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 ot 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 Erven 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 Erven 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 detennination, 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.