The Heritage of Shannara by Terry Brooks Page A

Coll, but his brother was sagging in his arms, still stunned. “Coll, wake up!” he whispered urgently.
    “Come, boy,” the woodswoman repeated softly. She beckoned and moved closer. “Come feed me!”
    Then the fire exploded in a flash of light, and the clearing was turned as bright as day. The woodswoman shrank away from the brightness, and her sudden cry ended in a snarl of rage. Par blinked and peered through the glow.
    An old man emerged from the trees, white-haired and gray-robed, with skin as brown as seasoned wood. He stepped from the darkness into the light like a ghost come into being. There was a fierce smile on his mouth and a strange brightness in his eyes. Par wheeled about guardedly, fumbling for the long knife at his belt. Two of them, he thought desperately, and again he shook Coll in an effort to rouse him.
    But the old man paid him no notice. He concentrated instead on the woodswoman. “I know you,” he said softly. “You frighten no one. Begone from here or you shall deal with me!”
    The woodswoman hissed at him like a snake and crouched as if to spring. But she saw something in the old man's face that kept her from attacking. Slowly, she began to edge back around the fire.
    “Go back into the dark,” whispered the old man.
    The woodswoman hissed a final time, then turned and disappeared into the trees without a sound. Her smell lingered on a moment longer, thenfaded. The old man waved almost absently at the fire, and it returned to normal. The night filled again with comforting sounds, and everything was as before.
    The old man snorted and came forward into the firelight. “Bah. One of nighttime's little horrors come out to play,” he muttered in disgust. He looked at Par quizzically. “You all right, young Ohmsford? And this one? Coll, is it? That was a nasty blow he took.”
    Par eased Coll to the ground, nodding. “Yes, thanks. Could you hand me that cloth and a little water?”
    The old man did as he was asked, and Par wiped the side of Coll's head where an ugly bruise was already beginning to form. Coll winced, sat forward, and put his head down between his legs, waiting for the throbbing to ease off. Par looked up. It dawned on him suddenly that the old man had used Coll's name.
    “How do you know who we are?” he asked, his tone guarded.
    The old man kept his gaze steady. “Well, now. I know who you are because I've come looking for you. But I'm not your enemy, if that's what you're thinking.”
    Par shook his head. “Not really. Not after helping us the way you did. Thank you.”
    “No need for thanks.”
    Par nodded again. “That woman, or whatever she was—she seemed frightened of you.” He didn't make it a question, he made it a statement of fact.
    The old man shrugged. “Perhaps.”
    “Do you know her?”
    “I know of her.”
    Par hesitated, uncertain whether to press the matter or not. He decided to let it drop. “So. Why are you looking for us?”
    “Oh, that's rather a long story, I'm afraid,” the old man answered, sounding very much as if the effort required to tell it was entirely beyond him. “I don't suppose we might sit down while we talk about it? The fire's warmth provides some relief for these aging bones. And you wouldn't happen to have a touch of ale, would you? No? Pity. Well, I suppose there was no chance to procure such amenities, the way you were hustled out of Varfleet. Lucky to escape with your skins under the circumstances.”
    He ambled in close and lowered himself gingerly to the grass, folding his legs before him, draping his gray robes carefully about. “Thought I'd catch up with you there, you know. But then that disruption by the Federation occurred, and you were on your way south before I could stop you.”
    He reached for a cup and dipped it into the water bucket, drinking deeply. Coll was sitting up now, watching, the damp cloth still held to the side of his head. Par sat down next to him.
    The old man finished his water and wiped his