The Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  As Stee Jans had warned, Ander thought darkly.

  “The Federation has sent a message as well, my Lord Prince.” Chios’ smile was bitter. “A message that is brief and to the point, I might add. It is the policy of the Federation that it not become involved in the affairs of other lands and other races. If a threat to others touches upon the sovereignty of its own states, the Federation will act. As matters stand now, that close not appear to be the case. Therefore, until the situation changes, no aid will be forthcoming.” He shrugged. “Not altogether unexpected.”

  “And the Kershalt?” Ander asked quickly. “What of the Trolls?”

  Chios shook his head. “Nothing. I took the liberty of dispatching another messenger.”

  Ander nodded his approval. “And the Dwarves?”

  “We’re here,” a rough voice answered. “Some of us, at least.”

  A bearded, thickset Dwarf made his way forward through the men gathered about the Council table. Quick blue eyes blinked through a face that was weathered and browned by the sun, and a pair of gnarled hands fastened on the table’s edge.

  “Druid.” The Dwarf nodded briefly to Allanon, then turned to Ander. “My name is Browork, Elder and citizen of Culhaven. I’ve brought one hundred Sappers to the service of the Elessedils. You can thank the Druid for that. He found us some weeks ago at work on a bridge crossing the Silver River and warned us of the danger. Allanon is known to the Dwarves, so there were no questions asked. We sent word to Culhaven and came on ahead—ten days’ march and a hard march at that. But we’re here.”

  He extended his hand and Ander shook it warmly.

  “What of the others, Browork?” Allanon asked.

  The Dwarf nodded rather impatiently. “On their way by now, I presume. You should have an army of several thousand by week’s end.” He gave Allanon a disapproving frown. “In the meantime you’ve got us, Druid, and mighty lucky you are to have us. No one but the Sappers could have rigged that ramp.”

  “The Elfitch,” Chios explained quickly to a puzzled Ander. “Browork and his Sappers have been working with us on our defenses. In the process of studying the Elfitch, he saw that it was possible to rig the fifth ramp to collapse.”

  “Child’s play.” Browork dismissed the accomplishment with a wave of his hand. “We undercut the stone block, removed the secondary supports, then split the primary with iron wedges fixed to chains. The chains we concealed in the brush beneath the ramp, ran them to the heights, and lined them to a system of pulleys. If the Demons reach the fifth ramp, just draw in the chains, slip the wedges, and the whole ramp from the fifth gate down falls away. Simple.”

  “Simple if you have the engineering skill of a Dwarf Sapper, I think.” Ander smiled. “Well done, Browork. We have need of you.”

  “There are others here that you need as well.” Allanon put his hand on Ander’s shoulder and pointed to the far end of the Council table.

  The Elven Prince turned. A lone Elf dressed all in leather stepped forward and placed his hand across his heart in the pledge of loyalty.

  “Dayn, my Lord Prince,” the Elf said quietly. “I am a Wing Rider.”

  “A Wing Rider?” Ander stared at the Elf in surprise. He had heard stories from his father of the people who called themselves the Sky Elves—stories almost forgotten by most, for no Wing Rider had come to Arborlon in the last hundred years. “How many of you are there?” he asked finally.

  “Five,” Dayn replied. “There would be more but for the fear of a Demon attack on the Wing Hove, our own home city. My father has sent those of us who are here. We are all of one family. My father is called Herrol.” He paused and glanced at Allanon. “There was a time when the Druid and he were friends.”

  “We are still friends, Wing Rider,” Allanon said quietly.

  Dayn acknowledged the Druid’s commitment with a nod, then returned his gaze to Ander.

  “My father’s sense of kinship with the Land Elves is stronger than that of most of his countrymen, my Lord Prince, for most have long since broken all ties with the old ways and the old rule. And my father knows that Allanon stands with the Elessedils—and that has meaning. Thus he sends us. He would be here himself but for the absence of his Roc Genewen, who trains with my brother’s son so that he may one day be a Wing Rider as was his father. Still, those of us who are here may be of some use. We can fly the whole of the Westland skies, if need be. We can seek out the Demons who threaten and tell you of their movements. We can spy out strengths and weaknesses. That much, at least; we can offer.”

  “That much we accept with gratitude, Dayn.” Ander returned the Wing Rider’s salute. “Be welcome.”

  Dayn bowed and stepped back. Ander glanced at Chios. “Are there any others come to stand with us, First Minister?”

  Chios shook his head slowly. “No, my Lord Prince. These are all.”

  Ander nodded. “Then these will be enough.”

  He motioned for all who were gathered to seat themselves with him at the council table, and a general discussion ensued on such matters as soldier placement, weapons distribution, battle tactics, and the taking of additional defensive measures. Reports were heard from Ehlron Tay on the Elven Hunters of the regular army, from Kerrin on the Home Guard, and from Kobold of the Black Watch. Browork gave his assessment of the overall structural efficiency of the Elven defenses, and Stee Jans was consulted on strategies that might be implemented to offset the superior strength of the Demon hordes. Even Dayn spoke briefly on the fighting capabilities of the Rocs and their uses in aerial combat.

  Time slipped past rapidly, and the night drifted away. Ander grew light-headed with fatigue, and his thoughts began to wander. It was in the middle of one of these wanderings that a tremendous crash jerked him upright as the doors of the High Council flew open and a disheveled Gael appeared, flanked by the chamber guards. Breathless, the little Elf rushed forward and dropped to his knee before Ander.

  “My Lord!” he gasped, his face flushed with excitement. “My Lord, the King is awake!”

  Ander stared. “Awake?”

  Then he was on his feet and sprinting from the chamber.

  While he slept, it felt to Eventine Elessedil as if he were floating through a blackness layered with gossamer threads that wrapped his body in a seamless blanket. One by one, he felt the threads enfold him, mold about him, join with him. Time and space were nothing; there was only the blackness and the weave of the threads. It was a warm, pleasant sensation at first, much like the feel to an infant of a mother’s close embrace, filled with comfort and love. But then the embrace seemed to tighten, and he began to suffocate. Desperately he struggled to break free and found that he could not. He began to sink downward through the blackness, spinning slowly, his blanket a shroud and he no longer a creature of life, but one of death. Terrified, he thrashed within his silken prison, tearing and ripping at its fabric until, with a sudden rending, it flew apart and was gone.

  His eyes opened. Light blinded him momentarily, harsh and flickering. He blinked in its glare, disoriented and confused, fighting to gain some sense of where he was and what he was doing. Then the outlines of a room began to gather form, and he recognized the smell of oil lamps and the feel of cotton sheets and woolen blankets wrapped close about his body. All that had happened in the moments before he slept came back again in a rush, images that ran mad and disjointed across his mind: the Breakline; Halys Cut and the Demons attacking from out of the deep mist; lines of Elven archers, lancers, and pikemen spread out below him; cries of pain and death; dark forms hurtling toward him through a wall of blue fire; Allanon, Ander, the glint of weapons, then a sudden blow . . .

  He twitched violently beneath the covers, and sweat bathed his body. The room sharpened abruptly before his eyes—it was his sleeping room in the manor house in Arborlon—and there was a figure moving toward him.

  “My Lord?” Gael’s frightened voice sounded in his ear and the youthful face bent down close to his own. “My Lord, are you awake?�
�

  “What has happened?” he muttered, his own voice thick and barely recognizable.

  “You were wounded, my Lord—at Halys Cut. A blow struck here.” The Elf pointed to the King’s left temple. “You have been unconscious ever since. My Lord, we were so worried . . .”

  “How long . . . have I slept?” he interrupted. His hand reached to touch his head and the pain laced downward through his neck.

  “Seven days, my Lord.”

  “Seven days!”

  Gael started to back away. “I will bring your son, my Lord.”

  His mind whirled. “My son?”

  “Prince Ander, my Lord.” His aide dashed toward the sleeping room door. “He meets now with the High Council. Lie back—I will bring him at once.”

  Eventine watched him wrench open the door, heard him talk briefly with someone beyond, then watched the door close again, leaving him in silence. He tried to raise himself, but the effort was too much and he fell back weakly. Ander? Had Gael said that Ander was meeting with the High Council? Where was Anion? Doubt clouded his thoughts, and the questions came in a flurry. What was he doing here in Arborlon? What had befallen the army of the Elves? What had become of their defense of the Sarandanon?

  Again he tried to raise himself and again fell back. A wave of nausea swept through him. He felt suddenly old, as if the number of his years was a sickness that had wasted him. His jaw tightened. Oh, that he might have back again five minutes of his youth to give him strength enough to rise from this bed! Anger and determination fired him, and he inched himself upward against his pillows until he lay propped against them, breathing raggedly.

  Across the room, Manx raised his grizzled head. The King opened his mouth to call out to the old wolfhound. But suddenly the dog’s eyes met his, and the words died in his throat. There was hate in those eyes—hate so cold that it cut through Eventine like a winter frost. He blinked in disbelief, fighting the sense of repulsion that welled up within him. Manx? What was he thinking!

  He forced himself to look away, to stare elsewhere in the sleeping room, at walls and their hangings, at furniture, and at the drapes drawn tight across the windows. Desperately, he tried to compose himself and could not. I am alone, he thought suddenly, unreasonably, and was filled with fear. Alone! He glanced back again at Manx. The wolfhound’s eyes fixed him, veiled now, hiding what had been so evident before. Or had he imagined it? He watched as the old dog rose, turned about, and lay down again. Why close he not come to me, the King asked himself? Why close he not come?

  He slipped back against the pillows. What am I saying? The words whispered in his mind, and he saw the madness that threatened to slip across him. Seeing hatred in the eyes of an animal that had been faithful to him for years? Seeing in Manx an enemy that might do him harm? What was wrong with him?

  Voices sounded in the outer corridor. Then the sleeping room door opened and closed again, and Ander crossed the room to reach down and hold him close. The King hugged his son to him, then broke the clasp, searching Ander’s shadowed face as the Prince seated himself on the edge of the bed.

  “Tell me what has happened,” Eventine ordered softly. Then he saw something flicker in his son’s eyes, and he felt a sudden chill pass through him. He forced the question from his lips. “Where is Arion?”

  Ander opened his mouth to speak, then stared at the old man wordlessly. Eventine’s face froze.

  “Is he dead?”

  Ander’s voice was a whisper. “At Worl Run.”

  He seemed to search for something more to say, then gave up, shaking his head slowly. Eventine’s eyes filled with tears and his hands shook as he grasped his son’s arms.

  “Arion is dead?” He spoke the words as if they were a lie.

  Ander nodded, then looked away. “Kael Pindanon, too.” There was a moment of stunned silence. The King’s hands fell away.

  “And the Sarandanon?”

  “Lost.”

  They stared at each other wordlessly, father and son, as if some frightening secret had been shared that should never have been told. Then Ander reached down and clasped his father to him. For long moments, they held each other in silence. When at last the King spoke, his voice was flat and distant.

  “Tell me about Arion. Everything. Leave nothing out.”

  Ander told him. Quietly, he related how his brother had died, how they had brought him out of the Breakline to the Sarandanon, and how they had buried him at Baen Draw. Then he spoke of all that had befallen the army of the Elves from that first day of battle at Halys Cut through the long march back to Arborlon. Eventine listened and said nothing. When Ander had finished, he stared blankly at the flicker of the oil lamps for a moment. Then his eyes shifted to his son.

  “I want you to return to the High Council, Ander. Do what must be done.” He paused, his voice breaking. “Go on. I will be all right.”

  Ander looked at him uncertainly. “I can ask Gael to come in.”

  The King shook his head. “No. Not now. I just want to . . .” He stopped, choking back what he was about to say, one hand gripping his son’s arm tightly. “I am . . . very proud of you, Ander. I know how difficult . . .”

  Ander nodded, his throat tightening. He placed his father’s hands within his own. “Gael will be outside in the hall when you need him.”

  He rose and started toward the door. His hand was on the latch when Eventine called out after him, his voice strangely anxious.

  “Take Manx out with you.”

  Ander stopped, looked at the old wolfhound, whistled him to his side, and led him out. The door closed softly behind him.

  Alone again, this time truly alone, the King of the Elves lay back upon the cushion of his pillows and let the enormity of all that had happened wash over him. In a little more than seven days, the finest army in the Four Lands had been driven like a herd of cattle before wolves from its own country—driven from the Breakline, from the Sarandanon, and all the way back to its home city there to stand or fall. Somewhere deep within him there was a terrible sense of failure. He had let this happen. He was responsible.

  “Arion,” he whispered suddenly, remembering.

  Then the tears welled up in his eyes and he began to cry.

  XXXVI

  Eretria!” Wil exclaimed softly, surprise and wariness in his voice. Disregarding the pain from his injury he pushed himself up on one elbow for a closer look. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saving you, it would appear.” She laughed, her dark eyes mischievous.

  Sudden movement caught his eye, and he stared past her into the shadows. Two Rover women busied themselves at a sideboard near the rear of the wagon, rinsing cloths red with his blood in a basin of water. Instinctively, he reached up to his head and found that a bandage had been placed across the wound. He touched it gingerly and winced.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Eretria brushed his hand aside. “It is the only part of you that is clean.”

  The Valeman glanced about quickly. “What have you done with Amberle?”

  “Your sister?” she mocked. “She is safe enough.”

  “You will excuse me if I am a bit skeptical about that.” He started to rise from the bed.

  “Stay, Healer.” She forced him down again. Her voice lowered so that the women behind her could not hear. “Do you fear I might seek revenge because of your ill-conceived decision to leave me behind at the Tirfing? Do you think so little of me?” She laughed and tossed her head. “Perhaps now though, if you were given the chance, you would reconsider that decision. Is that possible?”

  “Not in the least. Now what about Amberle?”

  “Had I intended harm to you, Wil Ohmsford—or to her—I would have left the both of you to the cutthroats who chased you through Grimpen Ward. The Elven girl is well. I will have her brought after we have talked.”

  She turned to the women at the sideboard. “Go. Leave us.”

  The women stopped what they were doing and disappeared through a flap at the o
ther end of the wagon. When they had gone, Eretria turned back to the Valeman, her head cocked to one side.

  “Well, what shall I do with you now, Wil Ohmsford?”

  He took a deep breath. “How did you find me, Eretria?”

  She grinned. “Easily enough. Word of your great healing power spread the length and breadth of Grimpen Ward within ten minutes of the time it took you to cure that fat woman innkeeper. Did you think that such a noisy performance would go unnoticed? How do you think it was that you were found by those cutthroats?”

  “You knew of that, too, then?”

  “Healer, you are a fool.” She said it kindly, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek. “Rovers are the first to know anything that happens in the places where they travel. If it were not so, they would not long survive—a lesson you apparently have yet to learn. Once word spread of your wondrous act of healing, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that there would be some who would soon decide that one with your talent must surely be a man of wealth. Greed and drink mix well, Healer. You are lucky to be alive.”

  “I suppose so,” he acknowledged, chagrined. “I should have been a bit more careful.”

  “A bit. Fortunately for you, I realized who you were and prevailed upon Cephelo to let me find you, once the cry went up from the inn. Otherwise, you might be food for the dogs.”

  “A pleasant thought.” Wil grimaced. He glanced at her quickly. “Cephelo knows that I am here?”

  “He knows.” She smiled and the mischievousness returned to her eyes. “Does that frighten you?”

  “Let’s just say that it concerns me,” Wil admitted. “Why should he do anything for me after what happened back in the Tirfing?”

  Eretria leaned close and put her slim, dark arms about his neck. “Because his daughter is persuasive, Healer—persuasive enough that at times she may influence even so difficult a man as Cephelo.” She shrugged. “Besides, he has had time to rethink what happened at the Tirfing. I have convinced him, I think, that it was none of your doing—that in fact you saved the lives of the Family.”