“I think he’s losing his mind,” Panamon Creel muttered humorlessly, and ordered Keltset to regag the bothersome Gnome. “We’ll find out exactly what he knows in the morning. If he knows anything about the Sword of Shannara, which I seriously doubt, he’ll tell us or wish he had!”

“Do you think he might know who has it?” Shea asked soberly. “That Sword could mean so much, not only to us, but to all the peoples of the four lands. We’ve got to try to find out what he really knows.”

“You bring tears to my eyes with that plea for the people,” Panamon mocked disdainfully. “They can go hang for all I care. They’ve never done anything for me-except travel alone, unarmed, with fat purses, and that’s been all too infrequently.” He looked up at Shea’s disappointed face and shrugged nonchalantly. “Still, I am curious about the Sword, so I might be willing to help you. After all, I owe you a great favor, and I’m not one to forget a favor.”

Keltset finished gagging the babbling Gnome once again and rejoined them next to the small fire. Orl Fane had lapsed into a series of small, shrill laughs coupled with incoherent mumblings that even the cloth gag did not completely muffle. Shea glanced uneasily at the little captive, watching the gnarled yellow body twist about as if possessed by some devil, the dark eyes wide and rolling wildly. Panamon gallantly ignored the moans for a brief time, but at last, losing all patience, leaped to his feet and drew his dagger to cut the Gnome’s tongue out. Orl Fane immediately quieted down and for a while they forgot about him.

“Why do you suppose,” Panamon began after a moment, “that Northland creature believed we were hiding the Sword of Shannara? It was strange he wouldn’t even argue the point. He said he could sense that we had it. How do you explain that?”

Shea thought for a moment and finally shrugged uncertainly.

“It must have been the Elfstones.”

“You may be right,” Panamon agreed slowly, thoughtfully, his good hand rubbing his chin. “I frankly don’t understand any of this. Keltset, what do you think about it.”

The giant Rock Troll regarded them solemnly for a moment and then made several brief signs with his hands. Panamon watched intently, then turned to Shea with a disgusted look.

“He thinks the Sword is very important and that the Warlock Lord is a very great danger to us all.” The thief laughed humorously. “He’s a great help, I must say!”

“The Sword is very important!” Shea repeated, his voice trailing off in the darkness, and they sat quietly, lost in thought.

It was late evening now, the night around them black beyond the faint light of the fire’s reddish embers. The woods were a wall of concealment, shutting them into the little clearing, surrounding them with the sharp sounds of the insect world and the occasional cry of some faraway creature. The sky above showed through the boughs of the great trees in patches of dark blue broken by one or two distant stars. Panamon talked on quietly for a few minutes more as the coals died into ashes. Then he rose, kicking the ashes and grinding them into the earth, bidding good night to his companions with a finality that discouraged further attempts at conversation. Keltset was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping before Shea had even selected a suitable patch of forest earth. The Valeman felt incredibly weary from the strain of the long day’s march and the battle with the Skull Bearer. Dropping his blanket, he lay down on his back, kicked off the hunting boots and stared aimlessly at the blackness above him through which he could just barely discern the limbs of the trees and the shadows of the sky.