Chapter 7 and 8

Chapter Seven

It was midmorning. In the Village of the Healers; the tiny Gnome community of Storlock, the thunderstorm was finally ending. It had been spectacular while it had lasted —masses of rolling black clouds streaked with wicked flashes of lightning and punctuated by long, booming claps of thunder —torrential rains that hammered the forestland with the force of winter sleet —winds that uprooted whole trees and stripped roofs from the low stone and plaster buildings that comprised the village. The storm had blown out of the Rabb Plains at dawn, and now it was drifting eastward toward the dark ridge of the Wolfsktaag, leaving the woodlands of the central Anar sodden and muddied with its passing. Wil Ohmsford stood alone on the porch of the Stor rest center, the major treatment facility for the community, and watched absently as the rain slowed to a thin trickle. The clouds still screened away the sunlight, leaving the day wrapped in somber tones of gray, and a fine mist had formed in the mix of cool storm air and warm earth. The eaves and walls of the center were wet and shiny, and droplets of moisture clung to the leaves of the vines that grew about them, glistening with green freshness. Bits of wood littered the ground, forming small dams against the rivers of surface water that flowed everywhere. The Valeman yawned and stretched wearily He had been up all night, working with children afflicted by a particularly nasty fever that dried away the fluids of the body and sent temperatures soaring. He could have asked to have been relieved earlier, of course, but he would not have felt comfortable doing that. He was still a student among the Stors, and he was very conscious of the fact that he must continue to prove himself if he were to one day become a Healer. So he had stayed with the children, all yesterday, all night, until at last the fever had broken. Now he was too tired to sleep, too keyed up from his night’s work. Besides, he knew he should spend some time with Flick. He grinned in spite of his exhaustion. Old Uncle Flick would very likely drag him bodily from his bed if he failed to visit for at least a few minutes before trundling off to sleep. He swung down off the porch, the muddied earth sucking at his boots as he plodded through the damp, head lowered. He was not very big, an inch or two taller than Flick perhaps, and his build was slight. He had his grandfather’s halfling Elven features —the slim nose and jaw, the slightly pointed ears hidden beneath locks of blondish hair, the narrow eyebrows that angled up sharply from the bridge of his nose. Distinctive features, they had marked Shea Ohmsford and now they marked his grandson as well. The sound of running footsteps brought him about. It was one of the Servers, Gnome aides to the Stors. He came up to Wil, wizened yellow face streaked with rain, forest cloak wrapped close to ward off the weather. “Sir, your uncle has been asking for you all night,” he panted, slowing. “He insisted I ask after you...” Wil nodded understandingly and reached out to clasp the Gnome’s shoulder. “I am on my way to see him now. Thank you.” The Server turned and darted back through the mist to whatever shelter he had been forced from. Wil watched him disappear from view, then started back up the roadway. A smile creased his face. Poor Uncle Flick. He would not be here at all if Shea had not taken ill. Flick cared little for the Eastland, a country he could live without quite nicely, as he was fond of reminding Wil. He particularly disliked Gnomes, though the Stors, were decent enough folk. Too many Gnomes had tried to do away with him in the past, particularly during the search for the Sword of Shannara. It was not something he could forget easily; such memories lingered on and could not be put aside simply for the sake of being fair-minded about Gnomes. In any case, Flick really didn’t care to be here at all and wouldn’t have been, except that Shea had not been able to come as he had promised Wil he would and Flick had felt duty-bound to come in his place. Viewed in that perspective, the whole thing was Shea’s fault —as Flick had announced to Wil ten seconds after his arrival. After all, if Shea hadn’t made his ill-advised promise to visit Wil, then Flick would be back in the Vale instead of sitting around in Storlock where he did not want to be in the first place. But Flick was Shea’s brother and therefore Wil’s uncle —Flick refused to think of himself as anyone’s granduncle —and since Shea could not come, someone had to make the trip in his stead. The only other someone was Flick. The little guest cottage where Flick was staying came into view, and Wil turned reluctantly toward it. He was tired and he did not feel like an argument, but there would probably be one, because he had spent very little time with Flick during the few days his uncle had been in Storlock and none at all in the past thirty-six hours. His work was demanding, but he knew that his uncle viewed that as a lame excuse. He was still mulling the matter over when Flick appeared abruptly on the porch of the cottage, gray-beamed face lapsing into stony disapproval. Resigned to the inevitable, Wil mounted the steps and brushed the water from his cloak. Flick studied him wordlessly for a moment, then shook his head. “You look exhausted,” he declared bluntly. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Wil stared at him. “I’m not in bed because you sent word that you wanted to see me.” “Not right away, I didn’t!” “Well,” Wil shrugged helplessly. “I guess I thought I should come to see you now. After all, I haven’t been able to give you much time so far.” “True enough,” his uncle grunted, a hint of satisfaction in his voice at eliciting this admission. “Still, you pick an odd time to mend the error of your ways. I know you were up all night. I checked. I just wanted to see if you were all right.” “I’m fine.” Wil managed a brief smile. “You don’t look fine. And it’s this weather as much as anything.” Flick rubbed his elbows gingerly. “Confounded rain hasn’t stopped since I got here. It doesn’t bother just old people like me, you know. Bothers everyone even would-be Healers.” He shook his head. “You would be better off back in the Vale.” Wil nodded absently. It had been a long time since Shady Vale. For almost two years now he had been living and working in the village of the Stors, learning the art of Healing from the recognized masters of the craft, preparing himself for the time when he might return to the Southland as a Healer, to lend the benefit of his skills to his own people. Unfortunately the whole business of becoming a Healer had proven a source of constant irritation to Flick, though Wil’s grandfather had come to accept it well enough. When the fever had taken Wil’s parents, a very young Wil Ohmsford had bravely resolved that, when he grew older, he would become a Healer. He had told his grandfather and Flick, in a child’s way and with a child’s determination, that he wished to save others from sickness and pain. That was fine, they agreed, thinking it a child’s whim. But his ambition had stayed with him. And when, on reaching manhood, he announced that it was his intention to study, not with the Healers of the Southland, whom he knew to be only adequate in their skills, but with the very best Healers in the Four Lands —with the Stors —their attitude had undergone an abrupt change. Good old Uncle Flick had long ago made up his mind about Gnomes and the Eastland. Even his grandfather had balked. No Southlander had ever studied with the Stors. How could Wil, who did not even speak the language, expect to be taken into their community? But Wil had gone despite their reservations —only to be taken before the Stor council upon his arrival and told politely but firmly that no one who was not of the village of Storlock had ever been permitted to study with them. He might stay as long as he wished, but he could not become one of them. Wil did not give up. He decided that he must first learn their language, and he spent almost two months doing so. Then he appeared again before the council and again attempted to persuade them, this time speaking to them in their own tongue. He was not successful this time either. Every week for nearly a month after that, he went before the council to plead his cause. He told them everything about himself and his family, everything that had led to his decision to become a Healer —everything that he thought might convince them that he should be allowed to study with them. Something must have worked, because finally, without a word of explanation, he was told that he would be permitted to remain and that they would teach him what they knew. In time, if he proved diligent and capable, he would become a Healer. He smiled fondly at the memories. How pleased he had been —and his grandfather and Flick, when they had learned of his acceptance, though the latter would never admit it any more than he would admit to the real reason for his disapproval of the whole venture. What really distressed Flick was the distance separating him from Wil. He missed the hunting, fishing, and exploring that they had shared while Wil was growing up. He missed having Wil there in the Vale with him. Flick’s wife had died a long time ago, and they had never had any children of their own. Wil had been his son. Flick had always believed that Wil would stay on in the Vale and manage the inn with Shea and him. Now Wil was gone, settled in Storlock, far from the Vale and his old life, and Wil knew that his uncle simply could not accept the way things had worked out. “Are you listening to me?” Flick asked suddenly, a frown creasing his bearded face. “I’m listening,” Wil assured him. He placed a hand gently on his uncle’s shoulder. “Be patient, Uncle Flick. I’ll be back some day. But there is so much to learn yet.” “Well, it’s you I’m concerned about, not me,” Flick pointed out quickly, his stocky form straightening. “Your grandfather and I can manage just fine without you, but I’m not so sure you can manage without us. Look at you. You push yourself too hard, Wil. You have this stubborn streak in you that seems to have blinded you to the fact that you cannot do everything that you might like to do. You are a normal human being like the rest of us. What do I have to do to get you to see that?” It appeared that he wanted to say more, but with an effort he stopped himself. “This isn’t the time for it.” He sighed. His hand came to rest on Wil’s. “Why don’t you go to bed? We can talk when you...” His gray eyes shifted suddenly, and his voice trailed off. Wil turned to follow his gaze. There was movement in the mist —a shadow, dark and solitary. They stared at it curiously, watching it slowly materialize. It became a horse and rider, each blacker than the other. The rider sat bent forward in the saddle, as if quite weary from the ride, dark clothing soaked by the rain and plastered against his tall frame. A sudden apprehension stole through Wil. This was no Stor that came; indeed, this looked to be no man the like of which he had ever seen. “It cannot be...” he heard Flick mutter. His uncle did not finish the thought. He brushed past Wil and stepped to the edge of the porch, bracing himself with an outstretched arm against the rain-slicked railing. Wil moved to stand with him. The horseman was coming directly toward them. So strong was the sense of foreboding that the rider’s approach engendered within him that the Valeman gave momentary consideration to fleeing. Yet he could not flee. He could only wait, eyes fixed on the spectral form. The rider drew to a halt before the Valemen. His head was lowered, his face hidden within the folds of a dark cowl. “Hello, Flick.” The rider’s voice was a deep, low whisper. Wil saw his uncle start. “Allanon!” The big man slipped from the back of his horse, but one arm remained hooked about the animal’s neck, as if he could not stand alone. Wil came forward a pace and stopped. Something was clearly wrong. Allanon’s gaze shifted slowly to meet his own. “Wil Ohmsford?” The Valeman nodded, surprised. “Go quickly and ask the Stors to come...” he began, then sagged downward, barely catching himself in time to keep from collapsing. Wil came down the porch steps instantly, moving to the Druid’s aid, but stopped as the big man’s hand came up in warning. “Do as I say, Valeman —go!” Then Wil saw clearly what the rain had hidden from him before. Allanon’s clothes were deeply stained with blood. Without another word the Valeman bounded back up the roadway toward the center, the weariness and discomfort slipping from him like a dream lost in waking.

Chapter Eight

The Stors took Allanon to the rest center, and although both Wil and Flick sought to accompany the injured Druid, they were told gently but firmly that their assistance was not needed. Enigmatic and silent, Stors and Druid disappeared into the corridors of the center, and the Valemen were left standing in the rain. Since it was apparent that for the moment nothing further would be learned of the Druid’s coming, Wil Ohmsford bade his uncle goodnight and went off to bed. Later that same day, during the early evening hours, Allanon sent word that he wanted to see both Valemen. Wil received the news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was curious to discover what had befallen the Druid. Stories of Allanon were familiar territory; his grandfather and Flick had told them all a dozen times over. Yet never in those tales had there been mention of injuries like those the big man had suffered in coming to Storlock. Not even the Skull Bearer that had attacked him in the furnace room at Paranor during the search for the Sword of Shannara had done this kind of damage, and Wil wanted to know what manner of creature walked the Four Lands that was more dangerous than the winged servants of the Warlock Lord. On the other hand, he was disturbed by the Druid’s presence in Storlock. It might have been coincidence that Allanon came at a time when he found both Flick and Wil in the village. It might have been by chance that he stumbled upon them rather than the Stors. But Wil did not believe it for a moment. Allanon had come to them deliberately. Why had he done that? And why had he summoned them to this meeting? Wil could understand Allanon’s wish to confer with Flick; after all, they had met before and shared common adventures. By why Wil? The Druid didn’t even know the youngest Ohmsford. Why would Allanon be interested in meeting with him? Nevertheless, he left his quarters and dutifully trooped off through the growing darkness across the village square toward the guest house where he knew Flick would be waiting. Much as he mistrusted the purpose behind this meeting, he was determined to go anyway. He was not one to back away from trouble —and besides, he could be wrong in his suspicions. Perhaps the Druid merely wanted to thank him for his help. He found Flick waiting on the porch of the guest cottage, wrapped tightly in his heavy travel cloak, mumbling irritably about the weather. The elder Ohmsford came down the porch steps to join him, and they struck off together down the roadway toward the Stor rest center. “What do you think he wants, Uncle Flick?” Wil asked after a moment, pulling his own cloak closer about him to ward off the evening chill. “Hard to say,” Flick grunted. “I’ll tell you one thing. Every time he appears, it means trouble.” “His coming to Storlock has something to do with us, doesn’t it?” Wil ventured, watching his uncle’s face. Flick shook his head uncertainly. “He’s come here for a purpose sure enough. And he’s called us over to say something more than hello and how are you. Whatever it is he has to say, it won’t be anything we want to hear. I know that much. It never has been before and I see no reason to expect anything different this time around.” He stopped abruptly and faced his nephew. “You watch yourself in there with him, Wil. He is not to be trusted. “I’ll be careful, Uncle Flick, but I don’t think there is much to worry about,” Wil replied. “We both know something of Allanon, don’t we? Besides, you’ll be there to key an eye on things.” “I fully intend to.” Flick turned and they continued walking. “Just remember what I said.” Moments later they mounted the porch steps of the rest center and stepped inside. The center was a long, low building constructed of stone and mortar walls and a clay-tiled roof. A large, comfortably furnished lobby opened on either side into hallways that disappeared into the wings of the center, where numerous small rooms provided for the care of the sick and injured. As they entered, one of the white-robed Stors in attendance came up to greet them. He beckoned wordlessly, then led them down a long, empty hallway. At its end was a single closed door. The Stor knocked once, turned, and left. Wil glanced uneasily at Flick, but the elder Ohmsford was staring fixedly at the closed door. Together they waited. Then the door swung open and Allanon stood before them. He looked for all the world as if he had not been injured at all. No wounds were visible. The black robes that cloaked his tall frame were clean of blood. His face was somewhat drawn, but showed no sign of any pain. His penetrating gaze settled on the Valemen for a moment, then one hand motioned toward a small table with four chairs set about it. “Why don’t we sit there while we talk?” He made the suggestion seem almost an order. They entered and seated themselves on the chairs. The room was windowless and bare of furnishings, except for the table and chairs and a large bed. Wil glanced about briefly, then turned his attention to the Druid. Allanon had been described to him by both Flick and Shea on dozens of occasions, and he looked now exactly as he had been described. But how could that be, Wil wondered, when the descriptions were of a man they had not seen since before the time of his birth? “Well, here we are,” Flick said finally, when it appeared that no one was ever going to say anything. Allanon smiled faintly. “It seems so.” “You look well enough for a man who was half-dead just few hours earlier.” “The Stors are very adept at their art, as you of all people should know,” the Druid replied rather too pleasantly. “But I’m afraid I do not feel half so well as I should. How are you, Flick?” “Older and wiser, I hope,” the Valeman declared meaningfully. Allanon did not respond. His gaze shifted abruptly to Wil. For a moment he said nothing further, his dark face inscrutable as he studied the younger Ohmsford. Wil sat quietly and did not turn away, though the Druid’s eyes made him uneasy. Then slowly Allanon leaned forward in his chair, his great hands settling on the table top and folding together. “I need your help, Wil Ohmsford,” he stated quietly. Both Valemen stared at him. “I need you to come with me into the Westland.” “I knew it,” muttered Flick, shaking his head. Allanon smiled ruefully. “It is comforting to know, Flick, that some things in this life never change. You are certainly proof of that. Would it matter at all if I were to tell you that Wil’s help is needed not for me, but for the Elven people and in particular, a young Elven girl?” “No, it would not,” the Valeman replied without a moment’s hesitation. “He’s not going and that’s the end of it. “Wait a minute, Uncle Flick,” Wil interjected quickly. “It may well be that I’m not going, but I would like to be the one who makes that decision. At least, we can hear something more about what it is that I’m needed to do.” Flick ignored the reprimand. “Believe me, you do not want to hear another word. This is exactly how the trouble begins. This is exactly how it began for your grandfather fifty years ago.” He looked quickly at Allanon. “Isn’t that true? Isn’t this exactly how things started when you came to Shady Vale and told us all about the Sword?” Allanon nodded. “It is.” “There —you see!” Flick declared triumphantly. “Exactly the same. I’ll wager this journey you’ve got panned for him is dangerous, too, isn’t it?” Again the Druid nodded. “Well, then,” the Valeman sat back, satisfaction etched into his bearded face. “I should think that settles the matter. You’re asking too much. He’s not going.” Allanon’s dark eyes glittered. “He must go.” Flick looked startled. “He must?” The Druid nodded. “You will see why, Flick, once I have explained what has happened in the Four Lands these past few days. Listen closely to me, Valemen.” He edged his chair closer to the table and leaned forward. “A long time ago, a very long time ago, before the Great Wars and the evolution of the new races, even before the development of Man as a civilized species, there was a terrible war fought between creatures that, for the most part, no longer exist. Some of these creatures were good and caring; they revered the land and sought to protect and preserve it against misuse and waste. For them, all life was sacred. But there were others who were evil and selfish; their ways were destructive and harmful. They took from the land and from its life without need or purpose. All were creatures whose physical characteristics and capabilities differed in the main from your own —that is to say, their appearance was different from yours, and they were capable of behavior no longer innate to the men of this world. In particular, they possessed to varying degrees powers of magic —at least, we would call it magic or sorcery or the mystic. Such power was common at that time, though some among these creatures possessed the Power to a greater extent than others; thus their capacity for good or evil was enhanced proportionately. All of these creatures, both good and evil, existed together in the world and, because plan had not yet developed beyond a primitive life form existing within a narrow geographical space, the world was theirs alone. It had been so for centuries. But their existence together had never been harmonious. They lived in continuing conflict, for they worked at cross-purposes —the good to preserve, the evil to destroy. From time to time the balance of power between the conflicting sides would shift, as first the good and then the evil would dominate the drift of things. “The struggle between them intensified through the years until finally, after centuries had passed without resolution of the conflict, the leaders in each camp banded together all who supported them, and the war began. This was not a war the like of which we have seen since. This was not a war on the order of the Great Wars, for the Great Wars employed power of such awesome proportion that the men who wielded it lost control entirely and were engulfed in the resulting cataclysm. Rather it was a war in which power and strength were skillfully employed at each turn —in which the creatures involved stood toe to toe in battle and lived and died on the skill they wielded. This was like the Wars of the Races, which have dominated the history of the new world; in the Race Wars, the Warlock Lord perverted the thinking of those who served him, turning them against one another so that in the end he might enslave and rule them all. But in this war, there was never any deceit or illusion that swayed those who fought it. Good and evil were polarized from the beginning; no one stood aside in neutrality, for there were no neutral corners to be found. This was a war fought to determine forever the character and mode of evolution of life on the earth across which it was waged. It was a war that would decide whether the land would be forever preserved or forever desecrated. Each camp had resolved once and for all to achieve total victory over the other. For the creatures of evil, if they were defeated, it meant banishment; for the creatures of good, if they lost, it meant annihilation. “So the war was fought —a terrible, monstrous war that I will not even attempt to describe, for there would be no point in doing so. For our purposes here it is only important that you know that the evil ones were defeated. Their power was broken and they were driven back and finally trapped. Those who had defeated them used their powers to create a Forbidding, a wall of imprisonment behind which the evil was to be placed. Their prison was not of this world nor any world, but a black hole of emptiness and isolation where nothing but the evil would be permitted to exist. Into this hole the evil was banished, sealed away behind the wall of the Forbidding for all time. “The strength behind the Forbidding was a marvelous tree called an Ellcrys. The creatures of good created the Ellcrys out of the earth’s life source, which they called the Bloodfire, and out of their own power. They gave her life so that, by her presence in the world, the Forbidding might endure long after they themselves were gone, long after the world they had struggled so long an and desperately to preserve had altered and evolved beyond any recognition. Her life span was not to be measured by any standard that they possessed. But so long as she lived, the Forbidding continued, and so long as the Forbidding continued, the evil would remain shut within its prison.” He settled back in his chair, easing his tall frame gingerly away from the table to relieve cramped muscles, his arms slipping down into his lap. His dark eyes stayed locked on those of the Valemen. “It was believed that the Ellcrys would live forever —not by those who gave her life, for they knew that all things must eventually pass away —but by those who followed them, by all who nurtured and loved and honored this wondrous tree that was their protector for countless centuries. For them, the Ellcrys became a symbol of permanency; she survived the destruction of the old world in the holocaust of the Great Wars, she survived the Race Wars and the power of the Warlock Lord, and she survived after every other living thing that had existed with her had passed away —everything but the earth herself, and even the earth had changed while the Ellcrys had remained constant.” He paused. “So the legend grew. The Ellcrys would live forever. It was eternal. That belief never faltered.” His face lifted slightly. “Until now. Now the belief is shattered. The Ellcrys is dying. The Forbidding begins to erode. The evil ones imprisoned within begin to break free once more and come back into this world that was once theirs.” “And these creatures caused your injuries?” Wil surmised. Allanon nodded. “Some already walk the Four Lands. Though I thought to keep my presence secret, they have discovered me. They found me at Paranor within the Druid’s Keep and very nearly finished me.” Flick looked alarmed. “Are they still searching for you?” “They are —but I have reason to believe that they won’t be so quick to find me this time.” “That doesn’t reassure me much,” the Valeman grumbled, glancing toward the doorway of the little room a bit apprehensively. Allanon let the remark pass. “You may remember, Flick, that I once told to Shea and to you the history of the races. I told you how all of the races evolved from the old race of Man following the destruction wrought by the Great Wars —all of the races but one. The Elves. I told you that the Elves were always there. Do you remember?” Flick grunted. “I remember. That was something else you never explained.” “I said that theirs was another story for another time. That time is now —in part, at least, though I don’t propose to digress on the history of the Elven people at any great length. But some things you should know. We have spoken only in the abstract of the creatures that fought this war of good and evil that culminated in the creation of the Ellcrys. We must give them identity. All were creatures that became part of the old legends of faerie when men emerged from the darkness of barbarism and began to populate and build upon the world. They were creatures of magics, as I have said, both great and small. There were diverse species —some all good, some all bad, some whose individual peoples divided and went in opposite ways. They had names that you will recognize —Faeries, Sprites, Goblins, Wraiths, and the like. The new races, though human in ancestry, were named from four of the more numerous and best recorded of these creatures of supposed legend —Dwarves, Gnomes, Trolls, and Elves. Except, of course, that the Elves are different. They are different because they are not simply a legend reborn —they are the legend survived. The Elven people are the descendants of the faerie creatures that existed in the old world.” “Now wait a minute,” Flick cut in quickly. “You mean to say that the Elven people are the same Elven people that all the old legends tell about —that there really were Elves in the old world?” “Certainly there were Elves in the old world —just as there were Trolls and Dwarves and all the other creatures that gave birth to the legends. The only difference is that all of the others have been gone from the world for centuries, while the Elves have remained. They have altered, of course; they have evolved considerably. They were forced to adapt.” Flick looked as if he didn’t understand one word of what he was hearing. “There were Elves in the old world?” he repeated incredulously. “That is just not possible.” “Of course it’s possible,” the Druid replied calmly. “Well, how did they survive the Great Wars?” “How did Man survive the Great Wars?” “But the old histories tell us of Man —they do not mention a single word about Elves!” the Valeman snapped. “Elves were a fairy tale people. If there really were Elves in the old world, where were they?” “Right where they had always been —Man just couldn’t see them.” “Now you’re telling me Elves were invisible?” Flick threw up his hands. “I don’t believe any of this!” “You didn’t believe any of what I told you about Shea and the Sword of Shannara either, if I remember correctly,” Allanon pointed out, the faintest hint of laughter on his lips. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with why the Elves need my help,” Wil interjected, heading off another outburst from Flick. The Druid nodded. “I’ll try to explain if Flick will just be patient with me for a moment longer. The history of the Elves is important to this discussion for one reason only. The Elves were the ones who conceived the idea of the Ellcrys and who brought her into being. It was the Elves who gave her life and afterwards cared for her down through the ages. Her protection and well-being are entrusted to an order of Elven youth called Chosen. For a single year, the Chosen stand in service to the tree, their task to see to it that she is properly looked after. At the end of that year, they are replaced. It has been so since the tree’s creation. One year of service only. The Chosen are revered and honored among the Elven people; only a few are ever selected to serve and those who do so are guaranteed a position of high esteem in the Elven culture. “All of which brings us to the present. As I have told you, the Ellcrys is dying. A few days earlier, she made this known to the Chosen. She was able to do this because she is a sentient being and possesses the ability to communicate. She revealed to them that her death was inevitable and close. She revealed as well what the Elven legends had foretold, what the first Elves had known, but what generations of Elves thereafter had virtually forgotten —that although the Ellcrys must die in the manner of other living creatures, unlike them she could be reborn. Yet her rebirth must depend heavily on the efforts of the Chosen. One among them would be required to bear her seed in search of the earth’s life source —the Bloodfire. Only one of the Chosen presently in her service could do this. She told them where the Bloodfire might be found and bade them make preparations to seek it out.” He paused. “But before this could be done, some of the evil ones locked within the Forbidding broke free, finding the wall sufficiently weakened as the strength of the Ellcrys began to fail. One slipped into the Elven city of Arborlon, where the Ellcrys stands, and killed the Chosen it found there, believing that with their deaths any chance for a rebirth would be ended. I arrived too late to prevent this from happening. But I spoke with the Ellcrys and discovered through her that one of the Chosen still remains alive —a young girl who was not within the city when the others were killed. Her name is Amberle. I left Arborlon in search of her.” He leaned forward once more. “But the evil ones have learned of her also. They sought once already to prevent me from reaching her and very nearly succeeded. They will certainly try again if they have the chance to do so. But they do not know where she can be found nor, for the moment at least, do they know where I am. If I am quick enough, I should be able to reach her and return her safely to Arborlon before they discover me again.” “Then I should think that you are wasting valuable time conversing with us,” Flick declared firmly. “You should be on your way to the girl.” The Druid ignored him, though his face darkened slightly. “Even though I return Amberle to Arborlon, there are problems still that must be dealt with. As the last of the Chosen, it will fall to her to bear the Ellcrys’ seed in quest of the Bloodfire. No one, myself included, knows exactly where the Fire can be found. Once, the Ellcrys knew. But the world she remembers is gone now. She gave the Elves a name —Safehold. It is a name that means nothing to them, a name from the old world. When I left Arborlon, I traveled first to Paranor to search the Druid histories compiled by the Council after the Great Wars —histories which record the mysteries of the old world. Reading through those histories, I was able to discover the country within which Safehold lies. Still, the exact location of the Bloodfire must be discovered by those who seek it.” And suddenly Wil Ohmsford realized why it was that Allanon wanted him to go into the Westland. He realized it and still he could not believe it. “Amberle cannot undertake this search alone,” Allanon continued. “The country into which she must go is dangerous —much too dangerous for a young Elven girl to travel by herself. It will be a difficult journey at best. Those who have crossed through the Forbidding will continue to seek her out; if they find her, she will have no protection against them. She must not be harmed in any way. She is the last hope of her people. If the Ellcrys is not reborn, the Forbidding will eventually fail altogether and the evil locked within it will be loose once more upon the earth. There will be war with the Elves that they cannot, in all probability, win. If they are destroyed, the evil will move into the other Lands as well. It will grow stronger as it comes, as is the nature of beings such as these. In the end, the races will be devoured.” “But you will be there to help her...” Wil began, searching for a way out of the trap he felt closing about him. “I cannot be there to help her,” Allanon cut in quickly. There was a long silence. Allanon spread his hands on the table. “There is good reason for this, Wil Ohmsford. I have told you that the evil already begins to break through the wall of the Forbidding. The Ellcrys will grow steadily weaker; as she does so, the creatures she imprisons will grow bolder. They will continue to push against the wall of the Forbidding. They will continue to break through. Eventually, they will tear down the wall entirely. When this happens, they will converge upon the Elven nation and attempt to destroy it. This may very well happen long before the Bloodfire is found. There is also a possibility that the Bloodfire may never be found or that it may be found too late. In either case, the Elven people must be prepared to stand and fight. But some of the creatures within the Forbidding are very powerful; at least one possesses sorcery very nearly as great as my own. The Elves will have no defense against such power. Their own magic is lost. The Druids who once aided them are gone. There is only me. If I leave them and go with Amberle, they will be defenseless. I cannot do that. I must give them whatever aid I can. “Yet someone must go with Amberle —someone who possesses power enough to resist the evil that will pursue her, someone who can be trusted to do everything humanly possible to protect her. That someone is you.” “What are you talking about?” Flick exclaimed in exasperation. “What possible help can Wil be against creatures such as these —creatures that very nearly succeeded in doing you in? You don’t mean for him to use the Sword of Shannara?” Allanon shook his head. “The power of the Sword works only against illusion. The evil we face is very real, very tangible. The Sword would have no power against it.” Flick almost came to his feet. “What then?” The Druid’s eyes were dark and filled with insight and Wil Ohmsford felt his heart sink. “The Elfstones. ” Flick was aghast. “The Elfstones! But Shea has the Elfstones!” Wil put his hand quickly on the other’s arm. “No, Uncle Flick, I have them.” He groped within his tunic and then withdrew a small leather pouch. “Grandfather gave them to me when I left Shady Vale to come to Storlock. He told me that he no longer had need of them and that he thought they should belong to me.” His voice was shaking. “It’s strange; I only took them to please him —not because I ever thought that I would use them. I’ve never even tried.” “It would do you no good, Wil.” Flick turned back hurriedly to Allanon. “He knows. No one but Shea could ever use the Elfstones. They are useless to anyone else.” Allanon’s expression did not change. “That is not entirely true, Flick. They can only be used by one to whom they are freely given. I gave them to Shea to use when I warned him to flee the Vale to Culhaven. They remained his until he gave them to Wil. Now they belong to Wil. Their power is his to invoke, just as it was once Shea’s.” Flick looked desperate. “You can give them back,” he insisted, turning once more to Wil, seeing the confusion in his eyes. “Or you can give them to someone else —anyone else. You don’t have to keep them. You don’t have to become involved in any of this madness!” Allanon shook his head. “Flick, he is already involved.” “But what of my plans to become a Healer?” Wil interjected suddenly. “What of the time and work I have put into that? Becoming a Healer is all that I have ever wanted to do, and I am finally on my way to doing it. Am I expected just to give it all up?” “If you refuse your aid in this matter, how can you then become a Healer?” The Druid’s voice turned hard. “A Healer must give whatever help he can, whenever he can, in any way that he can. It is not something he can pick and choose. If you refuse to go and all that I have foreseen comes to pass —as I am certain that it then will —how will you live with yourself, knowing that you never even tried to prevent it?” Wil flushed. “But when will I be able to return again?” “I don’t know. It may be a long time.” “And even if I come with you, can you be certain that the power of the Elfstones will be strong enough to protect this girl?” Allanon’s face closed in about itself, dark, secretive. “I cannot. Such power as the Elfstones possess draws its strength from the holder. Shea never tested their limits; you may have to.” “Can you give me no assurances, then?” The Valeman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “None.” The Druid’s gaze never left him. “Still, you must come.” Wil slumped back in his chair, stunned. “It seems I have no choice.” “Of course you have a choice!” Flick snapped angrily. “Will you give up everything for no other reason than this —that Allanon says you must? Will you go with him for that alone?” Wil’s eyes lifted. “Didn’t you, Uncle Flick —grandfather and you —to search out the Sword of Shannara?” Flick hesitated uncertainly; then he reached over and took his nephew’s hands in his own, clasping them tightly. “You are too quick in this, Wil. I warned you of Allanon. Now you listen to me. I see more in this than you. There is something hidden behind the Druid’s words. I can feel it.” His voice tightened, and the lines in his gray-bearded face creased even more deeply. “I am afraid for you. It is because I am afraid that I speak to you as I do. You are like my own son; I don’t want to lose you.” “I know,” Wil whispered. “I know.” Flick straightened. “Then don’t go. Let Allanon find another.” The Druid shook his head. “I cannot, Flick. There is no other. There is only Wil.” His eyes again sought those of the young Valeman. “You must come.” “Let me go instead,” Flick offered suddenly, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Wil can give the Elfstones to me, and I can watch over the Elven girl. Allanon, we have traveled together before...” But the Druid was already shaking his head no. “Flick, you cannot come,” he said gently. “Your heart is greater than your strength, Valeman. The journey that lies ahead will be long and hard and must be made by a younger man.” He paused. “Our travels together are over, Flick.” There was a long silence, and then the Druid turned again to Wil Ohmsford, waiting. The Valeman looked at his uncle. They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, Flick’s gray eyes uncertain, Wil’s now steady. Flick saw that the decision had been made. Almost, imperceptibly, he nodded. “You must do what you feel is right,” he mumbled, reluctance sounding in his every word. Wil turned to Allanon. “I will come with you.”