The First King of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  The question burned through him like fire, heating his blood, searing his skin, threatening to immolate him. He could barely get through the question, let alone address the answer. What if she was dead? He had always been prepared to lose her in other ways. He knew that she would marry Jerle one day. He knew that they would have children and a life apart from him. He had separated himself from any other possibility long ago. He had left all that behind when he had gone to live among the Druids, to be a member of their order. He recognized that what he felt for her could find no expression in real life, but must remain a fantasy locked within his imagination—that she was never to be more to him than a close friend.

  But thinking of her dead, of her life ended, forced him to concede what before he could never admit—that he had always harbored the hope, however faint, that somehow the impossible might happen and she would forsake Jerle to become his.

  The realization was so strong that for a moment he lost track of where he was, let loose the strands of his seeking magic, gave up the sweep of the dark places that waited ahead, and was made blind to everything but this single truth. Preia his—he had kept the dream alive and carefully protected in the secretmost corner of his mind. Preia his, because he could not stop himself from wanting her.

  Oh, Shades!

  He recovered himself in the next instant, gathered up the lines of his magic, and pushed on. He could not afford such thoughts. He did not dare to think further of Preia Starle. The admonishments of Bremen came rushing back, words spoken with the iron weight of armor being fastened to his body. Persuade the Elves to come to the aid of the Dwarves. Find the Black Elfstone. Those two charges ruled his life. Nothing else mattered. There were lives beyond his own and those of the people he loved that depended on his perseverance, on his diligence, on his resolve. He looked off into the haze of the valley ahead and carried himself out from the present and into the future by strength of will alone.

  By midday, they had crossed into the Sarandanon. Twice more, they encountered the tracks of Gnome Hunters in large numbers without seeing the Gnomes themselves. The Elves were edgy now, anxious to gain the mounts they had been promised and to be gone from this region. If they were caught out in the open by a superior force with no way to flee, they would be in serious trouble. Tay searched the earth and air for Gnomes and found signs of their passing all about, but still no actual presence. The Gnomes, he decided, were crisscrossing the valley’s east end in search of them. If they had found Preia, they would know she was not alone. A Tracker would be with a larger party, scouting ahead for them. Had they found Preia then? Was he conceding as much? It seemed an unavoidable conclusion, given the discovery of her broken bow amid the cluster of enemy footprints. All of which led once more to the inevitable second question he was so desperately trying to avoid.

  Jerle knew all of the valley outposts where horses were kept quartered for Elven Hunter use, and he made for the closest. The land was rolling and thick with tall grasses where the crop fields did not extend. They kept to these, staying down off the hills. When they were less than a mile from their destination, Tay gained a strong sense of Gnome Hunters and brought the party to a stop. Somewhere close ahead, a trap had been set. The Gnomes were expecting them. Leaving the others to await their return, Tay and Jerle went on alone, working their way south and then north again to come in from a different direction than the one from which they were expected. Tay’s magic sheltered them from discovery and gave them eyes with which to see. By the time they neared the small cluster of buildings that formed the outpost, Tay had determined that it was here the trap had been laid. The wind, no more than a soft breeze, blew into their faces, and both could smell the enemy clearly, a rough mix of body oil and earth, heavy and pungent. No effort was being made to disguise it. Tay was instantly alarmed. Gnome Hunters would normally be more cautious than this. They crawled to where they could see one side of the barn and the whole of the paddock in which the horses were kept. There was nothing there. The paddock was empty. No one moved in the yard. No sounds came from the house.

  Yet something was hidden there. Tay was certain of it.

  Unwilling to leave without determining what had happened, both of them thinking separately and without saying so that Preia Starle might be involved, they eased their way along a drainage ditch behind a pasture of new wheat, so that they could see the front of the house and barn. Tay could now sense movement in both buildings, restless and furtive. Gnome Hunters, waiting. He tried to sense the presence of anything else, of anything more dangerous. Nothing. Tay breathed slowly, easily, following Jerle’s lead as his friend slipped silently ahead. He was conscious of the wheat stalks singing faintly with their movement in the wind and of the deep, vast silence of the land beyond. He was reminded of what it had felt like when they had slipped into the house of the Ballindarrochs on the night of the slaughter—of the sense of foreboding, of the whisper of doom.

  Then they were where Jerle wanted them, still concealed within the wheat, but close enough to see the front of the outpost. Jerle lifted his head slightly and then dropped quickly down again, his face ashen. Tay stared at him a moment, searching his eyes, then rose cautiously to look for himself.

  Retten Kipp hung spread-eagled from the barn door, where nails had been driven through his hands and feet to hold him in place. Blood dripped from his wounds and stained the splintered wood. Hair and clothes drooped limply, as if from the stick frame of a scarecrow. But then Kipp’s head lifted slightly. The old Tracker, though dying, was still alive.

  Tay sank down, eyes closing momentarily. Rage and fear coursed through him, struggling for control of his reason. No wonder the Gnomes had not worked harder at hiding their presence. With Retten Kipp to bait their trap, they knew the Elves must show themselves. He fought to bring his feelings under control, staring grim-faced at Jerle Shannara.

  His friend’s blue eyes were cold and steady as he bent close. “Do they have Preia as well?” he whispered.

  Tay did not reply. He did not trust himself. Instead, he closed his eyes a second time and sent his threads of magic into the house and barn, searching for the Elf girl. There was risk in this, but he saw no other way. He took his time, going deep inside each building to make certain.

  Then he let his eyes open again. “No,” he breathed.

  Jerle nodded, letting nothing show in his face of what that meant to him. His mouth twisted. His words were barely audible. “We cannot save Retten Kipp—but we cannot leave him either.”

  He stared at Tay, waiting. Tay nodded. He knew what Jerle was asking. “I understand,” he breathed softly.

  This would be dangerous, he knew. The Gnome Hunters might not sense his use of the magic, but a Skull Bearer most certainly would. He had not discovered any of the winged hunters in his search for Preia, but they might be deliberately concealing themselves. This trap might have been designed specifically for him, one of the Druids they hunted, to bring him to them and then to draw him out. If a Skull Bearer was present and he did what Jerle wanted, they were lost. Still, there was little choice. Jerle was right. They could not leave Kipp to die this way.

  He summoned his magic and wrapped himself in its dark cloak, stirring the air about him with its power, feeling the heat of its passion rise within his chest. He kept his eyes open, for this time his use of the magic would require sight and direction. His face altered and assumed the character of a death mask. He watched Jerle shrink from him, dismayed. He understood the look.

  Then he lifted his head just high enough so that he could see Retten Kipp’s ragged, tortured form and spun the magic toward him along the slender thread of his lifeline. He proceeded cautiously, testing the ether he penetrated, wary of what he might find waiting. But nothing revealed itself, and so he continued on. When he reached Retten Kipp’s heart, when he could feel his pain and suffering, when he could hear the sound of his ragged breathing as if it were his own, he drew away the air that fed the old man’s failing lungs and then waited pat
iently until his breathing stopped.

  When it was finished, he slid down next to Jerle, his face shiny with sweat. There were tears in his eyes. “Done,” he whispered.

  Jerle Shannara put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently to comfort him. “It was necessary, Tay. He was in pain. We could not simply leave him.”

  Tay nodded wordlessly, knowing Jerle was right, but knowing as well that his friend would not have to live with the memory of Retten Kipp’s life thread pulsing gently between his fingers and then going still. He felt cold and empty. He felt ravaged and abandoned.

  Jerle beckoned to him, and together they made their way back along the ditch and through the fields, leaving the outpost and its inhabitants, living and dead, behind.

  It took them the better part of an hour to reach their comrades. By now it was nearing midafternoon, and the sun was lowering toward the jagged tips of the Breakline. They walked into its burning glare, half-blind when they were forced to move out of the shadow of the fields and hills and along the flats. Tay continued to lead, his magic spread out before them in a wide net, searching. He had checked for pursuit after their return from the farmhouse, but found none. Ahead, however, there were hints of Gnome Hunters at almost every turn. He could not tell how strong the parties were, but there were several. They had discussed waiting until dark before proceeding, but had decided it was more dangerous to remain in one place than to go on. Jerle stayed close, guiding him toward the secondary outpost that lay a few miles farther on, hopeful that this one might not have been discovered. Neither spoke. All about them, the others of the company scanned the countryside for enemies.

  Then suddenly Vree Erreden was at Tay’s elbow, his small, slight form pressing close, his pinched face eager. “There!” He pointed sharply left. “Horses, a dozen or more, hidden in that draw!”

  Tay and Jerle stopped and stared, seeing nothing beyond a line of fields planted thick with early corn.

  The locat’s eyes darted from one face to the other, his impatience obvious. “Don’t waste your time looking! You can’t see them from here!”

  “Then how do you know?’ Jerle asked quickly.

  “Intuition!” the other snapped. “How else?”

  The big man glanced over doubtfully. “The outpost we seek lies just ahead. Are there horses there as well?”

  Vree Erreden’s voice was sharp with urgency. “I only know what my intuition tells me! There are horses left, in a draw beyond those hills!” He pointed again for emphasis.

  Jerle Shannara frowned, irritated by the other’s insistence. “What if you are wrong, locat? How far is it to this draw that none of us can see?”

  Tay held up his hand quickly to forestall Vree Erreden’s angry reply. He stood silent a moment, weighing the choice, then gazed out across the fields one final time. “Are you sure about the horses?” he asked the small man quietly.

  The look the other gave him was withering. Tay’s smile cocked slightly, and he nodded. “I think we should see what lies left.”

  Despite Jerle’s continued misgivings, they changed course, making their way across the flats. The central bowl of the Sarandanon spread away before them, the planting fields a sprawling patchwork quilt of raw earth and new crops. They were out in the open now and clearly visible to whoever might be looking for them. There was no help for it. Whichever way they traveled they were exposed, and Tay took what comfort he could from that, because they were moving away from the outpost and if Vree Erreden was mistaken or had somehow been misled, their chances of escape were diminished considerably. Tay tried not to worry. It was for this that he had brought the locat—his ability to sense what even Druid magic could not. The little man would not have said anything if his instincts were not strong. He knew the risks of their situation as well as Tay.

  Tay’s net of magic spread wider in search of enemies, and now he found them. They came swiftly from the north, a Gnome patrol on horseback, still some distance away, but racing across the flats. He could not see them yet, but there was no mistaking their intent. He shouted a quick warning to Jerle, and the members of the little company began to run. Ahead, the fields abutted a line of low hills. The draw must lie beyond, Tay thought. And the horses as well, he prayed, for they were too far now from the outpost to escape any other way.

  Then more Gnomes appeared, a new band, this one spilling out of its hiding place within the outpost, which was now barely visible through the stalks of corn. These Gnomes were afoot, but began a determined charge forward to intercept the Elves, obviously intent on slowing them until the arrival of their mounted brethren. Tay gritted his teeth as he ran. There was no help to be had from the outpost. Now there was only Vree Erreden’s intuition and the draw.

  Jerle Shannara sprinted past him effortlessly, feet flying across the plowed earth as he tore through the corn rows for the hills. Others surged ahead as well, swifter afoot than Tay. Laboring heavily, his breath a sharp pain in his chest, the Druid suddenly panicked. What if the horses that Vree Erreden had sensed were part of another trap? What if there were Gnomes sitting astride them, waiting? Frantically, he tried to cast his net of magic beyond the hills to discover if there was cause for his fear, but his strength was failing and he could not manage the reach.

  Shouts, raucous and jarring, rose from the pursuing Gnomes. Tay ignored them. Vree Erreden appeared beside him again, running close, in better shape than Tay would have imagined. Tay yelled at him in warning, but he did not seem to hear. He passed Tay by and went on. Tay now trailed everyone. It was the price you paid for living a sedentary life, he thought ironically.

  Then Jerle Shannara broke from the cornfield and began to race up the line of hills. As he did so, a shrill whinny and a pounding of hooves rose from behind the crest. Dust lifted in a cloud in the clear afternoon air. Jerle slowed, unsure of what he faced, reached quickly for his sword, and drew it free. His Elven Hunters raced to protect him. Metal blades glittered in the sun, the light dancing from their polished surfaces in sudden explosions of brightness.

  In the next instant a line of horses surged into view, charging out of the sun’s glare in a burst of sound and color. There were a dozen, maybe more, all roped together, galloping out of the late-afternoon swelter to take shape like a mirage brought to life.

  A single rider led them, bent low over the lead mount.

  Tay Trefenwyd slowed to a ragged halt at the edge of the cornfield, his heart beating wildly, his pulse pounding in his head.

  The rider was Preia Starle.

  She swept by Jerle Shannara without slowing, releasing several of the mounts as she did, the ropes tossed to his waiting hands. She rode on, dropping off the horses one by one to the Elven Hunters she passed. Straight for Tay she came and reined to a wild halt before him.

  “Climb on, Tay Trefenwyd, and we’ll ride for our lives! The Gnomes are all about!” Blood flecked her face and tunic. He could see cuts and bruises on her face. She wheeled her mount into him so hard she nearly knocked him down. “Get on!” she screamed.

  There was no time to think about it. The others of the little company were already mounted and racing away. Tay stepped into the stirrup she had kicked free and swung up behind her. “Hold tight to me!” she cried.

  In a whirlwind of dust and grit and a pounding of hooves, they charged after the others.

  It was a terrifying flight. The Gnomes afoot had spread out across the fields before them in an effort to block their escape, some with slings, some with bows. North, visible now for the first time, the Gnomes on horseback appeared. Together, they outnumbered the Elves nearly four to one. They were clearly too many to defeat in a pitched battle.

  Jerle Shannara took the lead and rode straight at the Gnomes afoot. The reason for his decision was obvious. The only hope for the Elves was to outdistance the Gnomes on horseback, and the only way to do that was to get ahead of them and stay there. If they swung left, which was what the Gnomes on foot were trying to make them do, they would be forced back up into
the low hills and slowed, allowing the Gnomes on horseback to cut them off. If they swung right, they would be heading directly at their mounted pursuers. There was, of course, no point in turning back. What was left, then, was to go forward, to break past the Gnomes afoot and ride west, because everyone knew, Elves and Gnomes alike, that the Gnome didn’t live who could outride an Elf.

  Down through the corn rows raced the Elven Hunters, some in one field, some in another, spread out as far as they could manage so as to thin the ranks of the enemy archers and slingers, to confuse and divide, to break free of the trap. The Gnomes darted here and there, calling out wildly, trying to track their prey. The Elves stayed low astride their mounts, presenting the smallest targets possible. Only Jerle defied the odds, rising in his stirrups, howling like a madman at the Gnomes before him, his sword swinging above his head like a deadly scythe. From his position far to the left, Tay could just make him out, charging into the teeth of the Gnome line, the big bay he rode leaping recklessly through the furrowed rows. Tay knew what his friend was doing. He was trying to draw as many of the Gnomes as possible to him to give his companions a better chance.

  Then Preia hissed at him to stay down, and the burly sorrel she rode swerved sharply along a shallow draw, breaking out of the field close against the line of hills. Tay thought he heard something whip past his head. He lowered himself over Preia’s slender back, a protective cloak, hanging tightly to her waist. He could feel her body move in front of him, leaning this way and that, her horse responding each time. He had a glimpse of someone running toward them, a blur of arms and legs amid the cornstalks. Something small and hard slammed into his shoulder, and he felt his arm go numb. His grip on Preia loosened, and he thought he might fall, but she reached back for him with one arm, helping him keep his seat. They reached the west end of the field, vaulted a drainage ditch to a wide swath of grassland, and galloped into the open. Tay risked a glance over his shoulder. Gnomes knelt at the edge of the corn and slung their stones and fired their arrows in obvious rage. But already the missiles were falling short of their mark.