by Terry Brooks
“Do not underestimate him, Risca,” the old man cautioned. “Do not underestimate the power of the magic he wields.”
There was a long silence. Risca remembered how close he had come to dying the last time he had sought to engage the Warlock Lord. His gaze leveled on the old man, then shifted toward the hazy flats. “What are you suggesting? That we do nothing?”
“Only that we be cautious.”
“Why would we be anything else?” Risca’s voice was filled with impatience. “We are wasting time! How long are we going to stand here?”
“He waits for me,” Jerle Shannara said suddenly. “He knows I come for him.” The others looked at him. “He will do battle with me now because he believes it is the easiest course for him to follow. He has no fear of me. He believes that I will be destroyed.”
“You won’t face him alone,” said Preia Starle quickly. “We will be with you.”
“All of us!” snapped Risca, daring anyone to challenge him.
“But there is danger in this,” Bremen cautioned again. “All of us grouped together. We are tired and spent. We are not as strong as we should be.”
Mareth stepped forward now, her dark face intense. “We are strong enough, Bremen.” She gripped the Druid staff tightly in both hands. “You cannot expect us simply to stand and watch.”
“We came a long way to see an end to this,” echoed Kinson Ravenlock. “This is our fight as well.”
They stared at the old man, all of them, waiting for him to speak. He looked at them without seeing, his eyes distant and lost. He seemed to be considering something more than what they could comprehend, something far beyond the here and now, beyond the immediate danger.
“Bremen,” the king said softly, waiting until the aged eyes found him. “I am ready for this. Do not doubt me.”
The Druid studied him for a long moment, then nodded in weary resignation. “We shall do as you wish, Elven King.”
Risca ordered signal flags raised on lances to advise Raybur of what they intended. A return signal quickly appeared. The Dwarves would advance on the Elves’ command. The way north would be blocked against any who tried to flee. It was up to Jerle Shannara and the Elves to hammer shut the jaws of the trap.
The king called forward Trewithen and a dozen Home Guard to stand with him. Risca called for six of his Dwarves. While they assembled, Jerle Shannara pulled Preia Starle aside and spoke quickly. “I want you to wait here for me,” he told her.
She shook her head. “I cannot do that and you know it.”
“You are injured. You lack the speed and strength you could call upon if you were whole. How do you expect to make up for that?”
“Do not ask this of me.”
“It will distract me if I have to worry about you!” His face was flushed and his eyes angry. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you, Preia.”
“Would you ask Tay Trefenwyd to stay behind if he were here?” she replied softly. She gave him a moment to consider, her eyes searching his. A small, fragile smile followed. “I love you, too. So don’t expect less of me than I do of myself.”
At the same moment, Kinson Ravenlock was speaking with Mareth. “Will you be all right when this begins?” he asked her quietly.
She looked at him in surprise. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You will have to use your magic. It will not be easy. You have spoken yourself of your distaste for it.”
“I have,” she agreed, moving close, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “But I will do what I must, Kinson.”
Bremen moved to the forefront of the company and turned to face them. “I will ward us with enough magic to deflect a first strike, but I can do no more. My strength is at an end. Risca and Mareth must stand for us all. Look out for each other, but mostly look out for the king. He must be given a chance to use the Sword against Brona. Everything depends on it.”
“He will have his chance,” Risca promised, standing directly before the old man. “We owe Tay Trefenwyd that much.”
They started forward then, Jerle Shannara leading, Preia Starle at his side, the king and queen flanked on the right by Risca and on the left by Bremen. The boy Allanon and Kinson Ravenlock and Mareth walked several paces back. Home Guard and Dwarf Hunters spread out to either side. Behind, the rest of the army followed. North, the Dwarves started down off the heights. The light was beginning to fail now as sunset approached, the shadows lengthening, the chill of early evening creeping into the air. Before them on the flats, the things in the mist shifted to attack.
The gray wolves struck first, hurtling forward in dark knots, tearing at the front ranks of Elves and Dwarves, slashing with their teeth before darting away. Risca threw out sheets of the Druid fire to scatter the closest, and instantly he was set upon by others. Huge netherworld creatures lumbered into view, brushing back the fire, knocking aside the blades. Rock Trolls marched to the fight in tight formations, their great pikes lowered in a line of gleaming metal tips. Smoke from the Druid fire mingled with the mist, and the whole of the battleground was enveloped in a gray haze.
Jerle Shannara walked ahead untouched. Nothing approached him as he advanced, all would-be attackers veering to the side and away. The Warlock Lord is waiting for you, a voice whispered deep inside. The Warlock Lord wants you for his own.
Rock Trolls closed with Kinson Ravenlock and bore him back, and the Borderman went down in a tangle of massive limbs. Mareth’s staff sparked with blue flame, but she could not use the fire without risking harm to Kinson. Elven Hunters rushed to the Borderman’s aid, striking at the Trolls; then other creatures joined the fray, and everyone was swallowed in the melee.
A Skull Bearer appeared to confront Jerle Shannara, then stepped to one side to challenge Bremen instead. “Old man,” it hissed with sullen anticipation.
Allanon stepped in front of Bremen protectively, knowing the Druid was spent, that his magic was all but gone. But then Risca intervened, his fire hammering into the Skull Bearer with such force that it threw the monster backward and left it a smoking ruin. The Dwarf shouldered his way to the forefront of the attack, his clothing ripped from his battle with the gray wolves, his face streaked with blood. “Come ahead!” he roared, and lifted his battle-axe in challenge.
Kinson was back on his feet, battered and shaken, his broadsword striking at the Rock Trolls that sought to close with him. Home Guard and Dwarf Hunters stood shoulder to shoulder with the Borderman and forced back the Northlanders. Ahead, the dark, silken coverings of the carriages and wagons rippled in the swirl of the mist like death shrouds.
Jerle Shannara walked on. He was alone now, save for Preia. Bremen and Allanon had fallen back, and Risca had disappeared in the fighting. Elven Hunters and Home Guard darted through the haze, but the king occupied a space into which it seemed no one dared to step. The haze opened down a corridor before him, and he could see a dark cloaked figure standing at the end of the shifting passageway. The hood lifted and within the shadows red eyes burned with rage and defiance. It was the Warlock Lord. A robed arm lifted and beckoned to the king.
Come to me, Elf King. Come to me.
Farther back, Bremen was struggling to reach the king. Allanon was supporting him now, providing him with a strong shoulder on which to lean. The old man had summoned the Druid fire anew, using the boy for added strength, but his weakness was profound. He watched the Warlock Lord materialize out of the mist, watched him beckon Jerle Shannara forward, and felt his throat tighten. Was the king ready for this confrontation, or would his resolve fail him? The Druid did not know—could not know. The king understood so little of the Sword’s demanding magic, and when faced with its power he might falter. There was great strength in Jerle Shannara, but uncertainty, too. When the Warlock Lord was before him, which would prevail?
Mareth had reached Kinson and was pulling him clear of the fighting, driving back the Rock Trolls with Druid fire as she did so. She swept the ground before them, and the Northlanders retreate
d before her fury. Kinson staggered as he tried to keep up with her, deep slashes to his side and legs leaking bright red blood, one arm hanging limp. “Go on!” he told her. “Protect the king!”
The fighting was ferocious now, the Elves and Dwarves having closed with the Northlanders from both sides. Screams and cries rose in the fading afternoon light, mingling with the clash of weapons and the grunts of men struggling and dying. Blood soaked the earth in dark stains, and bodies lay broken and twisted in death.
One of the wagons was pulled over, and creatures that looked to be made of sticks and metal poured out of the shattered bed, hissing like snakes stirred from a den. They came at Raybur with wicked intent, but the Dwarves protecting the king drove them back.
Frustrated in their efforts, they turned instead toward Bremen and Allanon.
In a rush, they closed about the old man and the boy. They were wiry and gnarled and lacking human features, their faces blunt and broken, as if shaped by some monstrous birthing. They broke past the Home Guard that sought to stop them and flung themselves forward recklessly. Allanon tried to summon the Druid fire, but this time his efforts failed him. Bremen was down on one knee, his head lowered, his concentration focused on Jerle Shannara, seeking him out in his mind as he walked deeper into the mist.
It would have been the end for them both but for Kinson Ravenlock. Trailing after Mareth, weakened from his wounds, he caught sight of the attack as it converged on the old man and the boy. Reacting on instinct, he drew on what fragile reserves of strength remained to him and rushed to their defense. He reached them just as the horde of wiry creatures broke past the Home Guard. His broadsword swung in a wide arc, and three of the creatures went down. Then he charged into the rest, flinging them back, hammering at them with his weapon. Teeth and claws slashed at him, and he could feel new wounds open. There were too many for him to contain, and he called to Bremen and the boy to run. A moment later the creatures overwhelmed him and bore him to the ground.
But Mareth saved him once more, appearing in a blaze of Druid fire, her staff flaring wildly. The netherworld creatures turned to strike at her, but the fire cast them away as if they were old and brittle. A counterattack ensued as other beings descended on the young woman, trying to break past her shield of flame. Kinson tried to get to his feet, but he was borne back again in the struggle. Home Guard, Dwarves, Rock Trolls, and monsters appeared in droves, and for a moment it seemed as if all the remaining soldiers of both armies had converged at this single point on the battlefield.
Ahead, walled away by the mist, Jerle Shannara advanced toward the Warlock Lord. Brona had grown in size with each step the Elf King had taken until now he seemed enormous. His dark form blocked the light at the tunnel’s far end, and his eyes were bright with fiery disdain. Creatures faded in and out of the haze about him protectively. Jerle felt his confidence begin to waver. Something surged out of the mist and snatched Preia from his side. He wheeled to save her, but she was already gone, disappeared into the gloom. The king cried out in fear and anger, then heard her voice whisper hurriedly in his ear, felt her hand clutch his arm, and realized she had never left him at all and what he had seen was only an illusion.
The Warlock Lord’s laughter was wicked and sly.
Come to me, Elf King! Come to me!
Then Preia stumbled and went down. Jerle reached for her without taking his eyes from the dark figure ahead, but she pulled away from him.
“Leave me,” she said.
“No,” he replied at once, refusing to listen.
“I am hindering you, Jerle. I am slowing you down.”
“I won’t leave you!”
She reached for his face, and he could feel the blood on her hands, slippery and warm. “I cannot stay on my feet. I am bleeding too badly to go on. I have to stop now, Jerle. I have to wait here for you. Please. Leave me.”
She looked at him unflinchingly, her ginger eyes fixed on his, her face white and twisted with pain. Slowly he straightened, drawing away from her, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes. “I will be back for you,” he promised.
He left her stretched out on her side, propped up on one elbow, her short sword in her free hand. He took only a few steps before looking back to make certain she was all right. She nodded for him to go on. When he looked back for her a second time, she was gone.
Kinson Ravenlock had climbed back to his feet once more and was trying to bring his broadsword to bear against the crush of enemies that threatened to engulf Mareth when he was struck such a terrible blow that he was knocked to the ground and left gasping for breath. Mareth turned toward him, and as she did so she was set upon by a huge wolf. It was on her before she could bring the Druid fire to bear, slamming into her with such force that she lost her grip on the Druid staff. She went down in a heap, the wolf tearing at her. Kinson heard her scream and tried desperately to go to her, but his legs would not respond. He lay there spitting blood, his breathing harsh and shallow, his consciousness fading away.
Then the Druid fire exploded out of Mareth, flying from her in all directions. The attacking wolf was incinerated. Everyone standing for a dozen yards around was consumed. Kinson covered his head instinctively, but the fire singed his face and hands and sucked away the air he tried to breathe. The Borderman cried out helplessly, and everything disappeared in a huge rush of flame.
In the tunnel of mist that led to the Warlock Lord, Preia Starle watched as one of the Skull Bearers materialized out of the gloom and started toward her. Jerle was no longer visible, too far ahead now to be seen. She could have called out to him, but she chose not to. Painfully, she pulled herself to her knees, but could get no farther. Frustration tore at her. Yet it had been her choice to come. She watched as the creature approached, her sword held protectively before her. She would have only one chance to strike, and that might not be enough in any case. She took a deep breath, wishing she had strength enough to stand.
The Skull Bearer hissed at her, and its great, leathery wings flapped softly against its humped back.
“Little Elf,” it whispered in pleasure, and its red eyes gleamed.
It reached for her, and she drew back her sword to strike.
Jerle Shannara had closed the distance between himself and the Warlock Lord to less than a dozen yards. He watched the dark cloaked form shift and change before him as if part of the mist that swirled about them both. Within the hooded shadows the twin fires of its eyes burned with fierce intent. No part of what was left of Brona revealed itself. The Warlock Lord floated above the earth as if weightless—an empty shell. The strange, compelling voice continued to call to the Elf King.
Come to me. Come to me.
Jerle Shannara did. He brought up his sword, the talisman he had carried to this confrontation, the magic he did not know how to use, and he advanced to do battle. As he did so, a flash of light danced off the surface of the blade, ran its polished length, and disappeared into his body. He faltered as the light entered him, feeling it pulse with energy. A warm flush enveloped him, spreading outward from his chest to his limbs. He felt the warmth return to the Sword, carrying with it some part of himself, joining the two so that he became one with the blade. It happened so fast that it was done before he could think to stop it. He stared at the Sword in wonder, now an extension of himself, then at the dark figure before him, and then at the world of mist and shadows as it slowly began to recede.
Down he went then, deep inside himself, drawn by a force he could not resist. He grew tiny as the world about grew large, and soon he was reduced to an insignificant speck of life in a vast, teeming universe of lives. He saw himself as he was, almost without presence, little more than dust. He was borne on the back of a wind over all the world that was and all that would ever be, the whole of it revealed in a vast tapestry that spread much farther than he could hope to see or even to travel. This was what he was, he realized. This was his worth in the larger scheme of things.
Then the world he flew above seemed to
shed its skin in layers, and what had been bright and perfect turned dark and flawed. All the horrors and betrayals of all the creatures throughout time flared to life in tiny segments of revelation. Jerle Shannara recoiled from the pain and dismay he felt at each, but there was no turning away. This was the truth of things—the truth that he had been told the Sword would reveal to him. He shuddered at the vastness of it, at the depth and breadth of its permutations. He was horrified and ashamed, stripped of his illusions, forced to see his world and its people for what they were.
He felt in that instant as if he might fail in his resolve. But the images withdrew, the world darkened, and for a moment he was back in the mist, standing frozen before the towering form of the Warlock Lord, the Sword of Shannara gleaming with white light.
Help me, he prayed to no one, for he was all alone.
The light filled him anew, and again the world of mist and shadows receded. He went back down inside himself, and this time he was brought face-to-face with the truth of his own life. With inexorable purpose it unfolded before him, image by image, a vast collage of experiences and events. But the images were not of the things he wished to see; they were of those he wished forgotten, of those he had buried in his past. There was nothing of himself of which he was proud, with which he had ever hoped to be confronted. Lies, half truths, and deceptions rose like ghosts at haunt. Here was the real Jerle Shannara, the creature who was flawed and imperfect, weak and insecure, insensitive and filled with false pride. He saw the worst of what he had done in his life. He saw the ways in which he had disappointed others, had ignored their needs, had left them in pain. So many times he had failed to do what was needed. So many times he had misjudged.
He tried to look away. He tried to make the images stop. He would have run from what he was being shown if he could have freed himself from the Sword’s magic to do so. These were truths that he could not face, their harshness so intense that they threatened his sanity. He might have cried out in despair—he could not tell. He realized in that moment the terrible power of truth, and he saw why Bremen had been so concerned for him. He did not have the strength for this; he did not have the resolve. The Druid had been wrong to come to him. The Sword of Shannara was not meant for him. Choosing him to bear it had been wrong.
