First King of Shannara

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was late afternoon, and the light was gray and misty in the study of the Ballindarroch summerhouse, where Jerle Shannara stood looking down at the maps spread out on the table before him. Outside, the rain continued to fall. It felt as if it had been raining for weeks, although the Elven King knew well enough that it hadn’t and that the feeling was generated mostly by his present state of mind. It just seemed as if every time he took a moment to consider the weather, it was raining again. And today’s rain was stronger than usual, driven by a west wind that whipped the branches of the trees and scattered leaves like scraps of old paper.

He looked up from his perusal of the maps and sighed. He could take some consolation in the fact that the weather was making it more difficult for the Warlock Lord to maneuver his army than it was for Jerle to maneuver his. Of the two, the Warlock Lord’s was the more unwieldy—a vast, sprawling, sluggish beast burdened by baggage and siege machines. It could advance a distance of maybe twenty miles a day in the best of weather. It had reached the Streleheim three days earlier and had only just completed its crossing of the Mermidon. That meant that it was at least another two days from the Rhenn. The Elves, on the other hand, were already in place. Alerted by their scouts, they had known of the Northland army’s advance for more than a week, so they had been given plenty of time to prepare. Once the presence of the Northlanders was detected, it was easy enough to guess which approach they would choose in attacking Arborlon and the Elves. The Rhenn was the easiest and most direct route into the Westland. A large army would have difficulty proceeding any other way and then would have to attack the Elven home city at its most strongly defended positions. North, south, or west, the city was warded—by mountains, cliffs, and the Rill Song. Only from the east was she vulnerable, unprotected by natural defenses. The sole strategic defensive position available to her defenders was the Valley of Rhenn. If the passes there should fall, the way to Arborlon would lie open.

The maps showed as much, for all the good that did. Jerle had been staring at them for over an hour and hadn’t learned anything new. The Elves must hold the Rhenn against the Northland army’s eventual assault or they were lost. There was no middle ground.

There was no secondary defensive position worth considering. It made the choices available to him as commander of the Elven forces quite clear. All that was left to determine was tactics. The Elves would defend the Rhenn, but how would they defend? How far should they extend their lines to slow the initial attack? How many times could they afford to fall back? What protective measures should they take against an encircling strike launched by a smaller force that could penetrate the forests? What formations should they employ against an army that outnumbered them five to one and would make use of the siege machinery it had been assembling during its march west?

The maps didn’t provide specific answers to any of this, but studying them helped him reason out what was needed.

He looked out the windows again into the rain. Preia would be back soon, and they would have dinner—their last before leaving for the Rhenn. Much of the army was encamped already in the valley. The High Council had declared a state of emergency, and the newly crowned king had taken charge. His power was absolute now, fixed and unchallenged. He had been crowned two weeks earlier, taken Preia as his wife, and adopted the two Ballindarroch orphans as his sons. With the matter of the succession to the Elven throne settled, he had turned his attention to the High Council Vree Erreden had been named First Minister and Preia a full council member. There had been some grumbling, but no opposition. He had requested permission to mobilize the Elven army and march east in support of the Dwarves. There had been more grumbling and a threat of opposition, but before the matter could be brought to a head it had been learned that the Northland army was approaching the Streleheim and there would be no need for the Elves to march anywhere.

Reflecting back on the matter, Jerle shook his head. He did not know what had become of the Dwarves. No one did. He had dispatched riders east to discover if the Dwarf army had been destroyed, which was what the rumors all reported, but no definitive word had been brought back. He was left to conclude that the Dwarves were in no position to help and the Elves must stand alone.

He shook his head wearily. The Elves had been left with no allies no magic, no Druids, and no real chance of winning this war, visions and prophecies and high hopes notwithstanding.

He looked down at the maps again, carefully configured topographies of the Rhenn and the land surrounding, as if the answer to the problem might lie there and perhaps he might have missed it. There was a time not so long ago when he would not have allowed himself to make so honest an assessment of the situation. There was a time when he would never have admitted that he could lose a battle to a stronger enemy. He had changed much since then. Losing Tay Trefenwyd and the Ballindarrochs, nearly losing Preia, becoming King of the Elves in less than ideal circumstances, and discovering that his view of himself was more than a little flawed had given him a different perspective. It was not a debilitating experience, but it was sobering. It was what happened when you grew up, he supposed. It was the rite of passage you endured when you left your boyhood behind for good.

He found himself studying the scars on the backs of his hands.

Little maps of their own, they traced the progress of his life. Warrior since birth, now King of the Elves, he had come a long way in a short time, and the scars provided a more accurate accounting of the cost of his journey than mere words. How many more scars would he incur in his battle with the Warlock Lord? Was he strong enough for this confrontation? Was he strong enough to survive?

He carried not only his own destiny into battle, but that of his people as well. How strong did he have to be for that?

The doors leading out onto the terrace flew open with a crash, blown back against the walls by the force of the wind, their curtains whipping wildly. Jerle Shannara reached for his broadsword as two black-cloaked figures surged into the room, rain-soaked and bent. Maps scattered from the table onto the floor, and lamps flickered and went out.

“Stay your hand, Elven King,” commanded the foremost of the intruders, while the second, smaller figure turned to close the doors behind them, shutting out the wind and rain once more.

It went quiet again in the room. Water dripped from the two onto the stone floor, puddling and staining. The king crouched guardedly, his sword halfway out of its sheath, his tall form coiled and ready, “Who are you?” he demanded.

The taller of the two pulled back his hood and revealed himself in the gray, uncertain light. Jerle Shannara took a long, deep breath. It was the Druid Bremen.

“I had given up on you,” he declared in a whisper, his emotions betraying him. “We all had.”

The old man’s smile was bitter. “You had reason. It has taken a long time to reach you, almost as long as it took to discover that it was you I sought.” He reached beneath his sodden cloak and withdrew a long, slim bundle wrapped in dark canvas. “I have brought you something.”

Jerle Shannara nodded. “I know.” He shoved his half-drawn sword back into its scabbard.

There was surprise in the Druid’s sharp eyes. He looked at his companion. “Allanon.” The boy pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing himself. Dark eyes burned into the Elven King’s, but the smooth, sharply angled face revealed nothing. “Remove your cloak. Wait outside the door. Ask that no one enter until this discussion is finished. Tell them the king commands it.”

The boy nodded, slid the cloak from his shoulders, carried it to a hanging rack, then slipped through the door and was gone.

Bremen and Jerle Shannara stood alone in the study, the maps still scattered on the floor about them, their eyes locked. “It has been a long time, Jerle.”

The king sighed. “I suppose it has. Five years? Longer perhaps?”

“Long enough that I had forgotten the lines on your face. Or perhaps you have simply grown older like the rest of us.” The smile came and went in the encroaching twilight. “Tell me what you know of my coming.”

Jerle shifted his feet to a less threatening stance, watching as the other removed his cloak and tossed it aside wearily. “I am told that you bring me a sword, one forged with magic, one that I must carry into battle against the Warlock Lord.” He hesitated. “Is this true? Have you brought such a weapon?”

The old man nodded. “I have.” He took the canvas-wrapped bundle and laid it carefully on the table. “But I wasn’t certain it was meant for you until I saw you standing crouched to strike me down, your weapon coming out of its sheath. In that moment, seeing you that way, I knew you were the one for whom the sword was intended. A vision of you holding the sword was shown to me at the Hadeshorn weeks ago, but I failed to recognize you. Did Tay Trefenwyd tell you of the vision?”

“He did. But he did not know that the sword was meant for me either. It was the locat Vree Erreden who advised me. He saw it in a vision of his own, saw me holding the sword, a sword with an emblem emblazoned on the pommel, an emblem of a hand holding forth a burning torch. He told me it was the insignia of the Druids.”

“A locat?” Bremen shook his head. “I would have thought it would be Tay who...”

“No. Tay Trefenwyd is dead, killed in the Breakline weeks ago.” The Elven King’s voice was quick and hard, and the words tumbled out. “I was with him. We had gone to recover the Black Elfstone, as you had charged us. We found the Stone, but the creatures of the Warlock Lord found us. There were but five of us and a hundred of them. There were Skull Bearers. Tay knew we were doomed. His own magic was gone, used up in his struggle to gain possession of the Elfstone, so he...”

Words failed the king, and he could feel the tears spring to his eyes. His throat tightened, and he could not speak.

“He used the Black Elfstone, and it destroyed him,” the old man finished, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. “Even though I warned him. Even though he knew what would happen.” The worn, aged hands clasped tightly. “Because he had to. Because he could do no less.”

They stood mute before each other, eyes averted. Then Jerle bent to retrieve the scattered maps, picking them up and stacking them back on the table next to the canvas bundle. The old man watched him for a moment, then bent to help. When the maps were all in place again, the old man took the king’s hands in his own.

“I am sorry he is gone, more sorry than I can possibly tell you. He was a good friend to us both.”

“He saved my life,” Jerle said quietly, not knowing what else to say, deciding after a moment that this was enough.

Bremen nodded. “I was afraid for him,” he murmured, releasing the big man’s hands once more and moving over to a chair. “Can we sit while we talk? I have walked all night and through the day to reach you. The boy accompanied me. He is a survivor of an attack on Varfleet. The Northland army is ravaging the land and its people as it goes, destroying everything, killing everyone. The Warlock Lord grows impatient.”

Jerle Shannara sat across from him. The old man’s hands, when they clasped his own, had felt like dried leaves. Like death. The memory of their touch lingered. “What has become of the Dwarves?” he said, in an effort to direct his thoughts elsewhere.

“We have not been able to learn anything of them.”

“The Dwarves withstood the Northland invasion for as long as they were able. The reports vary as to what happened afterward. I know the rumors, but I have reason to believe they are wrong. have sent friends to discover the truth and to bring the Dwarves to our aid if they are able to come.”

The king shook his head, a discouraged look in his eyes. “Why should they come to our aid when we did not come to theirs? We failed them, Bremen.”

“You had reason.”

“Perhaps. I am no longer certain. You know of Courtann Ballindarroch’s death? And of his family’s destruction?”

“I was told.”

“We did what we could, Tay and I. But the High Council would not act without a king to lead them. There was no help for it. So we abandoned our efforts to help the Dwarves and went instead in search of the Black Elfstone.” He paused. “I question now the wisdom of our choice.”

The Druid leaned forward, his dark eyes intense. “Do you have the Elfstone in your possession?”

The king nodded. “Hidden safely away, awaiting your arrival. I want nothing more to do with it. I have seen what it can do. I have seen how dangerous it is. The only comfort I take from this whole business is that the Stone will be used to aid in the destruction of the Warlock Lord and his creatures.”

But Bremen shook his head. “No, Jerle. The Black Elfstone is not intended for that purpose.”

The words were sharp and stunning. The king’s face went hot and his throat tightened with rage. “Are you telling me Tay died for nothing? Is that what you are saying?”

“Do not be angry with me. I do not make the rules in this game. I am subject to fate’s dictates as well. The Black Elfstone is not a weapon that can destroy the Warlock Lord. I know you find this difficult to believe, but it is so. The Elfstone is a powerful weapon, but it subverts those who use it. It infects them with the same power they seek to overcome. The Warlock Lord is so pervasive an evil that any attempt to turn the Elfstone against him would result in the user’s own destruction.”

“Then why did we risk so much to recover it?” The king was livid, his anger undisguised.

The old man’s words were soft and compelling. “Because it could not be allowed to fall into Brona’s hands. Because in his hands it would become a weapon against which we could not stand. And because, Elven King, it is needed for something more important still. When this is over and the Warlock Lord is no more, it will allow the Druids to give aid to the Lands even after I am gone. It will allow their magic and their lore to survive.”

The king stared wordlessly at the Druid, uncomprehending. A soft knock on the door distracted them both. The king blinked, then demanded irritably, “Who is it?”

The door opened, and Preia Starle stepped through. She seemed unruffled by his abrupt manner. She glanced at Bremen, then back to Jerle. “I would like to take the boy to the Home Guard barracks for food and rest. He is exhausted. He is not needed to keep further watch. I have seen to it that no one will disturb you while you talk.” She returned her gaze to Bremen. “Welcome to Arborlon.”

The old man rose and made a short bow. “My Lady Preia.”

She smiled in response. “Never that to you. Just Preia.” The smile faded. “You know what has happened, then?”

“That Jerle is king and you are queen? I discovered that before anything else on arriving in the city. Everyone speaks of it. You are both blessed, Preia. You will be strong for each other and for your people. I am pleased by the news.”

Her eyes shone. “You are very gracious. I hope that you can be strong for us as well in what lies ahead. Excuse me now. I will take the boy with me. Don’t be worried for him. We are already becoming fast friends.”

She went back through the door and closed it behind her.

Bremen looked at the king once more. “You are fortunate to have her,” he said quietly. “I expect you know that.”

Jerle Shannara was thinking of another time, not so far in the past, when he had been confronted with the possibility of losing Preia. It haunted him still, the thought that his assumptions about her had been so wrong. Tay and Preia, the two people closest to him in all the world: he had misread them both, had failed to know them as well as he should, and had been taught a lesson in the process that he would never forget.

The room was silent again, twilight filling the comers with shadows, the rain a soft patter without. The king rose and lit anew the lamps that the wind had blown -out. The gloom receded. The old man watched him without speaking, waiting him out.

The king sat down again, uneasy still. His brow furrowed as he met Bremen’s sharp gaze. “I was just thinking how important it is not to take anything for granted. I should have kept that in mind where the Black Elfstone was concerned. But losing Tay was impossible to bear without thinking he had died for good cause. I assumed wrongly that it was to assure the Warlock Lord’s destruction. It is difficult to accept that he died for anything else.”

“It is difficult to accept that he died at all,” Bremen said quietly.

“But the reason for his death is nevertheless tied to the destruction of the Warlock Lord and no less valid or important because the Elfstone has a different use than you believed. Tay would understand that, if he were here. As king, you must do the same.”

Jerle Shannara’s smile was sardonic and filled with pain. “I am new to this still, this business of being king. It is not something I sought.”

“That is not a bad thing,” the Druid replied, shrugging. “Ambition is not a character trait that will help you in your confrontation with the Warlock Lord.”

“What will help me, then? Tell me of the sword, Bremen.” The king’s impatience broke past his anger and discouragement. “The Northland army marches against us. They will reach the Rhenn in two days’ time. We must hold them there or we are lost. But if we are to have any real chance, I must have a weapon that the Warlock Lord cannot stand against. You say you have brought one. Tell me its secret. Tell me what it can do.”

He waited then, flushed and anxious, staring at the Druid.

Bremen did not move, holding his gaze, saying nothing. Then he rose, walked to the map table, picked up the canvas-wrapped bundle, and handed it to the king. “This belongs now to you. Open it.”

Jerle Shannara did so, untying the cords that bound the canvas, stripping the wrapping carefully away. When he was finished, he held in his hands a sword and sheath. The sword was of unusual length and size, but light and perfectly formed. The hilt was engraved at the guard with the image of a hand holding forth a burning torch. The king slid free the sword from its sheath, marveling at the smooth, flawless surface of the blade, at the feel of it in his hand—as if it belonged there, as if it really was meant for him. He studied it for a moment in silence. The flame from the torch climbed toward the tip of the blade, and in the dimness of the study he could almost imagine that it flickered with a light of its own. He held the sword out before him, testing its heft and balance. The metal glittered in the lamplight, alive and seeking.

The king looked at Bremen and nodded slowly. “This is a wondrous blade,” he said softly.

“There is more to it than what you perceive, Jerle Shannara—and less,” replied the old man quickly. “So listen carefully to what I tell you. This information is for you alone. Only Preia is to know otherwise, and only if you deem it essential. Much could depend on this. I must have your word.”

The king hesitated, glanced at the sword, and then nodded.

“You have it.”

The Druid came to him. He stood very close and kept his voice low. “By accepting this sword, you make it your own. But you must know its history and its purpose if it is to serve you well. Its history first, then.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “The sword was forged by the finest smith in the Southland from a formula come out of the old world. It was tempered by heat and magic. It was constructed of an alloy that renders it both light and strong. It will not shatter in battle, whether struck by iron or magic. It will survive any test to which it is put. It is imbued with Druid magic. It holds within its metal span the power of all the Druids who ever were, those who came together at Paranor over the years and then passed from this world to the next. After it was forged, I carried it to the Hadeshorn and summoned their spirits from the netherworld. All appeared, and one by one they passed before me and touched this blade. When the blade was forged, the Eilt Drum, the medallion of office of the High Druids, the symbol of their power, was set within the pommel. You have seen it for yourself. A hand holding forth a burning torch. It was this that the spirits of the dead came to witness and to imbue with the last of their earthly power, all that they could carry with them beyond this life.

“All of which brings us to the sword’s purpose. It is a finely crafted blade, a weapon of great strength and durability—but that alone is not enough to render it capable of destroying the Warlock Lord. The sword is not meant to be used as other weapons. It can be; most certainly it shall. But it was not forged for the sharpness of its blade or the toughness of its metal, but for the power of the magic which resides within it. That magic, Elven King, is what will give you victory when you face the creature Brona.”

He took a deep breath, as if talking of this exhausted him. His seamed face was weary and pale in the failing light. “The power of this sword, Jerle Shannara, is truth. Truth, plain and simple. Truth, whole and unblemished. Truth, with all deceptions and lies and facades stripped away so that the one against whom the magic of the sword is directed stands fully revealed. It is a powerful weapon, one which Brona cannot stand against, for he is cloaked by these same deceptions and lies and facades, by shadings and concealments, and these are the trappings of his power. He survives by keeping the truth about himself at bay. Force him to confront that truth, and he is doomed.

“I did not understand the secret of the sword’s power when it was made known to me at the Hadeshorn. How can truth be strong enough to destroy a creature as monstrous as the Warlock Lord? Where is the Druid magic in this? But after a time, I began to see. The words ‘Eilt Druin’ mean literally ‘Through Truth, Power’. It was the credo of the Druids at their inception, the goal they set for themselves when they assembled at Paranor, and their purpose among the Races from the time of the First Council forward. To provide Mankind with truth. Truth to give knowledge and understanding. Truth to facilitate progress. Truth to offer hope. By doing so, the Druids could help the Races rebuild.”

The dark eyes blinked, distant and worn. “What they were in life is embodied now in the blade you bear, and you must find a way to make their legacy serve your needs. It will not be easy. It is not as simple as it first appears. You will carry the blade in battle against the Warlock Lord. You will bring him to bay. You will touch him with the sword, and its magic will destroy him. All that is promised. But only if you are stronger in your determination, in your spirit, and in your heart than he is.”

The Elven King was shaking his head. “How can I be all this? Even if I accept what you have told me, and I do not know yet that I can—it is difficult to think so—how can I be stronger than a creature who can destroy even you?”

The old man reached down for the hand that gripped the sword and lifted it so that the blade was poised between them. “By first turning the sword’s power upon yourself!”

Fear came into the Elven King’s eyes and glittered sharply in the light. “Upon myself? The Druid magic?”

“Listen to me, Jerle,” the other soothed, tightening his grip so that the arm that held the sword could not fall away, so that the sword was a silver thread that bound them, bright and shining.

“What is required of you will not be easy—I have told you that. But it is possible. You must turn the power of the sword upon yourself. You must let the magic fill you and reveal to you the truths in your own life. You must let them be laid bare, exposed for what they are, and confronted. They will be harsh, some of them. They will be difficult to face. We are creatures who constantly reinvent ourselves and our lives in order to survive the mistakes we have made and the failings we have exposed. In many ways, it is this that makes us vulnerable to a creature like Brona. But if you withstand the self-scrutiny that the sword demands, you will emerge from the experience stronger than your adversary and you will destroy him. Because, Elven King, he cannot permit such scrutiny of his life, for beyond the lies and half truths and deceptions he is nothing!”

There was a long silence as the two men faced each other, eyes locked, a measure of each being taken by the other. “Truth,” said the Elven King finally, his voice so soft the Druid could barely hear him. “Such a frail weapon.”

“No,” said the other at once. “Truth is never frail. It is the most powerful weapon of all.”

“Is it? I am a warrior, a fighter. Weapons are all I know—weapons of iron wielded by men of strength. You are saying that none of this will serve me, that I must abandon all of it. You are saying that I must become something I have never been.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

The old man released him, and the sword dropped away between them. The dried parchment hands settled on the king’s powerful shoulders, gripping them. There was unexpected strength in that aging body. There was fierce determination in those eyes.

“You must remember who you are,” the Druid whispered “You must remember how you got to be that way. You have never failed to confront a challenge. You have never shunned a responsibility. You have never been afraid. You have survived what would have killed almost anyone else. That is your history. That is who and what you are.”

The hands tightened. “You have great courage, Jerle. You have a brave heart. But you give too much importance to Tay Trefenwyd’s death and not enough to your own life. No, do not be angry. This is not a criticism of Tay, not a belittling of what his loss means to us. It is a comment on the need for you to remember that it is always the living who matter. Always. Give your life the due it deserves, Elven King. Be strong in the ways you must. Do not dismiss your chances against the Warlock Lord simply because the weapon with which you are given to do battle is unfamiliar. It is unfamiliar to him as well. He knows of man-made blades. He will suspect yours to be just another. Surprise him. Give him a taste of another kind of metal.”

Jerle Shannara moved away then, shaking his head, looking down at the sword doubtfully. “I know better than to disbelieve what I find difficult to accept,” he said, stopping before the window and looking out into the rain. “But this is hard. This asks so much.” His mouth tightened in a hard line. “Why was I chosen for this? It doesn’t make sense to me. So many others would be better suited to a weapon of this sort. I understand iron and brute strength. This... this clever artifice is too obscure for me. Truth as a weapon makes sense only in terms of councils or politics. It seems useless on a battlefield.”

He turned toward the Druid. “I would face the Warlock Lord without hesitation if I could wield this sword as a simple blade forged of metal and a master smith’s skill. I could accept it as a weapon without question if I could bear it just as it appears.”

Anguish pulsed in his blue eyes. “But this? I am wrong for this, Bremen.”

The Druid nodded slowly, not in agreement so much as in understanding. “But you are all we have, Jerle. We cannot know why you were selected. It may be because you were fated to become King of the Elves. It may be for reasons beyond what we can see. The dead know things we cannot. Perhaps they could tell us, but they have not chosen to do so. We must accept this and go on. You are to be the bearer of the sword. You are to carry it into battle. It is predestined. There is no other choice. You must do the best you can.”

His voice trailed off in a whisper. Outside, the rain continued to fall in a soft, steady patter, cloaking the forestland in a silver shimmer. Twilight had fallen, and the day had gone west with the sun. Arborlon was silent and damp within her forest shelter, a city slowly pulling on her nighttime wrappings. It was silent in the study, silent in the summerhouse, and there might have been no one alive in all the world but the two men who stood facing each other in the candlelit gloom.

“Why must no one know of the sword’s secret but me?” Jerle Shannara asked quietly.

The old man smiled sadly. “You could answer your own question if you chose, Elven King. No one must know because no one would believe. If your doubts of the sword’s capabilities are so great, think of what the doubts of your people will be. Even Preia, perhaps. The power of the sword is truth. Who will believe that such a simple thing can prevail against the power of the Warlock Lord?”

Who, indeed? thought the king.

“You have said it yourself. A sword is a weapon of battle.” The smile turned to a weary sigh. “Let the Elves be content with that. Show them the sword you carry, the weapon that has been bequeathed to you, and say only that it will serve them well. They require no more.”

Jerle Shannara nodded wordlessly. No, he thought, they do not. Belief is best when uncomplicated by reason.

He wished, in that sad, desperate moment of self-doubt and fear, of silent acquiescence to a pact that he could neither embrace nor forsake, that belief could be made so simple for him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

In The midafternoon of the following day, Jerle Shannara was nearing the Valley of Rhenn and the confrontation that fate had ordained for him. He had ridden out shortly after sunrise in the company of Preia, Bremen, and a handful of advisors and his army commanders, taking with him three companies of Elven Hunters, two afoot and one on horse. Four companies were already in place at the mouth of the valley, and two more would follow on the morrow. Left behind were the remaining members of the Elven High Council under the leadership of First Minister Vree Erreden, three companies of reserves, and the citizens of the city and the refugees come off the land in fear of the impending invasion. Left behind as well were the arguments and the debates over courses of action and political wisdom. Few choices and little time remained, and the use put to both would bi determined in large part by the army that approached.

The Elven King said nothing to anyone of his conversation with the Druid. He chose to make no public announcement concerning the sword he had been given. He spoke of it to Preia alone, saying only that it was a weapon the Warlock Lord could not stand against. His stomach churned and his face heated as he spoke the words, for his own belief was fragile. He worried as a dog would its bone the concept of truth as a weapon of battle. He replayed his conversation with the old man over and over again as he rode east, lost in his own thoughts, so distanced by them that several times when Preia, riding next to him, spoke, he did not respond. He rode armored and battle-ready. The sword, strapped to his back, was so light in comparison with the chain mail and plate that it might have been forged of paper. He thought often on the feel of it as he traveled, its weight as ephemeral as the use to which it was intended to be put. He could not grasp it as possibility, could not settle on it as fact. He needed to be shown how it worked. He needed to know from experience its use. It was how his mind worked. He could not help himself. What he could see and feel—that was real. All else was little more than words.

He did not reveal his doubts to Bremen. He kept a smile on his face when the old man approached. He kept his confidence about him. He did it for himself, but also for his people. The army would draw its confidence from him. If the king seemed certain of himself, then they would be as well. He had always known that battles were won on as little as that, and he had always responded. This army, as this nation, was his to command— to use well or badly.

What waited would test them all in ways they had never been tested before. Since this was so, he intended to do his part.

“You have said nothing for hours,” Preia observed at one point, waiting until he was looking at her before she spoke to make certain he heard.

“Haven’t I?” he replied. He was almost surprised to find her there, so wrapped up was he in his internal debate. She rode a wiry white-flecked gray called Ashes, weapons strapped all about her.

There had never been any question about her coming, of course.

Their newly adopted sons had been left in the care of others. Like Jerle, Preia Starle was born for battle.

“Something is bothering you,” she declared, holding his gaze.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

Why, indeed? He smiled in spite of himself. She knew him too well for him to pretend something different. Yet he could not speak of his doubt. He could not, because it was something he must resolve for himself. No one could help him with it. Not now, at least—not when he had not found solid ground himself on which to stand.

“I lack the words to explain,” he said finally. “I am still working it through. Be patient.”

“It might help if you tried the words on me.”

He nodded, looking past the beauty of her face and the intelligence mirrored in her clear ginger eyes to the warmth and caring that resided in her heart. He felt different about her these days. The distance he had always kept between them was gone. They were bound together so inextricably that he felt certain that whatever happened to one, happened to the other even though it were death itself.

“Give me a little time,” he told her gently. “Then we will talk.”

She reached for his hand and held it momentarily. “I love you,” she said.

So it was that the afternoon found them coming up on the Rhenn, and still he did not speak of what was troubling him and still she waited for him to do so. The day was bright and warm, the air sweet with the smell of still damp grasses and leaves, the forest about them lush with the infusion of the rains of the past few weeks. The clouds had moved on finally, but the ground remained soft, and the rutted trail swampy where the Elves had traveled east over its worn track. Reports had been coming in all day from where the bulk of the army had settled its defense at the head of the valley. The Northland army continued to approach, coming slowly across the Streleheim from both north and south, unit, arriving at varying rates of speed depending on size and mobility, foot and horse and pack. The army of the Warlock Lord was huge and growing. Already it filled the plains at the mouth of the valley for as far as the eye could see. The Elves were outnumbered by at least four to one and the odds would increase as more units arrived. The reports were delivered by messengers in flat, even tones, carefully kept devoid of emotion, but Jerle Shannara was trained to decipher what was hidden in the small nuances of pause and inflection, and he could detect the beginnings of fear.

He would have to do something to put a stop to it, he knew. He would have to do something quickly.

The realities of the situation were grim. Riders had been sent east to the Dwarves to beg their assistance, but the paths out were closed off by Northland patrols, and it would be days before a rider could work his way around them. In the meantime, the Elves were on their own. There was no one who would come to their aid The Trolls were a subjugated people, their armies in thrall to the Warlock Lord. The Gnomes were disorganized in the best of times and had no love of the Elves in any event. Men had withdrawn into their separate city-states and lacked any sort of cohesive fighting force. The Dwarves were all that remained, if they survived. There was still no word on whether Raybur and his army had escaped the Northland invasion.

So there was good reason to be afraid, Jerle Shannara thought as they rode up from the forests at the west entrance to the Elven King, companions and advisors, and three companies of fighting men. There was good reason—but in this case reason must not be allowed to prevail.

What, he pondered, could he do to overcome it?

Bremen, riding some yards back with the boy Allanon amid the king’s advisors and the commanders of the Elven army, was pondering the same question. But it was not the Elves’ fear that troubled him—it was the king’s. For even though Jerle Shannara would not admit to it, or even be cognizant of it for that matter, he was frightened. His fear was not obvious, even to him, but it was there nevertheless. It was a subtle, insidious stalker, lurking at the comers of his mind, awaiting its chance. Bremen had sensed it the day before, at the moment he had revealed the power of the sword—there, lodged just behind the king’s eyes, back in the depths of his confusion and uncertainty, back where it would fester and grow and in the end prove his undoing. Despite the old man’s efforts and the strength of his own conviction concerning the power of the talisman, the king did not believe. He wanted to, but he did not. He would try to find a way, of course, but there was no guarantee he would ever do so. It was something that Bremen had not considered in the course of all that had happened. Now he must do so. He must put the matter right.

He rode all that day watching the king, observing the silence in which he had wrapped himself, studying the hard set of his jaw and neck, unpersuaded by the smiles and the outward confidence displayed to others. The war taking place inside Jerle Shannara was unmistakable. He was struggling to accept what he had been told, but he was failing in his effort. He was brave and he was determined, so he would carry the sword into battle and face the Warlock Lord as he had been told he must. But when he did so his lack of belief would surface, his doubt would betray him, and he would die. The inevitability of it was appalling. Another, stronger voice than his own was needed. The old man found himself wishing that Tay Trefenwyd were still alive. Tay had been close enough to Jerle Shannara that he might have found a way to reach him, to convince him, to break down his misgivings and his doubts. Tay would have stood with the king against the Warlock Lord, just as Bremen intended to do, but it would have meant more with Tay. It might even have proved to be the difference.

But Tay was gone, so the voice and the strength that we;e needed must come from someone else.

There was Allanon to think about, too. From time to time he old man glanced at the boy. His young companion was still reticent, but he was no longer refusing to speak. Preia Starle was in part responsible for this. The boy was taken with her and listened to her advice. After a time, he began to open up. All of his family had been killed in the Northland raid, he had revealed. He had escaped because he had been elsewhere when the attack had commenced, and he had hidden as it swept by him. He had seen a great many atrocities committed, but he would not speak of the particulars. Bremen did not press him. It was enough that the boy had survived.

But there was still Galaphile’s vision to consider, and that was a matter less easily dismissed. What did it mean—himself standing with the boy at the edge of the Hadeshorn in the presence of Galaphile’s shade, the bright, effervescent forms of the spirits of the dead swirling above the rolling waters, the air dark and filled with cries, and the boy’s strange eyes fixed on him, staring. Staring at what? The Druid could not decide. And what was the boy doing there in the first place—there, in the Valley of Shale, at the waters of the Hadeshorn, at a summoning of the dead, where no human was allowed, where only he dared walk?

The vision haunted him. Oddly, he was afraid for Allanon. He was protective of him. He found himself drawn to the boy in a way he could not quite explain. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact of their aloneness. Neither had a family, a people, or a hone Neither really belonged anywhere. In each there was a separateness that was undeniable, and it was as much a state of mind, it was a fact of life and just as unalterable. That Bremen was a Druid set him apart in ways he could not change, even if he wished. But the boy was just as distanced—in part by the insight he clearly possessed into other people’s thinking, a gift that few appreciated—and in part by an extraordinary perception that bordered on prescience. Those strange eyes mirrored his keen mind and intellect, but they hid his other gifts. He looked at you as if he could see right through you, and the look was not deceiving. Allanon s ability to reveal you was frightening.

What was Bremen to do with this boy? What was he to make of him? It was a day for dilemmas and unanswered questions, and the old man bore the burden of their nagging weight in stoic silence as he rode east. The resolution of both, he supposed, would come soon enough.

When they arrived at the Valley of Rhenn, Jerle Shannara left the others and with Preia rode out to survey the defenses and to let the Elven Hunters know that he had arrived. He was greeted warmly everywhere, and he smiled and waved and told his men that everything was going well and that they would have a surprise or two for the Northlanders before long.

Then he rode down through the valley to have a look at the enemy camp. He took a guide this rime, for the valley floor was already dotted with traps, many of them new, and he did not want to stumble into one by mistake. Preia stayed with him, the queen as familiar a sight to the soldiers by now as the king. Neither of them spoke as they followed the guide’s lead over grassy hillocks, down broad rises, across a stretch of burned-out flats, and up onto a promontory in the cliffs that warded the right flank to where he could see out across the whole of the valley. A small encampment of scouts and runners was in place, keeping watch. He greeted them, then walked to the bluff edge for a look.

Before him stretched the seething mass of the Northland army, a huge and sluggish morass of men, animals, wagons, and war machines cloaked in dust and heat. There was movement everywhere as stores and weapons were brought up and sorted and units jockeyed for position along the army’s front. Siege machines were being assembled and hauled to one side. The army had settled itself about a mile from the valley’s east end, out where it could see any attack being mounted against it, out where it had room to spread and grow. Jerle could feel the uneasiness of the men standing with him. He could sense in Preia’s silence her cold appraisal of their chances. This army that had come to invade their homeland was a juggernaut that would not be turned away easily.

He took a long time to study it after that first glance. He looked at where the supplies and equipment and weapons were being placed. He counted the siege machines and the catapults. He sought out the standards of the companies assembled to fight him and made a rough count of cavalry and foot, both light and heavy.

He watched the approach of several supply trains from out of both the north and south Streleheim. He considered his options carefully.

Then he remounted and rode back to the far end of the valley and called together his commanders and advisors for a council of war.

They gathered in a tent set well back from the front lines of the Elven defense. Home Guard set all about to insure privacy. Pren was there, of course, along with Bremen. Kier Joplin commanded the horse, and Rustin Apt and Cormorant Etrurian the foot soldiers. There were captains Prekkian and Trewithen, of the Black Watch and Home Guard, respectively. There was one-eyed Am Banda, who commanded the archers. These were the heart of his command, the men on whom he most relied, the men he must convince if they were to have any chance against the army that would come against them.

“Well met, my friends,” he greeted, standing before them, loose and easy, his armor removed now. They were seated in chairs arranged in a wide circle so that he could see or approach any or all if the need arose. “I have been to the head of the valley and seen the army that threatens us. I think our course is clear. We must attack.”

There was a gasp of surprise and dismay, of course—he had expected as much. “At night!” he shouted amid the sudden din “Now!”

Rustin Apt, aging and powerful, so broad and compact it seemed nothing could move him once he set his feet, surged from his chair. “My lord, no! Attack? You can’t be...”

“Careful, Rustin.” The king cut him short with a sharp motion. “I can be or do anything in the right situation. You know me well enough. Now, listen a moment. This Northland army languishes before us, fat and bold, thinking itself too big to be trifled with, thinking us safely settled in the protection of our defenses. But it grows and it grows, and our Elven Hunters see this and despair We cannot sit by and do nothing until it grows so big it will swallow us in one gulp. We cannot sit by and wait for the inevitable attack. We must carry the battle to them, now, on our terms, in a time of our choosing, when we are ready and they are not.”

“All well and good,” said Kier Joplin quietly. He was small and compact with quick, dark eyes. “But what part of the army will you use to conduct this assault? Darkness will help, but horsemen will be heard from a long way off and foot soldiers will be cut to pieces before they can retreat to safety.”

There was a muttered assent. Jerle nodded. “Your reasoning follows my own. But suppose the enemy can’t find us? Suppose we become invisible just when they think they have us? Suppose that we attack in sequence, a strike here, a strike there, but give them nothing more than shadows to spar with?”

Now there was silence. “How would you do that?” Joplin asked finally.

“I will tell you. But first I want you in agreement with my thinking. I am convinced we must do something if we are to bolster the army’s confidence in itself. I see it nagging. Am I right in my assessment?”

Silence once more. “You are,” Joplin said finally.

“Kier, you have put your finger on the danger an attack faces.Now I want you to consider the possible gains. If we can throw them off balance, disrupt them, unnerve them, even hurt them a little, we gain time and confidence both. Sitting here waiting gains us neither.”

“Agreed,” said Cormorant Etrurian quickly. He was a thinfaced, rawboned fellow, well seasoned in the border wars, a former aide to old Apt. “On the other hand, a defeat would be disastrous at this juncture. It might even spur an earlier attack on our defenses.”

“You might be wrong about them not expecting us as well,” voiced his aged mentor, huffing back to his feet. “We don’t know what might have happened with the Dwarves. This is a battletested army we face, and they may know more tricks than we do.”

“We are badly outnumbered as it is,” Etrurian added with a scowl. “My lord, this is just too dangerous a tactic.”

Jerle nodded at each new comment, biding his time, waiting to speak until they had vented all their objections. He glanced at Preia, who was watching him carefully, then at Bremen, whose expressionless face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. He looked from one face to the next, trying to decide how many of those gathered he could count firmly in his camp. Preia, of course.

But the others, his commanders and Bremen alike, were still making up their minds or had already decided against him.

He didn’t want to force the matter on them if they would not support it, king or no, but he was firmly decided. How to persuade them, then?

The voices of opposition died away. Jerle Shannara straightened. “We are friends here, all of us,” he began. “We are working for the same end. I know the enormity of the task before us. We are all that stands between the Warlock Lord and the devastation of the Four Lands. Perhaps we are the only fighting force left with the strength to face him. So caution is necessary. But so is risk. There can be no victory without risk—certainly none here, in this place and time, against this enemy. There is an element of risk in any battle, an element of chance. We cannot ignore that. What we must do is minimize it.”

He walked close to Rustin Apt and knelt before him. The seasoned commander’s hard eyes grew startled. “What if I could show you a way to attack this enemy by night—a way that has a strong chance of succeeding, that risks only a few of us, and that if successful will disrupt him sufficiently that we will gain both confidence and time?”

The old man looked uncertain. “Can you do that?” he growled.

“Will you stand with me if I can?” the king pressed, ignoring the question. He glanced left and right. “Will you all?”

There were murmurs of approval. He looked at them in turn, made them meet his gaze, made them give him their assent. He nodded to each, drawing them to him with his eyes and smile, binding them to him with their unspoken promise, making them a part of the plan he had formed.

“Listen closely, then,” he whispered, and he told them what he would do.

The attack did not take place that night, but on the night following. It took another day to complete preparations, to choose the men who would participate, and then to send Kier Joplin and his riders north and Cormorant Etrurian and his Hunters south, both commands departing at sunrise and staying within the concealment provided by the forests and bluffs so that they could make their way to their respective destinations unseen. Their commands were necessarily small, for stealth and swiftness would serve their cause far better than size. Each had specific instructions on what to do and when to do it. Coordinating the various elements of the assault called for precise timing. If the strikes did not take place in their proper sequence, the assault would fail.

Jerle Shannara led the center group, a company composed of archers and Home Guard. The fighting would be most fierce where they went, and he would not allow anyone else to stand in his place. Bremen was furious. He approved of the plan. He applauded the king’s innovation and daring. But it was madness for the king to lead the attack himself.

“Think, Elven King! If you fall here, all is lost no matter what is gained!” He had made his argument to Jerle and Preia Starle after the others had departed. The wispy hair and beard had flown in all directions with the old man’s angry gestures. “You cannot risk your own life in this! You must stay alive for your confrontation with Brona!”

They had stood close to one another amid the shadows, the day gone to dusk. Outside, preparations were already under way for the morrow’s strike. Jerle Shannara had convinced his commanders, the force of his arguments and reason too strong for any to stand against, too persuasive for any to ignore. One by one, they had capitulated—Joplin first, then the others. In the end, they had been as enthusiastic about the plan as he was.

“He is right,” Preia Starle had agreed. “Listen to him.”

“He is wrong,” Jerle had replied, his voice quiet, his manner calm, holding them both speechless with the force of his conviction. “A king must lead by example. Here, particularly, in this situation, where so much is at risk. I cannot ask another to do what I would not do myself. The army looks to me. These men know I lead, that I do not stay behind. They will expect no less of me here, and I will not disappoint them.”

He would not give in on this. He would not compromise. So he was leading as he said he would, the misgivings of the Druid notwithstanding, and Preia, as always, was with him. They crept out of the dark at midnight, slipped from the valley, and crossed the plains toward the enemy camp. They were only several hundred strong, with twice as many archers as Home Guard. A handful crept ahead, as silent as ghosts, and dispatched the Northland sentries that patrolled the camp perimeter. Soon the main body of the attack force was less than fifty yards out. There they crouched, weapons in hand, waiting.

When the attack came, it was sharp and unrelenting. It began north, with Kier Joplin. The Elven Commander had bound with heavy fabric the hooves of his men’s horses and then walked two hundred riders down out of the north Streleheim after sunset.

When the Elves were less than a hundred yards from the north perimeter of the camp they removed the baffles, waited until an hour past midnight, then mounted their horses and charged. They were on top of the Northlanders before the alarm could be given.

They struck at the flanks of the latest supply train, newly arrived and not yet unloaded, its handlers waiting for the morning light.

The Elves snatched brands from the smoldering watch fires as they rode in and set the wagons ablaze. Then they wheeled across the staging area for the siege machines and fired the nearest of those as well. Flames soared skyward as the riders raced through the camp and disappeared again into the night. They were gone so fast that a response was still forming when the second strike commenced.

This one came from Cormorant Etrurian to the southwest. He waited until he saw the flames of the first strike and then attacked.

With five hundred foot soldiers already in place, he drove a wedge deep into the enemy horse camp, killing handlers and setting free their animals, chasing them into the night. Hand-to-hand fighting was fierce for a few moments, but then the Elves swung west, raking the camp perimeter as they retreated, breaking quickly for the darkness of the plains.

The Northland response was swifter this time, but confused, for the attack seemed to be coming from everywhere. Massive Rock Trolls, only half-armored, but gripping huge battle-axes and pikes, swept aside everything that stood in their path as they sought to engage their attackers. But siege machines and supply wagons were burning north, and the horses were scattered south, and no one seemed certain where the enemy could be found. Bremen, hidden in the flats with Jerle Shannara’s command, had used his magic to cloak the Elves and to create the illusion of attackers at points where none were present. The old man could sustain that for only a short time, but long enough to confuse even the deadly Skull Bearers.

By then, Jerle Shannara’s force had joined the attack. Hanked and protected by the Home Guard, the archers set themselves in rows facing the Northland perimeter, drew back their longbows, and sent a hail of arrows into the enemy. Screams rose as the arrows found their mark. Volley after volley showered down on the Northlanders as they sought to rise and arm themselves. The king held his men in place for as long as he dared and then held them longer still. A rush of Gnomes charged out of the camp in a maddened frenzy, trying to reach the bowmen, but the archers simply lowered their fire and raked the disorganized counterattack until it broke apart.

Finally Jerle Shannara began to disengage his men, the ranks withdrawing in turn, one always covering the retreat of the others.

The men under Cormorant Etrurian had already gone past, trotting swiftly through the night, vague shadows on plains swept by clouds of smoke and ash from the fires. Rock Trolls appeared, huge, cumbersome behemoths marching out of the garish firelight, their pikes and battle-axes held ready. Arrows were of no use against them. The bowmen fell back, running through the thin line of Home Guard that yet held fast. Jerle withdrew his men quickly, having no wish to do battle with Rock Trolls this night.

No enemy cavalry would pursue, for the Northland horses were captured or scattered. The Trolls were all they must avoid.

But the Trolls came on more quickly than the king had expected. The Home Guard stood virtually alone on the plains now, the bowmen and Elven Hunters fled back to the safety of the Rhenn, the horsemen under Kier Joplin returned north. Gnome arrows flew out of the glare of the Northland camp, sent by archers rushed to the fore. Several of the Home Guard went down and did not move. Bremen, who had come onto the plains with the attackers to lend his protection to the king, brushed past them, black robes flying, and threw Druid fire into the teeth of the advancing Trolls. The grasslands exploded in flames, and for a moment the pursuit broke apart. The Home Guard began to fall back anew, the old man and the king in their midst, besieged on all sides as they hastened toward the shelter of the valley. Smoke rolled across the flats, carried on the back of a sudden wind, filled with heat and ash. Preia Starle darted ahead, trying to find a path through the haze. But the confusion brought on by the smoke and the howls of their pursuers was too great. The small band of Home Guard broke apart, some going one way with Bremen, some another with the king. Jerle Shannara called out, heard his name called in response, and suddenly everything disappeared in the smoke.

Then something huge crashed into those who fled with the king, sending the Home Guard spinning away into the night, flinging aside those closest as if they were stuffed with straw. A massive form materialized, a brutish monster in service to the Dark Lord, called from the netherworld and abroad with the night, all teeth and claws and scales. It came at Jerle Shannara with a howl, and the king barely had time to draw free his sword. Up flashed the magical blade, its bright surface fiery in the near dark. Now! thought the king, wheeling to strike. Now, we shall see! He willed the sword’s magic forth, calling on it to protect him as the creature closed, summoning its great power. But nothing happened. The beast reached for him, fully twice as tall and again as broad, and in desperation the king struck at it as he would at any enemy. The sword hammered into the beast, the force of the blow slowing the attack. But still no magic appeared. Jerle Shannara felt his stomach knot with sudden fear. The beast was cut at from either side by Home Guard come back into the fray, but it smashed the life out of the closest, brushed aside the rest, and came on.

In that moment Jerle Shannara realized that he could not compel the sword’s magic and that any hope he might have had that it would protect him was lost. He had thought, despite what Bremen had admonished, that there was magic of a sort that would strike down an enemy—something of fire, something with an otherworldly edge. But truth was what the sword revealed, the old man had insisted, and it seemed plain now that truth was all the sword could offer. Fear threatened to paralyze the King, but with a fierce cry he launched himself at the attacking beast. With both hands wrapped about the pommel of the broadsword, he defended himself in the only way left to him. The sword’s bright blade flashed downward and cut deep into the massive creature, dark blood spurting at the juncture of the blow. But the beast broke past the king’s guard, knocked aside his weapon, and threw him to the ground.

Then Bremen appeared, come out of the dark like an avenging wraith, hands thrust forward, bathed in Druid fire. The fire lanced from his fingertips in a frantic burst and slammed into the monster as it reached for the king, enveloping it, consuming it, turning it into a writhing torch. The beast reared back, shrieked in fury, turned, and raced away into the night, flames trailing after Bremen did not wait to see what became of it. He reached down for the king. Elves of the Home Guard reappearing to assist him, and hauled Jerle Shannara to his feet.

“The sword...” the king began brokenly, shaking his head in despair.

But Bremen stopped him with a hard look, saying, “Later, when there is time and privacy, Elven King. You are alive, you fought well, and the attack succeeded. That is enough for one night’s work. Now come, hurry away, before other creatures find us.”

They fled once more into the night, the king, the Druid, and a handful of Home Guard. Smoke and ash chased after them, and farther off, lighting the whole of the horizon like beacons, the fires from the supply wagons and the siege machines burned on. Preia Starle returned out of the dark, breathless, harried, eyes revealing both anger and fear. She shouldered her way under Jerle Shannara’s left arm and bolstered him as he walked. The king did not resist. His eyes met her own and looked away. His mouth was set.

The fear that smoldered in the dark comers of his consciousness had burst forth in flames this night—fear that somehow the sword with which he had been entrusted was not right for him and would not respond when needed. It had emerged to challenge him, and he had failed to meet that challenge. If not for Bremen, he would be dead. A thing of lesser magic would have finished him, a thing of far less power than the Warlock Lord. Doubt riddled his resolve.

All he had believed possible just hours earlier was lost. The magic of the sword was wrong for him. The magic would not answer to his call. It needed someone else, someone more attuned to its use.

He was not that man. He was not.

He could hear the words echo in the pounding of his heart, cold and certain. He tried to close his mind and his ears to the sound, but found he could not. In hopeless despair, he ran on.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

With Bremen gone west to bear the Druid sword to the Elves, Kinson Ravenlock and Mareth turned east along the Silver River in search of the Dwarves. They traveled that first day through the hill country that buttressed the river’s north bank, winding their way steadily closer to the forests of the Anar. Mist clung to the hills with dogged persistence, then began to burn away as the sun rose higher in the midday sky. By early afternoon, the travelers had reached the Anar and started in.

Here the land flattened and smoothed. Sunlight pierced the leafy canopy and dappled the earthen carpet. They had enough food and water for that day only, and they divided it carefully when they paused for their lunch, reserving enough for dinner in the event that no better choice presented itself.

The Anar was bright with the green of the trees and the blue of the river, with shafts of sunlight from the mostly cloudless sky, and with birdsong and the cluttering of small creatures darting through the undergrowth. But the trail was trampled and strewn with the leavings of the Northland army, and no human life revealed itself anywhere. Now and again the faint scent of charred wood and old ashes wafted on the wind, and moments of silence would descend—a quiet so intense it caused the man and the woman to look about guardedly. They passed small cottages and outbuildings, some still standing, some burned out, but all vacant.

No Dwarves appeared. No one passed them on the trail.

“We shouldn’t be surprised,” Mareth observed at one point when Kinson had remarked on the subject. “The Warlock Lord has only just withdrawn from the Eastland. The Dwarves must still be in hiding.”

It seemed a logical conclusion, but it bothered Kinson nevertheless to pass through country so improbably deserted. The absence of even the most transient peddler was disturbing to him.

It suggested that there was no reason for anyone to be here anymore, as if life no longer had a purpose in these forests. It gave him pause to think that an entire people could vanish as if they had never been. He had no frame of reference for an eradication of this magnitude. What if the Dwarves had been annihilated? What if they had simply ceased to exist? The Four Lands would never recover from such a loss. They would never be the same.

As they walked, content to stay silent, mulling over their separate thoughts, the Borderman and the Druid apprentice did not speak to each other much. Mareth walked with her head up and her eyes forward, and her gaze seemed directed to something beyond what either of them could see. Kinson found himself wondering if she was pondering the possibility of her heritage in light of what she had learned from Bremen. That she was not his daughter, after thinking for so long that she must be, would be shock enough for anyone. That she was perhaps the daughter of one of the dark things that served the Warlock Lord was worse.

Kinson did not know how he would react to such a revelation. He did not think he would accept it easily. It did not matter, he thought, that Bremen insisted it could have no bearing on the sort of person Mareth was. There was more than logic at issue here.

Mareth was well-reasoned and intelligent, but the vicissitudes of her childhood and the complexities of her adult life had rendered her vulnerable to an undermining of the few beliefs she had managed to hold on to.

From time to time he considered speaking to her of this. He considered telling her she was the person she had always believed herself to be, he could see the goodness in her, he had witnessed the force of it firsthand, and she could never be betrayed by so tenuous a heritage as her blood. But he could not think of a way to frame the words so as not to make them appear condescending, and he was afraid to risk that happening. She seemed content simply to have him there, and in spite of his rude remarks when Bremen had suggested she come with him, he was secretly happy that she had. He had grown comfortable with her, with the history they shared, with their talks, with the way in which each knew what the other was thinking, and in the closeness he felt toward her in dozens of small ways he could not easily define. The latter came from such small things as the sound of her voice, the way she looked at him, and the sense of companionship that transcended simply the sharing of the journey. It was enough, he decided in the end, that he was there if she should decide she needed to talk. She knew that her father’s identity and origins made no difference to him. She knew that none of it mattered.

They reached Culhaven at sunset, the light fading, the air cooling, the smell of death harsh and pungent amid the shadows.

The home city of the Dwarves had been burned to the ground, and the land ravaged. Nothing remained but scorched earth, rubble, a few burned timbers, and scattered bones. Many of the dead had been left to lie where they had fallen. They were indistinguishable from one another by now, but the smallness of the bones revealed that some had been children. The Borderman and the apprentice Druid came out of the trees into the clearing where the city had stood, paused in sad appraisal, and then began to walk slowly through the carnage. The attack was weeks old, the fires long burned away, the land already regenerating from beneath the ruins, small green shoots poking up out of the ash. But Culhaven was empty of human life, and across the whole of its blackened sprawl the silence hung in curtains of indifference.

At the center of the city they found a vast pit into which hundreds of Dwarves had been thrown and their bodies burned.

“Why didn’t they run?” Mareth asked softly. “Why did they stay? They must have known. They must have been warned.”

Kinson stayed silent. She knew the answer as well as he did. Hope could play you false. He looked off into the distance, across the broad expanse of the ruins. Where were the Dwarves who were still alive? That was the question that needed answering now.

They moved on through the destruction, their pace quickening, for there was nothing left to see that they had not already seen in abundance. The light was fading, and they wanted to be well beyond the ruins when they set their camp for the night. They would find no food or water here. They would find no shelter There was nothing to keep them. They walked on, following the river to where it wound sluggishly out of the deep woods east. Perhaps things would be better farther on, Kinson thought hopefully Perhaps farther on there would be life.

Something scurried through the rubble to one side, causing the Borderman to start. Rats. He had not seen them before, but of course they were there. Other scavengers as well, he supposed. He felt a chill pass through him, triggered by a memory of a time of his boyhood when he had fallen asleep in a cavern he was exploring and had awakened to find rats crawling over him. Death had seemed oddly close in those brief, horrifying moments.

“Kinson!” hissed Mareth suddenly and stopped.

A cloaked figure was standing before them, unmoving. A man it appeared—there was enough of him revealed to determine this much at least. Where he had come from was a mystery. He had simply materialized, as if conjured from the air itself, but he must have been in hiding, waiting for them. He stood close to the riverbank on which they walked, shadowed by the night and the remains of a stone wall. He did not threaten them; he simply stood there, waiting for them to approach.

Kinson and Mareth exchanged a quick glance. The man’s face was concealed in the shadows of his hood and his arms and legs in the folds of his cloak. They could tell nothing of who he was, nothing of his identity.

“Hello,” Mareth ventured softly. She held the staff Bremen had given her like a shield before her.

There was no reply, no movement.

“Who are you?” she pressed.

“Mareth,” the other called to her in a slow, whispery voice.

Kinson stiffened. The voice had the feel of rat’s feet and the presence of death. He was back in that cave again, a boy once more. The voice scraped against his nerve endings like metal on stone.

“Do you know me?” Mareth asked in surprise. The voice did not seem to trouble her.

“I do,” said the other. “We all do, those of us who are your family. We have waited for you, Mareth. We have waited a long time.”

Kinson could hear the catch in her voice. “What are you talking about?” she asked quickly. “Who are you?”

“Perhaps I am the one you have been searching for. Perhaps am he. Would you think harshly of me if I were? Would you be angry if I told you I was...”

“No!” she cried out sharply.

“Your father?”

The hood tilted back, and the face within revealed itself. It was a hard, strong face, and the similarities to Bremen’s were more than token, though the man before them was younger. But the resemblance to Mareth was unmistakable. He let the young woman look on him momentarily, let her study him well. He seemed oblivious of Kinson.

He smiled faintly. “You see yourself in me, don’t you, child? You see how alike we are? Is it so hard to accept? Am I so repulsive to you?”

“Something is wrong here,” Kinson warned softly.

But Mareth didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on the man who said he was her father, on the dark-cloaked stranger who had appeared so unexpectedly before them. How? How had he known where to look?

“You are one of them!” Mareth snapped coldly at the stranger.

“One of those who serve the Warlock Lord!”

The strong features did not recoil. “I serve who I choose, just as you do. But your service to the Druids was prompted by your search for me, was it not? I can read it in your eyes, child. You have no real ties to the Druids. Who are they to you? I am your father am your flesh and blood, and your ties to me are clear. Oh, I understand your misgivings. I am not a Druid. I am pledged to another cause, one that you have opposed. All your life, you have heard that I am evil. But how bad am I, do you think? Are the stories all true? Or are they perhaps shaded by those who tell them to serve a purpose of their own? How much of what you know can you believe?”

Mareth shook her head slowly. “Enough, I think.”

The stranger smiled. “Then perhaps I should not be your father.”

Kinson watched her hesitate. “Are you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to be. I would not wish your hatred if I were. I would wish your understanding and your tolerance. I would wish for you to listen to all that I would tell you of my life and of how it affects you. I would wish for an opportunity to explain why the cause I serve is neither evil nor destructive, but premised on truths that would liberate us all.” The stranger paused. “Remember that your mother loved me. Could her love have been so misguided? Could her trust in me have been so badly misplaced?”

Kinson felt something shift imperceptibly—a current of air, a hint of smoke, a ripple in the river’s flow— something he could not see, but could only feel. The short hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. Who was this stranger? Where had he come from? If he was Mareth’s father, how had he found them here? How did he know who she was?

“Mareth!” he warned again.

“What if the Druids have been wrong in all that they have done?” the stranger asked suddenly. “What if everything you have believed is premised on lies and half truths and misrepresentations that go all the way back to the beginning of time?”

“That isn’t possible,” Mareth answered at once.

“What if you are betrayed by those you have trusted?” the stranger pressed.

“Mareth, no!” hissed Kinson in fury. But instantly the stranger’s eyes settled on him, and suddenly Kinson Ravenlock could neither move nor speak. He was frozen in place, as much so as if he had been turned to stone.

The stranger’s eyes shifted back to Mareth. “Look at me, child. Look closely.“ To Kinson’s horror, Mareth did. Her face had assumed a vacant, faraway look, as if she were seeing something entirely different from what was before her. ”You are one of us,” the stranger intoned gently, the words soft and coaxing. “You belong with us. You have our power. You have our passion. You have all that is ours save one thing only. You lack our cause. You must embrace it, Mareth. You must accept that we are right m what we seek. Strength and long life through use of the magic. You have felt it flowing through you. You have wondered how it can be made your own. I will show you how. I will teach you. You need not shun what is part of you. You need not be afraid. The secret is in giving heed to what it asks of you, of not trying to restrain it, of not fleeing from its need. Do you understand me?”

Mareth nodded vaguely. Kinson saw an imperceptible change in the features of the stranger before them. No longer was he quite so human. No longer did he resemble either Bremen or Mareth.

He was, instead, becoming something else.

Slowly, painfully, the Borderman strained against the invisible chains that bound his muscles. Carefully, he eased his hand along his thigh to where his long knife was sheathed.

“Father?” Mareth called out suddenly. “Father, why did you abandon me?”

There was a long silence in the deepening night. Kinson’s hand closed about the handle of his knife. His muscles screamed with pain, and his mind felt drugged. This was a trap of the same sort as the one the Warlock Lord had set for them at Paranor! Had the stranger been waiting for them, or just for whoever happened through? Had he known that Mareth, in particular, would come?

Had he hoped it might be Bremen? His fingers tightened on the knife.

The stranger’s hand lifted free of the cloak and beckoned to the young woman. The hand was gnarled, and the fingers were clawed. But Mareth did not seem to see. She took a small step forward.

“Yes, child, come to me,” the stranger urged, his eyes gone as red as blood, fangs showing behind a smile as wicked as a snake’s strike. “Let me explain everything to you. Take my hands, your father’s hands, and I will tell you what you are meant to know. Then you will understand. You will see that I am right in what I tell you. You will know the truth.”

Mareth took another step forward. The hand that held the Druid staff lowered slightly.

In the next instant Kinson Ravenlock wrenched free of the magic that ensnared him, threw off its shackles, and unsheathed his long knife. In a single fluid motion, he flung the knife at the stranger. Mareth cried out in fear—for herself or her father or even Kinson, the Borderman could not tell. But the stranger transformed in the blink of an eye, changing from something human to something that was definitely not. One arm swept up, and a sheet of wicked green fire burst forth, incinerating the long knife in midair.

What stood before them now in a haze of smoke and flickering light was a Skull Bearer.

A second burst of fire exploded from the creature’s clawed fingers, but Kinson was already moving, flinging himself into Mareth and carrying her from the trail and into a pocket of ashcoated rubble. He was back on his feet instantly, not waiting to see if she had recovered, dodging around a wall and toward the Skull Bearer. He would have to be quick now if he wanted to live. The creature was slouching toward them, fire sparking from the tips of its fingers, red eyes burning out of the shadows beneath its hood.

Kinson darted across an open space, the fire just missing him as he threw himself down and rolled behind the skeleton of a small tree The Skull Bearer swung toward him, whispering words insidious and hateful, words filled with dark promise.

Kinson drew out his broadsword. He had lost his bow, which might have made a better weapon—though in truth he possessed no weapon that could make a difference. Stealth and guile had protected him in the past, and neither was of any use now.

“Mareth!” he cried out in desperation.

Then he launched himself from his hiding place and charged toward the Skull Bearer.

The winged hunter shifted to meet the attack, hands lifting, claws sparking. Kinson could tell already that he was too far away to close with the monster before the fire struck. He dodged to his left, looking for cover. There was none to be found. The Skull Bearer rose before him, dark and forbidding. Kinson tried to cover his head.

Then Mareth cried out sharply, “Father!”

The Skull Bearer whirled at the sound of the young woman’s voice, but already the Druid fire was lancing from the raised tip of Mareth’s staff. It slammed into the winged hunter’s body and flung it backward against a wall. Kinson stumbled and fell trying to shield his eyes. Mareth’s face was harsh in the killing light, and her eyes were cast of stone. She sent the fire into the Skull Bearer in a steady stream, burning through its defenses, through its toughened skin, and into its heart. The creature screamed in hatred and pain flinging up its arms as if to fly away. Then the Druid fire consumed it completely, and it was turned to ash.

Mareth threw down the staff in fury, and the Druid fire died away.

“There, Father,” she hissed at the remains, “I have given you my hands to hold in yours. Now explain to me about truth and lies. Go on. Father, speak to me!”

Tears began to stream down her small, dark face. The night closed about once more, and the silence returned. Kinson climbed slowly to his feet, walked to her, and carefully drew her against him. “I don’t think he has much to say on the subject, do you?”

She shook her head wordlessly against his chest. “I was such a fool. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I couldn’t stop myself from listening to him. I almost believed him! All those lies! But he was so persuasive. How did he know about my father? How did he know what to say?”

Kinson stroked her hair. “I don’t know. The dark things of this world sometimes know the secrets we keep hidden. They discover our fears and doubts and use them against us. Bremen told me that once.” He lowered his chin to her hair. “I think this creature was waiting for any of us to come—for you, me, Bremen, Tay, or Risca—any of those who threaten his Master. This was a trap of the same sort set by the Warlock Lord at Paranor, designed to snare whoever walked into it. But Brona used a Skull Bearer this time, so he must be very afraid of what we might do.”

“I almost killed us,” she whispered. “You were right about me.”

“I was wrong,” he replied at once. “Had I come alone, had you not been with me, I would be dead. You saved my life. And you did so with your magic. Look at the ground on which you are standing, Mareth. Then look at yourself.”

She did as he asked. The ground was blackened and scorched, but she was untouched. “Don’t you see?” he asked softly. “The staff channeled your magic, just as Bremen said it would. It carried off the part that would threaten you and kept only what was needed. You have gained control of the magic at last.”

She looked at him steadily, and the sadness in her eyes was palpable. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Kinson. I don’t want control of the magic. I don’t want anything to do with it I am sick of it. I am sick of myself—of who I am, of where I came from, of who my parents were, of everything about me.”

“No,” he said quietly, holding her gaze.

“Yes. I wanted to believe that creature or I would not have been so mesmerized. If you hadn’t broken his hold on me, we would both be dead. I was useless. I am so caught up in this search to discover the truth about myself that I endanger everyone around me.”

Her mouth tightened. “My father, he called himself. A Skull Bearer. Lies this time, but maybe not the next. Perhaps it is true. Perhaps my father is a Skull Bearer. I don’t want to know. I don’t want anything more to do with magic and Druids and winged hunters and talismans.“ The tears had started again, and her voice was shaking. ”I am finished with this business. Let someone else go on with you. I quit.”

Kinson looked off into the darkness. “You can’t do that, Mareth,” he told her finally. “No, don’t say anything, just listen to me. You can’t because you are a better person than that. You have to go on. You are needed to help those who cannot help themselves. It isn’t a responsibility you went looking for, I realize. But there it is, your burden to bear, given to you because you are one of only a few who can shoulder it. You, Bremen, Risca, and Tay Trefenwyd—the last of the Druids. Just the four of you, because there is no one else, and perhaps there never will be.”

“I don’t care,” she murmured dully. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” he insisted. “You all do. If you didn’t, the struggle with the Warlock Lord would have been finished long ago, and we would all be dead.”

They stood looking at each other in the ensuing silence, like statues left standing amid the ruins of the city.

“You are right,” she said finally, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. “I do care.”

She moved against him, lifted her face to his, and kissed him on the mouth. Her arms slipped around his waist and held him to her. Her kiss lasted a long time, and it was more than a kiss of friendship or gratitude. Kinson Ravenlock felt something grow warm deep inside that he hadn’t even known was there. He kissed Mareth back, his own arms coming about her.

When the kiss was finished, she stayed pressed against him for a moment, her head lowered into his chest. He could feel her heart heat He could hear her breathing. She stepped back and looked at him without speaking, her huge, dark eyes filled with wonder.

She bent down to pick up the fallen staff and began walking toward the woods again, following the Silver River east. Kinson stared after her until she was only a shadow, trying to make sense of things. Then he gave it up and hurried to catch her.

They walked for two days afterward and encountered no one.

All of the villages, farms, cottages, and trading centers that they passed were burned out and deserted. There were signs of the Northland army’s passage and of the Dwarves’ flight, but there were no people to be found. Birds flew across the skies, small animals darted through the undergrowth, insects hummed in the brambles, and fish swam in the waters of the Silver River, but no humans appeared. The man and the woman kept careful watch for any more of the Skull Bearers or any of the other myriad netherworld creatures that served the Warlock Lord, but none came.

They found food and water, but never in abundance and always in the wild. The days were slow and hot, the sticky swelter of the Anar cooled infrequently by passing rains. The nights were clear and deep, filled with stars and bright with moonlight. The world was peaceful and still and empty. It began to feel as if everyone, friend and foe alike, had vanished into the firmament.

Mareth did not speak again of her origins or of abandoning her quest. She did not mention her loathing of the magic or her fear of those who wielded it. She traveled mostly in silence, and when she did have something to say it concerned the country through which they passed and the creatures living there. She seemed to have put the events of Culhaven behind her. She seemed to have settled on staying with Kinson, though she gave her decision no voice. She smiled often in his direction. She sat close to him sometimes before sleeping. He found himself wishing more than once that she would kiss him again.

“I am not angry anymore,” she said at one point, her eyes directed ahead, carefully avoiding his. They were walking side by side across a meadow filled with yellow wildflowers. “I was angry for so long,” she continued after a moment. “At my mother, at my father, at Bremen, at the Druids, at everyone. Anger gave me strength, but now it only drains me. Now I’m simply tired.”

“I understand,” he replied. “I have been traveling for more than ten years—for as long as I can remember—always in search of something. Now I just want to stop and look around a little I want to have a home somewhere. Do you think that’s foolish?”

She smiled at his words, but she didn’t answer.

Late on their third day out of Culhaven, they reached the Ravenshorn. They were within its shadow and climbing into the foothills when the sun began to sink beneath the western horizon.

The sky was a wondrous rainbow of orange, crimson, and purple, the colors spilling everywhere, staining the earth below, reaching out to the darkening comers of the land. Kinson and Mareth had paused to look back at the spectacle when a solitary Dwarf appeared on the trail before them.

“Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

He was alone and bore only a heavy cudgel, but Kinson knew at once there would be others close at hand. He told the Dwarf their names. “We are searching for Risca,” he advised. “The Druid Bremen has sent us to find him.”

The Dwarf said nothing, but instead turned and beckoned for them to follow. They walked for several hours, the trail climbing through the foothills to the lower slopes of the mountains. Daylight faded, and the moon and stars came out to light their way The air cooled, and their breath puffed before them in small clouds. Kinson searched for signs of other Dwarves as they traveled, but he never saw more than the one.

At last they crossed into a valley where several dozen watch fires burned and ten times as many Dwarves huddled close abort them. The Dwarves looked up as the Southlanders came into view, and some rose from where they had been sitting. Then stares were hard and suspicious, and their words to each other were kept purposefully low. They carried few possessions, but every last one of them wore weapons strapped to his waist and back.

Kinson wondered suddenly if he and Mareth were in danger He moved closer to her, his eyes darting left and right. It did not feel safe. It felt ugly and threatening. He wondered if these Dwarves were renegades fled from the main army. He wondered if the army even existed anymore.

Then abruptly Risca was there, waiting for them as they approached, unchanged from the time they had left him at the Hadeshorn save for the new lacing of cuts that marked his face. And when a smile appeared on his weathered face and his hand stretched out in greeting, Kinson Ravenlock knew that everything was going to be all right.

Chapter Thirty

Ten days following Jerle Shannara’s midnight assault, the army of the Warlock Lord attacked the Elves at the Valley of Rhenn.

The Elves were not caught unprepared. All that night the level of activity in the enemy camp had been unusually high. Watch fires were built up until it seemed as if the entire grassland were ablaze. The siege machines that had been salvaged from the raid were hauled forward, massive giants looming out of the night, the squarish, bulky towers swaying and creaking, the long, bent arms of the catapults and throwers casting their shadows like broken limbs. Long before daybreak the various units of the army began to assemble, and from as far away as the head of the pass the Elves could hear the sounds of armor and weapons being strapped in place. The heavy tromp of booted feet signaled the forming up of battle units. Horses were saddled and brought around, and the cavalry mounted and rode off to assume positions on the army’s flanks, warding the archers and foot soldiers. There was no mistaking what was happening, and Jerle Shannara was quick to respond.

The king had used well the time that his raid had gained him. It had taken the Northlanders even longer to recover than he had hoped. The damage his raid had inflicted on the siege machines and supply wagons was extensive, requiring that new machines be built, old ones be repaired, and more supplies be brought down from the north. Some of the scattered horses were recovered, but a large number had to be replaced. The Northland army swelled anew as further reinforcements arrived, but the Elves were encouraged by the fact that they had damaged this superior force so easily. It had given them renewed hope, and the king was quick to take advantage of it.

The first thing Jerle did was to relocate the greater part of his army from the west end of the valley to the east, from the narrow pass to the broad mouth opening onto the flats. His reasoning was simple. While it was easier to defend the deeper pass, he preferred to engage the enemy farther out and make it fight for every foot of ground as it advanced through the valley. The danger, of course, lay in spreading his lesser force too thinly before a superior army.

But to offset that risk, the king employed his engineering corps to construct a series of deadly traps in the wide gap opening out onto the plains through which the Northlanders must pass. He met as well with his commanders to discuss strategy, working out a complex but comprehensive set of alternatives he believed would offset the magnitude of the Northland strike. The larger army would win if it could bring its superior size and strength to bear.

The trick was to prevent this from happening.

So when dawn arrived on that tenth day and the Northland army stood revealed, the Elves were waiting. Four companies of foot soldiers and archers stood arrayed across the wide mouth of the valley’s east entrance, arms at the ready. Cavalry under Kier Joplin had already fanned out to either side along the fringe of the Westland forests that screened the cliffs and hills. On the high ground, three more companies of Elven Hunters had set themselves in place, warded by earthworks and barricades, with bows, slings, and spears in hand.

But the army assembled before them was truly daunting. It numbered well over ten thousand, spread out all across the plains for as far as the eye could see. The huge Rock Trolls stood centermost, their great pikes lifted in a forest of wood and iron. Lesser Trolls and Gnomes flanked and fronted them. Heavy cavalry ranged behind, lances set in stirrup rests. Twin siege towers bracketed the army, and catapults and throwers were scattered through its midst. In the blaze of new sunlight and old shadows, the Northland army looked to be large enough to crush any obstacle it encountered.

There was an expectant silence as the sun lifted out of the horizon and the new day began. The two armies faced each other across the grassland, armor and weapons glinting, pennants flying in a soft breeze, the sky a strange mix of brightening blue and fading gray. Clouds sailed overhead in vast, thick masses that threatened rain before the day was through. The acrid smell of scorched earth wafted on the air, a residue from the watch fires doused. Horses stamped nervously and shifted in then-traces. Men took deep breaths and closed off thoughts of home and family and better times.

When the Northland army began its advance toward the valley, the earth shook with the sound. Drums thudded in steady cadence to mark time for the foot soldiers marching in step. The wheels of the catapults and siege towers rumbled. Boots and hooves thudded so heavily that the trembling of the ground could be felt all the way back to where the Elves stood waiting. Dust began to rise from the parched plains, the wind stirring it in wild clouds, and the size of the army seemed to swell even more, to rise on the dust as if fed by it. The silence shattered, and the light changed. In the roil of the dust and the thunder of the army’s coming. Death lifted its head in expectation and looked about.

Jerle Shannara sat atop his charger, a white-faced bay called Risk, and watched in silence as the enemy advanced. He did not like the effect that it was having on his men. The sheer number of the enemy was disheartening, and the sound of its coming was immense and heart-stopping. The king could feel the fear it generated in his soldiers. His impatience with what was happening began to grate on him. It began to work against his own resolve.

Finally, he could abide it no longer. Impulsively he spurred forward to the head of his army, leaving Preia, Bremen, and his personal guard staring after him in shock. Charging to the fore, exposed to all, he reined in and began to walk Risk up and down the front ranks, speaking boldly to the Elven Hunters who stood there looking up at him in delighted surprise.

“Steady now,” he called out calmly, smiling, nodding in greeting, meeting every pair of eyes. “Size alone won’t make the difference. This is our ground, our home, our birthright, our nation. We cannot be driven from it by an invader who lacks heart.

We cannot be defeated while we believe in ourselves. Stay strong.

Remember what we have planned for them. Remember what we must do. They will break first, I promise you. Keep steady. Keep your wits.”

So he went, up and down the lines, pausing now and again to ask a man he recognized some small question, demonstrating to them the confidence he felt, reminding them of the courage he knew they possessed. He did not bother to glance at the juggernaut that approached. He pointedly ignored it. They are nothing to us, he was saying. They are already beaten.

When the behemoth was two hundred yards away, the thunder of its approach so pervasive that there was room for no other sound, he raised his arm in salute to his Elven Hunters, wheeled Risk into their front ranks, and took his place among them. Dust gusted across the plains, shrouding the marching army and the rolling machines. Drums hammered out the cadence. The siege weapons lurched closer, hauled forward by massive ropes and trains of pack animals. Swords and pikes glittered in the dusky light.

Then, when the advancing army was a hundred and fifty yards away, Jerle Shannara signaled for the plains to be fired.

Forward raced a long line of archers, dropping to one knee to light their arrows. Six-foot-long bows were lifted and tilted skyward, and bowstrings were drawn taut and released. The arrows flew into the midst of the Northland army, landing in grasses that the Elves had soaked with oil under cover of darkness die night before, when they knew the attack was at hand. Flames sprang to life all about, rising into the dust-clogged air, blazing skyward amid the close-set enemy ranks. Down the long lines the fire raced, and the Northland march slowed and broke apart as the screams of frightened men and animals rose into the morning air.

But the army did not retreat or try to flee. Instead it charged, its forward ranks breaking free of the deadly flames. Gnome archers loosed their arrows in wild bursts, but they lacked Elven longbows and the arrows fell short. The soldiers with their hand weapons came on, howling in rage, anxious to close with the enemy that had surprised them. Fully a thousand in number, most of them Gnomes and lesser Trolls, ill-disciplined and impulsive, they surged forward into the trap that waited.

Jerle Shannara held his soldiers in place, the bowmen drawn back again into the ranks of Elven Hunters. When the enemy was close enough to smell, he brought up his sword in signal to the haulers set in lines amid the swordsmen. Back they pulled on the heavy, greased ropes concealed in the grasses, and dozens of barricades buttressed with sharpened stakes lifted to meet the rush.

The attackers were too close to slow, pressed on by those who pushed from behind, and were driven onto the deadly spikes.

Some tried to cut at the ropes, but the blades slid harmlessly along the greased cords. The cries of attack changed to screams of pain and horror, and Northlanders died in agony as they fell on the barricades or were trampled underfoot.

Now the Elven bowmen loosed their arrows a second time in long, steady waves. The Northlanders, slowed by the barricades blocking their path of attack, were easy targets. Unable to protect themselves, with nowhere to hide, they were felled by the dozens.

The flames of the grass fires closing in from behind gave them no chance to retreat. The rest of the Northland army had split apart in an effort to skirt the center of the inferno and lend support to those trapped in front. But the positioning of the siege machines and the trains of animals hauling them forward hampered their progress, and now Elven cavalry rode at them from both sides, sweeping across their flanks with javelins and short swords. One of the towers caught fire, and in an effort to douse the flames, the occupants frantically splashed down buckets of water drawn from containers stored within the wooden shell. Catapults loosed their deadly hail of stones and jagged metal, but their aim was obscured by the smoke and dust.

Then Jerle Shannara had the ropes to the spiked barricades released, and the barricades dropped away. The Elves marched forward, lancers and swordsmen set in staggered lines, their ranks tight, the shield of the man on the right protecting the man on the left. Straight into the ravaged Northland front they marched, a steady, relentless advance. Dismayed at their predicament, the Northlanders who were trapped between the Elves and the fire threw down their weapons and tried to flee. But there was no escape. They were hemmed in on all sides now, and with no place to go they were quickly cut to pieces.

But the grass fires began to die, and a company of the Rock Trolls that formed the core of the Northland army’s strength marched into view, their great pikes lowered. They held their ranks and maintained their pace without slowing as they trampled over their own dead and dying, making no distinction between friend and enemy. Anything caught in their path was killed. Jerle Shannara saw them coming and gave the order to retreat. He pulled back his front lines to their original position and set them in place again. On his right. Cormorant Etrurian commanded. On his left, Rustin Apt. Am Banda set the bowmen amid both companies, staggering their lines, and had them loose their arrows at the advancing Trolls. But the Trolls were too well armored for the arrows to do much damage, and the king signaled the archers to fall back.

Out of the fire and smoke the Rock Trolls marched, the finest fighters in the Four Lands, massive of shoulder and thigh, heavily muscled, armored and steady. Jerle Shannara signaled anew, and up came a new set of spikes to block their path. But the Rock Trolls were more disciplined and less easily confused than the Gnomes and lesser Trolls, and they set themselves in place to push back the spiked barricades. Behind them swarmed the balance of the Northland army, appearing out of the haze in seemingly endless numbers, hauling with them their siege towers and catapults.

Cavalry rode their flanks, engaging Kier Joplin’s command, keeping it at bay.

Jerle Shannara withdrew his army another hundred yards, well into the broad eastern mouth of the Rhenn. Line by line, the Elves fell back, a disciplined, orderly retreat, but a retreat nevertheless.

Some among the Northland army cheered, believing the Elves had panicked. Surely the Elves would break and flee, they thought.

None among them noticed the lines of small flags through which the Elves carefully withdrew and which they surreptitiously removed in their passing. Advancing implacably, relentlessly into the valley, the Rock Trolls were oblivious of the ordered form of the Elven retreat. Behind them smoke and fire gusted and died as the wind faded with the approach of midmorning. Kier Joplin’s command rode back into the valley ahead of the Northland assault, anxious to avoid being cut off. They galloped past the foot soldiers and wheeled about on their flanks, forming up anew. The entire Westland army was in place now, stretched across the mouth of the valley, waiting. There was no sign of panic and no hint of uncertainty. They had set a second trap, and the unsuspecting enemy was marching directly into it.

So it was that when the front ranks of the Rock Trolls reached the entrance to the valley, the ground beneath their feet began to give way. The heavily armored Trolls tumbled helplessly into pits the Elves had dug and concealed several days earlier and themselves carefully avoided during their retreat. The ranks parted and moved ahead, avoiding the exposed drops, but there were pits staggered over a span of fifty yards at irregular intervals, and the ground continued to collapse no matter which way the Trolls turned. Confusion slowed their advance, and the attack began to falter.

Immediately, the Elves counterattacked. The king signaled the men concealed on the cliffs to either side, the casks of the flammable oil were rolled down hidden ramps onto the grasslands to smash apart on exposed rocks and spill into the pits. Once more fire arrows arced skyward and fell into the spreading oil, and the entire eastern end of the valley was abruptly engulfed in flames. The Rock Trolls in the pits were burned alive. The balance of the assault came on, but the solidarity of the Troll ranks was shattered. Worse, the Trolls were being overrun by the unwitting Northlanders who had followed in their wake. Confusion began to overtake the army. The fire chased them, the arrows from the Elven longbows fell among them, and now the Elven army was marching into their midst, bearing massive, spiked rams before them. The rams tore into their already decimated ranks and scattered the Trolls further. On came the Elven Hunters, who fell upon the rest with their swords. Those trapped between the Elves and the fire stood their ground and fought bravely, but died anyway.

In desperation the remaining Northlanders charged the cliffs to either side of the pass, trying to gain a foothold there. But the Elves were waiting once more. Boulders tumbled from the heights and crushed the climbers. Arrows decimated their ranks. From their superior defensive positions, the Elves repelled the assault almost effortlessly. Below, in the inferno of the pass, the front quarter of the Northland army milled about helplessly. The attack stalled and then fell apart. Choking on dust and smoke, burned by the grass fires, and bloodied by the weapons of the Elves, the army of the Warlock Lord began to withdraw once more onto the Streleheim.

Impulsively Jerle Shannara unsheathed the sword entrusted to him by Bremen, the sword whose magic he could not command or even yet believe in, and he thrust it aloft. All about him the Elves lifted their own weapons in response and cheered.

Almost instantly the king recognized the irony of his gesture.

Quickly he lowered the sword once more, a fool’s stick in his hands, a simpleton’s charm. As he wheeled Risk about angrily, his euphoria drained from him and was replaced by shame.

“It is the Sword of Shannara now, Elven King,” Bremen had told him when he had revealed to the old man after the midnight raid how the talisman’s magic had failed him. “It is no longer a sword of the Druids’ or of mine.”

The words recalled themselves now as he rode back and forth across his lines, resetting them in preparation for the next attack, the one he knew would probably come just before sunset. The Sword was back in its sheath, strapped to his waist, an uncertain, enigmatic presence. For while Bremen had been quick enough to name the Sword, he had been slow to provide reassurance that its magic could be mastered, and even now, even with all he knew, Jerle Shannara still did not feel as if it was truly his.

“It is possible for you to command the magic, Elven King,” the old man had whispered to him that night. “But the strength to do so is born out of belief, and the belief necessarily must come from within you.”

They had huddled together in the dark those ten days earlier, dawn still an hour or more away, their faces smeared with soot and dirt and streaked with sweat. Jerle Shannara had come close to dying that night. The Warlock Lord’s netherworld monster had almost killed him, and even though Bremen had arrived in time to save him, the memory of how near death had come was yet vivid and raw. Preia was somewhere close, but Jerle had chosen to talk with the Druid alone, to confess his failure in private to exorcise the demons that raged within. He could not live with what had befallen him if he did not think he could prevent it from happening again. Too much depended on the Sword’s use. What had he done wrong in calling on the power of the talisman that night? How could he make certain it did not happen again?

Alone in the darkness, huddled so that the pounding of their hearts and the heated rush of their breathing was all they could hear, they had confronted the question.

“This sword is a talisman meant for a single purpose, Jerle Shannara!” the old man had snapped almost angrily, his voice rough and impatient. “It has a single use and no other! You cannot call on the magic to defend you against all creatures that threaten! The blade may save your life, but the magic will not!”

The king stiffened at the rebuke. “But you said...”

“Do not tell me what I said!” Bremen’s words were sharp and stinging as they cut apart his objection and silenced him. “You were not listening to what I said, Elven King! You heard what you wanted to hear and no more! Do not deny it! I saw; I watched!

This time, pay me better heed! Are you doing so?”

Jerle Shannara managed a furious, tight-lipped nod, his tongue held in check only by the knowledge that if he failed to do as he was bidden, he was lost.

“Against the Warlock Lord, the magic will respond when you call on it! But only against the Warlock Lord, and only if you believe strongly enough!” The gray head shook reprovingly.

“Truth comes from belief—remember that. Truth comes with recognition that it is universal and all-encompassing and plays no favorites. If you. cannot accept it into your own life, you cannot force it into the lives of others. You must embrace it first, before you can employ it! You must make it your armor!”

“But it should have served so against that creature!” the king insisted, unwilling to admit that his judgment had been wrong.

“Why did it not respond?”

“Because there is no deception about such a monster!” the Druid replied, his jaw clenched. “It does not do battle with lies and half truths. It does not armor itself in falsehoods. It does not deceive itself into thinking it is something it is not! That—that, Elven King, is the sole province of the Warlock Lord! And that is why the magic of the Sword of Shannara can be used only against him!”

So they had debated, the argument raging back and forth, on until dawn, when they had rested at last. Afterward, the king had been left to think on what he had been told, to try to reconcile the words with his expectations. Gradually he had come to accept that what Bremen believed must be true. The magic of the Sword was limited to a single use, and though he might wish it otherwise, there was no help for it. The magic of the Sword was meant for Brona alone and no other. He must embrace this knowledge, and somehow he must find a way to make the magic, however foreign and confusing, his own.

He had gone to Preia finally, having known all along that he would do so eventually, just as he did with all things that troubled him. His counselors were there to advise him at every turn, and some—especially Vree Erreden—were worth listening to. But no one knew him as Preia did, and in truth none among them was apt to be as honest. So he had made himself confide the truth in her, though it was difficult to admit that he had failed and was fearful he might fail again.

It was later that same day, his conversation with Bremen still fresh in his mind, his memories of the previous night still vivid.

The Valley of Rhenn was hushed beneath a clouded sky, and the Elves were watchful, wary of a Northland response to the previous night’s attack. The afternoon was gray and slow, the summer heat settled deep within the parched earth of the Streleheim, the air thick with dampness from an approaching rain.

“You will find a way to master this magic,” she said at once when he had finished speaking. Her voice was firm and insistent, and her gaze was steady. “I believe that, Jerle. I know you. You have never given up on a challenge, and you will not give up on this one.”

“Sometimes,” he replied quietly, “I think it would be better if Tay were here in my place. He might make a better king. Certainly, he would be better suited to wield this sword and its magic.”

But she shook her head at once. “Do not ever say that again. Not ever.” Her clear, ginger eyes were bright and sharp. “You were meant to live and be King of the Elves. Fate decreed that long ago. Tay was a good friend and meant much to both of us, but he was not destined for this. Listen to me, Jerle. The Sword’s magic will work for you. Truth is no stranger. We have begun our lives as husband and wife by revealing truths that we would not have admitted a month before. We have opened ourselves to each other. It was difficult and painful, but now you know it can be done. You know this. You do.”

“Yes,” he admitted softly. “But the magic still seems...” He faltered.

“Unfamiliar,” she finished for him. “But it can be made your own. You have accepted that magic is a part of your Elven history. Tay’s magic was real. You have discovered for yourself that it could perform miracles. You watched him give his life in its service. All things are possible with magic. And truth is one of them, Jerle. It is a weapon of great power. It can strengthen and it can destroy. Bremen is no fool. If he says that truth is the weapon you require, then it must be so.”

But still it nagged at him, whispered of his doubts, and caused him to waver. Truth seemed so small a weapon. What truth could be powerful enough to destroy a being that could summon monsters from the netherworld? What truth was sufficient to counter magic powerful enough to keep a creature alive for hundreds of years? It seemed ludicrous to think that truth alone was sufficient for anything. Fire was needed. Iron, sharp-edged and poison-doped. Strength that could split rocks asunder. Nothing less would do he kept thinking—even as he sought to embrace the magic Bremen offered. Nothing less.

Now, riding the battlefield with the Sword of Shannara strapped to his side, his Elven Hunters buoyed by the euphoria of their victory, he wondered anew at the enormity of the responsibility he had been given to fulfill. Sooner or later he would have to face the Warlock Lord. But that would not happen until he forced a confrontation, and that in turn would not happen until the Northland army itself was threatened. How could he hope to bring such a thing about? For while the Elves had held against one assault, there was nothing to say that they would be able to hold against another, and another, and another after that—the Northland army coming on relentlessly. And if they did somehow manage to hold, how could he turn the tide of battle so that the Elves could take the offensive? There were so many of the enemy, he kept thinking. So many lives to expend and no thought being given to the waste of it. It was not so for him—and not so for the Elves who fought for him. This was a war of attrition, and that was exactly the kind of war he could not hope to win.

Yet somehow he must. For that was all that was left to him.

That was the only choice he had been given.

He must, or the Elves would be destroyed.

The Northland army came again an hour before sunset, appearing out of the scorched, dusty, smoke-shrouded grasslands like disembodied wraiths. Foot soldiers marched in behind massive shields constructed of wood so green it would not burn. Cavalry rode their flanks to ward against attacks from the cliffs north and south. They advanced slowly and steadily out of the haze, the grass fires having burned themselves out earlier, though the air was still acrid and raw. They skirted the charred pits and their crumpled dead, and once inside the valley they began to probe for new traps. Five thousand strong, they were packed close behind their shields, and their weapons bristled at every turn. The drums beat in steady cadence and they chanted as they marched, boots thudding, iron blades and wooden hafts rapping in time. They brought up their siege towers and catapults and set them in place at the valley entrance. A vast, dark mass, they rose up against the coming night until it seemed as if there were enough of them to overrun the entire world.

Jerle Shannara had drawn his army deeper into the valley, bringing them back to a midway point before setting their lines.

He had chosen a position where the valley began to rise toward the Rhenn’s narrow western pass, giving his Hunters the high ground on which to position themselves. His tactics necessarily changed now, for the wind had shifted within the valley, blowing back against the defenders, and fire would,only aid the enemy here. Nor had he ordered pits dug this deep within the valley; there would not be enough room to maneuver his own army if he did, and besides, the enemy would be looking for them now.

Instead, he had ordered dozens of spiked barricades built, ties sharpened at both ends and lashed crosswise to a central axle so that they resembled cylindrical pinwheels. Each was twenty feet in length and light enough to haul forward and set in place so that the downward-pointing spikes were jammed into the earth. These he had positioned at staggered intervals in a narrow ribbon all across the width of the Rhenn just below his forward lines.

When the army of the Warlock Lord spilled into the valley and began its determined march forward, the first resistance it encountered was the maze of spiked barricades. As the front ranks of the enemy reached them, Jerle Shannara ordered his bowmen, set in lines of three behind cover along the slopes, to loose their arrows.

The Northlanders, slowed by the barricades and unable to push them aside, could not escape. Caught in a withering crossfire, they were killed by the dozens as they sought to crawl over, under, or past the spikes. The cavalry tried to mount a sustained charge against the Elves positioned on the heights, but the slopes were too steep for horses and the Northland riders were swept down again.

Screams rose from the dying, and the attack stalled. The Northlanders hid behind their shields, but they could not advance their cover beyond the Elven barricades. Axes were brought up to hew through the barricades, but those who rushed out to chop apart the spiked pinwheels lasted only moments. Worse, to break past even one of the barricades required cutting it through in a dozen places.

The light failed, dusk descended, and the world turned shadowy and uncertain. The Northlanders brought fire to the barricades and set some ablaze, but the Elves had purposely made them of green wood. The grasses caught fire, but the Elves had dug trenches to separate themselves from the barricades, and the fires burned themselves out east of the defensive lines.

The Elves waited until darkness began to mask everything, then counterattacked from the slopes in a series of controlled strikes.

Because the Elves had the Northlanders bottled up on the valley floor, their target was certain even in the deepening gloom. One company after another came down off the heights, forcing the Northlanders to turn first one way and then another to defend themselves. Fierce hand-to-hand fighting ensued, and the valley became a enamel house.

Still the enemy would not fall back. Northlanders died by the hundreds, but there were always more waiting to be brought up, a huge, massive force crushing relentlessly inward. Even as the Elves fought to hold their positions against those already in place, reinforcements were advancing. Slowly, inexorably, the enemy pushed forward. The barricades held the Northland army in check at the valley’s center, but the slopes were being overrun. The Elves under Cormorant Etrurian who held the cliffs were slowly driven from their defensive positions and compelled to fall back.

Foot by foot, yard by yard, the Northlanders advanced, seizing the heights and breaking free of the vise that Jerle Shannara had clamped about them.

Word of what was happening reached the king. The skies were clouded and rain was beginning to fall, turning the ground slick and treacherous. The sounds of battle echoed off the slopes of the valley, creating a maelstrom of confusion. The darkness made it virtually impossible to see anything beyond a few yards. Jerle Shannara took only a moment to consider. Quickly he sent runners to withdraw Etrurian’s men to the barricades established as a redoubt high on the slopes parallel to his own lines. There they were to stand and hold. He sent runners to pull back Am Banda and the longbows. Then he marshaled two companies of Elven Hunters under Rustin Apt and formed them up to attack. When Etrurian’s fighters and the bowmen were safely withdrawn, he ordered pikes brought to the fore, and he marched his command directly into the heart of the enemy advance. He engaged the Northlanders just as they were breaking through on the right flank and pinned their front ranks against the barricades. He ordered torches lit to identify their position to the re-entrenched bowmen, then had them rake the enemy from the slopes.

Caught in an enfilading fire, the Northlanders rallied under a massive clutch of Rock Trolls and counterattacked. They shoved and twisted their way past the barricades and hammered into the Elven Hunters. Huge, winged shapes appeared out of the smoky haze as Skull Bearers took to the skies to lend their support. The line of defense buckled. Grizzled Rustin Apt went down and was carried from the field. Trewithen and the Home Guard hurried forward to reinforce the sagging defense, but the enemy were too many and the entire Elven front began to collapse.

In desperation, Jerle Shannara put his spurs to Risk and charged into the battle himself. Surrounded by Home Guard, he cut his way into the enemy front, rallying his Elven Hunters to him.

Northlanders came at him from all sides. They tried to drag him from his horse, to knock him from the saddle, to do anything to slow mm. Behind him, the Elven army, battered and worn, surged to its collective feet and followed in his wake. Battle cries rose out of the shrieks and moans of the injured and dying, and the Elves thrust into the Northlanders yet again. Jerle fought as if he might drive the enemy all the way back to the Northland by himself, his gleaming sword catching light from the torches, ringing out as it hammered down against enemy weapons and armor. Massive Trolls appeared in his path, great faceless monsters with battleaxes. But the king cut his way through them as if they were made of paper, refusing to be stopped, seemingly invincible. He outdistanced even his personal guard, and his soldiers threw themselves at the enemy in an effort to reach him.

Then lightning struck an outcropping on the slope closest to where the battle was being fought, and fiery clots of earth and shards of broken rock exploded skyward and showered across the valley floor. Men covered their heads and cowered at the fury of the explosion, and for just an instant time froze. As the Northlanders hesitated, turned momentarily to statues, Jerle Shannara stood tall in his stirrups and thrust the Sword of Shannara skyward in defiance of everything. Battle cries rose from the throats of his men, and they charged into the enemy with such ferocity that they overran them completely. Those farthest away and yet able to escape retreated behind the shattered barricades, the fight gone out of them. For a moment they held their ground in the forest of jagged wooden bones and scorched earth. Then sullenly, wearily they withdrew to the Rhenn’s east pass.

Massed against the barricades, streaked by rain, dirt, sweat, and blood, Jerle Shannara and the Elves watched them go.

The victory for this day, at least, belonged to them.

Chapter Thirty-One

The sun broke through skies turned gloomy and gray from the night’s heavy rain, and the scorched and rutted floor of the Valley of Rhenn was blackened and steaming in the half-light. Drawn up in their ranks, weapons held ready, eyes peering expectantly through the gloom, the Elves stood waiting for the attack they knew would come. But no sound came from the heavy mist that cloaked the camp of the army of the Warlock Lord within the valley’s eastern pass, and nothing moved in the empty, blasted landscape before them. The light brightened with the sun’s rise, but the mist refused to thin and still there was no sign of an attack. That the massive army had withdrawn was unthinkable.

All that night it had scratched and worried at itself like a stricken animal, the sounds of pain and anguish rising up out of the mist and rain, transcending the fading thunder of the receding storm.

All that night the army had tended to its needs and regrouped its forces. It held the eastern pass entire, the floor and the heights alike. It brought forward all of its siege machines, supplies, and equipment, and settled them within the lines of its encampment across the broad mouth of the pass. Its progress might be slow and lumbering, but it remained an inexorable, unstoppable juggernaut.

“They’re out there,” muttered one-eyed Am Banda, standing just to Bremen’s left, his face twisted in a worrisome scowl.

Jerle Shannara nodded, his tall form fixed and unmoving. “But what are they up to?”

“Indeed.” Bremen pulled his dark robes closer to his lean body to ward off the dawn chill. They could not see the far end of the valley, their eyes unable to penetrate the gloom, but they could feel the enemy’s presence even so. The night had been filled with sound and fury as the Northlanders prepared anew for battle, and it was only in the last hour that they had gone ominously still. The attack this day would take a new form, the old man suspected. The Warlock Lord had been repulsed the previous day with heavy losses and would not be inclined to repeat the experience. Even his power had limits, and sooner or later his hold on those who fought for him would weaken if no gains were made. The Elves must be driven back or defeated soon or the Northlanders would begin to question the Master’s invincibility. Once that house of cards began to topple, there would be no stopping it.

There was movement to his right, small and furtive. It was the boy, Allanon. He glanced over surreptitiously. The boy was staring straight ahead, his lean face taut, his eyes fixed on nothing.

He was seeing something, though—that much was clear from his expression. He was looking through the mist and gloom to something beyond, those strange eyes penetrating to what was hidden from the rest of them.

The old man followed the direction of the boy’s gaze. Mist swirled, a shifting cloak across the whole of the valley’s eastern end. “What is it?” he asked softly.

But the boy only shook his head. He could sense it, but not yet identify it. His eyes remained fixed on the haze, his concentration complete. He was good at concentrating, Bremen had learned. In fact, he was better than good. His intensity was frightening. It was not something he had learned while growing or been imbued with as a result of the shock he had suffered in the destruction of Varfleet. It was something he had been born with—like the strange eyes and the razor-sharp mind. The boy was as hard and fixed of purpose as stone, but he possessed an intelligence and a thirst for knowledge that were boundless. Just a week earlier, following the night raid on the Northland camp, he had come to Bremen and asked the old man to teach him to use the Druid magic. Just like that. Teach me how to use it, he had demanded—as if anyone could learn, as if the skill could be taught easily.

“It takes years to master even the smallest part,” Bremen had replied, too stunned by the request to refuse it outright.

“Let me try,” the boy had insisted.

“But why would you even want to?” The Druid was genuinely perplexed. “Is it revenge you seek? Do you think the magic will gain you that? Why not spend your time learning to use conventional weapons? Or learning to ride? Or studying warfare?”

“No,” the boy had replied at once, quick and firm. “I don’t want any of that. I don’t care about revenge. What I want is to be like you.”

And there it was, the whole of it laid bare in a single sentence.

The boy wanted to be a Druid. He was drawn to Bremen and Bremen to him because they were more kindred than the old man had suspected. Galaphile’s fourth vision was another glimpse of the future, a warning that there were ties that bound the boy to the Druid, a promise of their common destiny. Bremen knew that now. The boy had been sent to him by a fate he did not yet understand. Here, perhaps, was the successor he had looked so long to find. It was strange that he should find him in this way, but not entirely unexpected. There were no laws for the choosing of Druids, and Bremen knew better than to try to start making them now.

So he had given Allanon a few small tricks to master— little things that required mostly concentration and practice. He had thought it would keep the boy occupied for a week or so. But Allanon had mastered all of them in a single day and come back for more. So for each of the ten days leading up to now, Bremen had given him some new bit of Druid lore with which to work, letting him decide for himself which way to take his learning, which use to employ. Caught up in the preparations for the Northland attack, he had barely had time to consider what the boy had accomplished. Yet watching him now, studying him in the faint dawn light as he gazed out across the valley, the old man was struck anew by the obvious depth and immutability of the boy’s determination.

“There!” cried Allanon suddenly, his eyes widening in surprise. “They are above us!”

Bremen was so shocked that for a moment he was rendered speechless. A few heads lifted in response to the boy’s words, but no one moved. Then Bremen swept his arm skyward, showering the gloom with Druid light in a wide, rainbow arc, and the dark shapes that circled overhead were suddenly revealed. Skull Bearers wheeled sharply away as they were exposed, their wings spread wide as they disappeared back into the haze.

Jerle Shannara was beside the Druid in a moment. “What are they doing?” he demanded.

Bremen’s eyes remained fixed on the empty skies, watching the Druid light as it faded away. The gloom returned, fixed and pervasive. There was something wrong with the light, he realized suddenly. The look of it was all wrong.

“They are scouting,” he whispered. Then, turning quickly to Allanon, he said, “Look out across the valley again. Carefully this time. Don’t try to see anything in particular. Look into the haze and the gray. Watch the shifting of the mists.”

The boy did, his face screwed,up with the effort. He stared at nothing, his gaze hard and intense. He quit breathing and went still. Then his mouth dropped open, and he gasped in shock.

“Good boy.” Bremen put his arm about the youngster’s shoulders. “I see them now, too. But your eyes are the sharper.” He turned to face the king. “We are under attack by the dark things that serve the Warlock Lord, the creatures he has summoned from the netherworld. He has chosen to use them this day rather than his army. They come at us from across the valley floor. The Skull Bearers spy out the way for them. The Warlock Lord uses his magic to conceal their approach, changing the light, thickening the mists. We do not have much time. Deploy your commanders and have your men stand firm. I will do what I can to counter this.”

Jerle Shannara gave the order and his Elven commanders scattered to their units. Cormorant Etrurian to the left flank and an injured, but still mobile, Rustin Apt to the right. Kier Joplin was already in place, the cavalry drawn up behind the foot soldiers in relief. Am Banda raced away to the south slope to alert the archers positioned there. Prekkian and the Black Watch and Trewithen and most of the Home Guard were being held in reserve.

“Come with me,” Bremen said to the king.

They set off for the far right of the front lines, the king, the Druid, Allanon, and Preia Starle. They walked quickly through the startled Elven Hunters to the foremost ranks of the army, and there the Druid wheeled back again.

“Have those closest raise their weapons and hold them steady,” the Druid ordered. “Tell them not to be afraid.”

The king did so, not bothering to ask why, trusting to the Druid’s judgment. He gave the order, and spears, swords, and pikes lifted overhead in response. Bremen narrowed his gaze, clasped his hands before him, and summoned the Druid fire. When it was gathered in a bright blue ball in the cup of his hands, he sent bits and pieces of it spinning away to bounce from weapon to weapon, from iron tip to iron tip, until all had been touched. The bewildered soldiers flinched at the fire’s coming, but the king ordered them to stand firm and they did so. When all the weapons of one unit were thus treated, they moved on to the next and repeated the process, passing down the ranks of uneasy soldiers, the Druid imbuing the iron of their weapons with his magic while the king reassured them of the need, warning them at the same time to be ready, advising them that an attack was at hand.

When it came, the Druid magic was in place and the core of the Elven army warded. Dark shapes hurtled out of the gloom, launching themselves at the Elven ranks, howling and screaming like maddened animals, things of jagged tooth and sharpened claw, of bristling dark hair and rough scales. They were creatures of other worlds, of darkness and madness, and no law but that of survival had meaning for them. They fought with ferocity and raw power. Some came on two legs, some on four, and all seemed born of foul nightmares and twisted images.

The Elves were thrown back, giving ground mostly out of fear, terrified by these beasts that sought to rend them limb from limb.

Some of the Elves died at once, the fear clogged so deeply in their throats and hearts that they could not move to defend themselves.

Some died fighting, ridden down before they could strike a telling blow. But others rallied and were astonished to find that their magic-enhanced weapons would cut through the bodies and limbs of these monstrous attackers, drawing blood and cries of pain. The army reeled in shock from the initial strike, then braced itself to make a stand.

But the monsters broke through on the right flank, following in the wake of a thing so huge that it towered over even the tallest of its fellows. It was armored in leathery skin and pieces of metal fastened about its vital parts, and its massive claws tore apart the men who stood in its path. The grizzled Rustin Apt led a counterattack to drive it back, but he was brushed aside.

Bremen, seeing the danger, rushed to intercept the beast.

In the Druid’s absence, Jerle Shannara held the center, watching the crash of monsters push inward. Calling encouragement to his men, casting aside his promise to stay back, he drew forth his sword and moved through the ranks to join the battle, Preia at his side, his guard warding them both. At the forefront of the Elven center, huge wolves crouched before the iron tips of the Elven pikes and swords confronting them, feinting and withdrawing, waiting for an opening. As Jerle Shannara arrived, a dark shadow swooped down out of the haze and shattered the front rank of Elven Hunters. A Skull Bearer lifted away, claws red with Mood. Instantly the wolves launched themselves into the line, biting and tearing. But the weapons of the defenders slashed and cut at the attackers, and the Druid magic penetrated their toughened hide. The foremost died in a flurry of blows, and the remainder withdrew, growling and snapping defiantly.

On the right flank, Bremen reached the crush of monsters that had broken through. On seeing the old man, they came at him in a crush. These were two-legged creatures with massive chests and heavily muscled limbs capable of tearing a man in two, heads set deep between neckless shoulders wrapped in folds of skin so tight that only their feral eyes showed. They rushed the Druid with howls of glee, but Bremen sent the Druid fire into them and threw them back. All about, Elven Hunters rallied to the old man’s defense, falling on the flanks of the attackers. The monsters whirled and struck back, but the Elven blades and the Druid fire tore into them.

Then the huge creature that had first breached the Elven lines rose before Bremen in challenge, eyes gleaming, leathery body slick with blood. “Old man!” the creature hissed, and fell on him.

Druid fire exploded from Bremen’s hands, but the creature was close enough that it fought past the killing flame and seized the old man’s wrists. Bremen sheathed his forearms in the fire in an effort to break free, his own strength no match for the other’s, but the creature hung on grimly. The clawed hands tightened and the great arms began to force the Druid back. Slowly, Bremen gave ground. All about, the monsters that had broken through surged forward with new confidence. The end was near.

Then Allanon appeared, sprinting out of the gloom, leaping upon the creature’s unprotected back, and fastening his hands over the yellow eyes. Howling in fury, he found some reservoir of strength within himself and coupled it with some small part of the magic he had mastered. Uncontrolled, unmanageable, as wild as a storm wind, fire exploded out of his hands in every direction. It erupted with such force that it threw the boy backward to the ground, where he lay stunned. But it also exploded into the attacker’s face, tearing into it and leaving it ruined.

The monster released Bremen instantly, flung up its hands in rage and pain, and reeled away. Bremen scrambled to his feet, ignoring the weakness that flooded through him, ignoring his injuries, and sent the Druid fire into the creature once more. This time the fire traveled down the monster’s throat to its heart and burned it to ash.

Jerle Shannara, in the meantime, had moved to the army’s left flank. Cormorant Etrurian was down, sprawled on the earth, surrounded by his men as they fought to protect him. The king charged into their midst and led a quick, decisive counterattack against the humped creatures that bounded across the Elven front wielding two-edged axes and wickedly serrated knives. Banda had turned his archers’ fire directly down the slope, and the longbows raked the mists and the creatures hiding in them. The Elves recovered Etrurian and carried him away, and Kier Joplin spurred his horsemen forward to help fill the gap. Leaving Joplin in command, the king returned swiftly to the center of his lines, where the fighting had grown fierce once more. Twice he was struck blows that staggered him, but he shrugged them off, scorning both shock and pain, and fought on. Preia was beside him, quick and agile as she slashed and parried with her short sword, protecting his left.

Home Guard fought beside them, some dying where they stood as they kept the king and queen safe. The netherworld creatures had penetrated the Elven ranks at every turn, and the Elves were fighting attacks that seemed to come from every direction.

Finally Bremen rallied the left flank of defenders sufficiently that the attackers who had broken through were repelled. Beaten decisively, the survivors turned and ran, their misshapen forms fading back into the mists as if they had never been. The army surged forward against those who battled still at the center, and they, too, gave way. Slowly, steadily, the Elves regained the offensive. The netherworld beasts fell back and disappeared.

In the gray, hazy emptiness that remained, the army of the West stared after them in exhausted silence.

The Northlanders attacked again late that afternoon, sending in their regular army once more. By now the mists had burned away, the skies had begun to clear, and the light was strong and pure. The Elves watched the enemy come down the ruined length of the Rhenn from their new defensive position, one still deeper back in the valley, close to its western pass, warded by both high ground and recently constructed stone walls that bristled with sharpened spikes. They were a ragged and bloodied command, close to exhaustion but unafraid. They had survived too much to be frightened anymore. They held their positions calmly, packed close together, for the valley narrowed sharply where they waited.

The slopes were so steep at this point that only a small contingent of bowmen and Elven Hunters were required to defend the high ground against an assault. The larger part of the army was arrayed on the valley floor, their compact lines ranging from slope to slope. Cormorant Etrurian had returned, his shoulder and head bandaged, his lean face grim. Together with an even more debilitated Rustin Apt, he commanded the divisions that would confront the heart of the Northland attack. Am Banda was on the north slope with the bulk of his bowmen. Kier Joplin and the cavalry had been withdrawn to the head of the pass, because there was no longer any room for them to maneuver. The Home Guard and the Black Watch were still being held in reserve.

Just behind the Elven lines, on a promontory that allowed them to overlook the battle, stood Bremen and the boy Allanon.

The king and Preia Starle were astride Risk and Ashes at the center of the Elven defense. Home Guard surrounding them.

Across the plains and down the corridor of the valley, the Northland drums boomed and the thud of hooves and booted feet echoed. Masses of foot soldiers marched to the attack, their numbers so great that they blanketed the entire valley floor with their approach. Behind them came the war machines—siege towers and catapults, hauled forward by teams of horses and sweating men. Cavalry formed a rear guard, lines of horsemen bearing lances and pikes, pennants flying. Massive Rock Trolls bore the Warlock Lord and his minions in carriages and litters draped if black silk and decorated with whitened bones.

It is the end of us, Bremen realized suddenly, the though.

coming to him unbidden as he watched the enemy advance. They are too many, we are too weary, the battle has raged too body and for too long. It is the end.

He was chilled at the certainty of his premonition, but there was no denying its force. He could feel it pressing down on him, an inexorable certainty, a terrifying truth. He watched the masses of Northlanders roll on, dragging their war machines, filling the scarred, blackened bowl of the Rhenn with their bodies, and they became in his mind’s eye a tidal wave that would roll over the Elves and leave them drowned. Two days of battle only had they fought, but already the outcome was inevitable. If the Dwarves had joined them, it might have been different. If any of the South land cities had mounted an army, it might have changed things.

But the Elves stood alone, and there was no one to help them.

They were reduced by a third already, and even though the damage inflicted on the enemy was ten times worse, it did not matter. The enemy had the lives to give up; they had the numbers to prevail.

The old man blinked wearily and rubbed at his chin. That it should end like this was almost more than he could bear. Jerle Shannara would not be given a chance to test his sword against the Warlock Lord. He would not even have a chance to confront him.

He would die here, in this valley, with the rest of his men. Bremen knew the king well; he knew he would give up his own life before he would save himself. And if Jerle Shannara died, there was no hope for any of them.

Beside him, the boy Allanon shifted uneasily. He could sense the impending disaster as well, the old man thought. The boy had courage; he had shown that much this morning when he had saved Bremen’s life. He had used the magic without concern for his own safety, with no thought but one—to save the old man. Bremen shook his ragged gray head. The boy had been left battered and stunned, but he was no less willing now than he had been before.

He would do whatever he could in this battle, just like the king.

Bremen could tell—the boy was already choosing a place to make his stand.

The Northland army was within two hundred yards when it rumbled to a halt. With a flurry of activity, the sappers and haulers began to bring up the catapults and siege towers. Bremen’s throat tightened. The Warlock Lord would not launch a direct attack.

Why waste lives when it was not necessary? Instead, he would use the catapults and the bowmen hidden within the towers to rake the Westland defenses with deadly missiles, to thin their numbers further, to wear them down until they were too few to provide any resistance.

The war machines spread out across the width of the valley floor, lined up axle to axle, the slings of the catapults loaded with rocks and chunks of iron, the bays of the towers filled with bowmen at every slit. Within the Elven ranks, no one moved.

There was nowhere to go, no place to hide, no better defense to which to withdraw. For if the valley was lost, the Westland was lost as well. The drums throbbed on, beating out their ceaseless cadence, matching the thunder of the wheels on the war machines, reverberating in the old man’s chest. He glanced at the darkening sky, but sunset was still an hour away and darkness would come too late to help.

“We have to stop this,” he whispered, not meaning to speak, the words just slipping out.

Allanon looked up at him wordlessly and waited. Those strange eyes fixed on him and would not move away. Bremen held his gaze. “How?” asked the boy softly.

And suddenly Bremen knew. He knew it from the eyes, from the words the boy spoke, and from the whisper of inspiration that rose suddenly within. It came to him in a moment of terrifying insight, born of his own despair and fading hope.

“There is a way,” he said quickly, anxiously. The creases in his aging face deepened. “But I need your help. I lack the strength alone.” He paused. “It will be dangerous for you.”

The boy nodded. “I am not afraid.”

“You may die. We may both die.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Bremen turned toward the line of siege machines and placed the boy in front of him. “Listen carefully, then. You must give yourself over to me, Allanon. Do not fight against anything you feel. You will become a conduit for me, for my magic, the magic I possess but lack sufficient strength to wield. I shall wield it through you. I shall draw my strength from you.”

The boy did not look at him. “You will let your magic feed in me?” he asked softly, almost reverently.

“Yes.” Bremen bent close. “I will ward you with every protection I have. If you die, I will die with you. It is all I can offer.”

“It is enough,” the boy replied, his eyes still turned away. “Do what you must, Bremen. But do it now, quickly, while there is still time.”

The Northland army was massed before them, fronted by the, huge war machines, bristling with weapons at every turn. Dust lifted from the burned, parched valley floor, filling the air with gas that curtained off the world beyond so thoroughly that it might have ceased to exist. Light reflected from metal blades and points, pennants flew in bright colors, and the sounds that rose from the throats of the attackers were thick with the expectation of victor!.

Together, the Druid and the boy faced into them, into the men and animals, the machines, the sound and movement, standing still and alone on the promontory. No one saw them, or if they did, paid them any attention. Even the Elves took no notice, their eyes on the army before them.

Bremen took a deep breath and placed his hands on Allanon’s slender shoulders. “Clasp your hands and point them at the towers and the catapults.” His throat tightened. “Be strong, Allanon.”

The boy’s hands clasped together, the fingers laced, and the thin arms lifted and pointed toward the Northland army. Bremen stood just behind him, his hands still, his eyes closed. Within, he summoned the Druid fire. It sparked and came to life. He must be careful of its use, he reminded himself. The balance of what was needed and what he could afford to give was a delicate one, and he must be careful not to upset it. An error either way, and there would be no help for either of them.

On the battlefield, the arms of the catapults were being drawn back and the archers in the towers were readying their bows.

Bremen’s eyes opened anew, and they were as white as snow.

Below, as if warned by a premonition, Jerle Shannara turned suddenly to look back at him.

Abruptly the Druid fire raced down Bremen’s arms and into Allanon’s body, then lanced from the boy’s clenched fists over the heads of the waiting Elven army, over the torn, rutted, scorched grasslands, and into the midst of the enemy war machines two hundred yards away. It struck the towers first, engulfing them so completely that they were ablaze before anyone could do much more than blink. It jumped from there to the catapults, incinerating their handlers, snapping their ropes, and warping their metal parts.

It moved as if a living thing, choosing first one target and then the next, the fire bright blue and so brilliant that the men of both armies were forced to shield their eyes from its glare. Up and down the front ranks of the Northland army it raced, swallowing everything and everyone. In moments, the flames were rising hundreds of feet into the air, soaring skyward in monstrous leaps, clouds of smoke billowing after.

Shrieks and cries rose from the Northland juggernaut as the fire tore through it. But within the ranks of the watching Elven army there was only stunned silence.

Bremen felt an ebbing of his magic, a wilting of his fire, but within the boy Allanon there was power still. Allanon seemed to grow even stronger, his thin arms stretched forth, his hands lifting.

Bremen could feel the slender body shake with the force of the boy’s determination. Still the fire arced from his hands, leaping beyond the war machines into the midst of the astonished Northland army, carving a deadly, fiery path. Enough! thought Bremen. sensing a dangerous tilt in the balance of things. But he could not break the joining between the boy and himself; he could not slow the torrent of his magic. The boy was stronger than he was now and it was the old man who was being drained.

Back fell the Northlanders in the face of this new onslaught, nor merely in retreat, but routed completely, their courage shattered Even the Rock Trolls backed away, moving swiftly from the conflagration that consumed their fellows for the cover of the valley slopes and the pass beyond. Even for them, this day’s battle was finished.

Then finally Allanon’s strength failed, and the Druid fire that spurted from his clenched hands died away. He gasped audibly and sagged against Bremen, who was himself barely able to stand.

But the old man caught and held the boy close, waiting patiently for the pulse of their bodies to steady and their heartbeats to slow Like scarecrows, they clung to each other, whispering words of reassurance, staring out across the raging inferno that consumed the Northland war machines and lit the backs of the retreating enemy with fingers the color of blood.

West, the sun sank below the horizon, and night crept cautiously from hiding to cloak the dead.

In the aftermath of the destruction of the Northland war machines, and with darkness spreading across the whole of the Four Lands and the fires at the center of the Rhenn beginning to burn down, Jerle Shannara approached Bremen. The old man was sitting on the promontory with Allanon, eating his dinner. It was quiet now, the Northland army withdrawn into the gap at the eastern flat, the Elves still maintaining their lines across the western narrows. Meals were being consumed throughout the ranks of the defenders, the Elven Hunters eating in shifts to guard against any surprise assault. Cook fires burned at the rear of the encampment, and the smell of food wafted on the evening air.

The old man stood as the king came up to him, seeing in the other’s eyes a look he did not recognize. The king greeted them both, then asked Bremen to walk alone with him. The boy went back to his meal without comment. Together, the Druid and the king moved off into the shadows.

When they were far enough away from everyone that they could not be heard, the king turned to the old man. “I need you to do something,” he said quietly. “I need you to use your magic to mark the Elves in a way that will allow them to recognize each other in the dark in a battle with the Northlanders, so that they will not kill each other by mistake. Can you do that?”

Bremen considered the question for a moment, then nodded slowly. “What are you going to do?”

The king was worn and haggard, but there was a cold determination in his eyes and a harshness to his features. “I intend to attack—now, tonight, before they can regroup.”

The old man stared at him speechlessly.

The king’s mouth tightened. “This morning my Trackers brought word of a Northland flanking movement. They have sent separate armies—smaller than the one we face, but still sizeable—both north and south of the Rhenn to get behind us. They must have sent them at least a week ago, given their present positions. Their progress is slow, but they are closing in on us. In another few days, they will cut us off from Arborlon. If that happens, we are finished.”

He looked off into the dark, as if searching for what to say next.

“They are too many, Bremen. We knew that from the start. Our only advantage is our defensive position. If that is taken from us, we have nothing left.” His eyes shifted back to the old man. “I have sent Prekkian and the Black Watch to give warning to Vree Erreden and the Council and to prepare a defense of the city. But our only real hope is if I do what you have told me I must—confront the Warlock Lord and destroy him. To do that, I must first scatter the Northland army. I will never have a better chance to do so than now. The Northlanders are disorganized and weary. The destruction of their war machines has unnerved them. The Druid magic has left them frightened. This is the time to strike.”

Bremen took a long time to consider his reply. Then at last he nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right.”

“If we attack them now, we will catch them unprepared. If we strike hard enough, we might be able to break through to where the Warlock Lord hides himself. The confusion of a night-time attack will aid us, but only if we can distinguish ourselves from our enemy.”

The Druid sighed. “If I mark the Elves to make them recognizable to each other, I provide the enemy with a way to recognize them as well.”

“We cannot help that.” The king’s voice was steady. “It will take the Northlanders a while before they realize what the marks mean. By then, we will have won or lost the battle in any case.”

Bremen nodded without speaking. It was a bold tactic, one that might doom the Elves, that might result in their complete destruction. But the need for such a tactic was at once apparent, and the Druid saw in this king the one man who might be able to employ it successfully. For the Elves would follow Jerle Shannara anywhere, and faith in their leader was what would sustain them best.

“But I am afraid,” the king whispered suddenly, bending close, “that I will not be able to invoke the power of the Sword when it is needed.” He paused, his eyes fixed and staring. “What if it will not respond to me? What will I do?”

The Druid reached out, took the king’s hands in his own, and clasped them tightly. “The magic will not fail you, Jerle Shannara,” he replied softly. “You are too strong of heart for that, too fixed of purpose, too much the king your people need. The magic will appear when you summon it, for that is your destiny.” His smile was bleak. “You must believe that.”

The king took a deep breath. “Come with me,” he asked.

The old man nodded. “I will come.”

North from the Rhenn, where clouds layered the open grasslands with shadows and the plains stretched away empty and silent, Kinson Ravenlock slipped noiselessly from the clamor and sprawl of the Northland camp and worked his way back the way he had come. It took him the better pan of an hour, keeping to the ravines and dry riverbeds, staying off the high, open flats. He went swiftly, anxious to reach those who waited, thinking that perhaps they had not come too late after all.

More than ten days had passed since Mareth and he had set out from the Eastland with what remained of the Dwarf army. The Dwarves were still almost four thousand strong, and they had made good time. They had chosen an unusual route, however. Their passage had taken them north across the Plains of Rabb, through the Jannisson, and onto the Streleheim, where they had crossed in the shadow of the old growth that shrouded doomed Paranor. The decision to come this way had been debated long and hard by Raybur and the Dwarf Elders, though no longer than the decision on whether the Dwarves should come at all. As to the latter, Kinson had been forceful in presenting Bremen’s arguments, and Risca was firmly on his side. Once Raybur was persuaded, the matter was settled. Choosing their route of travel was less soul-wrenching, but equally troubling. Risca was convinced they would have a better chance of approaching unseen if they came down from the north through enemy country—the Northland army having moved into the Westland by now to besiege the Elves at me Rhenn, so that their scouts would be looking for intervention to come from the east or south if it was to come at all. hi the end, his argument had prevailed.

The bulk of the Dwarf army had taken up a position north half a day at the edge of the Dragon’s Teeth. Risca, Kinson, Mareth, and two hundred more had come on ahead to take measure of the situation. With the approach of sunset, Kinson Ravenlock had gone on alone for a closer look.

Now, barely three hours after leaving, the Borderman emerged from the shadows to rejoin his companions.

“There was an attack earlier this day,” he advised breathlessly.

He had run much of the way back, anxious to impart his news. “It failed. The Northland war machines all he burned in the Valley of Rhenn. But more are being built. The enemy encamps at the valley’s eastern mouth. It is a huge force, but it looks disorganized. Everyone is milling about, and there is no sign of the dark things. Even the Skull Bearers do not fly this night.”

“Did you get through to the Elves?” Risca asked quickly. “Did you see Bremen or Tay?”

The Borderman took a long drink from the aleskin Mareth offered him and wiped at his mouth. “No. The valley is blocked. I could have gotten through, but I decided not to chance it. I decided to come back for you instead.”

The two men looked at each other, then out across the plains.

“There are a lot of men dead back there,” the Borderman said softly. “Too many, if even a tenth of them are Elves.”

Risca nodded. “I’ll send word to Raybur to bring the army forward at first light. He can choose his own ground from which to attack.” His bluff face was taut, and his eyes shone. “In the meantime, we are supposed to wait here for his arrival.”

The Borderman and the girl looked at each other and shook their heads slowly.

“I’m not waiting,” Kinson Ravenlock declared.

“Nor I,” said Mareth.

The Dwarf hefted his battle-axe. “I didn’t think so. Looks like Raybur will just have to catch up with us, won’t he? Let’s get going.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

It was three hours after sunset and nearing midnight when If Jerle Shannara led the Elves into their final battle. He left behind the sick and wounded and a token force to act as protectors and rear guard and took with him only those who were whole. Elven Hunters, Home Guard, bowmen, and others afoot numbered just over two thousand. Cavalry numbered about four hundred. He assembled them on the flat at the head of the valley, close to where the wreckage of the Northland war machines still smoldered, and unit by unit walked among them and explained what he intended.

As he did so, Bremen passed through their ranks as well, carrying with him a small pot of glowing light. The light was bluish in color, giving off a phosphorescent glow that shone most brightly in darkness. It seemed to be neither paste nor liquid, but simply glowing air. It was formed mostly of Druid magic, but of other substances as well, though nothing anyone could identify.

Bremen’s voice was low and reassuring as he approached each man with the pot. One by one, he marked their shoulders with the light, using a frayed stick to dip into the glow, carrying just a little of the mysterious substance to streak each soldier’s clothing.

When they started forward into the darkness, into the heart of the Rhenn, each man wore strips of cloth tied over the bright markings to hide his coming from the enemy. Select members of the Home Guard went first, fanning out in front of the attack force, some climbing the slopes to the valley’s ridges and then slipping forward to secure the heights that warded the east pass. When they had been given sufficient lead time, Jerle Shannara took the main body of the army forward. Commanding from the center with Preia Starle and Bremen at his side, he placed Cormorant Etrurian on his left flank and Rustin Apt on his right. Arrayed across die width of the advance, just back of the front rank of Elven Hunters, were Am Banda’s bowmen. Behind them came more Elven Hunters, and much farther back, held in reserve for when the foot soldiers were fully engaged, walked the Elven horse under Kier Joplin.

The king’s strategy was simple. The Elves were to advance as close to the Northland lines as possible without being seen and then strike out of the darkness, taking advantage of surprise and confusion to overrun the perimeter, hoping their momentum would carry them into the heart of the enemy camp and the sanctuary of the Warlock Lord. There Jerle Shannara would bring the rebel Druid to bay and destroy him. That was the whole of it.

There were so many things that could go wrong with this plan that it wasn’t worth trying to consider them all. Timing and surprise were everything. Determination and heart would make the difference. If the Elves were to lose control of the former or not muster enough of the latter, they would be destroyed. But on this night, warded by Druid magic and armored by stubborn faith, the Elves gave themselves over to their king and to fate.

Their doubts and fears dissipated with the first step taken, with the realization that the attack was under way and there was no turning back, and with an overwhelming rush of expectation that supplanted all else. They went swiftly down the valley corridor, noiseless in the way that only Elves could be, sharp eyes picking out the obstacles that lay in their path so that they could avoid them, ears pricked to the warning sounds of danger. There was no light to guide them, the skies clouded once more, the air thick with lingering smoke from the afternoon’s conflagration. Ahead, the watch fires of the enemy provided a series of lonely beacons, small pinpricks of yellow that flickered in the gloom.

Jerle Shannara gave no thought to failure as he led the way, the Sword of Shannara strapped across his back. He did not think of anything but the task at hand, closing off all distractions, shelving for another time considerations that did not bear on this night’s work. Preia walked at one elbow and Bremen at the other, and in their presence the King of the Elves felt oddly invincible. It was not that he couldn’t die; he would never presume immortality. But it seemed to him in those desperate moments that failure was unthinkable. There was strength surrounding him, yet dependency as well. An odd mix, but familiar to a king. The Elves would give their lives for him, but he must be ready to give up his for them as well. Only in the setting and maintaining of that balance could any of them hope to survive, to persevere, to achieve the victory they sought.

The king’s eyes shifted to the shadows on the heights, searching for sentries who might give the alarm. None appeared. The Home Guard had dispatched them without being discovered, it seemed.

Behind, far back in the valley’s cradle, he could hear the faint jingle of traces and the creak of leather as the cavalry followed them in. Ahead, the flames of the watch fires grew distinguishable, and beyond their perimeter, the camp of the Northland army. The size of the camp seemed immense, a sprawling maze of tents and stores and men, a jumble of life, like a small city. There were so many of them still, the king thought. The Elven attack would have to be certain and quick.

The Westlanders were within fifty yards of the camp when he brought them to a halt, there to crouch just beyond the revealing light of the watch fires. Sentries stood staring off into the night, some glancing idly over their shoulders at what was taking place in the camp. They showed no concern for what might lie within the darkness; they evidenced no expectation of an attack. Jerle Shannara felt a hot surge of satisfaction in his chest. He had guessed right, it seemed. He thought suddenly of all he had endured to reach this point, and he found himself wishing that Tay Trefenwyd were there with him. Together, they could have overcome anything. It would never be the same for him again without Tay, he thought. Never.

With a gesture, he sent word through the Elven ranks to stand ready. Then Banda brought his bowmen to their feet, arrows notched in the strings of longbows. The king lifted his sword, and the arrows flew skyward in a deadly hail. By the time the arrows fell, finding their unsuspecting targets, the Elves were hurtling forward in attack.

They were swift and deadly in their coming. In seconds, they had crossed the open ground and were through the camp perimeter. The sentries all lay dead, felled by arrows or spears.

Northlanders who were crouched about the cooking fires leaped to their feet as the Elves swept into them, reaching for their weapons, crying out in warning. But the Elves were among them so quickly that most were killed before they could defend themselves. Jerle Shannara led the way, cutting a path through the outer lines almost at will, his Home Guard nocking to his side. Preia went with him, a steady presence at his shoulder. Bremen fell behind, too old and slow to keep up, calling after the king to go on, not to wait. On the heights, the enemy not already dispatched were engaged in hand-to-band combat with the Home Guard who had slipped among them while they slept. In the smoky darkness, only the Elves could recognize each other, the Druid markings agleam on their shoulders. Everywhere, the enemy camp was in turmoil.

Then abruptly the king found himself in the midst of a company of newly awakened Rock Trolls, the huge creatures surging upward from their blankets in response to the alarm, their armor scattered about them, but their weapons already in hand. Jerle Shannara broke for the center of the camp, trying to avoid being slowed, but several of the Trolls managed to get in front of him, and he was forced to stand and fight. He closed with the nearest, swinging the Sword of Shannara in a bright arc, and the Troll went down. Others fought to reach the king, recognizing him now, calling out in their guttural voices to their fellows. But the Home Guard threw themselves into the path of the counterattack, swarming over the Trolls from every direction to bear them to the earth and certain death.

From out of the darkness behind him, the king heard Kier Joplin’s horns sound the charge, and the Elven cavalry thundered into battle. An explosion rocked the encampment, and a pillar of fire lifted skyward. In its ragged glare, the king caught sight of Bremen, standing in the midst of fleeing Gnomes and lesser Trolls, a thin, ragged figure with his skinny arms stretched wide before him and the boy Allanon at his side.

Ahead, the dark, skull-draped tents of the Warlock Lord and his minions came into view. A surge of excitement rushed through Jerle Shannara, and he redoubled his efforts to break through the enemy soldiers confronting him. Then something monstrous rose out of the night to one side, and he was forced to turn and face it.

It had the look of a wolf, but its head was vaguely human behind jaws lined with rows of jagged teeth. It tore at the Elves that sought to reach it, flinging them away. It reached for Preia Starle, but she sidestepped its lunge and left her sword buried in its neck.

The beast came on, wounded, but unslowed, jaws snapping. Jerle Shannara was bowled over, unable to avoid its rush, and he fought in vain to escape from between its legs as his Elven Hunters hacked desperately at it. Then, when the creature rose on its hind legs to tear at him, he jammed the Sword of Shannara deep into its chest and through to its heart, and the beast collapsed in a lifeless heap.

The king scrambled to his feet. “The tents!” he cried to every Elf within hearing distance, and with Preia at his side he charged ahead.

Beyond the mouth of the Rhenn, on the camp’s northern perimeter, Kinson, Mareth, and Risca and the Dwarves were working their way toward the eastern heights in an effort to find an opening through the Northland lines. When the Elven attack began, they froze, uncertain what was happening. Shouts and screams rose out of the Northland camp, and everything quickly turned to chaos. Instantly, the battle-tested Dwarves formed a defensive wedge fronting the stricken camp and watched as the Northlanders closest to the perimeter rose swiftly from their sleep, snatched up their weapons, and began to look about wildly.

“What’s happening?” Mareth hissed in Kinson Ravenlock’s ear.

Then they heard the Elven battle cry ring out, lifting above the clamor, one voice after another taking it up.

“The Elves are attacking!” exclaimed Risca in wonder.

Arrows flew into the camp from the heights, raking the startled soldiers clustered there. Within the mouth of the valley, at the forefront of the Northland perimeter, weapons clashed sharply.

The Dwarves stood transfixed as the battle was joined, listening as the sounds heightened and then drew closer. The Elves had penetrated the Northland defenses and were plunging directly into the heart of the enemy camp.

“What should we do?” Kinson asked of no one in particular, staring through the darkness to where knots of enemy soldiers appeared and faded in the smoky haze of the watch fires.

Directly in front of them, a Skull Bearer took flight, rising like a specter, wings spread wide, claws flexing. Banking away from the Dwarves, the winged hunter streaked east onto the plains. An instant later, another followed.

“They’re fleeing!” Mareth burst out in disbelief.

Then something at the camp’s very center exploded skyward in a pillar of flame, rising into the darkness like a fiery spear thrust at the clouds by some unseen hand. It hung against the black for long moments, then disappeared into smoke.

Risca hefted his great battle-axe and looked at the others. “I’ve seen enough. The Elves need us. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The command moved forward, Risca in the lead, Kinson and Mareth to either side. The Dwarves spread out in attack formation.

Risca took them slightly east of the heights, wary of the bowmen hiding there, anxious to avoid being mistaken for Northlanders.

They veered left, angling toward the rear of the encampment where the Gnome horsemen were already struggling to mount and ride. When they were just below the picket lines, Risca gave the Dwarf battle cry and led his Hunters in.

Almost at once, they were set upon. Whether it was by chance or as a result of the defenders’ quick reaction, the Dwarves found themselves instantly surrounded by an entire company of Rock Trolls, all fully armored and bearing pikes. Two dozen Dwarves died in the first minute of fighting, unable to stand against the more powerful Trolls. Risca rallied those closest, called up the Druid fire, and burned a path through the Northlanders, forcing them to fall back. A counterattack ensued, spearheaded by a handful of the huge wolves that Brona had summoned from the Black Oaks. Again the Dwarves were forced back, and this time their charge broke apart at its center.

In the confusion, Kinson and Mareth were separated from Risca. The Druid went left toward the rear of the Northland camp, while the Borderman and the girl turned right, following in the wake of a knot of Dwarves who were intent on linking up with the Elves already fighting at the camp’s center. Risca, caught up in the fury of the battle, did not immediately miss them, his mind on something else entirely. The intensity of the Northland defense here, at the rear of the encampment, when the main thrust of the Elven attack was coming from the front, convinced him that the Warlock Lord was close at hand. Having seen two of the Skull Bearers take flight already, he suspected that the attack was proving to be more devastating than the Elves realized and that Brona was preparing an escape. With Rock Trolls and netherworld creatures to defend him, he would slip from the camp with his winged hunters and retreat north once more. Northlanders were already racing away into the night, fleeing the camp like snakes driven from their nest. Gnomes and lesser Trolls were abandoning the struggle, leaving others to fight in their place. The cavalry was scattering in every direction, leaderless and panicked.

The back of the Northland army was broken, and it did not require much insight to deduce that its leaders—for whom the passing of time meant nothing—intended to take refuge once more in their safehold beyond the Knife Edge, there to regroup and plan a new invasion.

But Risca had lived through too much to let that happen. The Druid was determined to stop them here.

With a dozen of his Dwarves in tow, he fought his way toward the twenty or so Gnome horsemen still held in check by one of the Skull Bearers. Raging among them, a savage wraith with glowing eyes and billowing cloak, the Skull Bearer was forming the terrified Gnome riders into lines clearly intended to act as a flanking guard. Beyond, where the night was blackest and the camp unlit, there was movement amid the black silk tents. Horses shrilled as they were whipped into place, and huge darkened carriages rolled through the gloom and smoke on their way to the plains.

Risca, his battle-axe in hand and the Druid fire hot within his breast, moved to intercept them.

Jerle Shannara fought his way forward with unrelenting ferocity. He was at the forefront of the Elven attack still, deep now within the Northland camp, leading everyone as they closed on the dark, whispery canopy of the Warlock Lord’s tent. He had entered a black pool of ground, a place where no light penetrated. The watch fires he had left behind at the perimeter of the camp cast strange shadows in the deepening gloom, but there was little to see by and less to trust. The creatures that sought to stop him grew quickly indistinguishable, some of them Trolls and Gnomes, some of them other beings entirely. He drove into them without regard for their identity, with no concern for anything but breaking past.

Preia fought at his side, as hard and ferocious as he was. The Home Guard came after, trying vainly to keep up. All about, the Northland camp was chaotic with sound and movement.

Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, close by the darkened tents, there was the sound of carriages and wagons rolling, of traces creaking, of whips snapping, of horses crying out in response to the demands of their handlers.

Then Preia went down, knocked from her feet by a dark shape that bounded out of the blackness on all fours. Jaws widened and teeth gleamed as a huge, bristling body fell upon the queen. Jerle whirled to defend her, but he was struck at the same time by another of the shapes, caught off guard and sent sprawling. Others appeared, wolves who charged out of the gloom, tearing into the Elves who sought to penetrate this forbidden ground. They came in such numbers that for a moment it seemed they would prove unstoppable. Preia had disappeared in a tangle of bodies. Jerle Shannara was fighting from his back and knees, swinging the Sword at everything that came close, struggling to regain his feet.

“Shannara! Shannara!” came the rallying cry, as Elven Hunters and Home Guard raced to give aid.

Druid fire erupted then, scorching the nearest of the wolves in midleap, and Bremen entered the fray, his robes in tatters, his eyes gleaming like those of the creatures he sought to dispatch. The wolves drew back in fear, teeth bared. Another disappeared in blue flame, and the rest scattered, howling with rage and terror.

The king scrambled to his feet, wheeling in search of Preia. But she was already standing beside him, her face streaked with sweat and twisted with pain, blood all across one arm where the tough leather clothing and soft flesh had been ripped to the bone. She was binding up the wound, but her face was pale and stricken.

“Go on!” she screamed at him. “Don’t wait! I’m coming!”

He hesitated only a moment, then raced ahead once more, a handful of the Home Guard following. The wolves having been the last of creatures set at guard over the Warlock Lord, the way lay open. Ahead the ground was a black hole, but Jerle Shannara did not slow. Only one thing mattered—that he find the enemy leader and bring him to bay. He crossed the unlit ground in a dead run, heedless of what he might be rushing into, no longer caring what waited, so caught up in his determination to bring this battle to an end that he would have faced anything.

From somewhere behind, he heard Bremen shout in warning, calling after him futilely, the old man so worn from the battle, so drained of strength by his use of the magic, that he could not follow.

Jerle Shannara reached the tent of the Warlock Lord on the fly, his sword sweeping down, tearing through the dark fabric, sending the necklace of skulls and bones that draped the stanchions clattering away into the night. The tent wall shredded beneath his blade, and a cold, dry wind brushed at his face as he charged through the opening.

The interior was so black he couldn’t see. Blind to what might be waiting, fighting to protect himself, he swung the Sword of Shannara in a wide arc, cutting out at everything within reach. But his blade whistled uselessly through the air. He launched himself across the darkness to the tent’s far side and sliced the concealing fabric apart, opening it to the night. Smoke and sound rushed in, and the coldness gave way to summer’s warmth and the feel of sweat against his skin.

Hurriedly he wheeled back, dropping into a protective crouch.

But the tent was empty.

At that same moment, Risca and his Dwarves attacked what remained of the Gnome riders. The Skull Bearer who was holding the last few in check fell back before the onslaught of Risca’s Druid fire, and the terrified Gnomes bolted into the night. For an instant no one opposed the Dwarves. Then the heavy rumble of ironbound wheels sounded, and a caravan of dark-cloaked riders and shuttered carriages approached from out of the besieged camp. Risca threw himself into the caravan’s path and launched the Druid fire at the lead animals, causing them to shy and rear and bring the carriages to a sudden, uncertain halt.

Almost immediately a crush of beasts swarmed out from behind the lurching transports and screaming horses, charging from where they had been trailing after, a vicious, enraged collection of netherworld monsters. The attack was ferocious, and it bore back Risca and die Dwarves in spite of their efforts to contain it. Teeth and claws tore and great muscled limbs hammered at the Eastlanders. The Dwarves fought with grim determination, rallying about their leader. Risca sent wave after wave of Druid fire into the attackers, fighting simply for space in which to stand.

By now the cloaked drivers were turning their carriages aside and moving off in another direction, lashing their horses, screaming with frustration. Risca fought to reach them, to bring the caravan to a stop once more. But the netherworld creatures were everywhere, and he could not bring the Druid fire to bear. Their superior numbers were beginning to tell. One by one, Risca’s companions were dropping away, dying where they stood.

Then suddenly the attackers scattered, and waves of panicstricken Northlanders surged out of the killing ground, streaming past the Dwarves on their way to the darkened plains. The whole of the Northland army seemed to be in flight, as if each soldier had decided at the same moment that he had endured enough and that all that was left to him was to try to escape. Gnomes and Trolls swarmed out of the fiery battlefield and raced into the night. The ride was massive and unstoppable, and for a few long moments Risca and his companions disappeared in its wake.

When the rush slowed, Risca looked about. He was alone on the eastern perimeter of the disintegrating camp. The Dwarves who had fought at his side were all dead. The netherworld beasts had disappeared, fleeing with the Northlanders. The fighting in the camp continued unabated as the Elves pressed ahead against those of the enemy who had not broken, the two sides engaged in a desperate, furious struggle.

North, where the Streleheim stretched away under leaden skies, the Warlock Lord’s caravan was beginning to draw away.

A red haze clouded the Druid’s vision, and a feeling of helplessness washed through him. He wheeled about in search of a horse, but there were none at hand. The fleeing Northlanders gave him a wide berth, catching sight of the flicker of Druid fire at the Ups of his right hand and the gleam of his battle-axe in his left.

Blood streaked his face, and his eyes glittered with cold rage.

In the distance, the caravan faded into the night.

Chapter Thirty-Three

By dawn the Northland army had been routed, and the Elves were riding in pursuit of the Warlock Lord. The battle had raged on through most of the night, evolving from a single engagement into dozens of small, hard-fought clashes. While some of the Northlanders had fled early, many had remained. The more tightly knit and better-disciplined units had held their ground to the end. The fighting had been bitter and desperate, and no quarter had been given.

When it was finished, the Northland army was scattered in all directions. The number of dead on both sides was staggering. The Elves had lost almost half of those who had gone into battle that night with Jerle Shannara. Rustin Apt was dead at the mouth of the pass and his command decimated. One-eyed Am Banda was dead on the heights. Cormorant Etrurian had sustained so severe a wound that he would lose his arm. Only Kier Joplin of the Elven horse and Trewithen of the Home Guard remained whole, and between them they could muster only eight hundred men who were fit enough to go on.

It was a chill, crisp day, a clear marker for the end of summer and the beginning of autumn. The sun rose hazy and pale against the ragged peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth just east of where Jerle Shannara’s command rode, and the grasslands were patchy with low banks of fog. There was frost on the ground, silver and damp in the growing light, and the breath of the men and horses clouded the air. Hawks wheeled through the sky, rising and falling on the wind, silent spectators to the hunt taking place below.

Jerle Shannara never hesitated in taking up the pursuit of Brona.

He could not do otherwise, he believed. He was beyond trepidation or lack of resolve now, beyond fatigue and hunger, beyond quitting. He was bloodied and cut from the night’s fighting, but he felt no pain. He wore the Sword of Shannara strapped to his back and no longer gave thought to whether the magic would respond to his summons. The time for deliberation was long since past, and all that remained was a shouldering of the responsibility given to him. Doubts and fears lingered at the back of his mind, but the steady passing of the miles swept them further from his consciousness. He could feel only the rush of his blood, the pounding of his heart, and the strength of his determination.

Preia Starle went with him, although she was so badly hurt that she needed to be helped into the saddle. Her arm was wrapped and bound and the bleeding had slowed, but her face was pale and drawn and her breathing ragged. Yet she would not stay behind when Jerle asked her to do so. She was strong enough to ride, she insisted, and she would. She would see the end of this business as she had seen the beginning—at his side.

Bremen and the boy Allanon came, too, though Bremen was as weakened now as Preia, his extended use of the Druid magic having left him so spent that he had little left to give. He had not said this, but it was apparent to anyone with eyes and common sense. Yet he had promised he would be there for the king when it came time to use the Sword, and he would not forsake his promise now.

Mareth, Kinson Ravenlock, and Risca accompanied them as well, better rested and stronger. For them, the battle lay ahead, and conscious of the exhaustion that threatened the others they had quietly vowed among themselves to give what protection they could. Behind them rode Kier Joplin with his cavalry and Trewithen with his Home Guard, together with a handful of the Dwarves who had come south with Risca. In all, they numbered less than nine hundred. Whether they were enough to bring the Warlock Lord to bay was not something they cared to consider too closely. No one knew how many had fled with the rebel Druid or how many more had rejoined him since. Certainly there would be Skull Bearers and netherworld beasts and wolves from the Black Oaks and Rock Trolls and others from the lands north and east. If even a small part of the army that had besieged the Rhenn had been reassembled, the Elves would be in trouble.

Yet somewhere farther north, at the edge of the high plains, Raybur was advancing with four thousand Dwarves. If the Elves could just manage to drive the Warlock Lord that way, they would have a chance.

The sun rose higher in a sky that was a strange mix of gray and silver, and the light chased back the nighttime shadows and the chill. But the mist refused to give way, clinging tenaciously to the flats, folding in on itself about the broad swales and shallow ravines mat crisscrossed the plains. Pools of it collected between stretches of high ground, leaving the grasslands looking vaguely swamplike. Nothing moved in the distance, the horizon empty and still. Overhead, the hawks had disappeared. Jerle Shannara’s command traveled in tight-lipped silence, maintaining a steady, even pace, keeping close watch over the land about.

It was nearing midafternoon when they finally caught up with the Warlock Lord. There had been reason to believe they were closing the gap since midday, when they had begun to find abandoned carriages and wagons that had broken down during the enemy flight. An hour earlier they had cut across their quarry’s trail, a rutted mass of tracks from wheels, animals, and men that made it difficult even for the Trackers to determine how many traveled with the Warlock Lord. Preia had climbed down to look—against the king’s wishes—and reported in her quiet, assured way that there were less than a thousand.

Now, as the Elven command drew to a halt on a rise several hundred yards south from where the remnant of the Northland army had been forced to make its stand, they were able to see for themselves that the queen’s guess had been right. The dark carriages and wagons were drawn up in the shadow of a series of hills that rose east in stepping-stone fashion toward the Dragon’s Teeth. The creatures of the Warlock Lord were backed against them—Rock Trolls and other things human; netherworld creatures cloaked and hooded; gray wolves that crouched and circled at the edges of the mist; and Skull Bearers, some soaring like great dark birds above the assemblage.

Beyond, arrayed across the high ground in battle formation, blocking any path north, were the Dwarves under Raybur. The Warlock Lord had been stopped in his flight.

Yet the mist was deceiving, its shadowy images illusory. Many of the creatures, hunkered down atop the flat, their bodies wrapped in shrouds of swirling gray, were dead. They lay at peculiar angles, crumpled against rocks and impaled on weapons. Arms and legs crooked skyward like broken sticks. Dark outlines shimmered in the haze, the burnt, scorched leavings of those dead who had come from the netherworld. A battle had been fought already this day. The rebel Druid and his followers had come upon the Eastlanders and attempted to break through their lines. But the attempt had failed. The Dwarves had repelled them. So the Warlock Lord had collected what was left of his army and withdrawn to his present position. The Dwarves were poised for another strike. Both sides were waiting.

Jerle Shannara stared. Waiting for what?

Recognition came swiftly. For me, he thought. For the Sword of Shannara.

He realized then that it would all end here, on this lonely stretch of the Streleheim, on this already bloodied ground. He would face the Warlock Lord in combat, and one or the other of them would be killed. It had been prophesied by a distant, perverse fate that had long ago laid the matter to rest.

He looked at the others, surprised at how calm he felt “We have him trapped. He cannot escape. The Dwarves have denied him flight into the deep Northland, and now he must face us.”

Risca hefted his battle-axe. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

“One moment.” It was Bremen, old and battered almost beyond recognition in the failing afternoon light, a worn-out stick man with nothing left to lean on but ragged determination. “He is waiting for us, indeed. He wants us to come. That should give us pause.”

The Dwarf’s face was hard, his eyes set. “He has no choice but to wait. What troubles you, Bremen?”

“Think, Risca. He seeks to do battle with us because if he wins he might yet escape.” The old man’s eyes traveled from face to face. “If he destroys us all, all those who remain of the Druids, and the King of the Elves in the bargain, he would eliminate the greatest of the dangers that threaten him and perhaps facilitate a means for avoiding his own death. He could hide then and recover. He could wait for a chance to return.”

“He will not escape me,” Risca muttered darkly.

“Do not underestimate him, Risca,” the old man cautioned. “Do not underestimate the power of the magic he wields.”

There was a long silence. Risca remembered how close he had come to dying the last time he had sought to engage the Warlock Lord. His gaze leveled on the old man, then shifted toward the hazy flats. “What are you suggesting? That we do nothing?”

“Only that we be cautious.”

“Why would we be anything else?” Risca’s voice was filled with impatience. “We are wasting time! How long are we going to stand here?”

“He waits for me,” Jerle Shannara said suddenly. “He knows I come for him.” The others looked at him. “He will do battle with me now because he believes it is the easiest course for him to follow. He has no fear of me. He believes that I will be destroyed.”

“You won’t face him alone,” said Preia Starle quickly. “We will be with you.”

“All of us!” snapped Risca, daring anyone to challenge him.

“But there is danger in this,” Bremen cautioned again. “All of us grouped together. We are tired and spent. We are not as strong as we should be.”

Mareth stepped forward now, her dark face intense. “We are strong enough, Bremen.” She gripped the Druid staff tightly in both hands. “You cannot expect us simply to stand and watch.”

“We came a long way to see an end to this,” echoed Kinson Ravenlock. “This is our fight as well.”

They stared at the old man, all of them, waiting for him to speak. He looked at them without seeing, his eyes distant and lost.

He seemed to be considering something more than what they could comprehend, something far beyond the here and now, beyond the immediate danger.

“Bremen,” the king said softly, waiting until the aged eyes found him. “I am ready for this. Do not doubt me.”

The Druid studied him for a long moment, then nodded in weary resignation. “We shall do as you wish, Elven King.”

Risca ordered signal flags raised on lances to advise Raybur of what they intended. A return signal quickly appeared. The Dwarves would advance on the Elves’ command. The way north would be blocked against any who tried to flee. It was up to Jerle Shannara and the Elves to hammer shut the jaws of the trap.

The king called forward Trewithen and a dozen Home Guard to stand with him. Risca called for six of his Dwarves. While they assembled, Jerle Shannara pulled Preia Starle aside and spoke quickly. “I want you to wait here for me,” he told her.

She shook her head. “I cannot do that and you know it.”

“You are injured. You lack the speed and strength you could call upon if you were whole. How do you expect to make up for that?”

“Do not ask this of me.”

“It will distract me if I have to worry about you!” His face was flushed and his eyes angry. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you, Preia.”

“Would you ask Tay Trefenwyd to stay behind if he were here?” she replied softly. She gave him a moment to consider, her eyes searching his. A small, fragile smile followed. “I love you, too. So don’t expect less of me than I do of myself.”

At the same moment, Kinson Ravenlock was speaking with Mareth. “Will you be all right when this begins?” he asked her quietly.

She looked at him in surprise. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You will have to use your magic. It will not be easy. You have spoken yourself of your distaste for it.”

“I have,” she agreed, moving close, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “But I will do what I must, Kinson.”

Bremen moved to the forefront of the company and turned to face them. “I will ward us with enough magic to deflect a first strike, but I can do no more. My strength is at an end. Risca and Mareth must stand for us all. Look out for each other, but mostly look out for the king. He must be given a chance to use the Sword against Brona. Everything depends on it.”

“He will have his chance,” Risca promised, standing directly before the old man. “We owe Tay Trefenwyd that much.”

They started forward then, Jerle Shannara leading, Preia Starle at his side, the king and queen flanked on the right by Risca and on the left by Bremen. The boy Allanon and Kinson Ravenlock and Mareth walked several paces back. Home Guard and Dwarf Hunters spread out to either side. Behind, the rest of the army followed. North, the Dwarves started down off the heights. The light was beginning to fail now as sunset approached, the shadows lengthening, the chill of early evening creeping into the air. Before them on the flats, the things in the mist shifted to attack.

The gray wolves struck first, hurtling forward in dark knots, tearing at the front ranks of Elves and Dwarves, slashing with their teeth before darting away. Risca threw out sheets of the Druid fire to scatter the closest, and instantly he was set upon by others.

Huge netherworld creatures lumbered into view, brushing back the fire, knocking aside the blades. Rock Trolls marched to the fight in tight formations, their great pikes lowered in a line of gleaming metal tips. Smoke from the Druid fire mingled with the mist, and the whole of the battleground was enveloped in a gray haze.

Jerle Shannara walked ahead untouched. Nothing approached him as he advanced, all would-be attackers veering to the side and away. The Warlock Lord is waiting for you, a voice whispered deep inside. The Warlock Lord wants you for his own.

Rock Trolls closed with Kinson Ravenlock and bore him back, and the Borderman went down in a tangle of massive limbs.

Mareth’s staff sparked with blue flame, but she could not use the fire without risking harm to Kinson. Elven Hunters rushed to the Borderman’s aid, striking at the Trolls; then other creatures joined the fray, and everyone was swallowed in the melee.

A Skull Bearer appeared to confront Jerle Shannara, then stepped to one side to challenge Bremen instead. “Old man,” it hissed with sullen anticipation.

Allanon stepped in front of Bremen protectively, knowing the Druid was spent, that his magic was all but gone. But then Risca intervened, his fire hammering into the Skull Bearer with such force that it threw the monster backward and left it a smoking ruin.

The Dwarf shouldered his way to the forefront of the attack, his clothing ripped from his battle with the gray wolves, his face streaked with blood. “Come ahead!” he roared, and lifted his battle-axe in challenge.

Kinson was back on his feet, battered and shaken, his broadsword striking at the Rock Trolls that sought to close with him. Home Guard and Dwarf Hunters stood shoulder to shoulder with the Borderman and forced back the Northlanders. Ahead, the dark, silken coverings of the carriages and wagons rippled in the swirl of the mist like death shrouds.

Jerle Shannara walked on. He was alone now, save for Preia.

Bremen and Allanon had fallen back, and Risca had disappeared in the fighting. Elven Hunters and Home Guard darted through the haze, but the king occupied a space into which it seemed no one dared to step. The haze opened down a corridor before him, and he could see a dark cloaked figure standing at the end of the shifting passageway. The hood lifted and within the shadows red eyes burned with rage and defiance. It was the Warlock Lord. A robed arm lifted and beckoned to the king.

Come to me, Elf King. Come to me.

Farther back, Bremen was struggling to reach the king. Allanon was supporting him now, providing him with a strong shoulder on which to lean. The old man had summoned the Druid fire anew, using the boy for added strength, but his weakness was profound.

He watched the Warlock Lord materialize out of the mist, watched him beckon Jerle Shannara forward, and felt his throat tighten.

Was the king ready for this confrontation, or would his resolve fail him? The Druid did not know—could not know. The king understood so little of the Sword’s demanding magic, and when faced with its power he might falter. There was great strength in Jerle Shannara, but uncertainty, too. When the Warlock Lord was before him, which would prevail?

Mareth had reached Kinson and was pulling him clear of the fighting, driving back the Rock Trolls with Druid fire as she did so. She swept the ground before them, and the Northlanders retreated before her fury. Kinson staggered as he tried to keep up with her, deep slashes to his side and legs leaking bright red blood, one arm hanging limp. “Go on!” he told her. “Protect the king!”

The fighting was ferocious now, the Elves and Dwarves having closed with the Northlanders from both sides. Screams and cries rose in the fading afternoon light, mingling with the clash of weapons and the grunts of men struggling and dying.

Blood soaked the earth in dark stains, and bodies lay broken and twisted in death.

One of the wagons was pulled over, and creatures that looked to be made of sticks and metal poured out of the shattered bed, hissing like snakes stirred from a den. They came at Raybur with wicked intent, but the Dwarves protecting the king drove them back.

Frustrated in their efforts, they turned instead toward Bremen and Allanon.

In a rush, they closed about the old man and the boy. They were wiry and gnarled and lacking human features, their faces blunt and broken, as if shaped by some monstrous birthing. They broke past the Home Guard that sought to stop them and flung themselves forward recklessly. Allanon tried to summon the Druid fire, but this time his efforts failed him. Bremen was down on one knee, his head lowered, his concentration focused on Jerle Shannara, seeking him out in his mind as he walked deeper into the mist.

It would have been the end for them both but for Kinson Ravenlock. Trailing after Mareth, weakened from his wounds, he caught sight of the attack as it converged on the old man and the boy.

Reacting on instinct, he drew on what fragile reserves of strength remained to him and rushed to their defense. He reached them just as the horde of wiry creatures broke past the Home Guard. His broadsword swung in a wide arc, and three of the creatures went down. Then he charged into the rest, flinging them back, hammering at them with his weapon. Teeth and claws slashed at nun, and he could feel new wounds open. There were too many for him to contain, and he called to Bremen and the boy to run. A moment later the creatures overwhelmed him and bore him to the ground.

But Mareth saved him once more, appearing in a blaze of Druid fire, her staff flaring wildly. The netherworld creatures turned to strike at her, but the fire cast them away as if they were old and brittle. A counterattack ensued as other beings descended on the young woman, trying to break past her shield of flame. Kinson tried to get to his feet, but he was borne back again in the struggle.

Home Guard, Dwarves, Rock Trolls, and monsters appeared in droves, and for a moment it seemed as if all the remaining soldiers of both armies had converged at this single point on the battlefield.

Ahead, walled away by the mist, Jerle Shannara advanced toward the Warlock Lord. Brona had grown in size with each step the Elf King had taken until now he seemed enormous. His dark form blocked the light at the tunnel’s far end, and his eyes were bright with fiery disdain. Creatures faded in and out of the haze about him protectively. Jerle felt his confidence begin to waver.

Something surged out of the mist and snatched Preia from his side.

He wheeled to save her, but she was already gone, disappeared into the gloom. The king cried out in fear and anger, then heard her voice whisper hurriedly in his ear, felt her hand clutch his arm, and realized she had never left him at all and what he had seen was only an illusion.

The Warlock Lord’s laughter was wicked and sly.

Come to me. Elf King! Come to me!

Then Preia stumbled and went down. Jerle reached for her without taking his eyes from the dark figure ahead, but she pulled away from him.

“Leave me,” she said.

“No,” he replied at once, refusing to listen.

“I am hindering you, Jerle. I am slowing you down.”

“I won’t leave you!”

She reached for his face, and he could feel the blood on her hands, slippery and warm. “I cannot stay on my feet. I am bleeding too badly to go on. I have to stop now, Jerle. I have to wait here for you. Please. Leave me.”

She looked at him unflinchingly, her ginger eyes fixed on his, her face white and twisted with pain. Slowly he straightened, drawing away from her, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes. “I will be back for you,” he promised.

He left her stretched out on her side, propped up on one elbow, her short sword in her free hand. He took only a few steps before looking back to make certain she was all right. She nodded for him to go on. When he looked back for her a second time, she was gone.

Kinson Ravenlock had climbed back to his feet once more and was trying to bring his broadsword to bear against the crush of enemies that threatened to engulf Mareth when he was struck such a terrible blow that he was knocked to the ground and left gasping for breath. Mareth turned toward him, and as she did so she was set upon by a huge wolf. It was on her before she could bring the Druid fire to bear, slamming into her with such force that she lost her grip on the Druid staff. She went down in a heap, the wolf tearing at her. Kinson heard her scream and tried desperately to go to her, but his legs would not respond. He lay there spitting blood, his breathing harsh and shallow, his consciousness fading away.

Then the Druid fire exploded out of Mareth, flying from her in all directions. The attacking wolf was incinerated. Everyone standing for a dozen yards around was consumed. Kinson covered his head instinctively, but the fire singed his face and hands and sucked away the air he tried to breathe. The Borderman cried out helplessly, and everything disappeared in a huge rush of flame.

In the tunnel of mist that led to the Warlock Lord, Preia Starle watched as one of the Skull Bearers materialized out of the gloom and started toward her. Jerle was no longer visible, too far ahead now to be seen. She could have called out to him, but she chose not to. Painfully, she pulled herself to her knees, but could get no farther. Frustration tore at her. Yet it had been her choice to come.

She watched as the creature approached, her sword held protectively before her. She would have only one chance to strike, and that might not be enough in any case. She took a deep breath, wishing she had strength enough to stand.

The Skull Bearer hissed at her, and its great, leathery wings flapped softly against its humped back.

“Little Elf,” it whispered in pleasure, and its red eyes gleamed.

It reached for her, and she drew back her sword to strike.

Jerle Shannara had closed the distance between himself and the Warlock Lord to less than a dozen yards. He watched the dark cloaked form shift and change before him as if part of the mist that swirled about them both. Within the hooded shadows the twin fires of its eyes burned with fierce intent. No part of what was left of Brona revealed itself. The Warlock Lord floated above the earth as if weightless—an empty shell. The strange, compelling voice continued to call to the Elf King.

Come to me. Come to me.

Jerle Shannara did. He brought up his sword, the talisman he had carried to this confrontation, the magic he did not know how to use, and he advanced to do battle. As he did so, a flash of light danced off the surface of the blade, ran its polished length, and disappeared into his body. He faltered as the light entered him, feeling it pulse with energy. A warm flush enveloped him, spreading outward from his chest to his limbs. He felt the warmth return to the Sword, carrying with it some part of himself, joining the two so that he became one with the blade. It happened so fast that it was done before he could think to stop it. He stared at the Sword in wonder, now an extension of himself, then at the dark figure before him, and then at the world of mist and shadows as it slowly began to recede.

Down he went then, deep inside himself, drawn by a force he could not resist. He grew tiny as the world about grew large, and soon he was reduced to an insignificant speck of life in a vast, teeming universe of lives. He saw himself as he was, almost without presence, little more than dust. He was borne on the back of a wind over all the world that was and all that would ever be, the whole of it revealed in a vast tapestry that spread much farther than he could hope to see or even to travel. This was what he was, he realized. This was his worth in the larger scheme of things.

Then the world he flew above seemed to shed its skin in layers, and what had been bright and perfect turned dark and flawed. All the horrors and betrayals of all the creatures throughout time flared to life in tiny segments of revelation. Jerle Shannara recoiled from the pain and dismay he felt at each, but there was no turning away.

This was the truth of things—the truth that he had been told the Sword would reveal to him. He shuddered at the vastness of it, at the depth and breadth of its permutations. He was horrified and ashamed, stripped of his illusions, forced to see his world and its people for what they were.

He felt in that instant as if he might fail in his resolve. But the images withdrew, the world darkened, and for a moment he was back in the mist, standing frozen before the towering form of the Warlock Lord, the Sword of Shannara gleaming with white light.

Help me, he prayed to no one, for he was all alone.

The light filled him anew, and again the world of mist and shadows receded. He went back down inside himself, and this time he was brought face-to-face with the truth of his own life.

With inexorable purpose it unfolded before him, image by image, a vast collage of experiences and events. But the images were not of the things he wished to see; they were of those he wished forgotten, of those he had buried in his past. There was nothing of himself of which he was proud, with which he had ever hoped to be confronted. Lies, half truths, and deceptions rose like ghosts at haunt. Here was the real Jerle Shannara, the creature who was flawed and imperfect, weak and insecure, insensitive and filled with false pride. He saw the worst of what he had done in his life.

He saw the ways in which he had disappointed others, had ignored their needs, had left them in pain. So many times he had failed to do what was needed. So many times he had misjudged.

He tried to look away. He tried to make the images stop. He would have run from what he was being shown if he could have freed himself from the Sword’s magic to do so. These were truths that he could not face, their harshness so intense that they threatened his sanity. He might have cried out in despair—he could not tell. He realized in that moment the terrible power of truth, and he saw why Bremen had been so concerned for him. He did not have the strength for this; he did not have the resolve. The Druid had been wrong to come to him. The Sword of Shannara was not meant for him. Choosing him to bear it had been wrong.

Yet he did not give way entirely before what he was shown, even when it touched on Tay Trefenwyd and Preia Starle, even when it revealed the depth of their friendship. He forced himself to watch it, to accept it, and to forgive himself for the jealousy it aroused in turn, and he felt himself grow stronger by doing so. He found himself thinking that perhaps this was indeed a weapon that could be used against the Warlock Lord, a creature whose entire being was founded on illusion. What price would the magic exact from Brona when he was forced to discover that he was composed of little more than men’s fears, a mirage that could vanish with a simple change in the light? Perhaps this creature was so badly formed that nothing of its humanity, of its flesh and blood, of its emotion and reason remained. Perhaps truth was anathema to it.

The images faded and the light died. Jerle Shannara watched the air before him clear and the dark form of the Warlock Lord materialize once more. How long had the magic taken to reveal itself to him? How long had he stood there, transfixed? The cloaked form advanced now, a steady, relentless closing of the space between them. The Warlock Lord’s voice hissed with anticipation. Wave upon wave of nausea struck at the Elf King, hammering at the firmness of his purpose, breaking past his physical strength to drain the courage from his heart.

Come to me. Come to me.

Jerle Shannara saw himself as nothing, as helpless before the monster he confronted. So vast and terrible was the Warlock Lord’s power that no man could prevail against it. So immutable was that power that no magic could overcome it. The voice whispered the words insistently.

Put down the sword. Come to me. You are nothing. Come to me.

But the Elf King had already seen himself reduced to his essence, had witnessed the worst of what he was, and even the terrible despair that ripped through him as the Warlock Lord approached was not enough to turn him aside. Truth did not frighten him now. He lifted the Sword before him, a bright silver thread within the gloom, and cried out, “Shannara! Shannara!”

Down came the Sword, smashing through the Warlock Lord’s defenses, shattering his magic, and penetrating to the cloaked form beyond. The Warlock Lord shuddered, desperately trying to hold back the blow. But now the Sword’s light was pulsing from the blade into the cloaked shadows, and the images of his own life were ripping through him. The Warlock Lord fell back a step, ten another. Jerle Shannara pressed forward, repulsed by the rage and hatred that emanated from his adversary, but relentless in his determination. The struggle between them would end here. The Warlock Lord would die this day.

The robed arms flung toward him, and a skeletal hand pointed with cold purpose.

How can you judge me? You left her to die! You abandoned her for this! You killed her!

He flinched from the words, and he saw in harsh images Preia Starle’s helpless form sprawled on the ground, bleeding and broken, a Skull Bearer reaching for her with claws extended.

Dying because of me, he thought in horror. Because I failed her The Warlock Lord’s voice pressed in upon his thoughts.

And your friend. Elf King. At the Chew Magna. He died for you! You let him die for you!

Jerle Shannara screamed in dismay and rage, and wielding the Sword as he would an ordinary weapon, he slashed at the Warlock Lord with all the power he could muster. The Sword cut down ward through the dark robes, but the light that shone from the blade flickered as if stricken. The Warlock Lord crumpled, his hateful voice fading in a whisper of despair, his dark robes collapsing in a heap.

Left behind was a shadowy presence that fled instantly into the mist.

The Elf King went rigid in the ensuing silence, staring at the air before him, then at the empty robes, his eyes filled with uncertainty and questions that refused all answers.

Mareth stood alone on a stretch of ground scorched black by her magic. The Druid fire had expended itself finally, and her power was contained once more. Bodies lay everywhere, and an eerie silence hung across the battleground like a pall. She squinted through the haze and watched it begin to clear. There was a long, low wail of anguish, a cacophony of voices lifting in despair. Out from the mist rose wraiths as substanceless as smoke, dark images against the failing daylight, shapeless and adrift. Were they the spirits of the dead? They rose into the red of the sunset and disappeared, gone as if they had never been. Below, the bodies of the Skull Bearers turned to ash, the netherworld creatures faded away, and the wolves ran howling across the empty plains.

It is finished, she thought in stunned disbelief.

The mist churned and brightened and then disappeared. The battleground lay revealed, a charnel house, strewn with dead and wounded, bloodied and scorched and ruined. At its center stood the Elf King with his sword lowered and his eyes fixed on nothing.

Mareth reached for the Druid staff she had lost in her struggle.

She saw Risca then, sprawled amid a cluster of enemy dead. He had sustained so many wounds that his clothing was soaked through with his blood. There was a startled look in his open, staring eyes, as if he were surprised that the fate he had challenged so often had claimed him at last. When had he fallen? She hadn’t even seen. Her gaze shifted. Kinson Ravenlock lay a few feet behind her, his chest rising and falling weakly against the bloodied ground. Beyond, a little farther back on the flats, crouched Bremen and the boy. Her eyes locked on the Druid’s, and for a moment they stared fixedly at each other. She thought of how long and hard she had looked for him, of how much she had given of herself to become a Druid, and of the price that had been exacted from her. Bremen and she. They were the past and present of things, the Druid in twilight and the Druid to be. Tay Trefenwyd was gone. Risca lay dead. Bremen was an old man. Soon, she would be all that remained of their order, the last of the Druids.

Her eyes left Bremen’s, and she picked up the staff. She held it in her hands as if it were weighted with the responsibility of being who and what she was, and she gazed out across the battleground in despair.

Tears came to her eyes.

Let it end here, she thought.

Then she cast the staff away from her and bent to cradle Kinson.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Jerle Shannara saved the life of his queen that day, for banishing the Warlock Lord he banished the Skull Bearer as well, including the one that threatened Preia. Without the power of the Warlock Lord to draw upon, Preia’s assailant simply faded away. Preia recovered from her injuries and returned with Jerle to the Westland. Together, they ruled the Elven nation for many years. They never fought in another battle; the need for them to do so never arose again. Instead, they gave their energies over to learning how to govern in an increasingly complex and demanding world. With Vree Erreden to advise them, they were able to master the craft of statesmanship. They had three children of their own, all daughters, and when Jerle Shannara died, many years later, the eldest of the sons they had adopted from the last of the Ballindarrochs succeeded him. The Shannara line would subsequently multiply and continue afterward for more than two hundred years.

The Sword of Shannara was carried by the king until his death! His son, on succeeding him, carried it afterward for a time, then had it set in a block of Tre-Stone, taken to Paranor, and placed the Druid’s Keep.

Kinson Ravenlock did not die from his wounds, but recovered after weeks of convalescence in the fledgling outpost of Tyrsis. Mareth stayed at his side and cared for him, and when he was well enough they traveled west along the Mermidon to a wooded island in the shadow of the Dragon’s Teeth, where they made their home.

They lived together afterward and eventually married. They farmed, then built a trading center and opened a supply route along the river. Others from the Borderlands moved up to join them, and soon they were in the midst of a thriving community. In time the trading settlement would become the city of Kem.

Mareth never again used her magic in the Druid cause. She turned her skills instead to healing and was widely sought after throughout the Four Lands. She took Kinson’s name when she married him, and there was never afterward any mention of her own. Kinson worried after her for a long time, thinking her magic would break free again, that it would undermine her resolve, but it never did. They had several children, and long after they were gone a child born of their lineage would figure prominently in another battle with the Warlock Lord.

Raybur survived and returned home with the Dwarves to begin the arduous task of rebuilding Culhaven and the other cities the Northland army had destroyed. He took Risca with him and buried the Druid in the newly replanted Gardens of Life, high on a promontory where it was possible to watch the Silver River flow for miles through the forests of the Anar.

The Northland army was virtually annihilated that day on the Streleheim. Those Trolls and Gnomes who had fled earlier from the Valley of Rhenn eventually found their way home. The power of the Warlock Lord was broken, and the Races north and east began the painful process of rebuilding their shattered lives. Both Gnome and Troll nations, tribal by nature, distanced themselves from the other Races, and for a time there was little contact. It would be more than a hundred years before a form of parity returned between victors and vanquished and commerce could be resumed on an equal footing.

Bremen disappeared soon after the final battle. No one saw him go. No one knew where he went. He said goodbye to Mareth, and through her to a still unconscious Kinson. He told the young woman that he would not see either one of them again. There were rumors afterward that he had returned to Paranor to live out the last years of his life. Kinson thought sometimes to go in search of him, to find out the truth of things. But he never did.

Jerle Shannara saw him once more, less than a month after the battle at the Rhenn, late at night for only a few minutes when the old man came to Arborlon to spirit away the Black Elfstone. They spoke of the talisman in whispers, as if the words themselves were too painful to bear, as if even mention of the dark magic might scar their souls.

That was the last time anyone saw him.

The boy Allanon disappeared as well.

Slowly the world returned to the way it had been, and memories of the Warlock Lord began to fade.

Three years passed. On a late summer’s day warm and bright with sunshine, an old man and a boy climbed through the foothills of the Dragon’s Teeth toward the Valley of Shale. Bremen was wizened and bent with age now, and the gray of his hair and beard had gone white. He no longer moved easily, and his eyes were beginning to fail. Allanon was fifteen, taller and much stronger, his shoulders broad, his arms and legs rangy and powerful Already he was approaching manhood, his face beginning to reveal the dark shadow of a beard, his voice deep and rough. By now he was nearly Bremen’s equal in use of the Druid magic. But it was the old man who led and the boy who followed on their last journey together.

For three years Allanon had trained with Bremen. The old man had accepted that the boy would succeed him when he was gone, that Allanon would be the last of the Druids. Tay and Risca were dead, and Mareth had chosen another path. The boy was young, but he was eager to learn and it was clear from the first that he possessed the determination and strength necessary to become what he must. Bremen worked with him every day for those three years, teaching him what he knew of the magic of the Druids and the secrets of their power, giving him the chance to experiment and to discover. Allanon was fierce in this as in all things, single-minded almost to a fault, driven to succeed. He was smart and intuitive, and his prescience did not diminish with his growth. Frequently Allanon saw what was hidden from the old man, his sharp mind grasping possibilities that even the Druid had not recognized. He stayed with Bremen at Paranor, the two of them closeted away from the world, studying the Druid Histories, practicing the lessons that the ancient tomes taught. Bremen used his magic to conceal their presence in the empty fortress from others. No one came to disturb them. No one sought to intrude.

Bremen thought often on the Warlock Lord and the events that had led to his banishing. He spoke of it with the boy, relating to him all of what had transpired—of the destruction of the Druids, of the search for the Black Elfstone, of the forging of the Sword of Shannara, and of the battle for the Rhenn. He imparted the particulars orally to Allanon and then inscribed them on the pages of the Druid Histories. In private he worried for the future. His own strength was failing. His life was coming to an end. He would not see his work completed. That would be left to Allanon and those who succeeded him. But how insufficient that seemed! It was not enough to hope that the boy and his successors would carry on without him. His was the responsibility and his the hand that was needed to carry it out.

So four days earlier he had called the boy to him and told him that his lessons were finished. They would be leaving Paranor for the Hadeshorn to make one last visit to the spirits of the dead.

They packed provisions and departed the Keep at sunrise.

Before doing so the old man summoned the magic that warded Paranor’s walls and closed the ancient fortress away. Out from the depths of the Druid Well rose the ancient magic that lived there, swirling upward in a wicked green light. By the time the boy and the old man were safely clear, Paranor had begun to shimmer with the damp translucence of a mirage, melting slowly into the sunlight, disappearing into the air. It would appear and fade again at regular intervals thereafter, sometimes at brightest noon, sometimes at darkest night, but it would never stay. The boy said nothing as they turned away and walked into the trees, but the old man could see from his eyes that he understood what was happening.

Thus they approached at sunset the entrance to the Valley of Shale and made camp in the shadow of the Dragon’s Teeth. They ate their dinner in silence, watching the darkness deepen and the stars brighten. With the coming of midnight, they rose and walked to the edge of the valley and looked down into its obsidian bowl.

The Hadeshorn glimmered with starlight, placid and undisturbed.

No sound came from the valley. Nothing stirred on its broken surface.

“I will be leaving you this night,” the old man said finally.

The boy nodded, but said nothing.

“I will be here when you have need of me again.” He paused. “That will not happen for a while, I expect. But when it does, this is where you will come.”

The boy looked at him uncertainly.

Bremen sighed, noting the confusion in his eyes. “I must tell you something now that I have never told to anyone, not even Jerle Shannara himself. Sit with me and listen.”

They seated themselves on the carpet of broken rock, solitar figures silhouetted against the backdrop of the stars. The old man was silent for a moment as he worked to arrange the words he needed to speak, the lines of his face deepening.

“Jerle Shannara failed in his attempt to destroy the Warlock Lord,” he said finally. “When he faltered in his use of the Sword, when he allowed himself to be distracted by self-doubt and recrimination, he let Brona escape. I knew of this failure because, although too weakened by my own use of the Druid magic to go on, I followed the king in my mind’s eye and thereby witnessed the confrontation. I watched him hesitate at the last moment, then attempt to use the talisman as an ordinary weapon, forgetting my repeated warnings to rely on the magic alone. I saw the dark shadows rise out of the mist as the Warlock Lord’s robes collapsed beneath the Sword’s final blow, and I knew what that meant. The Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers had been driven from their substantive forms by the magic, had been compelled to become dark spirits once more, and had fled back into the ether—but they had not been destroyed.”

He shook his head. “There is no reason to tell any of this to the king. Telling him would accomplish nothing. Jerle Shannara was a brave and resourceful champion. He overcame his own misgivings and fear to employ the Druid magic against the most formidable enemy in the history of the Pour Lands. He did so under the most adverse of conditions and crudest of circumstances, and in all ways but one he succeeded in accomplishing what we expected of him. It is enough that he defeated the Warlock Lord and drove him from the Four Lands. It is enough that the magic of the Sword of Shannara has diminished the rebel Druid’s power so utterly that it will be centuries before he can regain form. There if sufficient time in the scheme of things to prepare for when that happens. Jerle Shannara did the best he could, and I think you should leave it at that.”

His aging eyes fixed on Allanon. “But you must know of his failure, because you are the one who must guard against its consequences. Brona lives and will one day return. I will not be there to face him. You must do so in my place—or if not you, another like you, one you will choose as I have chosen you.”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other in the soft, enveloping darkness.

Bremen shook his head helplessly. “If there were another way to do this, I would choose that way.” He felt uncomfortable speaking of it, as if by doing so he was looking for an excuse to change his mind when he knew he could not. “I wish I could stay longer with you, Allanon. But I am old, and I can feel myself weakening almost daily. I have kept myself whole for as long as I can. The Druid Sleep is no longer enough. I must take another form if I am to be of service to you in the battle you face. Do you understand what I am saying?”

The boy looked at him, his dark eyes intense. “I understand.”

He paused, the light changing in his eyes. “I will miss you, Father.”

The old man nodded. The boy called him that now. Father. The boy had adopted him, and it felt right that he had done so. “I will miss you, too,” he replied softly.

They talked more of what it was that would happen then, of the past and the future and the inextricable link that bound the one to the other. They shared the memories they had forged in their time together, repeated the vows they had made, and recounted the lessons that would matter in the years ahead.

Then, as the night lengthened and dawn approached, they walked together into the Valley of Shale. A mist had formed as the air cooled, and now it hung like a shroud above the valley, cloaking it in shimmering darkness, screening away the stars and their silver light. Their boots crunched on the loose rock, and their hearts beat with rough anticipation. They felt the heat rise off their bodies as they worked their way downward along the valley slopes, then across the floor toward the lake. The Hadeshorn gleamed like black ice, smooth and still. Not even the faintest ripple scratched its mirrored surface.

When they were a dozen feet from the lake’s dark edge, Bremen withdrew the Black Elfstone from his robes and passed it to the boy.

“Keep it safe for when you would return to the Keep,” he reminded him. “Remember what it is for. Remember what I have told you of its power. Be wary.”

“I will,” Allanon assured him.

He is just a boy, the old man thought suddenly. I am asking him to take on so much, and he is just a boy. He stared at Allanon in spite of himself, as if by doing so he might discover something he had missed, some particular of his character that would further reassure him. Then he turned away. He had done what he could to prepare the boy. It would have to be enough.

He walked alone to the shore’s edge and stared out over the dark waters. He closed his eyes, gathered himself for what was needed, then used the Druid magic to summon the spirits of the dead. They came swiftly, almost as if expecting his call, as if waiting for it. Their cries rose out of the silence, the earth rumbled, and the waters of the Hadeshorn rolled like a cauldron set upon a fire. Steam hissed, and voices whispered and moaned within the shadowy depths. Slowly the spirits began to lift out of the mist and spray, out of the whirlpool of darkness, out of the tortured cries. One by one they appeared, the tiny, silver shapes of the lesser spirits first, then the larger, darker form of Galaphile.

Bremen turned then and looked back to where Allanon stood waiting. He saw in that instant the particulars of Galaphile’s fourth vision, the one he had failed to understand for so long—himself, standing before the waters of the Hadeshorn; Galaphile’s shade, approaching through the mist and the swirl of lost spirits; and Allanon, his eyes so sad, watching it happen.

The shade came steadily on, an implacable presence, a shadow drawn blacker than the night through which he passed. He walked upon the waters of the Hadeshorn as if upon solid ground, advancing to where Bremen waited. The old man stretched out one hand to greet the spirit, his thin body rigid and worn.

“I am ready,” he said softly.

The shade gathered him in his arms and bore him away across the waters of the Hadeshorn and down into their depths.

Allanon stood alone on the shore, staring silently. He did not move as the waters went still again. He stayed motionless as the darkness faded and the sun crested the Dragon’s Teeth. One hand clutched the Black Elfstone tightly within his dark robes. His eyes were hard and steady.

When the sun had risen completely into the morning sky and the last of the shadows had been chased from the valley, he turned and walked away.