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 That the massive army had withdrawn was unthinkable.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 thought 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 strang 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 terifying 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 mst 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 wai 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 ot 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, howevel 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 argumeats, 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 cchance of approaching unseen if they came down from the north through enemy country — the Northland army having moved into the WesUand 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.”