The First King of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  “That is not a bad thing,” the Druid replied, shrugging. “Ambition is not a character trait that will help you in your confrontation with the Warlock Lord.”

  “What will help me, then? Tell me of the sword, Bremen.” The king’s impatience broke past his anger and discouragement. “The Northland army marches against us. They will reach the Rhenn in two days’ time. We must hold them there or we are lost. But if we are to have any real chance, I must have a weapon that the Warlock Lord cannot stand against. You say you have brought one. Tell me its secret. Tell me what it can do.”

  He waited then, flushed and anxious, staring at the Druid. Bremen did not move, holding his gaze, saying nothing. Then he rose, walked to the map table, picked up the canvas-wrapped bundle, and handed it to the king. “This belongs now to you. Open it.”

  Jerle Shannara did so, untying the cords that bound the canvas, stripping the wrapping carefully away. When he was finished, he held in his hands a sword and sheath. The sword was of unusual length and size, but light and perfectly formed. The hilt was engraved at the guard with the image of a hand holding forth a burning torch. The king slid free the sword from its sheath, marveling at the smooth, flawless surface of the blade, at the feel of it in his hand—as if it belonged there, as if it really was meant for him. He studied it for a moment in silence. The flame from the torch climbed toward the tip of the blade, and in the dimness of the study he could almost imagine that it flickered with a light of its own. He held the sword out before him, testing its heft and balance. The metal glittered in the lamplight, alive and seeking.

  The king looked at Bremen and nodded slowly. “This is a wondrous blade,” he said softly.

  “There is more to it than what you perceive, Jerle Shannara—and less,” replied the old man quickly. “So listen carefully to what I tell you. This information is for you alone. Only Preia is to know otherwise, and only if you deem it essential. Much could depend on this. I must have your word.”

  The king hesitated, glanced at the sword, and then nodded. “You have it.”

  The Druid came to him. He stood very close and kept his voice low. “By accepting this sword, you make it your own. But you must know its history and its purpose if it is to serve you well. Its history first, then.”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. “The sword was forged by the finest smith in the Southland from a formula come out of the old world. It was tempered by heat and magic. It was constructed of an alloy that renders it both light and strong. It will not shatter in battle, whether struck by iron or magic. It will survive any test to which it is put. It is imbued with Druid magic. It holds within its metal span the power of all the Druids who ever were, those who came together at Paranor over the years and then passed from this world to the next. After it was forged, I carried it to the Hadeshorn and summoned their spirits from the netherworld. All appeared, and one by one they passed before me and touched this blade. When the blade was forged, the Eilt Druin, the medallion of office of the High Druids, the symbol of their power, was set within the pommel. You have seen it for yourself. A hand holding forth a burning torch. It was this that the spirits of the dead came to witness and to imbue with the last of their earthly power, all that they could carry with them beyond this life.

  “All of which brings us to the sword’s purpose. It is a finely crafted blade, a weapon of great strength and durability—but that alone is not enough to render it capable of destroying the Warlock Lord. The sword is not meant to be used as other weapons. It can be; most certainly it shall. But it was not forged for the sharpness of its blade or the toughness of its metal, but for the power of the magic which resides within it. That magic, Elven King, is what will give you victory when you face the creature Brona.”

  He took a deep breath, as if talking of this exhausted him. His seamed face was weary and pale in the failing light. “The power of this sword, Jerle Shannara, is truth. Truth, plain and simple. Truth, whole and unblemished. Truth, with all deceptions and lies and façades stripped away so that the one against whom the magic of the sword is directed stands fully revealed. It is a powerful weapon, one which Brona cannot stand against, for he is cloaked by these same deceptions and lies and façades, by shadings and concealments, and these are the trappings of his power. He survives by keeping the truth about himself at bay. Force him to confront that truth, and he is doomed.

  “I did not understand the secret of the sword’s power when it was made known to me at the Hadeshorn. How can truth be strong enough to destroy a creature as monstrous as the Warlock Lord? Where is the Druid magic in this? But after a time, I began to see. The words ‘Eilt Druin’ mean literally ‘Through Truth, Power.’ it was the credo of the Druids at their inception, the goal they set for themselves when they assembled at Paranor, and their purpose among the Races from the time of the First Council forward. To provide Mankind with truth. Truth to give knowledge and understanding. Truth to facilitate progress. Truth to offer hope. By doing so, the Druids could help the Races rebuild.”

  The dark eyes blinked, distant and worn. “What they were in life is embodied now in the blade you bear, and you must find a way to make their legacy serve your needs. It will not be easy. It is not as simple as it first appears. You will carry the blade in battle against the Warlock Lord. You will bring him to bay. You will touch him with the sword, and its magic will destroy him. All that is promised. But only if you are stronger in your determination, in your spirit, and in your heart than he is.”

  The Elven King was shaking his head. “How can I be all this? Even if I accept what you have told me, and I do not know yet that I can—it is difficult to think so—how can I be stronger than a creature who can destroy even you?”

  The old man reached down for the hand that gripped the sword and lifted it so that the blade was poised between them. “By first turning the sword’s power upon yourself!”

  Fear came into the Elven King’s eyes and glittered sharply in the light. “Upon myself? The Druid magic?”

  “Listen to me, Jerle,” the other soothed, tightening his grip so that the arm that held the sword could not fall away, so that the sword was a silver thread that bound them, bright and shining. “What is required of you will not be easy—I have told you that. But it is possible. You must turn the power of the sword upon yourself. You must let the magic fill you and reveal to you the truths in your own life. You must let them be laid bare, exposed for what they are, and confronted. They will be harsh, some of them. They will be difficult to face. We are creatures who constantly reinvent ourselves and our lives in order to survive the mistakes we have made and the failings we have exposed. In many ways, it is this that makes us vulnerable to a creature like Brona. But if you withstand the self-scrutiny that the sword demands, you will emerge from the experience stronger than your adversary and you will destroy him. Because, Elven King, he cannot permit such scrutiny of his life, for beyond the lies and half truths and deceptions he is nothing!”

  There was a long silence as the two men faced each other, eyes locked, a measure of each being taken by the other. “Truth,” said the Elven King finally, his voice so soft the Druid could barely hear him. “Such a frail weapon.”

  “No,” said the other at once. “Truth is never frail. It is the most powerful weapon of all.”

  “Is it? I am a warrior, a fighter. Weapons are all I know—weapons of iron wielded by men of strength. You are saying that none of this will serve me, that I must abandon all of it. You are saying that I must become something I have never been.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  The old man released him, and the sword dropped away between them. The dried parchment hands settled on the king’s powerful shoulders, gripping them. There was unexpected strength in that aging body. There was fierce determination in those eyes.

  “You must remember who you are,” the Druid whispered. “You must remember how you got to be that way. You have never failed to confront a challenge. You have
never shunned a responsibility. You have never been afraid. You have survived what would have killed almost anyone else. That is your history. That is who and what you are.”

  The hands tightened. “You have great courage, Jerle. You have a brave heart. But you give too much importance to Tay Trefenwyd’s death and not enough to your own life. No, do not be angry. This is not a criticism of Tay, not a belittling of what his loss means to us. It is a comment on the need for you to remember that it is always the living who matter. Always. Give your life the due it deserves, Elven King. Be strong in the ways you must. Do not dismiss your chances against the Warlock Lord simply because the weapon with which you are given to do battle is unfamiliar. It is unfamiliar to him as well. He knows of man-made blades. He will suspect yours to be just another. Surprise him. Give him a taste of another kind of metal.”

  Jerle Shannara moved away then, shaking his head, looking down at the sword doubtfully. “I know better than to disbelieve what I find difficult to accept,” he said, stopping before the window and looking out into the rain. “But this is hard. This asks so much.” His mouth tightened in a hard line. “Why was I chosen for this? It doesn’t make sense to me. So many others would be better suited to a weapon of this sort. I understand iron and brute strength. This . . . this clever artifice is too obscure for me. Truth as a weapon makes sense only in terms of councils or politics. It seems useless on a battlefield.”

  He turned toward the Druid. “I would face the Warlock Lord without hesitation if I could wield this sword as a simple blade forged of metal and a master smith’s skill. I could accept it as a weapon without question if I could bear it just as it appears.” Anguish pulsed in his blue eyes. “But this? I am wrong for this, Bremen.”

  The Druid nodded slowly, not in agreement so much as in understanding. “But you are all we have, Jerle. We cannot know why you were selected. It may be because you were fated to become King of the Elves. It may be for reasons beyond what we can see. The dead know things we cannot. Perhaps they could tell us, but they have not chosen to do so. We must accept this and go on. You are to be the bearer of the sword. You are to carry it into battle. It is predestined. There is no other choice. You must do the best you can.”

  His voice trailed off in a whisper. Outside, the rain continued to fall in a soft, steady patter, cloaking the forestland in a silver shimmer. Twilight had fallen, and the day had gone west with the sun. Arborlon was silent and damp within her forest shelter, a city slowly pulling on her nighttime wrappings. It was silent in the study, silent in the summerhouse, and there might have been no one alive in all the world but the two men who stood facing each other in the candlelit gloom.

  “Why must no one know of the sword’s secret but me?” Jerle Shannara asked quietly.

  The old man smiled sadly. “You could answer your own question if you chose, Elven King. No one must know because no one would believe. If your doubts of the sword’s capabilities are so great, think of what the doubts of your people will be. Even Preia, perhaps. The power of the sword is truth. Who will believe that such a simple thing can prevail against the power of the Warlock Lord?”

  Who, indeed? thought the king.

  “You have said it yourself. A sword is a weapon of battle.” The smile turned to a weary sigh. “Let the Elves be content with that. Show them the sword you carry, the weapon that has been bequeathed to you, and say only that it will serve them well. They require no more.”

  Jerle Shannara nodded wordlessly. No, he thought, they do not. Belief is best when uncomplicated by reason.

  He wished, in that sad, desperate moment of self-doubt and fear, of silent acquiescence to a pact that he could neither embrace nor forsake, that belief could be made so simple for him.

  XXVIII

  By midafternoon of the following day, Jerle Shannara was nearing the Valley of Rhenn and the confrontation that fate had ordained for him. He had ridden out shortly after sunrise in the company of Preia, Bremen, and a handful of advisors and his army commanders, taking with him three companies of Elven Hunters, two afoot and one on horse. Four companies were already in place at the mouth of the valley, and two more would follow on the morrow. Left behind were the remaining members of the Elven High Council under the leadership of First Minister Vree Erreden, three companies of reserves, and the citizens of the city and the refugees come off the land in fear of the impending invasion. Left behind as well were the arguments and the debates over courses of action and political wisdom. Few choices and little time remained, and the use put to both would be determined in large part by the army that approached.

  The Elven King said nothing to anyone of his conversation with the Druid. He chose to make no public announcement concerning the sword he had been given. He spoke of it to Preia alone, saying only that it was a weapon the Warlock Lord could not stand against. His stomach churned and his face heated as he spoke the words, for his own belief was fragile. He worried as a dog would its bone the concept of truth as a weapon of battle. He replayed his conversation with the old man over and over again as he rode east, lost in his own thoughts, so distanced by them that several times when Preia, riding next to him, spoke, he did not respond. He rode armored and battle-ready. The sword, strapped to his back, was so light in comparison with the chain mail and plate that it might have been forged of paper. He thought often on the feel of it as he traveled, its weight as ephemeral as the use to which it was intended to be put. He could not grasp it as possibility, could not settle on it as fact. He needed to be shown how it worked. He needed to know from experience its use. It was how his mind worked. He could not help himself. What he could see and feel—that was real. All else was little more than words.

  He did not reveal his doubts to Bremen. He kept a smile on his face when the old man approached. He kept his confidence about him. He did it for himself, but also for his people. The army would draw its confidence from him. If the king seemed certain of himself, then they would be as well. He had always known that battles were won on as little as that, and he had always responded. This army, as this nation, was his to command—to use well or badly. What waited would test them all in ways they had never been tested before. Since this was so, he intended to do his part.

  “You have said nothing for hours,” Preia observed at one point, waiting until he was looking at her before she spoke to make certain he heard.

  “Haven’t I?” he replied. He was almost surprised to find her there, so wrapped up was he in his internal debate. She rode a wiry white-flecked gray called Ashes, weapons strapped all about her. There had never been any question about her coming, of course. Their newly adopted sons had been left in the care of others. Like Jerle, Preia Starle was born for battle.

  “Something is bothering you,” she declared, holding his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

  Why, indeed? He smiled in spite of himself. She knew him too well for him to pretend something different. Yet he could not speak of his doubt. He could not, because it was something he must resolve for himself. No one could help him with it. Not now, at least—not when he had not found solid ground himself on which to stand.

  “I lack the words to explain,” he said finally. “I am still working it through. Be patient.”

  “It might help if you tried the words on me.”

  He nodded, looking past the beauty of her face and the intelligence mirrored in her clear ginger eyes to the warmth and caring that resided in her heart. He felt different about her these days. The distance he had always kept between them was gone. They were bound together so inextricably that he felt certain that whatever happened to one, happened to the other even though it were death itself.

  “Give me a little time,” he told her gently. “Then we will talk.”

  She reached for his hand and held it momentarily. “I love you,” she said.

  So it was that the afternoon found them coming up on the Rhenn, and still he did not speak of what was troubling him and still she waited for him to do so.
The day was bright and warm, the air sweet with the smell of still damp grasses and leaves, the forest about them lush with the infusion of the rains of the past few weeks. The clouds had moved on finally, but the ground remained soft, and the rutted trail swampy where the Elves had traveled east over its worn track. Reports had been coming in all day from where the bulk of the army had settled its defense at the head of the valley. The Northland army continued to approach, coming slowly across the Streleheim from both north and south, units arriving at varying rates of speed depending on size and mobility, foot and horse and pack. The army of the Warlock Lord was huge and growing. Already it filled the plains at the mouth of the valley for as far as the eye could see. The Elves were outnumbered by at least four to one and the odds would increase as more units arrived. The reports were delivered by messengers in flat, even tones, carefully kept devoid of emotion, but Jerle Shannara was trained to decipher what was hidden in the small nuances of pause and inflection, and he could detect the beginnings of fear.

  He would have to do something to put a stop to it, he knew. He would have to do something quickly.

  The realities of the situation were grim. Riders had been sent east to the Dwarves to beg their assistance, but the paths out were closed off by Northland patrols, and it would be days before a rider could work his way around them. In the meantime, the Elves were on their own. There was no one who would come to their aid. The Trolls were a subjugated people, their armies in thrall to the Warlock Lord. The Gnomes were disorganized in the best of times and had no love of the Elves in any event. Men had withdrawn into their separate city-states and lacked any sort of cohesive fighting force. The Dwarves were all that remained, if they survived. There was still no word on whether Raybur and his army had escaped the Northland invasion.