The First King of Shannara

They hunted, trapped, traded, and farmed in the country in which they had been born. But he only drifted, always with one eye on that distant sky, always with a promise to himself that one day he would see all of what lay beneath it.

He was still looking, even now, with more than thirty years of his life behind him. He was still searching for what he hadn’t seen and didn’t know. He thought that would never change. He thought that if one day it did, he would become a different man than he had ever imagined being.

Midnight arrived, and with it Mareth. She appeared unexpectedly from out of the shadows, wrapped in Kinson’s cloak, so lightfooted that anyone else might have missed her approach entirely.

Kinson turned to greet her, surprised because he was expecting Bremen.

“I asked Bremen to give me his turn at watch,” she explained when she reached him. “I did not want to be treated differently.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

She took off the cloak and handed it to him. She seemed small and frail without it. “I thought you should have this back for when you sleep. It’s gotten cold. The fire has died away to nothing, and it might be best to leave it that way.”

He accepted the cloak. “Thank you.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“No.”

“The Skull Bearers will track us, won’t they?”

How much did she know? he wondered. How much, of what they faced? “Perhaps. Did you sleep at all?”

She shook her head. “I could not stop thinking.” Her huge eyes stared off into the dark. “I have been waiting for this for a long time.”

‘To come with us on this journey?”

“No.” She looked at him, surprised. “To meet Bremen. To learn from him, if he will teach me.” She turned away quickly, as if she had said too much. “You had better sleep while you can. I will keep watch until morning. Good night.”

He hesitated, but there was nothing left to say. He rose and walked back to where the others were rolled into their cloaks about the ashes of the fire. He lay down with them and closed his eyes, trying hard to make something of Mareth, then trying not to think of her at all.

But he did, and it was a long time before he slept.



They rose before sunrise and walked east through the day until sunset. They passed along the base of the Dragon’s Teeth above the Mermidon, keeping back within the shadow of the mountains. Bremen warned them that they were at risk even there. The Skull Bearers felt sure enough of themselves to come down out of the Northland. The Warlock Lord marched his armies east toward the Jannisson Pass, which meant they probably intended to descend upon the Eastland. If they were bold enough to invade the country of the Dwarves, they certainly would not hesitate to venture into the Borderlands.

So they kept close watch of the skies and the darker valleys and rifts of the mountains where the shadows left the rock cloaked in perpetual night, and they did not take anything for granted as they journeyed on. But the winged hunters did not show themselves this day, and aside from a few travelers glimpsed at a distance in the forests and plains south, they saw no one. They stopped to rest and to eat, but did not pause otherwise, keeping a steady pace through the daylight hours.

By sunset they had reached the foothills leading up into the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshorn. They camped in a draw that faced back toward the plains south and the winding blue ribbon of the Mermidon where it branched east into the Rabb, the river gradually diminishing until it died away into streams and ponds on the barren flats. They cooked vegetables and a rabbit that Tay had killed, and ate their dinner while it was still light, the sun bleeding red and gold into the western horizon. Bremen told them they would go up into the mountains after midnight and wait for the slow hours before sunrise when the spirits of the dead could be summoned.

They kicked out the fire as night descended and rolled into their cloaks to get what sleep they could.

“Do not worry so, Kinson,” Bremen whispered to the Borderman once in passing on seeing his face.

But the advice was wasted. Kinson Ravenlock had been to the Hadeshorn before and knew what to expect.

Sometime after midnight, Bremen took them up into the foothills fronting the Dragon’s Teeth where the Valley of Shale was nestled. They climbed through the rocks on a night so black that they could barely make out the person immediately ahead. Clouds had moved in after sunset, thick and low and threatening, and all signs of moon and stars had disappeared hours ago. Bremen led the way cautiously, concerned for their wellbeing even though the terrain they passed through was as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He did not speak to the others as they proceeded, keeping his attention focused on the task at hand and the one that lay ahead, intent on avoiding any missteps either now or later. For a meeting with the dead required foresight and caution, a screwing up of courage and a hardening of determination that would permit neither hesitation nor doubt.