The Sword of the Shannara and the Elfstones of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  “I don’t think so,” she responded quietly.

  “You still think I can use them, don’t you—even after what happened on the Pykon?”

  “Yes. But you shouldn’t.”

  He looked at her. “You said something like that once before, remember? After the Tirfing, when we camped above the Mermidon. You were worried for me. You said that I should not use the Stones again, even if it meant saving you.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then later, when we fled the Pykon, I told you that I could no longer use the Stones, that their power was lost to me, that my Elven blood was not strong enough. You told me that I should not be so quick to judge myself—that you had confidence in me.”

  “I remember that, too.”

  “Well, look at what we have been saying. I think I should use the Stones, but don’t think I can. You think I can, but don’t think I should. Funny, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “And we still don’t know which of us is right, do we? Here we are, almost to Safehold, and I still haven’t found out …

  He stopped suddenly, realizing what it was that he was saying.

  “Well, it’s not important,” he finished, looking away. “Better that we never find out. Better that they be given back to my grandfather.”

  They were silent for a moment. Almost without thinking, Wil reached into the Rover tunic and lifted out the pouch that held the Elfstones. He fingered it idly and was about to return it again when he noticed something odd about its feel. Frowning, he opened the drawstrings and dumped the contents into his open palm. He found himself staring at three ordinary pebbles.

  “Wil!” Amberle exclaimed in horror.

  The Valeman stared at the pebbles in stunned silence, his mind racing.

  “Cephelo,” he whispered finally. “Cephelo. Somehow he switched these for the Stones. Last night, probably, while we slept. It had to be then; they were in the pouch that morning in Grimpen Ward—I checked.” He rose slowly, still talking. “But this morning, I forgot. I was so tired last night—and you fell asleep almost at once. He must have drugged the ale to be certain I would not awake. No wonder he was so anxious to be rid of us. No wonder he made light of Hebel’s warning about the Hollows. He would be happy if we never came back. The reward meant nothing to him. It was the Elfstones that he wanted all along.”

  He started up the trail, his face livid. Then abruptly he remembered Amberle. Turning quickly back, he lifted the Elven girl in his arms, held her close against him, and scrambled back to the rim of the Hollows. For a moment he looked about, then walked to a clump of high bushes several yards back. Stepping beneath the shelter of their boughs, he set the Elven girl down.

  “I have to go back for the Elfstones,” he declared quietly. “If I leave you here, will you be all right?”

  “Wil, you don’t need the Stones.”

  He shook his head. “If we have to test that theory, I would prefer that it be done with the Stones in my possession. You heard what the old man said about the Hollows. The Stones are all that I have to protect you.”

  Amberle’s face was white. “Cephelo will kill you.”

  “Maybe. Maybe he has gotten so far up the trail by this time that I won’t even get close to him. But Amberle, I have to try. If I don’t find him by dawn, I’ll turn back, I promise. With or without the Elfstones, I will be with you to go into the Hollows.”

  She started to say something more, but then stopped. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her hands lifted to touch his face.

  “I care for you,” she whispered. “I really do.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. “Amberle!”

  “Go on,” she urged him, her voice breaking. “Cephelo will have stopped for the night and you may catch him if you hurry. But be careful, Wil Ohmsford—do not give your life foolishly. Come back for me.”

  She reached up to kiss him. “Go. Quickly.”

  He stared at her wordlessly for one instant more, then sprang to his feet. Without looking back, he ran from her and in seconds had disappeared into the forest gloom.

  XXXIX

  At dawn of the same day that found Wil and Amberle faced with the disappearance of the Elfstones, the Demons attacked Arborlon. With a frightening shriek that shattered the morning stillness and reverberated through the lowland forests, they burst from the cover of the trees, a massive wave of humped and twisted bodies that stretched the length of the Carolan. In a frenzy that cast aside reason and thought, the creatures of the dark swept out of the gloom that was still thick within the shadowed woods and threw themselves into the waters of the Rill Song. Like a huge stain spreading over the water, they filled the river, large and small, swift and slow, leaping, crawling, shambling bodies surging and heaving through the swift current. Some swam the river’s waters, thrusting and kicking to gain the far bank. Those light and fleet flew above, hopped upon, or skimmed over the river’s surface. Others, so huge that they might walk upon the river’s bottom, lunged awkwardly ahead, snouts and muzzles stretched high, bobbing and dipping. Many rode crude boats and rafts, poling mindlessly into the river and grasping tightly at whomever or whatever came within reach, thus to be pulled to safety or carried to the bottom with that which had failed to give them aid. Madness gripped the Demon horde, born of frustration with and hatred for the enemy that waited a scant few hundred yards away. This time, certainly, they would see that enemy destroyed.

  But the Elves did not panic. Though the number, size, and ferocity of the Demons who came at them might have broken the spirit of a less determined defender, the Elves stood their ground. This was to be their final battle. It was their home city that they defended, the heart of the land that had been theirs for as long as the races had existed. All else had been lost now, from the Rill Song west. But the Elves were determined that they would not lose Arborlon. Better that they fight and die here, the last man, woman and child of them, than that they be driven entirely from their homeland, outcasts in foreign lands, hunted like animals by their pursuers.

  Atop the battlements of the Elfitch, Ander Elessedil watched the Demon tide sweep forward. Allanon stood beside him. Neither man spoke. After a moment, Ander’s eyes lifted. High overhead a small dot appeared out of the clear blue of the dawn skies, growing in size as it circled downward until it took shape. It was Dayn and his Roc, Dancer. Downward they flew, gliding along the cliffs of the Carolan to settle finally on the open rampway above Ander and the Druid. Dismounting, Dayn came hurriedly to where the Elven Prince waited.

  “How many?” Ander asked at once.

  Dayn shook his head. “Even the woods and the mist can’t hide them all. The ones we see before us are only a handful.”

  Ander nodded. So many, he thought darkly. But Allanon had said it would be so. He refrained from looking at the Druid. “Do they seek to flank us, Dayn?”

  The Wing Rider shook his head. “They come directly against the Carolan—all of them.” He glanced down momentarily at the attacking Demons as they struggled and thrashed in the waters of the Rill Song, then turned and started back toward the battlements. “I’ll rest Dancer a few minutes more, then fly back for another look. Good luck, my Lord Prince.”

  Ander barely heard him. “We must hold here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  Already the struggle was underway. At the river’s edge, row upon row of Elven longbows hummed, and black shafts flew into the mass of heaving bodies that filled the waters of the Rill Song. Arrows bounced like harmless twigs from those armored with scales and leather hides, yet some found their mark, and the screams of their victims rose above the cries of attack. Dark forms twisted and sank into the boiling waters, lost in the wave of bodies that came after. Fire-tipped arrows thudded into the boats, rafts, and logs, but most were quickly extinguished and the craft churned ahead. Again and again the archers shot into the advancing horde as it streamed out of the forest and into the river, but the Demons came on, blackening the whole of the west bank and the river as they struggled to gain the Elven
defensive wall.

  Then a cry sounded from atop the Carolan, and cheers rang out. In the predawn gloom, Elves turned hurriedly to look, disbelief and joy reflecting in their faces as a tall, gray-haired rider came into view. Down the length of the Elfitch the cry passed on from mouth to mouth. All along the front line of the Rill Song, behind the barricades and walls, it rose into the morning until it became a deafening roar.

  “Eventine! Eventine rides to join us!”

  In an instant’s time the Elves were transformed, filled with new hope, new faith, new life. For here was the King who had ruled them almost sixty years—for many the whole of their lives. Here was the King who had stood against and finally triumphed over the Warlock Lord. Here was the King who had seen them through every crisis the homeland had faced. Wounded at Halys Cut, seemingly lost, he was returned again. With his return surely no evil, however monstrous, could prevail against them.

  Eventine!

  Yet something was wrong; Ander knew it the instant his father dismounted and turned to face him. This was not the Eventine of old, as his people believed. He saw in the King’s eyes a distance separating the Elven ruler from all that was happening about him. It was as if he had withdrawn into himself, not out of fear or uncertainty, for he could master those, but out of deep, abiding sadness that seemed to have broken his spirit. He looked strong enough, the mask of his face reflecting determination and iron will, and he acknowledged those about him with the old, familiar words of encouragement. Yet the eyes betrayed the loss he felt, the despondency that had stripped him of his heart. His son read it there and saw that Allanon read it, too. It was only the shell of the King riding forth that morning to be with his people. Perhaps it was the deaths of Arion and Pindanon that had done this; it might have been the injury he had suffered at Halys Cut, the defeat of his army there, or the terrible devastation of his homeland; but more probably it was all of these and something more—the thought of failing, the knowledge that if the Elves lost this battle they would allow an evil into the Four Lands that no one could stop and which would fall upon all the races and devour them. The responsibility for this must lie with the Elves, yet with no man more than with Eventine, for he was their King.

  Ander embraced his father warmly, masking the sadness that he felt. Then he stepped back and held forth the Ellcrys staff.

  “This belongs to you, my Lord.”

  Eventine seemed to hesitate momentarily, then slowly shook his head. “No, Ander. It belongs to you now. You must carry it for me.”

  Ander stared at his father wordlessly. He saw in the old man’s eyes what he had missed before. His father knew. He knew that he was not well, knew that something within him was changed. The pretense he made to others was not to be made to his son.

  Ander withdrew the staff. “Then stand with me on the wall, my Lord,” he asked softly.

  His father nodded, and together they climbed the battlements.

  Even as they did so, the foremost of the Demon horde gained the east bank of the Rill Song. Out of the river they surged, heaving up with savage cries to throw themselves against the lances and pikes that bristled from behind the Elven bulwarks. In moments there were Demons emerging from the river’s dark waters along the entire length of the defensive line, horned and clawed, a jumble of limbs and jaws ripping and tearing at the defenders that barred their path. At its center, Stee Jans and the last of his Free Corps anchored the defense, the giant red-haired Borderman standing at the forefront of his men, broadsword raised. On the flanks, Ehlron Tay and Kerrin of the Home Guard called out to their soldiers: Hold, Elven Hunters, stand!

  But finally they could stand no longer. Outflanked and outnumbered, they saw their line begin to crumble. Huge Demons thrust through the defenders and breached the low walls to open holes to those who followed. The waters of the Rill Song were dark with Demon lifeblood and twisted bodies; but, for every one that fell, still another three came on, a savage rush that no lesser force could hope to stop. Atop the gates of the second level of the Elfitch, Ander gave the order to fall back. Quickly the Elves and their allies abandoned the crumbling river wall and slipped into the forest behind, following carefully memorized paths to the safety of the ramp. Almost before the Demons realized what was happening, the defenders were within its walls and the gates were shut behind them.

  Instantly the Demons were in pursuit. Pouring through the forest at the base of the heights, they ran afoul of the hundreds of snares and pitfalls the Elves had laid for them. For a few moments, the entire rush stalled. But as their numbers increased upon the riverbank, they overran those caught within the traps and came onto the ramp of the Elfitch. Massing quickly, they attacked. Up the walls of the first gate they charged, swarming atop one another until they were pouring over the defenses of the lower level. The Elves were driven back; almost before the gates to the second level could be closed, the first had fallen. Without slowing, the Demons came on, scrambling up the ramp to the second gate. They swarmed along the walls and even up the rugged face of the cliff, clinging to the rock like insects. Bodies clawed, leaped, and bounded up the slope of the ramp and the bluff face, shrieking with hunger. The Elves were appalled. The river had not stopped the Demons. The defenses at the bank had been overrun in minutes. Now the first level of the Elfitch had been lost and even the cliff wall did not seem to slow them. It was beginning to look as if all their defenses would prove useless.

  Demon bodies thudded against the gates of the second ramp, clawing upward. Spears and pikes thrust down, impaling the attackers. The gates sagged on their hinges with the weight of the rush. Yet this time the defenders held, iron and sinew bracing the gates and repelling the attack. Cries of pain and death filled the air, and the Demon force built into a mass of writhing forms, surging mindlessly against the walls of the ramp. Out of their midst came a handful of Furies, lithe gray forms bounding atop the stone walls, cat-women’s faces twisted with hate. Elven defenders fell back from them, shredded by their claws, crying out in fear. Then Allanon’s blue fire burst amid the Furies, scattering them wildly. The Elves counterattacked, throwing the cat-things from the walls until the last had disappeared into the dark mass below.

  The Druid and the Elessedils moved upward to the third gate. From there they watched as the Demon attack gathered force. Still the Elven defenders held, archers from the higher levels lending support to the lancers and pikemen below. Demons clung to the cliff face all about the ramp of the Elfitch, working their way upward toward the heights in a slow, arduous climb. From atop the bluff, the Dwarf Sappers used longbows and boulders to knock the black forms loose. One after another the Demons fell, screaming and twisting to the rocks below.

  Then suddenly a monstrous Demon rose out of the attackers that came at the gates of the second ramp, a scaled creature that stood upon its hind legs like a human but had the body and head of a lizard. Hissing in fury, it threw its bulk against the gates, snapping the crossbars and loosening the hinges. In desperation the Elves sought to thrust it back, but the monstrous thing merely shrugged aside the blows, Elven weapons snapping apart on its armored body. A second time it threw itself against the gates and this time they split apart, shattering backward into the Elves. The defenders fell back at once, fleeing up the Elfitch to the third level where the next set of gates stood open to receive them. The lizard thing and its brethren followed after, pouring onto the rampway.

  For an instant it did not appear that the Elves would succeed in closing the gates to the third ramp before the Demons breached it. Then Stee Jans appeared at the entrance to the ramp, a huge spear gripped in his hands. Flanked by the veteran soldiers of the Free Corps and by Kerrin and a handful of Home Guard, he stepped in front of the advancing Demons. Dropping forward in a crouch, the lizard Demon reached for him. But the Borderman was too quick. Sidestepping the monster’s lunge, he thrust the great spear upward through the back of the gaping jaws. Hissing and choking, the lizard reared back on its hind legs, the shaft driven through its head. C
lawed hands ripped at the Legion Commander, but the men of the Free Corps and the Elves raliied about him, warding off the blows. In seconds, they were back within the safety of the battlements, the gates closing behind them. For an instant the lizard Demon stood within the center of the ramphead, trying to pull free the killing shaft. Then its life was gone, and it fell backward into the midst of its brethren, sweeping them from the ramp as it tumbled over the wall and dropped to the forest below.

  Snarling, the Demons renewed their attack. But their momentum had been lost. Strung out along the length of the Elfitch, they could not seem to muster a sustained rush. The biggest among them had been slain; lacking another to take his place, they milled uncertainly within the walls of the ramp below. Heartened by the courage of the Free Corps and their own Home Guard, the Elven defenders beat them back. Arrows and spears cut into their midst, and hundreds of black forms collapsed upon the ramp. Still the Demons scrambled forward, but confused now and vulnerable.

  Ander recognized his opportunity. He gave the signal to counterattack. At Kerrin’s order, the gates to the third ramp were thrown wide and the Elves rushed forth. Into the mass of Demons they charged, driving them back down the Elfitch, back through the shattered gates of the second ramp. Sweeping clear the ramp, the defenders battled downward to the edge of the lower gates before the Demons finally raliied. Back they came, reinforced by the thousands that still poured out of the Rill Song to the base of the cliff. The Elves held a moment only, then retreated to the gates of the second level, bracing them anew with timbers and iron, and there they stood.

  So it went, for the remainder of the day and into the evening. Back and forth along the rampway the battle raged, from the base of the bluff to the gates of the third level, Elves and Demons hacking and tearing at one another in a struggle where no quarter was asked and none given. Twice the Demons retook the second set of gates and pushed up against the third. Twice they were driven back, once all the way to the base of the bluff. Thousands died, though the dead numbered highest among Demons, for they fought without regard for life, spending themselves willingly on the defenders’ carefully drawn formations. Yet Elves were lost as well, injured and dead, and their numbers began to dwindle steadily while the numbers of the Demons never seemed to grow less.