Bearers of the Black Staff: Legends of Shannara (52 page)

He wheeled back as three of the Drouj careened into him, spears seeking to pin him to the rocks. He blocked their efforts, knocking them aside—first one, then the other two—his body twisting away as he used his magic to shield himself and his staff to crack their bones. But the Trolls were toughened fighters and two of them were back on their feet quickly, in spite of their injuries, swords drawn. Sider used his magic, lashing out at them, turning them aside, and he was on top of them before they could recover. Swiftly he dispatched them.

He faltered then, his muscles gone weak and unresponsive. He was aware of burning sensations where he had felt the stings earlier. He glanced down at his hand and saw what appeared to be a bruise. Then he probed his neck and found a tiny dart protruding from his skin. He
had just pulled it free and was examining it when he was struck again, this time in the face.

He dropped into a defensive crouch, pulling out the dart immediately. He saw Arik Siq then, standing in the open now, come out from wherever he had been hiding, a blowgun in his hand.

A single word surfaced in his mind.

Poison.

He fought back, using his magic to slow its spread, armoring himself for what was needed. Then he went up the slope in a rush. Arik Siq put the blowgun to his lips and used it again. But by now the magic was firmly in place and deflected the darts. Twice more the son of the Drouj Maturen used the blowgun before accepting that it was useless. He realized at the same moment that he should have been making his escape. But by now, he was trapped near the mouth of the pass, pinned back against its dark opening, and it was too late to escape the way he had intended. He hesitated only a moment before turning into the pass and fleeing back down its shadowy corridor, back the way he had come, toward the valley.

Sider Ament chased him until his strength gave out and he dropped to the ground, exhausted, his body growing numb as the poison continued to spread. He tried one last time to stop it, to negate its effects, to keep it from his heart.

But it was too late, he realized. The poison was in too deep.

He found himself wishing, as he accepted the inevitable, that he could have told Aislinne good-bye.

W
HEN ALL OF THE OTHERS WERE DEAD OR
dying and he was the last, Pan had broken clear of the pass and made a quick decision. If he ran, they were going to catch and kill him as they had the rest. He needed to get out of their reach another way. So he managed to scale a cliff wall just outside the mouth of the pass that was so sheer and treacherous that neither the heavier Trolls nor the Skaith Hounds could follow. Navigating a series of footholds and outcroppings, he had found a niche that he could squeeze into just far enough that their weapons could not harm him. Once in place, he settled back to wait. There was nothing else he could do. Sooner or later, help might arrive. Or the Drouj might grow tired of waiting for him to come down and leave. There wasn’t any reason for them to wait him out, after all. Their sole purpose in attacking the pass was to get back to their tribe and reveal that they had found a way into the valley—of that, Pan was fairly certain. There was nothing to keep them from carrying out this plan now that the defenders were slain. Andelin had been the last; they had dragged him out and left him
on the rocks to die. He had still been alive when their attention had been diverted by something happening inside the pass, and they had taken cover.

Then Sider Ament had appeared, alone and clearly unaware of the trap that had been set for him, not realizing that the Drouj had left one of their number on guard inside the pass to alert them to anyone approaching. Pan had shouted his name instantly. But his warning had come too late.

Now he scrambled down out of his rocky perch, rushed to Sider, dropped to one knee, and held him in his arms.

“I tried to warn you,” he whispered.

The dark eyes found his. “You did your best.”

“Tell me what to do,” he begged.

The Gray Man managed a smile. “You’re doing it,” he said.

Pan braced him with his chest and shoulder and fumbled to bring out his water pouch. He held it to the other’s mouth and let him drink. Most of the water trickled down his chin and was lost. Pan could see the color of his skin beginning to change with the onslaught of the poison, taking on a bluish tinge.

“Is there something that will counteract the poison?”

Sider Ament shook his head. “Too much of it … is already in me.” He swallowed thickly. “Did any of them get out … of the valley alive?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Sider, was that Arik Sarn who attacked you? Why did he do that?”

“Because he’s not … who we believed. His real name is Arik Siq. He is the Maturen’s … oldest son. He tricked us … into bringing him into the valley. He would take that knowledge … back with him. But now … he’s trapped inside the valley. You … can’t let him escape.”

Pan shook his head. “But why didn’t they just leave when they had the chance? Why did they stay?”

“They needed you … dead so you … couldn’t warn the valley … about them. Would give them time to regain the pass … and bring others to help them.” The Gray Man smiled. “You stopped them … just by getting away.”

Pan shook his head, blinked away his tears. “You were the one that stopped them. I’m to blame for all of this. I’m the one that brought him into the valley in the first place.”

The stricken man took a quick gulp of air. “Doesn’t matter now. Listen to me. Time doesn’t allow for … anything more than this. I wish it did. But … you have to take the staff from me. No arguments, Panterra. You have … to do it now.”

Pan stared at him, unable to speak. In the rush of things, he had forgotten about the staff. He hadn’t decided if he was going to serve as the Gray Man’s apprentice. All that had been pushed aside as the hunt for Prue had begun.

Prue! A chill rippled up his spine. Where was Prue?

“Sider, I can’t …” He stopped, shook his head. “You have to tell me about Prue. Did you find her? You were going after her. What happened?”

Sider shook his head. “I sent someone … in my place … when I learned the truth about the Troll. Someone … better able than I … to save her. Best I could … do.” He seemed to gather himself. “The staff. Will you take up the staff?”

Pan shook his head in confusion and despair. “How can I agree to this when I don’t know if Prue …?”

The Gray Man’s hand clamped on his wrist, an iron band that cut off the rest of what he was going to say. “The staff … will help you save her. Otherwise …” He stopped, choking now, struggling to breathe. “Help you save them all. Men, Elves, all of them. You must … give them hope. You have to do what’s needed … because I can’t.”

“I don’t know if I can!” Pan fought to keep from screaming the words at him. “I’m not you! I don’t have your experience! I don’t even know how to summon the magic! I’ve never used it! I don’t know anything!”

The hand on his wrist tightened. “You know … more than you think. Trust in your instincts. The staff … responds to the … will of the … the user. Just … ask for what you need.”

He was gasping for air now. Panterra struggled to make it easier for him, holding him upright, trying to find a way to slow the poison. But nothing was helping.

“Take … the staff!” the other hissed. Then his gaze shifted. “When you … see Aislinne … tell her …”

The words caught in his throat, his body hunched violently, and then his eyes fixed on nothing. Panterra held him, crying openly now, unable to stop.

“Sider, no,” he whispered.

He said it like a prayer, like a plea. It was all he could manage. Then he laid the dead man down, released the hand still clamped on his wrist, and closed the eyes that now seemed to be staring at him.

“Walk softly, Sider Ament,” he whispered.

He closed his own eyes, sick at heart and bone-weary, and when he did so the dead man whispered back.

Take the staff.

The words echoed softly in the following stillness.

Take the staff.

T
HE BOY STANDS WITHOUT MOVING
as the remains of the rogue Elf begin to blow away like ashes in a sudden gust of wind. His mentor has dropped to his knees, gripping the staff to hold himself upright. Everything seems frozen—time, place, events, even the boy himself.

But when the old man topples over, the boy breaks free of his invisible chains and runs at once to reach him, the world moving again, time an inexorable, crushing boulder rolling toward them both. He reaches the old man and raises him up, holding him in his strong arms. The old man is so light; he weighs almost nothing. How he could prevail against another bearer of the staff when the other is so much stronger is a mystery.

The old man’s breathing is quick and shallow. The boy does a quick study of the broken body. He cannot see any major injuries, anything external. Whatever hurt the old man has suffered is buried somewhere deep inside.

His mentor looks up at him, and nods. “Nothing to see, young one. Just an old man dying.”

The boy shakes his head in denial. “No. We can do something. I can find a healer and bring him to you. I can go now.”

But the old man holds him fast with his gnarled hands. “I would be dead by the time you returned. Something more important than a futile effort to save my life requires your attention. The staff. It is yours now. It belongs to you. When I am gone, take it.”

The boy shakes his head. “I don’t think I am ready.”

“No one is ever ready for such power. No one is ever ready to command it. But you will do as I have done. You will do your best. Protect the people of the valley, the survivors of the Great Wars. See them to their release or to the passing of the staff to your successor. Great responsibility has fallen to you. You are the last bearer. You have me to thank for that. I am sorry that it must be so.”

The boy casts about and then meets the old man’s gaze anew. “I have never used the staff. I have no idea what is needed. What if the magic won’t come for me?”

His mentor smiles. “I once wondered the same thing.
What if I cannot wield the magic? What if I lack the strength and skill?
The magic will come when you summon it. You have only to think on it. But your success while using the magic is a different matter. It will be measured by your strength of heart.”

The boy is miserable. He wants his mentor to be well again and to teach him what he still needs to know. He wants the rogue Elf never to have appeared. He wants things back the way they were.

“Take the staff from me,” the old man says once more.

A moment later he is dead.

The boy stares down at him for a very long time, waiting for him to move, even knowing that he won’t. His mind is muddied by his confusion. He will have to travel to the Elves and tell them what has happened. They have already lost their King. Now they have lost their bearer of the black staff. But Men have lost theirs, as well. Unless he does what the old man has asked of him.

Unless he takes up the staff.

It occurs to him then, in a flash of insight that rocks him with its implications, that if he takes up the staff and accepts the terrible responsibility it demands, he will one day be asking another to do the same.

Is this something he can face? Is it something he can bear?

He looks down at the black staff, still gripped in the old man’s hand, and for a very long time he does not move.

T
ERRY
B
ROOKS
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of more than thirty books, including the Genesis of Shannara novels
Armageddon’s Children, The Elves of Cintra
, and
The Gypsy Morph; The Sword of Shannara;
the Voyage of the Jerle Shannara trilogy:
Ilse Witch, Antrax
, and
Morgawr;
the High Druid of Shannara trilogy:
Jarka Ruus, Tanequil
, and
Straken;
the nonfiction book
Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life;
and the novel based upon the screenplay and story by George Lucas,
Star Wars:
® Episode I
The Phantom Menace.
™ His novels
Running with the Demon
and
A Knight of the Word
were selected by the
Rocky Mountain News
as two of the best science fiction/fantasy novels of the twentieth century. The author was a practicing attorney for many years but now writes full-time. He lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest.

www.shannara.com
www.terrybrooks.net