The First King of Shannara

“It seems we no sooner meet up again and it’s off our separate ways,” Risca grumbled. “I don’t know how we manage to stay friends. I don’t know why we bother.”


“We have no choice,” Tay Trefenwyd offered from one side.

“No one else would have anything to do with us.”

“True enough.” The Dwarf smiled in spite of himself. “Well, this should test the friendship, sure enough. Scattered Eastland to Westland and then some, and who knows when we’ll meet again?” He gave Bremen’s hand a hard squeeze. “You watch out for yourself.”

“And you, my good friend,” the old man replied.

“Tay Trefenwyd!” the Dwarf shouted over his shoulder. He was already striding down the trail. “Don’t forget your promise! Pack up the Elves and bring them east! Stand with us against the Warlock Lord! We’ll be counting on you!”

“Goodbye for now, Risca!” Tay called after him.

The Dwarf waved, hitching up his pack on his broad shoulders, his broadsword swinging at his side. “Luck to you. Elf ears. Keep alert! Watch your backside!”

They bantered back and forth good-naturedly, the Elf and the Dwarf, old friends comfortable with each other’s joshing, accustomed to exchanges that teased and chided and masked emotions that lay just beneath the surface of the words. Kinson Ravenlock stood to one side listening to the verbal byplay and wished there were time to know them better. But that would have to wait. Risca had departed, and Tay would leave them at the mouth of the Kermon, when they turned north toward Paranor and the Elf continued west to Arborlon. The Borderman shook his head. How hard this must be for Bremen. It had been two years since he had seen Risca and Tay. Would it be two more before he saw them again?

When Risca had disappeared from view, Bremen led the three remaining members of the little company down a secondary trail to the base of the cliffs and then west along the north bank of the Mermidon, retracing the steps that had brought them there. They walked until well after sunset, camping finally in the lee of a copse of alder on a cove where the Mermidon branched south and west.

The skies had cleared and were brilliant with stars, the light reflecting in a kaleidoscopic sparkle off the placid surface of the water. The company gathered on the riverbank and ate their dinner staring out into the night. No one said much. Tay cautioned Bremen to be wary at Paranor. If the vision he had been shown had come to pass and the castle of the Druids had fallen, there was reason to believe that the Warlock Lord and his minions might yet be in residence. Or if not, the Elf added, he might have left traps to ensnare any Druids who had escaped and were foolish enough to return. He said it lightly, and Bremen responded with a smile.

Kinson noted that neither bothered to dispute the likelihood of Paranor’s destruction. It must have been a bitter realization for both, but neither showed anything of what they were feeling. They made it a point not to dwell on the past. It was the future that mattered now.

To that end, Bremen talked at some length with Tay about his vision of the Black Elfstone, going over the particulars of what he had been shown, what he had sensed, and what he had deduced.

Kinson listened idly, glancing now and again at Mareth, who was doing the same. He wondered what she was thinking, knowing as she did now that the Druids of Paranor were probably gone. He wondered if she realized how dramatically her role as a member of this company had changed. She had said barely a word since coming out of the Valley of Shale, keeping apart during the exchanges between Bremen, Risca, and Tay, watching and listening. Not unlike himself, Kinson thought. For she, too, was an outsider, still looking to find her place, not a Druid like the others, not yet proven, not entirely accepted as an equal. He studied her, trying to gage her toughness, her resilience. She would need both for what lay ahead.

Later, when she was sleeping, Tay sprawled close to her and Bremen at watch, Kinson rolled out of his cloak and walked over to sit with the old man. Bremen said nothing as he came up, looking out into the darkness. Kinson seated himself, crossed his long legs before him, and wrapped his cloak comfortably about his shoulders. The night was warm, more in keeping with the season than of late, and the air was filled with the smell of spring flowers and new leaves and grasses. A breeze blew down out of the mountains, rustling the limbs of the trees, rippling the waters of the river. The two men sat in silence for a time, listening to the night sounds, lost in their separate thoughts.

“You are taking a great risk in returning,” Kinson said finally.

“A necessary risk,” Bremen amended.

“You feel certain Paranor has fallen, don’t you?”

Bremen did not respond for a moment, as still as stone, then nodded slowly.

“It will be very dangerous for you if that is so,” Kinson pressed.