The Sword of Shannara, Part 1: In the Shadow of the Warlock Lord by Terry Brooks

with Shea in the tall, hard-backed chairs before the fire in the big lounge room of the inn, he tried to assure his brother that everything was working out for the best. He had never completely believed the historian’s wild tale of the Northland wars and the Sword of Shannara, he argued, and even if some of it were true, certainly the part about Shea’s lineage and the threat from Brona was completely exaggerated—a ridiculous fairy tale.
    Shea listened in silence to Flick’s muddled rationalization of the possibilities, offering only an occasional nod of acquiescence, his own thoughts concentrated on deciding what he should do next. He had serious doubts about the credibility of Allanon’s tale. After all, what purpose did the historian have in coming to him in the first place? He had appeared conveniently, it seemed, to tell Shea about his strange background, and to warn him that he was in danger, then had disappeared without a word about his own interest in this business. How could Shea be sure that Allanon had not come on some hidden purpose of his own, hoping to use the Valeman as his cat’s-paw? There were too many questions that he didn’t have the answers to.
    Eventually, Flick grew tired of offering advice to the silent Shea and finally ceased to speak of the matter, slumping down in his chair and gazing resignedly into the crackling fire. Shea continued to ponder the details of Allanon’s story, trying to decide what he should do now. But after an hour of quiet deliberation, he threw up his hands in disgust, feeling as confused as before. Stalking out of the lounge, he headed for his own room, the faithful Flick close behind. Neither felt inclined to discuss it further. Upon reaching their small bedroom in the east wing, Shea dropped into a chair in moody silence. Flick collapsed heavily on the bed and stared disinterestedly at the ceiling.
    The twin candles on the small bedside table cast a dim glow over the large room, and Flick soon found himself on the verge ofdrifting off to sleep. He hastily jerked awake and, stretching his hands above his head, encountered a long piece of folded paper which had partially slipped down between the mattress and headboard. Curiously, he brought it around in front of his eyes and saw that it was addressed to Shea.
    “What’s this?” he muttered and tossed it across to his prostrate brother.
    Shea ripped open the sealed paper and hurriedly scanned it. He had scarcely begun before he let out a low whistle and leaped to his feet. Flick sat up quickly, realizing who must have left the note.
    “It’s from Allanon,” Shea confirmed his brother’s suspicion. “Listen to this, Flick:
    “‘I have no time to find you and explain matters further. Something of the greatest importance has occurred, and I must leave immediately—perhaps even now I am too late. You must trust me and believe what I told you, even though I will not he able to return to the valley
.
    You will not long be safe in Shady Vale, and you must be prepared to flee quickly. Should your safety be threatened, you will find shelter at Culhaven in the forests of the Anar. I will send a friend to guide you. Place your trust in Balinor
.
    Speak with no one of our meeting. The danger to you is extreme. In the pocket of your maroon travel cloak, I have placed a small pouch which contains three Elfstones. They will provide you with guidance and protection when nothing else can. Be cautioned—they are for Shea alone and to be used only when all else fails
.
    The sign of the Skull will be your warning to flee. May luck be with you, my young friend, until we meet again.”’
    Shea looked excitedly at his brother, but the suspicious Flick shook his head in disbelief and frowned deeply.
    “I don’t trust him. Whatever is he talking about anyway—Skulls and Elfstones? I never even heard of a place called Culhaven, and the Anar Forests are miles from here—days and days. I don’t like it.”
    “The stones!”