Paladins of Shannara: The Black Irix (Short Story) (3 page)

“How can you say that?” Flick exclaimed in disbelief. “What makes you think you will
be allowed to come back? He needs the Elfstones! In fact, what if it’s the Elfstones
he’s really after? Have you thought of that?”

Shea had thought of everything. Some of it made him ashamed of himself, but Flick
was right about one thing. This was Panamon Creel, and Panamon was capable of anything.
So he wasn’t going into this blindfolded.

When it was all said and done, Flick stood firm on his insistence that Shea not go,
but Shea persisted and went anyway. He advised his father he would be traveling with
Panamon for as long as two weeks and rode out the next day on a horse he had rented
from the local stable master, his gear and clothing stowed in a bedroll tied to the
back of the saddle, the Elfstones tucked down inside his tunic. Flick, to his surprise
and disappointment, remained behind. He had almost believed that his brother would
come with him, just as he had on the quest for the Sword of Shannara. But the times
and the circumstances were different, and apparently Flick had done enough questing
in his life. He loved Shea and feared for him, but he simply refused to support a
cause in which he did not believe.

“Turns out Audrana Coos was right,” he said in parting. “Try not to make me regret
it. Come home safe.”

So Shea and Panamon Creel rode north out of Shady Vale into the Duln Forests until
they reached the banks of the Rainbow Lake. There they turned west to follow the lakeshore
around to where they could begin their journey toward the Streleheim and into the
Northland.

Shea spent his time on horseback thinking of how long ago the last quest now seemed.
It was almost as if it had happened in another lifetime—one he had lived as a different
person entirely. He had grown up on that quest, seasoned and matured under the pressure
of constantly being hunted and placed at risk, of facing death almost every day, of
watching friends and strangers die all around him, and of knowing how much depended
on the success of his efforts.

This time the feelings were altogether different. He was not being chased, and the
threat of death seemed remote. He was placing himself in some danger, but what was
at stake was much smaller and less world-changing.

What troubled him most was the absence of Flick, who had stuck with him before for
as long as he was physically able, and had been there to reassure him when his doubts
and fears threatened to undo him. He missed his brother and wished mightily he were
there again.

So when, on the third day out, Flick appeared, it was almost like a miracle. He had
left the same afternoon, after telling their father what he was doing, unable to stand
the idea of Shea going without him, surprising himself with the intensity of his feelings.
Taking the trail he knew they would follow to go north, he had tracked them until
he caught up.

“Changed my mind,” he announced as he rode up. Noting the look of dismay on Panamon’s
face, he added, “I can’t have my brother going off like this without someone reliable
watching out for his best interests.”

Shea laughed and clapped Flick on the back affectionately. Panamon Creel said nothing.

* * *

They were three now as the journey continued. Panamon regaled the other two with tales
of his exploits, most of which caused Shea to smile and Flick to roll his eyes. The
thief made so
many outlandish claims and recounted so many improbable happenings, it was impossible
to believe half of it. But it was entertaining, and it helped the time to pass more
swiftly. To his credit, Flick did not say or do anything to deliberately irritate
Panamon. He did not question the purpose of their journey or the details surrounding
how the thief intended to fulfill it, and studiously avoided offering any sort of
challenge to the other’s authority.

But Panamon was clearly irritated by his presence nevertheless, which eventually persuaded
Shea to confront him.

“You don’t seem too happy having Flick along,” he said. They were standing alone at
their campsite on the fourth day out while Flick was off gathering firewood. By now
they were above the Dragon’s Teeth and only a day from their destination. “Why are
you so upset?”

“Because, Shea,” Panamon replied in a dismissive tone, “this effort doesn’t need a
third person. It just needs you and me. Flick will only be in the way. He might even
cause problems for us when we go after the Irix, just by being here. I didn’t plan
on him coming, and I don’t need him.”

Shea held his temper. “But perhaps I do.”

“That’s nonsense. You were on your own when I found you two years ago. You didn’t
seem to need him so badly then.”

“Well, appearances can be deceiving. I missed him terribly. I can’t tell you how much
being separated from him bothers me. So let’s understand something. I am happy he
came to find us, and it would be a good idea if you stopped acting as if he shouldn’t
be here. It makes me think I shouldn’t be here, either.”

Panamon seemed to take his words to heart. On the following day, he went out of his
way to speak with Flick, telling him how much help he expected he would be to them
and how pleased he was to have him along. Flick was clearly doubtful at first, but
after a while he began to respond to the other’s efforts, and the ride north immediately
became more pleasant for everyone.

During their travels, they had seen almost no one. By the time they reached the banks
of the River Lethe and the Knife Edge Mountains came into view through a screen of
mist and gray, the country had turned so barren that it seemed impossible anyone or
anything could possibly find a way to subsist. The landscape was composed of rock
and dirt and
grasses that were so dried out and prickly, they cut like knives if you brushed up
against them.

That was all you could see in any direction.

There was nothing out there. Anywhere.

Except for the Harrgs.

At least Panamon knew what they were and was prepared for them when they appeared.
The travelers were camped on the evening of the fifth day, their horses tethered,
their fire built, and the night black and silent around them. But moon and stars lit
the blasted terrain surrounding them so they could see the squat shapes when they
began to close in.

“What’s that?” Shea asked, the first to catch sight of the creatures moving at the
edges of the firelight like vague and indistinct shadows.

“Harrgs,” Panamon answered casually. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t move?” Flick asked in disbelief, getting a good look at what they were facing
now as the creatures edged close enough to be seen clearly. They not only sounded
like pigs, snuffling and grunting, but they looked like pigs—pigs with tusks and huge,
hairy bodies and mean little eyes. There were at least a dozen of them, moving back
and forth like phantoms.

“What are those?” Shea whispered.

“Feral pigs, of a sort. Boars, really. They live here; this is their country. They
eat those sharp-edged grasses, mostly. But they’re omnivores, so we don’t want to
take chances. Quiet, now.”

He was fumbling beneath his cloak in the pouch he always wore strapped about his waist,
digging in it.

The Harrgs were getting close. Very close. Shea and Flick edged nearer the fire, scooting
like startled crabs. “Panamon,” Shea hissed.

A second later the thief leapt to his feet and flung what appeared to be a handful
of pebbles at the Harrgs. The creatures backed off a few steps, hesitant yet undeterred.
Then one or two of them inched forward, sniffing loudly. A moment later Shea and Flick
could hear the sound of chewing.

But only a heartbeat after that the night silence was filled with the sounds of agonized
squealing and snorting as one or more of the Harrgs went wild, leaping and charging
about, sending the others into a frenzy that ended with all of them racing away into
the darkness.

Panamon brushed off his hands. “Pepper root. The Harrgs can’t stand it. I disguised
the smell so they would eat it, knowing they will eat just about anything. They won’t
be back. Not that we were in any real danger from them.”

“Those tusks suggest otherwise,” Flick pointed out.

“Well, yes, perhaps they do,” the thief conceded. “But Harrgs are not hunters; they’re
opportunists. They were more curious about us than anything.”

He came back to where they were still crouched by the fire and sat down again. The
night air had turned chilly with the deepening of the darkness, and he rubbed his
hands briskly.

“Cold,” he said.

“How do you happen to know so much about Harrgs?” Shea asked.

Panamon shrugged. “I know a few things.”

“It was fortunate you knew about this one, wasn’t it?”

Panamon did not miss the implication. He shrugged. “I knew about the Harrgs because
I’ve run into them before.” He cleared his throat and spit. “Now if you don’t mind,
I would like to leave any further discussion of the subject until morning. I am tired,
and I need my rest.”

Shea and Flick exchanged a quick glance as the thief picked up his blanket, found
a suitable piece of hard ground, lay down with his back to them, and went to sleep.

He needs his rest
, Flick mouthed to Shea and rolled his eyes.

* * *

The morning dawned gray and sullen, the weather typical for the Northland and the
country of the Skull Kingdom. No matter that the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers
were dead and gone; the weather never changed. After eating breakfast and packing
their gear—and at Panamon’s urging—Shea reached inside his tunic and brought out the
Elfstones to attempt to locate the Black Irix. While he hadn’t said anything about
it to his brother or Panamon, he had experimented with the Stones about a year ago
after returning home, just because he wanted to know if he could still command the
magic. He had gone deep into the woods before using them, then chosen a simple task—finding
out what his father was doing back in
Shady Vale.

He had gone through the process of forming in his mind a clear image of his father’s
face, and the magic of the Elfstones had warmed within his hand and then rushed swiftly
through his body, filling him with their presence and an awareness of their power.
Moments later the familiar blue light had materialized and begun to weave its way
through the trees, back to his home and to where his father sat eating his lunch within
the inn’s kitchen. It illuminated the scene for several long moments, then vanished
once more.

Shea had his answer. He could still summon the magic if he needed to. He could still
wield the Elfstones’ power. Satisfied, he had pocketed the Stones, taken them back
to Shady Vale, hidden them away again, and not employed them since.

So this morning marked only his second attempt at using them since the search for
the Sword of Shannara ended, but he had every reason to believe there would be no
difficulty. He felt a certain amount of pressure from having Panamon standing right
next to him, though not enough to rattle him. He pictured the Irix as he remembered
it, called up the magic, then watched as it exploded from the Stones and rocketed
away across the flats in a brilliant streak of blue light. It found the Knife Edge
first and then a huge, pitted stone fortress that was walled about and defended by
armed guards. Then it slipped inside and passed down a series of corridors, through
several doors, and ended inside a sleeping chamber.

Once there, it swept the floor to where a broad woven rug decorated the center of
the room, burrowed through the rug to a stone slab and beneath the slab to an iron
vault embedded in the mountain bedrock, and finally inside the vault.

There, amid collections of gemstones and small chests of gold, silver, and ivory,
lay the Black Irix. He saw the image clearly—as did Flick and Panamon—and then it
vanished, and the light from the Elfstones with it.

Shea closed his fist about the Stones and looked at Panamon for confirmation. “Now
we know for certain,” the thief said. “All we need to do is complete our journey.”

This was too much for Flick. “That’s all, is it? Just ride a little farther, find
a way to get inside an impregnable fortress, avoid being seen by any of perhaps a
hundred guards, slip down to what likely is Kestra Chule’s own bedchamber, open that
vault embedded in the floor, and help ourselves to the Irix? Really? That’s all?”

“Yes, it doesn’t look quite as easy as you make it sound,” Shea agreed.

Panamon was already loading his gear on his horse, only half listening to them. “That’s
because you’re making assumptions you shouldn’t. For example, we don’t have to find
a way into Kestra Chule’s stronghold and we don’t have to avoid being seen.” He looked
back over his shoulder. “We are invited guests.”

Shea stared at him, speechless. “What are you talking about?” Flick demanded.

“Kestra Chule and I are longtime acquaintances. I’ve been here many times before,
so I simply told him we were coming. Now, mount up.”

He refused to say anything more about it, adding only that after they reached their
destination they should just play along and keep their mouths shut. “He doesn’t know
the real purpose of our visit, so it might be wise not to give it away.”

They rode all that morning and through the midday, and by early afternoon they had
reached the River Lethe and found a worn wooden bridge that spanned a narrows between
high bluffs that dropped off into a canyon hundreds of feet deep. The bridge—an ancient
structure formed of rotting planks, fraying ropes, and rusted-out iron supports—looked
as if it was about to collapse. But Panamon ignored that, urging his horse onto the
rickety wooden planking—the entire bridge swaying and creaking as he did so—and crossed
without incident. Shea went next, his heart in his throat when one of the struts snapped
explosively. Flick went last, his eyes closed the whole way, letting his horse decide
if this was worth it or not.