by Terry Brooks
A rider appeared on the horizon, a solitary horseman, his mount driven almost to exhaustion as it galloped wildly across the grasslands toward the approaching Elves. Lifting the Ellcrys staff, Ander signaled a halt. With Allanon beside him, he rode forward to meet the horseman. Disheveled and dust-streaked, the rider jolted to a stop before them. Ander knew this man, a messenger in his brother’s service.
“Flyn,” he spoke the Elf’s name in greeting.
The messenger hesitated, then glanced quickly past him to the column of soldiers. “I am to report to the King …” he began.
“Give your message to the Prince,” Allanon snapped.
“My Lord,” Flyn saluted, his face white. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes. “My Lord …” he began again, but his voice broke and he could not continue.
Ander dismounted and beckoned Flyn down with him. Wordlessly he put an arm about the distraught messenger and led him forward several paces to where they might speak alone. There he faced the Elf squarely.
“Slowly now—give me your message.”
Flyn nodded, his face tightening. “My Lord, I am instructed to tell the King that Prince Arion has fallen. My Lord … he is dead.”
Ander shook his head slowly. “Dead?” it seemed as if someone else were speaking. “How can he be dead? He can’t be dead!”
“We were attacked at dawn, my lord.” Flyn was crying openly. “The Demons … there were so many. They forced us from the pass. We were overrun. The battle standard fell … and when Prince Arion tried to recover it, the Demons caught him …”
Ander quickly put his hand up to check the Elf’s words. He did not want to hear the rest. It was a nightmare that could not be happening. His eyes flashed quickly to Allanon, and he found the Druid’s dark face turned toward his own. Allanon knew.
“Do we have my brother’s body?” Ander forced himself to ask the question.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“I want it brought to me.”
Flyn nodded silently. “My Lord, there is something more.” Ander turned back now, waiting. “My Lord, Worl Run is lost, but Commander Pindanon believes that it can be retaken. He requests additional cavalry to make a sweep back across the grasslands that border the pass so that …”
“No!” Ander cut him short, his voice suddenly urgent. With an effort he composed himself. “No, Flyn. Tell Commander Pindanon that he is to withdraw at once. He is to return to the Sarandanon.”
The Elf swallowed hard, glancing hurriedly at Allanon. “Forgive me, my Lord, but I was instructed to speak with the King on this. The Commander will ask …”
Ander understood. “Tell the Commander that my father has been wounded.” Flyn paled further, and Ander took a deep breath. “Tell Kael Pindanon that I command the army of the Elves and that he is to withdraw at once. Take a fresh horse, Flyn, and go quickly. Safe journey, messenger!”
Flyn saluted and hurried off. Ander stood alone, staring out across the empty grasslands, a strange numbness stealing through him as he realized that there no longer remained any chance to bridge that gulf that had always separated Arion and him. Arion was lost to him forever.
His back to Allanon, he let himself cry.
* * *
Dusk slipped silently across the valley of the Sarandanon, its shadow lengthening to Baen Draw and the army of the Elves. Within his tent, Eventine Elessedil lay sleeping, unconscious still, his breathing shallow and uneven. Ander sat alone at his bedside, staring down at him wordlessly, wishing that he would come awake again. Until the King woke, it would be impossible to judge how serious his injury might be. He was an old man, and Ander was frightened for him.
Impulsively, he reached for his father’s hand and took it gently in his own. The hand was limp. The old man did not stir. Ander held the hand for a moment, then released it again and leaned back wearily.
“Father,” he whispered, almost to himself.
He stood up and moved away from the bed, distracted. How could it have happened—his father fallen, grievously injured; his brother killed; himself become leader of the Elves—how could it have happened? It was a madness that he could not bring himself to accept. Certainly the possibility had always been there that his father and his brother would be gone and that he alone of the Elessedils would be left to rule. But it had been an absurd possibility. No one had believed it would truly happen, least of all he. He was ill prepared for this, he thought gloomily. What had he ever been to his father and his brother but a pair of hands to act in their behalf? It had been their destiny to rule the Elven people, their wish, their expectation—never his. Yet now …
He shook his head wearily. Now he must rule, at least for a time. And he must lead this army that his father had led before him. He must defend the Sarandanon and find a way to stop the Demon advance. Halys Cut had shown the Elves how difficult this would be. They knew as well as he that if the rock slide brought about by the battle between Allanon and the Dragon had not blocked Halys Cut, the Demons might have caught and annihilated them all. His first task, then, was to give the Elves reason to believe that this would not happen to them here at Baen Draw, despite the loss of both the King and his firstborn son. In short, he must give them hope.
He sat down again next to his father. Kael Pindanon could help him; he was a veteran of many wars, an experienced soldier. But would he? He knew that Pindanon was angry with him because of his order to the Commander to withdraw from the passes of the Breakline. Pindanon had not returned yet, remaining behind with a rearguard of Elven cavalry to slow the Demon advance on the Sarandanon. But forewarning of his displeasure had already reached Ander’s ears through comments voiced by a handful of his officers. When he rode in, he would confront Ander directly. Then things would really come to a head. Ander already knew he would ask that command of the army be given to him. Ander shook his head once more. It would be easy enough to do that, to turn command of the army over to Pindanon and let the old warrior assume responsibility for the defense of the Elven homeland. Perhaps that was what he should do. Yet something inside of him resisted so simplistic a resolution to the dilemma; there was need for caution in shedding too quickly duties that were clearly his.
“What would you do?” he asked softly of his father, knowing there would be no answer, yet needing one.
The minutes slipped past, and the dusk deepened.
Finally Dardan appeared through the tent flap. “Commander Pindanon has returned,” he announced. “He asks to speak with you.”
Ander nodded and wondered momentarily where Allanon had gone. He had seen nothing of the Druid since their return. Still, this meeting with Pindanon was his problem. He started to his feet, then remembered the Ellcrys staff which lay on the floor next to his father’s bed. Lifting it in both hands, he hesitated a moment, staring down at the old man beside him.
“Rest well,” he whispered finally, then turned and stepped from the room.
In the adjoining chamber, he found Pindanon waiting. Dust and blood covered the Commander’s armor, and his white-bearded face was flushed with anger as he advanced on the Elven Prince.
“Why did you order me to withdraw, Ander?” he snapped.
Ander held his ground. “Lower your voice, Commander. The King lies within.”
There was a moment’s silence as Pindanon glared at him. Then, more quietly, the Elven Commander asked, “How is he?”
“He sleeps,” Ander replied coldly. “Now what is your question?”
Pindanon straightened. “Why was I ordered to withdraw? I could have retaken Worl Run. We could have held the Breakline as your father intended that we should!”
“My father intended that the Breakline be held for as long as it was possible to do so,” Ander responded, his eyes locked on Pindanon’s. “With my father injured, my brother dead, and Halys Cut lost, it was no longer possible. We were driven from Halys Cut, just as you were driven from Worl Run Run.” Pindanon bristled, but Ander ignored him. “In order to retake Worl Run, I would h
ave had to make a forced march north with an army that had just been routed, knowing that they would immediately be thrown back into battle. If our combined forces were then defeated, they would face an exhausting march back to the Sarandanon with little chance to rest before undertaking a defense of this valley. Worst of all, any battle fought within the passes of the Breakline would be fought without the use of Elven cavalry. If we are to withstand the Demon advance, we will need the whole of our strength to do so. That, Commander, is why you were ordered to withdraw.”
Pindanon shook his head slowly. “You are not a trained soldier, my Lord Prince. You had no right to make a decision as crucial as this one without first consulting with the Commander of the Army. Had it not been for my loyalty to your father …”
Ander’s head came up sharply. “Don’t finish that sentence, Commander.”
His gaze shifted momentarily as the outer tent flaps parted to admit Allanon and Stee Jans. Allanon’s appearance was not unexpected, but Ander was somewhat surprised to find the Free Corps Commander there as well. The Borderman nodded courteously, but said nothing.
Ander turned back to Pindanon. “In any case, the matter is done. We had better concern ourselves with what lies ahead. How much time do we have before the Demons reach us?”
“A day, possibly two,” Pindanon offered abruptly. “They must rest, regroup.”
Allanon’s black eyes lifted. “Dawn tomorrow.”
There was instant silence. “You are certain?” Ander asked quietly.
“They are driven beyond the need for sleep. Dawn tomorrow.”
Pindanon spat upon the earthen floor.
“Then we must decide now how we will stop them once they are here,” Ander declared, hands running lightly over the Ellcrys staff.
“Simple enough,” Pindanon snapped impatiently. “Defend Baen Draw. Cordon it off. Stop them at the narrows before they reach the valley.”
Ander took a deep breath. “That was tried at Halys Cut. It failed. The Demons forced the Elven phalanx by sheer strength of numbers. There is no reason to believe that it would be any different this time.”
“There is every reason,” Pindanon insisted. “Our strength is not divided here as it was in the Breakline. Nor will the Demons be fresh and rested, if they march straight from the Flats. Cavalry may be used in support where it could not at the Cut. Oh, much is changed, I promise you. The result will be different this time.”
Ander glanced momentarily at Allanon, but the Druid said nothing. Pindanon came a step closer.
“Ander, give me command in your father’s stead. Let me set the defense as I know he would set it. The Elves can hold the Draw against those creatures, whatever their strength. Your father and I know …”
“Commander.” The Elven Prince spoke softly, firmly. “I saw what the Demons are capable of doing at Halys Cut. I saw what they did to a defensive line that my father felt certain would hold them. This is a different sort of enemy we fight. It hates the Elves beyond understanding; it is driven by that hatred—so much so that dying means nothing. Can we say the same, we to whom life is so precious? I think not. We need something more than standard tactics if we are to survive this encounter.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Allanon’s brief nod.
Pindanon bristled. “You lack faith, my Lord Prince. Your father would not be so quick …”
Ander cut him short. “My father is not here. But if he were, he would speak to you as I have spoken. I seek suggestions, Commander—not an argument.”
Pindanon flushed darkly, then turned suddenly toward Allanon. “What has this one to say? Has he no thoughts to offer on how these Demons are to be stopped?”
Allanon’s dark face was expressionless. “You cannot stop them, Commander. You can only slow them.”
“Slow them?”
“Slow them so that the bearer of the Ellcrys seed may gain time enough to find the Bloodfire and return.”
“That again!” Pindanon snorted. “Our destiny in the hands of that girl! Druid, I do not believe in old world legends. If the Westland is to be saved, it must be saved through the courage of her men-at-arms—through the skill and experience of her soldiers. Demons may die as other things of flesh and blood.”
“Such as Elves,” the Druid replied darkly.
There was a long silence. Pindanon turned away from the others, hands clasping angrily behind his back. After a moment, he wheeled back on them.
“Do we stand at Baen Draw or not, Prince Ander? I hear no suggestions but my own.”
Ander hesitated, wishing Allanon would say something. But it was Stee Jans who stepped forward, his rough voice breaking the silence.
“My Lord, may I speak?”
Ander had almost forgotten that the Legion Commander was there. He glanced at the big man and nodded.
“My Lord, the Free Corps has faced similar odds on more than one occasion while in the service of the Borderlands. It is a matter of pride with us that while our enemies have frequently been stronger than we, still we have survived and they have not. We have learned some hard lessons, my Lord. I offer one of them to you now. It is this—never settle a stationary defensive line where superior numbers will overrun you. We have learned to split our defensive front with a series of mobile lines that shift with the flow of battle. These lines attack and retreat in sequence, pulling the enemy first one way, then the other, striking always on the flanks as the enemy turns to repel each new assault, withdrawing beyond the enemy’s reach when the strike is done.”
Pindanon snorted. “Then you neither gain nor even hold ground, Commander.”
Stee Jans turned to him. “When the enemy has been pulled far enough out in his efforts to catch you, when his lines have thinned and split, then you close ranks to either side and collapse on him. Like so.”
He placed his hands in a V and brought them together with a clap. There was a startled silence.
“I don’t know,” Pindanon muttered doubtfully.
“How would you defend Baen Draw?” Ander pressed.
“I would use a variation of what I have just described to you,” Stee Jans replied. “Longbows on the slopes of the Kensrowe over the mouth of the Draw to harry the advance. Foot soldiers at its head, as if you meant to hold it as you tried to hold Halys Cut. When the Demons attack, stand for a time, then give way. Let them break through. Give them a rabbit to chase, a cavalry command to draw them on. When their lines are strung out, their flanks exposed, close on them from both sides, quickly, before they can fall back or be reinforced. Use lances to keep them from you. The Demons lack our weapons. If you stay beyond their reach, they cannot harm you. When you have destroyed their front ranks, let the rabbit pull through a second rush. Take them another way; keep them off balance. Concentrate on their flanks.”
He finished. The Elves stared at the Borderman. Pindanon frowned.
“Who would be the rabbit in this?”
Stee Jans smiled crookedly. “Who else, Commander?”
Pindanon shrugged. Ander looked over at him questioningly.
“It might work,” the old warrior admitted grudgingly. “If the rabbit is any good, that is.”
“The rabbit knows a few tricks,” Stee Jans replied. “That is why it is still alive after so many chases.”
Ander glanced quickly at Allanon. The Druid nodded.
“Then we have our plan for the defense of the Sarandanon,” the Elven Prince announced. His hand clasped Pindanon’s, then that of the Iron Man. “Let us make certain now that it succeeds.”
Later that night, when all was in readiness for the morrow’s battle and he was alone, Ander Elessedil paused to reflect on how fortunate it was that Stee Jans had been present at his meeting with Pindanon. It was only then that it occurred to him that it might not have been good fortune at all, but a foresight peculiar to the enigmatic dark wanderer they knew as Allanon.
XXXII
They buried Arion Elessedil at first light of dawn. His brother, Pinda
non, and four dozen of the Home Guard interred him in the traditional manner of the Elves, at the birth of the new day, at the time of beginning. They bore him in silence to an oak-shaded bluff below Baen Draw that looked west over the blue expanse of the Innisbore and east across the green valley of the Sarandanon. There the firstborn of Eventine Elessedil was laid to rest, his body returned to the earth that had given it life, his spirit set free once more.
They left no marker to the Crown Prince. Allanon had warned that there were some among the Demons who would search out such testaments and prey upon the dead. There were no songs, no words of praise, no flowers—nothing to show that Arion Elessedil had ever been. There remained nothing of Eventine’s firstborn but memories.
Ander saw the tears in the eyes of those who gathered with him and felt that memories might be enough.
Less than an hour later, the Demons attacked the Elves at Baen Draw. Down out of the northern hills they streamed, their screams and howls shattering the stillness of the dawn. They came as they had come at Halys Cut, a mass of twisted dark bodies surging forward like the unleashed waters of a flood.
At the lower end of the Draw, the Elven phalanx waited, rows of lancers and pikemen standing shoulder to shoulder with weapons braced. As the foremost Demons clawed their way toward them, Elven longbows hummed along the slopes of the Kensrowe and the air was filled with feathered arrows. Demons convulsed and fell, buried beneath those who came after. Wave after wave of dark shafts ripped through their ranks, and hundreds died in the rush.
But at last the phalanx was reached and the Demons flung themselves against it, shrieking with pain as the iron-tipped shafts pierced their bodies and held them transfixed. The attack faltered and was thrown back. Again it came, a sudden surge forward of malformed bodies, teeth and claws ripping, and again it was thrown back. The ground before the Elven defensive wall grew littered with dead and dying. Still the horde of Demons pressed ahead, endless in number, and at last the Elven line wavered and broke, its center seeming to fall away. Into the breach surged the Demons, bounding and leaping and scrambling from the draw.
