The First King of Shannara

The Hadeshorn glimmered with starlight, placid and undisturbed.

No sound came from the valley. Nothing stirred on its broken surface.

“I will be leaving you this night,” the old man said finally.

The boy nodded, but said nothing.

“I will be here when you have need of me again.” He paused. “That will not happen for a while, I expect. But when it does, this is where you will come.”

The boy looked at him uncertainly.

Bremen sighed, noting the confusion in his eyes. “I must tell you something now that I have never told to anyone, not even Jerle Shannara himself. Sit with me and listen.”

They seated themselves on the carpet of broken rock, solitar figures silhouetted against the backdrop of the stars. The old man was silent for a moment as he worked to arrange the words he needed to speak, the lines of his face deepening.

“Jerle Shannara failed in his attempt to destroy the Warlock Lord,” he said finally. “When he faltered in his use of the Sword, when he allowed himself to be distracted by self-doubt and recrimination, he let Brona escape. I knew of this failure because, although too weakened by my own use of the Druid magic to go on, I followed the king in my mind’s eye and thereby witnessed the confrontation. I watched him hesitate at the last moment, then attempt to use the talisman as an ordinary weapon, forgetting my repeated warnings to rely on the magic alone. I saw the dark shadows rise out of the mist as the Warlock Lord’s robes collapsed beneath the Sword’s final blow, and I knew what that meant. The Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers had been driven from their substantive forms by the magic, had been compelled to become dark spirits once more, and had fled back into the ether — but they had not been destroyed.”

He shook his head. “There is no reason to tell any of this to the king. Telling him would accomplish nothing. Jerle Shannara was a brave and resourceful champion. He overcame his own misgivings and fear to employ the Druid magic against the most formidable enemy in the history of the Pour Lands. He did so under the most adverse of conditions and crudest of circumstances, and in all ways but one he succeeded in accomplishing what we expected of him. It is enough that he defeated the Warlock Lord and drove him from the Four Lands. It is enough that the magic of the Sword of Shannara has diminished the rebel Druid’s power so utterly that it will be centuries before he can regain form. There if sufficient time in the scheme of things to prepare for when that happens. Jerle Shannara did the best he could, and I think you should leave it at that.”

His aging eyes fixed on Allanon. “But you must know of his failure, because you are the one who must guard against its consequences. Brona lives and will one day return. I will not be there to face him. You must do so in my place — or if not you, another like you, one you will choose as I have chosen you.”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other in the soft, enveloping darkness.

Bremen shook his head helplessly. “If there were another way to do this, I would choose that way.” He felt uncomfortable speaking of it, as if by doing so he was looking for an excuse to change his mind when he knew he could not. “I wish I could stay longer with you, Allanon. But I am old, and I can feel myself weakening almost daily. I have kept myself whole for as long as I can. The Druid Sleep is no longer enough. I must take another form if I am to be of service to you in the battle you face. Do you understand what I am saying?”

The boy looked at him, his dark eyes intense. “I understand.”

He paused, the light changing in his eyes. “I will miss you, Father.”

The old man nodded. The boy called him that now. Father. The boy had adopted him, and it felt right that he had done so. “I will miss you, too,” he replied softly.

They talked more of what it was that would happen then, of the past and the future and the inextricable link that bound the one to the other. They shared the memories they had forged in their time together, repeated the vows they had made, and recounted the lessons that would matter in the years ahead.

Then, as the night lengthened and dawn approached, they walked together into the Valley of Shale. A mist had formed as the air cooled, and now it hung like a shroud above the valley, cloaking it in shimmering darkness, screening away the stars and their silver light. Their boots crunched on the loose rock, and their hearts beat with rough anticipation. They felt the heat rise off their bodies as they worked their way downward along the valley slopes, then across the floor toward the lake. The Hadeshorn gleamed like black ice, smooth and still. Not even the faintest ripple scratched its mirrored surface.

When they were a dozen feet from the lake’s dark edge, Bremen withdrew the Black Elfstone from his robes and passed it to the boy.