The Heritage of Shannara (48 page)

I
t was dusk on the following day when Padishar Creel and Morgan Leah finally reached the Jut. Both were exhausted. They had traveled hard since leaving Tyrsis, stopping only for meals. They had slept less than six hours the previous night. Nevertheless, they would have arrived even sooner and in better condition if not for Padishar's insistence on doing everything possible to disguise their trail. Once they entered the Parma Key, he backtracked continuously, taking them down ravines, through riverbeds, and over rocky outcroppings, all the while watching the land behind him like a hawk.

Morgan had thought the outlaw chief overcautious and, after growing impatient enough, had told him so. “Shades, Padishar—we're wasting time! What do you think is back there anyway?”

“Nothing we can see, lad,” had been the other's enigmatic reply.

It was a sultry evening, the air heavy and still, and the skies hazy where the red ball of the sun settled into the horizon. As they rose in the basket lift toward the summit of the Jut, they could see night's shadows begin to fill the few wells of daylight that still remained in the forests below, turning them to pools of ink. Insects buzzed annoyingly about them, drawn by their body sweat. The swelter of the day lay across the land in a suffocating blanket. Padishar still had his gaze turned south toward Tyrsis, as if he might spy whatever it was he suspected had followed them. Morgan looked with him, but as before saw nothing. The big man shook his head. “I can't see it,” he whispered. “But I can feel it coming.”

He didn't explain what he meant by that and the Highlander didn't ask. Morgan was tired and hungry, and he knew that nothing either Padishar or
he did was likely to change the plans of whatever might be out there. Their journey was completed, they had done everything humanly possible to disguise their passing, and there wasn't anything to be gained by worrying now. Morgan felt his stomach rumble and thought of the dinner that would be waiting. Lunch that day had been a sparse affair—a few roots, stale bread, hard cheese, and some water.

“I realize that outlaws are supposed to be able to subsist on next to nothing, but surely you could have done better than this!” he had complained. “This is pathetic!”

“Oh, surely, lad!” the outlaw chief had replied. “And next time you be the gravedigger and I'll be the body!”

Their differences had been put aside by then—not forgotten perhaps, but at least placed in proper perspective. Padishar had dismissed their confrontation five minutes after it ended, and Morgan had concluded by the end of the day that things were back to normal. He bore a grudging respect for the man—for his brash and decisive manner, because it reminded the Highlander of his own, for the confidence he so readily displayed in himself, and for the way he drew other men to him. Padishar Creel wore the trappings of leadership as if they were his birthright, and somehow that seemed fitting. There was undeniable strength in Padishar Creel; it made you want to follow him. But Padishar understood that a leader must give something back to his followers. Acutely aware of Morgan's role in bringing the Valemen north, he had made a point of acknowledging the legitimacy of the Highlander's concern for their safety. Several times after their argument he had gone out of his way to reassure Morgan that Par and Coll Ohmsford would never be abandoned, that he would make certain that they were safe. He was a complex, charismatic fellow, and Morgan liked him despite a nagging suspicion that Padishar Creel would never in the world be able to deliver everything he promised.

Outlaws clasped Padishar's hand in greeting at each station of their ascent. If they believe so strongly in him, Morgan asked himself, shouldn't I?

But he knew that belief was as ephemeral as magic. He thought momentarily of the broken sword he carried. Belief and magic forged as one, layered into iron, then shattered. He took a deep breath. The pain of his loss was still there, deep and insidious despite his resolve to put it behind him, to do as Padishar had suggested and to give himself time to heal. There was nothing he could do to change what had happened, he had told himself; he must get on with his life. He had lived for years without the use of the sword's magic—without even knowing it existed. He was no worse off now than he had been then. He was the same man.

And yet the pain lingered. It was an emptiness that scraped the bones of his body from within, leaving him fragmented and in search of the parts that would make him whole again. He could argue that he was unchanged, but what he had experienced through wielding of the magic had left its stamp upon him as surely as if he had been branded by a hot iron. The
memories remained, the images of his battles, the impressions made by the power he had been able to call upon, the strength he had enjoyed. It was lost to him now. Like the loss of a parent or a sibling or a child, it could never be completely forgotten.

He looked out across the Parma Key and felt himself shrinking away to nothing.

When they reached the Jut, Chandos was waiting. Padishar's one-eyed second-in-command looked larger and blacker than Morgan remembered, his bearded, disfigured face furrowed and lined, his body wrapped in a great cloak that seemed to lend his massive body added size. He seized Padishar's hand and gripped it hard. “Good hunting?”

“Dangerous would be a better word for it,” the big man replied shortly.

Chandos glanced at Morgan. “The others?”

“They've fought their last, save for the Valemen. Where's Hirehone? Somewhere about or gone back to Varfleet?”

Morgan glanced quickly at him. So Padishar was still looking to discover who had betrayed them, he thought. There had been no mention of the master of Kiltan Forge since Morgan had reported seeing him in Tyrsis.

“Hirehone?” Chandos looked puzzled. “He left after you did, same day. Went back to Varfleet like you told him, I expect. He's not here.” He paused. “You have visitors, though.”

Padishar yawned. “Visitors?”

“Trolls, Padishar.”

The outlaw chief came awake at once. “You don't say? Trolls? Well, well. And how do they come to be here?”

They started across the bluff toward the fires, Padishar and Chandos shoulder to shoulder, Morgan trailing. “They won't say,” Chandos said. “Came out of the woods three days back, easy as you please, as if finding us here wasn't any trouble at all for them. Came in without a guide, found us like we were camped in the middle of a field with our pennants flying.” He grunted. “Twenty of them, big fellows, down out of the north country, the Charnals. Kelktic Rock, they call themselves. Just hung about until I went down to talk to them, then asked to speak with you. When I said you were gone, they said they'd wait.”

“No, is that so? Determined, are they?”

“Like falling rock looking to reach level ground. I brought them up when they agreed to give over their arms. Didn't seem right leaving them sitting down in the Parma Key when they'd come all that way to find you—and done such a good job of it in the bargain.” He smirked within his beard. “Besides, I figured three hundred of us ought to be able to stop a handful of Trolls.”

Padishar laughed softly. “Doesn't hurt to be cautious, old friend. Takes more than a shove to bring down a Troll. Where are they?”

“Over there, the fire on the left.”

Morgan and Padishar peered through the gloom. A cluster of faceless
shadows were already on their feet, watching their approach. They looked huge. Unconsciously, Morgan reached back to finger the handle of his sword, remembering belatedly that a handle was just about all he had.

“The leader's name is Axhind,” Chandos finished, his voice deliberately low now. “He's the Maturen.”

Padishar strode up to the Trolls, his weariness shed somewhere back, his tall form commanding. One of the Trolls stepped forward to meet him.

Morgan Leah had never seen a Troll. He had heard stories about them, of course; everyone told stories about the Trolls. Once, long before Morgan was born, Trolls had come down out of the Northland, their traditional home, to trade with the members of the other Races. For a time, some of them had even lived among the men of Callahorn. But all that ended with the coming of the Federation and its crusade for Southland domination. Trolls were no longer welcome below the Streleheim, and the few who had come south quickly went north again. Reclusive by nature, it took very little to send them back to their mountain strongholds. Now, they never came out—or at least no one Morgan knew had ever heard of them coming out. To find a band this far south was very unusual.

Morgan tried not to stare at the visitors, but it was hard. The Trolls were heavily muscled, almost grotesque, their bodies tall and wide, their skin nut-brown and rough like bark. Their faces were flat and nearly featureless. Morgan couldn't find any ears at all. They wore leather and heavy armor, and great cloaks lay scattered about their fire like discarded shadows.

“I'm Baron Creel, Leader of the Movement.” Padishar's voice boomed out.

The Troll facing him rumbled something incomprehensible. Morgan caught only the name Axhind. The two gripped hands briefly, then Axhind beckoned Padishar to sit with him at their fire. The Trolls stepped aside as the outlaw chief and his companions moved into the light to seat themselves. Morgan glanced about uneasily as the massive creatures closed about. He had never felt so unprotected. Chandos seemed unconcerned, positioning himself behind Padishar and a few feet back. Morgan eased down next to him.

The talk began in earnest then, but the Highlander didn't understand any of it. It was all done in the guttural language of the Trolls, a language of which Morgan knew nothing. Padishar seemed comfortable with it, however, pausing only infrequently to consider what he was saying. There was a great deal of what sounded like grunting, some heavy slurs, and much of what was said was emphasized by sharp gestures.

“How does Padishar speak their language?” Morgan whispered early on to Chandos.

The other never even glanced at him. “We see a bit more of life in Callahorn than you Highlanders,” he said.

Morgan's hunger was threatening to consume him, but he forced it from his mind, holding himself erect against encroaching weariness, keeping
himself deliberately still. The talk went on. Padishar seemed pleased with its direction.

“They want to join us,” Chandos whispered after a time, apparently deciding that Morgan should be rewarded for his patience. He listened some more. “Not just these few—an entire twenty-one tribes!” He grew excited. “Five thousand men! They want to make an alliance!”

Morgan grew excited himself. “With us? Why?”

Chandos didn't answer right away, motioning for Morgan to wait. Then he said, “The Movement has approached them before, asked them to help. But they always believed it too divided, too undependable. They've changed their minds of late.” He glanced over briefly. “They say Padishar has pulled the separate factions together sufficiently to reconsider. They're looking for a way to slow the Federation advance on their homelands.” His rough voice was filled with satisfaction. “Shades, what a stroke of good fortune this might turn out to be!”

Axhind was passing out cups now and filling them with something from a great jar. Morgan took the cup he was offered and glanced down. The liquid it contained was as black as pitch. He waited until both the Troll leader and Padishar saluted, then drank. It was all he could do to keep from retching. Whatever he had been given tasted like bile.

Chandos caught the look on his face. “Troll milk,” he said and smiled.

They drained the offering, even Morgan who found that it curbed his appetite instantly. Then they rose, Axhind and Padishar shook hands once more, and the Southlanders moved away.

“Did you hear?” Padishar asked quietly as they disappeared into the shadows. Stars were beginning to wink into view overhead, and the last of the daylight had faded away. “Did you hear it all, the whole of it?”

“Every last word,” Chandos replied, and Morgan nodded wordlessly.

“Five thousand men! Shades! We could challenge the best that the Federation had to offer if we had a force like that!” Padishar was ecstatic. “There might be two thousand and some that the Movement could call upon, and more than that from the Dwarves! Shades!”

He slammed his fist into his open palm, then reached over and clapped both Chandos and Morgan heartily on the back. “It's about time something went our way, wouldn't you agree, lads?”

Morgan had dinner after that, sitting alone at a table near the cooking fire, his appetite restored by the smells that emanated from the stew kettles. Padishar and Chandos had gone off to confer on what had been happening during the former's absence, and Morgan saw no need to be part of that. He looked about for Steff and Teel, but there was no sign of either, and it wasn't until he was almost finished eating that Steff appeared out of the darkness and slumped down beside him.

“How did it go?” the Dwarf asked perfunctorily, forgoing any greeting, his gnarled hands clutched about a tankard of ale he had carried over. He looked surprisingly worn.

Briefly, Morgan related the events of the past week. When he was finished, Steff rubbed at his cinnamon beard and said, “You're lucky to be alive—any of you.” His scarred face was haggard-looking; the mix of half-light and shadows seemed to etch more deeply its lines. “There's been some strange happenings taking place while you were away.”