The First King of Shannara

Risca went more swiftly. He needed the noise and the bustle to mask his movements. If everyone slept, he would seem out of place still moving about. He was closing on the Warlock Lord’s haven now — he could see its canopy lifting against the darkness ahead. The number of fires was thinning out as he approached, and the number of soldiers about them was dwindling. No one was allowed to come too close to the quarters of the Warlock Lord, and none wished to. Risca stopped at the edge of a fire where a dozen men lay sleeping. Trolls, huge, hard-featured fighters, their weapons lying next to them. He ignored them, studying the open ground ahead. A hundred feet separated the black tent on all sides from the sleeping army. There were no sentries to be seen. Risca hesitated. Why were there no guards? He glanced about carefully, searching for them. There were none to be found.

At that moment, he almost turned back. There was something wrong with this, he sensed. There should be guards. Did they wait within the tent? Were they somewhere he could not see? To find out, he would have to cross the open ground between the closest of the watch fires and the tent. There was enough light to reveal his coming, so he would have to use magic to cloak his approach. He would be all alone out there, and there would be nowhere to hide.

His mind raced. Would there be Skull Bearers? Were they all out hunting or did some remain behind to protect the Master? Did other creatures stand guard?

The questions burned through him, unanswerable.

He hesitated a moment longer, glancing about, listening, testing the air. Then he tightened his grip on the battleaxe and started forward. He brought the magic up to shield him, to help him blend into the night, to make him one with the darkness. Just a shading, so that even someone familiar with the magic would not be warned. Determination swept through him. He could do this. He must. He crossed the open ground, as silent as a cloud scudding across a windswept sky. No sounds reached out to him. No movement caught his eye. Even now, he could find no one protecting the tent.

Then he was beside it, the air about him gone deathly still, the sounds and smells and movements of the army faded away. He stood close to the black silk and waited for his instincts to warn him of a trap. When they did not, he brought the edge of the battleaxe, sharp as a razor, down the fabric’s dark skin and slit it open.

He heard something then — a sigh, perhaps, or a low moan. He stepped quickly through the opening.

Despite the blackness of the enclosure, his eyes were able to adjust immediately. There was nothing there — no people, no furniture, no weapons, no bedding, no sign of life. The tent was empty.

Risca stared in disbelief.

Then a hiss rose out of the silence, low and pervasive, and the air began to move in front of his face. The blackness coalesced, coming together to form a thing of substance where a moment earlier there had been nothing. A black-cloaked figure began to take shape. Risca realized what was happening and a terrible chill swept through him. The Warlock Lord had been there all along, there in the darkness, invisible, watching and waiting. Perhaps he had even known of Risca’s coming. He was not, as the Dwarf had believed, a creature of flesh and blood that could be killed with ordinary weapons. He had transcended his mortal shell through his magic and could now assume any form — or no form at all. No wonder there were no guards. None were needed.

The Warlock Lord reached out far him. For a second Risca found that he could not move and believed he would die without being able to lift a finger to save himself. Then the fire of his determination broke through his fear and galvanized him. He roared in defiance at the terrible black shape, at the skeletal hand that reached for him, at the eyes as red as blood, at his terror, at fate’s betrayal. His battleaxe came up in a huge sweep, the fire of his own magic sweeping its length. The Warlock Lord gestured, and Risca felt as if iron bands had fastened themselves about his body.

With a tremendous effort, he snapped them asunder and flung the battleaxe. The weapon smashed into the cloaked form and exploded in flames.

Risca did not wait to see the result of his strike. He knew instinctively that this was a battle he could not win. Strength of arms and fighting skills alone were not enough to defeat this enemy. The moment he released the axe, he dove back through the opening in the tent, scrambled to his feet, and broke for freedom.