Terry Brooks - First King of Shannara

“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.”