The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [141]
“Flick, I’m all right.” Allanon patted the little Valeman’s shoulder.
Balinor came a step closer, as if to convince himself that this was indeed Allanon and not another apparition.
“We thought you were... lost,” he managed.
The familiar mocking grin appeared on the lean face.
“The blame for that lies in part at least with our young friend here. He saw me tumble into the furnace pit with the Skull Bearer and presumed me dead. What he did not realize is that the furnace is equipped with a series of iron rungs, which allow workmen to descend into the pit for the purpose of making repairs. Since Paranor has for centuries been the ancestral home of the Druids, I knew of the existence of the rungs. When I felt the evil one pull me over the railing, I reached for them and caught myself several feet below the rim. Flick, of course, could see none of this, and the roar of the fire drowned out my voice as I called out to him.”
He paused to brush some of the dirt from his robe.
“Flick was fortunate enough to escape the chamber, but then he lost his way in the tunnels. The battle with the Skull Bearer left me weakened, and even though I enjoy special protection from fire, it took me quite some time to pull myself out of the pit. I went looking for Flick, lost in that maze of underground corridors, found him at last and frightened him half to death when I pulled him into the light. Then we came after the rest of you. But now we must leave — quickly.
“The Sword...?” Hendel asked sharply.
“Gone — removed sometime earlier. We can speak of that later. It is dangerous for us to remain here any longer. The Gnomes will send reinforcements to secure Paranor and the Warlock Lord will dispatch others of his winged bearers to be certain you cause him no further trouble. With the Sword of Shannara still in his possession and believing you trapped in the Druids’ Keep, he will quickly turn his attention to his plans for an invasion of the four lands. If he can seize Callahorn and the border countries quickly enough, the rest of the Southland will fall without a struggle.”
“Then we’re too late — we’ve lost!” exclaimed Menion bitterly.
Allanon shook his head emphatically.
“We have only been outmaneuvered, not defeated, Prince of Leah. The Warlock Lord rests easy in the belief that he has won, that we are destroyed and no longer a threat. Perhaps we can use that against him. We must not despair. Now come with me.”
He led them quickly through the open doorway. A moment later, the tower chamber stood empty.
Chapter Eighteen
The little band of Gnomes marched Shea northward until sunset. The Valeman was exhausted when the march began and by the time the group finally halted for the night, he immediately collapsed and was asleep before the Gnomes had even finished binding his legs. The long trek took them from the banks of the unknown river northward into hill country west of the upper Anar Forest bordering on the Northland. Travel became considerably rougher, the terrain changing from the flat grasslands of the Rabb Plains into choppy, rolling hillocks. After a time, the band found itself doing more climbing than walking, with constant changes of direction made to avoid the bigger hills. It was beautiful country, grasslands patched with small forests of aged shade trees, their bending limbs graceful in the light spring winds. But its beauty was lost on the exhausted Valeman, who could only concentrate on putting one foot ahead of the other as his disinterested captors pushed him along without rest. By nightfall, the group was deep into the hill country, and had Shea been able to consult a map of the region, he would have discovered that they were camped directly east of Paranor. As it was, sleep came to him so fast that he could only remember dropping wearily to the grassy earth and then nothing more.
The industrious Gnomes finished tying him and then prepared a fire for their meager dinner. One Gnome was placed on sentry duty, mostly out of habit, since they felt there was little to fear this far into