The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [277]
He drew his massive frame erect, abruptly taking on the appearance of a creature who was somehow more than mortal. There was pride in his bearing as he faced the waiting tribunal, his eyes fixed on the three judges. Without shifting his gaze even slightly, he reached under the broad leather belt that bound his waist and drew forth a large black metal pendant and chain. For a moment he held it in his hands before the eyes of the judges, who leaned forward in obvious surprise. Shea caught a quick glimpse of a cross-centered in a circle, and then the giant raised the chain ceremoniously above his head and settled it slowly about his great neck.
“By the gods that gave us life... I don’t believe it!” Panamon gasped in startled disbelief.
The judges, too, rose in astonishment. As Keltset turned slowly about the circle of wondering Trolls, shouts of excitement broke from their mouths and they were on their feet instantly, gesturing wildly at the impassive giant in their midst. Shea stared with the rest of them, completely befuddled.
“Panamon, what’s happening!?” he cried finally.
The intense roar of the aroused assemblage nearly drowned out his words, and Panamon Creel was suddenly on his feet, too, one broad hand clapping down on Shea’s slim shoulder.
“I don’t believe it,” the thief repeated with unrestrained joy. “All these months I’ve never even suspected it. That’s what he’s been hiding from us all along, my young Valeman! That’s why he allowed us to be taken without a fight. But there must be more still...”
“Will you tell me what’s happening?” Shea demanded heatedly.
“The pendant, Shea — the cross and circle!” the other shouted wildly, “It’s the Black Irix, the highest award, the greatest honor the Troll people can give to one of their own! If you see three given in your lifetime, it’s unusual. To receive one, you must be the living image of everything the Troll nation cherishes and strives to attain. You must be the closest thing to a god that a mortal being can approach. Somewhere in his past, Keltset has earned this honor — and we never guessed!”
“But what about the fact that he was found with us...?” The little Valeman got only part of the query out.
“Anyone who wears the Irix would never betray his own people,” Panamon cut in sharply. “The honor carries with it an unbreakable trust. The wearer would never breach the laws of his people — he’s presumed incapable of even contemplating such a thing. They believe that violation of such a trust would mean an eternity of punishment too horrible to imagine. No Troll would consider it.”
Shea stared dazedly back at Keltset as the shouting continued unchecked. The great Troll was again facing his judges while the three vainly attempted to restore order to the unheeding assembly. It took several minutes more before the noise abated enough for anyone to be heard. The Trolls reseated themselves, anxiously waiting for Keltset to speak. There was a brief pause as a Troll interpreter appeared at the side of the silent defendant, them Keltset began to communicate in sign language. His eyes on Keltset’s massive hands, the interpreter translated the explanation to the judges in the Troll language. There was a brief exchange with one of the judges, none of which Shea was able to understand, but fortunately Panamon had already begun his own translation, whispering quietly to his anxious friend.
“He told them that he comes from Norbane, one of the larger Troll cities in the far northern Charnal Mountains. His family name is Mallicos — it belongs to a very old and honored family. But they were all killed, supposedly by Dwarfs who had attempted to loot their family home. That judge on the left was asking Keltset how he had escaped; they had thought him dead as well. It must have been a pretty grisly affair for even this distant