Terry Brooks - The Sword of Shannara

The
Sword
of
Shannara

Terry Brooks

Illustrated by the Brothers Hildebrant

Contents

ATOP THE DRUIDS KEEP

Slowly the survivors of the quest filed into the stone chamber, smiles on their faces, their wounds forgotten.

In the exact center of the rounded chamber, set in the polished surface of the giant Tre-Stone, they beheld the legendary Sword of Shannara, blade downward like a gleaming cross of silver and gold.

At last, after all their effort, the endless marches, the miserable days and nights, there before them stood the ancient talisman they had risked everything to find. Allanon was missing, and Shea was lost as well. But the Sword of Shannara was theirs. They had outwitted the Warlock Lord.

Where is Flick? the Elf asked suddenly. For the first time they realized that he was missing. They glanced about the chamber, looking blankly at one another for explanation. Then Menion Leah, who had turned back to the gleaming Sword, watched the impossible happen.

The great block of Tre-Stone and its precious display began to shimmer and dissolve before his astonished eyes. It took only seconds for the entire image to fade into smoke, and at last into the air itself until the men stood alone in an empty room, staring into space.

A trap! The third trap! roared Menion, recovering from the initial shock

Marvelous! I enjoyed every moment of it.

FRANK HERBERT

Author of Dune

Brooks unfolds a luxurious tapestry of adventure, studded with exciting action and sparkling with several sharp characterizations...this first novel is a superior sword-and-sorcery tale for adult tastes.

ALA Booklist

THE SWORD
OF
SHANNARA

By Terry Brooks
Published by Ballantine Books:

FIRST KING OF SHANNARA

THE SWORD OF SHANNARA

THE ELFSTONES OF SHANNARA

THE WISHSONG OF SHANNARA

The Heritage of Shannara:

THE SCIONS OF SHANNARA

THE DRUID OF SHANNARA

THE ELF QUEEN OF SHANNARA

THE TALISMANS OF SHANNARA

The Magic Kingdom of Landover:

MAGIC KINGDOM FOR SALESOLD!

THE BLACK UNICORN

WIZARD AT LARGE

THE TANGLE BOX

WITCHES BREW

RUNNING WITH THE DEMON

A KNIGHT OF THE WORD

ANGEL FIRE EAST*

HOOK

*Forthcoming

A Del Rey Book

BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book

Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright 1977 by Terry Brooks
Illustrations copyright 1977 by Random House, Inc.

Excerpt from The Measure of the Magic copyright 2011 by Terry Brooks.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Del Rey and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.randomhouse.com/BB/

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 76-53925

Illustrated by the Brothers Hildebrandt

This book contains an excerpt from The Measure of the Magic by Terry Brooks. This excerpt has been set for this edition and may not reflect the final content of the book.

eISBN: 978-0-345-44464-6

v3.0_r1

For My Parents,
Who Believed

Read on for an excerpt from

The Measure of the Magic

by Terry Brooks

Published by Del Rey Books

ONE

H UMMING TUNELESSLY, THE RAGPICKER WALKED the barren, empty wasteland in the aftermath of a rainstorm. The skies were still dark with clouds and the earth was sodden and slick with surface water, but none of that mattered to him. Others might prefer the sun and blue skies and the feel of hard, dry earth beneath their feet, might revel in the brightness and the warmth. But life was created in the darkness and damp of the womb, and the ragpicker took considerable comfort in knowing that procreation was instinctual and needed nothing of the face of natures disposition that he liked the least.

He was an odd-looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical figure. He was tall and whipcord-thin, and he walked like a long-legged waterbird. Dressed in dark clothes that had seen much better days, he tended to blend in nicely with the mostly colorless landscape he traveled. He carried his rags and scraps of cloth in a frayed patchwork bag slung over one shoulder, the bag looking very much as if it would rip apart completely with each fresh step its bearer took. A pair of scuffed leather boots completed the ensemble, scavenged from a dead man some years back, but still holding up quite nicely.

Everything about the ragpicker suggested that he was harmless. Everything marked him as easy prey in a world where predators dominated the remnants of a decimated population. He knew how he looked to the things that were always hunting, what they thought when they saw him coming. But that was all right. He had stayed alive this long by keeping his head down and staying out of harms way. People like him, they didnt get noticed. The trick was in not doing anything to call attention to yourself.

So he tried hard to give the impression that he was nothing but a poor wanderer who wanted to be left alone, but you didnt always get what you wanted in this world. Even now, other eyes were sizing him up. He could feel them doing so, several pairs in several different places. Those that belonged to the animalsthe things that the poisons and chemicals had turned into mutantswere already turning away. Their instincts were sharper, more finely tuned, and they could sense when something wasnt right. Given the choice, they would almost always back away.

It was the eyes of the human predators that stayed fixed on him, eyes that lacked the awareness necessary to judge him properly. Two men were studying him now, deciding whether or not to confront him. He would try to avoid them, of course. He would try to make himself seem not worth the trouble. But, again, you didnt always get what you wanted.

He breathed in the cool, damp air, absorbing the taste of the rains aftermath on his tongue, of the stirring of stagnation and sickness generated by the pounding of the sudden storm, of the smells of raw earth and decay, the whole of it marvelously welcome. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could pretend he was the only one left in the world. He could think of it all as his private preserve, his special place, and imagine everything belonged to him.

He could pretend that nothing would ever bother him again.

His humming dropped away, changing to a little song:

Ragpicker, ragpicker, what you gonna do

When the hunters are hunting and theyre hunting for you.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, just stay low.

If you dont draw attention they might let you go.

He hummed a few more bars, wondering if he had gotten past the predators. He was thinking it was almost time to stop and have something to drink and eat. But that would have to wait. He sighed, his lean, sharp-featured face wreathed in a tight smile that caused the muscles of his jaw to stand out like cords.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, youre all alone.

The hunters that are hunting want to pick your bones.

Ragpicker, ragpicker, just walk on.

If you wait them out they will soon be gone.

He crossed a meadow, a small stream filled with muddy water, a rocky flat in which tiny purple flowers were blooming, and a withered woods in which a handful of poplars grew sparse and separate as if strangers to one another. Ahead, there was movement in a rugged mass of boulders that formed the threshold to foothills leading up to the next chain of mountains, a high and wild and dominant presence. He registered the movement, ignored it. Those who had been watching him were still there and growing restless; he must skirt their hiding place and hope they were distracted by other possibilities. But there didnt appear to be anyone else out here other than himself, and he was afraid that they would come after him just because they were bored.