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Legends of Shannara

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

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On Sale: August 23, 2011
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-345-52921-3
Published by : Del Rey Ballantine Group
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
 
For five hundred years, the survivors of the Great Wars lived peacefully in a valley sanctuary shielded by powerful magic from the dangerous outside world. But the enchanted barriers have crumbled, and the threat of annihilation looms large once more. As he lay dying, Sider Ament, bearer of the last black staff and protector of the valley, gave stewardship of the powerful talisman to the young Tracker Panterra Qu. Now the newly anointed Knight of the Word must take up the battle against evil wherever it threatens: from without, where an army of bloodthirsty Trolls is massing for invasion; and from within, where the Elf king of Arborlon has been murdered, his daughter stands accused, and a heinous conspiracy is poised to subjugate the kingdom. But even these affairs will pale beside the most harrowing menace Panterra is destined to confront—a nameless, merciless agent of darkness on a relentless mission: to claim the last black staff . . . and the life of whoever wields it.

Excerpt

One
 
Humming tunelessly, the ragpicker walked the barren, empty wasteland in the aftermath of the 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.  Others 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 nature’s disposition that he liked the least.

He was an odd looking fellow, an unprepossessing, almost comical tatterdemalion.  He was tall and whipcord thin, and he walked like one of those of those long-legged water birds.  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 bursting at the seams with its load, 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.  He knew what they thought when they saw him coming.  But that was all right.  He didn’t mind.  He had stayed alive this long by keeping his head down and staying out of harm’s way.  People like him, they didn’t get noticed.  The trick was in not doing anything to call attention to yourself.

So he tried hard to give the clear and unmistakable impression that he was nothing but a poor wanderer who wanted to be left alone, but you didn’t always get what you wanted in this world.  Even now, other eyes were already sizing him up.  He could feel them doing so, several pairs in several different places.  But those eyes that belonged to the animals – the things that the poisons and chemicals had turned into mutants – were already turning away.  Their instincts were sharper, more finely tuned, and they could sense when something wasn’t right.  Given the choice, they would almost always back away.

It was the eyes of the human freaks that stayed fixed on him, eyes that lacked the necessary awareness to judge him properly.  These were the predators that seldom sensed the danger and so almost never turned away.  Two were studying him now, deciding whether or not to confront him.  He sighed.  He would try to avoid them, of course.  He would try to make himself seem not worth the trouble.  But, again, you didn’t always get what you wanted.

He breathed in the cool, damp air, absorbing the taste of the rain’s aftermath on his tongue, of the stirring of stagnation and sickness generated by the pounding of the sudden rain, 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 pretend that what remained of the world was his and his alone.  He could think of it all as his private preserve, his special place, and imagine that he was all that was left and 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 they’re for hunting you.
Ragpicker, ragpicker, just stay low.
If you don’t 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, you’re 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 each other.  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 didn’t 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.
He continued on furtively, still humming softly.

Daylight leached away as the clouds began to thicken anew.  It might actually rain some more, he decided.  He glanced at the skies in all four directions, noting the movement of the clouds and the shifting of their shadows against the earth.  Yes, more rain coming.  Better that he find shelter soon.

He stalked up the slope into the rocks, his long thin legs stretching out, meandering here and there as if searching for the best way through, trying to move away from the watchers, trying to pretend he was heedless of them, that he knew nothing of them and they, in turn, should not want to bother with him.

But, suddenly, his worst fears were realized and just like that they were upon him.

They came out of the rocks, having moved from their previous hiding place, two shaggy-haired, ragged men, one large and one small, both carrying blades and clubs.  One was blind in one eye and the other limped badly.  They had seen hard times, the ragpicker thought, and they would not be likely to have seen much charity and therefore not much inclined to dispense any.  He stood where he was and waited on them patiently, knowing that flight was useless.

“You,” one-eye said, pointing a knife at him.  “What you got in that bag of yours?”

The ragpicker shrugged.  “Rags.  I collect them and barter for food and drink.  It’s what I do.”

“You got something more than that, I’d guess,” the second man, the larger of the two, the limper, said.  “Better show us what you got.”

The ragpicker hesitated, and then dumped everything on the ground, his entire collection of brightly colored scarves and bits of cloth, a few whole pieces of shirts and coats, a hat or two, some boots.  Everything he had managed to find in his travels of late that he hadn’t bargained away with the Trolls or such.

“That’s crap!” snarled one eye, thrusting his knife at the ragpicker, nearly pricking him with the tip.  “You got to do better than that!  You got to give us something of worth!”

“You got coin?” demanded the other.

Hopeless, the ragpicker thought.  No one had coin anymore and even if they did it was valueless.  Gold or silver, maybe.  A good weapon, especially one of the old automatics from the days of the Great Wars, would have meant something, would have been barter material.  But no one had coins.

“Don’t have any,” he said, backing away a step.  “Can I pick up my rags?”

One-eye stepped forward and ground the colored cloth into the ground with the heel of his boot.  “That’s what I think of your rags.  Now watch and see what I’m gonna do to you!”

The ragpicker backed away another step.  “Please, I don’t have anything to give you.  I just want you to let me pass.  I’m not worth your trouble.  Really.”

“You ain’t worth much, that’s for sure,” said the one who limped.  “But that don’t mean you get to go through here free.  This is our territory and no one passes without they make some payment to us!”

The two men came forward again, a step at a time, spreading out just a little to hem the ragpicker in, to keep him from making an attempt to get around them.  As if such a thing were possible, the ragpicker thought, given his age and condition and clear lack of athletic ability.  Did he look like he could get past them if he tried?  Did he look as if he could do anything?

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said suddenly, stopping short in his retreat.

“You might not fully understand what it is that you are doing.”

The predators stopped and stared at him, not quite believing what they were hearing.  “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” said the one that limped.  “Is that what you said, you skinny old rat?”

The ragpicker shook his head.  “It always comes down to this.  I don’t understand it.  Let me ask you something.  Do you know of a man who carries a black staff?”

The two exchanged a quick look.  “Who is he?” asked one-eye.  “Why would we know him?”

The ragpicker sighed.  “I don’t know that you do.  Probably you don’t.  But he would be someone who had real coin on him, should you know where to find him.  You don’t, do you?”

“Naw, don’t know anyone like that,” snarled one-eye.  He glanced at his companion.

“C’mon, let’s see what he’s hiding in that sack.”

They came at the ragpicker with their blades held ready, stuffing the clubs in their belts.  They were hunched forward slightly in preparation for getting past whatever defenses the scarecrow intended to offer, the blades held out in front of them.  The ragpicker stood his ground, no longer backing up, no longer looking as if he intended to try to escape.  In fact, he didn’t look quite the same man at all.  The change was subtle and hard to identify, but it was evident that something was different about him.  It was in his eyes as much as anywhere, in a gleam of madness that was bright and certain.  But it was in his stance, as well.  Before, he had looked like a frightened victim, someone who knew that he stood no chance at all against men like these.  Now, he had the appearance of someone who had taken control of matters in spite of his apparent inability to do so, and his two attackers didn’t like it.

But that didn’t stop them, of course.  Men of this sort were never stopped by what they couldn’t understand, only by what was bigger and stronger and better armed.  The ragpicker was none of these.  He was just an unlucky fool trying to be something he wasn’t, making a last ditch effort to hang onto his life.

One-eye struck first, his blade coming in low and swift towards the ragpicker’s belly.  The second man was only a step behind, striking out in a wild slash aimed at his victim’s exposed neck.  Neither blow reached its intended mark.  The ragpicker never seemed to move, but suddenly he had hold of both wrists, bony fingers locking on flesh and bone and squeezing until his attackers cried out in pain, dropped their weapons and sank to their knees in shock, struggling to break free.  But the ragpicker had no intention of releasing them.  He just held them where they were, on their knees before him, moaning and writhing, studying their agonized expressions.
“You shouldn’t make assumptions about people,” he lectured them, bending close enough that they could see the crimson glow in his eyes, a gleam of bloodlust and rage.  “You shouldn’t be like that.”

His hands tightened further, and smoke rose through his fingers where they gripped the men’s wrists.  Now the attackers were howling and screaming in agony as their imprisoned wrists and hands turned black and charred, burned from the inside out.
The ragpicker released them then and let them drop to the ground in huddled balls of quaking, blubbering despair, cradling their ruined arms, stricken by what had been done to them.

“You’ve ruined such a lovely day, too,” the ragpicker admonished.  “All I wanted was to be left alone to enjoy it, and now this.  You really are pigs of the worst sort, and pigs deserve to be roasted and eaten!”

They cried out anew at this and attempt to crawl away, but he was on them much too quickly, seizing their heads and holding them fast.  Smoke leaked from between his clutching fingers, rising from their heads in spiraling wisps, and the men jerked and writhed in response.

“How does that feel?” the ragpicker wanted to know.  “Can you tell what’s happening to you?  I’m cooking your brains, in case you’ve failed to recognize what you are experiencing.  Doesn’t feel very good, does it?”

It was a rhetorical question, which was just as well because neither man could manage any kind of intelligible answer.  All they could do was hang suspended from the ragpicker’s killing fingers until their brains were turned to mush and they were dead.
The ragpicker let them drop.  He thought about eating them, but the idea was too distasteful to consider seriously.  They were vermin, and he didn’t eat vermin.  So he stripped them of their clothing, taking small items for his collection, scraps of cloth from each man that would remind him later of who they had been, and left them for scavengers he knew would not be picky.  He gathered up his soiled rags from the earth into which they had been ground, brushed them off as best he could and returned them his carry bag.  When everything was in place, he gave the dead men a final glance and started off once more.
 
Bones of the dead left lying on the ground.
One more day and they will never be found.
Ragpicker, ragpicker, you never know
There are rags to be found wherever you go.

 
He sang it softly, repeated it a few times for emphasis, rearranging the words, and then went quiet.  An interesting diversion, but massively unproductive.  He had hoped the two creatures might have information about the man with the black staff, but they had disappointed him.  So he would have to continue the search without any useful information to aid him.  All he knew was what he sensed, and what he sensed would have to be enough for now.

The man he sought was somewhere close, probably somewhere up in those mountains he was walking towards.  So eventually he would find him.
Eventually.

The ragpicker allowed himself a small smile.  There was no hurry.  Time was something he had as much of as he needed.

Time didn’t really matter when you were a demon.


From the Hardcover edition.
Terry Brooks

About Terry Brooks

Terry Brooks - The Measure of the Magic

Photo © Judine Brooks

Terry Brooks is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty-five books, including the Genesis of Shannara novels Armageddon’s Children and The Elves of Cintra; The Sword of Shannara; the Voyage of the Jerle Shannara trilogy: Ilse Witch, Antrax, and Morgawr; the High Druid of Shannara trilogy: Jarka Ruus, Tanequil, and Straken; the nonfiction book Sometimes the Magic Works: Lessons from a Writing Life; 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 selected by the Rocky Mountain News as two 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.

Praise

Praise

“Immensely entertaining . . . a page-turner full of action and magic.”—Bookreporter
 
“Classic Terry Brooks . . . infused with details of Shannara’s legends.”—Fantasy Faction
 
“[Brooks is] the most important fantasy writer since J.R.R. Tolkien.”—Rocky Mountain News
 
“Foolproof for fantasy lovers.”—Library Journal

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