if I told you I was...”
“No!” she cried out sharply.
“Your father?”
The hood tilted back, and the face within revealed itself. It was a hard, strong face, and the similarities to Bremen’s were more than token, though the man before them was younger. But the resemblance to Mareth was unmistakable. He let the young woman look on him momentarily, let her study him well. He seemed oblivious of Kinson.
He smiled faintly. “You see yourself in me, don’t you, child? You see how alike we are? Is it so hard to accept? Am I so repulsive to you?”
“Something is wrong here,” Kinson warned softly.
But Mareth didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on