The Elfstones of Shannara

Chapter Twenty–Seven

That same afternoon, when the daylight had nearly gone and the rain had turned to fine mist, the Legion Free Corps rode into Arborlon. The people of the city who saw the pass paused in the middle of their endeavors and turned to one another with guarded whispers. From high atop the tree lanes to the forest roadways below, hushed voices spoke as one. There was no mistaking the Free Corps.

Ander Elessedil was still closeted in the manor house study with his father and Allanon kept there, oddly enough, at the Druid’s insistence that he familiarize himself with Westland maps of the Sarandanon and proposed defensive plans when Gael brought word of their arrival.

«My Lord, a cavalry command of the Border Legion has ridden in from Callahorn, ” the young aid announced, appearing abruptly at the study door. «Our patrols picked them up an hour east of the city and escorted them in. They should be here in a few minutes.»

«The Legion!» A broad smile spread across the old King’s weary face. «I hadn’t dared to hope. What command, Gael? How many are they?»

«No word, my Lord. A messenger from the patrol brought the news, but there were no details.»

«No matter.» Eventine was on his feet and moving toward the door. «Any help is welcome, whoever…»

«Elven King!» Allanon’s deep voice brought Ander’s father about sharply. «We have important work to do here, work that should not be interrupted. Perhaps your son might go in your place — if only to give greeting to the Bordermen.»

Ander stared at Allanon in surprise and turned eagerly to his father. The King hesitated, then seeing the look in his son’s eyes, he nodded.

«Very well, Ander. Extend my compliments to the Legion Commander and advise him that I will meet with him personally later this evening. See that quarters are provided.»

Pleased with having been given a responsibility of some importance for a change, Ander hurried from the manor house, an escort of Elven Hunters, in tow. The surprise he had experienced at Allanon’s unexpected suggestion turned quickly to curiosity. It occurred to him that this was not the first time that Allanon had gone out of his way to include him when the Druid need not have done so. There was that first meeting when he had told Eventine of Amberle and the Bloodfire. There was his admonition to Ander upon leaving for Paranor to assume responsibility for his father’s protection. There was that sense of alliance that had brought him to his feet in the High Council to stand with Amberle when no one else would do so. There was this afternoon’s meeting when Allanon had given the Ellcrys staff to his father. Arion should have been present for these meetings, not he. Why was Arion never there?

He had just passed through the gates fronting the manor house grounds, still pondering the matter, when the foremost ranks of the Border cavalry crested the roadway leading in and the entire command wound slowly into view. Ander slowed, frowning. He recognized these riders. Long gray cloaks bordered in crimson billowed from their shoulders and wide–brimmed hats with a single crimson feather sat cocked upon their heads. Long bows and broadswords jutted from their saddle harness, and short swords were strapped across their backs. Each rider held a lance from which fluttered a small crimson and gray pennant, and the horses wore light armor of leather with metal fastenings. Escorted by the handful of Elven Hunters who had picked them up while on patrol east of the city, they rode through the rain–soaked streets of Arborlon in their precise, measured lines and glanced neither left nor right at the crowds who gathered to stare after them.

«The Free Corps,” Ander murmured to himself. «They have sent us the Free Corps.»

There were few who had not heard of the Free Corps, the most famous and the most controversial command ever attached to the Border Legion of Callahorn. It drew its name from the promise it gave to those who joined its ranks — that its soldiers might leave behind without fear of question or need for explanation all that had come before in their lives. For most, there was much to be left. They came from different lands, different histories, and different lives, but they came for similar reasons. There were thieves among them, killers and cheats, soldiers broken from other armies, men of low blood and high, men with honor and men without, some searching, some fleeing, some drifting — but all seeking to escape what they were, to forget what they had been, and to start anew. The Free Corps gave them that chance. No soldier of the Free Corps was ever asked about his past; his life began with the day he joined. What had come before was finished; only the present mattered and what a man might make of himself or the time that he served.

For most, that time was short. The Free Corps was the Legion’s shock unit; as such, it was considered expendable. Its soldiers were the first into battle and the first to die, I every engagement fought since the inception of the Corps some thirty years earlier, its casualty rate had been the highest. While the past had been left behind by the soldiers of the Free Corps, the future was an even more uncertain prospect. Still, it was a fair exchange, most thought. After all, here was a price for everything, and this price was not so unreasonable. If anything, it was a source of pride for the soldiers who paid it; it gave them a sense of importance, an identity that set them apart from any other fighting man in the Four Lands. It was a tradition of the Free Corps that its soldiers should die in battle. It was not important to the men of the Corps that they should die; death was the reality of their existence, and they viewed it as an old acquaintance with whom they had brushed shoulders on more than one occasion. No, it was not important that they should die; it was important only that they should die well.

They had proven it often enough before, Ander knew. Now it appeared they had been sent to Arborlon to prove it once again.

The Legion command drew to a halt before the iron gates, and a tall, gray–cloaked rider in the forefront dismounted. Catching sight of Ander, he passed the reins of his horse to another and strode forward. On reaching the Elven Prince and his guard, he removed the wide–brimmed hat he wore and inclined his head slightly.

«I am Stee Jans, Commander of the Legion Free Corps.»

For an instant Ander did not respond, so startled was he by the other’s appearance. Stee Jans was a big man, seeming to tower over Ander. His weathered, yet still youthful face was crisscrossed with dozens of scars, some of which ran through the light red beard that shaded his jaw, leaving streaks of white. A tangle of rust–colored hair fell to his shoulders, braided and tied. Part of one ear was missing and a single gold ring dangled from the other. Hazel eyes fixed those of the Elven Prince, so hard that they seemed chiseled from stone.

Ander found himself staring and quickly recovered. «I am Ander Elessedil — Eventine is my father.» He extended his hand in greeting. Stee Jans’ grip was iron hard, the brown hands calloused and knotted. Ander broke the handshake quickly and glanced down the long lines of gray riders, searching in vain for other units of the Legion. «The King has asked me to extend his compliments and to see that you are quartered. How soon can we expect the other commands?»

A faint smile crossed the big man’s scarred visage. «There are no other commands, my Lord. Only the soldiers of the Free Corps.»

«Only the…?» Ander hesitated in confusion. «How many of you are there, Commander?»

«Six hundred.»

«Six hundred!» Ander failed to hide his dismay. «But what of the Border Legion? How soon will it be sent?»

Stee Jans paused. «My Lord, I believe that I should be direct with you. The Legion may not be sent at all. The Council of the Cities has not yet made a decision. Like most councils, it finds it easier to talk about making a decision than to make it. Your ambassador spoke well, I am told, but there are many voices of caution on the Council; some of opposition. The King defers to the Council; the Council looks south. The Federation is a threat that the Council can see; your Demons are little more than a Westland myth.»

«A myth!» Ander was appalled.

«You are fortunate to have even the Free Corps,” the big man continued calmly. «You would not have that if it were not for the Council’s need to soothe its collective conscience. A token force, at least, must be sent to the aid of their Elven allies, they argued. The Free Corps was the logical choice — just as it always is whenever there is an obvious sacrifice to be made.»

It was a simple statement of fact, made without rancor or bitterness. The big man’s eyes stayed flat and expressionless. Ander flushed.

«I would not have thought that the men of Callahorn would be so stupid!» he snapped, a sense of anger rushing through him.

Stee Jans studied him a moment, as if measuring him. «I understand that when Callahorn was under attack from the armies of the Warlock Lord, the Borderlands sent a request to the Elves for assistance. But Eventine was made prisoner by the Dark Lord, and in his absence the High Council of the Elves found itself unable to act.» He paused. «It is much the same with Callahorn now. The Borderlands have no leader; they have had no leader since Balinor.»

Ander eyed the other critically, his anger subsiding. «You are an outspoken man, Commander.»

«I am an honest man, my Lord. It helps me to see things more clearly.»

«What you have told me might not sit so well with some in Callahorn.»

The Borderman shrugged. «Perhaps that is why I am here.»

Ander smiled slowly. He liked Stee Jans — even without knowing any more about him than he did at this moment. «Commander, I did not mean to seem angry. It has nothing to do with you. Please understand that. And the Free Corps is most welcome. Now let me see to your quarters.»

Stee Jans shook his head. «No quarters are necessary; I sleep with my soldiers. My Lord, the Elven army marches in the morning, I am told.» Ander nodded. «Then the Free Corps will march as well. We need only rest the night. Please tell this to the King.»

«I will tell him,” Ander promised.

The Legion Commander saluted, then turned and walked back to his horse. Remounting, he nodded briefly to the riders of the Elven patrol who escorted his command, and the long gray columns swung left once more down the muddied road.

Ander stared after him with mingled admiration and disbelief. Six hundred men! Thinking of the thousands of Demons that would come against them, he found himself wondering what possible difference six hundred Southlanders would make.