The Scions of Shannara by Terry Brooks Page B

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.
    â€œHow 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.”
    â€œNo 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.”
    â€œDo you know her?”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œOh, 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 ageing 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 mouth on his sleeve. “Allanon sent me,” he declared perfunctorily.
    There was along silence as the Ohmsford brothers stared first at him, then at each other, then back again at him.
    â€œAllanon?” Par repeated.
    â€œAllanon has been dead for three hundred years,” Coll interjected bluntly.
    The old man nodded. “Indeed. I misspoke: It was actually Allanon’s ghost, his shade—but Allanon, still, for all intents and purposes.”
    â€œAllanon’s shade?” Coll took the cloth from the side of his head, his injury forgotten. He did not bother to hide his disbelief.
    The old man rubbed his bearded chin. “Now, now, you will have to be patient for a moment or two until I’ve had a chance to explain. Much of what I am going to tell you will be hard for you to accept, but you must try. Believe me when I tell you that it is very important.”
    He rubbed his hands briskly in the direction of the fire. “Think of me as a messenger for the moment, will you? Think of me as a messenger sent by Allanon, for that’s all I am to you just now. You, Par. Why have you been ignoring the dreams?”
    Par stiffened. “You know about that?”
    â€œThe dreams were sent by Allanon to bring you to him. Don’t you understand? That was his voice speaking to you, his shade come to