Allanon's Quest Read Free Page A

maybe all was not yet lost.

    He was almost completely beyond the limits of Archer Trace when he passed the fence with the rooster carved into its gate. He paused to study the house it warded. Lights burned in the interior—enough to indicate that someone inside was still awake. He watched the windows for movement but saw none. He cast a net of seeking magic to spy out hidden dangers and found none of those, either.
    Satisfied, he opened the gate, went up the path to the heavy wooden door, and knocked.
    Immediately, he heard movement within. “Who’s there?” a man called out.
    “A stranger to you,” Allanon answered. “But I bring news from Arborlon that you will want to hear.”
    There was a long pause. “There is nothing I wish to hear from Arborlon and its Elves. Go away.”
    Allanon sighed, his dark face implacable. “The barkeep at The Drunken Fool seemed to think it was important enough to send me this way. Why not hear me out?”
    Another pause. Then the locks released, the door swung open, and weak candlelight spilled out into the rain.
    The man who stood there was bent with more than just the weight of years and the infirmities of age. Reflected in his eyes were anger and frustration, which spoke of injustices suffered and endured. Bitterness was there, and an expectation of further damage, waiting just around the corner and still out of sight but there nevertheless. There was weariness and a deep sense of resignation.
    There was something else, too, but it took a moment for Allanon to sort it out from the rest of the burden this man bore.
    There was fear.
    “What do you want?” Eldra Derrivanian snapped at him. Then he paused. “Wait. I know you. You’re the Druid Allanon.”
    “We’ve never met.”
    “No, but you were at the King’s court and before the High Council often enough. I know you, even if you paid no attention to me. Now get out of here.”
    Allanon moved his foot swiftly to block the door. “First, you will hear me out. Once you’ve done that, I’ll go my way. But not before.”
    Derrivanian stared at him balefully, then turned his back. “Do what you like. It means nothing to me.”
    Allanon entered the room and closed the door behind him. He glanced around quickly. The room was small, sparsely furnished, and unkempt, and smelled unpleasant. Dishes were piled in a washbasin, and clothes were strewn about. He felt right away that something was wrong, but other than the obvious, he couldn’t decide what.
    “Where is Collice?” he asked.
    Derrivanian’s wife. The old man hesitated, then nodded toward a door at the back of the room. “Asleep. Sick. She tires easily these days. She goes to bed early. What is it that you want with me?”
    Allanon moved over to the tiny kitchen table and sat, waiting. After a moment, Derrivanian sat down across from him. “I require your help,” the Druid said, leaning forward, elbows propped on the table, chin resting atop his folded hands, eyes fixed on the old man. “And I hope you will agree to give it after you’ve heard what I have to say.”
    “My help to do what?”
    “To think back in time and try to remember something for me. To use your exceptional mind to call up something that perhaps no one else can. And if that fails, to peruse your private records to jolt that memory.”
    The old man rubbed at his face. He was unshaven, and his cheeks and forehead were deeply lined. His ears drooped with age, and his slanted brows were shaggy andgray. His salt-and-pepper hair was wild and stiff as he ran his fingers through it. “Whom do you seek?”
    “Anyone who is an heir to the Elven house of Shannara.”
    The other was silent for a long moment. “The Warlock Lord has returned, hasn’t he? The rumors are true.”
    Allanon nodded. “He has returned, and he has brought his Skull Bearers with him. He is hunting down and killing all of the Shannara kin so that the Sword cannot be used against him again.”
    “How many are dead so far?