«How could the Skull creature have known him?» Shea persisted.
Panamon shrugged casually, indicating he neither knew nor cared. The watchful Valeman felt the latter was not the case, and Panamon would very much like to find out the truth behind Keltset’s appearance two months earlier. His hidden past had something to do with the spirit creature’s unexplained recognition of the giant Troll. There had been a trace of fear in those cruel eyes, and Shea found it difficult to imagine how anything mortal could have frightened the powerful Skull Bearer. Panamon had seen it, too, and certainly he must be asking himself the same question.
By the time Keltset rejoined them, it was sundown and the faint rays of the late afternoon sun only barely lit‘ the dark forest. The Troll had carefully erased all signs of their passing from the battlefield, leaving a number of confusing false trails for anyone who attempted to follow. Panamon was feeling well enough to maneuver on his own strength, but requested that Keltset help support him until they reached a suitable campsite because it was becoming dark too quickly for travel. Shea was given the task of leading the docile Orl Fane by the rope leash, a chore he did not relish, but which he accepted without complaint. Again, Panamon tried to leave the worn sack and its contents behind, but Orl Fane was not to be deprived of his treasures so easily. He immediately set up such a howl of anguish that the thief ordered him bound about the mouth until the only sound the hapless Gnome could make was a muffled groan. But when they tried to move into the forest, the desperate captive threw himself on the ground and refused to rise, even when kicked painfully by a thoroughly irate Panamon. Keltset could have carried the Gnome and supported Panamon, too, but that was more trouble than it was worth. Muttering dire threats at the whining Gnome, the thief at last had Keltset pick up the sack, and the four began their journey into the darkening woods.
When it became too dark to tell with any certainty where they were going, Panamon called a halt in a small clearing between giant oaks whose interlocking boughs formed a weblike roof for shelter. Orl Fane was tied to one of the tall oaks while the other three set about building a fire and preparing a meal. When the food was ready, Orl Fane was unfettered long enough to allow him to eat. While Panamon did not know exactly where they were, he felt safe enough to permit a fire, relatively certain that no one would be trailing them at night. He might have felt a little less secure had he known of the dangers of the impenetrable forests that surrounded the dark cliffs of Paranor. As it happened, the four men were in an adjoining forest east of the dangerous woodlands ringing Paranor. The section of woods in which they were camped was seldom traveled by the minions of the Warlock Lord, and there was little possibility that anyone would happen along to discover them. They ate in silence, a hungry and tired group after the long day’s travel. Even the whines of the bothersome Orl Fane were temporarily stilled as the little Gnome ate ravenously, his crafty yellow face bent close to the warmth of the small fire as the dark green eyes shifted warily from one face to the next. Shea paid no attention, concentrating instead on what he should tell Panamon Creel about himself, the company, and most important of all, the Sword of Shannara. He had not made up his mind when dinner was completed. The captive was again bound to the nearest oak and permitted to breathe without the gag after his solemn promise that he would not begin whining and crying again. Then placing himself comfortably close to the dying fire, Panamon turned his attention to the expectant Valeman.
«The time is here, Shea, for you to tell me what you know about all this Sword business,” he began briskly. «No lies, no half–truths, and leave nothing out. I promised my help, but we must have mutual trust — and not the kind I spoke of to this pitiful deserter. I have been fair and open with you. Do likewise for me.»
So Shea told him everything. He didn’t mean to when he started. He wasn’t really sure how much he should tell, but one thing led to another and before he knew it the whole tale was out in the open. He told about the coming of Allanon, and the subsequent appearance of the Skull Bearer which forced the brothers to flee from Shady Vale. He related the events surrounding the journey to Leah and the meeting with Menion, followed by the terrible flight through the Black Oaks to Culhaven, where they joined the rest of the company. He skimmed over the details of the journey to the Dragon’s Teeth, a great part of which was still hazy in his own mind. He concluded by explaining how he had fallen from the Crease into the river and been washed out onto the Rabb Plain where he was captured by the Gnome hunting party. Panamon listened without interruption, his eyes wide in astonishment at the tale. Keltset sat next to him in impenetrable silence, the rough–hewn but intelligent face gazing intently at the little Valeman during the entire narration. Orl Fane shifted about uneasily, groaning and muttering unintelligibly as he listened with the other two, his eyes darting wildly about the campsite as if expecting the Warlock Lord himself at any minute.
«That is the most fantastic tale I have ever heard,” Panamon announced at last. «It’s so incredible that even I find it hard to believe. But I do believe you, Shea. I believe you because I’ve fought that blackwinged monster on the plainlands and because I’ve seen the strange power you have over those Elfstones, as you call them. But this business about the Sword and your being the lost heir of Shannara — I don’t know. Do you believe it yourself?»
«I didn’t at first,” Shea admitted slowly, «but now I don’t know what to think. So much has happened that I can’t decide who or what to believe anymore. In any case, I’ve got to rejoin Allanon and the others. They may even have the Sword by this time. They may have the answer to this whole riddle of my heritage and the power of the Sword.»
Orl Fane suddenly doubled up laughing, his voice high–pitched and frenzied.
«No, no, they don’t have the Sword,” he shrieked like a fool caught up in his own madness. «No, no, only I can show you the Sword! I can lead you to it. Only I. You can search and you can search and you can search, ha, ha, ha — go ahead. But I know where it is! I know who has it! Only I!»
«I think he’s losing his mind,” Panamon Creel muttered humorlessly, and ordered Keltset to regag the bothersome Gnome. «We’ll find out exactly what he knows in the morning. If he knows anything about the Sword of Shannara, which I seriously doubt, he’ll tell us or wish he had!»
«Do you think he might know who has it?» Shea asked soberly. «That Sword could mean so much, not only to us, but to all the peoples of the four lands. We’ve got to try to find out what he really knows.»
«You bring tears to my eyes with that plea for the people,” Panamon mocked disdainfully. «They can go hang for all I care. They’ve never done anything for me — except travel alone, unarmed, with fat purses, and that’s been all too infrequently.» He looked up at Shea’s disappointed face and shrugged nonchalantly. «Still, I am curious about the Sword, so I might be willing to help you. After all, I owe you a great favor, and I’m not one to forget a favor.»
Keltset finished gagging the babbling Gnome once again and rejoined them next to the small fire. Orl Fane had lapsed into a series of small, shrill laughs coupled with incoherent mumblings that even the cloth gag did not completely muffle. Shea glanced uneasily at the little captive, watching the gnarled yellow body twist about as if possessed by some devil, the dark eyes wide and rolling wildly. Panamon gallantly ignored the moans for a brief time, but at last, losing all patience, leaped to his feet and drew his dagger to cut the Gnome’s tongue out. Orl Fane immediately quieted down and for a while they forgot about him.