The Elfstones of Shannara by Terry Brooks Read Free Book Online Page B

despair he had seen in his father’s face this morning when he had brought him the news of the slaughtered Chosen. His decision was easily made. The King was desperate for help from some quarter. With Arion gone into the Sarandanon, Ander knew that that help must come from him. And what other help could he give but to suggest to his father that Amberle must be sought?
    â€œElven Prince?”
    The voice came from out of nowhere, startling Ander so that he jumped away from it with a gasp. A shadow slipped from the shelter of the pines that grew close against the walls of the Gardens of Life, darker than the night about it. For an instant Ander stopped breathing altogether, freezing with indecision. Then, as he reached hurriedly for the short sword he wore belted at his waist, the shadow was upon him and a hand lay over his own, an iron grip holding back his arm.
    â€œPeace, Ander Elessedil.” The voice was soft but commanding. “I am no enemy of yours.”
    The shadowy form was that of a man, Ander saw now, a tall man, standing well over seven feet. Black robes were wrapped tightly about his spare, lean frame, and the hood of his traveling cloak was pulled close about his head so that nothing of his face could be seen save for narrow eyes that shone like a cat’s.
    â€œWho are you?” the Elven Prince managed finally.
    The other’s hands lifted and drew back the folds of the hood to reveal the face within. It was craggy and lined, shadowed by a short, black beard that framed a wide, unsmiling mouth and by hair cut shoulder-length. The cat’s eyes, piercing and dark, stared out from beneath heavy brows knit fiercely above a long, flat nose. Those eyes stared into Ander’s, and the Elven Prince found that he could not look away.
    â€œYour father would know me,” the big man whispered. “I am Allanon.”
    Ander stiffened, his face incredulous. “Allanon?” His head shook slowly. “But . . . but Allanon is dead!”
    There was sarcasm in the deep voice, and the eyes glinted once more. “Do I appear to you to be dead, Elven Prince?”
    â€œNo . . . no, I can see . . .” Ander’s faltered. “But it has been more than fifty years . . .”
    He trailed off as the memories of his father’s stories came back to him: the search for the Sword of Shannara; the rescue of Eventine from the camp of the enemy armies; the battle at Tyrsis; the defeat of the Warlock Lord at the hands of the little Valeman, Shea Ohmsford. Through it all, Allanon had been there, lending to the beleaguered peoples of the Four Lands his strength and wisdom. When it was finished and the Warlock Lord destroyed, Allanon had disappeared entirely. Shea Ohmsford, it was said, had been the last to see him. There had been rumors afterward that Allanon had come to the Four Lands at other times, in other places. But he had not come to the Westland and the Elves. None of them had ever expected to see him again. Still, where the Druid was concerned, his father had often told him, one soon learned to expect the unexpected. Wanderer, historian, philosopher and mystic, guardian of the races, the last of the ancient Druids, the wise men of the new world—Allanon was said to have been all of these.
    But was this truly Allanon? The question whispered in Ander’s mind.
    The big man stepped close once more. “Look closely at me, Elven Prince,” he commanded. “You will see that I speak the truth.”
    Ander stared at the dark face, stared deep into the glittering black eyes, and suddenly the doubts were gone. There was no longer any question in his mind. The man who stood before him was Allanon.
    â€œI want you to take me to see your father.” Allanon was speaking again, his voice low and guarded. “Choose a path little traveled. I wish to keep my coming a secret. Quickly now, before the sentries come.”
    Ander did not stop