by Terry Brooks
It was during the third hour of the chase, when the grasslands of Callahorn had been left far behind and the earth beneath Artaq’s pounding hooves had gone hard and cracked, when the howls of the Demon-wolves had drawn so near that it seemed the huge gray forms must spring into view at any moment, when wind and dust had blinded them and sweat from fear had streaked their bodies beneath their tangled clothes, that Valeman and Elven girl at last caught sight of the broken ridges that formed the mouth of the Valley of Rhenn. They rose out of the flatlands below the Elven forests, rock and scrub black against the night sky. The riders turned toward the pass without slowing. Artaq’s flanks were heaving, his nostrils flaring; sweat and lather coated his sleek black body. He stretched out further, racing through the darkness, the two hunched forms on his back holding on desperately.
In seconds, the pass was before them, craggy ridges looming up on either side. Down into the narrow slot of the valley thundered the black. Wil peered frantically through tear-filled eyes as the wind ripped across his face, searching for the Demons that he had feared would be waiting to trap them. Astonishingly, he found none. They were alone in the valley. He felt a quick sense of exhilaration. They were going to escape! Their pursuers were too far back to catch them before they were safely into the Westland forests, into the country of the Elves. By then there would be help . . .
The incomplete thought hung suspended in his mind, repeating itself over and over in cadence with the sound of Artaq’s pounding hooves as the black raced along the floor of the valley. Wil went cold. What was he thinking? There would be no help for them. No one even knew they were coming—no one but Allanon, and the Druid was gone. Help? What help did he expect? Already the Demons had gone into the very heart of the city of Arborlon to destroy the Chosen. What did he think would stop them from trailing one incredibly foolish Valeman and an unarmed Elven girl into forestland miles from anything? All he had succeeded in doing in gaining the Valley of Rhenn was to take Artaq out of the open grasslands, where he could run, into the confinement of the woods, where he could not. There was nothing there that would prevent the wolves from coming after them—creatures that were quicker and more agile than they, better able to penetrate the maze of trees and brush, better able to pursue than they would be able to flee. He wanted to scream what he was feeling. Stupid! His shortsightedness had taken away their one slim chance of escape. He had been so concerned with what they had been running from that he had forgotten to consider what they had been running into. They were not going to escape at all. They would be caught; they would be killed. It was his fault. He had done this to them.
He must do something.
His mind raced, searching desperately. He had only one weapon left.
The Elfstones.
Then Amberle screamed. The Valeman jerked about, following the Elven girl’s rigid arm as it pointed skyward.
Through the mouth of the valley flew a monstrous black creature with leathered wings that spanned the line of the ridges and a head hooked and bent like some twisted limb. Shrieking, it swept out of the Streleheim into the crease of the valley and came for them. Wil had never seen anything so huge. He yelled frantically to Artaq, but the black had nothing left to give—he was running now on spirit alone. A hundred yards away loomed the draw that marked the far pass. Beyond lay woods that would hide them from this nightmare, woods into which a thing of such size could not possibly go. All they needed was a few seconds more.
The creature dove for them. It seemed to fall toward them like some massive rock, plummeting downward out of the night. Wil Ohmsford saw it come and glimpsed momentarily the rider it bore, a thing vaguely manlike, yet humped and misshapen, its eyes red against the black of its face. The eyes seemed to transfix him, and he felt his courage melt.
For an instant he thought they were finished. But then, with a final lunge, Artaq gained the far pass, broke clear of the high ridges, and plunged into the darkness of the trees.
Down a narrow rutted earthen trail the big horse thundered, barely slowing as his sleek body dodged and twisted through the tangle of trunks and heavy brush. Wil and Amberle hung on desperately, limbs and vines whipping across them, threatening to unseat them at every turn. Wil tried to slow the black, but Artaq had taken the bit between his teeth. The Valeman had lost control of him entirely. He was running his own race now.
In seconds the riders lost all sense of direction, confused by the forest dark that had closed about them and by the winding trail. Although he could no longer hear the howl of the Demon-wolves nor the shriek of that flying monster, Wil was terrified that they might inadvertently become turned about and end up traveling back toward the very creatures from whom they sought to escape. He sawed angrily on the reins in an effort to free the bit, but Artaq held on firmly.
The Valeman had just about given up hope of ever stopping the black when the big horse abruptly slowed and then stopped altogether. Standing in the middle of the forest trail, sides heaving, nostrils flaring, he lowered his finely shaped head and nickered softly. A long moment of silence followed. Wil and Amberle glanced at one another questioningly.
Then a tall, black form appeared right in front of them, slipping from the forest night without a sound. It happened so quickly that Wil did not even have time to think to reach for the Elfstones. The dark figure stepped forward, one hand touching gently Artaq’s sweating neck, slowly stroking the satin skin. From out of the shadow of a hooded cloak, his face lifted to the light.
It was Allanon.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, reaching up to take Amberle from the saddle and lower her carefully to the ground.
The Elven girl nodded wordlessly, astonishment filling her sea-green eyes—astonishment, and a touch of anger. The Druid frowned, then turned to aid Wil, but the Valeman was already scrambling down from Artaq’s back.
“We thought you dead!” he burst out in disbelief.
“It seems that someone is forever declaring me dead before the fact,” the mystic remarked somewhat petulantly. “As you can see, I am quite . . .”
“Allanon, we have got to get out of here.” Wil was already glancing anxiously over his shoulder. His words tripped over one another in his haste to get them out. “The Demon-wolves chased us north all the way from the Mermidon, and there’s a black, flying thing that . . .”
“Wil, slow down.”
“. . . almost caught us in the valley, bigger than anything I’ve ever . . .”
“Wil!”
Wil Ohmsford went silent. Allanon shook his head reprovingly.
“Would you please let me get a word in edgewise?” The Valeman flushed and nodded. “Thank you. First of all, you are quite safe now. The Demons no longer pursue you. The one who leads them can sense my presence. He is wary of me and has turned back.”
The Valeman looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. No one has followed you. Now come over here with me, both of you, and sit down.”
He led them to a fallen log that lay next to the trail, and the Valeman and Elven girl seated themselves wearily. Allanon remained standing.
“We must go on to Arborlon tonight,” he advised them. “But we can spare a few moments to rest before we leave.”
“How did you get here?” Wil asked him.
“I might ask you the same question.” The big man hunched down on one knee, drawing the black robes close about him. “Do you understand what happened to you at the river?”
The Valeman nodded. “I think so.”
“It was the King of the Silver River,” Amberle interjected quietly. “We saw him; he spoke to us.”
“It was to Amberle that he spoke,” Wil corrected. “But what happened to you? Did he help you as well?”
Allanon shook his head. “I am afraid I did not even see him—only the light which enveloped and took you away. He is a reclusive and mysterious being, and he shows himself to very few. This time, he chose to appear to you. His reasons must remain his own, I supp
ose. In any case, his appearance caused considerable confusion among the Demons, and I took advantage of that confusion to make my own escape.”
He paused. “Amberle, you said that he spoke with you. Do you recall what it was that he said?”
The Elven girl looked uneasy. “No, not exactly. It was like a dream. He said something about . . . joining.”
For an instant there was a flicker of understanding in the Druid’s dark eyes. But neither Wil nor Amberle saw it, and it disappeared at once.
“No matter.” The mystic brushed the incident aside casually. “He helped you when you needed help, and for that we are in his debt.”
“His debt, to be sure—but certainly not yours.” Amberle did not bother to disguise her anger. “Where have you been, Druid?”
Allanon seemed surprised. “Looking for you. Unfortunately, when he helped you, the King of the Silver River caused us to become separated. I knew you were safe, of course, but I did not know where you had been taken or how to go about finding you again. I might have used magic, but that seemed unnecessarily risky. The one who leads these Demons who have broken through the Forbidding has power as great as my own—perhaps greater. Using magic might have led him to us both. So I chose instead to continue on toward Arborlon, searching for you as I went, believing that you would remember and follow accordingly the instructions I had given you. Because I was forced to go afoot—your gray, Wil, was lost in the battle—I was certain that you were ahead of me the entire time. It was not until you used the Elfstones that I realized I was mistaken.”
He shrugged. “By then I was almost to Arborlon. I started back at once, traveling south through the forestland, thinking that you would seek sanctuary by entering the woods below the Mermidon. Again, I was mistaken. When I heard the howling of the Demon-wolves, I realized that you were trying to reach the Valley of Rhenn. That brought me here.”
“It appears that you have been mistaken much of the time,” Amberle snapped.
Allanon said nothing, his eyes meeting hers.
“I think you were mistaken in coming to me in the first place,” she continued, her voice accusing now.
“It was necessary that I come.”
“That remains to be seen. What worries me at the moment is that the Demons have been one step ahead of you from the beginning. How many times now have they almost had me?”
Allanon rose. “Too many times. It will not happen again.”
Amberle rose with him, her face flushing darkly. “I no longer feel particularly reassured by your promises. I want this journey finished. I want to go home again—to Havenstead, not to Arborlon.”
The Druid’s face was expressionless. “Understand—I do what I am able to do for you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps you only do what suits you.”
The Druid stiffened. “That is unfair, Elven girl. You know less about this than you suppose.”
“I know one thing. I know that neither you nor your choice for my protector have proven very capable. I would be much happier if I had never seen either one of you.”
She was so angry she was almost in tears. She stared at them furiously, daring them to contradict her. When they did not, she turned away and started walking down the darkened trail.
“You said we must go on to Arborlon tonight, Druid,” she called out. “I want this finished!”
Wil Ohmsford stared after her, resentment and confusion showing in his face. For a moment he seriously considered just sitting there and letting the Elven girl go her own way. She obviously had little enough use for him. Then he felt Allanon’s hand on his shoulder.
“Do not be too quick to judge her,” the Druid said softly. The hand withdrew, and Allanon moved over to gather up Artaq’s reins. He looked back at Wil inquiringly. The Valeman shook his head and rose. After all, he had come this far. There was nothing to be gained by not going on.
The Druid had already started after the slender figure of the Elven girl as she disappeared up the pathway into the trees. Grudgingly, Wil followed.
XVIII
It was evening of the following day. Shadows lengthened across the forested city of Arborlon and gray dusk deepened steadily into night. Eventine Elessedil sat alone in the seclusion of his study, poring over Gael’s list of matters that would require his attention in the morning. Fatigue lined his face, and his eyes squinted wearily in the light of the oil lamp that sat atop the wooden desk he occupied. The room was still, closing the aged King of the Elves away in the silence of his thoughts.
He glanced over briefly at Manx, who lay sprawled across the room against a bookcase, sleeping soundly. The wolfhound’s graying flanks rose and fell rhythmically, his breath exhaling through his nose with a curious nasal whine. Eventine smiled. Old dog, he thought, sleep comes easily to you, deep and dreamless and troublefree. He shook his head. He would give much to enjoy just a single night’s undisturbed sleep. There had been little rest for him. Nightmares crowded his slumber—nightmares that were distortions of the unpleasant realities of his waking hours, carried with him into sleep. They teased and tormented him; they stole wickedly through his slumber, disruptive and hateful. Each night they returned, prodding at his subconscious, fragmenting his sleep so that time and again he shook himself awake, until at last dawn brought an end to the struggle.
He rubbed his eyes, then his face, closing off the light with his hands. He would have to sleep soon because sleep in some form was necessary. But he knew that he would find little rest.
When he took his hands away again, he found himself staring at Allanon. For an instant he did not believe that he was seeing the Druid; this was only a trick of his mind, brought on by his weariness. But when he squinted sharply and the image did not disappear, he came to his feet with a start.
“Allanon! I thought I was seeing things!”
The Druid came forward and they locked hands. There was the barest flicker of uncertainty in the Elven King’s eyes.
“Did you find her?”
Allanon nodded. “She is here.”
Eventine did not know how to respond. The two men stared at each other wordlessly. Against the bookcase, Manx raised his head and yawned.
“I did not think she would ever come back,” the King said finally. He hesitated. “Where have you taken her?”
“Where she can be protected,” Allanon responded. He released the King’s hand. “We do not have much time. I want you to summon your sons and the most trusted of your advisers—those to whom you have confided the truth of the danger that threatens the Elves. Be certain of your choice. Have them gather in one hour in the chambers of the Elven High Council. Tell them that I would speak with them. Tell no one else. See to it that your guard keeps watch without. One hour. I will meet you then.”
He turned and started back toward the open windows he had come through.
“Amberle . . .” Eventine called after him.
“One hour,” the Druid repeated, then slipped through the curtains and was gone.
The allotted hour passed, and those summoned by the Elven King assembled in the High Council. The council room was a cavernous, hexagonal chamber built of oak and stone with its cathedral ceiling peaked starlike overhead at a joinder of massive beams. A set of huge wooden doors opened into the room, lighted by low-hanging oil lamps suspended at the ends of black iron chains. Against a facing wall was settled the dais of the King, a riser of steps leading to a great, hand-carved oaken throne flanked by a line of standards from which hung flags bearing the insignia of the houses of the Elven Kings. Gallery seats bordered the remaining walls, each set a dozen rows deep, all overlooking a broad expanse of polished stone flooring encircled like an arena by a low iron railing. At the exact center of the room stood a wide oval table with twenty-one chairs where sat the members of the Elven High Council.
Only six of these chairs were occupied this night. At one of them sat Ander Elessedil. He spoke little to the five seated with him, his eyes straying restlessly to the closed double doors
at the far end of the chamber. Thoughts of Amberle crowded together in his mind. Although the girl had not been mentioned by his father when he had come to him with the news of Allanon’s return, he was certain nevertheless that the Druid had succeeded in bringing her back to Arborlon; if not, this Council would not have been convened in such haste. He was equally certain that Allanon intended to bring her before the Council and ask that they entrust to her the search for the Bloodfire. He was not certain what the Council would say in response. If the King chose to speak first on the Druid’s request and to lend it his support, then the others would probably acquiesce to his wishes—though this was by no means a foregone conclusion, given the strong feelings the Elves bore about Amberle. In any case, he did not believe that his father would do that. He would listen first to the advice of the men he had gathered about him. Then he would decide.
Ander glanced briefly at his father, then looked away again. What would his own advice be, he wondered suddenly? He would be asked to speak, yet how could he trust himself to be objective where Amberle was concerned? Conflicting emotions colored his reason with their intensity. Love and disappointment intermingled. His hands locked before him on the table in response to what he was feeling. Perhaps it would be best if he said nothing. Perhaps it would be best if he simply deferred to the judgment of the others.
His gaze shifted momentarily to their faces. Other than Dardan and Rhoe, who kept watch outside the chamber doors, no one else had been told of this meeting. There were others his father might have called—good men. But he had chosen these. It was a balanced choice, Ander thought to himself as he considered the character of each. But what sort of judgment would they exercise when they heard what was being asked?
He found that he was not sure.
Arion Elessedil sat on his father’s right, the place at the Council table reserved for the Crown Prince of the realm. It was Arion to whom the King would look first, just as he always did whenever an important decision was required. Arion was his father’s strength, and the old man loved him fiercely. Just his presence lent Eventine a sense of reassurance that Ander knew he could not provide, however he might try. But Arion lacked compassion and at times exhibited a stubbornness that obscured his good sense. It was difficult to predict what he might do where Amberle was concerned. Once he had been fond of the girl, the only child of his beloved brother Aine. But all that was long since past. His feelings had changed with the death of his brother—changed further with Amberle’s betrayal of her trust as a Chosen. There was great bitterness within the Crown Prince, much of it caused by the obvious hurt that this girl had brought to the King. It was impossible to tell how deep that bitterness ran. Deep, Ander thought and was troubled by what that might mean.
