The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [35]
Shea finished his story and waited patiently for Menion’s response. The highlander seemed lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the half-filled glass of wipe at his elbow. When he spoke, his voice was distant:
“The Sword of Shannara. I haven’t heard that story in years — never really believed it was true. Now out of complete obscurity it reappears with my old friend Shea Ohmsford as the heir apparent. Or are you?” His eyes snapped up suddenly. “You could be a red herring, a decoy for these Northland creatures to chase and destroy. How can we be sure about Allanon? From the tale you’ve told me, he seems almost as dangerous as the things hunting you — perhaps even one of them.”
Flick started noticeably at this suggestion, but Shea shook his head firmly.
“I can’t bring myself to believe that. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe not,” continued Menion slowly, inwardly musing over the prospect. “Could be I’m getting old and suspicious. Frankly, this whole story is pretty improbable. If, it’s true, you are fortunate to have gotten this far on your own. There are a great many tales of the Northland, of the evil that dwells in the wilderness above the Streleheim Plains — power, they say; beyond the understanding of any mortal be —”
He trailed off for a moment, then sipped gingerly at his wine.
“The Sword of Shannara... just the possibility that the legend might be true is enough to...” He shook his head and grinned openly. “How can I deny myself the chance to find out? You’ll need a guide to get you to the Anar, and I’m your man.”
“I knew you would be.” Shea reached over and gripped his hand in thanks. Flick groaned softly, but managed a feeble smile.
“Now then, let’s see where we stand.” Menion took charge quickly, and Flick went back to drinking wine. “What about these Elf stones? Let’s have a look at them.”
Shea quickly produced the small leather pouch and emptied the contents into his open palm. The three stones sparkled brightly in the torchlight, their blue glow deep and rich. Menion touched one gently and then picked it up.
“They are indeed beautiful,” he acknowledged approvingly. “I don’t know when I’ve seen their like. But how can they help us?”
“I don’t know that yet,” admitted the Valeman reluctantly. “I only know what Allanon told us — that the stones were only to be used in emergencies, and that they were very powerful.”
“Well, I hope that he was right,” snorted the other. “I would hate to discover the hard way that he was mistaken. But I suppose we’ll have to live with that possibility.” He paused for a moment and watched as Shea placed the stones back in the pouch and tucked the leather container into his tunic front. When the Valeman looked up again, he was staring blankly into his wine lass.
“I do now something of the man called Balinor, Shea. He is a fine soldier — I doubt we could find his equal in the whole of the Southland. We might be better off to seek the aid of his father. You would be better protected by the soldiers of Callahorn than by the forest-dwelling Dwarfs of the Anar. I know the roads to Tyrsis, all of them safe. But almost any path to the Anar will run directly through the Black Oaks — not the safest place in the Southland, as you know.”
“Allanon told us to go to the Anar,” persisted Shea. “He must have had a reason, and until I find him again, I’m not taking any chances. Besides, Balinor himself advised us to follow his instructions.”
Menion shrugged.
“That’s unfortunate, because even if we manage to get through the Black Oaks, I really don’t know much about the land beyond. I’m told that it’s relatively unsettled country all the way to the