The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  At midday, Ander went looking for Allanon, hoping that the Druid could give some explanation for what was happening. Alone, he climbed the slopes of the Kensrowe to where Allanon kept a solitary vigil within the shelter of an outcropping of rock, half hidden in shadow as he gazed out across the Sarandanon. The Elven Prince had not spoken with Allanon since yesterday when the Druid had come up into these mountains; no one had. Caught up in the jubilation of the Elven victory over the Demons, he had given little thought to the Druid’s going. After all, Allanon came and went all the time, seldom with any explanation. But now, as he approached the Druid, he found himself wondering nevertheless why Allanon had chosen this time to be alone.

  He was given his answer the moment the Druid turned to face him. Allanon’s face, once so dark, was ashen. Harsh lines creased the skin, giving it a slack and weary caste, and there was a brooding look to the piercing black eyes. Ander drew up short, staring.

  The stare brought a faint smile to Allanon’s lips. “Does something trouble you, Elven Prince?”

  Ander started. “No, I … it’s just that … Allanon, you look …”

  The Druid shrugged. “There is a price for the ways in which we use ourselves. That is one of nature’s laws, though we often choose to disregard it. Even a Druid is subject to its dictates.” He paused. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Ander looked uncertain. “The magic does this to you?”

  Allanon nodded. “The magic takes life from the user—it drains strength and being. Something of what is lost can be recovered, but recovery is slow. And there is pain …”

  The sentence died away, unfinished. Ander felt a sudden chill.

  “Allanon, have you lost the magic?”

  The cowled head lifted. “The magic is not lost while the user lives. But there are limits that cannot be exceeded, and the limits shorten with the passing of the years. We all grow old, Elven Prince.”

  “Even you?” Ander asked quietly.

  The black eyes were veiled. Allanon changed the subject abruptly. “What brings you to me?”

  Ander took a moment to recover his thoughts. “I came to ask why the Demons do not attack.”

  The Druid looked away. “Because they are not yet ready.” He was silent a moment, then his gaze shifted back again. “Do not be misled; they will come. They but delay, and there is a purpose behind that delay. The one who leads them, the one who is called the Dagda Mor, does nothing without reason.” He bent forward slightly. “Give thought to this. The Dagda Mor was not among those who attacked us yesterday.”

  Ander frowned worriedly. “Where was he then?”

  Allanon shook his head. “The question we should be asking is where is he now?” He watched Ander for a moment, then drew the black robes close about him. “I have been thinking that it would be wise to send trackers north above the Kensrowe and south below the Innisbore to be certain that the Demons do not intend to flank us.”

  There was a long silence. “Are there Demons enough to do that?” Ander asked finally, thinking of the thousands that had come against them already at Baen Draw.

  Allanon’s laugh was brittle. “Demons enough.” The Druid turned away. “Leave me alone now, Elven Prince.”

  Ander went back down out of the Kensrowe, riddled with doubt. On his return, trackers were dispatched, and the waiting resumed. Morning passed into afternoon and afternoon into evening. A heavy bank of clouds rolled across the darkening sky, and shadows lengthened quickly into night.

  Still the Demons did not come.

  It was nearing midnight when the attack finally came. It was sudden, so sudden that the sentries standing watch had barely enough time to give the alarm before the first of the Demons were upon them. They came through Baen Draw in a massive rush, waves of black, corded bodies surging down out of the darkened northern hills into the light of the watch fires. One by one the fires winked out, smothered by the Demons as they swept through the Draw and onto the slopes of the Kensrowe. With the watch fires gone and the night sky screened by the clouds that had swept east out of the Breakline, the whole of Baen Draw was plunged into blackness. It was a blackness that the Demons knew well, to which they had grown accustomed during the time of their imprisonment within the Forbidding, a darkness that would be made to serve them. For, while the Elves and the Southlanders could now see little, the Demons saw as if it were brightest day. Shrieking in frenzied anticipation, they attacked.

  At the head of the Draw, rallying about Ander Elessedil and the gleaming white staff of the Ellcrys, an Elven phalanx met the rush. The impact threw the soldiers backward, yet they held their lines. Hundreds of dark bodies crushed up against them, teeth and claws ripping. The Elves fought back determinedly, lances and pikes thrusting blindly into the mass of Demons that pushed forward, and screams of pain tore through the night. But the Demons kept coming, surging into the Elves, struggling to break apart their defense. For a few desperate minutes, the Elves withstood the savage rush, holding back the masses that hurtled against them. But the darkness confused and hindered them. In the end, they were overwhelmed. The phalanx began to give, falling back raggedly, splitting apart. Seconds later, the Demons broke through.

  That would have been the finish if not for Allanon. Gaining the lower slopes of the Kensrowe, where the Elven archers fought a losing battle in the darkness to keep back the onrushing Demons, the Druid seized a handful of glittering dust from a small pouch tied at his waist and tossed the dust high into the air. Instantly the dust spread out across the night sky above the struggling Elves, filling the darkness with a brilliant white glow that lit the land beneath with the brightness of moonlight.

  Gone was the blackness and the Demons’ concealment. From behind the broken phalanx, a rallying cry went up. Into the main breach, where the largest mass of Demons thrust forward, rode Stee Jans and the men of the Legion Free Corps. Like an iron wedge, they split the forefront of the assault. Less than four hundred now, they hammered into the horde before them and bore it back toward the mouth of Baen Draw. To their aid galloped the Elven cavalry, Kael Pindanon leading, head bare, white hair flying. All along the shattered defensive line, the lances of the horsemen tore into the advancing Demons and drove them back.

  On the slopes of the Kensrowe, the Demons had broken through the ranks of archers and were pouring down into the Sarandanon. Allanon stood virtually alone in their path, blue fire lancing from his hands. They came at him from everywhere, howling in frenzy as the fire burned them to ash. The Druid did not give way. When they grew too many for him, he turned the whole of the grasslands about him for hundreds of feet in either direction into an inferno of death, a wall of blue fire that ringed the maddened Demons and destroyed any that tried to breach it.

  A hundred yards back from the mouth of Baen Draw, the Elves and the Free Corps fought desperately to keep the main body of Demons from breaking through into the Sarandanon. It was a terrible, frightening battle and the smell of death filled the summer night. At its height, Kael Pindanon went down, his horse stumbling beneath him. The old warrior was shaken and came to his feet unsteadily, fumbling for his broadsword. Instantly, the Demons were upon him, howling. Elven Hunters fought to reach their beleaguered Commander, slashing and cutting their way through the Demons that rose before them. But the Demons were too quick. Clawed hands reached for Pindanon, warding off the blows struck at them, and the old soldier was pulled to his death.

  At the same moment, a handful of Demons broke from the crush of fighters about them and hurtled toward Ander Elessedil. Through the ring of Home Guard that battled about him the Demons came, bounding like cats, to lunge for the Elven Prince. In desperation he brought up the Ellcrys staff like a shield and his attackers shrank from it, howling with rage. But Ander was all alone now, surrounded by twisted black forms, and they snapped and tore at him, waiting for a chance to break through the guard of his talisman. Elven Hunters fought desperately to reach the Prince, yet the Demons blocked their way, tearing apart those
who came too close, parrying wildly the cut and slash of lance and sword. Their brethren surged to their aid, seeing that they had within their grasp the bearer of the hated talisman. Clawed hands reached out, grasping.

  Then through the tangle of fighters hurtled a giant, scar-faced Borderman, gray-cloaked body streaked with dirt and blood. Up against the Demons he went, cutting through corded black bodies with great sweeps of his broadsword until at last he stood next to Ander. Shrieks of rage rose from the Demons, and they threw themselves at him. But Stee Jans held his ground like some immovable rock, keeping Ander’s attackers from him as he called to his Bordermen. They came instantly, riding to his aid, gathering about him in a circle of iron. Then he was back atop his roan, sword lifted. The gray riders charged forward, their battle cry ringing out through the night.

  For an instant, Ander did not realize what was happening. Then, through the hazy glow of false moonlight, he caught sight of the men of the Free Corps, Stee Jans at their head, red hair flying, one hand gripping the great broadsword, the other the Free Corps standard of battle. Alone, a handful against hundreds, the Free Corps was attacking! At once the Elven Prince seized the reins of a riderless horse, mounted, then spurred the animal ahead, crying out to his countrymen. As the Elves rallied to him from every quarter, he rode into the ranks of the Demons, forward to the side of the Legion Free Corps. In a wave, the Elves and the Bordermen swept down into Baen Draw, driving the Demons before them. Like men gone berserk, they battered their way ahead, horsemen and foot soldiers, with lance and pike and sword, shouting as one the battle cries of their homelands.

  For an instant, the Demons stood their ground, shrieking with rage and hate, tearing at the madmen who thrust so recklessly into their midst. But the big man with the broadsword and the Free Corps battle standard had given fresh courage to the Elves, courage that bore them forward to face death without fear, to forget everything but their determination to destroy utterly those twisted black forms that stood before them. The Demons wavered and fell back, slowly at first, then in headlong flight, for the fury generated within the army of the Elves was much greater now than their own. Into the hills north they fled once more, scrambling down from the slopes of the Kensrowe through the rocks and crags of the Draw, flying into the concealing shadows of the night.

  In moments, Baen Draw had been cleared, and the Sarandanon was again in the hands of the Elves.

  Ander Elessedil sat within his tent, stripped to the waist, as Elven Hunters worked on the wounds the Demons had inflicted upon him during the battle. He sat in silence, his body aching with fatigue and the pain of his injuries. Messengers came and went, reporting on the progress of the army as it prepared to entrench once more across the mouth of Baen Draw. Home Guard ringed the tent, the iron of their weapons glinting in the light of the watch fires.

  The Elven Prince had finished with the bandaging and was pulling on his armor when the tent flaps parted suddenly and Stee Jans appeared out of the night, his giant form streaked with dirt and ash and blood. Those within the tent immediately fell silent. With a single word, Ander bade them all leave. The tent emptied, and Ander moved forward to stand before the Borderman. Wordlessly, he clasped the big man’s hand in his own.

  “You saved all of us tonight, Commander,” he said quietly. “There is a debt owed you that will be difficult to repay.”

  Stee Jans studied him a moment, then shook his head slowly. “My Lord, there is nothing owed to me. I am a soldier. Anything I did this night was no more than I should have done.”

  Ander smiled wearily. “You will never convince me of that. Still, I respect and admire you far too much to argue the matter. I will simply thank you.” He released the big man’s hand and stepped back. “Kael Pindanon is dead, and I must find a new field commander. I want you.”

  The Borderman was quiet a moment. “My Lord, I am not an Elf nor even of this country.”

  “I have no Elf nor countryman better suited to command this army than you,” Ander replied at once. “And it was your plan that enabled us to hold Baen Draw.”

  Stee Jans did not drop his gaze. “There are some who would question this decision.”

  “There are some who would question any decision.” Ander shook his head. “I am not my father nor my brother nor the leader they thought to have. But be that as it may, the decision is mine to make and I have made it. I want you as field commander. Do you accept?”

  The Borderman thought for a long time before he spoke again. “I do.”

  Ander felt a bit of the weariness slip from him. “Then let us begin …”

  A sudden movement in the shadows by the entry brought them both about with a start. Allanon stood there, his iron face grim.

  “The trackers sent north and south within the valley have returned.” The Druid spoke softly, the words almost a hiss as they left his mouth. “Those who went south along the Innisbore found nothing. But those who went north encountered an army of Demons so massive as to dwarf that which battles us within Baen Draw. It comes south along the eastern wall of the Kensrowe. Already it will have entered the Sarandanon.”

  Ander Elessedil stared silently at the big man, hope fading within his eyes.

  “This was their plan from the beginning, Elven Prince—to engage you here at Baen Draw with the lesser force while the greater skirted the Kensrowe north, to come down into the Sarandanon from behind, thereby trapping the army of the Elves between the two. Had you not sent those trackers …”

  He trailed off meaningfully. Ander started to speak and stopped, choking on the words. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes, tears of rage and frustration.

  “All the men who have died here—here and at Halys Cut … my brother, Pindanon—all dead that the Sarandanon might be held … is there nothing we can do?”

  “The army that comes down out of the north contains Demons whose powers far exceed anything you have yet encountered.” Allanon’s head shook slowly. “Too much power, I am afraid, for you to withstand—too much. If you try to hold the Sarandanon longer, if you attempt to stand here at Baen Draw or even to fall back to some other line of defense within the valley, you shall most certainly be destroyed.”

  Ander’s youthful face was bleak. “Then the Sarandanon is lost.”

  Allanon nodded slowly. The Elven Prince hesitated, glancing back momentarily toward the rear compartment of the tent where the King still lay unconscious, unknowing, locked in dreamless sleep, far from the pain and the reality that confronted his anguished son. Lost! The Breakline, the Sarandanon, his family, his army—everything! Within, he felt himself breaking apart. Allanon’s hand gripped his shoulder. Without turning, he nodded.

  “We shall leave at once.”

  Head bowed, he walked from the tent to give the order.

  33

  Wil Ohmsford found the Wilderun as bleak and forbidding as the stories had foretold. Though the afternoon sky had been brilliant with sunlight when he and Amberle had left the Rock Spur, the Wilderun was a tangle of shadows and murky darkness, screened away from the world about it by trees and scrub that was twisted and interwoven until there seemed to be neither beginning nor end to its maze. Trunks thick with mold grew gnarled and bent, the limbs coiling out like spider’s legs, choked with vines and brush, heavy with spiny leaves that shimmered in streaks of incandescent silver. Deadwood and scrub littered the valley floor, decaying slowly in the dark ground, giving it an unpleasantly soft, spongy feel. Damp with must and rot, the Wilderun had the look of something misshapen and grotesque. It was as if nature had stunted the land and the life that grew within it, then bent it down within itself, so that it might ever be made to breathe, eat, and drink the stench that rose out of its own slow death.

  Down the crooked forest road the Valeman walked, the Elven girl close beside him, peering into the darkness about them with cautious, worried eyes, hearing distantly the sounds of the life that prowled and hunted within. The road was like a tunnel, walled about by forest, lighted only by faint
streamers of sunlight that somehow slipped past the tangle overhead to touch faintly the dank earth below. There were no birds within this forest; Wil had noticed that at once. Birds would not live within such blackness, Wil had thought to himself—not while they might fly in sunlight. There were none of the usual small forest animals, nor even such common insects as brightly-colored butterflies. What lived here were things best left to blackness, night, and shadow: bats, leathered and reeking of disease; snakes and scaled hunters that nested and fed on vermin that lived within fetid ponds and marsh; cat-things, sleek and quick as they stalked the treeways on silent pads. A time or two their shadows crossed the roadway, and Valeman and Elven girl paused guardedly. Yet as quickly as they had come, they were gone again, lost in the blackness, leaving the humans on the empty path to stare anxiously at the forest and to hurry on.

  Once, when they had gone deep into the gloom, the pair heard something massive move, pushing through trees as if it were pushing through fragile twigs, its breath huffing loudly in the stillness that fell across the forest with its passing. Lumbering invisibly through the gloom, it either did not see or did not care to bother with the two small creatures who stood frozen upon the trail. Slowly, deliberately, it moved off. In the silence that followed, Valeman and Elven girl fled quickly away.

  They encountered only a handful of travelers as they walked the forest, all but one afoot and that one slouched atop a horse so thin and worn as to appear more an apparition than flesh and blood. Cloaked and hooded, the travelers passed them by singly and in pairs, offering no greeting. Yet within the shadow of their cowls, their heads turned and their eyes blinked with the cold interest of cats, staring after the intruders as if to measure their purpose. Chilled by those looks, the Southlander and the girl found themselves glancing back over their shoulders long after the cloaked forms had disappeared from view.