The First King of Shannara

“Plague!” the ravaged creature howled, the word rising up in the silence, harsh and terrible. A swarm of insects rose off the creature’s back, buzzing madly. “Plague, plague everywhere! Flee! Flee!”


The creature swayed and dropped to its knees. Bits of flesh fell from it, and blood dripped from its open wounds onto me wooden steps, steaming in the cool night air. Kinson winced in horror. The disease was causing it quite literally to fall apart!

It was all too much for the Trolls. Soldiers to the core, they were brave in the face of enemies they could see, but as terrified of the invisible as the meekest shopkeeper. They fell back in disarray, trying not to show fear, but determined not to stay another moment in close proximity to the disaster that had collapsed on the steps before them. Their leader waved off the Stors and their village in a gesture of anxious defiance, and the entire patrol hurried back down the roadway in the direction of the Rabb and disappeared into the trees.

When they were gone, Kinson stepped into the light, sword lowering as the pulse of his body slowed and the heat of his blood cooled. He looked back at the Stors across the way, finding them clustered about the strange apparition, heedless of the disease that ravaged it. Forcing himself to ignore his own fear, he crossed to see if he could be of help.

On reaching them, he found Mareth standing in their midst.

“I broke my promise,” she said, her large dark eyes anxious, her smooth face troubled. “I’m sorry, but I could not stand by and see them harmed.”

“You used your magic,” he guessed, amazed.

“Just a little. Just that part that goes into the healing, the part I use as an empath. I can reverse it to make what is well appear sick.”

“Appear?”

“Well, mostly.” She hesitated. He could see the weariness now, the dark circles about her eyes, the lines of fading pain etched at the comers of her mouth. Sweat beaded her forehead. Her fingers were crooked and rigid. “You understand, Kinson. It was necessary.”

“And dangerous,” he added.

Her eyelids fluttered. She was on the verge of a real collapse. “I am all right now. I just need to sleep. Can you help me walk?”

He shook his head in dismay, picked her up without a word, and carried her back to her room.

The following day, the Northland army decamped and moved south. One day later, Bremen appeared. Mareth had recovered from the effects of her magic and looked strong and well again, but Bremen appeared to have taken her place. He was haggard and worn, dust-covered and spattered with mud, and clearly angered.

He ate, bathed, dressed in fresh clothing, and then told them what had kept him. After making certain that the magic that warded the Druid’s Keep was returned to its safehold and that the Keep was intact, he had gone once more to the Hadeshorn to speak with the spirits of the dead. He was hoping that he might learn more of the visions he had been shown on his last visit, that something further might be revealed to him. But the spirits would not speak, would not even appear, and the waters of the lake rose up in such fury at his summons that they threatened to inundate him, to drag him down into their depths for the audacity of his intrusion. His voice took on an edge as he described his treatment. He had been given all the help he was going to get, it appeared. Their fate, from here forward, was largely in their own hands.

On being asked of Cogline, he demurred. Time enough for that later. For now, they would have to be patient and let an old man catch up on his sleep.

Kinson and Mareth knew better than to argue. A few days of rest were clearly necessary to restore the old man’s strength.

But before the sun had risen the following day, the Druid collected them from their beds and in the deep, predawn silence took them out of the still sleeping village of the Stors toward Darklin Reach.





Chapter Fourteen


With Preia Starle and Retten Kipp still absent and the ‘Sarandanon drawing near, Tay Trefenwyd now assumed the point position for the little company from Arborion. Jerle Shannara objected, but not strongly, conceding Tay’s argument that with his Druid skills he was best suited to keep watch against whatever threatened. Tay spun out a faint webbing of magic, strands that extended like nerve endings to warn him of what waited ahead. Using his Druid training, he drew upon his command of the elements to test for the presence of intruders.

Nothing revealed itself.

Behind him, the others fanned out, keeping watch left and right.