The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

  “That is unquestionably the weakest tale I have ever heard! Who are you, assassin?”

  The eyes burned into his own with intense hatred.

  “I am Stenmin, the King’s personal adviser.” He seemed to have suddenly regained his senses now. “I did not lie to you. The dagger was a present from Palance Buckhannah which I was asked to bring to you. I meant you no harm. If you do not believe me, go to the King. Ask him!”

  There was a hint of confidence in the man’s voice that convinced Menion that Palance would affirm his adviser’s story whether it was true or not. He had in his grasp the most dangerous man in Callahorn, the evil mystic who had become the power behind the monarchy—the one man he had to eliminate if Balinor were to be rescued. Why the man had chosen to attack him when they had never met was something he did not understand, but it was clear that if he released him now or even took him before Palance in an effort to discredit him, the highlander would lose the initiative and place his own life in danger again. Roughly he threw the mystic into a nearby chair and ordered him to remain motionless. The man sat quietly, his eyes drifting aimlessly about the room, the hands moving nervously to stroke the small pointed beard. Menion eyed him absently, his mind carefully pondering the choices open to him. It took him only a moment to decide. He could no longer bide his time, waiting for the right moment to free his friends; the decision had been taken out of his hands.

  “On your feet, mystic, or whatever you prefer to call yourself!” The evil face stared menacingly at him, and in fury Menion yanked the man violently up from the chair. “I ought to dispose of you without further consideration; the people of Callahorn would be much the better for it. But for the time being, I need your services. Take me to the dungeons where Balinor and the others are imprisoned—now!”

  Stenmin’s eyes went wide in sudden shock at the mention of Balinor.

  “How could you know of him … a traitor to this kingdom?” the mystic exclaimed in astonishment. “The King himself has ordered his brother imprisoned until his natural death, Prince of Leah, and even I …”

  His sentence ended in a strangled gasp as Menion grabbed him roughly by the throat and began to squeeze. Stenmin’s face turned slowly purple.

  “I didn’t ask for excuses or explanations. Just take me to him!”

  Once more he tightened his iron grip and finally the gasping captive violently nodded his acquiescence. Menion released him with a snap of his wrist and the nearly throttled man fell dizzily to one knee. Quickly the highlander slipped out of his robe and into his clothing, strapping on the sword and shoving the dagger into his belt. For an instant he thought about arousing Shirl in the next room, but quickly discarded that idea. His plan was dangerous enough; there was no reason to risk her life as well. If he succeeded in freeing his friends, there would be time enough to come back for her. He turned to his captive, drawing the dagger from his belt and holding it up for the other to see.

  “The present that you were so kind to bring me will be returned to you, assassin, if you attempt to trick or betray me in any way,” he warned in his most menacing tone of voice. “So don’t try to be clever. When we leave this room, you will take me down the back corridors and stairs to the prison where Balinor and his companions are held. Don’t try to alarm the guards—you won’t be fast enough. If you doubt anything I’ve told you, then understand this. I was sent to this city by Allanon!”

  Stenmin seemed to go suddenly white at the mention of the giant Druid and undisguised fear shot into his widening eyes. Apparently cowed into obeying his captor, the scarlet mystic moved silently toward the bedroom door and Menion fell into step directly behind him, the dagger back in his belt with one hand gripping the hilt. Time was the all-important factor now. He had to act quickly, freeing Balinor and the other imprisoned members of the company of friends and seizing the deranged Palance before the members of the palace guard were alerted. Then a quick message to Janus Senpre would bring to their aid those still loyal to Balinor, and the power of the monarchy would be restored without a battle.

  Already the massive Northland army would be mobilizing on the grasslands above the island of Kern, preparing to move on Tyrsis. If the Border Legion could be reassembled and deployed quickly enough that day, there was a chance the invader might be stopped on the north shore of the Mermidon. It would be a nearly impossible task to cross that flooded river with a defensive force holding the opposite bank, and it would take the enemy several days to manage a flanking maneuver—more than enough time for the armies of Eventine to reach them. Menion knew it would all depend on the next few minutes.

  The two men stepped cautiously into the hallway beyond the room. Menion quickly glanced in both directions for any sign of the black-garbed sentries, but the hall was deserted, and the highlander motioned Stenmin ahead. The mystic reluctantly led his captor toward the inner rooms of the central palace, winding his way along the corridors that ran to the rear of the ancient building, carefully avoiding the occupied rooms. Twice they passed members of the palace guard, but each time Stenmin withheld any comment or greeting, his dark face lowered in grim determination.

  Through the latticework of the castle windows, Menion could see the gardens that decorated the grounds of the Buckhannah home, the sunlight falling warmly on the brightly colored flowers. It was already midmorning, and before much longer the normal gathering of visitors and business personages would begin. There had been no sign of Palance Buckhannah, and Menion was hopeful that the Prince was preoccupied with other matters.

  As the two walked slowly down the hallways, the sound of voices was distinctly audible in all directions. Servants began to appear in increasing numbers, moving busily about their assigned tasks. When they passed, they pointedly ignored Stenmin and his apparent companion, a good indication that they neither liked nor trusted the mystic. None questioned their presence and at last they approached the massive doorway that led to the castle cellars. Two armed sentries were stationed before the door, and a huge metal bar now held the latches firmly in place.

  “Be careful what you say,” Menion cautioned in a sharp whisper as they neared the guards.

  They came to a slow halt before the massive cellar door, the watchful highlander placing one hand in a leisurely manner on the hilt of the dagger as he stood close behind Stenmin. The guards glanced curiously at him for a moment, then turned their attention to the King’s adviser, who had begun to address them.

  “Open the door, guards. The Prince of Leah and I will inspect the wine cellar and the dungeons.”

  “All persons are forbidden to enter this area by order of the King, my Lord,” the guard to the right stated pointedly.

  “I am here by order of the King!” Stenmin shouted angrily, causing Menion to give him a warning nudge.

  “Sentry, this is the King’s personal counselor—not an enemy of the Kingdom,” the highlander pointed out with a deceiving smile. “We are on a tour of the palace, and since it was I who rescued the King’s betrothed, it was his belief that I might recognize the lady’s abductors. Now if necessary, I shall disturb the King and bring him down here …”

  He trailed off meaningfully, praying that the guards would be sufficiently forewarned of Palance’s irrational behavior to think twice about calling him down. The guards hesitated momentarily, then nodded quietly, released the latches on the door and stepped aside, swinging the massive portal open to reveal the stone stairway leading downward. Stenmin again led the way without comment. Apparently he had decided to follow Menion’s instructions to the letter, but the cautious highlander knew that the mystic was no fool. If Balinor were successfully freed and restored to command of the Border Legion, then his own power over the throne of Callahorn would be finished. He would undoubtedly attempt something, but the time and the place had not yet come. The heavy door closed quietly behind them and they began their descent into the torchlit cellar.

  Menion saw the trapdoor in the center of the cellar floor almost immediately. The gu
ards had not bothered to conceal it a second time with the wine barrels, but had fastened a series of iron bars and latches across the stone slab, effectively preventing anyone imprisoned below from breaking free. Although Menion could not have known, the prisoners had not been returned to their cells following the aborted escape attempt earlier that same morning. Instead, they had been left to roam in the darkness of the dungeon corridors. Two guards were stationed next to the sealed opening, their attention now focused on the two men who had just been admitted from the palace. Menion saw a plate of cheese and bread resting half-eaten on one of the wine barrels and two cups of wine placed next to a half-drained flask. They had been drinking. The highlander smiled slightly.

  As the two reached the stone flooring, Menion pretended to glance about the wine cellar in great interest, beginning a jovial conversation with the silent Stenmin. The guards rose slowly and came to attention at the sight of the King’s adviser, who was looking decidedly grim about something. The highlander knew they had been caught off balance by this unexpected visit and he decided to make the most of it.

  “I see what you mean, my Lord.” He glowered fiercely at the mystic as they drew near to the sentries. “These men have been drinking while on duty! Suppose the prisoners should have escaped while these men lay in a drunken stupor? The King must be told of this as soon as we have finished our business here.”

  The guards turned pale with fear at mention of the King.

  “My Lord, you are mistaken,” the one pleaded hastily. “We were only taking a little wine with our breakfast. We have not been lax …”

  “The King should decide that.” Menion cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “But … the King will not listen …”

  Stenmin glowered in fury at the deception, but the guards misunderstood and quickly assumed he meant to have them punished. The mystic tried to say something, but Menion moved quickly in front of him, as if in an effort to restrain his advance toward the unfortunate guards, drawing the dagger and holding it close to the man’s unprotected chest.

  “Yes, of course they are probably lying,” Menion continued without changing his tone of voice. “Still the King is a busy man and I hate to bother him with little problems. Perhaps a word of warning to them …?”

  He glanced back at the guards who nodded dumbly, grasping at any chance to avoid Stenmin’s wrath. Like everyone else in the Kingdom, they were frightened of the power the strange mystic possessed over Palance and were more than eager to avoid angering him.

  “Very good, then, you have had your warning.” Menion sheathed the dagger and turned back to the still-shaken sentries. “Now open the dungeon door and bring up the prisoners.”

  He stood close to Stenmin, glancing at him quickly in warning. The dark face did not seem to see him anymore, the eyes staring vacantly at the stone slab that barred their entry to the dungeons beneath. The sentries had not moved, but were glancing at each other in new desperation.

  “My Lord, the King has forbidden anyone to see the prisoners … for any reason,” the one guard gulped at last. “I cannot bring them out of the dungeon.”

  “So you would bar the King’s adviser and his personal guest.” Menion did not hesitate. He had expected this. “Then we have no choice but to call the King down here …”

  That was all it took. There was no further deliberation as the sentries raced to the stone slab, quickly sliding back the latches and bolts. Bracing themselves, the guards pulled back on the iron ring and the trapdoor swung ponderously upward and fell back heavily against the stone flooring, leaving a gaping black hole. Holding their swords ready, the sentries called down into the darkness, commanding the prisoners to come out. There were footsteps on the ancient stone stairway as Menion waited expectantly at Stenmin’s side, his own sword now drawn. His free hand held the mystic’s arm tightly, and in a sharp whisper he warned the lean adviser not to speak or move. Then Balinor’s broad form appeared from out of the pit, closely followed by the Elven brothers and the durable Hendel, his own attempt to rescue his friends thwarted only hours earlier. They did not see Menion at first. Quickly the highlander stepped forward, still holding the silent Stenmin.

  “That’s it, keep them moving, keep them together. Such men must be watched carefully. They are always dangerous.”

  The wearied prisoners glanced over abruptly, only thinly masking their astonishment on seeing the Prince of Leah. Menion winked quickly behind the guards’ backs, and the four captives turned away, only the slow smile on Dayel’s young face betraying the sudden joy they were experiencing at the sight of their old friend. They were out of the pit now and standing quietly a few feet from the guards, who stood with their backs to the highlander. But before Menion could act, the heretofore passive Stenmin wrested his whiplike form free from his captor’s iron grip and sprang aside to shout a quick warning to the unsuspecting sentries.

  “Traitor! Guards, it’s a trick …”

  He was never able to finish. As the distracted sentries whirled about, Menion leaped catlike at the fleeing mystic, throwing him violently to the stone floor. The soldiers realized their mistake too late. The four prisoners sprang into action, closing the short space of ground separating them from their jailers and disarming them before they could recover. Within seconds the guards were subdued, quickly bound and gagged, and dragged into a corner of the cellar where they were hidden from sight. A thoroughly beaten Stenmin was yanked unceremoniously to his feet to face his new captors. Menion glanced anxiously at the closed door at the top of the cellar stairway, but no one appeared. Apparently the shout had gone unheeded. Balinor and the others came over to him with smiles of gratitude on their tired faces, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand once again.

  “Menion Leah, we owe you more than we can ever hope to give back.” The giant borderman gripped his hand tightly. “I did not think we would ever see you again. Where is Allanon?”

  Quickly Menion explained how he had left Allanon and Flick concealed above the camp of the Northland army and come to Callahorn to warn of the impending advance against Tyrsis. Pausing momentarily to gag Stenmin in the event the evil adviser should attempt to call out another warning to the guards posted outside the cellar door, the highlander told of rescuing Shirl Ravenlock, fleeing to Kern and subsequently to the walls of Tyrsis after the island city was besieged and destroyed. His friends listened grimly until he had finished.

  “Whatever else may come out of this, highlander,” Hendel declared quietly, “you have proved yourself this day and we shall never forget it.”

  “The Border Legion must be re-formed and sent to hold the Mermidon immediately,” Balinor cut in quickly. “We must get word to the lower city. Then we must find my father … and my brother. But I want to secure the palace and the army without a battle. Menion, can we trust Janus Senpre to come to our aid if we call for him?”

  “He is loyal to you and to the King.” Menion nodded affirmatively.

  “You must get a message to him while we remain here,” the Prince of Callahorn continued, pacing over toward the captive Stenmin. “Once he arrives with help, we should have no trouble—my brother will be left without support. But what of my father …?”

  Towering over the dark form of the mystic, he removed the gag from the captive’s mouth and stared coldly down at him. Stenmin met his gaze briefly, his own eyes furtive and filled with hate. The mystic knew he was beaten if Palance was captured and removed as monarch of Callahorn, and he was becoming increasingly desperate as the end drew near and his plans began to break apart. Standing with the Elven brothers and Hendel as Balinor confronted the mysterious captive, Menion found himself wondering what the man had hoped to gain by encouraging Palance to take the steps he had. Certainly it was no mystery why he had supported the distraught and unstable Prince as the new King of Callahorn. His own position was assured with Balinor’s brother ruling. But why had he encouraged the disbanding of the Border Legion when he knew that an invading army was
threatening to overrun the little Southland kingdom and put an end to its enlightened monarchy? Why had he gone to such pains to imprison Balinor and to secrete his father in a distant wing of the palace when they could have been quietly disposed of? And why had he tried to kill Menion Leah, a man he had never met before?

  “Stenmin, your rule over this land and its people and your domination of my brother are over,” Balinor declared with cold determination. “Whether or not you will ever see the light of another day depends on what you do from now until the time I am again in command of the city. What have you done with my father?”

  There was a long moment of silence as the mystic looked desperately around, the dark face ashen with fear.

  “He … he is in the north wing … in the tower,” the answer was a whisper.

  “If he has been harmed, mystic …”

  Balinor turned away sharply, leaving the terrified man momentarily forgotten. Stenmin shrank away against one wall, gazing after the tall figure of the borderman. One hand came up nervously to stroke the small, pointed beard. Menion watched him, almost in pity, and then suddenly something clicked in his mind. An image flashed sharply—a memory of a scene he had witnessed several days earlier on the banks of the Mermidon north of the island of Kern as he had lain concealed on a small hillock overlooking a windy beachhead. That same mannerism—the stroking of a small pointed beard! Now he knew exactly what Stenmin was attempting to do! His face turned to a mask of rage and he started forward, brushing past Balinor as if he wasn’t even there.

  “You were the man on the beach—the kidnapper!” he accused in undisguised fury. “You tried to kill me because you thought I would recognize you as the man who kidnapped Shirl—the man who turned her over to the Northlanders. You traitor! You intended to betray us all—to turn the city over to the Warlock Lord!”

  Heedless of the cries of his companions, he rushed toward the now hysterical mystic, who somehow managed to evade his initial lunge and break away toward the cellar stairway. Menion was after him with a bound, the gleaming sword of his father raised to strike. Halfway up the stone steps he caught him, one hand jerking the dark form about as the man shrieked in terror. Yet the end did not come, for as the sword drew back and Menion held the maddened Stenmin tightly against the stone wall, the massive door to the ancient cellar suddenly swung open, the thrust of the pull slamming the ironbound wood back against the wall with a jarring crash. Framed in the entryway stood the broad figure of Palance Buckhannah.