The Sword of Shannara, Part 2: The Druids' Keep (11 page)

“Quite all right, quite all right. Rescuing people is not exactly our business, but those devils would cut you up for sport. I'm from the Southland myself, you know. Haven't been back in quite a while, but it's my home nevertheless. You're from there, I can tell. One of the hill communities, maybe? Of course, you have Elven blood in you, too.…”

He trailed off abruptly, and for an instant Shea was certain that the man not only knew who he was, but what he was, and that he had stepped from the frying pan into the fire. A quick look back at the huge creature by the fallen Gnomes was necessary to reassure the youth that this was not a Skull Bearer.

“Who are you, friend, and where are you from?” the stranger demanded suddenly.

Shea gave him his name and explained that he was from Shady
Vale. He told him that he had been exploring on a river to the south when his boat overturned, and he had been washed downstream and left unconscious on a bank where the band of Gnomes had found him. The fabricated tale was close enough to the truth so that the man might believe him, and Shea was not yet ready to trust strangers with the whole truth until he knew more than he knew about these two. He concluded his story by stating that the Gnomes had found him and decided to take him prisoner. The man looked at him for a long moment, an amused smile crossing his lips as he played idly with the leather pouch.

“Well, I doubt that you have told me the whole truth.” He laughed shortly. “But I can't blame you. If I were in your place, I wouldn't tell me everything either. There will be time enough for the truth later. My name is Panamon Creel.”

He extended his one broad hand which Shea accepted and shook heartily. The stranger had a grip like iron and the Valeman winced involuntarily at the strong handshake. The man smiled faintly and released his grip, pointing to the dark giant behind them.

“My companion, Keltset. We've been together for almost two years now and I never had a better friend, although I could have wished for a more talkative one, perhaps. Keltset is a mute.”

“What is he?” asked Shea curiously, watching the great figure lumber slowly about the little clearing.

“You certainly are a stranger to this part of the world.” The other laughed in amusement. “Keltset is a Rock Troll. His home was in the Charnal Mountains until his people made an outcast of him. We're both outcasts in this thankless world, but life deals a different hand to each, I suppose. We have no choice in the matter.”

“A Rock Troll,” Shea repeated wonderingly. “I've never seen a Rock Troll before. I thought they were all savage creatures, almost like animals. How could you …?”

“Watch your tongue, friend,” the stranger warned sharply.
“Keltset doesn't like that kind of talk, and he is just sensitive enough to step on you for using it. Your problem is that you look at him and see a monster, a misshapen creature unlike you or me, and you wonder if he's dangerous. Then I tell you that he's a Rock Troll, and you're twice as certain he's more animal than man. Part of your limited education and lack of practical experience, I warrant. You should have traveled with me during the last few years—ha, you would have learned that even a friendly smile shows the teeth behind!”

Shea looked closely at the giant Rock Troll as Keltset bent idly over the fallen Gnomes, glancing about for anything he might have missed in his extensive search of their garments and packs. Keltset was basically man-shaped, dressed in knee-length pants and a tunic belted with a green cord. About the neck and wrists he wore protective metal collars. His really different feature was the strange, almost barklike skin that covered the entire body, coloring it something on the order of meat well done, but not yet charred. The dark face was small-featured, blunt, and nondescript, with a heavy brow and deep-set eyes. The extremities were the same as a man's except for the hands. There was no little finger on either hand—only a thumb and three stout, powerful fingers nearly as large as the Valeman's small wrists.

“He doesn't look very tame to me,” Shea declared quietly.

“There you are! The perfect example of a hasty opinion totally without foundation. Just because Keltset doesn't look civilized and doesn't appear an intelligent creature on the face of things, you label him an animal. Shea, my boy, you may believe me when I say that Keltset is a sensitive man with the same feelings as you or I. Being a Troll in the Northland is every bit as normal as being an Elf in the Westland and so on! You and I are the strangers in this part of the world.”

Shea looked carefully at the broad, reassuring face, the easy smile that seemed to come so naturally, and he instinctively
distrusted the man. These two were more than travelers passing through this country who had seen his plight and had come to his aid out of love for their fellow man. They had stalked that Gnome encampment with skill and cunning, and when discovered, destroyed the entire Gnome patrol with ruthless efficiency. As dangerous as the Rock Troll appeared, Shea was certain that Panamon Creel was twice as deadly.

“You are most certainly better informed on the matter than I,” admitted Shea, choosing his words carefully. “Being from the Southland, and having traveled little outside of its borders, I am unfamiliar with all life in this region of the world. I owe you both my life, and my thanks go to Keltset as well.”

The dashing stranger smiled happily at the expression of gratitude, obviously pleased at the unexpected compliment.

“No thanks are necessary; I told you that,” he replied. “Come over here and sit with me for a moment while we wait for Keltset to finish his task. We must talk more about what brought you to this part of the country. It's very dangerous in these parts, you know, especially traveling alone.”

He led the way over to the nearest tree where he sat down wearily, resting his back against the slender trunk. He still held the pouch with the Elfstones in his one good hand, and Shea did not feel that he should bring that subject up just yet. Hopefully, the stranger would ask if they belonged to him, and he could recover them and be on his way to Paranor. The others in the company would be looking for him by now, either along the eastern edge of the Dragon's Teeth or farther up near Paranor.

“Why is Keltset searching those Gnomes?” the youth asked after a moment's silence.

“Well, there might be some indication of where they are from, where they were going. They might have some food, which we could use right now. Who knows, they might even have something valuable …?”

He trailed off sharply and looked questioningly at Shea, one hand balancing the leather pouch with the Elfstones before the Valeman's eyes, holding it like bait before the hunted animal. Shea swallowed hard and hesitated, realizing suddenly the man had sensed all along that the stones belonged to him. He had to do something quickly, or he would give himself away.

“They belong to me. The pouch and the stones are mine.”

“Are they now?” Panamon Creel grinned wolfishly at the youth. “I don't see your name on the pouch. How did you come by them?”

“They were given to me by my father,” Shea lied quickly. “I've had them for years. I carry them everywhere—a sort of good-luck piece. When the Gnomes captured me, they searched me and took the pouch and the stones away. But they are mine.”

The scarlet-clad rescuer smiled faintly and opened the pouch, pouring the stones into his open palm, holding the pouch with the wicked-looking pike. He hefted them and held them up to the light, admiring their brilliant blue glow. Then he turned back to Shea, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

“What you say may be true, but it may be that you stole them. They look rather valuable to be carrying around as a good-luck charm. I think I should keep them until I am satisfied that you are the true owner.”

“But I have to go—I have to meet my friends,” Shea sputtered desperately. “I can't stay with you until you're certain I own the stones!”

Panamon Creel rose slowly to his feet and smiled down, tucking the pouch and its contents into his tunic.

“That should pose no problem. Just tell me where I can reach you, and I'll bring the stones to you there after I've checked out your story. I'll be down in the Southland in several months or so.”

Shea was absolutely beside himself with anger, and he leaped to his feet in a rage.

“Why, you're nothing but a thief, a common highwayman!” he stormed, bracing the other defiantly.

Panamon Creel erupted suddenly into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, holding his sides in mirth. He finally regained control of himself, shaking his head in disbelief as the tears rolled down his broad face. Shea looked on in astonishment, unable to see what was so humorous about the accusation. Even the huge Rock Troll had stopped momentarily and turned to look at them, his placid face dark and expressionless.

“Shea, I have to admire a man who speaks his mind,” exclaimed the stranger, still chuckling in delight. “No one could accuse you of being unperceptive!”

The irate Valeman started to make a hasty retort and then caught himself quickly as the facts of the situation recalled themselves sharply in his puzzled mind. What were these two strange companions doing in this part of the Northland? Why had they bothered to rescue him in the first place? How had they even known he was a prisoner of the small band of Gnomes? He realized the truth in an instant; it had been so obvious that he had overlooked it.

“Panamon Creel, the kind rescuer!” he mocked bitterly. “No wonder you found my remark so amusing. You and your friend are exactly what I called you. You are thieves, robbers, highwaymen! It was the stones you were after all along! How low can you be …?”

“Watch your tongue, youngster!” The scarlet stranger leaped in front of him, brandishing the iron pike. The broad face was distorted in sudden hate, the constant smile suddenly villainous beneath the small mustache as anger flashed sharply in the dark eyes. “What you may think of us had best be kept to yourself. I've come a long way in this world, and no one has ever given me anything! Since this is so, I let no man take anything away!”

Shea backed away guardedly, terrified that he had foolishly overstepped his bounds with the unpredictable pair. Undoubtedly,
his own rescue had been almost an afterthought on their part, their primary concern having been the theft of the Elfstones from the Gnome raiders. Panamon Creel was no one to fool around with, and a reckless tongue at this stage of the game could cost the Valeman his life. The tall thief stared balefully at his frightened captive a moment longer and then stepped back slowly, the angered features relaxing and a faint hint of his former good-naturedness returning in a quick smile.

“Why should we deny it, Keltset and I?” He swaggered backward and around a few paces, wheeling abruptly on Shea again. “We are wayfarers of fortune, he and I. Men who live by their wits and by their cunning—yet we are no different than other men, save in our methods. And perhaps our disdain for hypocrisy! All men are thieves in one way or another; we are simply the old-fashioned type, the honest type who are not ashamed of what they are.”

“How did you happen on this camp?” Shea asked hesitantly, fearful of aggravating the temperamental man further.

“We came across their fire last night, just after sunset,” the other replied easily, all traces of hostility gone. “I came down to the edge of the clearing for a closer look and saw my little yellow friends playing with those three blue gems. I saw you as well, all trussed up for delivery. So I decided to bring Keltset down and kill two birds with one stone—ah, ha, you see, I wasn't lying when I told you that I did not like to see a fellow Southlander in the hands of those devils!”

Shea nodded, happy to be free, but unsure whether he was better off now than when he had been a prisoner of the Gnomes.

“Quit worrying, friend.” Panamon Creel recognized the unspoken fear. “We don't mean you any harm. We only want the stones—they'll bring a good price, and we can use the money. You're free to go back to where you came from anytime.”

He turned away abruptly and walked over to the waiting Keltset, who was standing obediently next to a small pile of arms, clothing,
and assorted articles of value that he had collected from the fallen Gnomes. The huge frame of the Troll dwarfed the normally large figure of his companion; the dark, barklike skin made him appear somewhat like a gnarled tree casting its shadow over the scarlet-clad human. The two conversed briefly, Panamon speaking in low tones to his giant friend while the other replied with sign language and nods of his broad head. They turned to the pile of goods, which the man shuffled through quickly, casting most of the effects aside as useless junk. Shea watched momentarily, uncertain what he should do next. He had lost the stones, and without them he was virtually defenseless in this savage land. He had lost his companions in the Dragon's Teeth, the only ones who would stand with him, the only ones who could really help him recover the stones. He had come so far that it was unthinkable to turn back now, even if he thought he could do so safely. The others in the company depended on him, and he would never desert Flick and Menion whatever the dangers involved.

Panamon Creel cast a short glance over his shoulder to see if the Valeman had made any move to leave, and a faint trace of surprise registered on his handsome face when he saw the youth still standing where he had left him.

“What are you waiting for?”

Shea shook his head slowly, indicating that he wasn't quite sure. The tall thief watched him a moment longer, and then waved him over with a short smile.

“Come on and have a bite to eat, Shea,” he invited. “The least we can do is feed you before you start back for the Southland.”

Fifteen minutes later the three were seated around a small campfire, watching strips of dried beef warm enticingly in the smoking heat. The mute Keltset sat silently next to the little Valeman, the deep eyes fixed on the smoking meat, the huge hands clasped childlike as he squatted before the small fire. Shea had an uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch the strange creature,
to feel the rough, barklike skin. The features of the Troll were indescribably bland even from this close distance. The Troll never moved while the meat was cooking, but sat absolutely still like some immobile rock that time and the ages had passed by without changing. Panamon Creel glanced over once and noticed Shea casting a watchful eye on the huge creature. He smiled broadly, one hand coming across to clap the startled Valeman on the shoulder.