«Fool… you fool,” rasped the giant in barely controlled fury. «You know so little… children! What does the race of Man know of truth — where has Man been but hiding, creeping in terror under piteous shelters in the deepest regions of the Southland like frightened rabbits? You dare to tell me that I speak of fairy tales — you, who have never known strife, safe here in your precious Vale! I came to find the bloodline of kings, but I have found a little boy who hides himself in falsehoods. You are nothing but a child!»
Flick was fervently wishing he could sink into the ground beneath his feet or perhaps simply vanish, when to his utter astonishment he saw Shea leap to his feet before the tall man, his lean features flushed in fury and his hands knotted into fists as he braced himself. The Valeman was so overcome with anger that he could not speak, and stood before his accuser, shaking with rage and humiliation. But Allanon was not impressed and his deep voice sounded again.
«Hold, Shea. Do not be a greater fool! Pay attention to what I tell you now. All that I told you has come down through the ages as legend and was so told to the race of Man. But the time for fairy tales is ended. What I have told you is not legend; it is the truth. The sword is real; it rests today at Paranor. But most important of all, the Warlock Lord is real. He lives today and the Skull Kingdom is his domain!»
Shea started, suddenly realizing that the man was not deliberately lying after all — that he did not believe this to be a fairy tale. He relaxed and sat down slowly, his gaze still riveted on the dark face. Abruptly he recalled the historian’s words.
«You said king… you were looking for a king ?»
«What is the legend of the Sword of Shannara, Shea? What does the inscription carved into the block of Tre–Stone read?»
Shea was dumbfounded, unable to recall any legend at all.
«I don’t know… I can’t remember what it said. Something about the next time…»
«A son!» spoke up Flick suddenly from the other side. «When the Warlock Lord appeared again in the Northland, a son of the House of Shannara would come forth to take up the Sword against him. That was the legend!»
Shea looked over at his brother, remembering then what the inscription was supposed to read. He looked back at Allanon, who was watching him intently.
«How does this concern me?» he asked quickly. «I’m not a son of the House of Shannara — I’m not even Elven. I’m a half–blood, not an Elf, not a king. Eventine is the heir to the House of Shannara. Are you telling me that I’m a lost son — a missing heir? I don’t believe it!»
He looked quickly to Flick for support, but his brother appeared to be completely lost, staring in bewilderment at the face of Allanon. The dark man spoke quietly.
«You do have Elven blood in you, Shea, and you are not the true son of Curzad Ohmsford. That you must know. And Eventine is not directly of the blood of Shannara.»
«I have always known that I was an adopted son,” the Valeman admitted, «but surely I could not have come from… Flick, tell him!»
But his brother just stared at him in astonishment, unable to frame an answer to the question. Shea stopped speaking abruptly, shaking his head in disbelief. Allanon nodded.
«You are a son of the House of Shannara — a half son only, however, and far removed from the direct line of descent that can be traced down through the last five hundred years. I knew you as a child, Shea, before you were taken into the Ohmsford household as their own son. Your father was Elven — a very fine man. Your mother was of the race of Man. They both died when you were still very young, and you were given to Curzad Ohmsford to raise as his own son. But you are a son of Jerle Shannara, albeit a distant son and not of pure Elven blood.»
Shea nodded absently at the tall man’s explanation, confused and still suspicious. Flick was looking at his brother. as if he had never seen him before.
«What does all this mean?» he asked Allanon eagerly.
«What I have told you is known also to the Lord of Darkness, though he does not yet know where you live or who you are. But his emissaries will find you sooner or later, and when they do, you will be destroyed.»
Shea’s head jerked up, and he looked at Flick fearfully, remembering the tale of the huge shadow seen near the lip of the Vale. His brother, too, felt a sudden chill, recalling that awful feeling of terror.
«But why?» asked Shea quickly. «What have I done to deserve, that?»
«You must understand many things, Shea, before you can understand the answer to that question,” replied Allanon, «and I have not the time to explain them all now. You must believe me when I tell you that you are descended from Jerle Shannara, that you are of Elven blood, and that the Ohmsfords are a foster family to you. You were not the only son of the House of Shannara, but you are the only son who survives today. The others were Elven, and they were easily found and destroyed. That is what prevented the Dark Lord from finding you for so long — he was unaware that there was a half sort alive in the Southland. The Elven kin he knew of from the first.
«But know this, Shea. The power of the Sword is unlimited — it is the one great fear with which Brona lives, the one power he may not withstand. The legend of the Sword is a powerful amulet in the hands of the races, and Brona means to put an end to the legend. He will do this by destroying the entire house of Shannara, so that no son will come forth to draw the Sword against him.»
«But I did not even know of the Sword,” protested Shea. «I did not even know who I was, or anything about the Northland or about …»
«It does not matter!» cut in Allanon sharply. «If you are dead, there can be no doubt about you.»
His voice died away in a weary murmur, and he turned to look again at the distant mountaintops beyond the fringe of tall elms. Shea lay back slowly on the soft grass, staring at the pale blue of the late winter sky laced with small, soft wisps of white cloud that drifted from the tall hills. For a few pleasant moments the presence of Allanon and the threat of death were submerged in the sleepy warmth of the afternoon sun and the fresh smell of the lofty, trees towering over him. He closed his eyes and thought of his life in the Vale, of the plans that he had made with Flick, of their hopes for the future. They would all go up in smoke if what he had been told were true. He lay quietly considering these things, and finally sat up, his arms braced behind him.
«I’m not sure what to think,” he began slowly. «There are so many questions I have to ask you. I feel confused by the whole idea of being someone other than an Ohmsford — someone threatened with death at the hands of a… a myth. What do you suggest that I do?»
Allanon smiled warmly for the first time.
«For the moment, do nothing. There is no immediate danger to you. Think about what I have told you and we will speak further of the implications another time. I shall be glad to answer all your questions then. But do not talk about this to anyone else, not even your father. Act as if this conversation had never taken place until we have a chance to work out the problems further.»
The young men looked at each other and nodded in agreement, though it would be difficult to pretend that nothing had happened. Allanon rose silently, stretching his tall frame to relieve cramped muscles. The brothers rose with him and stood quietly as he looked down at them.
«Legends and myths that did not exist in yesterday’s world will exist in tomorrow’s. Things of evil, ruthless and cunning, after lying dormant for centuries, will now awaken. The shadow of the Warlock Lord begins to fall across the four lands.»