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TheTallofyaranorThe old man just appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.The Borderman was watching for him, sitting well backwithin the concealing shadows of a spreading hardwoodhigh on a hillside overlooking the whole of the Streleheim and thetrails leading out of it, everything clearly visible in the light of afull moon for at least ten miles, and he still didn't see him. It wasunnerving and vaguely embarrassing, and the fact that it happenedthis way every time didn't make it any more palatable. How didthe old man do it? The Borderman had spent almost the whole ofhis life in this country, kept alive by his wits and experience. Hesaw things that others did not even know were there. He couldread the movements of animals from their passage through tallgrass. He could tell you how far ahead of him they were and howfast they were traveling. But he could not spy out the old man onthe clearest night and the broadest plain, even when he knew tolook for him.It did not help matters that the old man easily found him.Moving quite deliberately off the trail, he came toward the Bor-derman with slow, measured strides, head lowered slightly, eyestilted up out of the shadow of his cowl. He wore black, like all theDruids, cloaked and hooded, wrapped darker than the shadowshe passed through. He was not a big man, neither tall nor wellmuscled, but he gave the impression of being hard and fixed ofpurpose. His eyes, when visible, were vaguely green. But at timesthey seemed as white as bone, too�now, especially, when nightstole away colors and reduced all things to shades of gray. Theygleamed like an animal's caught in a fragment of light�feral,piercing, hypnotic. Light illuminated the old man's face as34 First King of Shannarawell, carving out the deep lines that creased it from forehead tochin, playing across the ridges and valleys of the ancient skin. Theold man's hair and beard were gray going fast toward white,the strands wispy and thin like tangled spiderwebs.The Borderman gave it up and climbed slowly to his feet. Hewas tall, rangy, and broad-shouldered, his dark hair worn long andtied back, his brown eyes sharp and steady, his lean face all planesand angles, but handsome in a rough sort of way.A smile crossed the old man's face as he came up. "How areyou, Kinson?" he greeted.The familiar sound of his voice swept away Kinson Raven-lock's irritation as if it were dust on the wind. "I am well,Bremen," he answered, and held out his hand in response.The old man took it and clasped it firmly in his own. The skinwas dry and rough with age, but the hand beneath was strong."How long have you been waiting?""Three weeks. Not as long as I had expected. I am surprised.But then I am always surprised by you."Bremen laughed. He had left the Borderman six months earlierwith instructions to meet him again on the first full moon of thequarter season directly north of Paranor where the forests gaveway to the Plains of Streleheim. The time and place of the meetingwere set, but hardly written in stone. Both appreciated the uncer-tainties the old man faced. Bremen had gone north into forbiddencountry. The time and place of his return would be dictated byevents not yet known to either of them. It was nothing to Kinsonthat he had been forced to wait three weeks. It could just as easilyhave been three months.The Druid looked at him with those piercing eyes, white now inthe moonlight, drained of any other color. "Have you learnedmuch in my absence? Have you put your time to good use?"The Borderman shrugged. "Some of it. Sit down with me andrest. Have you eaten?"He gave the old man some bread and ale, and they sat hunchedclose together in the dark, staring out across the broad sweep ofthe plains. It was silent out there, empty and depthless and vastbeneath the night's moonlit dome. The old man chewed absently,taking his time. The Borderman had built no fire that night or onany other since he had begun his vigil. A fire was too dangerous tochance."The Trolls move east," Kinson offered after a moment. "Thou-First King of Shannara 5sands of them, more than I could count accurately, though I wentdown into their camp on the new moon several weeks back whenthey were closer to where we sit. Their numbers grow as othersare sent to serve. They control everything from the Streleheimnorth as far as I can determine." He paused. "Have you discoveredotherwise?"The Druid shook his head. He had pushed back his cowl, andhis gray head was etched in moonlight. "No, all of it belongs nowto him."Kinson gave him a sharp look. "Then...""What else have you seen?" the old man urged, ignoring him.The Borderman took the aleskin and drank from it. "Theleaders of the army stay closed away in their tents. No one seesthem. The Trolls are afraid even to speak their names. This shouldnot be. Nothing frightens Rock Trolls. Except this, it seems."He looked at the other. "But at night, sometimes, at watch foryou, I see strange shadows flit across the sky in the light of moonand stars. Winged black things sweep across the void, hunting orscouting or simply surveying what they have taken�I can't telland don't want to know. I feel them, though. Even now. They areout there, circling. I feel their presence like an itch. No, not like anitch�like a shiver, the sort that comes to you when you feel eyeswatching and the owner of those eyes has bad intentions. My skincrawls. They do not see me; I know if they did I would be dead."Bremen nodded. "Skull Bearers, bound in service to him.""So he is alive?" Kinson could not help himself. "You know itto be so? You have made certain?"The Druid put aside the ale and bread and faced him squarely.The eyes were distant and filled with dark memories."He is alive, Kinson. As alive as you and 1.1 tracked him to hislair, deep in the shadow of the Knife Edge, where the SkullKingdom puts down its roots. I was not sure at first, as you know.I suspected it, believed it to be so, but lacked evidence that couldstand as proof. So I traveled north as we had planned, across theplains and into the mountains. I saw the winged hunters as I went,emerging only at night, great birds of prey that patrolled and keptwatch for living things. I made myself as invisible as the airthrough which they flew. They saw me and saw nothing. I keptmyself shrouded in magic, but not of such significance that theywould notice it in the presence of their own. I passed west of theTrolls, but found the whole of their land subdued. All who resisted6 First King of Shannarahave been put to death. All who could manage to do so have fled.The rest now serve him."Kinson nodded. It had been six months since the Trollmarauders had swept down out of the Chamals east and begun asystematic subjugation of their people. Their army was vast andswift, and in less than three months all resistance was crushed. TheNorthland was placed under rule of the conquering army's myste-rious and still unknown leader. There were rumors concerning hisidentity, but they remained unconfirmed. In truth, few even knewhe existed. No word of this army and its leader had penetrated far-ther south than the border settlements of Varfleet and Tyrsis,fledgling outposts for the Race of Man, though it had spread eastand west to the Dwarves and Elves. But the Dwarves and Elveswere tied more closely to the Trolls. Man was the outcast race, themore recent enemy of the others. Memories of the First War of theRaces still lingered, three hundred and fifty years later. Man livedapart in his distant Southland cities, the rabbit sent scurrying toearth, timid and toothless and of no consequence in the greaterscheme of things, food for predators and little more.But not me, Kinson thought darkly. Never me. I am no rabbit. Ihave escaped that fate. I have become one of the hunters.Bremen stirred, shifting his weight to make himself more com-fortable. "I went deep into the mountains, searching," he con-tinued, lost again in his tale. "The farther I went, the moreconvinced I became. The Skull Bearers were everywhere. Therewere other beings as well, creatures summoned out of the spiritworld, dead things brought to life, evil given form. I kept clear ofthem all, watchful and cautious. I knew that if I was discoveredmy magic would probably not be enough to save me. The dark-ness of this region was overwhelming. It was oppressive andtainted with the smell and taste of death. I went into Skull Moun-tain finally�one brief visit, for that was all I could chance. Islipped into the passageways and found what I had been searchingfor."He paused, his brow wrinkling. "And more, Kinson. Muchmore, and none of it good.""But he was there?" Kinson pressed anxiously, his hunter'sface intense, his eyes glittering."He was there," affirmed the Druid quietly. "Shrouded by hismagic, kept alive by his use of the Druid Sleep. He does not use itwisely, Kinson. He thinks himself beyond the laws of nature. HeFirst King of Shannara 7does not see that for all, however strong, there is a price to be paidfor what is usurped and enslaved. Or perhaps he simply doesn'tcare. He has fallen under the sway of the ndatch and cannot freehimself in any case.""The book of magic he stole out of Paranor?""Pour hundred years ago. When he was simply Brona, a Druid,one of us, and not yet the Warlock Lord."Kinson Ravenlock knew the story. Bremen himself had told itto him, though the history was familiar enough among the Racesthat he had already... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]