«Is this Sword valuable, Gnome?» he queried easily, almost slyly. «Can I sell it for gold?»
«It is priceless to the right people,” the other promised, nodding eagerly. «There are those who would pay anything, give anything to get possession of it. In the Northland…»
He ceased talking abruptly, afraid that he had already said too much. Panamon smiled wolfishly and nodded to Shea.
«This Gnome says it could be worth money to us,” he mocked quietly, «and the Gnome wouldn’t lie, would you, Gnome?» The yellow head shook vehemently. «Well, then, perhaps we should let you live long enough to prove you have something of value to barter for your worthless hide. I wouldn’t want to throw away a chance to make money simply to satisfy my inborn desire to cut the throat of a Gnome when I get one within my grasp. What do you think, Gnome?»
«You understand perfectly, you know my value,” whined the little fellow, fawning at the knees of the smiling thief. «I can help; I can make you rich. You can count on me.»
Panamon was smiling broadly now, his big frame relaxed and his good hand on the Gnome’s small shoulder as if they were old friends. He patted the stooped shoulder a few times, as if to put the captive at ease, and nodded reassuringly, looking from the Gnome to Keltset to Shea and back again for several long seconds.
«Tell us what you’re doing way out here by yourself, Gnome,” Panamon urged a moment later. «By the way, what are you called?»
«I am Orl Fane, a warrior of the Pelle tribe of the upper Anar,” he answered eagerly. «I… I was on a courier mission from Paranor when I came upon this battlefield. They were all dead, all of them, and there was nothing I could do. Then I heard you and I hid. I was afraid you were… Elves.»
He paused and looked fearfully at Shea, noting the youth’s Elven features with dismay. Shea made no move, but waited to see what Panamon would do. Panamon just looked understandingly at the Gnome and smiled in friendly fashion.
«Orl Fane — of the Pelle tribe,” the tall thief repeated slowly. «A great tribe of hunters, brave men.» He shook his head as if deeply regretting something and turned again to the mystified Gnome. «Orl Fane, if we are going to be of any service to one another, we must have mutual trust. Lies can only hinder the purpose binding our new partnership. There was a Pelle standard on the battlefield — the standard of your tribe in the Gnome nation. You must have been with them when they fought.»
The Gnome stood speechless, a mixture of fear and doubt creeping slowly back into his shifting green eyes. Panamon continued to smile easily at him.
«Just look at yourself Orl Fane — covered with specks of blood and a bad cut on your forehead at the hairline. Why hide the truth from us? You had to be here, isn’t that right?» The persuasive voice coaxed a quick nod out of the other, and Panamon laughed almost merrily. «Of course you were here, Orl Fane. And when you were set upon by the Elf people, you fought until you were wounded, perhaps knocked unconscious, eh, and you lay here until just before we came along. That’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it?»
«Yes, that’s the truth,” the Gnome agreed eagerly now.
«No, that’s not the truth!»
There was a moment of stunned silence. Panamon was still smiling, and Orl Fane was caught between emotions, a trace of doubt still in eyes, a half–smile forming on his lips. Shea looked at both curiously, unable to follow exactly what was happening.
«Listen to me, you lying little rodent.» The smile was gone from Panamon’s face, the features hardened as he spoke, the voice cold and menacing once more. «You have lied from the beginning! A member of the Pelle would wear their insignia you wear none. You weren’t wounded in battle; that little scratch on your forehead is nothing! You are a scavenger — a deserter, aren’t you? Aren’t you?»
The thief had seized the terrified Gnome by the front of his hunting tunic and was shaking him so hard that Shea could hear his teeth rattle with the force. The wiry captive was struggling to catch his breath, gasping in disbelief at this sudden turn of events.
«Yes, yes!» The admission was throttled out of him at last, and Panamon released him with a quick thrust backward into the grip of the watchful Keltset.
«A deserter from your own people.» Panamon spat the words out in distaste. «The lowest form of life that walks or crawls is a deserter. You’ve been scavenging this battlefield for valuables from the dead. Where are they, Orl Fane? Shea, check in those bushes where he was hiding.»
As Shea moved toward the brush, the struggling Gnome let out the most frightful shriek of dismay imaginable, causing the youth to believe Keltset had twisted his neck off. But Panamon just smiled and nodded for the Valeman to proceed, certain now that the Gnome had indeed hidden something in the bushes. Shea pushed his way past the thick branches into the center of the clump, searching carefully for any sign of a cache. The ground and the limbs in the center were badly torn up from the struggle between Keltset and the Gnome, and there was nothing immediately visible. He hunted about unsuccessfully for several minutes. He was just about to give up, when his eye caught a glimpse of something half buried at the far end of the bushes beneath leaves, branches, and dirt. Using his short hunting knife and his hands, he quickly uncovered a long sack containing metal objects that rattled against one another as he worked. He called out to Panamon that he had discovered something, which immediately set off another series of whining cries from the distraught captive. When the sack was uncovered, he pulled it out of the brush into the fading afternoon sunlight and dropped it before the others. Orl Fane was in a frenzy by this time, and Keltset was forced to use both hands just to hold him.
«Whatever’s in here is certainly important to our little friend.» Panamon grinned at Shea and reached for the sack.
Shea moved to his side and peered over the broad shoulders as Panamon untied the leather thong binding the top and reached eagerly into the dark interior. Changing his mind suddenly, the scarlet thief removed his hand and, grabbing the other end of the sack, turned it upside down and poured the contents onto the open earth. The others stared at the cache, looking from item to item curiously.
«Junk,” growled Panamon Creel after a moment’s consideration. «Just junk. The Gnome is too stupid even to bother with valuable things.»
Shea looked at the contents of the sack without answering. Nothing but assorted daggers, knives, and swords in the collection, some still in their leather sheaths. A few pieces of cheap jewelry sparkled in the sunlight, and there were one or two Gnome coins, practically worthless to anyone but a Gnome. It certainly appeared to be useless junk, but the whining Orl Fane had evidently considered it worth something to him. Shea shook his head in pity for the little Gnome. He had lost everything when he turned deserter, and all he had to show for it were these few worthless pieces of metal and cheap jewelry. Now it seemed certain that he would lose his life as well for having dared to lie to the volatile Panamon Creel.
«Hardly worth dying for, Gnome,” Panamon growled, nodding shortly to Keltset, who raised the heavy mace to finish the hapless fellow.
«No, no, wait, wait a minute, please,” the Gnome cried, his voice edged with a harsh note of desperation. It was the end for him; this was his final plea. «I didn’t lie about the Sword — I swear I didn’t! I can get it for you. Don’t you realize what the Sword of Shannara is worth to the Dark Lord?»