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Zusatztext “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 Informationen zum Autor Terry Brooks Klappentext 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.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...
