Terry Brooks - First King of Shannara

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.”