The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

by Terry Brooks

  Artaq nudged his shoulder and whickered softly. His eyes never leaving the Demons, Allanon edged carefully back until he could grip the horse’s mane and harness. Then painfully he pulled himself into the saddle, nearly blacking out with the effort. Grasping the reins, he turned Artaq about. Seemingly unhurried, he started back toward the Elven defensive lines.

  It was an agonizingly slow escape. He kept Artaq at a deliberate walk; a faster gait would have been too much for him. Foot by foot, the Gardens of Life drew closer. Out of the corner of his eye he could see movement in the lines of the encircling Demons. A few among them were already darting challengingly past the dying flames, shrieking at his back. Others quickly began to follow their lead. He gripped the saddle harness with both hands and did not turn. Soon now, he thought, soon.

  Then suddenly the entire mass broke, howling and screaming. From all sides the Demons came after him. He knew at once that he was still too far from the Gardens of Life to escape them at this pace. He had no choice. He put his boots into Artaq’s flanks, and the black leaped forward. Across the Carolan the big horse raced, powerful body leveled out and straining. Dizziness washed over the Druid, and he felt his grip loosening. He was going to fall.

  Yet somehow he did not. Somehow he managed to hold on until finally the Elven lines were before him. With a lunge, Artaq was through, carrying him past the outstretched hands of Elf and Troll and Dwarf to the Gardens’ iron gates, there at last to thunder to a halt.

  Even then Allanon did not fall. Iron determination kept him astride the black. His face streaked with sweat, he turned to look back across the bluff as the Demon hordes converged upon the Gardens. At its walls, the defenders braced.

  At least they have a chance now, he thought. At least I have given them that.

  Then a flurry of shouts rose all about him and hands pointed skyward. Dayn was beside him, disbelief reflecting in his cry.

  “Genewen! It’s Genewen!”

  The Druid’s eyes lifted. Far to the south, nearly lost in the glare of the noonday sun, a great golden bird was winging its way downward toward Arborlon.

  52

  Wil Ohmsford stared downward in horror. The sun was a dazzling burst of white light that made him squint. Within him, the fever still burned. He felt weak and light-headed, and sweat bathed his body, drying in the rush of the wind. Genewen bore him high above the green, wooded landscape of the Westland, her wings stretched wide as she glided smoothly in the currents of the wind. Leather straps bound Wil to the Roc, and his shattered arm was splinted and wrapped. In front of him sat Perk, the small body swaying easily with Genewen’s movements, his hands and voice guiding her flight. Huddled close against the little Wing Rider, nearly lost within a covering of heavy robes, was Amberle. The arms about his waist belonged to Eretria. He turned, and the Rover girl’s dark eyes met his. The look she gave him was stricken.

  Below lay the Elven city of Arborlon. Bodies littered the Carolan, fires burned across its bluff, and the Elfitch lay in ruins. Horsemen and lancers, pikemen and bowmen, ringed the Gardens of Life like an iron wall. All about them a wave of twisted black bodies swarmed, thousands strong, and it seemed as if at any moment the defenders might all be swept away.

  The Demons, he whispered soundlessly. The Demons!

  He was conscious suddenly of movement from Amberle. The Elven girl had straightened slightly, still bent close to Perk, and she was speaking to the boy. One small hand gripped the Wing Rider’s shoulder. He nodded. Then Genewen began to descend, dropping swiftly toward the Carolan and the Gardens of Life. The Gardens stood like an island, sculpted hedgerows and flower beds carefully ordered and serene, awash in a sea of scarred grasslands and shrieking black Demons. Wil watched the glitter of weapons in the sunlight as the defenders fought back against the hordes that came against them. Already the black creatures were breaking through. A scattered few were within the walls.

  On the small rise at the Gardens’ center, the lifeless husk that had once been the Ellcrys stood forgotten.

  Genewen cried out suddenly, a piercing shriek that cut through the din of the battle taking place below. For an instant all eyes were turned upon the giant Roc. Downward she plunged, like a falling piece of sunlight. Scattered cries of recognition rose from among the Elves. A Wing Rider, they cried and searched futilely for others.

  Then Genewen was within the Gardens, dropping slowly to the foot of the small rise. Great wings folded in and the scarlet head dipped sharply. Perk scrambled down, working swiftly to release the harness straps that secured the others. He freed Amberle first, and she slid limply from Genewen’s back, crumpling to her knees as her feet touched the ground. Wil struggled to reach her, but the fever had weakened him and the straps would not loosen.

  Beyond the hedgerows and flowered tiers, the sounds of battle drew closer.

  “Amberle!” he called.

  She was on her feet again, standing not a dozen paces from him, her child’s face lifting. For an instant the terrible blood-red eyes fixed upon his, and it seemed as if she would speak. Then, wordlessly, she turned and started up the rise.

  “Amberle!” Wil screamed and thrashed against the straps that bound him. Genewen lurched sharply, crying out, and Perk fought to steady her.

  “Be still, Healer!” Eretria tried to caution him, but he was beyond being cautioned. All he could see was Amberle moving away from him. He was losing her. He could sense it.

  Genewen started to rise then, frightened by the Valeman’s struggles. Perk grasped her harness and pulled himself up, vainly trying to bring her under control. Then Eretria’s knife was out, severing the straps that secured both Wil and her. An instant later they were falling, tumbling headlong into a line of bushes. Pain shot through the Valeman’s injured body as he struggled back to his feet. Eretria called out to him, but he ignored her, stumbling after the retreating figure of the Elven girl. Already she was halfway up the rise, moving slowly toward the tree.

  Howls rose from close at hand. Abruptly half-a-dozen Demons broke from the hedgerows. Perk had Genewen grounded again and had just dismounted and gone after Wil. Instantly the Demons came at him. But the Valeman had seen them. His fist swung about, the Elfstones gripped within it. Blue fire exploded into the Demons and they disappeared.

  “Get away!” he called back to Perk. “Fly, Wing Rider!”

  Eretria stumbled to his side. Other Demons began to emerge from the sheltering hedgerows, shrieking as they came. A scattering of Black Watch burst through to intercept them, pikes lowered. But the Demons fought their way past the Elves and came at Wil. The Valeman turned to face them, and again the Elfstones flared. Perk was back atop Genewen, but instead of flying to safety, the little Wing Rider had turned the giant Roc toward the closest attackers, driving them back. Yet there were dozens more, converging from everywhere, and even the fire of the Elfstones was not enough to stop them all.

  Then a single piercing cry rose above those of the Demons and seemed to hang in the heat of the summer noon. Wil turned. Atop the rise stood Amberle, arms stretched forth to clasp the trunk of the Ellcrys. At her touch the tree appeared to shimmer like the waters of a stream caught in a blaze of sunlight, then disintegrate in a shower of silver dust that fell about the Elven girl like snow. She stood alone then, arms lifting, frail body straightening.

  And she began to change.

  “Amberle!” Wil screamed one final time, falling stricken to his knees.

  The Elven girl’s body began to loose its shape, the human form melting, clothing shredding and falling from her; her legs fused and tendrils from her feet slipped downward into the earth; slowly, her upraised arms lengthened and split.

  “Oh, Wil!” Eretria whispered as she sank down beside him.

  Amberle was gone. In her place stood the Ellcrys, perfectly formed, silver bark and crimson leaves gleaming in the sunlight, born anew into the world of the Elves.

  A wail of anguish rose from the Demons. The Forbidding was restored. All across the Carola
n they cried out as it began to draw them back again. Frantically they stumbled away, fighting to escape the blackness that closed inexorably about them. But there was no escape. One by one they faded from the light, hundreds and then thousands, large and small, black forms writhing, until finally the last had vanished.

  Silence fell over the defenders of Arborlon as they stared wordlessly about. It was as if the Demons had never been.

  In the Gardens of Life, Wil Ohmsford wept.

  53

  The Elves found him there moments later. At Ander Elessedil’s command, they carried him to Arborlon. Too stunned by the loss of Amberle to argue, his body wracked with fever, he let them take him. He was carried to the manor house of the Elessedils, down its hallways and corridors, silent and shadowed, to a room where he was bedded. Elven Healers washed and dressed his wounds and bound his shattered arm. They gave him a bitter liquid to drink that made him drowsy, and they wrapped him carefully in linen and blankets. Then they left him, closing the door quietly as they went. In seconds, he was asleep.

  As he slept, he dreamed that he wandered through a deep, impenetrable darkness, hopelessly lost. Somewhere within the same darkness was Amberle, but he could not find her; when he called, her response was faint and distant. Gradually he became aware of another presence, cold and evil and strangely familiar—a thing that he had encountered before. Terrified, he began to run, faster and faster, fighting his way through webs of black silence. But the thing pursued him; though it made no sound, he could sense it nevertheless, always just a step behind. At last its fingers touched him, and he cried out in fear. Then abruptly the darkness disappeared. There were gardens all about him, beautiful and rich with color, and the thing was gone. Relief flooded through him; he was safe again. But in the next instant the ground beneath his feet buckled and he was lifted into the air. Suddenly he could see that a black wave beyond the gardens was sweeping slowly inward, closing about him, rising like an ocean in which he would surely drown. Desperately he turned to find Amberle, and he saw her now, darting like some voiceless wraith through the garden’s center—just a glimpse and then she was gone. Over and over he called for her, but there was no answer. Then the black wave washed over him, and he began to sink…

  Amberle!

  He awoke with a start, his body damp with sweat. On a small table set against the far wall, a single candle burned. Shadows wrapped the room, and nightfall lay over the city.

  “Wil Ohmsford.”

  He turned at the sound of his name, searching. A tall, cowled figure sat at his bedside, black and faceless against the faint glow of the candle’s flame.

  The Valeman blinked slowly in recognition.

  Allanon.

  Then everything came back to him in a rush. Bitterness stirred within him, bitterness so tangible that he could taste it. When at last he was able to speak, his voice was a low hiss.

  “You knew, Allanon. You knew all the time.”

  There was no reply. Tears stung the Valeman’s eyes. He thought back to that first night in Storlock, when he had met the Druid. He had known then that he could not afford to trust Allanon, that he must not trust him. Flick had warned him; Allanon was a man of secrets, and he hid those secrets well.

  But this—how could he have hidden this!

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” The words were a whisper. “You could have told me.”

  There was a movement within the shadows of the cowl. “It would not have helped you to know, Valeman.”

  “It would not have helped you—isn’t that what you mean? You used me! You let me think that if I could protect Amberle from the Demons, if she could be brought safely back to Arborlon, then everything would be all right. You knew that was what I believed and you knew it wasn’t so!”

  The Druid was silent. Wil shook his head in disbelief. “Couldn’t you at least have told her?”

  “No, Valeman. She would not have believed me. She would not have let herself. It would have been too much to ask of her. Think back to what happened when I spoke with her at Havenstead. She did not even want to believe that she was still a Chosen. Her selection as a Chosen had been a mistake, she insisted. No, she would not have believed me. Not then. She needed time to learn the truth about herself and to understand that truth. It was not something that I could have explained to her; it was something that she had to discover for herself.”

  The Valeman’s voice shook. “Words, Allanon—you are so practiced in their use. You can persuade so easily. You persuaded me once, didn’t you? But I will not be persuaded this time; I know what you did.”

  “Then you must know also what I did not do,” Allanon replied quietly. He bent forward. “The final decision was hers, Valeman—not mine. I was never there to make that decision, only to see to it that she was given the opportunity to make it herself. I did that and nothing more.”

  “Nothing more? You made certain that she made the decision the way you wanted it made. I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

  “I made certain she understood what the consequences of the decision would be, whichever way she chose to make it. That is somewhat different …”

  “Consequences!” Wil’s head jerked up from the pillow and his sudden laugh was laced with irony. “What do you know about consequences, Allanon?” His voice broke. “Do you know what she meant to me? Do you know?”

  Tears streamed down his face. Slowly he lay back again, feeling strangely ashamed. All of the bitterness drained out of him, and he ached with the emptiness that was left. He looked away from Allanon self-consciously, and they both stayed silent. In the darkness of the sleeping room, the lone candle’s glow touched them softly.

  It was a long time before the Valeman looked back again. “Well, it’s finished now. She’s gone.” He swallowed hard. “Would you at least explain why?”

  The Druid said nothing for a moment, hunched down within the concealing shadows of his robe. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.

  “Listen then, Valeman. She is a marvelous creature—this tree, this Ellcrys—a living bit of magic formed by the bonding of human life with earth-fire. Before the Great Wars, she was made. The Elven wizards conceived her when the Demons were finally brought to bay and there was a need to prevent them from again threatening the land of faerie. The Elves, you remember, were not a violent people. Preservation of life was their purpose and their work. Even with creatures as destructive and evil as the Demons, they would not consider deliberate annihilation of a species. Banishment from the land appeared the most acceptable alternative, but they knew it would have to be a banishment of such power that the Demons thousands of years hence would still be subject to its laws. And the banishment would have to be to a place where no harm would come to others. So the Elven wizards used their most powerful magics, the ones that called for the greatest sacrifice of all, the willing gift of life. It was this gift that enabled the Ellcrys to come into being and the Forbidding to be created.”

  He was quiet a moment. “You must understand the Elven way of life, the nature of the code that governs that way of life, to appreciate what the Ellcrys truly represents and why, therefore, Amberle chose to become her. The Elves believe that they owe a debt to the land, for the land is the creator of and the provider for all life. The Elves believe that when one takes from the land, one must give something back in return. This belief is traditional; it is ritual. Their lives are given them; therefore they must give life back again. They accomplish this, Valeman, through a life marked by service to the land, endeavoring each in his own way to see to it that the land is preserved. The Ellcrys is but an expansion of that dedication. She is the embodiment of the belief that the land and the Elves are mutually dependent. The Ellcrys is a joining of the land with Elven life, a joining conceived to protect against an evil that would see both destroyed. Amberle understood that in the end. She saw that the only way in which the Westland and her people could be saved was through her sacrifice, her willingness to become the Ellcrys. She sa
w that the seed she bore could be given life only through a giving up of her own.”

  He paused and bent forward slowly, his dark figure casting its shadow over the listening Valeman. “You realize that the first Ellcrys was a woman also; it is not by chance that we refer to the tree as a lady. The Ellcrys must always be a woman, for only a woman can reproduce others of her kind. The wizards foresaw this need for procreation, though they were not able to foresee how often it might be necessary. They chose a woman, a young girl who, I would imagine, was very much like Amberle, and they transformed her. Then they established the order of the Chosen so that she might be cared for and when the time came might have the means to select her successor. But it was men, not women, that she selected as her Chosen down through the years, all but a handful. The histories do not record why—even she no longer knew. The selections had been made from habit for a very long time; she chose women only when the need was there. Perhaps it had something to do with her creation in the time of the Elven wizards. Perhaps they promised her young men to serve her—perhaps she requested it. Perhaps the choice of young men to serve was more acceptable to the Elves. I don’t know.

  “In any case, when she chose Amberle, the Ellcrys suspected that she might be dying. She could not be certain, of course, because she was the first of her kind, and no one had ever known when her death might come or what signs might foretell it. Indeed, many believed that she could not die. And the physical characteristics of that part of her that had been human had long since evolved into something far different, so there was no help there. There had been other times in her life when she had thought she might be dying, when she had thought she was in such danger that she must choose the one who would succeed her. Each time she selected a woman—a handful of times only. The last was five hundred years ago. I don’t know what prompted it, so don’t ask. It isn’t really important.