The Scions Of Shannara: Heritage of Shannara

A writer since high school, Terry Brooks published his first novel, The Sword of Shannara, in 1977. It was a New York Times bestseller for more than five months. He has published seventeen consecutive bestsellers since, including The Voyage of the Jerle Shannara: Ilse Witch and the novel based upon the screenplay and story by George Lucas: Star Wars®: Episode I The Phantom Menace™. His novels Running with the Demon and A Knight of the Word were each selected by the Rocky Mountain News as one of the best science fiction/ fantasy novels of the twentieth century.

The author was a practicing attorney for many years but now writes full-time. He lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest and Hawaii.

Visit us online at www.shannara.com.

The old man sat alone in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth and watched the coming darkness chase the
daylight west. The day had been cool, unusually so for midsummer, and the night promised to be
chill. Scattered clouds masked the sky, casting their silhouettes upon the earth, drifting in the
manner of aimless beasts between moon and stars. A hush filled the emptiness left by the fading
light like a voice waiting to speak.

It was a hush that whispered of magic, the old man thought.

A fire burned before him, small still, just the beginning of what was
needed. After all, he would be gone for several hours. He studied the
fire with a mixture of expectation and uneasiness before reaching down
to add the larger chunks of deadwood that brought the flames up quickly.
He poked at it with a stick, then stepped away, driven back by the heat.
He stood at the edge of the light, caught between the fire and the
growing dark, a creature who might have belonged to neither or both.

His eyes glittered as he looked off into the distance. The peaks of the
Dragona's Teeth jutted skyward like bones the earth could not contain.
There was a hush to the mountains, a secrecy that clung like mist on a
frosty morning and hid all the dreams of the ages.

The fire sparked sharply and the old man brushed at a stray bit of
glowing ash that threatened to settle on him. He was just a bundle of
sticks, loosely tied together, that might crumble into dust if a strong
wind were to blow. Gray robes and a forest cloak hung on him as they
would have on a scarecrow. His skin was leathery and brown and had
shrunken close against his bones. White hair and beard wreathed his
head, thin and fine, like wisps of gauze against the firelight. He was
so wrinkled and hunched down that he looked to be a hundred years old.

He was, in fact, almost a thousand.

Strange, he thought suddenly, remembering his years. Paranor, the
Councils of the Races, even the Druids--gone. Strange that he should
have outlasted them all.

He shook his head. It was so long ago, so far back in time that it was a
part of his life he only barely recognized. He had thought that part
finished, gone forever. He had thought himself free. But he had never
been that, he guessed. It wasn't possible to be free of something
that, at the very least, was responsible for the fact that he was still
alive.

How else, after all, save for the Druid Sleep, could he still be
standing there?

He shivered against the descending night, darkness all about him now as
the last of the sunlight slipped below the horizon. It was time. The
dreams had told him it must be now, and he believed the dreams because
he understood them. That, too, was a part of his old life that would not
let him goaO"dreams, visions of worlds beyond worlds, of warnings and
truths, of things that could and sometimes must be.

He stepped away from the fire and started up the narrow pathway into the
rocks. Shadows closed about him, their touch chill. He walked for a long
time, winding through narrow defiles, scrambling past massive boulders,
angling along craggy drops and jagged splits in the rock. When he
emerged again into the light, he stood within a shallow, rock-strewn
valley dominated by a lake whose glassy surface reflected back at him
with a harsh, greenish cast.

The lake was the resting place for the shades of Druids come and gone.
It was to the Hadeshorn that he had been summoned.

"Might as well get on with it,?" he growled softly.

He walked slowly, cautiously downward into the valley, his steps uneasy,
his heart pounding in his ears. He had been away a long time. The waters
before him did not stir; the shades lay sleeping. It was best that way,
he thought. It was best that they not be disturbed.

He reached the lake's edge and stopped. All was silent. He took a deep
breath, the air rattling from his chest as he exhaled like dry leaves
blown across stone. He fumbled at his waist for a pouch and loosened its
drawstrings. Carefully he reached within and drew out a handful of black
powder laced with silver sparkle. He hesitated, then threw it into the
air over the lake.

The powder exploded skyward with a strange light that brightened the air
about him as if it were day again. There was no heat, only light. It
shimmered and danced against the nighttime like a living thing. The old
man watched, robes and forest cloak pulled close, eyes bright with the
reflected glow. He rocked back and forth slightly and for a moment felt
young again.

Then a shadow appeared suddenly in the light, lifting out of it like a
wraith, a black form that might have been something strayed from the
darkness beyond. But the old man knew better. This was nothing strayed;
this was something called. The shadow tightened and took shape. It was
the shade of a man cloaked all in black, a tall and forbidding
apparition that anyone who had ever seen before would have recognized at
once.

"So, Allanon,?" the old man whispered.

The hooded face tilted back so that the light revealed the dark, harsh
features clearlyaO"the angular bearded face, the long thin nose and
mouth, the fierce brow that might have been cast of iron, the eyes
beneath that seemed to look directly into the soul. The eyes found the
old man and held him fast.
--I need you--

The voice was a whisper in the old man's mind, a hiss of
dissatisfaction and urgency. The shade communicated by using thoughts
alone. The old man shrank back momentarily, wishing that the thing he
had called would instead be gone. Then he recovered himself and stood
firm before his fears.

"I am no longer one of you!aO? he snapped, his own eyes narrowing
dangerously, forgetting that it was not necessary to speak aloud. aOoeYou
cannot command me!"

--I do not command. I request. Listen to me. You are all that is left,
the last that may be until my successor is found. Do you understand--

The old man laughed nervously. "Understand? Ha! Who understands better
than me?"

--A part of you will always be what once you would not have questioned.
The magic stays within you. Always. Help me. I send the dreams and the
Shannara children do not respond. Someone must go to them. Someone must
make them see. You--

"Not me! I have lived apart from the races for years now. I wish
nothing more to do with their troubles!" The old man straightened his
stick form and frowned. aOoeI shed myself of such nonsense long ago."

The shade seemed to rise and broaden suddenly before him, and he felt
himself lifted free of the earth. He soared skyward, far into the night.
He did not struggle, but held himself firm, though he could feel the
other's anger rushing through him like a black river. The shade's
voice was the sound of bones grating.

--Watcha--

The Four Lands appeared, spread out before him, a panorama of
grasslands, mountains, hills, lakes, forests, and rivers, bright
swatches of earth colored by sunlight. He caught his breath to see it so
clearly and from so far up in the sky, even knowing that it was only a
vision. But the sunlight began to fade almost at once, the color to
wash. Darkness closed about, filled with dull gray mist and sulfurous
ash that rose from burned-out craters. The land lost its character and
became barren and lifeless. He felt himself drift closer, repulsed as he
descended by the sights and smells of it. Humans wandered the
devastation in packs, more animals than men. They rent and tore at each
other; they howled and shrieked. Dark shapes flitted among them, shadows
that lacked substance yet had eyes of fire. The shadows moved through
the humans, joining with them, becoming them, leaving them again. They
moved in a dance that was macabre, yet purposeful. The shadows were
devouring the humans, he saw. The shadows were feeding on them.

--Watcha--

The vision shifted. He saw himself then, a skeletal, ragged beggar
facing a cauldron of strange white fire that bubbled and swirled and
whispered his name. Vapors lifted from the cauldron and snaked their way
down to where he stood, wrapping about him, caressing him as if he were
their child. Shadows flitted all about, passing by at first, then
entering him as if he were a hollow casing in which they might play as
they chose. He could feel their touch; he wanted to scream.

--Watch--

The vision shifted once more. There was a huge forest and in the middle
of the forest a great mountain. Atop the mountain sat a castle, old and
weathered, towers and parapets rising up against the dark of the land.
Paranor, he thought! It was Paranor come again! He felt something bright
and hopeful well up within him, and he wanted to shout his elation. But
the vapors were already coiling about the castle. The shadows were
already flitting close. The ancient fortress began to crack and crumble,
stone and mortar giving way as if caught in a vise. The earth shuddered
and screams lifted from the humans become animals. Fire erupted out of
the earth, splitting apart the mountain on which Paranor sat and then
the castle itself. Wailing filled the air, the sound of one bereft of
the only hope that had remained to him. The old man recognized the
wailing as his own.

Then the images were gone. He stood again before the Hadeshorn, in the
shadow of the Dragon's Teeth, alone with the shade of Allanon. In
spite of his resolve, he was shaking.

The shade pointed at him.

--It will be as I have shown you if the dreams are ignored. It will be
so if you fail to act. You must help. Go to themaO"the boy, the girl,
and the Dark Uncle. Tell them the dreams are real. Tell them to come to
me here on the first night of the new moon when the present cycle is
complete. I will speak with them then--

The old man frowned and muttered and worried his lower lip. His fingers
once more drew tight the drawstrings to the pouch, and he shoved it back
into his belt. "I will do so because there is no one else!" he said
finally, spitting out the words in distaste. "But do not expect . . .
!"

--Only go to them. Nothing more is required. Nothing more will be
asked. Go--

The shade of Allanon shimmered brightly and disappeared. The light
faded, and the valley was empty again. The old man stood looking out
over the still waters of the lake for a moment, then turned away.

The fire he had left behind still burned on his return, but it was small
now and frail-looking against the night. The old man stared absently at
the flames, then hunkered down before them. He stirred at the ashes
already forming and listened to the silence of his thoughts.

The boy, the girl, and the Dark Uncle--he knew them. They were the
Shannara children, the ones who could save them all, the ones who could
bring back the magic. He shook his grizzled head. How was he to convince
them? If they would not heed Allanon, what chance that they would heed
him?

He saw again in his mind the frightening visions. He had best find a way
to make them listen, he thought. Because, as he was fond of reminding
himself, he knew something of visions, and there was a truth to these
that even one such as he, one who had foresworn the Druids and their
magic, could recognize.

If the Shannara children failed to listen, these visions would come to
pass.

"If Harry Potter has given you a thirst for fantasy and you have not discovered the magic of Terry Brooks, you are in for a treat."
--Rocky Mountain News

"If you were delighted and entranced by Michael Ende's The Never Ending Story, you will definitely want to sample one of more of Terry Brooks's books."
--Santa Cruz Sentinel