The Sword of Shannara Trilogy by Terry Brooks Read Free Book Online Page A

deep shadows that hid the eyes. The tall man seemed to be fighting to contain some terrible fury within, and for a moment it appeared to Shea that he was about to be strangled by the huge hands that locked before his face as the man glared in open rage. Flick moved back hastily and tripped over his own feet in the process, fear welling up inside.
    “Fool … you fool,” rasped the giant in barely controlled fury. “You know so little … children! What does the race of Man know of truth—where has Man been but hiding, creeping in terror under piteous shelters in the deepest regions of the Southland like frightened rabbits? You dare to tell me that I speak of fairy tales—you, who have never known strife, safe here in your precious Vale! I came to find the bloodline of kings, but I have found a little boy who hides himself in falsehoods. You are nothing but a child!”
    Flick was fervently wishing he could sink into the ground beneath his feet or perhaps simply vanish, when to his utter astonishment he saw Shea leap to his feet before the tall man, his lean features flushed in fury and his hands knotted into fists as he braced himself. The Valeman was so overcome with anger that he could not speak, and stood before his accuser, shaking with rage and humiliation. But Allanon was not impressed and his deep voice sounded again.
    “Hold, Shea. Do not be a greater fool! Pay attention to what I tell you now. All that I told you has come down through the ages as legend and was so told to the race of Man. But the time for fairy tales is ended. What I have told you is not legend; it is the truth. The sword is real; it rests today at Paranor. But most important of all, the Warlock Lord is real. He lives today and the Skull Kingdom is his domain!”
    Shea started, suddenly realizing that the man was not deliberately lying after all—that he did not believe this to be a fairy tale. He relaxed and sat down slowly, his gaze still riveted on the dark face. Abruptly he recalled the historian’s words.
    “You said king … you were looking for a king …?”
    “What is the legend of the Sword of Shannara, Shea? What does the inscription carved into the block of Tre-Stone read?”
    Shea was dumbfounded, unable to recall any legend at all.
    “I don’t know … I can’t remember what it said. Something about the next time …”
    “A son!” spoke up Flick suddenly from the other side. “When the Warlock Lord appeared again in the Northland, a son of the House of Shannara would come forth to take up the Sword against him. That was the legend!”
    Shea looked over at his brother, remembering then what the inscription was supposed to read. He looked back at Allanon, who was watching him intently.
    “How does this concern me?” he asked quickly. “I’m not a son of the House of Shannara—I’m not even Elven. I’m a half-blood, not an Elf, not a king. Eventine is the heir to the House of Shannara. Are you telling me that I’m a lost son—a missing heir? I don’t believe it!”
    He looked quickly to Flick for support, but his brother appeared to be completely lost, staring in bewilderment at the face of Allanon. The dark man spoke quietly.
    “You do have Elven blood in you, Shea, and you are not the true son of Curzad Ohmsford. That you must know. And Eventine is not directly of the blood of Shannara.”
    “I have always known that I was an adopted son,” the Valeman admitted, “but surely I could not have come from … Flick, tell him!”
    But his brother just stared at him in astonishment, unable to frame an answer to the question. Shea stopped speaking abruptly, shaking his head in disbelief. Allanon nodded.
    “You are a son of the House of Shannara—a half son only, however, and far removed from the direct line of descent that can be traced down through the last five hundred years. I knew you as a child, Shea, before you were taken into the Ohmsford household as their own son. Your father was Elven—a very fine man.