The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  Two of the Trolls were silenced before they had a chance to defend themselves, their throats cut away. The final sentry got off a quick cry for help and slashed wildly at Eventine, cutting into the exposed flesh of the Elf’s shoulder; then he, too, fell lifeless into the muddied earth. For a moment there was silence once more. Flick stood white-faced against the tent wall, staring in fright at the dead Trolls as the wounded Elven King tried vainly to stem the blood flow from his slashed shoulder. Then they heard the sharp sound of voices from close by.

  “Which way?” Eventine whispered harshly, the bloodied sword still tightly clenched in his good hand.

  In mute silence the little Valeman rushed to the Elf’s side and pointed into the darkness behind him. The voices grew louder now, coming from more than one direction, and swiftly, wordlessly, the two fugitives fled from the Troll sleeping quarters. Stumbling between the fog-shrouded tents and baggage, unable to find their footing on the water-soaked grasslands and blinded by the darkness and the rolling mist, the two struggled to outdistance their pursuers. The voices faded to either side of them and then fell behind, only to rise sharply in alarm within seconds as the bodies of the sentries were discovered. The two dashed on as the deep, haunting sound of a Troll battle horn shattered the night sleep of the Northland army, and everywhere men awoke to the call to arms and battle.

  Flick was in the lead, frantically trying to remember the quickest way back to the camp perimeter. He was running blindly now, terrified beyond reason, his one thought to gain the safety of the silent darkness beyond this hateful camp. Struggling painfully to keep up with the Valeman, his shoulder bleeding freely from the pike wound, Eventine realized what had happened to his young rescuer and called vainly after him, trying to warn him to be careful.

  Too late. The words had just left his mouth when they ran headlong into a band of still-groggy Northlanders who had been abruptly awakened by the battle horn’s blast. Everyone went down in a tangle of arms and legs, both parties completely caught by surprise and unable to avoid the collision. Flick felt the hunting cloak ripped from his body as he was kicked and buffeted by unseen hands and feet, and in maddened terror he fought back, slashing wildly with the hunting knife at anything that came within reach. Howls of pain and fury went up from his attackers, and for an instant the arms and legs drew back and he was free again. He leaped to his feet, only to be borne back a moment later by a renewed assault. He caught the dull flash of a sweeping sword blade as it whisked past his unprotected head and his own knife came up to ward off the blow. For several minutes, everything became chaotic as the Valeman rolled and thrashed his way through the clinging hands and heavy bodies, the fogbound night a maze of wild cries and scuffling figures. He was cut and battered unmercifully as he sought to fight his way clear, sometimes forced back to the earth, but always rebounding within seconds and struggling onward, calling sharply for Eventine.

  What he did not realize was that he had stumbled into a band of unarmed Northlanders who were caught completely by surprise when he charged madly into them, wielding the hunting knife. For several minutes they sought to pin him down and disarm him, but the terrified Valeman struggled so violently they were unable to contain him. Eventine rushed quickly to his aid, battling his way through the mass of attackers to reach the youth and at last they gave way entirely, scattering for the safety of the darkness. Quickly downing the last persistent Northlander, a rather large Gnome who had fastened himself bodily to the struggling Flick, the Elven King grabbed his rescuer by the tunic collar and hauled him to his feet. The Valeman continued to struggle violently for a moment more; then realizing who held him, he abruptly relaxed, his heart beating wildly. All around him the sounds of the Northland battle horns blasted in deafening tones through the camp, mingling with the rising cries of the aroused army. Vainly he tried to listen to what the other was saying, his battered head still ringing from the blows struck.

  “… find the quickest way out. Don’t run—walk steadily, but unhurriedly. Running will just call attention to us. Now go!”

  Eventine’s words died into the darkness as his strong hand gripped Flick’s shoulder and turned him about. Their eyes locked momentarily, but the Valeman could only meet the Elven King’s piercing stare for an instant, feeling it burn right through to his frightened heart. Then they were moving toward the perimeter of the awakened encampment, side by side, their weapons held ready. Flick was thinking rapidly but clearly now, recalling vague landmarks within the Northland camp that indicated he was proceeding in the right direction. The fear was momentarily buried as a cold sense of determination gripped him, fostered in part by the strong presence striding quietly at his side. It might have been Allanon himself, so unshakable was the confidence that the Elven King radiated.

  Dozens of the enemy rushed past them, some coming within several feet, but no one stopped them or spoke to them. Unmolested, the two men passed quietly through the chaos that had engulfed the Northlanders at the unexpected call to battle, moving steadily toward the sentry lines surrounding the encampment. The cries continued from within, although they were dropping behind the fugitives little by little. The rains had momentarily ceased altogether, but the heavy mist continued unbroken, shrouding the entire grasslands from the Streleheim to the Mermidon. Flick glanced once at his silent companion, noticing with concern that the lean figure was bent slightly in pain, the left arm hanging limp and bleeding freely. The valiant Elf was tiring rapidly, growing steadily weaker from loss of blood, his face pale and drawn from the effort to stay on his feet. Unconsciously, Flick slowed the pace, walking closer to his companion in case he should stumble.

  They reached the camp perimeter within a very short time—so quickly, in fact, that the word of what had taken place at the Maturen headquarters had not yet reached the sentries. But the battle horn had put them on the alert, and they stood close to the encampment in small groups, their weapons ready. Ironically, they believed that the danger lay from an enemy outside the camp. Their eyes were fastened dutifully away from the camp, permitting Eventine and Flick to approach undetected to the very edge of their lines. The Elven King did not hesitate, moving forward between the outposts at a steady walk, trusting to the darkness, the mist, and the confusion to prevent their discovery.

  Time was running out. Within a matter of minutes the entire army would be mobilized and ready for battle, and once it was discovered that he had managed to escape, trackers would be out searching for him. He would find safety if he could reach the borders of Kern, just to the south, or alternatively, if he could reach the concealment of the Dragon’s Teeth and surrounding forests to the east. It would take several hours in either case and his strength was fading. He could not pause now, even if it meant risking almost certain discovery by passing into the open unprotected.

  Boldly the two strolled directly between two of the sentry parties, looking neither left nor right as they moved into the emptiness of the open grasslands beyond. They succeeded in not calling attention to themselves until they were past the perimeter of the guard lines. Suddenly several of the sentries caught sight of them at the same moment and called out. Eventine turned slightly and waved with his good arm, calling back in the Troll language, all the while maintaining a steady pace as he moved farther into the darkness. Flick followed warily, waiting expectantly as the sentries stared after them, still undecided. Then abruptly one of them called sharply and began to move after them, waving them back in excited motions. Eventine yelled to Flick to run for it, and the chase was on. As the two men raced for safety, close to twenty guards took up the pursuit, brandishing their pikes and yelling wildly.

  It was an uneven contest from the beginning. Both Eventine and Flick were of lighter build and under normal circumstances could have outdistanced their pursuers. But the Elf was wounded badly and weakened from loss of blood, while the little Valeman was physically exhausted from the ordeal of the last two days. The pursuers were fresh and strong, well rested and fed. Flick knew that th
eir only hope was to find concealment in the mist and darkness, hoping their enemies would be unable to find them. Breathing harshly, stumbling with labored strides, they pushed their failing bodies to the limits of physical endurance. Everything became a large black blur made up of rolling mist all about them and the slickness of the grasslands beneath their racing feet. They ran until they thought they could run no farther, and still there were no mountains, no forests, no place to hide.

  Abruptly, from out of the darkness ahead of them, there flashed an iron-tipped pike, piercing Eventine’s cloak and pinning him to the damp earth. The outer perimeter of sentries, Flick thought in horror—he had forgotten about them! A dim form shot out of the mist, hurtling itself on the fallen Elf. With the last of his waning strength, the wounded King twisted sharply to one side to avoid the sword blade that buried itself in the earth next to his head, at the same instant bringing his own weapon around and up. The rushing figure fell forward with a quick gasp, impaled on the blade.

  Flick stood rooted in place, staring wildly about for other attackers. But there had only been the lone sentry. Quickly he rushed to his companion’s side, wrenching the pike free and pulling the exhausted Elf to his feet with almost superhuman effort. Eventine took a few steps before collapsing to the ground once more. Fearfully, the Valeman dropped to his knees beside him, trying to shake the man awake.

  “No—no, I’m finished,” the hoarse reply came at last. “I can go no farther.…”

  Behind them, the cries of the Northlanders shot out of the darkness. Their pursuers were drawing closer! Again Flick tried in vain to pull the limp form to its feet, but this time there was no response at all. Helplessly the Valeman stared into the darkness about him, the short hunting knife held ready. This was the end. In final desperation, he called wildly into the darkness and the mist.

  “Allanon! Allanon!”

  The call died quickly into the night. The rain had begun once more, falling in a slow drizzle onto an already oversaturated earth to form still larger puddles and mires on the quiet grasslands. Dawn was no more than an hour away, although it was impossible to tell time in such weather as this. Flick crouched silently next to the unconscious Elven King and listened to the sounds of the men closing in about him. He could tell by their voices that they were drawing nearer, though they still had not seen him. As if to further mock the futility of the situation, he realized that after risking everything to free Eventine, he had still failed to learn what had befallen the missing Shea. Sudden shouts from his left brought him about to face dim figures approaching from out of the fog. They had found him! Grimly, he rose to meet them.

  An instant later the hazy darkness between them exploded in a blinding flash of fire that seemed to erupt from out of the earth, the terrific force throwing Flick to the ground, leaving him dazed and blinded. Showers of sparks and burning grass fell all about him and the thunder of a long series of explosions shook the ground violently. One instant the Northlanders were shadowy figures caught in the dazzling light and the next they disappeared altogether. Columns of crackling flame shot upward into the night like giant pillars, thrusting through the darkness and fog to reach the heavens. Squinting into the maelstrom of destruction, Flick thought it was the end of the world. For several endless minutes the wall of fire blazed skyward in unabated fury, tearing the earth into blackened chunks, scorching the night air until the heat began to burn Flick’s skin. Then with a final flash of surging energy, it flared up brightly and disappeared into a hush of mingled smoke and steam, blending quickly into the mist and rain until all that remained was the intense heat of the night air, drifting slowly to rest.

  Flick rose cautiously to one knee and peered into the emptiness before him, then turned sharply as he sensed rather than heard the approach of someone behind him. From out of the rolling mist and steam emerged a giant black form, cloaked in flowing robes and reaching outward as if it were the angel of death come to claim her own. Flick stared in numbed terror and then started in recognition as the awesome form passed before him. It was the dark wanderer come at last. It was Allanon.

  28

  Dawn had just broken with dazzling brightness against a cloudless, deep blue sky as the last band of refugees from the island city of Kern passed through the gates of the great Outer Wall and entered Tyrsis. Gone was the damp, impenetrable mist and the vast dark ceiling of storm clouds that had blanketed the land of Callahorn for so many days. The grasslands remained soggy and sprinkled with small ponds the saturated earth could not yet manage to absorb, but the persistent rains had moved on to be replaced by a fresh sky and sun that brought a new cheerfulness to the morning. The people of Kern had been arriving in scattered groups for several hours, all weary, horrified by what had happened and frightened of what lay ahead. Their home had been completely destroyed, though some did not yet realize the Northlanders had put everything to the torch following the unexpected attack on their encampment.

  The evacuation of the doomed city had been a miraculous success, and, although their homes were gone, they were still alive and, for the moment, secure. The Northlanders had failed to detect the mass escape, their attention completely occupied by the courageous band of Legion soldiers that had assaulted the central camp and drawn them away from even the most distant outposts in the mistaken belief that a full-scale attack was under way. By the time they realized the strike was only a feint designed to confuse them, the island had been evacuated and its people were far down the swift Mermidon and beyond the reach of the maddened enemy.

  Menion Leah was one of the last to enter the walled city, his lean frame battered and exhausted. The wounds on his feet had been reopened during the ten-mile march from the Mermidon to Tyrsis, but he had refused to be carried. It was with the last of his strength that he struggled up the wide ramp leading to the gates of the Outer Wall, supported on one side by the faithful Shirl, who had refused to leave his side even to sleep, and gripped firmly on the other by an equally weary Janus Senpre.

  The youthful Legion commander had survived the fighting of that terrible night battle, escaping the besieged island on the same small raft that had carried Menion and Shirl. The ordeal they had been through had brought them closer together, and on the trip southward they had spoken frankly, though in hushed tones, about the disbanding of the Border Legion. They were in complete accord that if the city of Tyrsis were to withstand an assault by a force the size of the Northland army, the Legion would be needed. Moreover, only the missing Balinor possessed the battle knowledge and skill necessary to lead them. The Prince must be found quickly and placed in command, even though his brother would undoubtedly oppose such a move, just as he was certain to oppose the re-forming of the legendary fighting force he had so foolishly demobilized.

  Neither the highlander nor the Legion commander realized at this moment how difficult their task would be, though they suspected that Balinor had been seized by his brother upon entering Tyrsis some days earlier. Nevertheless, they were resolved that Tyrsis would not be destroyed as easily as Kern. This time they would stand and fight.

  A squad of black-clad palace guards met the little group just inside the gates of the city, extending warm greetings from the King and insisting that they come to him at once. When Janus Senpre remarked that he had heard the King was deathly ill and confined to his bed, the squad captain quickly, though somewhat belatedly, added that his son Palance extended the offer in his father’s place. Nothing could have pleased Menion more—he was anxious to get inside the palace walls for a look around. Forgotten was the fatigue and pain, though his companions still stood close to offer their support. The squad captain signaled to the guards near the Inner Wall, and an ornate carriage was quickly brought up to convey the privileged party to the palace. Menion and Shirl climbed into the carriage, but Janus Senpre declined to accompany them, explaining that he wished first to see to the welfare of his soldiers in the vacant Legion barracks. With disarming warmth, he promised he would join them later.

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nbsp; As the carriage drew away to the Inner Wall, the youthful commander waved once in sharp salute to Menion, his face impassive. Then accompanied by the grizzled Fandrez and several select officers, he strode purposefully toward the Legion barracks. In the coach, Menion smiled faintly to himself and gripped Shirl’s hand.

  The carriage passed through the gates of the Inner Wall and moved slowly onto the crowded Tyrsian Way. The people of the walled city had risen early that day, anxious to welcome the unfortunate fugitives from their sister city, eager to offer both food and shelter to friends and strangers alike. Everyone wanted to know more about the massive invasion force that was now advancing on their own homes. Throngs of worried and frightened people lingered uncertainly in the busy streets, talking anxiously among themselves, pausing to stare curiously as the carriage escorted by the palace guards rolled slowly past them. A few pointed or waved in astonishment as they recognized the slim girl who rode within, the dark, rust-colored hair shadowing her worn and drawn face. Menion sat close to her, suddenly aware once more of the pain stabbing in quick twinges from his battered feet. He was grateful now that it was not necessary to walk any farther.

  The great city seemed to rush past him in short flashes of buildings and overpasses, all crowded with men, women, and children of all ages and descriptions, all rushing somewhere in noisy waves. The highlander breathed deeply and settled back in the cushioned seat, his hand still holding Shirl’s, his eyes closing momentarily as he allowed his tired mind to drift into the gray haze that clouded his thoughts. The city and its multitudes faded quickly into a faint drone of sound that soothed him, lulled him quietly toward the comfort of sleep.

  He was on the verge of slipping away entirely when a gentle shaking of his shoulder brought him quickly around, and his eyes opened to view the distant palace grounds as the carriage mounted the wide avenue of the Sendic Bridge. The youth gazed appreciatively down on the sunlit parks and gardens beneath the bridge, their tree-shaded lawns dotted with color from seemingly countless carefully tended flower beds. Everything lay in peace and warmth, as if this sector of the city were somehow an unrelated part of the turbulent human existence that had created it.