The First King of Shannara

Then the spirits began to rise from the lake: small, white filaments of light given vaguely human form, bodies bathed in a firefly radiance that glimmered against the blackness of the clouded night. The spirits spiraled out of the mist and spray snakelike, lifting from the dark, dead air of their afterlife home to visit briefly the world they had once inhabited. Bremen kept his arms raised in a warding gesture, feeling vulnerable and bereft of power, though he had done the summoning, though he had brought the spirits to life. Cold ran down his brittle limbs in a rush, ice water through his veins. He held himself firm against the fear that raced through him, against the whispers that asked accusingly: Who calls us? Who dares?

Then something huge broke the water’s surface at its exact center, a black-cloaked figure that dwarfed the smaller glowing forms, scattering them with its coming, soaking up their fragile light and leaving them whirling and twisting like leaves in the wind. The cloaked figure rose to stand upon the dark, churning waves of the Hadeshorn, only vaguely substantial, a wraith without flesh or bones, yet of firmer stuff than the smaller creatures it dominated.

Bremen held himself steady as the dark figure advanced. This was whom he had come to see; this was the one he had summoned. Yet he was no longer certain he had done the right thing.

The cloaked form slowed, so close now that it blotted out the sky above and the valley behind. Its hood lifted, and there was no face, no sign of anything within the dark robes.

It spoke, and its voice was a rumble of discontent.

— Do you know me —

Flat, dispassionate, and empty, a question without a question’s inflection, the words hung upon the silence in a lingering echo.

Bremen nodded slowly in response. “I do,” he whispered.

At the rim of the valley, the four he had left behind watched the drama unfold. They saw the old man stand upon the shores of the Hadeshorn and summon the spirits of the dead. They saw the spirits rise amid the roiling of the waters, saw their glowing forms, the movement of their arms and legs, the twisting of their bodies in a macabre dance of momentary freedom. They watched as the huge, black-robed form lifted from their midst, enveloping them in its wake, absorbing their light. They watched the figure advance to stand before Bremen.

But they could hear nothing of what they saw. Within the valley, all was silent. The sounds of the lake and the spirits were closed away. The voices of the Druid and the cloaked figure, if they spoke, were inaudible. They could hear only the wind that rushed past their ears and the beginning patter of raindrops on the crushed stone. The expected storm was breaking, rolling out of the west in a mass of dark clouds, descending on them with sheets of rain. It reached them at the same moment the cloaked figure reached Bremen, and it swallowed everything in an instant’s time.

The lake, the spirits, the cloaked figure, Bremen, the whole of the valley — all were gone in the blink of an eye.

Risca growled in dismay and glanced quickly at the others.

They were cloaked now against the storm, hunched down within their coverings like crones bent with age. “Can you see?” he demanded anxiously.

“Nothing,” Tay Trefenwyd answered at once. “They’re gone.”

For a moment, no one moved, uncertain what they should do.

Kinson peered through the downpour’s haze, trying to distinguish something of the shapes he thought he could just make out. But everything was shadowy and surreal, and there was no chance of making sure from where they stood.

“He may be in trouble,” Risca snapped accusingly.

“He told us to wait,” Kinson forced himself to say, not wanting to be reminded of the old man’s instructions when he feared so for him, but not willing to ignore his promise either.

Rain blew into their faces in sudden gusts, choking them.

“He is all right!” Mareth cried out suddenly, her hand brushing the air before her face.

They stared at her. “You can see them?” Risca demanded.

She nodded, her face lowered into shadow. “Yes.”

But she could not. Kinson was closest to her and saw what the others missed. If she was seeing Bremen, it was not through her eyes. Her eyes, he realized in shock, had turned white.

Within the Valley of Shale, no rain fell, no wind blew, nothing of the storm penetrated. There was for Bremen no sense of anything beyond the lake and the dark figure that stood upon it before him.

— Speak my name —

Bremen took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling of his limbs and the rush of cold that filled his chest. “You are Galaphile that was.”

It was an expected part of the ritual. A spirit summoned could not remain unless its name was spoken by the summoner. Now it could stay long enough to give answers to the questions Bremen would ask — if it chose to answer at all.

The shade stirred, suddenly restless.

— What would you know of me —

Bremen did not hesitate. “I would know whatever you would tell me of the rebel Druid Brona, of he who has become the Warlock Lord.” His voice was shaking as badly as his hands. “I would know how to destroy him. I would know what is to come.” His voice died away in a dry rattle.

The Hadeshorn hissed and spit as if in response to his words, and the moans and cries of the dead rose out of the night in a strident cacophony. Bremen felt the cold stir anew in his chest, a snake coiling as it prepared to strike. He felt the whole of his years press down upon him. He felt the weakness of his body betray the strength of his determination.

— You would destroy him at any cost —

“Yes.”