The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [163]
“You understand perfectly, you know my value,” whined the little fellow, fawning at the knees of the smiling thief. “I can help; I can make you rich. You can count on me.”
Panamon was smiling broadly now, his big frame relaxed and his good hand on the Gnome’s small shoulder as if they were old friends. He patted the stooped shoulder a few times, as if to put the captive at ease, and nodded reassuringly, looking from the Gnome to Keltset to Shea and back again for several long seconds.
“Tell us what you’re doing way out here by yourself, Gnome,” Panamon urged a moment later. “By the way, what are you called?”
“I am Orl Fane, a warrior of the Pelle tribe of the upper Anar,” he answered eagerly. “I... I was on a courier mission from Paranor when I came upon this battlefield. They were all dead, all of them, and there was nothing I could do. Then I heard you and I hid. I was afraid you were... Elves.”
He paused and looked fearfully at Shea, noting the youth’s Elven features with dismay. Shea made no move, but waited to see what Panamon would do. Panamon just looked understandingly at the Gnome and smiled in friendly fashion.
“Orl Fane — of the Pelle tribe,” the tall thief repeated slowly. “A great tribe of hunters, brave men.” He shook his head as if deeply regretting something and turned again to the mystified Gnome. “Orl Fane, if we are going to be of any service to one another, we must have mutual trust. Lies can only hinder the purpose binding our new partnership. There was a Pelle standard on the battlefield — the standard of your tribe in the Gnome nation. You must have been with them when they fought.”
The Gnome stood speechless, a mixture of fear and doubt creeping slowly back into his shifting green eyes. Panamon continued to smile easily at him.
“Just look at yourself Orl Fane — covered with specks of blood and a bad cut on your forehead at the hairline. Why hide the truth from us? You had to be here, isn’t that right?” The persuasive voice coaxed a quick nod out of the other, and Panamon laughed almost merrily. “Of course you were here, Orl Fane. And when you were set upon by the Elf people, you fought until you were wounded, perhaps knocked unconscious, eh, and you lay here until just before we came along. That’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s the truth,” the Gnome agreed eagerly now.
“No, that’s not the truth!”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Panamon was still smiling, and Orl Fane was caught between emotions, a trace of doubt still in eyes, a half-smile forming on his lips. Shea looked at both curiously, unable to follow exactly what was happening.
“Listen to me, you lying little rodent.” The smile was gone from Panamon’s face, the features hardened as he spoke, the voice cold and menacing once more. “You have lied from the beginning! A member of the Pelle would wear their insignia you wear none. You weren’t wounded in battle; that little scratch on your forehead is nothing! You are a scavenger — a deserter, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
The thief had seized the terrified Gnome by the front of his hunting tunic and was shaking him so hard that Shea could hear his teeth rattle with the force. The wiry captive was struggling to catch his breath, gasping in disbelief at this sudden turn of events.
“Yes, yes!” The admission was throttled out of him at last, and Panamon released him with a quick thrust backward into the grip of the watchful Keltset.
“A deserter from your own people.” Panamon spat the words out in distaste. “The lowest form of life that walks or crawls is a deserter. You’ve been scavenging this battlefield for valuables from the dead. Where are they, Orl Fane? Shea, check in those bushes where he was hiding.”
As Shea moved toward the brush, the struggling Gnome let out the most frightful shriek of dismay imaginable, causing the youth to believe Keltset had twisted his neck off. But Panamon just smiled and nodded for the Valeman to proceed, certain now that the Gnome had indeed hidden something