by Terry Brooks
Then they were beneath the gate. The stick man reappeared before them, standing now just beyond the shadowed arch. In a line, they moved forward, watching as it started once more toward the tower. They had barely walked clear of the gateway when they heard the sudden sound of chains creaking and groaning. Behind them, the drawbridge lifted and sealed against the wall.
Now there was no turning back. In a knot, they walked to the tower. The stick man was waiting, standing within a high alcove that sheltered a pair of broad, ironbound wooden doors. One door stood open. The stick man stepped through and was gone. Wil stared upward at the massive stone face of the tower, then reached into his tunic and brought forth the pouch that contained the Elfstones. With the others, he stepped through the doorway into blackness.
For an instant no one moved, standing just within the entry, peering blindly into the gloom. Then the door swung shut behind them, locks snapping into place. Light flare from within a glass–enclosed lamp that hung suspended from above, its glow white and soft, neither from burning oil nor pitch, but something that gave off no flame as it burned. All about stood the stick men, their gnarled shadows cast upon stone walls, swaying gently in the light.
From the gloom behind them, a woman appeared, cloaked all in black and trailing long streamers of crimson nightshade.
«Mallenroh,” Hebel whispered, and Wil Ohmsford felt the air about him turn to ice.
Chapter Forty–Two
The second day of the battle for Arborlon belonged to Ander Elessedil. It was a day of blood and pain, of death and great courage. All during the night the Demon hordes had continued to ferry their brethren across across the waters of the Rill Song, singly and in groups, until, for the first time since their break from the Forbidding, the whole of their army was gathered to strike, massed at the base of the Carolan from cliff face to riverbank, stretched north and south as far as the eye could see, awesome and terrible and endless in number. At dawn, they attacked the city. Up against the walls of the Elfitch they rushed, wave upon wave, maddened and howling with hate. Up against the heights they surged, scrambling onto the sheer rock, clawing their way through a hail of arrows. Onward they came, like a wave that would sweep across the defenders who waited and leave them buried.
It was Ander Elessedil who made the difference. It was as if on that day he became at last the King his father had been, the King who had led the Elves against the armies of the Warlock Lord those fifty years past. Gone was the weariness and the disillusion. Gone was the doubt that had haunted him since Halys Cut. He believed again in himself and in the determination of those who fought with him. It was an historic moment, and the Elven Prince became its focal point. Gathered about him were the armies of four races, battle standards flying in the morning wind. Here were the silver war eagles and spreading oak of the Elves, the gray and crimson sash of the Free Corps, and the black horses of the Old Guard; there flew the forest greens of the Dwarf Sappers split by the twist of the Silver River, and the hammer and twin blue mountains of the Rock Trolls of the Kershalt. Never before had they flown as one. In the history of the Four Lands the races had never before been united in a common cause, to form a common defense, and to serve a common good. Troll and Dwarf, Elf and Man — the humans of the new world stood together against an evil from ancient times. For that single, wondrous day, Ander Elessedil became the spark that gave them all life.
He was everywhere at once, from the rim of the bluff to the gates of the Elfitch, sometimes on horseback, sometimes afoot, always where the fighting was the heaviest. Chain mail gleaming, Ellcrys staff held high, he stood foremost among the defenders of the city against the Demons who rushed to slay him. Wherever he went, the cry went up and the defenders rallied. Always outnumbered, always pressed, still the Elven Prince and his comrades–at–arms threw back their attackers. Ander Elessedil was something more than human that day, fighting with such ferocity that it seemed as if nothing could stand against him. Time after time, the Demons sought to pull him down, recognizing quickly that this single man was the heart of the Elven defense. Time after time, it seemed as if they would succeed, ringing Ander in a swarm of raging black bodies. But each time he fought his way free. Each time, the Demons were driven back.
It was a day of heroes, for all of the defenders of Arborlon were inspired by the courage of the Elven Prince. Eventine Elessedil stood with his son and fought bravely, his very presence lending heart to the Elves about him. Allanon was there as well, his cloaked form standing head and shoulders above the armored men about him as the blue fire arced from his fingers into the midst of the raging Demons. Twice the Demons broke through the gates of the third ramp, and twice the Rock Trolls under the command of Amantar drove them back again. Stee Jans and the men of the Free Corps broke a third assault, counterattacking with such savagery that they swept the Demons all the way back to the second ramp and for a time threatened to retake its gates. Elven cavalry and Dwarf Sappers repulsed sally after sally along the rim of the Carolan, throwing tack scores of Demons who managed to scale the cliff face and threaten to flank the defenders on the Elfitch.
But it was Ander who led them, Ander who gave them renewed strength when it seemed that they could stand no longer, Ander who rallied them at every point. When the day at last was ended and darkness began to fall, the Demons were forced to withdraw once more, slipping back into the forests below the heights, shrieking with rage and frustration. For yet a second day, the defenders of Arborlon had held. It was Ander Elessedil’s finest hour.
Then the fortunes of the defenders of the city took a turn for the worse. With the coming of night, the Demons attacked again, waiting only until the sunlight was gone, then rising up out of the forests to sweep over the Elven defense. One by one, they extinguished the torches that had been lit along the lower Elfitch, battling their way forward to the gates of the third ramp. Desperately, the defenders braced for the assault, massive Rock Trolls blocking the gates while Elves and Legion soldiers fought from atop the walls. But the rush was too strong; the gates buckled and snapped apart. Into the breach surged the Demons, clawing their way forward.
On the heights as well, the Demons began to break through. Dozens of black forms slipped between the lines of cavalry patrolling the bluff and scattered wildly toward the city. Of these, more than a hundred converged on the Gardens of Life, aware that within its gates stood the thing that for so many centuries had held them imprisoned. There they came face to face with the soldiers of the Black Watch who stood ready to fulfill the purpose of their order and to defend to the last man the ancient tree that was their trust. Maddened beyond reason, the Demons attacked. Up against the lowered pikes of the Black Watch they charged and were cut to pieces.
At the southern end of the Carolan, another band of Demons managed to tunnel beneath a line of Dwarf traps set along a dismantled secondary stairway leading up from the Rill Song and thus gain the heights. Skirting the Black Watch and the Gardens of Life, they slipped east away from the Carolan, crawling through the shadows behind the line of torches set against its rim and broke for the city. Half a dozen Elven wounded, en route to their homes from the battle, were caught in the open and killed. More might have perished but for a patrol of Dwarf Sappers, who had agreed to aid the Elves in keeping watch along the perimeter of the city. Realizing that the Demons had broken through the defenders of the bluff, they followed the cries of the dying and fell upon their slayers. When the struggle was ended, only three Dwarves were still standing. All the Demons lay dead.
By dawn, the heights had been cleared and the Demons thrown back once more. But the third ramp of the Elfitch had been lost and the fourth was threatened. At the base of the bluff, the Demons massed anew. Cries rang out through the morning stillness as they charged up the ramp, solidly massed, the foremost among them bearing a massive wooden battering ram. Into the gates they carried the ram, smashing the wooden barrier apart, then pouring through. Trolls and Elves formed quickly into a tight phalanx, a wall of iron spear
s and lances that cut deep into the writhing black forms. But the Demons came on, surging up against the harried defenders until they had forced them back within the fortress of the fifth ramp.
It was a desperate moment. Four of the seven levels of the Elfitch had been lost. The Demons were halfway to the summit of the bluffs. Ander rallied the defenders, flanked by Amantar and Kerrin and surrounded by Home Guard. The Demons charged, hammering against the gates of the ramp. But just when it seemed that they must break through, Allanon appeared on the walls, arms lifting. Blue flame raced the length of the ramp below, splitting wide the Demon rush, turning the battering ram to ash. Momentarily stunned, the Demons fell back.
All through the morning the Demons sought to breach the Elven defense of the fifth ramp. At midday, they finally succeeded. A pair of monstrous Ogres pushed to the forefront of their brethren and threw themselves against the gates — once; twice. Wood and iron shattered into fragments and the gates broke apart. The Ogres burst through onto the ramp beyond, scattering the defenders. A handful of Rock Trolls tried to stop them, but the Ogres shoved the Trolls aside as if they were made of paper. Again Ander sallied his soldiers, urging them forward. But Demons were pouring through the ruined gates now, sweeping over the defenders.
Then Eventine Elessedil’s horse was killed beneath him as he rode back toward the safety of the gates above, and the old King tumbled to the rampway. The Demons saw him fall. With a howl, they surged forward. They would have had him but for Stee Jans. With a scattering of Legion Free Corps, the Borderman sprang into their path, swords cutting. Behind them, Eventine staggered to his knees, dazed and bloodied, but alive. Quickly Kerrin brought the Home Guard to the King’s rescue, and they carried him from the battle.
The soldiers of the Free Corps held for a moment longer, then they too were swept aside. The Demons pushed forward, thrusting past the Elves who tried to bar their way Leading the assault were the Ogres who had forced the gates, crushing all who came within reach. Ander Elessedil leaped to stop them, Ellcrys staff raised high as he called to the defenders of the city to stand with him. But the rush was too strong. Amantar and Stee Jans were fighting for their lives at the walls of the ramp, unable to reach the Elven Prince. For one terrifying moment, he stood virtually alone before the Demon rush.
But only for a moment. Atop the gates of the sixth court, Allanon whistled Dayn down from the edge of the Carolan. Without a word, he snatched Dancer’s reins from the surprised Wing Rider and vaulted atop the giant Roc. In the next instant he was winging downward, black robes billowing out like sails. Dancer screamed once, then dropped into the midst of the Demons who threatened Ander, claws and beak tearing. Shrieking, the black forms scattered. Blue fire spurted from the Druid’s fingers, and the ramp before him erupted in flame. Then pulling an astonished Ander up beside him, the Druid called out to Dancer and the Roc lifted back into the air; below, the last of the defenders fell back, pouring through the gates of the sixth ramp to safety for a few seconds longer, the Druid fire burned, then s uttered and died. Enraged, the Demons charged after the fleeing defenders. But by now the Dwarf Sappers on the heights had been alerted. Winches and pulleys began to turn as the chains wrapped about the supports of the ramp were drawn tight. Browork’s carefully concealed trap was about to be sprung. Out from beneath the Elfitch flew the already weakened supports, cracking and snapping as the chains twisted them free. With a shudder, the ramphead below the sixth level sank downward and fell apart. The Demons caught upon it disappeared in a cloud of rubble. Shrieks and cries filled the air, and the whole of the lower ramp was lost from view.
When the dust cleared again, the Elfitch was a pile of crushed stone and shattered wooden beams from the gates of the sixth ramp downward to the fourth. Demon bodies lay scattered on the cliff face, lodged within the rubble, broken and lifeless. Those who had survived fell back toward the base of the bluff, dodging boulders and debris that tumbled down about them, disappearing finally into the woodlands below.
The Demons did not come again that day against the city of Arborlon.
Suffering from yet another head wound as well as from a number of smaller cuts and scrapes, Eventine Elessedil was carried from the battle atop the Elfitch to the seclusion of his manor house. Faithful Gael was there to care for him, to wash and dress his wounds, and to help him to his bed. Then, with Dardan and Rhoe to watch over him, the King of the Elves was left to sleep.
But Eventine did not sleep. He could not. He lay within his bed, propped up against the feathered pillows, staring disconsolately into the darkened corners of the room, despair washing through him. For all the help that the Legion, the Dwarves, and the Rock Trolls had given the Elves, the battle was still being lost. All of their defenses had failed. Another day, perhaps two, and the sixth and seventh gates of the Elfitch would fall and the Demons would be atop the Carolan. That would be the end. Hopelessly outnumbered, the defenders would be swiftly overrun and destroyed. The Westland would be lost and the Elves scattered to the four winds.
The implications behind what he was thinking burned through him. If the Demons won here, it would mean that Eventine Elessedil had failed. Not just his own people, but the peoples of all the Lands — for the Demons would not stop with the Westland, now that they were free of the Forbidding. And what of his ancestors who had imprisoned the Demons so many centuries ago, at a time so remote that he could barely envision its being? He would have failed them as well. They had created the Forbidding, but they had entrusted its care to those who followed after them, depending on those who came after to keep it strong. Yet the Forbidding had been forgotten over the centuries in the upheaval of the old world and the rebirth of the races, forgotten by them all. Even the Chosen had come to think of it as little more than a distant part of their history, a legend that belonged to another age, to the past or to the future — yet never really to the present.
His throat tightened. If Arborlon fell, if the Westland were lost, it would be his failure. His! His penetrating blue eyes turned hard with anger. For eighty–two years he had lived upon this earth; for more than fifty of them, he had been the leader of his people. He had accomplished much in that time — and now it would all be lost. He thought of Arion, his firstborn, the child who should have lived to carry on what he had worked so hard to achieve, and of Kael Pindanon, his old comrade–at–arms, his loyal follower. He thought of the Elves who had been lost defending the Sarandanon and Arborlon. All of them dead, and for nothing.
He eased himself down within the coverings of the bed, mulling over the choices that were left, the tactics that might yet be employed, the resources that might be called upon when the Demons came again. His mind filled with them, and deep within he felt a sense of hopelessness. They were not enough; they would never be enough.
Groping for answers to the questions he posed himself, he suddenly remembered Amberle. It startled him to think of her, and he sat upright in the bed. In the confusion of the past few days he had forgotten his granddaughter, she who was the last of the Chosen, who Allanon had told him was the only real hope for his people. What, he wondered sadly, had become of Amberle?
He lay down again and stared through the shadow of the drapes to the growing darkness beyond. Allanon had said that Amberle was alive, by now deep within the lower Westland; but Eventine did not believe that the Druid really knew. The thought depressed him. If she were dead, he did not want to know, he decided suddenly. It would be better that way, not knowing. Yet that was a lie. He needed to know, desperately. Bitterness welled up within him. Everything was slipping away from him — his family, his people, his country, everything he loved, everything that had given meaning to his life. There was a basic unfairness to it all that he could not understand. No, it was more than that. The basic unfairness of it all was something he could not accept. If he did, he knew that it would finish him.
He closed his eyes against the light. Where was Amberle? He must know, he insisted stubbornly. He must find a way to reach her,
to help her if his help were needed. He must find a way to bring her back to him. He took a deep breath, then another. Still thinking of Amberle, he drifted off to sleep.
It was dark when he awoke. At first he was not certain what it was that brought him awake, his mind still drugged with sleep, his thoughts scattered. A sound, he thought, a cry. He raised himself up against the gathering of pillows and stared into the darkness of the room. Pale, white moonlight seeped through the fabric of the drawn curtains, illuminating faintly the lines of the bolted double windows. Uncertain, he waited.
Then he heard another sound, a muted grunt, quick and surprised, fading almost instantly into silence. It had come from outside his room, from the hall where Dardan and Rhoe stood watch. He sat up slowly, peering into the gloom, straining to hear something more. But there was only the silence, deep and ominous. Eventine slid to the edge of the bed and dropped one leg cautiously to the floor.
The door to his bedchamber swung slowly open, light from the oil lamps of the hallway beyond spilling into the room. The Elven King froze. Through the opening came Manx, heavy body hunched. forward in a low crouch, grizzled head swinging to where his master sat upon the bed. The wolfhound’s eyes glittered like a cat’s, and his dark muzzle was streaked with blood. But it was his forelegs and paws that startled the King most; they seemed in the half–light to have become the corded limbs and claws of a Demon.
Manx passed from the light of the oil lamps into shadow, and Eventine blinked in surprise. In that instant he was certain that what he had seen was something left over from a dream, that he had imagined that Manx was not Manx, but something else. The wolfhound moved toward him slowly, and the King could see that his tail was wagging in a friendly manner. He exhaled in relief. It was just Manx, he told himself.
