The First King of Shannara

He reached the center of the village and stopped. It did not appear as if there had been much of a battle; there were few spent weapons to be found. Many of the dead looked as if they had been caught sleeping. How many of Kinson’s family and friends lay among them? He shook his head sadly. The attack was two days old, he guessed. The Northland army had come out of the Eastland and moved west above the Rainbow Lake on its way to do battle with the Elves. It was Varfleet’s misfortune that it lay in the invaders’ path.

All of the Southland villages between here and the Streleheim would suffer a similar fate, he thought in despair. A great emptiness welled up inside him. The words that would describe what he was feeling seemed so inadequate.

He gathered his dark robes about him, hitched the sword higher on his back, and walked from the village, trying not to look at the carnage. He was almost clear when he sensed movement. Another man would have missed it completely, but he was a Druid. He did not see with his eyes, but with his mind.

Someone was alive in the debris, hiding.

He veered left, proceeding carefully, his magic already summoned in a protective web. He did not feel threatened, but he knew enough to be careful in any event. He worked his way through a series of ruined homes to a collapsed shed. There, just within a sagging entry, a figure crouched.

Bremen drew to a halt. It was a boy of no more than twelve, his clothing torn and soiled, his face and hands covered in ash and grime. He pressed back into the shadows as if wishing the earth itself might cover him up. There was a knife in one hand, held protectively before him. His hair was lank and dark, cut shoulderlength and hanging loose about his narrow face.

“Come out, boy,” the old man said softly. “It’s all right.”

The boy did not move an inch.

“There is no one here but you and me. Whoever did this is gone. Come out, now.”

The boy stayed where he was.

Bremen looked off into the distance, distracted by the sudden flash of a falling star. He took a deep breath. He could not afford to linger and could do nothing for the boy in any event. He was wasting his time.

“I’m leaving now,” he said wearily. “You should do the same. These people are all dead. Travel to one of the villages farther south and ask for help there. Good luck to you.”

He turned and walked away. So many would be left homeless and shattered before this was over. It was depressing to consider.

He shook his head. He walked for a hundred yards and then suddenly stopped. When he turned, there was the boy, his back against a wall, the knife in his hand, watching.

Bremen hesitated. “Are you hungry?”

He reached into his pack and pulled out the last of his bread The boy’s head craned forward, and his face came into the light His eyes glittered when he saw the bread.

His eyes...

Bremen felt his throat tighten sharply. He knew this boy! It was the boy he had seen in Galaphile’s fourth vision! The eyes betrayed him, eyes so intense, so penetrating that they seemed strip away the skin. Just a boy, an orphan of this carnage, yet the was something so profound, so riveting about him...

“What is your name?” Bremen asked the boy softly.

The boy did not answer. He did not move. Bremen hesitate then started toward him. Instantly the boy drew back into the shadows. The old man stopped, set down the bread, turned, and walked away.

Fifty yards farther on, he stopped again. The boy was following, watching him closely, gnawing on the confiscated bread as he advanced.

Bremen asked him a dozen questions, but the boy would not talk to him. When Bremen tried to approach, the boy quickly backed away. When the Druid tried to persuade the boy to comi closer, he was ignored.

Finally the old man turned and walked on. He did not know what to do about the boy. He did not want the boy to come with him, but Galaphile’s vision suggested there was a link of somesort between the two. Perhaps if he was patient he would discover what it was. As the sun rose, he turned north again and recrossed the Mermidon. Following the line of the Dragon’s Teeth, he walked on until sunset. When he made camp, there was the boy, sitting just beyond the clearing in which he had chosen to settle, back in the shadow of the trees, watching. Bremen had no food, but he put out a cup of ale. He slept until midnight, then woke to continue his journey. The boy was waiting. When he began walking, the boy followed.

So it continued for three days. At the end of the third day, the boy came into the camp to sit with him and share a meal of root and berries. When he woke the next morning, the boy was sleeping next to him. Together, they rose and walked west. That night as they reached the edge of the Plains of Streleheim and prepared to cross, the boy spoke his first words.

His name, he told the old man, was Allanon.





The Battle For The Rhenn





Chapter Twenty-Seven