“Do not be angry, Shea. It’s more habit than stupidity when I laugh at these things. I laugh at them to stay a sane man. But enough of all this. What do we do with our little friend, eh?”

The Gnome stared fearfully at the no longer laughing man, the large eyes wide as the insistent voice died away to a low whine.

“Please, let me go,” he begged subserviently. “I will go away and say nothing to anyone about you. I will do whatever you say, good friends. Just let me go.”

Keltset still held the hapless Gnome by the scruff of his neck about a foot off the ground in front of Shea and Panamon, and the little fellow was beginning to choke violently from the tight clasp. Seeing the prisoner’s plight, Panamon at last motioned for the Rock Troll to lower his victim to the ground and release his grip. Pausing for a moment’s serious contemplation of the Gnome’s eager plea, the thief looked over at Shea and winked quickly, turning back to the captive sharply and snapping the pike at the end of his left arm up to the yellow throat.

“I can see no reason for permitting you to live, let alone go free, Gnome,” he announced menacingly. “I think it would be best for all concerned if I just cut your throat right here and now. Then none of us would have to worry about you further.”

Shea did not believe the thief was serious, but his voice sounded as if he were in deadly earnest. The terrified Gnome gulped and held forth his hands in a final desperate cry for mercy. He whined and cried so that Shea finally became almost embarrassed for him. Panamon made no move, but only sat there staring into the unfortunate fellow’s horror-stricken face.

“No, no, I beg you, don’t kill me,” the frantic Gnome pleaded, his wide green eyes shifting from one face to the next. “Please, please let me live-I can be of use to you-I can help! I can tell you about the Sword of Shannara! I can even get it for you.”

Shea started involuntarily at the unexpected mention of the Sword, and he placed a restraining hand on Panamon’s wide shoulder.

“So you can tell us about the Sword, can you?” The icy voice of the thief sounded only slightly interested, and he ignored Shea completely. “What can you tell us?”

The wiry yellow frame relaxed slightly, and the eyes returned to normal size, shifting about eagerly, seizing on any chance to stay alive. Yet Shea saw something else there, something he could not quite define. It was almost a fervid cunning, revealed as the Gnome momentarily relaxed his carefully masked feelings. A second later it was gone, replaced by a look of total subjugation and helplessness.

“I can lead you to the Sword if you wish,” he whispered harshly as if he were afraid someone would hear. “I can take you to where it is-if you let me live!”