The First King of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  He debated going after them, then decided against it. He had enough to deal with at this point without taking on anything else. Besides, where there was one raiding party there were likely others, and it was important to alert the Elves to their presence as quickly as possible.

  So Tay continued north, staying back within the trees, his long strides eating up the distance. It was not yet noon when he reached the Valley of Rhenn and turned west down its long, broad corridor. The Rhenn was the doorway to Arborlon and the west, and the Elves would be at watch at its far end. The eastern exposure was inviting, a gentle stretch of grasslands spread between two clusters of low foothills. But the valley quickly narrowed, the floor sloped upward, and the hills rose to become steep bluffs. By the time you reached the other end, you were looking into the jaws of a vise. The Rhenn provided the Elves with a natural defensive position against an army approaching from anywhere east. Because the forests were thick and the terrain mountainous coming down from the north or up from the south, the Rhenn was the only way into or out of the Westland for any sizable force.

  It was always guarded, of course, and Tay knew that he would be met. He didn’t have long to wait. He was barely halfway down the valley’s green corridor when Elven horsemen thundered out of the pass ahead to challenge him, reining in with shouts of recognition as they neared. The riders knew him, and he was greeted warmly. He was given a horse and taken up through the pass to the Elven camp, where the watch commander sent word of his coming to Arborlon. He told the commander about the raiding party, mentioning the Gnomes but not the Skull Bearer, preferring to save that information for Ballindarroch. The commander had received no report of Gnomes and immediately dispatched riders south to make a search. The commander then ordered food and drink for Tay and sat with him while he ate, answering his questions about Arborlon and bringing him up to date on events about which he asked.

  The talk was casual and passed quickly. There were rumors of Troll movements on the Streleheim, but nothing definite. No sightings had been reported this far south. Tay avoided mention of anything concerning the Warlock Lord or Paranor. When he was done with his meal, he asked to go on. The commander provided him with a horse and a two-man escort. He accepted the former, declined the latter, and was on his way once more.

  He rode from the valley toward Arborlon, lost in thought. Rumors, no sightings. Ghosts and shadows. The Warlock Lord was as elusive as smoke. But Tay had seen the Skull Bearer and the Gnomes, and Bremen had seen the Warlock Lord at his safehold in the Northland, and they were real enough. Bremen seemed certain of what was about to happen, so now it was up to Tay to find a way to persuade the Elves that it was so.

  The road he followed wound through the Westland forests with serpentine precision, avoiding the thick stands of old growth, sidling past small lakes and along winding streams, rising and falling with the lay of the land. Sunlight dappled the woods, streaking the tall trunks and stands of tiny wildflowers, long fingers of light amid the shadows. Like banners and pennants, they welcomed Tay Trefenwyd home again. The Elf shrugged off his cloak in response, feeling the sun fall like a warm mantle across his broad shoulders.

  He encountered other travelers on the roadway, men and women journeying between villages and homes, traders and craftsmen bound for jobs in other places. Some nodded or waved in greeting; some simply passed him by. But all were Elves, and he had not been in a place where the people were his own for a long time. It seemed strange to him now—so many like himself and no others.

  He was nearing Arborlon in the languid, slow hours of midafternoon, the heat of the late spring day heavy and insistent even within the cool forest, when a horseman appeared ahead of him. The newcomer rode out of a shimmer of light at the crest of a rise and bore down on him at a gallop, his cloak whipping and his hair blowing. One hand waved vigorously and a riotous cry of greeting broke the silence. Tay knew him at once. A huge smile widened on his face, and he waved back eagerly, spurring his own mount ahead. The two met in a swirling cloud of dust, reining in their horses and jumping down, racing to embrace each other.

  “Tay Trefenwyd, as I live and breathe!”

  The newcomer wrapped his arms around the tall, lanky Tay and lifted him like a child, swinging him once about and then setting him down again with a grunt.

  “Shades!” he roared. “You must do nothing but eat while you’re away! You’re as heavy as any horse!”

  Tay clasped his best friend’s hand. “It isn’t me who’s grown heavy! It’s you who’s grown weak! Layabout!”

  The other’s hand tightened in response. “Welcome home, anyway. I have missed you!”

  Tay stepped back for a good, long look. Like all those he had left behind in Arborlon, it had been five years since he had seen Jerle Shannara. He had missed Jerle the most, he supposed, even more so than the members of his family. For this was his oldest friend, his constant companion while they were boys growing up together in the Westland, the one person to whom he could tell anything, the one to whom he would entrust his life. The bonds had been formed early and had survived even the years the two had spent apart while Tay was at Paranor and Jerle had remained behind, Courtann Ballindarroch’s first cousin, his service to the throne predetermined from his birth.

  Jerle Shannara was born a warrior. He was physically imposing for an Elf, big and strong-limbed, with cat-quick reflexes that belied his size, and a fighter’s instincts. He was training with weapons almost from the time he could walk, in love with combat, enthralled by the excitement and challenge of battle. But there was a great deal more to him than strength and size. He was quick. He was cunning. He was a relentless adversary. His work ethic was prodigious. He never expected less from himself than the best he had to offer, no matter the importance of the task, no matter if anyone was there to see. But most important of all, Jerle Shannara was fearless. It was in his blood or in the way he grew or perhaps in both, but Tay had never known his friend to back down from anything.

  They made an odd pair, he reflected. Of similar size and look, both larger than average, blond and long-limbed, and reared with high expectations from their families, they were nevertheless entirely different. Tay was easygoing and always the compromiser in difficult situations; Jerle was quick-tempered and confrontational and maddeningly unwilling to back down in any dispute. Tay was cerebral, intrigued by difficult questions and complicated puzzles that challenged and confused; Jerle was physical, preferring the challenge of sports and combat, relying on quick answers and intuition. Tay always knew he wanted to travel and study with the Druids at Paranor; Jerle always knew he wanted to become Captain of the Home Guard, the elite unit of Elven Hunters that protected the king and his family. They were different personalities with different intents and goals, yet something of who and what they were bound them together as surely as ties of blood or the dictates of fate.

  “So you’re back,” Jerle announced, releasing Tay and stepping clear. He brushed at his curly blond hair with one massive hand and gave his friend a rakish smile. “Have you come to your senses at last? How long will you stay?”

  “I don’t know. But I won’t be going back to Paranor. Things have changed.”

  The other’s smile dimmed. “Is that so? Tell me about it.”

  “All in good time. But let me do it in my own way. I am here for a specific purpose. Bremen sent me.”

  “Then it must be serious, indeed.” Jerle knew the Druid from his time in Arborlon. He paused. “Does it involve this creature they call the Warlock Lord?”

  “You were always quick. Yes, it does. He marches south with his armies to attack the Dwarves. Did you know?”

  “There are rumors of Troll movement on the Streleheim. We thought they might march west against us.”

  “The Dwarves first, you later. I am sent to persuade Courtann Ballindarroch to send the Elves to lend their support. I will need help in this, I expect.”

  Jerle Shannara reached for his horse’s reins. “Let’s move off the roadway a
nd sit in the shade while we talk. Do you mind if we don’t continue on to the city just yet?”

  “I would rather speak to you alone, first.”

  “Good. You look more like your sister every time I see you.” They walked their mounts into the trees and tied them to a slender ash. That’s a compliment, you know.”

  “I do.” Tay smiled. “How is she?”

  “Happy, settled, content with her family.” Jerle gave him a wistful look. “She did well enough without me, after all.”

  “Kira was never for you. You know that as well as I. Look at how you live. What would you do in her life? What would she do in yours? You have nothing in common but your childhood.”

  Jerle snorted. “That’s true of us as well, yet we remain close.”

  “Close is not married. And it’s different with us.”

  Tay settled himself on the grass, long legs folded before him. Jerle hunkered down on a stump worn smooth by time and weather and looked at his boots as if he had never seen them before. His sun-browned hands were crisscrossed with white scars and small red nicks and scratches. Tay could not remember a time when they hadn’t looked like that.

  “Are you still Captain of the Home Guard?” he asked his friend.

  Jerle shook his head. “I’m considered too important for that these days. I am Courtann’s chief advisor in military matters. His de facto general, second-guessing all the real generals. Not that it matters much just now, since we’re not at war with anyone. But I suppose all that could change, couldn’t it?”

  “Bremen believes that the Warlock Lord will attempt to subjugate the other Races, beginning with the Dwarves and then moving on. The Troll army is powerful. If the Races do not join together to stand against it, they will be overwhelmed, one by one.”

  “But the Druids won’t let that happen. Moribund as they are these days—no offense, Tay—they wouldn’t stand still for that.”

  “Bremen thinks that Paranor has fallen and the Druids have been destroyed.”

  Jerle Shannara straightened slightly, his mouth tightening in response to the news. “When did this happen? We’ve heard nothing.”

  “A day or two ago at most. Bremen went back to Paranor to make certain, but sent me to Arborlon, so I can’t be sure. It would help if you would send someone to see if it’s true before I speak with the king. Someone dependable.”

  “I will do that.” The other shook his head slowly. “All the Druids are gone? All of them?”

  “All but Bremen, myself, a Dwarf named Risca, and a young woman from Storlock who is still in training. We left Paranor together before the attack. Maybe someone else escaped later.”

  Jerle gave him a sharp look. “So you’ve come back to warn us, to tell us of Paranor’s fall and to ask for help against the Warlock Lord and his Troll armies?”

  “And one thing more. One very important thing. This is where I need your help the most, Jerle. There is a Black Elfstone, a magic of great power. This Elfstone is more dangerous than all the others, and it has been hidden since the time of faerie in the Breakline. Bremen has uncovered clues as to where it might be found, but the Warlock Lord and his creatures search for it as well. We must find it first. I intend to ask the king to mount an expedition. But he might be more disposed to grant the request if it came from you.”

  Jerle laughed, a big, booming howl. “Is that what you think? That I can help? I wouldn’t stand too close to me if I were you! I’ve stepped on Courtann’s toes a time or two of late, and I don’t think he holds me in very high regard at the moment! Oh, he likes my advice on troop movement and defensive strategy well enough, but that is about as far as it goes!” His laugh died away, and he wiped at his eyes. “Ah, well, I’ll do what I can.” He chuckled. “You make life interesting, Tay. You always did.”

  Tay smiled. “Life makes itself interesting. Like you, I’m just along for the ride.”

  Jerle Shannara reached across, and they clasped hands once more, holding the grip firm for a long moment. Tay could feel the other’s great strength, and it seemed as if he could draw from it something of his own.

  Still maintaining the grip, he rose to his feet and pulled his friend up with him. “We had better get started,” he advised.

  The other nodded, and the smile he offered was bold and confident and filled with mischief. “You and me, Tay,” he said. “The two of us, just like it used to be. This is going to be fun.”

  He meant something else entirely, of course, but Tay Trefenwyd supposed he understood.

  IX

  Once arrived in Arborlon, Tay spent his time visiting with family and friends while he waited impatiently for confirmation from Jerle Shannara that Paranor and the Druids had fallen. His friend reassured him on parting that someone would be sent at once to discover if Bremen’s suspicions were correct. When that was done, a meeting with the Elf King, Courtann Ballindarroch, and the Elven High Council would be arranged. Tay would be given a chance to make his plea for help for the Dwarves and for a search for the Black Elfstone. Jerle promised to stand with him. For now, neither would say or do anything further about the matter.

  This was difficult for Tay, who recalled vividly the urgency in Bremen’s admonition to seek Ballindarroch’s help. The old man’s voice whispered to him in the scrape of shoes on loose stone, in the voices of strangers he could not see, and even in his dreams. But Bremen did not himself appear or send news of any sort, and Tay knew that there was nothing to be gained by speaking out until word of Paranor’s condition had been received. Formal announcement of Ballindarroch’s pleasure at hearing of his return arrived almost at once, but no summons to appear before the king or High Council accompanied it. By all but Jerle Shannara, Tay’s return to Arborlon was thought to be solely a visit to family and friends.

  Tay stayed in the home of his parents, both grown old now, concerned mostly with the passing of the days and the welfare of their children. His parents asked him of his life at Paranor, but tired easily and did not press him for details when he gave his answers. Of the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers, they knew nothing. Of the Troll army, they had heard only rumors. They lived in a small cottage at the edge of the Gardens of Life along the Carolan, and their days were spent working in their tiny garden and at their individual crafts, his father’s screen painting and his mother’s weaving. They spoke to him while they worked, taking turns at asking questions, absorbed in their efforts, listening with half an ear. Small, brittle, fading away before his eyes, they reminded him of the frailty of his own life, the one he had assumed until so recently to be secure.

  Tay’s brother and family lived in the Sarandanon, miles to the west and south, and so Tay learned what he could of them from his parents. He had never been close to his brother and had not seen him in more than eight years, but he listened dutifully and was pleased to hear that he was doing well with his farming.

  His sister Kira was another matter. She lived in Arborlon, and he went to see her on his first day home, finding her wrestling clothes onto her smallest child, her face still young and fresh, her energy still boundless, her smile as warm and heartbreaking as birdsong. She came to him with a welcoming laugh, flinging herself into his arms and hugging him until he thought he might explode. She took him into the kitchen and gave him cold ale, sitting him down at the old trestle bench, asking him of his life and telling him of hers, all at once. They shared concerns about their parents, and swapped stories of their childhood, and it was dark before they knew it. They met again the following day, and with Kira’s husband and the children went into the woods along the Rill Song for a picnic. Kira asked if he had seen Jerle Shannara yet, and then did not mention him again. The hours slipped away, and Tay was almost able to forget he had come home for any other reason. The children played games with him, tired eventually, and sat on the riverbank kicking their feet in the cold water while he talked with their parents of the ways in which the world was changing. His brother-in-law was a maker of leather goods and traded regularly wi
th the other Races. He no longer sent his traders into the Northland, now that the nations had been subjugated and made one. There were rumors, he said, of evil creatures, of winged monsters and dark shades, of beasts that would savage humans and Elves alike. Tay listened and nodded and affirmed that he had heard the rumors, too. He tried not to look at Kira too closely when he spoke. He tried not to let her see what was in his eyes.

  He saw old friends as well, some of whom had been barely grown when he had seen them last. Some had been close once. But they had traveled down different roads, and all had gone too far to turn back. Or perhaps it was he who had gone too far. They were strangers now, not in appearance or voice, for those were still familiar, but in choices made that long since had shaped their lives. He shared nothing with them but memories of what had once been. It was sad, but not surprising. Time stole away commitments and loosened ties. Friendships were reduced to tales of the past and vague promises for the future, neither strong enough to recover what was lost. But that was what life did—it took you down separate roads until one day you found yourself alone.

  Arborlon seemed strange as well, though not in a way he would have expected. Physically, it was the same, a village grown into a city, full of excitement and expectation, become the crossroads of the Westland. Twenty years of steady growth had made it the largest and most important city in the northern half of the known world. The conclusion of the First War of the Races had altered irrevocably the role of the Elven people in the future of the Four Lands, and with the decline of the Southland as a major influence, Arborlon and the Elves had become increasingly important. But while the city and its surroundings were familiar to Tay, even with his long absence and infrequent visits, he could not escape the feeling that he no longer belonged. This was not his home now; it hadn’t been for the better part of fifteen years, and it was too late to change that. Even if Paranor was destroyed and the Druids gone, he was not sure he could ever come back. Arborlon was a part of his past, and somehow he had grown beyond it. He was a stranger here, as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, and it made him feel awkward when he tried to fit in again.