The Wishsong of Shannara (2 page)

Now there was a hint of anger in Jair’s blue eyes. “Who gave you the right to make a promise like that for me, Brin?”

“No one, I suppose, but mother . . .”

“Mother doesn’t understand . . .”

“Hold on, for cat’s sake!” Rone Leah held up his hands imploringly. “Arguments like this make me glad that I’m staying down at the inn and not up at the house with you two. Now let’s forget all this and get back to the original subject. Do we go fishing tomorrow or not?”

“We go fishing,” Jair voted.

“We go fishing,” Brin agreed. “After we finish at least some of the repairs.”

They walked in silence for a time, Brin still brooding over what she viewed as Jair’s increasing infatuation with the uses of the wishsong. Her mother was right; Jair practiced using the magic whenever he got the chance. He saw less danger in its use than Brin did because it worked differently for him. For Brin, the wishsong altered appearance and behavior in fact, but for Jair it was only an illusion. When he used the magic, things only seemed to happen. That gave him greater latitude in its use and encouraged experimentation. He did it in secret, but he did it nevertheless. Even Brin wasn’t entirely sure what he had learned to do with it.

Afternoon faded altogether and evening settled in. A full moon hung above the eastern horizon like a white beacon, and stars began to wink into view. With the coming of night, the air began to cool rapidly, and the smells of the forest turned crisp and heavy with the fragrance of drying leaves. All about rose the hum of insects and night birds.

“I think we should fish the Rappahalladran,” Jair announced suddenly.

No one said anything for a moment. “I don’t know,” Rone answered finally. “We could fish the ponds in the Vale just as well.”

Brin glanced over at the highlander quizzically. He sounded worried.

“Not for brook trout,” Jair insisted. “Besides, I want to camp out in the Duln for a night or two.”

“We could do that in the Vale.”

“The Vale is practically the same as the backyard,” Jair pointed out, growing a bit irritated. “At least the Duln has a few places we haven’t explored before. What are you frightened about?”

“I’m not frightened of anything,” the highlander replied defensively. “I just think . . . Look, why don’t we talk about this later. Let me tell you what happened to me on the way out here. I almost managed to get myself lost. There was this wolfdod . . .”

Brin dropped back a pace as they talked, letting them walk on ahead. She was still puzzled by Rone’s unexpected reluctance to make even a short camping trip into the Duln—a trip they had all made dozens of times before. Was there something beyond the Vale of which they need be frightened? She frowned, remembering the concern voiced by her mother. Now it was Rone as well. The highlander had not been as quick as she to discount as rumors those stories of the Mord Wraiths. In fact, he had been unusually restrained. Normally, Rone would have laughed such stories off as so much nonsense, just as she had done. Why hadn’t he done so this time? It was possible, she realized, that he had some cause to believe it wasn’t a laughing matter.

Half an hour passed, and the lights of the village began to appear through the forest trees. It was dark now, and they picked their way along the path with the aid of the moon’s bright light. The trail dipped downward into the sheltered hollow where the village proper sat, broadening as it went from a footpath to a roadway. Houses appeared; from within, the sound of voices could be heard. Brin felt the first hint of weariness slip over her. It would be good to crawl into the comfort of her bed and give herself over to a good night’s sleep.

They walked down through the center of Shady Vale, passing by the old inn that had been owned and managed by the Ohmsford family for so many generations past. The Ohmsfords still owned the establishment, but no longer lived there—not since the passing of Shea and Flick. Friends of the family managed the inn these days, sharing the earnings and expenses with Brin’s parents. Her father had never really been comfortable living at the inn, Brin knew, feeling no real connection with its business, preferring his own life as a Healer to that of innkeeper. Only Jair showed any real interest in the happenings of the inn and that was because he liked to go down to listen to the tales carried to Shady Vale by travelers passing through—tales filled with adventure enough to satisfy the spirit of the restless Valeman.

The inn was busy this night, its broad double-doors flung open, the lights within falling over tables and a long bar crowded with travelers and village folk, laughing and joking and passing the cool autumn evening with a glass or two of ale. Rone grinned over his shoulder at Brin and shook his head. No one was anxious for this day to end.

Moments later, they reached the Ohmsford home, a stone and mortar cottage set back within the trees on a small knoll. They were halfway up the cobblestone walk that ran through a series of hedgerows and flowering plum to the front door when Brin brought them to a sudden halt.

There was a light in the window of the front room.

“Did either of you leave a lamp burning when we left this morning?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Both shook their heads.

“Maybe someone stopped in for a visit,” Rone suggested.

Brin looked at him; “The house was locked.”

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, a vague sense of uneasiness starting to take hold. Jair, however, was feeling none of it.

“Well, let’s go on in and see who’s there,” he declared and started forward.

Rone put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. “Just a moment, tiger. Let’s not be too hasty.”

Jair pulled free, glanced again at the light, then looked back at Rone. “Who do you think’s waiting in there—one of the walkers?”

“Will you stop that nonsense!” Brin ordered sharply.

Jaw smirked. “That’s who you think it is, don’t you? One of the walkers, come to steal us away!”

“Good of them to put a light on for us,” Rone commented dryly.

They stared again at the light in the front window, undecided.

“Well, we can’t just stand out here all night,” Rone said finally. He reached back over his shoulder and pulled free the Sword of Leah. “Let’s have a look. You two stay behind me. If anything happens, get back to the inn and bring some help.” He hesitated. “Not that anything is going to happen.”

They proceeded up the walk to the front door and stopped, listening. The house was silent. Brin handed Rone the key to the door and they stepped inside. The anteway was pitch black, save for a sliver of yellow light that snaked down the short hallway leading in. They hesitated a moment, then passed silently down the hall and stepped into the front room.

It was empty.

“Well, no Mord Wraiths here,” Jair announced at once. “Nothing here except . . .”

He never finished. A huge shadow stepped into the light from the darkened drawing room beyond. It was a man over seven feet tall, cloaked all in black. A loose cowl was pulled back to reveal a lean, craggy face that was weathered and hard. Black beard and hair swept down from his face and head, coarse and shot through with streaks of gray. But it was the eyes that drew them, deep-set and penetrating from within the shadow of his great brow, seeming to see everything, even that which was hidden.

Rone Leah brought up the broadsword hurriedly, and the stranger’s hand lifted from out of the robes.

“You won’t need that.”

The highlander hesitated, stared momentarily into the other’s dark eyes, then dropped the sword blade downward again. Brin and Jair stood frozen in place, unable to turn and run or to speak.

“There is nothing to be frightened of,” the stranger’s deep voice rumbled.

None of the three felt particularly reassured by that, yet all relaxed slightly when the dark figure made no further move to approach. Brin glanced hurriedly at her brother and found Jair watching the stranger intently, as if puzzling something through. The stranger looked at the boy, then at Rone, then at her.

“Does not one of you know me?” he murmured softly.

There was momentary silence, and then suddenly Jair nodded.

“Allanon!” he exclaimed, excitement reflected in his face. “You’re Allanon!”

II

B
rin, Jair, and Rone Leah sat down together at the dining room table with the stranger they knew now to be Allanon. No one, to the best of their knowledge, had seen Allanon for twenty years. Wil Ohmsford had been among the last. But the stories about him were familiar to all. An enigmatic dark wanderer who had journeyed to the farthest reaches of the Four Lands, he was philosopher, teacher, and historian of the races—the last of the Druids, the men of learning who had guided the races from the chaos that had followed the destruction of the old world into the civilization that flourished today. It was Allanon who had led Shea and Flick Ohmsford and Menion Leah in quest of the legendary Sword of Shannara more than seventy years ago so that the Warlock Lord might be destroyed. It was Allanon who had come for Wil Ohmsford while the Valeman studied at Storlock to become a Healer, persuading him to act as guide and protector for the Elven girl Amberle Elessedil as she went in search of the power needed to restore life to the dying Ellcrys, thereby to imprison once more the Demons set loose within the Westland. They knew the stories of Allanon. They knew as well that whenever the Druid appeared, it meant trouble.

“I have traveled a long way to find you, Brin Ohmsford,” the big man said, his voice low and filled with weariness. “It was a journey that I did not think I would have to make.”

“Why have you sought me out?” Brin asked.

“Because I have need of the wishsong.” There was an endless moment of silence as Valegirl and Druid faced each other across the table. “Strange,” he sighed. “I did not see before that the passing of the Elven magic into the children of Wil Ohmsford might have so profound a purpose. I thought it little more than a side effect from use of the Elfstones that could not be avoided.”

“What do you need with Brin?” Rone interjected, frowning. Already he did not like the sound of this.

“And the wishsong?” Jair added.

Allanon kept his eyes fixed on Brin. “Your father and your mother are not here?”

“No. They will be gone for at least two weeks; they treat the sick in the villages to the south.”

“I do not have two weeks nor even two days,” the big man whispered. “We must talk now, and you must decide what you will do. And if you decide as I think you must, your father will not this time forgive me, I’m afraid.”

Brin knew at once what the Druid was talking about. “Am I to come with you?” she asked slowly.

He let the question hang unanswered. “Let me tell you of a danger that threatens the Four Lands—an evil as, great as any faced by Shea Ohmsford or your father.” He folded his hands on the table before him and leaned toward her. “In the old world, before the dawn of the race of Man, there were faerie creatures who made use of good and evil magics. Your father must have told you the story, I’m certain. That world passed away with the coming of Man. The evil ones were imprisoned beyond the wall of a Forbidding, and the good were lost in the evolution of the races—all save the Elves. There was a book from those times, however, that survived. It was a book of dark magic, of power so awesome that even the Elven magicians from the old world were frightened of it. It was called the Ildatch. Its origin is not certain, even now; it seems that it appeared very early in the time of the creation of life. The evil in the world used it for a time, until at last the Elves managed to seize it. So great was its lure that, even knowing its power, a few of the Elven magicians dared tamper with its secrets. As a result, they were destroyed. The rest quickly determined to demolish the book. But before they could do so, it disappeared. There were rumors of its use afterward, scattered here and there through the centuries that followed, but never anything certain.”

His brow furrowed. “And then the Great Wars wiped out the old world. For two thousand years, the existence of man was reduced to its most primitive level. It was not until the Druids called the First Council at Paranor that an effort was made to gather together the teachings of the old world that they might be used to help the new. All of the learning, whether by book or by word of mouth, that had been preserved through the years was brought before the Council that an effort might be made to unlock their secrets. Unfortunately, not all that was preserved was good. Among the books discovered by the Druids in their quest was the Ildatch. It was uncovered by a brilliant, ambitious young Druid called Brona.”

“The Warlock Lord,” Brin said softly.

Allanon nodded. “He became the Warlock Lord when the power of the Ildatch subverted him. Together with his followers, he was lost to the dark magic. For nearly a thousand years, they threatened the existence of the races. It was not until Shea Ohmsford mastered the power of the Sword of Shannara that Brona and his followers were destroyed.”

He paused. “But the Ildatch disappeared once more. I searched for it in the ruins of the Skull Mountain when the kingdom of the Warlock Lord fell. I could not find it. I thought it was lost for good; I thought it buried forever. But I was wrong. Somehow it was preserved. It was recovered by a sect of human followers of the Warlock Lord—would-be sorcerers from the races of men who were not subject to the power of the Sword of Shannara and therefore not destroyed with the Master. I know not how even yet, but in some fashion they discovered the place where the Ildatch lay hidden and brought it back into the world of men. They took it deep into their Eastland lair where, hidden from the races, they began to delve into the secrets of the magic. That was more than sixty years ago. You can guess what has happened to them.”

Brin was pale as she leaned forward. “Are you saying that it has begun all over again? That there is another Warlock Lord and other Skull Bearers?”

Allanon shook his head. “These men were not Druids as were Brona and his followers, nor has the same amount of time elapsed since their subversion. But the magic subverts all who tamper with it. The difference is in the nature of the change wrought. Each time, the change is different.”

Brin shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Different,” Allanon repeated. “Magic, good or evil, adapts to the user and the user to it. Last time, the creatures born of its touch flew  . . .”

The sentence was left hanging. His listeners exchanged quick glances.

“And this time?” Rone asked.

The black eyes narrowed. “This time the evil walks.”

“Mord Wraiths!” Jair breathed sharply.

Allanon nodded. “A Gnome term for ‘black walker.’ They are another form of the same evil. The Ildatch has shaped them as it shaped Brona and his followers, victims of the magic, slaves to the power. They are lost to the world of men, given over to the dark.”

“Then the rumors are true after all,” Rone Leah murmured. His gray eyes sought Brin’s. “I didn’t tell you this before, because I didn’t see any purpose in worrying you needlessly, but I was told by travelers passing through Leah that the walkers have come west from the Silver River country. That’s why, when Jair suggested that we go camping beyond the Vale  . . .”

“Mord Wraiths come this far?” Allanon interrupted hurriedly. There was sudden concern in his voice. “How long ago, Prince of Leah?”

Rone shook his head doubtfully. “Several days, perhaps. Just before I came to the Vale.”

“Then there is less time than I thought.” The lines on the Druid’s forehead deepened.

“But what are they doing here?” Jair wanted to know.

Allanon lifted his dark face. “Looking for me, I suspect.”

Silence echoed through the darkened house. No one spoke; the Druid’s eyes held them fixed.

“Listen well. The Mord Wraith stronghold lies deep within the Eastland, high in the mountains they call the Ravenshorn. It is a massive, aged fortress built by Trolls in the Second War of the Races. It is called Graymark. The fortress sits atop the rim of a wall of peaks surrounding a deep valley. It is within this valley that the Ildatch has been concealed.”

He took a deep breath. “Ten days earlier, I was at the rim of the valley, determined to go down into it, seize the book of the dark magic from its hiding place, and see it destroyed. The book is the source of the Mord Wraiths’ power. Destroy the book, and the power is lost, the threat ended. And this threat—ah, let me tell you something of this threat. The Mord Wraiths have not been idle since the fall of their Master. Six months ago, the border wars between the Gnomes and the Dwarves flared up once more. For years the two nations have fought over the forests of the Anar, so a resumption of their dispute surprised no one at first. But this time, unknown to most, there is a difference in the nature of the struggle. The Gnomes are being guided by the hand of the Mord Wraiths. Scattered and beaten at the fall of the Warlock Lord, the Gnome tribes have been enslaved anew by the dark magic, this time under the rule of the Wraiths. And the magic gives strength to the Gnomes that they would not otherwise have. Thus the Dwarves have been driven steadily south since the border wars resumed. The threat is grave. Recently the Silver River began to turn foul, poisoned by the dark magic. The land it feeds begins to die. When that happens, the Dwarves will die also, and the whole of the Eastland will be lost. Elves from the Westland and Bordermen from Callahorn have gone to the aid of the Dwarves, but the help they bring is not enough to withstand the Mord Wraiths’ magic. Only the destruction of the Ildatch will stop what is happening.”

He turned suddenly to Brin. “Remember the stories of your father, told him by his father, told to his father by Shea Ohmsford, of the advance of the Warlock Lord into the Southland? As the evil one came, a darkness fell over everything. A shadow cast itself across the land and all beneath it withered and died. Nothing lived in that shadow that was not part of the evil. It begins again, Valegirl—this time in the Anar.”

He looked away. “Ten days ago, I stood at the walls of Graymark, intent upon finding and destroying the Ildatch. It was then that I discovered what the Mord Wraiths had done. Using the dark magic, the Mord Wraiths had grown within the valley a swamp-forest that would protect the book, a Maelmord in the faerie language, a barrier of such evil that it would crush and devour anything that attempted to enter and did not belong. Understand—this dark wood lives, it breathes, it thinks. Nothing can pass through it. I tried, but even the considerable power that I wield was not enough. The Maelmord repulsed me, and the Mord Wraiths discovered my presence. I was pursued, but I was able to escape. And now they search for me, knowing  . . .”

He trailed off momentarily. Brin glanced quickly at Rone, who was looking unhappier by the minute.

“If they’re searching for you, they’ll eventually come here, won’t they?” The highlander took advantage of the pause in the Druid’s narration.

“Eventually, yes. But that will happen regardless of whether or not they follow me now. Understand, sooner or later they will seek to eliminate any threat to their power over the races. Surely you see that the Ohmsford family constitutes such a threat.”

“Because of Shea Ohmsford and the Sword of Shannara?” Brin asked.

“Indirectly, yes. The Mord Wraiths are not creatures of illusion as was the Warlock Lord, so the Sword cannot harm them. The Elfstones, perhaps. That magic is a force to be reckoned with, and the Wraiths will have heard of Wil Ohmsford’s quest for the Bloodfire.” He paused. “But the real threat to them is the wishsong.”

“The wishsong?” Brin was dumbfounded. “But the wishsong is just a toy! It hasn’t the power of the Elfstones! Why would that be a threat to these monsters? Why would they be afraid of something as harmless as that?”

“Harmless?” Allanon’s eyes flickered momentarily, then closed as if to hide something. The Druid’s dark face was expressionless, and suddenly Brin was really afraid.

“Allanon, why are you here?” she asked once more, struggling to keep her hands from shaking.

The Druid’s eyes lifted again. On the table before him, the oil lamp’s thin flame sputtered. “I want you to come with me into the Eastland to the Mord Wraiths’ keep. I want you to use the wishsong to gain passage into the Maelmord—to find the Ildatch and bring it to me to be destroyed.”

His listeners stared at him speechlessly.

“How?” Jair asked finally.

“The wishsong can subvert even the dark magic,” Allanon replied. “It can alter behavior in any living thing. Even the Maelmord can be made to accept Brin. The wishsong can gain passage for her as one who belongs.”

Jair’s eyes widened in astonishment. “The wishsong can do all that?”

But Brin was shaking her head. “The wishsong is just a toy,” she repeated.

“Is it? Or is that simply the way in which you have used it?” The Druid shook his head slowly. “No, Brin Ohmsford, the wishsong is Elven magic, and it possesses the power of Elven magic. You do not see that yet, but I tell you it is so.”

“I don’t care what it is or isn’t, Brin’s not going!” Rone looked angry. “You cannot ask her to do something this dangerous!”

Allanon remained impassive. “I do not have a choice, Prince of Leah. No more choice than I had in asking Shea Ohmsford to go in search of the Sword of Shannara nor Wil Ohmsford to go in quest of the Bloodfire. The legacy of Elven magic that was passed first to Jerle Shannara belongs now to the Ohmsfords. I wish as you do that it were different. We might as well wish that night were day. The wishsong belongs to Brin, and now she must use it.”

“Brin, listen to me.” Rone turned to the Valegirl. “There is more to the rumors than I have told you. They also speak of what the Mord Wraiths have done to men, of eyes and tongues gone, of minds emptied of all life, and of fire that burns to the bone. I discounted all that until now. I thought it little more than the late-night fireside tales of drunken men. But the Druid makes me think differently. You can’t go with him. You can’t.”

“The rumors of which you speak are true,” Allanon acknowledged softly. “There is danger. You may even die.” He paused. “But what are we to do if you do not come? Will you hide and hope the Mord Wraiths forget about you? Will you ask the Dwarves to protect you? What happens when they are gone? As with the Warlock Lord, the evil will then come into this land. It will spread until there is no one left to resist it.”