The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

He paused. “I was told that others did not. Some attempted to cross anyway. There were rumors of a great treasure. A few used the stone arch. A few went down into the ravine with the intention of climbing out the other side. None were ever seen again.”


“Then how are we to cross?” Khyber sounded suspicious and didn’t bother keeping it from her voice. “Why are we any different than these others who couldn’t?”

Kermadec shrugged. “I don’t know that we are. I only know that we have to find out.” He nodded toward Pen. “It is what is needed if we are to save the Ard Rhys.”

He rose and walked back toward his sleeping Trolls. As he passed Atalan, he reached down and touched his shoulder. His brother glanced up and said something. Kermadec kept walking. A moment later, Atalan rose and followed him.

Khyber glanced at Pen and Tagwen, her brow furrowed. “I don’t remember the Elfstones showing us anything about a bridge. I don’t remember being warned about not being able to cross one.”

“They don’t always show you everything, do they?” Pen asked.

“I just think it odd that we’re hearing about this for the first time now.” She looked angry. “Did the King of the Silver River say anything to you about this?”

Pen shook his head. “Nothing.” He wasn’t any happier than she was about the bridge and its warning. “He told me to find the tanequil and ask it for a limb from which to fashion the darkwand, then to take the darkwand back to Paranor and use it to cross over into the Forbidding.” His lips compressed. “Nothing about a bridge that no one is supposed to cross.”

“What are the Trolls doing?” Cinnaminson asked suddenly, her blind eyes directed toward the encampment.

The other three turned to look. The Trolls were gathered in a circle, all of them, including Kermadec and Atalan. They were down on one knee, their blocky heads lowered, their palms flat against the ground, murmuring what seemed to be a chant. Now and then, one of them lifted a hand momentarily to touch fingertips to his forehead or lips.

“They are speaking to the valley,” Tagwen said, pulling absently at his beard. “They are asking that it protect them against the dark spirits that live within it. It is an old custom among the Trolls, to seek the protection of the land they pass through and might have to fight upon.”

Then, one by one, starting with Kermadec, the Trolls rose and walked around the circle, touching each Troll atop his head before returning to his place and kneeling to be touched in turn.

“Now they are pledging their lives in support of each other, promising that they will stand together as brothers should the spirits bless them with their protection and guidance.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe in this nonsense myself, but it seems to make them feel better.”

The ritual continued for several minutes more. Then the Trolls rose and moved off, the sentries to their posts, the rest to their beds. Only Kermadec and Atalan remained where they were, talking quietly.

“Guess they’ve made their peace.” Tagwen stretched and yawned. “I’m going to bed. Good night to all of you.”

He moved off, and seconds later Khyber went, too. Pen sat alone with Cinnaminson in the darkness, their shoulders touching as they listened to the forest sounds.

“This valley is filled with spirits,” the Rover girl said to him suddenly. Her fingers reached up to brush the air. “I can sense them all around, watching.” She paused. “I think they might have been waiting for us. I don’t know why they would do that, but they are very purposeful in their movements, very deliberate.”

“Maybe they are here because they were called just now by the Trolls.” Pen glanced at her. “Maybe they have come in response.”

The girl nodded. “They might be here to offer protection. I don’t sense hostility.” She touched his hand. “I have an idea, Pen. Use your magic to ask them. You can communicate with living things of all sorts. Spirits are alive. See if they will speak to you.”

He looked off into the velvet darkness, into the massed trees toward the black wall of the Inkrim, and wondered how to go about it. It began, in most cases, with whoever or whatever he was trying to communicate with making a sound or movement that he could interpret. A hawk might reveal its hunger or its desire for a mate through its cries. A rabbit might convey its fear by the way it looked at him. The way a small bird flew could reveal its urgency to reach its young. The brush of tree limbs or tall grasses against his face could tell him if they were in need of water. The movement of the wind told him of storms. He had once been warned of a wolf when a tiny ground squirrel darted through dried leaves.

But there was nothing to hear or see in this situation. Spirits did not always have a voice. They did not always take form. He would have to try something else.

He leaned forward and placed his hands against the earth, trying to read something from the feel of the ground. But after several minutes of patient concentration, there was still no response.