The First King of Shannara

Cogline had given Bremen the formula for the mixing of the metal alloy to be used in the forging of the sword that would be carried in battle against the Warlock Lord. Cogline had remained recalcitrant and skeptical to the moment of their parting, bidding farewell with the firm assurance that he expected never to see any of them again. They had accepted his dismissal with weary resignation, departing Hearthstone for Storlock, retracing their steps through Darklin Reach. That portion of their trek alone had taken them almost a week. Upon their arrival back in Storlock, they had secured horses and ridden out onto the plains. The Northland army had passed south by then, engaged in its hunt for the Dwarves in the Wolfsktaag. Nevertheless, Bremen was wary of those forces still deployed outside the Anar and took his companions all the way to the Mountains ofRunne and then south along the shores of the Rainbow Lake. That far west of the Anar, he believed, they had less chance of encountering those who served the Warlock Lord. They passed down across the Silver River and skirted the Mist Marsh before passing onto the Battlemound. Travel was slow and cautious, for this was dangerous country even without the added presence of the creatures that served Brona, and there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. There were things born of old magic living in the Battlemound, things akin to those that resided in the Wolfsktaag, and while Bremen knew of them and of the ways in which they could be combated, the better choice was to avoid them altogether.

So the trio rode south along a line that angled between the barren stretches of the Battlemound, with its Sirens and wights, and the dark depths of the Black Oaks with its wolf packs. They traveled by day and kept close watch over one another by night.

They sensed, rather than saw, the things they wished to avoid, things both native and foreign, things of land, water, and air alike, aware of the eyes that followed after them, feeling more than once a presence pass close by. But nothing challenged them outright or made any attempt to track them, and so they eased past the dangers of the Borderlands and moved steadily on.

So that now, at the close of the thirteenth day of this most recent leg of their odyssey, they stood looking down at the red welter of Dechtera’s industrial nightmare.

“I hate this city already,” Kinson offered glumly, brushing the dust from his clothes. The land about them was barren and dry, empty of trees and shade, thick with long grass and loose silt. If it rained in this part of the world, it did not do so regularly.

“I would not want to live in such a place,” Mareth agreed. “I cannot imagine those who do.”

Bremen said nothing. He stood looking down at Dechtera, his gaze more distant than the city itself. Then he closed his eyes and went still. Kinson and Mareth glanced at each other, waiting him out, letting him be. Below, the mouths of the furnaces glowed in white-hot spots amid the gathering dark. The red wash of the sunset had died away, the sun gone down below the horizon far enough that its light was just a dim streak barely visible through the clouds west. A silence had settled across the plains, and in its hush could be heard the hammering of metal on metal.

“We are here,” Bremen said suddenly, his eyes open once more, “because Dechtera is home to the finest smiths in the Four Lands outside the Troll nation. The Southlanders have no use for the Druids, but they are more likely to provide us with what we require than the Trolls. All we need do is find the right man. Kinson, that will be your task. You will be able to pass through the city freely and without attracting attention.”

“Fair enough,” Kinson agreed, anxious to get on with matters. “Who is it I seek?”

“That will be up to you to decide.”

“Up to me?” Kinson was astounded. “We came all this way to find a man we don’t even know?”

Bremen smiled indulgently. “Patience, Kinson. And have faith. We did not come here blindly or without reason. The man we seek is here, known to us or not. As I said, the best smiths in the Four Lands reside in Dechtera. But we must choose among them and choose wisely. It will take some investigating. Your Tracker skills should serve you well.”

“What exactly am I looking for in this man?” Kinson pressed; he was irritated by his own uncertainty.

“What you would look for in any other man — plus skill, knowledge, and pride of workmanship in his trade. A master smith.”

Bremen put one frail hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Did you really have to ask me that?”

Kinson grimaced. Standing to one side, Mareth smiled faintly.

“What do I do when I’ve found this master smith?”

“Return here for me. Then we will go down together to persuade him to our cause.”

Kinson looked back at the city, at its maze of dark buildings and scattered fires, at the mix of black shadows and crimson glare. The workday had become the work night, and there was no dimming of the furnaces or slowing of the labor. The swelter of heat and body sweat hung above the city in a damp shimmer.

“A smith who understands the concept of mixing ores to make stronger alloys and of tempering metals to gain that strength.”

Kinson shook his head. “Not to mention a smith who thinks it is all right to help the Druids forge a weapon of magic.”

Bremen tightened his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do not be overly concerned with our smith’s beliefs. Look for the other qualities instead. Find the master we seek — leave the rest to me.”

Kinson nodded. He looked at Mareth, at the huge, dark eyes staring back into his. “What of you?”

“Mareth and I will wait here for your return. You will do better alone. You will be able to move more freely if not burdened by the presence of companions.” Bremen took his hand from the Borderman’s shoulder. “But be careful, Kinson. These are your countrymen, but they are not necessarily your friends.”

Kinson stripped off his pack, checked his weapons, and wrapped his cloak carefully about his shoulders. “I know that.”

He clasped the old man’s hand and held it. Bird bones, more fragile than he remembered. He released his grip quickly.

Then, so impulsively he could not later decipher his reasoning, he bent to Mareth, kissed her lightly on the cheek, turned, and set off down the slope of the night-draped hill for the city.