Panamon moved the sharp iron tip of his piked hand back from the throat of the cringing Gnome, leaving just a small trace of blood on the yellow neck. Keltset had not moved and gave no indication that he had any interest in what was happening. Shea wanted to warn Panamon how important that Gnome might be if there was even the slightest chance of finding the Sword of Shannara, but he realized the thief preferred to keep the captive Gnome guessing. The Valeman could not be sure how much Panamon Creel knew about the legend; so far, he had shown little concern with the races generally and had not indicated he knew anything about the history of the Sword of Shannara. The grim features of the thief relaxed briefly and a faint smile crossed his lips as he eyed the still quivering captive.

“Is this Sword valuable, Gnome?” he queried easily, almost slyly. “Can I sell it for gold?”

“It is priceless to the right people,” the other promised, nodding eagerly. “There are those who would pay anything, give anything to get possession of it. In the Northland…”

He ceased talking abruptly, afraid that he had already said too much. Panamon smiled wolfishly and nodded to Shea.

“This Gnome says it could be worth money to us,” he mocked quietly, “and the Gnome wouldn’t lie, would you, Gnome?” The yellow head shook vehemently. “Well, then, perhaps we should let you live long enough to prove you have something of value to barter for your worthless hide. I wouldn’t want to throw away a chance to make money simply to satisfy my inborn desire to cut the throat of a Gnome when I get one within my grasp. What do you think, Gnome?”

“You understand perfectly, you know my value,” whined the little fellow, fawning at the knees of the smiling thief. “I can help; I can make you rich. You can count on me.”

Panamon was smiling broadly now, his big frame relaxed and his good hand on the Gnome’s small shoulder as if they were old friends. He patted the stooped shoulder a few times, as if to put the captive at ease, and nodded reassuringly, looking from the Gnome to Keltset to Shea and back again for several long seconds.

“Tell us what you’re doing way out here by yourself, Gnome,” Panamon urged a moment later. “By the way, what are you called?”

“I am Orl Fane, a warrior of the Pelle tribe of the upper Anar,” he answered eagerly. “I… I was on a courier mission from Paranor when I came upon this battlefield. They were all dead, all of them, and there was nothing I could do. Then I heard you and I hid. I was afraid you were… Elves.”

He paused and looked fearfully at Shea, noting the youth’s Elven features with dismay. Shea made no move, but waited to see what Panamon would do. Panamon just looked understandingly at the Gnome and smiled in friendly fashion.