The First King of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  Bremen asked him a dozen questions, but the boy would not talk to him. When Bremen tried to approach, the boy quickly backed away. When the Druid tried to persuade the boy to come closer, he was ignored.

  Finally the old man turned and walked on. He did not know what to do about the boy. He did not want the boy to come with him, but Galaphile’s vision suggested there was a link of some sort between the two. Perhaps if he was patient he would discover what it was. As the sun rose, he turned north again and recrossed the Mermidon. Following the line of the Dragon’s Teeth, he walked on until sunset. When he made camp, there was the boy, sitting just beyond the clearing in which he had chosen to settle, back in the shadow of the trees, watching. Bremen had no food, but he put out a cup of ale. He slept until midnight, then woke to continue his journey. The boy was waiting. When he began walking, the boy followed.

  So it continued for three days. At the end of the third day, the boy came into the camp to sit with him and share a meal of roots and berries. When he woke the next morning, the boy was sleeping next to him. Together, they rose and walked west.

  That night, as they reached the edge of the Plains of Streleheim and prepared to cross, the boy spoke his first words.

  His name, he told the old man, was Allanon.

  The

  Battle

  for the

  Rhenn

  XXVII

  It was late afternoon, and the light was gray and misty in the study of the Ballindarroch summerhouse, where Jerle Shannara stood looking down at the maps spread out on the table before him. Outside, the rain continued to fall. It felt as if it had been raining for weeks, although the Elven King knew well enough that it hadn’t and that the feeling was generated mostly by his present state of mind. It just seemed as if every time he took a moment to consider the weather, it was raining again. And today’s rain was stronger than usual, driven by a west wind that whipped the branches of the trees and scattered leaves like scraps of old paper.

  He looked up from his perusal of the maps and sighed. He could take some consolation in the fact that the weather was making it more difficult for the Warlock Lord to maneuver his army than it was for Jerle to maneuver his. Of the two, the Warlock Lord’s was the more unwieldy—a vast, sprawling, sluggish beast burdened by baggage and siege machines. It could advance a distance of maybe twenty miles a day in the best of weather. It had reached the Streleheim three days earlier and had only just completed its crossing of the Mermidon. That meant that it was at least another two days from the Rhenn. The Elves, on the other hand, were already in place. Alerted by their scouts, they had known of the Northland army’s advance for more than a week, so they had been given plenty of time to prepare. Once the presence of the Northlanders was detected, it was easy enough to guess which approach they would choose in attacking Arborlon and the Elves. The Rhenn was the easiest and most direct route into the Westland. A large army would have difficulty proceeding any other way and then would have to attack the Elven home city at its most strongly defended positions. North, south, or west, the city was warded—by mountains, cliffs, and the Rill Song. Only from the east was she vulnerable, unprotected by natural defenses. The sole strategic defensive position available to her defenders was the Valley of Rhenn. If the passes there should fall, the way to Arborlon would lie open.

  The maps showed as much, for all the good that did. Jerle had been staring at them for over an hour and hadn’t learned anything new. The Elves must hold the Rhenn against the Northland army’s eventual assault or they were lost. There was no middle ground. There was no secondary defensive position worth considering. It made the choices available to him as commander of the Elven forces quite clear. All that was left to determine was tactics. The Elves would defend the Rhenn, but how would they defend? How far should they extend their lines to slow the initial attack? How many times could they afford to fall back? What protective measures should they take against an encircling strike launched by a smaller force that could penetrate the forests? What formations should they employ against an army that outnumbered them five to one and would make use of the siege machinery it had been assembling during its march west?

  The maps didn’t provide specific answers to any of this, but studying them helped him reason out what was needed.

  He looked out the windows again into the rain. Preia would be back soon, and they would have dinner—their last before leaving for the Rhenn. Much of the army was encamped already in the valley. The High Council had declared a state of emergency, and the newly crowned king had taken charge. His power was absolute now, fixed and unchallenged. He had been crowned two weeks earlier, taken Preia as his wife, and adopted the two Ballindarroch orphans as his sons. With the matter of the succession to the Elven throne settled, he had turned his attention to the High Council. Vree Erreden had been named First Minister and Preia a full council member. There had been some grumbling, but no opposition. He had requested permission to mobilize the Elven army and march east in support of the Dwarves. There had been more grumbling and a threat of opposition, but before the matter could be brought to a head it had been learned that the Northland army was approaching the Streleheim and there would be no need for the Elves to march anywhere.

  Reflecting back on the matter, Jerle shook his head. He did not know what had become of the Dwarves. No one did. He had dispatched riders east to discover if the Dwarf army had been destroyed, which was what the rumors all reported, but no definitive word had been brought back. He was left to conclude that the Dwarves were in no position to help and the Elves must stand alone.

  He shook his head wearily. The Elves had been left with no allies, no magic, no Druids, and no real chance of winning this war—visions and prophecies and high hopes notwithstanding.

  He looked down at the maps again, carefully configured topographies of the Rhenn and the land surrounding, as if the answer to the problem might lie there and perhaps he might have missed it. There was a time not so long ago when he would not have allowed himself to make so honest an assessment of the situation. There was a time when he would never have admitted that he could lose a battle to a stronger enemy. He had changed much since then. Losing Tay Trefenwyd and the Ballindarrochs, nearly losing Preia, becoming King of the Elves in less than ideal circumstances, and discovering that his view of himself was more than a little flawed had given him a different perspective. It was not a debilitating experience, but it was sobering. It was what happened when you grew up, he supposed. It was the rite of passage you endured when you left your boyhood behind for good.

  He found himself studying the scars on the backs of his hands. Little maps of their own, they traced the progress of his life. Warrior since birth, now King of the Elves, he had come a long way in a short time, and the scars provided a more accurate accounting of the cost of his journey than mere words. How many more scars would he incur in his battle with the Warlock Lord? Was he strong enough for this confrontation? Was he strong enough to survive? He carried not only his own destiny into battle, but that of his people as well. How strong did he have to be for that?

  The doors leading out onto the terrace flew open with a crash, blown back against the walls by the force of the wind, their curtains whipping wildly. Jerle Shannara reached for his broadsword as two black-cloaked figures surged into the room, rain-soaked and bent. Maps scattered from the table onto the floor, and lamps flickered and went out.

  “Stay your hand, Elven King,” commanded the foremost of the intruders, while the second, smaller figure turned to close the doors behind them, shutting out the wind and rain once more.

  It went quiet again in the room. Water dripped from the two onto the stone floor, puddling and staining. The king crouched guardedly, his sword halfway out of its sheath, his tall form coiled and ready. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The taller of the two pulled back his hood and revealed himself in the gray, uncertain light. Jerle Shannara took a long, deep breath. It was the Druid Bremen.

  “I
had given up on you,” he declared in a whisper, his emotions betraying him. “We all had.”

  The old man’s smile was bitter. “You had reason. It has taken a long time to reach you, almost as long as it took to discover that it was you I sought.” He reached beneath his sodden cloak and withdrew a long, slim bundle wrapped in dark canvas. “I have brought you something.”

  Jerle Shannara nodded. “I know.” He shoved his half-drawn sword back into its scabbard.

  There was surprise in the Druid’s sharp eyes. He looked at his companion. “Allanon.” The boy pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing himself. Dark eyes burned into the Elven King’s, but the smooth, sharply angled face revealed nothing. “Remove your cloak. Wait outside the door. Ask that no one enter until this discussion is finished. Tell them the king commands it.”

  The boy nodded, slid the cloak from his shoulders, carried it to a hanging rack, then slipped through the door and was gone.

  Bremen and Jerle Shannara stood alone in the study, the maps still scattered on the floor about them, their eyes locked. “It has been a long time, Jerle.”

  The king sighed. “I suppose it has. Five years? Longer, perhaps?”

  “Long enough that I had forgotten the lines on your face. Or perhaps you have simply grown older like the rest of us.” The smile came and went in the encroaching twilight. “Tell me what you know of my coming.”

  Jerle shifted his feet to a less threatening stance, watching as the other removed his cloak and tossed it aside wearily. “I am told that you bring me a sword, one forged with magic, one that I must carry into battle against the Warlock Lord.” He hesitated. “Is this true? Have you brought such a weapon?”

  The old man nodded. “I have.” He took the canvas-wrapped bundle and laid it carefully on the table. “But I wasn’t certain it was meant for you until I saw you standing crouched to strike me down, your weapon coming out of its sheath. In that moment, seeing you that way, I knew you were the one for whom the sword was intended. A vision of you holding the sword was shown to me at the Hadeshorn weeks ago, but I failed to recognize you. Did Tay Trefenwyd tell you of the vision?”

  “He did. But he did not know that the sword was meant for me either. It was the locat Vree Erreden who advised me. He saw it in a vision of his own, saw me holding the sword, a sword with an emblem emblazoned on the pommel, an emblem of a hand holding forth a burning torch. He told me it was the insignia of the Druids.”

  “A locat?” Bremen shook his head. “I would have thought it would be Tay who . . .”

  “No. Tay Trefenwyd is dead, killed in the Breakline weeks ago.” The Elven King’s voice was quick and hard, and the words tumbled out. “I was with him. We had gone to recover the Black Elfstone, as you had charged us. We found the Stone, but the creatures of the Warlock Lord found us. There were but five of us and a hundred of them. There were Skull Bearers. Tay knew we were doomed. His own magic was gone, used up in his struggle to gain possession of the Elfstone, so he . . .”

  Words failed the king, and he could feel the tears spring to his eyes. His throat tightened, and he could not speak.

  “He used the Black Elfstone, and it destroyed him,” the old man finished, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. “Even though I warned him. Even though he knew what would happen.” The worn, aged hands clasped tightly. “Because he had to. Because he could do no less.”

  They stood mute before each other, eyes averted. Then Jerle bent to retrieve the scattered maps, picking them up and stacking them back on the table next to the canvas bundle. The old man watched him for a moment, then bent to help. When the maps were all in place again, the old man took the king’s hands in his own.

  “I am sorry he is gone, more sorry than I can possibly tell you. He was a good friend to us both.”

  “He saved my life,” Jerle said quietly, not knowing what else to say, deciding after a moment that this was enough.

  Bremen nodded. “I was afraid for him,” he murmured, releasing the big man’s hands once more and moving over to a chair. “Can we sit while we talk? I have walked all night and through the day to reach you. The boy accompanied me. He is a survivor of an attack on Varfleet. The Northland army is ravaging the land and its people as it goes, destroying everything, killing everyone. The Warlock Lord grows impatient.”

  Jerle Shannara sat across from him. The old man’s hands, when they clasped his own, had felt like dried leaves. Like death. The memory of their touch lingered. “What has become of the Dwarves?” he said, in an effort to direct his thoughts elsewhere. “We have not been able to learn anything of them.”

  “The Dwarves withstood the Northland invasion for as long as they were able. The reports vary as to what happened afterward. I know the rumors, but I have reason to believe they are wrong. I have sent friends to discover the truth and to bring the Dwarves to our aid if they are able to come.”

  The king shook his head, a discouraged look in his eyes. “Why should they come to our aid when we did not come to theirs? We failed them, Bremen.”

  “You had reason.”

  “Perhaps. I am no longer certain. You know of Courtann Ballindarroch’s death? And of his family’s destruction?”

  “I was told.”

  “We did what we could, Tay and I. But the High Council would not act without a king to lead them. There was no help for it. So we abandoned our efforts to help the Dwarves and went instead in search of the Black Elfstone.” He paused. “I question now the wisdom of our choice.”

  The Druid leaned forward, his dark eyes intense. “Do you have the Elfstone in your possession?”

  The king nodded. “Hidden safely away, awaiting your arrival. I want nothing more to do with it. I have seen what it can do. I have seen how dangerous it is. The only comfort I take from this whole business is that the Stone will be used to aid in the destruction of the Warlock Lord and his creatures.”

  But Bremen shook his head. “No, Jerle. The Black Elfstone is not intended for that purpose.”

  The words were sharp and stunning. The king’s face went hot, and his throat tightened with rage. “Are you telling me Tay died for nothing? Is that what you are saying?”

  “Do not be angry with me. I do not make the rules in this game. I am subject to fate’s dictates as well. The Black Elfstone is not a weapon that can destroy the Warlock Lord. I know you find this difficult to believe, but it is so. The Elfstone is a powerful weapon, but it subverts those who use it. It infects them with the same power they seek to overcome. The Warlock Lord is so pervasive an evil that any attempt to turn the Elfstone against him would result in the user’s own destruction.”

  “Then why did we risk so much to recover it?” The king was livid, his anger undisguised.

  The old man’s words were soft and compelling. “Because it could not be allowed to fall into Brona’s hands. Because in his hands it would become a weapon against which we could not stand. And because, Elven King, it is needed for something more important still. When this is over and the Warlock Lord is no more, it will allow the Druids to give aid to the Lands even after I am gone. It will allow their magic and their lore to survive.”

  The king stared wordlessly at the Druid, uncomprehending. A soft knock on the door distracted them both. The king blinked, then demanded irritably, “Who is it?”

  The door opened, and Preia Starle stepped through. She seemed unruffled by his abrupt manner. She glanced at Bremen, then back to Jerle. “I would like to take the boy to the Home Guard barracks for food and rest. He is exhausted. He is not needed to keep further watch. I have seen to it that no one will disturb you while you talk.” She returned her gaze to Bremen. “Welcome to Arborlon.”

  The old man rose and made a short bow. “My Lady Preia.”

  She smiled in response. “Never that to you. Just Preia.” The smile faded. “You know what has happened, then?”

  “That Jerle is king and you are queen? I discovered that before anything else on arriving in the city. Everyon
e speaks of it. You are both blessed, Preia. You will be strong for each other and for your people. I am pleased by the news.”

  Her eyes shone. “You are very gracious. I hope that you can be strong for us as well in what lies ahead. Excuse me now. I will take the boy with me. Don’t be worried for him. We are already becoming fast friends.”

  She went back through the door and closed it behind her. Bremen looked at the king once more. “You are fortunate to have her,” he said quietly. “I expect you know that.”

  Jerle Shannara was thinking of another time, not so far in the past, when he had been confronted with the possibility of losing Preia. It haunted him still, the thought that his assumptions about her had been so wrong. Tay and Preia, the two people closest to him in all the world: he had misread them both, had failed to know them as well as he should, and had been taught a lesson in the process that he would never forget.

  The room was silent again, twilight filling the corners with shadows, the rain a soft patter without. The king rose and lit anew the lamps that the wind had blown out. The gloom receded. The old man watched him without speaking, waiting him out.

  The king sat down again, uneasy still. His brow furrowed as he met Bremen’s sharp gaze. “I was just thinking how important it is not to take anything for granted. I should have kept that in mind where the Black Elfstone was concerned. But losing Tay was impossible to bear without thinking he had died for good cause. I assumed wrongly that it was to assure the Warlock Lord’s destruction. It is difficult to accept that he died for anything else.”

  “It is difficult to accept that he died at all,” Bremen said quietly. “But the reason for his death is nevertheless tied to the destruction of the Warlock Lord and no less valid or important because the Elfstone has a different use than you believed. Tay would understand that, if he were here. As king, you must do the same.”

  Jerle Shannara’s smile was sardonic and filled with pain. “I am new to this still, this business of being king. It is not something I sought.”