The Sword of Shannara Trilogy the Sword of Shannara Trilogy

  Then Allanon was beside him. Snatching from the earth the fallen Ellcrys staff, he brought Ander to his feet with a yank and thrust the talisman into his hands.

  “Grieve later, Elven Prince.” He placed his dark face close to Ander’s. “For now, you must command. Quickly—withdraw the Elves into the canyon.”

  Ander started to object, then stopped. What he saw in the Druid’s eyes convinced him that this was neither the time nor the place for argument. Wordlessly he obeyed. He ordered his father carried from the fighting. Then rallying the Home Guard about him at the canyon entrance, he sent runners to the center and both flanks of the Elven defensive line and ordered them to pull back. With Allanon at his shoulder, he placed himself squarely at the head of the gorge where the Elves and the Bordermen might see him and watched the battle sweep toward him.

  Back surged the lancers and pikemen of the Elven phalanx and the gray soldiers of the Free Corps, clogging the canyon mouth. Stee Jans appeared, red hair flying, a huge broadsword in his hands. Then Allanon’s arms rose high above his head, black robes spreading wide, and the blue fire spurted from his fingers.

  “Now!” he commanded Ander. “Back into the canyon!”

  Ander lifted the Ellcrys staff and called out. The last of the Elves and Free Corps disengaged from the struggle and sprinted back through the pass connecting gorge and canyon. Shrieks of rage broke from the Demons, who surged forward after them.

  Allanon stood alone at the head of the pass. In a rush, the Demons came for him, scrambling up the gorge, a wave of black bodies. The Druid seemed to gather himself, his lean form straightening against the shadow of the rock walls. Again his hands lifted and the blue fire burst forth. All across the canyon entrance it burned, rising up like a wall before the enraged Demons, barring their passage. Howling and screaming, they backed away.

  Within the canyon, Allanon turned to Ander.

  “The fire will last only a few moments.” The Druid’s face was drawn and streaked with sweat and dirt. “Then they will be on us again.”

  “Allanon, how can we stand against such odds …?” Ander began hopelessly.

  “We cannot—not here, not now.” The Druid gripped his arm. “The passes of the Breakline are lost. We must escape quickly.”

  Ander was already shouting orders. His command sent the army of the Elves streaming back across the canyon floor, cavalry reserves riding ahead with wounded that could sit a horse; pikemen, lancers, and archers followed, carrying those who could not. The Home Guard bore the unconscious King. Allanon and Ander trailed. They had gone just beyond the brush-sheltered pool that lay at the canyon’s center when the flame barring the far entrance flared and went out.

  In midflight, the Elves looked back. For an instant the entrance lay open, but then the Demons poured through, choking the narrow passage as they fought to gain the canyon beyond. Howling, they swept after the fleeing Elves. They were too late. The main body of the army had already gained the defile that led into the split and had scrambled through. A rear guard of Free Corps under Stee Jans set their lines as Allanon, Ander, and the remnants of the Home Guard crossed the last hundred yards of canyon floor. At the mouth of the defile, they turned momentarily to watch the approach of the Demon hordes.

  It was an awesome, frightening spectacle. Like a dark wave, the Demons filled the canyon, spreading out across its grass-covered floor from wall to wall, their struggling black bodies heaving and tossing like rats driven before the waters of some great flood. The earth grew dark with leaping, twisting, writhing forms, and the air above was dotted with those that flew. Druid and Elves stared back in disbelief. It was as if their numbers were endless.

  Then abruptly the wave seemed to part where it broke from the gorge and a monstrous, scaled form lurched into view. Dark green and brutish, it dwarfed its brethren as it reared upward within the canyon pass and shoved its way through, scattering those about it like twigs. The Elves cried out in horror. It was a Dragon, its serpentine body spine-covered and slick with its own secretions. Six ponderous, gnarled legs, clawed and tufted with dark hair, supported its sagging bulk. Its head arched searchingly into the air, horned and crusted, a distorted lump out of which burned a single, lidless green eye. As the scent of Elven blood touched its nostrils, its snout split wide to reveal rows of jagged teeth and its tail thrashed frenziedly behind it, filling the air with shattered bodies. The Demons gave way hurriedly, and the monster shambled forward, shaking the rock with the weight of its passing.

  At the far end of the canyon, Allanon watched the Dragon’s approach for an instant more before turning to Ander.

  “Move back beyond the split. Quickly now.”

  Ander was pale. “But the Dragon …”

  “… is too much for you.” The Druid’s voice was cold. “Do as I tell you. Leave the Dragon to me.”

  Ander stepped back to give the command, and the army of the Elves withdrew to the far end of the split. With Stee Jans beside him, Ander turned to watch. Allanon stood alone, staring down into the canyon. The Dragon had passed through the center of the canyon and was lurching up the slope toward the defile. Already it had caught sight of the Druid, that solitary black figure that did not run like the others, and it hungered to reach him so that it might crush out his life. Massive legs churned, tearing apart the rock and earth beneath. Behind and to either side, the Demons followed, shrieking with anticipation, scrambling to stay clear of their monstrous brother.

  Allanon held his ground, black robes drawn close about him, until the Dragon was less than a hundred yards from the defile. Then the robes flew wide and the lean arms lifted, hands extending toward the monster. Blue fire lanced from his fingers, striking the Dragon’s head and throat, and the smell of charred flesh filled the air. Yet the creature did not slow, but shrugged aside the attack as if it were little more than bothersome, its huge form surging forward. Again the fire struck, singeing forelegs and chest, leaving trailers of smoke that rose from the Dragon’s body. Its hiss of anger was sharp and cold, but it came on.

  Allanon slipped back into the defile, moving quickly to the far end. Again he turned. The Dragon reared into view, pushing forward into the narrow passage. Allanon struck, blue fire searing in sharp, sudden bursts. The Dragon’s hiss was venomous as it snapped the air before it, frustrated that it could not yet reach the taunting creature ahead. The walls of the defile hindered its movements as it blundered forward awkwardly. Behind it, the cries of the Demon brethren urged it on.

  Slowly Allanon backed away from the mouth of the defile toward the split. The passage was clogged with smoke and dust, and the brutish form of the Dragon was obscured by the haze. Then suddenly it surged into view, its snout gaping hungrily. With both hands locked before him, Allanon sent a bolt of fire into the monster’s eye. When the fire struck, the creature’s entire head was enveloped. This time the Dragon cried out, a terrible howl that spoke of pain and rage. Its body rose high within the defile, slamming against the stone walls until the cliffs shuddered with the force of the blows. Boulders tumbled down about the monster as it heaved and thrashed with pain.

  A moment later the south wall cracked wide and the entire cliff face began to slide slowly into the defile. Sensing the danger it was in, the Dragon lurched forward, desperate to get clear of the pass. Half-blinded by the pain and dust, it broke from the defile as tons of rock crashed down behind it, burying the Demons who tried to follow. Blue fire struck it instantly, but without effect. The Dragon was ready this time, its lumpish head bobbing guardedly to avoid the fire. Before it crouched the dark figure of the Druid. Hissing in fury, the monster shambled toward its enemy, massive jaws snapping. Allanon wheeled and darted back, moving not to the broader trail that lay right, but sprinting onto the narrow ledge that curved left above the split. Maddened beyond reason, heedless of what lay ahead, the Dragon came after him. In a rush it thundered onto the ledge, snout reaching for the human fleeing before it, massive legs driving it forward.

  But sudden
ly the ledge was no longer there. Broken rock gave way beneath the weight of the monstrous creature. With a desperate effort, the Dragon lunged toward the Druid. Allanon sprang back as massive jaws swept barely a foot short of his head. Then with a final, terrible hiss, the Dragon slipped away from the crumbling ledge into the black pit of the chasm, disappearing in an avalanche of earth and stone, screaming its hatred. Down into the emptiness it fell and was gone.

  Ander Elessedil stood at the far end of the split and watched as Allanon made his way back along the remains of the ledge. After a moment, his gaze shifted. A quick glance at the defile showed it blocked by tons of rock. A slow, bitter smile creased his bloodied face. The Demons would follow them no further through Halys Cut. The Elves had gained a brief respite, a chance to regroup so that they might make their stand elsewhere.

  He turned. Behind him, within the mouth of the pass, the soldiers of the Elven army stared out of the shadows in silence, weariness and uncertainty clouding their faces. The Elven Prince could read what was reflected there. So many Demons had come through the Forbidding—so many more than any of them had believed possible. They had failed utterly to stop them here. How would they stop them at the Sarandanon?

  Wordlessly, he looked away again. He did not have the answer. He wondered if anyone did.

  31

  It was a dispirited army that came down out of Halys Cut, shamed by the defeat that had been inflicted upon it and shocked by the number of its dead and wounded. For the dead, lost in the flight back through the pass, there could be no proper return of the body to the earth which had given it life. For the wounded, there could be no relief from the excruciating pain of injuries inflamed by the poison of Demon claws and teeth; their moans and cries lingered unbearably in the midday stillness. For the rest, those who marched south along the wall of the Breakline, there could be no comfort taken in what had passed that day, nor little in what most certainly lay ahead. As the noon sun beat down upon them, mouths went dry with thirst and thoughts turned black with bitterness.

  Ander Elessedil led them, no leader in his own mind, little more than a victim of capricious circumstance, and his thoughts were dark. He wanted this to be ended, his father restored to consciousness, and his brother returned. He held in his hands the gnarled length of the Ellcrys staff and thought himself a fool. None of this was meant to be. Still, he knew he must play the role that had been forced upon him a while longer, at least until the army reached Baen Draw. Mercifully, it would be ended then.

  His gaze shifted to Allanon. The Druid rode silently beside him, dark and enigmatic within his concealing robes, his thoughts locked carefully away from Ander. Only once during the march back had he spoken.

  “I understand now why they let us come this far,” he had said, his voice rather quiet in its suddenness. “They wanted us within these mountains.”

  “Wanted us?” Ander had questioned.

  “Wanted us, Elven Prince,” Allanon had replied coldly. “With so many, they knew there was nothing we could do to stop them. They let us trap ourselves.”

  A rider appeared on the horizon, a solitary horseman, his mount driven almost to exhaustion as it galloped wildly across the grasslands toward the approaching Elves. Lifting the Ellcrys staff, Ander signalled a halt. With Allanon beside him, he rode forward to meet the horseman. Disheveled and dust-streaked, the rider jolted to a stop before them. Ander knew this man, a messenger in his brother’s service.

  “Flyn,” he spoke the Elf’s name in greeting.

  The messenger hesitated, then glanced quickly past him to the column of soldiers. “I am to report to the King …” he began.

  “Give your message to the Prince,” Allanon snapped.

  “My Lord,” Flyn saluted, his face white. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes. “My Lord …” he began again, but his voice broke and he could not continue.

  Ander dismounted and beckoned Flyn down with him. Wordlessly he put an arm about the distraught messenger and led him forward several paces to where they might speak alone. There he faced the Elf squarely.

  “Slowly now—give me your message.”

  Flyn nodded, his face tightening. “My Lord, I am instructed to tell the King that Prince Arion has fallen. My Lord … he is dead.”

  Ander shook his head slowly. “Dead?” It seemed as if someone else were speaking. “How can he be dead? He can’t be dead!”

  “We were attacked at dawn, my lord.” Flyn was crying openly. “The Demons … there were so many. They forced us from the pass. We were overrun. The battle standard fell … and when Prince Arion tried to recover it, the Demons caught him …”

  Ander quickly put his hand up to check the Elf’s words. He did not want to hear the rest. It was a nightmare that could not be happening. His eyes flashed quickly to Allanon, and he found the Druid’s dark face turned toward his own. Allanon knew.

  “Do we have my brother’s body?” Ander forced himself to ask the question.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “I want it brought to me.”

  Flyn nodded silently. “My Lord, there is something more.” Ander turned back now, waiting. “My Lord, Worl Run is lost, but Commander Pindanon believes that it can be retaken. He requests additional cavalry to make a sweep back across the grasslands that border the pass so that …”

  “No!” Ander cut him short, his voice suddenly urgent. With an effort he composed himself. “No, Flyn. Tell Commander Pindanon that he is to withdraw at once. He is to return to Sarandanon.”

  The Elf swallowed hard, glancing hurriedly at Allanon. “Forgive me, my Lord, but I was instructed to speak with the King on this. The Commander will ask …”

  Ander understood. “Tell the Commander that my father has been wounded.” Flyn paled further, and Ander took a deep breath. “Tell Kael Pindanon that I command the army of the Elves and that he is to withdraw at once. Take a fresh horse, Flyn, and go quickly. Safe journey, messenger!”

  Flyn saluted and hurried off. Ander stood alone, staring out across the empty grasslands, a strange numbness stealing through him as he realized that there no longer remained any chance to bridge that gulf that had always separated Arion and him. Arion was lost to him forever. His back to Allanon, he let himself cry.

  Dusk slipped silently across the valley of the Sarandanon, its shadow lengthening to Baen Draw and the army of the Elves. Within his tent, Eventine Elessedil lay sleeping, unconscious still, his breathing shallow and uneven. Ander sat alone at his bedside, staring down at him wordlessly, wishing that he would come awake again. Until the King woke, it would be impossible to judge how serious his injury might be. He was an old man, and Ander was frightened for him.

  Impulsively, he reached for his father’s hand and took it gently in his own. The hand was limp. The old man did not stir. Ander held the hand for a moment, then released it again and leaned back wearily.

  “Father,” he whispered, almost to himself.

  He stood up and moved away from the bed, distracted. How could it have happened—his father fallen, grievously injured; his brother killed; himself become leader of the Elves—how could it have happened? It was a madness that he could not bring himself to accept. Certainly the possibility had always been there that his father and his brother would be gone and that he alone of the Elessedils would be left to rule. But it had been an absurd possibility. No one had believed it would truly happen, least of all he. He was ill-prepared for this, he thought gloomily. What had he ever been to his father and his brother but a pair of hands to act in their behalf? It had been their destiny to rule the Elven people, their wish, their expectation—never his. Yet now…

  He shook his head wearily. Now he must rule, at least for a time. And he must lead this army that his father had led before him. He must defend the Sarandanon and find a way to stop the Demon advance. Halys Cut had shown the Elves how difficult this would be. They knew as well as he that if the rock slide brought about by the battle between Allanon and the Dragon had not blocked Hal
ys Cut, the Demons might have caught and annihilated them all. His first task, then, was to give the Elves reason to believe that this would not happen to them here at Baen Draw, despite the loss of both the King and his firstborn son. In short, he must give them hope.

  He sat down again next to his father. Kael Pindanon could help him; he was a veteran of many wars, an experienced soldier. But would he? He knew that Pindanon was angry with him because of his order to the Commander to withdraw from the passes of the Breakline. Pindanon had not returned yet, remaining behind with a rearguard of Elven cavalry to slow the Demon advance on the Sarandanon. But forewarning of his displeasure had already reached Ander’s ears through comments voiced by a handful of his officers. When he rode in, he would confront Ander directly. Then things would really come to a head. Ander already knew he would ask that command of the army be given to him. Ander shook his head once more. It would be easy enough to do that, to turn command of the army over to Pindanon and let the old warrior assume responsibility for the defense of the Elven homeland. Perhaps that was what he should do. Yet something inside of him resisted so simplistic a resolution to the dilemma; there was need for caution in shedding too quickly duties that were clearly his.

  “What would you do?” he asked softly of his father, knowing there would be no answer, yet needing one.

  The minutes slipped past, and the dusk deepened.

  Finally Dardan appeared through the tent flap. “Commander Pindanon has returned,” he announced. “He asks to speak with you.”

  Ander nodded and wondered momentarily where Allanon had gone. He had seen nothing of the Druid since their return. Still, this meeting with Pindanon was his problem. He started to his feet, then remembered the Ellcrys staff which lay on the floor next to his father’s bed. Lifting it in both hands, he hesitated a moment, staring down at the old man beside him.