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SERIES TTLE: Genesis of Shannara

Written by Terry BrooksAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Terry Brooks


List Price: $7.99


On Sale: August 26, 2008
Pages: 0 | ISBN: 978-0-345-50955-0
Published by : Del Rey Ballantine Group
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Terry Brooks won instant acclaim with his phenomenal New York Times bestseller The Sword of Shannara. Its sequels earned Brooks legendary status. Then his darkly enthralling The Word and the Void trilogy revealed new depths and vistas to his mastery of epic fantasy. Armageddon’s Children and The Elves of Cintra took Brooks’s remarkable mythos to a breathtaking new level by delving deep into the history of Shannara. And now, The Gypsy Morph rounds out–with an adventure of unforgettably imaginative scope–the first phase of a new chapter in this classic series.

Eighty years into the future, the United States is a no-man’s-land: its landscape blighted by chemical warfare, pollution, and plague; its government collapsed; its citizens adrift, desperate, fighting to stay alive. In fortified compounds, survivors hold the line against wandering predators, rogue militias, and hideous mutations spawned from the toxic environment, while against them all stands an enemy neither mortal nor merciful: demons and their minions bent on slaughtering and subjugating the last of humankind.

But from around the country, allies of good unite to challenge the rampaging evil. Logan Tom, wielding the magic staff of a Knight of the Word, has a promise to keep–protecting the world’s only hope of salvation–and a score to settle with the demon that massacred his family. Angel Perez, Logan’s fellow Knight, has risked her life to aid the elvish race, whose peaceful, hidden realm is marked for extermination by the forces of the Void. Kirisin Belloruus, a young elf entrusted with an ancient magic, must deliver his entire civilization from a monstrous army. And Hawk, the rootless boy who is nothing less than destiny’s instrument, must lead the last of humanity to a latter-day promised land before the final darkness falls.

The Gypsy Morph is an epic saga of a world in flux as the mortal realm yields to a magical one; as the champions of the Word and the Void clash for the last time to decide what will be and what must cease; and as, from the remnants of a doomed age, something altogether extraordinary rises.

From the Hardcover edition.



Wills walked the empty corridors of Hell, looking for the code. He walked these same corridors every day, all day, searching, thinking that there had to be someplace he had overlooked and that on this day he would find it. But he never did. And knew in his heart that he never would.

It was over. For all of them. In more ways than one. The others were already a long time dead. The entire command, wiped out by whatever virus had wormed its way in, sliding down through the air vents past the filters and cleaners and medico screens and whatever other safeguards the builders had installed all those years ago. They hadn’t all died at once, of course. Eight of them had, and that was now more than two years ago. At least, that’s how long he thought it had been. Time was uncertain. The rest had died one by one, some sickening right away, others staying healthy and providing false hope that a few might survive.

But none of them had. Only him. He had no idea why. He had no sense of being different from the others, but obviously he was. Some small genetic trait. Some antibody peculiar to him. Or maybe he was mistaken and it was just plain old luck. He was alive; they were dead. No sense to any of it. No prize awarded to the last man standing. Just a mystery without a solution.

Abramson and Perlo had been the last to go. If you didn’t count Major ?whatever-?her-?name-?was. Anders, Andrews, something like that. He couldn’t remember anymore. Anyway, there was never much hope for her. She got sick and stayed sick. By the time she died, she had already been dead for weeks in every way that mattered, her brain fried, memory emptied, mouth drooling. Just lying on the floor making weird sounds and staring at them. Just gibbering about nothing, her eyes wide and rolling, her face all twisted. He would have put a stop to it if he could have made himself do so. But he couldn’t. It took Perlo to do that. Perlo hadn’t harbored the same reservations he had. He ?hadn’t liked her anyway, he told them. Even when she hadn’t been sick, when she was normal, she was irritating. So it was easy, putting the gun to her head and pulling the trigger. She probably would have thanked him if she could have, he said afterward.

Two weeks later, Perlo was dead, too, shot with the same gun. He’d decided he couldn’t stand the waiting and pulled the trigger a second time. Left the gun with an almost full clip for the other two, an unspoken suggestion that they might be wise to follow him.

They hadn’t taken the hint. Abramson had lasted almost seven months longer, and he and Wills made a good pair in that short time. They were both midwestern boys married young, gone into the service of their country, officer training, fast track to promotion, full of patriotic duty and a sense of pride in wearing the uniform. Both had been pilots before assuming command positions. All that was dead and gone, but they liked talking about how it had been when things were better. They liked remembering because it made them feel that even though things had turned out the way they had, there had been a reason for sticking with it, a purpose to their lives.

It was hard for Wills to remember what that purpose was, now. Once Abramson was gone there had been no one to discuss it with, and over time the nature of the reason had eroded in the silence of the complex. Sometimes he sang or talked to himself, but that wasn’t the same as having someone else there. Rather, it made him think of all the stories of prisoners who went slowly mad in solitary confinement, left alone with themselves and the sound of their own voice for too many months. Or too many years. It would be years for him if nothing changed, if he didn’t find anyone, if no one came.

Major Adam Wills. That was who he had been, who the military would say he still was, serving his country deep in the bowels of the earth, a quarter mile underground beneath tons of rock and steel-? reinforced concrete, somewhere in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Where he had been now for five long years, waiting.

He thought about that word. Waiting. He stopped walking and stood in the center of one of the endless corridors and thought about it. Waiting. For what? It seemed to change with the passing of time. At first, he had been waiting for the wars to be over. Then he had been waiting for someone to come to relieve those on duty in the missile command center who were left alive. Then he had been waiting to be let out because he couldn’t get out if someone in authority, someone who could tell him it was time to leave, didn’t key the locks to the elevators from the surface.

For a long time after he knew that there might be no one left in authority, he had simply been waiting for his transmitter signals to raise a response from any source. He no longer used a secure code. He simply opened all channels and broadcast mayday. He knew what was happening aboveground. The cameras told him much of the story. A bleak, barren countryside, a few wandering bands of what appeared to be raiders, a handful of creatures he had never seen before and hoped never to see again, and endless days of sunshine and no rain. Colorado had always been dry, but never like this. It had to rain sooner or later, he kept telling himself.

Didn’t it?

Waiting for it to rain.

The government had been all but obliterated even before he had been sent to Deep Rock, the nickname given to the missile command complex. He was still on the surface then, stationed at a base in North Dakota, living in military housing with his family. Washington had been taken out in the first strike, and most of the East Coast cities shortly after. The environment was already in upheaval, huge portions of the country all but uninhabitable. Terrorists were at work. Plague had begun to spread. His last orders had sent him here, joining the others who had been dispatched to the bunkers and the redoubts and the protected complexes that honeycombed the country. A general from the National Command Authority was issuing the orders by then and not just to them but to the whole country. The orders had been grim and everyone had known that things were bad, but they had also known that they would get through it. There had been camaraderie, a sense of sharing a disaster where everyone would have to help everyone else. No one had doubted that they would survive, that they could withstand the worst.

After all, Americans always had. No matter how bad it had gotten, they had managed to find a way. They would this time, too. They were infused with pride and confidence, the certainty that they had the training, the skills, and the determination that were needed. They had even accepted without question that they would have to leave their families behind.

Wills smiled despite himself. What blind fools they had been.

He had quit believing when he heard the last radio broadcasts, heard the descriptions of mass hysteria, and listened to the final pleas and desperate prayers of the few reporters and announcers still on the air. The destruction was complete and total and worldwide. No one had been spared. Armed strikes, chemical warfare, plague infestation, environmental collapse, terrorist attacks—a checklist of assorted forms of madness that proved overwhelming. Millions were dead and millions more dying. Hundreds of millions worldwide. Entire cities had been obliterated. Governments were gone, armies were gone, everything even faintly resembling order was gone. He had tried to reach his family at the base in North Dakota, but there had been no response. After a while, he accepted that there never would be. They were gone, too—his wife, his two boys, his parents, all of his aunts and uncles and cousins and maybe everyone else he had ever known.

It began to feel like everyone was gone except for those few hunkered down in Deep Rock, waiting their turn to go, too.

Which, of course, had arrived all too soon.

Wills walked on, walked on, walked on. He had no destination, no particular route, and no plan. He walked to have something to do. Even though the complex had only eight rooms, not counting storage lockers and the cold room. Even though there were only three short corridors that, when added together, measured no more than a hundred yards. He carried his handheld receiver, which was linked to the communications center, which in turn was linked to the satellite system. It was a waste of time, but he carried it out of habit. Someone might call. You never knew.

At the cold room, he stopped and stared at the heavy iron doors. He imagined what lay behind them, but only for a moment, because that was all he could bear. Seventeen men and women, stacked like cordwood in an ?eight-?by-?ten space. Stacked with the perishable food, which had long since perished. He couldn’t bear thinking about what was happening to the bodies, even at the freezing temperatures the cooling system maintained. He hadn’t gone in there since he had added Abramson to the pile, and he was pretty sure he would never go in there again. What was the point?

Still, he stood at the doors and stared at them for a long time, his mind conjuring dark images. In the old days, this wouldn’t have happened; they wouldn’t have all been grouped together where a virus could wipe them out. They would have been assigned to a dozen different command centers. You wouldn’t have found more than two or three staffing any one, each center responsible for only a handful of silos. But near the end, when it became clear to someone in authority that an enemy strike was imminent, they had established this base, believing a central command center necessary. It had become home to dozens of teams moving in and out over a ?twenty-?year period, each waiting for the call. His group of nine had been the last, but the team before his, the one on which Abramson served, had been unable to leave. The National Command Authority had decided to seal them in as a precaution. Rotation of personnel was temporarily suspended.

Just until conditions improved.

When he walked on again, he did so with less purpose, his head lowered. He should do something, but he couldn’t think what. He wanted out of there badly, but he couldn’t manage it by himself. Not unless he found the code he was searching for, the code that would activate the elevators and open the outer doors. That was the way the complex was constructed, a safeguard against infiltration by unauthorized personnel. The military thought of everything. He grinned. Sure, they did. They just overlooked the possibility that those inside might not be able to get out if the code was lost.

Or maybe they hadn’t overlooked it. Maybe they just didn’t care.

As commanding officer, Aroñez had carried the code coming in. He was the one who knew it, no one else. After gaining them entrance he had put it away, and everyone had forgotten about it. Except that when he caught the virus, he didn’t think to pass it on. Or maybe he did think and decided against it. Cold and calculating Aroñez—it was possible. He might have. In any case he was dead within twenty-four hours, and the secret of the code’s whereabouts had died with him.

Except that Wills knew that it had to be written down somewhere, a safeguard that Aroñez would not have disregarded.

So he searched. Each day, all day. Endlessly.

He wasn’t sure why. Even if he could get out, what would he do? He was miles from anything and had no direct knowledge of where anyone was. His family? His home? His superiors at the National Command Authority? Gone. Oh, there might be someone left somewhere, but it was unlikely to be anyone who could issue orders, who could take his place, who would know what needed doing.

It was unlikely to be anyone who could lift from his shoulders the burden he bore, anyone to whom he could pass the pair of red keys he wore on a chain about his neck.

He reached down to finger their irregular shapes through the fabric of his shirt. His and Abramson’s. Well, not really Abramson’s. Abramson had taken his from Reacher after he died, because someone needed to have it, just in case it was required. When Abramson was gone, Wills had taken that one, too.

Just in case.

Yeah, just in case.

As he fingered the keys, he thought about what was once the unthinkable. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. Even though thinking about it was dark and terrifying.

He thought about the missiles.

He thought about launching them.

He could do so. Had done so, back in the beginning when the general was running the country. The general had the code and had authorized the launches. A handful of surgical strikes against countries and bases that, in turn, were targeting them. Wills had used the key together with another man he couldn’t remember. What was his name— Graham or Graves, a captain maybe? They had turned their keys together to open the switches and activate the triggers. They had waited as the trajectories had been punched in and the release mechanisms activated. Armed and ready, the warheads had been dispatched from miles away in a silence that within their underground command center was deafening.

But that was the end of it. There had been nothing since. The general had never contacted them again. No one had. The communications board had gone silent and stayed silent. The cameras had shown them snatches of life moving on the surface, much of it strange and frightening, but communications had ceased. They were left to wait, cocooned in a vacuum of fear and doubt, of non-information and empty hope.

But there were dozens of missiles still active and available. Dozens, all armed with nuclear warheads, some here in their mountain silos, some as far away as what remained of the coasts. The navy was gone and the air force with it. No ships sailed and no planes flew—at least not those of a military nature. Everything that was left that was usable was in the silos. But that was enough to take out anything.

Or everything.

From the Hardcover edition.
Terry Brooks|Author Q&A

About Terry Brooks

Terry Brooks - The Gypsy Morph

Photo © Judine Brooks

Terry Brooks has thrilled readers for decades with his powers of imagination and storytelling. He is the author of more than thirty books, most of which have been New York Times bestsellers. He lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Terry Brooks

Del Rey:Your new novel, The Gypsy Morph, brings the Genesis of Shannara trilogy to a close. Do you feel any kind of letdown in finishing a major story cycle like this and saying good-bye to characters you've spent years living with and thinking about? Do you need some time to let your creative energies recover or do you begin another project right away?

Terry Brooks:First of all, the Genesis of Shannara does not conclude with publication of The Gypsy Morph. That trilogy is merely the first step in a series that is intended to run eight or nine books before it is finished. But, sure, I feel something of a letdown when I finish any book, which is why I go right into the next one. In this case, I have nearly finished it and will turn it in to the publisher later this month.

DR:I don't want to reveal any spoilers, but even though The Gypsy Morph closes one chapter in the history of Shannara, there's still a lot to explore in future novels. Are you going to continue to fill the gaps of your fictional history, for instance the events leading up to the First Council of Druids and the origin of the Ohmsford family?

TB:I am. As stated immediately above, I think I will go a total of eight or nine books altogether, and I will take the story all the way up to the First Council of Druids. It might take awhile, but I will get there eventually.

DR:There's also room in the other direction of the time-line, looking back thousands of years to the events that sent the elves into hiding. Have you considered expanding the saga in that direction?

TB:I get asked about this regularly, but it isn’t something I am actively working on. It takes enough time thinking and writing about the Genesis of Shannara and the future of Shannara time periods. For now, those will have to do.

DR:A lot of writers see themselves as active creators and readers as passive recipients who fall under the spell of the storyteller and are swept along. Your view of storytelling seems more dynamic and interactive, a kind of collaboration with readers. How do you engage your readers on this level?

TB:My theory of storytelling is that you have to let the reader meet you halfway for them to become truly invested in the story. The trick is in not giving the readers too much of your vision and letting them make use of their own. So, for example, in describing the monsters I give just enough bare-bones descriptions to require that the readers flesh out the creature using their own vision. Same with dialogue. Don’t say everything; let the reader decide some of it. I also think a writer should never wrap up all the loose ends in a story. It is more fun is there is some uncertainty that requires readers to decide for themselves what happens after the last page is turned.

DR:There are many memorable characters in this trilogy, but my favorite is Logan Tom. As a Knight of the Word, he is endowed with incredible magic, but he also shoulders a crushing burden of responsibility. His motivations are selfish–the desire to avenge the deaths of his parents at the hands of the demon Findo Gask–yet at the same time he is capable of great altruism and self-sacrifice. He wrestles with all the doubts and desires of a man . . . while possessing knowledge and powers that set him apart from those he is sworn to protect. He reminds me a bit of the Druids that play such important roles in the later history of Shannara, but he seems more human for some reason.

TB:Is there a question in there somewhere, or am I allowed to ramble?

DR:Ramble on, please!

TB:There is certainly a suggestion of Druidic comparison in the depiction of the Knights of the Word. Interestingly enough, it is not my intention that the Knights serve as ancestors to the Druids. It is not a direct line of descent, as readers will discover in later books. There, as a result of your relentless probing, I’ve given away a major plot point! I hope you are satisfied.

DR:The central character in the trilogy is Hawk, the gypsy morph of this novel's title. As a gypsy morph, Hawk is an embodiment of wild magic. What is wild magic, and how is it different from the magic of the Word and the magic wielded by the King of the Silver River?

TB:Oh, good–an easy question! Not. Okay, let me give this a shot. As I see it, wild magic is a confluence of various magics brought together through an act of nature. It is always unexpected and unplanned and happens only infrequently. When it does, something special is created. The magic is powerful and does not always immediately manifest itself in the form it will settle on. It is also not always clear if the magic will be good or evil. Mostly, it happens and takes its own course of action, and no one can influence it. But sometimes others will try to catch hold of it early and make use of it, which is what happened with the gypsy morph. Regular magic (sounds like an oxymoron to me) is more predictable and more limited in its usage and less powerful. Magic in general is never certain, but there are degrees of this.

DR:Also, does the magic of the Word and the Void flow from the same source, or are they two different things?

TB:They are flip sides of the same coin. Magic is indiscriminate and non-selective. Like science in our world, magic in the world of the Four Lands and in the stories of Genesis of Shannara have the same source and are good or bad depending on usage — or, more particularly, depending on the user’s intent. Remember that demons were once human until they became subverted by the magic and their hunger to possess and to consume it. Everything is very closely linked.

DR:Echoing the storyline of Hawk's struggle to come to terms with his abilities and destiny is that of Kirisin, the young elf entrusted with the Elfstones and the safety of all Elvenkind. This seems to be one of your major concerns, a theme you return to again and again in your novels.

TB:I sometimes think that being a first-born, a father and a grandfather forces me to pay special attention to this issue. Seriously, we are all given certain responsibilities in life, some of which we don’t particularly want to have to deal with, some of which seem overwhelming. So we can all identify with the sorts of struggles that Hawk and Kirisin and my other protagonists face. It is an endlessly complex and compelling theme, this business of coming to terms with the demands of our lives, and I think readers look for answers in the stories we write.

DR:One thing all three of these characters come to share is an appreciation of the dangers of magic. Logan Tom even goes so far as to call magic a kind of drug, a tool that can corrupt its user. Yet it's also the last, best hope of all that's good against the evil of the Void. As you said a minute ago, it really is similar to science and technology, isn't it?

TB:Exactly. In all instances, it is about usage of power. Power is a kind of drug, seductive and addictive. The difference is that power has multiple faces and can result in multiple outcomes. It takes all these different forms, but the one common denominator is its ability to change lives and in extreme cases entire worlds.

DR:There's a kind of truism about fantasy, that it's not really an escape from reality but rather a different way of engaging with it. Certainly in The Gypsy Morph and the other novels of this trilogy, the post-9/11 world is very much in evidence, with themes of terrorism and environmental catastrophe running through the narrative. In the face of these challenges, both humans and elves turn toward isolation; rather than confronting evil, they try to hide from it or ignore it, until it's almost too late. Do you think that is a problem in today's world?

TB:Well, duh. Not only of today’s world, but also of all the worlds gone past and all that will ever be. It is genetically ingrained in all of us and symptomatic of the human condition. A normal response to most problems that seem threatening is to try to avoid them. Heroes don’t just go charging off searching for monstrous threats to confront. Not in the real world, and that is always the world I am writing about. Real people only confront such threats when no other reasonable choice is left. I think that is just human nature.

DR:As a writer, do you see yourself as a "Knight of the Word"?

TB:No, I am not quite that egocentric or deluded, you can take your choice. I see myself as a storyteller, and that is quite enough responsibility for one lifetime, thank you very much. I write about how we would all like to be, but mostly are not.

DR:In our last interview, you mentioned that you were thinking about a new novel set in your Magic Kingdom world. Have you started that? Can you tell us anything about it?

TB:This is the book I mentioned in my answer to question one. I had decided several years ago that it was time to do a new Landover book. I haven’t published one since the mid-1990s and that segment of my readership is feeling badly used. So it took me until now, but I finally got it done and it will publish next year. I can tell you that the featured character is Mistaya Holiday, Ben and Willow’s daughter from the last book, who is now fifteen and attending boarding school in Ben’s world with rather limited success.

DR:You also mentioned that Warner had optioned the Shannara movie rights. Is there anything new on that front?

TB:Things are moving along. Mike Newell came aboard as director some time back. He has a great career already and has made many movies of all sorts, including Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire most recently and is now involved in a big movie called Prince of Persia. When he finishes work of Prince of Persia, Elfstones of Shannara is his next project. We hope to hear who will be writing the screenplay shortly.

DR:Wow, that is exciting news!

From the Hardcover edition.



Praise for Terry Brooks

“A great storyteller, Terry Brooks creates rich epics filled with mystery, magic, and memorable characters. If you haven’t read Terry Brooks, you haven’t read fantasy.”
–Christopher Paolini, author of Eragon and Brisingr

“Terry’s place is at the head of the fantasy world.”
–Philip Pullman, author of The Golden Compass

The Elves of Cintra

“Hair-raising . . . [a] fascinating group of characters tackling harrowing and inspiring life and death issues.”
–Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Plenty of thrills.”
–Entertainment Weekly

From the Hardcover edition.

  • The Gypsy Morph by Terry Brooks
  • July 28, 2009
  • Fiction - Fantasy
  • Del Rey
  • $7.99
  • 9780345484154

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