The Sword of Shannara, Part 1: In the Shadow of the Warlock Lord by Terry Brooks Page B
Authors: Terry Brooks
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cleaning chores. The storm had smashed shutters and torn the wooden shingles from the roof, scattering them all about the surrounding premises. Large leaks had developed in the roof and walls of the inn wings, and the small tool shed in the rear of the Ohmsford property had been all but flattened by a falling elm, uprooted by the force of the storm. The young men spent several days patching up leaks, repairing the roof, and replacing lost or broken shingles and shutters. It was tedious work, and time dragged by slowly.
After ten days, the rains ceased altogether, the huge clouds rolled on, and the dark sky cleared and brightened into a friendly light blue streaked with trailing white clouds. The expected floods did not come, and as the Valemen returned to their fields, the warm sun reappeared and the land of the valley began to dry from soggy mud to solid earth, spattered here and there by small puddles of murky water that sat defiantly upon an always thirsty land. Eventually even the puddles disappeared and the valley was as it had been—the fury of the passing storm only a dim memory.
Shea and Flick, in the process of rebuilding the smashed tool shed, their other repair work on the inn complete, heard snatches of conversation from Valemen and inn guests about the heavy rain. No one could ever remember a storm of such ferocity at that particular time of the year in the Vale. It was equivalent to a winter windstorm, the kind that caught unsuspecting travelers in the great mountains to the north and swept them from the passes and the cliff trails, never to be seen again. Its sudden appearance caused everyone in the hamlet to pause and reflect once again on the continuing rumors of strange happenings far to the North.
The brothers paid close attention to such talks, but they learned nothing of interest. Often they spoke quietly together about Allanon and the strange tale he had told them of Shea’s heritage. A pragmatic Flick had long since dismissed the whole business aseither foolishness or a bad joke. Shea listened tolerantly, though he was less willing than his brother to shrug the matter off. Yet while he was unwilling to dismiss the tale, he was at the same time unable to accept it. He felt there was too much still hidden from him, too much about Allanon that neither Flick nor he knew. Until he had all the facts, he was content to let the matter lie. He kept the pouch containing the Elfstones close to him at all times. While Flick mumbled on, usually several times a day, about his foolishness in carrying the stones and believing that anything Allanon had told them was true, Shea carefully watched all strangers passing through the Vale, eagerly perusing their belongings for any sign of a Skull marking. But as time passed, he observed nothing and eventually felt obliged to scratch the whole matter off as an experience in the fine art of gullibility.
Nothing occurred to change Shea’s mind on the matter until one afternoon more than three weeks after Allanon’s abrupt departure. The brothers had been out all day cutting shingles for the inn roof, and it was almost evening by the time they returned. Their father was sitting in his favorite seat at the long kitchen counter when they entered, his broad face bent over a steaming plate of food. He greeted his sons with a wave of his hand.
“A letter came for you while you were gone, Shea,” he informed them, holding out a long, white folded sheet of paper. “It’s marked Leah.”
Shea let out an exclamation of surprise and reached eagerly for the letter. Flick groaned audibly.
“I knew it, I knew it; it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “The biggest wastrel in the entire Southland has decided it’s time we suffered some more. Tear up the letter, Shea.”
But Shea had already opened the sealed sheet of paper and was scanning its contents, totally disregarding Flick’s comments. The latter shrugged in disgust and collapsed on a stool next to his father,
After ten days, the rains ceased altogether, the huge clouds rolled on, and the dark sky cleared and brightened into a friendly light blue streaked with trailing white clouds. The expected floods did not come, and as the Valemen returned to their fields, the warm sun reappeared and the land of the valley began to dry from soggy mud to solid earth, spattered here and there by small puddles of murky water that sat defiantly upon an always thirsty land. Eventually even the puddles disappeared and the valley was as it had been—the fury of the passing storm only a dim memory.
Shea and Flick, in the process of rebuilding the smashed tool shed, their other repair work on the inn complete, heard snatches of conversation from Valemen and inn guests about the heavy rain. No one could ever remember a storm of such ferocity at that particular time of the year in the Vale. It was equivalent to a winter windstorm, the kind that caught unsuspecting travelers in the great mountains to the north and swept them from the passes and the cliff trails, never to be seen again. Its sudden appearance caused everyone in the hamlet to pause and reflect once again on the continuing rumors of strange happenings far to the North.
The brothers paid close attention to such talks, but they learned nothing of interest. Often they spoke quietly together about Allanon and the strange tale he had told them of Shea’s heritage. A pragmatic Flick had long since dismissed the whole business aseither foolishness or a bad joke. Shea listened tolerantly, though he was less willing than his brother to shrug the matter off. Yet while he was unwilling to dismiss the tale, he was at the same time unable to accept it. He felt there was too much still hidden from him, too much about Allanon that neither Flick nor he knew. Until he had all the facts, he was content to let the matter lie. He kept the pouch containing the Elfstones close to him at all times. While Flick mumbled on, usually several times a day, about his foolishness in carrying the stones and believing that anything Allanon had told them was true, Shea carefully watched all strangers passing through the Vale, eagerly perusing their belongings for any sign of a Skull marking. But as time passed, he observed nothing and eventually felt obliged to scratch the whole matter off as an experience in the fine art of gullibility.
Nothing occurred to change Shea’s mind on the matter until one afternoon more than three weeks after Allanon’s abrupt departure. The brothers had been out all day cutting shingles for the inn roof, and it was almost evening by the time they returned. Their father was sitting in his favorite seat at the long kitchen counter when they entered, his broad face bent over a steaming plate of food. He greeted his sons with a wave of his hand.
“A letter came for you while you were gone, Shea,” he informed them, holding out a long, white folded sheet of paper. “It’s marked Leah.”
Shea let out an exclamation of surprise and reached eagerly for the letter. Flick groaned audibly.
“I knew it, I knew it; it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “The biggest wastrel in the entire Southland has decided it’s time we suffered some more. Tear up the letter, Shea.”
But Shea had already opened the sealed sheet of paper and was scanning its contents, totally disregarding Flick’s comments. The latter shrugged in disgust and collapsed on a stool next to his father,
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