The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [56]
Still heavily drugged from the needles, Menion felt the strong hands of his rescuer grip his shoulders roughly and force him into a prone position while a broad hunting knife severed the few remaining strands binding his feet. The figure before him was a powerfully built Dwarf, dressed in the green and brown woodsman’s clothing worn by most of that race. He was tall for a Dwarf, a little over five feet, and carried a small arsenal of weapons bound about his broad waist. He looked down at the drugged Menion and shook his head dubiously.
“You must be a stranger to do a dumb thing like that,” he reprimanded the other in his deep bass voice. “Nobody with any sense plays around with the Sirens.”
“I am from Leah... to the west,” Menion managed to gasp out, his voice thick and strange to his own ears.
“A highlander — I might have known.” The Dwarf laughed heartily to himself. “You’d have to be, I suppose. Well, don’t worry, you’ll be fine in a few days. That drug won’t kill you if we get it treated, but you’ll be out for a while.”
He laughed again and turned to retrieve his mace. Menion, with his final ounce of strength, grasped him by the tunic.
“I must reach... the Anar... Culhaven,” he gasped sharply. “Take me to Balinor...”
The Dwarf looked back at him sharply, but Menion had lapsed into unconsciousness. Muttering to himself, the Dwarf picked up his own weapons and those of the fallen highlander. Then with surprising strength, he heaved the limp form of Menion over his broad shoulders, testing the load for balance. Satisfied at last that all was in place, he began trudging steadily, muttering all the while, moving toward the forests of the Anar.
Chapter Eight
Flick Ohmsford sat quietly on a long stone bench in one of the upper levels of the lavishly beautiful Meade Gardens in the Dwarf community known as Culhaven. He had a perfect view of the amazing gardens stretching down the rocky hillside in systematic levels that tapered off about the edges in carefully laid pieces of cut stone, reminiscent of a long waterfall flowing down a gentle slope. The creation of the gardens on this once barren hillside was a truly marvelous accomplishment. Special soils had been hauled from more fertile regions to be placed on the garden site, enabling thousands of beautiful flowers and plants to flourish year round in the mild climate of the lower Anar. The color was indescribable. To compare the myriad hues of the flowers to the colors of the rainbow would have been a great injustice. Flick attempted briefly to count the various shades, a task he soon found to be impossible. He gave up quickly and turned his attention to the large clearing at the foot of the gardens where members of the Dwarf community were passing on their way to or from whatever work they were engaged in. They were a curious people, it seemed to Flick, so dedicated to hard work and a well-guarded order of life. Everything they did was always carefully, planned in advance, meticulously thought out to a point where even the cautious Flick was nettled by the time spent in preparation. But the people were friendly and eager to be of service, a kindness not lost on either of the visiting Valemen, who felt more than a bit out of place in this strange land.
They had been in Culhaven for two days now, and still they had not been able to learn what had happened