At dawn, the Elves marched forth from Arborlon, to the wail of pipes and the roll of drums, voices raised in song, banners flying in splashes of vivid color against a sky still leaden and clouded. Eventine Elessedil rode at their head, gray hair flowing down chain mail forged of blue iron, his right hand holding firmly the silver-white staff of the Ellcrys. Allanon was at his side, a spectral shadow, tall and black atop a still taller and blacker Artaq, and it was as if Death had ridden from the pits of the earth to stand watch over the Elves. Behind rode the King’s sons: Arion, cloaked in white and bearing the Elven standard of battle, a war eagle on a field of crimson; Ander, cloaked in green and carrying the banner of the house of the Elessedils, a crown wreathed in boughs set over a spreading oak. Dardan, Rhoe, and three dozen hardened Elven Hunters came next, the Elessedil guard; then the gray and crimson of the Legion Free Corps, six hundred strong. Pindanon rode alone at the forefront of his command, a gaunt, bent figure atop his warhorse, his battle-scarred armor lashed about his spare frame as if to hold his bones in place. The army followed him, massive and forbidding, six columns wide and thousands strong. They numbered three companies of cavalry, battle lances hoisted out of their midst in a forest of iron-tipped shafts, four companies of foot soldiers with pikes and body shields, and two companies of archers bearing the great Elven long bows-all clad in the traditional manner of the Elven warrior, lightly armored with chain-mail vests and leather guards to assure mobility and quickness.
It was an awesome procession. Trappings and weapons creaked and jingled in the early morning stillness, flashed in dull glimmerings through the new light, and cast the Elves in half-human forms that whispered of death. Booted feet and iron-shod hooves thudded and splashed along the muddied earth as the columns of men and horses wound from the parade grounds north of the city to the bluff of the Carolan and prepared to turn onto the Elfitch, the hooked rampway that led down from the heights of Arborlon to the forestlands beneath. The people of the city had come to watch. Atop the Carolan, on walls and fences, in fields and gardens, lining the way at every step, they bade farewell with cheers of encouragement and hope and with silences born of emotions that had no voice. Before the gates to the Gardens of Life, the Black Watch stood assembled, present to a man, their lances raised in salute. At the bluff’s edge were gathered in review the Elven Hunters of the Home Guard and the man who would command them in their King’s absence-Emer Chios, First Minister of the High Council, now the designated defender of the city of Arborlon.
Down out of the Carolan the Elven army wound, following the spiral of the stone-block ramp as it dropped along the forested cliffs through seven walled gates that marked its levels of descent. At its lower end, the army swung south toward the narrows. A solitary bridge spanned the Rill Song, the lone passage west from the city, its iron struts nearly awash with the swollen waters of the river. Like a metal-backed snake, the army moved onto the bridge, crossed, and passed into the silent woods beyond. The glitter of weapons and armor twinkled into darkness, banners slipped from view, and the strains of song, the wail of pipes, and the roll of drums faded into echoes quickly lost in the leafy canopy of the trees. By the time the morning sun had broken through the clouds of the departing storm to rise above the crest of the Carolan and light the forestland below, the last remnants of this grand procession had disappeared from view.
For five days the army journeyed west from Arborlon, winding its way through the deep forests of the homeland toward the Sarandanon. The rains had moved east into Callahorn, and the sun shone down out of cloudless blue skies to warm the woodland shadows. Travel was measured, the cavalry forced to slow its place to match that of the soldiers afoot. Evidence of the danger, threatening the Elves became steadily more apparent as the army passed Westward through the outlying provinces. Tales filtered back from Elven families on heir way eastward to the home city with their possessions bundled in carts and on the backs of oxen and horse. Their homes and their villages were abandoned behind them. Terrifying creatures roamed the land west, their frightened voices warned dark and brutal monsters that killed without reason and disappeared as quickly as they had come. Cottages had been stripped and homes violated, the Elves within left torn and broken. Such incidents were scattered, but that merely served to convince the fleeing villagers that there was no longer any place west of Arborlon that was safe. As the army marched past, the villagers sent up cheers and shouts of encouragement, but their faces remained clouded with doubt.
The march west wore on until late in the afternoon of the fifth day, the army passed out of the forestland into the valley of the Sarandanon. The valley lay sandwiched between woodlands on the south and east, the Kensrowe Mountains on the north, and the broad expanse of the Innisbore on the west. A flat, fertile stretch of farmland dotted with small clumps of trees and pockets of spring water, the Sarandanon was the breadbasket of the Elven nation. Corn, wheat, and other seed crops were sown and harvested seasonally by the families who lived within the valley, then bartered or sold to the remainder of the homeland. Mild temperatures and a balanced rainfall provided an ideal climate for farming, and for generations the Sarandanon had served as the principal source of food for the Elven people.
The Elven army encamped that night at the eastern end of the valley; at dawn on the following day, it began the journey across. A broad, earthen road wound through the heart of the Sarandanon past fence lines and clusters of small dwellings and sheds, and the army followed it west. In the fields, the families of the valley toiled with quiet determination. Few Elves here had yet gone east. Everything that had meaning in their lives lay rooted in the land they farmed, and they would not be frightened off easily.
By midafternoon, the army had reached the western end of the valley In the distance, beyond the Innisbore, the humped ridge of the Breakline rose up against the horizon, curving north above the Kensrowe into the wilderness of the Kershalt Territory. The sun already lay atop the crest of the mountains, brilliant golden light spilling down out of the rock. In the growing darkness of the eastern sky, the moon’s whiteness glimmered faintly.
The army swung north. Between the Innisbore and the Kensrowe, Baen Draw opened down out of the rugged hill country below the Breakline into the valley of the Sarandanon. It was there that the army of the Elves made its camp.
At dusk, Allanon came down out of the Kensrowe as silently and unexpectedly as he had gone into them hours before, his tall form moving into the Elven camp like one of night’s shadows, dark and solitary as he passed through the maze of cooking fires that dotted the grasslands. He went directly to the tent of the Elven King, oblivious to the soldiers who stared after him, his head lowered within the darkness of his cowl. The Elven Hunters who stood watch before Eventine’s quarters stepped aside wordlessly at his approach and let him enter without challenge.
Within, he found the King at a small, makeshift table of planks laid crosswise atop logs, his evening meal spread out before him. Dardan and Rhoe stood silently at the rear of the tent. At a glance from the Druid, Eventine dismissed them. When they were gone, Allanon moved to the table and seated himself.
“Is all in readiness?” he asked quietly.
Eventine nodded.
“And the plan of defense?”
In the light of the oil lamps, the King could see that the Druid’s dark face was streaked with sweat. He stared uncertainly at the mystic, then pushed aside his dinner and laid a map of the Elven homeland upon the table.
“At dawn, we march to the Breakline.” He traced the route with his finger. “We will secure the passes of Halys Cut and Worl Run and hold them against the Demons for as long as we are able. If the passes are forced, we will fall back to the Sarandanon. Baen Draw will be our second line of defense. Once through the Breakline, the Demons will have three ways to go. If they turn south out of the passes, they must circle below the Innisbore through the forests, then come north again. If they turn north first, they must make their way through the rugged hill country above the Kensrowe and come south. Either route will delay their advance on Arborlon by at least several days. Their only other choice will be to come through the Draw-and through the Elven army.”
Allanon’s dark gaze fixed on the King. “They will choose the Draw.”
“We should be able to hold it for several days,” the King continued. “Longer, perhaps, if they do not think to flank us.”
“Two days, no more.” The Druid’s voice was flat, unemotional.
Eventine stiffened. “Very well, two days. But if the Draw is taken, the Sarandanon will be lost. Arborlon will be our last defense.”
“So be it.” Allanon leaned forward, hands knotting together before him. “We need to speak now of something else, something that I have kept from you.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “The Demons are no longer with us-those who have crossed already through the Forbidding, the Dagda Mor and his followers. They neither watch us nor follow after us. If they did, I would sense it, and I have sensed nothing from the time that we left Arborlon.”
The Elven King stared back at him wordlessly.
“I thought it strange that they should take so little interest in us.” The Druid smiled faintly. “This afternoon I went up into the mountains so that I might be alone to discover where it was that they had gone. It is within my power to search out those who are hidden from my eyes. I have that power, but it must be used sparingly, for in using it I reveal to others with powers similar to my own-such as the Dagda Mor-both my own presence and the presence of any whom I seek. I could not risk using it to follow Wil Ohmsford and your granddaughter on their journey south; if I did I might tell the Demons where they could be found. Yet to search out the Dagda Mor himself-that, I felt, was a risk that should be taken.
“I did seek him then, searching the whole of the surrounding land to discover where he had concealed himself. But he was not concealed. I found him beyond the wall of the Breakline, within the Hoare Flats, he and those who follow him. Still, I could tell little of what they were about; their thoughts were closed to me. I could but sense their presence. The evil that pervades them is so strong that even brushing against it momentarily caused me great pain, and I was forced to withdraw at once.”
The Druid straightened. “It is certain that the Demons gather within the Flats in anticipation of the collapse of the Forbidding. It is certain that they work to hasten that collapse. They do this openly and without concern for what the plans of the Elves may be. That suggests to me that they already know those plans.”
Eventine paled. “The spy within my house-the spy who warned the Demons that you would be at Paranor.”
“That would explain why it is the Demons show such an obvious lack of interest in our movements,” Allanon agreed. “If they already know that we intend to stop them at the Breakline, they have little need to follow after us to see what we are about. They have only to await our coming.”
The implication of that statement was not lost on Eventine. “Then the Breakline may be a trap.”
The Druid nodded. “The question is, what kind of trap do the Demons set? There are not enough of them yet to withstand an army of this size. They have need of those still imprisoned within the Forbidding. If we are quick enough...”
He left the sentence unfinished and rose. “One thing more, Eventine. Be cautious. The spy is still with us. He may be within this camp, among those you trust. If the opportunity, presents itself, he may seek your death.”
He turned and moved back toward the entry, the shadow of his dark form rising up against the tent wall like some giant in the flickering light of the oil lamps. The King stared after him wordlessly for a moment, then lurched sharply to his feet.
“Allanon!”
The Druid looked back.
“If the Demons know why we march to the Breakline-if they know that-then they may also know that Amberle carries the Ellcrys seed into the Wilderun.”
There was an unpleasant silence. The two men faced each other. Then, without replying, the Druid turned and disappeared through the tent flap into the night.
At that same moment, Ander was picking his way through the crowded Elven encampment in search of the Legion Free Corps and Stee Jans. Ostensibly his mission was to inquire into the needs of the Legion soldiers, but underlying this was his personal interest in their Commander. He had not spoken again with Jans since the Free Corps had arrived in Arborlon and he was admittedly curious to know more about the enigmatic Southlander. With nothing else immediate to occupy his time, he had decided to take this opportunity to seek him out and talk further with him.
He found the Free Corps camp at the southern edge of the Kensrowe, their watch already posted, their horses tethered and fed. No one challenged him as he wandered into their midst. When he could not immediately locate the Free Corps Commander’s quarters, he stopped a number of soldiers to ask if they knew where Jans could be found and was directed finally to a Legion Captain.
“Him?” The Captain, was a burly fellow with a heavy beard and a laugh that rang deep and hollow. “Who knows? He’s not in his tent, I can tell you that much. He left almost as soon as we pitched camp. Went out into the hills.”
“Scouting?” Ander was incredulous.
The Captain shrugged. “He’s like that. Wants to know everything about a place where he might die.” He laughed roughly. “Never leaves that kind of checking to another-likes to do it himself.”
Ander nodded uncomfortably. “I suppose that’s why he’s still alive.”
“Still alive? Why, that one will never die. You know what they call him? The Iron Man. Iron Man-that’s him. That’s the Commander.”
“He looks hard enough,” Ander agreed, his curiosity piqued.
The Captain motioned him closer, and for a moment each forgot whom he was addressing. “You know about Rybeck?” the Borderman asked.
Ander shook his head, and a glint of satisfaction leaped into the other’s hard eyes. “You listen then. Ten years ago a band of Gnome raiders was burning and killing the people at the eastern edge of the borderlands. Vicious little rats, and a bunch of them at that. The Legion tried everything to trap them, but nothing worked. Finally the King sent the Free Corps after them-with orders to track them down and destroy them, even if it took the rest of the year. I remember that hunt; I was with the Corps even then.”
He squatted down next to a cooking fire, and Ander hunched down beside him. Others began drifting in to listen.
“Five weeks the hunt went on, and the Corps tracked those Gnomes all the way east into the Upper Anar. Then one day, when we were getting close, a patrol of our men, only twenty-three of them, stumbled into a rear guard of several hundred raiders. The patrol could have fallen back, but it didn’t. These were Free Corps soldiers and they chose to fight. One man was sent back for reinforcements and the rest made their stand in this little village called Rybeck-just a bunch of nothing buildings. For three hours those twenty-two soldiers held out against the raiders-threw back every assault they mounted. A lieutenant, three junior officers, and eighteen soldiers. One of those junior officers was just a kid. Just seven months with the Corps-but already a corporal. No one knew much about him. Like most, he didn’t say much about his past.”
The Captain leaned forward. “After the first two hours, that boy was the only officer still alive. He rallied the half-dozen soldiers left into a small stone cottage. Refused surrender, refused quarter. When the relief force broke through finally, there were dead Gnomes all over the place.” The man’s hand tightened into a fist before Ander’s face. “More than a hundred of them. All of our men were gone, all but two, and one of them died later that day. That left just one. The boy corporal.”
He paused and chuckled softly. “That boy was Stee Jans. That’s why they call him the Iron Man. And Rybeck?” He shook his head solemnly. “Rybeck shows how a soldier of the Free Corps should fight and die.”
The soldiers gathered about him murmured their assent. Ander paused a moment, then rose. The Captain stood up with him, straightening himself as he seemed to remember again who it was that he was conversing with.
“Anyway, my Lord, the Commander’s not here right now.” He paused. “Can I do something for you?”
Ander shook his head. “I came to ask if there was anything you need.”
“A bit to drink,” someone cried, but the Captain waved him off with a quick oath.
“We’ll be fine, my Lord,” he responded. “We have what we need.”
Ander nodded slowly. Hard men, these Free Corps soldiers. They had made the long journey to Arborlon and then, with but a single night’s rest, a forced march to the Sarandanon. He doubted that there really was much that they needed.
“Then I’ll say good-night, Captain,” he said.
He turned and walked back toward the Elven camp, mulling over in his mind the tale of the Legion Commander they called the Iron Man.
The following morning the army of the Elves and their Legion allies marched north out of the Sarandanon. With the dawn still a faint silver glow above the eastern forestline, the soldiers wound through Baen Draw and turned into the hills that lay beyond. Armor and harness jangled and creaked, boots and hooves thudded in rough cadence, and men and horses huffed clouds of white vapor in the frosty morning air. No one spoke or whistled or sang. A sense of anticipation and wariness pervaded the ranks. On this morning, Elven Hunter and Borderman knew they were marching into battle.
Up into the hills they circled, hills barren and rugged, their slopes sparse with short grass and scrub, rutted and eroded by wind and rain. Ahead, still far distant, the dark mass of the Breakline stood silhouetted against the dying night. Slowly, as the sun brightened the skyline, the mountains etched themselves out of the blackness, a maze of peaks and crags, drops and slides. The day began to warm. The morning hours slipped away and the army swung west, columns of riders and men afoot winding through gullies and over ridges, stretching out across the land. To the south, the waters of the Innisbore sparkled in flashes of blue, and above the choppy surface flew a sprinkling of white-backed gulls, their wings tipped with black, their cries shrill and haunting.
By noon, the army had reached the Breakline, and Eventine signaled a halt. The mountains loomed up against the horizon, a dark and massive wall of rock. Cliffs and spires rose thousands of feet into the sky, massed close as if some giant had gathered them within his hands and squeezed until the stone had broken and split from the pressure. Still and silent, barren and cold; they were filled with emptiness, darkness, and death.
Two passes split the Breakline, slender threads that tied the land of the Elves to the Hoare Flats. South lay Halys Cut. North lay Worl Run. If the Demons were to break through the Forbidding within the Flats as Allanon had foreseen, then, to reach the city of Arborlon, they would be forced to come east through one or both of these passes. It was there that the Elven army would try to stop them.
“We part company here,” Eventine announced when he had assembled his officers. Ander edged his mount closer to the small circle of men to hear clearly what was being said. “The army will divide. Half will march north with Prince Arion and Commander Pindanon to secure Worl Run. The other half will march south with me to Halys Cut. Commander Jans?” The bronzed face of the Free Corps Commander pushed into view. “I would like the Free Corps to march south. Pindanon, give the order.”
The ring of horsemen broke apart as the word was passed down the line. Ander glanced briefly at Arion, who met his gaze coldly and turned away.
“Ander, I want you to ride with me,” his father called over to him.
Kael Pindanon came galloping back to the King. All was in readiness. The two old comrades bade farewell to each other, hands clasping tightly. Ander looked one time more for his brother, but Arion was already moving to the head of his column.
Allanon appeared, dark face impassive. “His anger is misplaced,” the Druid said quietly, then nudged Artaq past.
Pindanon’s voice rang out. Banners and lances lifted in salute as the army of the Elves split apart. Shouts and cheers broke the morning stillness, echoing through the crags and flits of the mountain rock. For long moments the air was filled with sound, reckless and fierce. Then Pindanon’s command swept north, winding into the hills in a broad cloud of Just until it was lost from view.
The soldiers of the King turned south. For several hours they worked their way along the fringe of the Breakline, following the steady rise and fall of the lowland hills. Overhead; the sun passed west across the ridge of the mountains, and shadows began to lengthen in dark swatches. The still, sultry air of midday cooled in a southerly breeze that swept out of the distant forests. Gradually the hills broadened into grasslands. At their edge, straddled by a series of narrow, ragged peaks, the dark mouth of Halys Cut opened into the rock.
Eventine brought his arm to a halt and held a brief conference with his officers. Below the eastern entrance to the pass lay several miles of open plains that ran south to the forestline. If the Demons were to find a way to cross the Breakline below Halys Cut, they could slip north through the forestland and trap the Elven army within the pass. A rear guard would be necessary to protect against that possibility. A cavalry unit could best handle the assignment; the cavalry would be of little use in any case within the narrow confines of the pass.
Ander saw his father’s gaze fall briefly on Stee Jans, then move away. Elven cavalry units would form that guard, the King announced.
The order was given. The Elven cavalry detached itself from the main body of the army and began to deploy across the length of the grasslands. At a signal from Eventine, the remainder of the army turned into Halys Cut. Through the broad, shadowed gap the Elves marched, rugged cliffs towering up about them. The floor of the pass began to climb almost immediately, and the soldiers trudged upward into the rock. Quickly the air cooled, and the sound of shod hooves and booted feet striking against stone echoed eerily. As the trail continued to rise, the footing grew less sure. Loose rock littered the pathway, and cracks split its surface. Men and horses stumbled and slid with each step, and the pace slowed.
Then abruptly it stopped. Before them a huge chasm opened, a massive fissure that dropped away into black emptiness, splitting the length of the pass ahead for hundreds of yards. To the left, the trail sloped down along the mountainside, broad and even as it ran to a defile at the far end of the chasm. To the right, a narrow ledge skirted the fissure, a thin, crumbling pathway that would barely permit the passage of a single rider. All about, sheer cliff walls seemed to bend inward as they rose until all that remained of the sky was a thin, ragged blue line.
The army swung left along the broader path, staying well back of the black mouth of the chasm. When it had gained the defile, it found itself entering a, canyon bright with afternoon sunlight and grown green with scrub and saw. grass. Clusters of boulders dotted the canyon floor, and a thin stream trickled down out of the cliff walls and pooled in a small, brush-grown hollow. Jackrabbits bounded through the brush at the army’s approach; and a scattering of birds drinking at the water’s edge took sudden flight.
The Elves crossed to the far end of the canyon. There the pass opened down a broad, winding gorge into the vast emptiness of the Hoare Flats. Eventine’s hand came up sharply, signaling a halt. His eyes swept the length of the gorge, past a maze of jumbled rock pockets and drops angling down through hulking cliffs and long, rugged slides. Wordlessly, he nodded. It was here that the army would make its stand.
Dusk crept into the Breakline, shadowed gray light chasing toward a sunset that lit the sky above the Hoare Flats in a blaze of scarlet and gold. Behind the wall of the mountains, the moon’s silver disk rose above the forestland and one by one the stars winked into view. Within Halt’s Cut, the silence began to deepen.
Ander Elessedil stood alone on a small knoll midway, down the gorge that ran to the Flats, arms cradling protectively the silver-white staff of the Ellcrys. Wordlessly he surveyed the lines of Elven Hunters and Free Corps soldiers, reconstructing in his mind for the twentieth time in the past half hour the strategy his father had devised for the defense of the pass. A broad rise straddled the pass several hundred yards from its mouth, a flat shelf of rock that overlooked a rugged slide strewn thick with loose stone and scrub. It was here that the army would make its initial stand. Archers would line the front of the rise, shooting into the Demons as they came out of the Flats through the mouth of Halt’s Cut to scramble up the slide. When the Demons were too close for the longbows to be effective; the archers would be replaced by a phalanx of lancers and pikemen who would bear the brunt of the assault. A second phalanx would be held in reserve to reinforce the first. The defenders would hold the rise for as long as they were able, then fall back several hundred yards to a similar position. If the gorge were lost, they would fall back to the mouth of the canyon. If that, too, were lost, the canyon itself would be defended-and so on, until the army was forced entirely from Halys Cut. It was a good plan. Ander was satisfied on thinking it through that the pass would not be easily taken. The defensive positions had been well chosen; when the attack came, it would find the Elves ready.
He lifted his gaze and stared out toward the Flats. Nothing moved. The land lay silent and empty. There was, still no sign of the Demons.
Yet they would come. His hands moved slowly over the smooth wood of the Ellcrys staff, tracing the grain of the skin. His father had left the staff in his care momentarily while he had descended the slide to make his own inspection of the Elven defenses. Ander breathed the night air deeply. Would the staff truly protect the Elves? Would it lend its magic to those who were mortal, men now, no longer the creatures of faerie that their forefathers had been? He looked down at it, gripping it tightly within his hands, and tried to find his own strength in its firmness. Allanon had said that the power of the Ellcrys over the Demons was carried within this staff and that it would weaken the evil and make it vulnerable to Elven weapons. Yet doubt clouded Ander’s mind. The Demons were an incomprehensible evil, born of a world long since gone, a world that none but they had ever seen nor could begin to imagine.
He caught himself. None but Allanon, he corrected himself. And Allanon was himself perhaps a part of that dark, forgotten world.
His father appeared suddenly from the darkness, slipping from the shadows to stand beside him. Wordlessly, Ander passed back the Ellcrys staff. Fatigue and worry lined the old man’s face, reflected in his eyes, and Ander forced himself to look away.
“Is everything all right?” he asked after a moment.
The King nodded distantly “All of the defensive positions are established.”
They were silent again. Ander tried to think of something more that he could say. There was an uneasiness in him that would not settle, one that gave rise to a need to be close to his father. He wanted Eventine to understand this. Yet it was difficult, somehow, to speak with his father of such things. Neither of them had ever been very good at expressing feelings to the other.
His mood darkened. It was that way with Arion as well-particularly with Arion. There was a distance between them that he had never really understood, a distance that might have been shortened had either of them been able to talk about it. But neither had tried. It was worse now, of course. Arion was angered by what had taken place at the High Council, by Ander’s refusal to reject Amberle as the rightful bearer of the Ellcrys seed, and by his refusal to demand of her, as Arion thought proper, an accounting of her actions; now he would not talk with his brother at all. There was such bitterness in Arion! Still, it was bitterness that Ander understood. When Amberle had left Arborlon those many months ago, abandoning without explanation her responsibilities as one of the Chosen, both brothers had experienced that bitterness-he as much as Arion because he, too, had loved the child. For too long a time he had let the bitterness blind him to everything that she had once meant to him. Yet seeing her again had allowed him to rediscover something of his old feeling for her. He would have liked to explain that to Arion; he needed to explain it. But somehow he could not seem to find a way to do so.
He started sharply as he realized that Allanon was standing beside him. The Druid had materialized from nowhere, without even the faintest whisper of those black, concealing robes. The cowled face studied him momentarily, then looked past him to his father.
“You do not sleep?”
Eventine seemed distracted. “No. Not yet.”
“You must rest, Elven King.”
“Soon. Allanon, do you think that Amberle is still alive?”
Ander caught his breath and glanced, fleetingly at the Druid. Allanon was quiet a moment before answering.
“She is alive.”
When he said nothing more, Eventine looked over. “How can you know that?”
“I cannot know; it is what I think.”
“Then why is it that you think she is alive?”
The Druid’s head lifted slightly, deep-set eyes studying the sky. “Because Wil Ohmsford has not yet used the Elfstones. If Amberle’s life were threatened, the Valeman would use the Stones.”
Ander frowned. Elfstones? Wil Ohmsford? What was all this about? Then he remembered the second cloaked figure at the High Council, the one whom Allanon had brought into the chamber with Amberle, and who had never shown himself. That would be Wil Ohmsford.
He turned quickly to Allanon, questions forming on his lips, then caught himself and turned away again. Perhaps this was not something he should be asking about, he thought. After all, nothing had been said before. If Allanon had wanted him to know more, he would have told him. But then why had the Druid said anything at all?
Confused, he stared out across the Flats as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, the colors of the sunset fading slowly into the night.
“There are watch fires laid across the mouth of the pass,” his father murmured after a moment. “I must order them lighted.”
He walked down into the gorge, and Ander was left alone with Allanon. The two stood wordlessly, motionless statues in the growing dark, looking after the stooped figure of the old King as he wound his way down along the broken rock. The minutes slipped away. Ander thought himself forgotten when the Druid’s voice floated up suddenly out of the silence.
“Would you know something more of Wil Ohmsford, Elven Prince?”
Ander stared at the big man in astonishment, then managed a startled nod.
“Then so you shall.” Allanon never even glanced at him. “Listen.”
Quietly he told Ander of Wil Ohmsford-of his heritage and of his mission to the Elves. Memories came back then to the Elven Prince of his father’s stories of the Valemen, Shea and Flick Ohmsford, and of their search for the legendary Sword of Shannara. And now Shea’s grandson, heir to the power of a magic that no Elf had wielded since the destruction of the old world, had been made Amberle’s protector.
When the Druid finished, Ander was silent for a moment. He stared down into the shadows where his father had disappeared, thinking. Then he glanced once more at the Druid.
“Why have you told me this, Allanon?”
“It is something you should know.”
Ander shook his head slowly. “No-I mean, why me?”
Then at last the Druid turned to look at him, hawk face barely visible within the shadows of the cowl. “For many reasons, Ander,” he said softly and paused. “Perhaps because when no one else would come forward to stand with Amberle that night in the High Council, you did. Perhaps because of that.”
His black eyes remained fixed on Ander for a moment, and then he turned away again. “You should rest now. You should sleep.”
Ander nodded, his mind elsewhere. Had the Druid really answered his question? He glanced briefly at Allanon, then looked away again, puzzled. Moments later, when he glanced back once more, the Druid was gone.
Dawn broke, and a deep, gray mist covered the whole of the Hoare Flats. Thick, still, and impenetrable, it lay, stretched across the earth like a death shroud. Night drew away from the mist as the pale, silver light of sunrise crept down out of the Breakline; when the night had gone, the mist came awake. With a sluggish heave, it began to churn against the wall of the mountains like some foul soup stirred within its kettle. Faster and faster it swirled, surging up against the cliffs until it seemed the rock must be swallowed and lost.
High within the shadowed closure of Halys Cut, flanked by his father and Allanon and ringed by the Home Guard, Ander Elessedil stared downward. Below, the army of the Elves prepared to defend against the Demon hordes. Row upon row of archers, lancers, and pikemen bridged the gorge that opened onto the Flats, their weapons held ready, their eyes riveted on the mist as it boiled before the mouth of the pass. Out of this mist must come the Demons, yet nothing could be seen of them. As the minutes slipped by and still the attack did not come, the soldiers began to grow restless. Ander could sense their uneasiness, like his own, turning slowly to fear.
“Stand fast; do not be frightened!” Allanon’s voice rang out suddenly, and all eyes turned toward the black-cloaked Druid. “It is but mist, though Demon-wrought! Courage, now! The Forbidding gives way; the Demons are about to cross over!”
Still the mist churned wildly at the entrance to the Cut; as if shut away by some invisible barrier that would not let it advance further. Silence hung across the land, deep and pervasive. Ander’s hands were trembling as he gripped the staff from which the banner of the House of the Elessedils hung limply, and he fought silently to still them.
Then abruptly the cries began, distant and haunting, as if drifting out of the bowels of the earth. Within the mist, streaks of red fire lanced upward to the still-darkened morning sky, and the roiling haze seemed to heave. The cries grew louder, turning suddenly to screams that were shrill and savage, filled with madness. They rose steadily, building into a single, unending shriek that emptied out of the Flats into the narrow defile of Halys Cut.
“It comes,” Allanon whispered harshly.
The soldiers of the Elven army dropped to their knees, the sound breaking over them like a wave. Arrows were notched quickly in bow strings; spears and pikes were braced against the earth. Across the mouth of the pass, the mist erupted in red fire that turned the whole of the sky and earth crimson with its reflection. The shrieks and screams rose to a deafening pitch, and suddenly the air itself seemed to explode in a thunderous clap that burst out of the wilderness to the wall of the Breakline and shook the rock to its core. Ander cried out in dismay, and the force of the thunder threw them all to the earth. Hurriedly, they scrambled back to their feet, eyes searching. The air had gone silent. The mist hung gray and still once more.
“Allanon?” he questioned, softly.
“It is finished-the Forbidding is broken,” the Druid breathed.
In the next instant the screams welled up anew from out of the emptiness of the Flats, a maddened roar of exultation, and the Demon hordes, freed at last from their centuries-old prison, spilled through the mouth of Halys Cut. Down the length of the gorge they came, a wave of struggling, dark bodies. The Demons were of all shapes and sizes, bent and twisted by the blackness that had encased them. There were teeth and claws and razor-sharp spines, hair and scales and bristled fur; they slouched and crawled, burrowed and flew, leaped and slithered; all were things of legend and nightmare. Every creature from the oldest tales of horror was there; were-creatures, half-human, half-animal, fleet gray shadows that the eye could barely follow; massive, shambling Ogres with hideously distorted features; Gremlins that flitted about as if blown on the wind; Imps and Goblins, black with muck and slime; serpent forms that hissed their venom and twisted in frenzy; Furies and Demon-wolves; Ghouls and other things that ate of human flesh and drank of human blood; Harpies and bat-things that blackened the sky as they lifted their unwieldy bodies from the mass of their brethren. Surging through the mist, they ripped and tore at one another in their eagerness to break free.
Elven longbows hummed, and a rush of black arrows cut apart the foremost Demons. The rest barely slowed, scrambling quickly over the bodies of those who had fallen. Elven archers shot again and yet again, and still the Demons came at them, screaming their rage and frustration. Less than fifty yards separated the two forces, and now the archers fell back and to either flank as the forward phalanx of lancers and pikemen moved to the crest of the rise, bracing their weapons in readiness. The Demons surged forward, a mass of twisting bodies as they bounded up the broken rock of the gorge to where the Elves waited.
With a muffled crunch, the tide broke against the wall of the phalanx, claws and teeth ripping. The front ranks of the Elven line wavered slightly, but held. Demons hung impaled on spears, their shrieks filling the narrow gorge. With a heave, the Elven Hunters threw them back onto their own, watching in horror as the shattered forms were swallowed in the mass that came after. Again the Demons surged up against the Elves, and this time several knots broke through, only to perish instantly as the rear phalanx moved quickly to plug the gaps in the forward lines. But now the Elves were dying also, buried under the black mass of their attackers, dragged forcibly from their ranks and torn apart. And still the Demons continued to pour out of the mist, thousands strong, spreading out across the floor of the gorge and up its walls. Arrows cut them down in steady numbers; but where one fell, three more appeared to take its place. The Elven flanks were beginning to buckle under the rush of attackers, and the entire line was in danger of being overrun.
Eventine gave the order to fall back. The Elves disengaged hurriedly, retreating to their second line of defense, a broken shelf of rock lying just below the passage that led back into the canyon. Again the longbows sang out, and a hail of arrows flew into the surging mass below. Lancers and pikemen formed their ranks, bracing for the assault. It came almost at once, the wave of struggling dark forms clawing their way over scrub and stone to tear at the hedge of Elven spears. Hundreds died in the rush, pierced through by arrow and lance, trampled beneath the feet of their brethren. Yet still they came, surging forth from the mist into the deep funnel of the gorge, against the lines of Elven defenders. The Elves threw them back-once, twice, a third time. Halt’s Cut filled with dark bodies, crushed and bleeding, screaming in pain and hatred.
At the mouth of the canyon, Ander watched silently the ebb and flow of the battle. The Elves were losing ground. As Allanon had promised, the Ellcrys staff weakened the Demons who came at the Elves so that they died under the thrust and cut of Elven iron. Yet this was not going to be enough to stop the hordes pouring forth-not even with the gallantry of the soldiers, the defensive positions chosen, or all the careful planning. There were simply too many Demons and not enough of the Elves.
He glanced hurriedly at his father, but the King did not see him. Eventine’s hands were fastened on the gnarled length of the Ellcrys staff and the whole of his concentration was fixed on the struggle below. The entire Elven defensive line was beginning to buckle dangerously. Using weapons stripped from Elven dead, rocks and makeshift wooden clubs; teeth and claws and brute strength, the Demons fought to breach the thinning ranks of lancers and pikemen that yet barred their passage forward. The Legion Free Corps, held in reserve until now, threw itself into the center. The Elven line, battle cry ringing out. Still the Demons came on.
“We cannot hold,” Eventine muttered and prepared to give the command to withdraw.
“Stay close,” Allanon whispered suddenly to Ander.
At that same moment, the Demons broke through the left flank and came streaming up the gorge toward the knot of men who stood before the canyon mouth. The Home Guard stepped in front of the King and Ander protectively, Dardan and Rhoe a pace or two to either side. Sort swords slipped from their leather scabbards, the metal glinting. Hurriedly, Ander jammed the Elessedil standard into the rocky earth and drew his own weapon. Sweat ran down his body beneath the chain-mail armor, and his mouth went dry with fear.
Now Allanon moved forward, black robes flying as his arms lifted. Blue fire shattered the half-light, bursting from the Druid’s fingers, and the ground about the attackers exploded. Smoke billowed out of the rock, then dispersed across a scattering of lifeless dark bodies. But not all had fallen. For an instant the survivors hesitated. Behind them, the breach had closed again; there could be no turning back. Shrieking in fury, they came on, ripping into the Home Guard. The struggle was desperate. Demons fell dying under the swords of Elven Hunters, yet a handful broke through and hurtled themselves at the King. A lean, black Goblin sprang at Ander, claws ripping for his throat. Frantically the Elven Prince brought up the short sword, warding off the attack. Again the creature lunged at him, but one of the Home Guard came quickly between them, pinning the Demon to the earth with a single thrust.
Ander stumbled back in horror, watching the battle surge closer. The left flank had collapsed anew and again Allanon stepped forward to meet the rush. Blue fire lanced into the attackers, and screams filled the air. A knot of Demons had breached the right flank as well and came charging down off the slope in a desperate effort to aid those of the brethren trapped behind the Elven defensive line Ander froze. There were not enough Home Guard to stop them all.
Then shockingly, impossibly, Eventine went down, felled by a club thrown from the mass of attackers. The blow caught the old King on the temple, and he toppled instantly to the earth, the Ellcrys staff falling from his hand. A roar rose out of the throats of the Demons, and they pressed forward with renewed fury. Half a dozen from the band that had come down off the slope closed about the fallen King to finish him.
But Ander was already springing to his father’s side, his own fear forgotten, his face contorted with fury. With a howl of rage, he charged into the foremost attackers, black Goblins like the one that had nearly finished him moments earlier, and two lay dying before the others realized what had happened. As if gone mad, Ander tore into the rest, thrusting them back from the fallen King.
For an instant, everything was in chaos. On the ridge, the Elven line of defense had been forced backward almost to the mouth of the canyon. Demons surged forward in droves, hacking at the Elves who barred their way, shrieking with glee at the sight of the fallen Eventine. Ander struggled to keep the Demons from his father. In his fury, he tripped over one he had slain and went down. Instantly, they were on him. Claws ripped into him, tearing at his armor, and, for one terrible moment, he believed himself a dead man. But Dardan and Rhoe fought their way to his side, scattered his attackers, and pulled him to safety. Dazed, he stumbled back to where his father lay and knelt down beside the old man, disbelief and shock flooding into his face. His hands groped to find a pulse. It was here, faint and slow. His father was still alive, but fallen, lost to the Elves, lost to Ander-the King, the only one who could save them from what was happening.
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 rode 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 covered and slick with its own secretions. Six ponderous, gnarled legs, clawed and tufted with dark air, 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, 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 then 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, the 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 suddenly 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.
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 shied 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 thus 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 signaled 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 force 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 the 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 Halys 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 do 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.
“Rest well,” he whispered finally, then turned and stepped from the room.
In the adjoining chamber, he found Pindanon waiting. Dust and blood covered the Commander’s armor, and his white-bearded face was flushed with anger as he advanced on the Elven Prince.
“Why did you order me to withdraw, Ander?” he snapped.
Ander held his ground. “Lower your voice, Commander. The King lies within.”
There was a moment’s silence as Pindanon glared at him. Then, more quietly, the Elven Commander as “How is he?”
“He sleeps,” Ander replied coldly “Now what is your question?”
Pindanon straightened. “Why was I ordered to withdraw? I could have retaken Worl Run. We could have held the Breakline as your father intended that we should!”
“My father intended that the Breakline be held for as long as it was possible to do so,” Ander responded, his eyes locked on Pindanon’s. “With my father injured, my brother dead, and Halys Cut lost, it was no longer possible. We were driven from Halys Cut, just as you were driven from Worl Run.” Pindanon bristled, but Ander ignored him. “In order to retake Worl Run, I would have had to make a forced march north with an army that had just been routed, knowing that they would immediately be thrown back into battle. If our combined forces were then defeated, they would face an exhausting march back to the Sarandanon with little chance to rest before undertaking a defense of this valley. Worst of all, any battle fought within the passes of the Breakline would be fought without the use of Elven cavalry. If we are to withstand the Demon advance, we will need the whole of our strength to do so. That, Commander, is why you were ordered to withdraw.”
Pindanon shook his head slowly. “You are not a trained soldier, my Lord Prince. You had no right to make a decision as crucial as this one without first consulting with the Commander of the Army. Had it not been for my loyalty to your father...”
Ander’s head came up sharply “Don’t finish that sentence, Commander.”
His gaze shifted momentarily as the outer tent flaps parted to admit Allanon and Stee Jans. Allanon’s appearance was not unexpected, but Ander was somewhat surprised to find the Free Corps Commander there as well. The Borderman nodded courteously, but said nothing.
Ander turned back to Pindanon. “In any case, the matter is done. We had better concern ourselves with what lies ahead. How much time do we have before the Demons reach us?”
“A day, possibly two,” Pindanon offered abruptly. “They must rest, regroup.”
Allanon’s black eyes lifted. “Dawn tomorrow.”
There was instant silence. “You are certain?” Ander asked quietly.
“They are driven beyond the need, for sleep. Dawn tomorrow.”
Pindanon spat upon the earthen floor.
“Then we must decide now how we will stop them once they are here,” Ander declared, hands running lightly over the Ellcrys staff.
“Simple enough,” Pindanon snapped impatiently. “Defend Baen Draw. Cordon it off. Stop them at the narrows before they reach the valley.”
Ander took a deep breath. “That was tried at Halys Cut. It failed. The Demons forced the Elven phalanx by sheer strength of numbers. There is no reason to believe that it would be any different this time.”
“There is every reason,” Pindanon insisted. “Our strength is not divided here as it was in the Breakline. Nor will the Demons be fresh and rested, if they march straight from the Flats. Cavalry may be used in support where it could not at the Cut. Oh, much is changed, I promise you. The result will be different this time.”
Ander glanced momentarily at Allanon, but the Druid said nothing. Pindanon came a step closer.
“Ander, give me command in your father’s stead. Let me set the defense as I know he would set it. The Elves can hold the Draw against those creatures, whatever their strength. Your father and I know... “
“Commander.” The Elven Prince spoke softly, firmly. “I saw what the Demons are capable of doing at Halys Cut. I saw what they did to a defensive line that my father felt certain would hold them. This is a different sort of enemy we fight. It hates the Elves beyond understanding; it is driven by that hatred-so much so that dying means nothing. Can we say the same, we to whom life is so precious? I think not. We need something more than standard tactics if we are to survive this encounter.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Allanon’s brief nod.
Pindanon bristled. “You lack faith, my Lord Prince. Your father would not be so quick...”
Ander cut him short. “My father is not here. But if he were, he would speak to you as I have spoken. I seek suggestions, Commander-not an argument.”
Pindanon flushed darkly, then turned suddenly toward Allanon. “What has this one to say? Has he no thoughts to offer on how these Demons are to be stopped?”
Allanon’s dark face was expressionless: “You cannot stop them, Commander. You can only slow them.”
“Slow them?”
“Slow them so that the bearer of the Ellcrys seed may gain time enough to find the Bloodfire and return.”
“That again!” Pindanon snorted. “Our destiny in the hands of that girl! Druid, I do not believe in old world legends. If the Westland is to be saved, it must be saved through the courage of her men-at-arms—through the skill and experience of her soldiers. Demons may die as other things of flesh and blood.”
“Such as Elves,” the Druid replied darkly.
There was a long silence. Pindanon turned away from the others, hands clasping angrily behind his back. After a moment, he wheeled back on them.
“Do we stand at Baen Draw or not, Prince Ander? I hear no suggestions but my own.”
Ander hesitated, wishing Allanon would say something. But it was Stee Jans who stepped forward, his rough voice breaking the silence.
“My Lord, may I speak?”
Ander had almost forgotten that the Legion Commander was there. He glanced at the big man and nodded.
“My Lord, the Free Corps has faced similar odds on more than one occasion while in the service of the Borderlands. It is a matter of pride with us that while our enemies have frequently been stronger than we, still we have survived and they have not. We have learned some hard lessons, my Lord. I offer one of them to you now. It is this-never settle a stationary defensive line where superior numbers will overrun you. We have learned to split our defensive front with a series of mobile lines that shift with the flow of battle. These lines attack and retreat in sequence, pulling the enemy first one way, then the other, striking always on the flanks as the enemy turns to repel each new assault, withdrawing beyond the enemy’s reach when the strike is done.”
Pindanon snorted. “Then you neither gain nor even hold ground, Commander.”
Stee Jans turned to him. “When the enemy has been pulled far enough out in his efforts to catch you, when his lines have thinned and split, then you close ranks to either side and collapse on him. Like so.”
He placed his hands in a V and brought them together with a clap. There was a startled silence.
“I don’t know,” Pindanon muttered doubtfully.
“How would you defend Baen Draw?” Ander pressed.
“I would use a variation of what I have just described to you,” Stee Jans replied. “Longbows on the slopes of the Kensrowe over the mouth of the Draw to harry the advance. Foot soldiers at its head, as if you meant to hold it as you tried to hold Halys Cut. When the Demons attack, stand for a time then give way. Let them break through. Give them a rabbit to chase, a cavalry command to draw them on. When their lines are strung out, their flanks exposed, close on them from both sides, quickly, before they can fall back or be reinforced. Use lances to keep them from you. The Demons lack our weapons. If you stay beyond their reach, they cannot harm you. When you have destroyed their front ranks, let the rabbit pull trough a second rush. Take them another way; keep them off balance. Concentrate on their flanks.”
He finished. The Elves stared at the Borderman. Pindanon frowned.
“Who would be the rabbit in this?”
Stee Jans smiled crookedly. “Who else, Commander?”
Pindanon shrugged. Ander looked over at him questioningly.
“It might work,” the old warrior admitted grudgingly. “If the rabbit is any good, that is.”
“The rabbit knows a few tricks,” Stee Jans replied: “That is why it is still alive after so many chases.”
Ander glanced quickly at Allanon. The Druid nodded.
“Then we have our plan for the defense of the Sarandanon,” the Elven Prince announced. His hand clasped Pindanon’s, then-that of the Iron Man. “Let us make certain now that it succeeds.”
Later that night, when all was in readiness for the morrow’s battle and he was alone, Ander Elessedil paused to reflect on how fortunate it was that Stee Jans had been present at his meeting with Pindanon. It was only then that it occurred to him that it might not have been good fortune at all, but a foresight peculiar to the enigmatic dark wanderer they knew as Allanon.
They buried Arion Elessedil at first light of dawn. His brother, Pindanon, and four dozen of the Home Guard interred him in the traditional manner of the Elves, at the birth of the new day, at the time of beginning. They bore him in silence to an oak-shaded bluff below Baen Draw that looked west over the blue expanse of the Innisbore and east across the green valley of the Sarandanon. There the firstborn of Eventine Elessedil was laid to rest, his body returned to the earth that had given it life, his spirit set free once more.
They left no marker to the Crown Prince. Allanon had warned that there were some among the Demons who would search out such testaments and prey upon the dead. There were no songs, no words of praise, no flowers-nothing to show that Arion Elessedil had ever been. There remained nothing of Eventine’s firstborn but memories.
Ander saw the tears in the eyes of those who gathered with him and felt that memories might be enough.
Less than an hour later, the Demons attacked the Elves at Baen Draw. Down out of the northern hills they streamed, their screams and howls shattering the stillness of the dawn. They came as they had come at Halys Cut, a mass of twisted dark bodies surging forward like the unleashed waters of a flood.
At the lower end of the Draw, the Elven phalanx waited, rows of lancers and Pikemen standing shoulder to shoulder with weapons braced. As the foremost Demons clawed their way toward them, Elven longbows hummed along the slopes of the Kensrowe and the air was filled with feathered arrows. Demons convulsed and fell, buried beneath those who came after. Wave after wave of dark shafts ripped through their ranks, and hundreds died in the rush.
But at last the phalanx was reached and the Demons flung themselves against it, shrieking with pain as the iron-tipped shafts pierced their bodies and held them transfixed. The attack faltered and was thrown back. Again it came, a sudden surge forward of malformed bodies, teeth and claws ripping, and again it was thrown back. The ground before the Elven defensive wall grew littered with dead and dying. Still the horde of Demons pressed ahead, endless in number, and at last the Elven line wavered and broke, its center seeming to fall away. Into the breach surged the Demons, bounding and leaping and scrambling from the draw.
Instantly they were set upon by a body of horsemen, gray-cloaked riders with crimson trim, their leader a tall, scar-faced man on a giant blue roan. The riders swept across the head of the Demon rush, lances scything. Then they were gone, turning back into the valley, gray cloaks flying, lean forms bent low over their mounts as they galloped away. The Demons gave chase in a frenzy Moments later, the riders came about, charging back into their pursuers, lances lowered, scattering bodies as again they struck and swung quickly away. The Demons howled their frustration and scrambled after them.
Then suddenly the gray-cloaked riders wheeled in a solid line that barred the Demons’ path forward, and the arm of the scar-faced man lifted. No longer massed protectively, but strung out along the grasslands for hundreds of yards beyond the mouth of Baen Draw, the Demons who had breached the Elven defensive line stared about wildly, seeing now what had been done to them. To either side, lines of Elven cavalry burst into view, hemming them in like cattle. Behind them, the breach had been closed by a tall, black robed figure, standing atop the lower slopes of the Kensrowe, with fire spurting from his outstretched hands to scatter the Demons who milled uncertainly within the Draw. Desperately, those trapped without sought to break the lines about them. But the Elves converged quickly, sword and lance cutting apart the black forms that reached up for them. In moments, the whole of the Demon advance had been destroyed. Through the length of the Baen Draw, the Elven cry of victory echoed.
It did not end there. For the remainder of the morning and into early afternoon, the battle raged on. Time and again, the Demons massed for a rush on the Elven phalanx that barred passage through Baen Draw. Time and again, they broke through, battling their way past Elven archers and Druid fire, past lancers and pikemen, only to find themselves face to face with the gray riders of the Legion Free Corps. Teased and harassed, they gave chase. Heedless of what lay ahead, they allowed themselves to be drawn on, sometimes toward the shoreline of the Innisbore, sometimes toward the slopes of the Kensrowe, or into the valley of the Sarandanon. Then, when it appeared that they had caught the elusive horsemen, they found themselves encircled by Elven cavalry, their own ranks thinned and unprotected, their thrust having carried them far from those brethren who battled still within the Draw. Raging, they threw themselves at their enemy, but there was no escape. The Elves swept back, and again their lines closed across Baen Draw.
For a time the Demons sought to gain the slopes of the Kensrowe, thinking to put an end to the hated longbows. But, carefully placed, their ranks deep and sheltered within the rocks, the Elven archers cut to pieces those who tried to reach them. In their midst stood the black-robed giant, sorcerous fire lancing from his hands, his awesome power sheltering the Elves who struggled below. All forms of Demons tried to reach him-Demons that burrowed within the earth, Demons that flew, Demons that scaled cliff walls like flies. All failed; all died.
In one attack, the Demons smashed through the Elven phalanx where it bordered the shoreline of the Innisbore, turning it back across the Draw as hundreds of attackers swarmed over the sandswept hills toward the open valley beyond. For a moment it appeared that the Elven defensive line was finally broken. But, with a valiant effort, the cavalry converged east of this new advance and rode into it in a charge that drove the Demons back into the waters of the Innisbore. Again the evil ones could not mass, but were strung out along the beachhead, their backs to the lake. The attack faltered and broke apart, shattered on the lances of the Elves. The breach closed one time more.
Thousands of Demons died that afternoon in senseless, mindless, savage rushes through Baen Draw. They attacked ceaselessly, surging forward on their race, to the cliffs with the blind determination of lemmings, oblivious to the destruction that waited. Elves and Bordermen died with them, caught up in their frenzy to break through to the Sarandanon. Yet the rout that had occurred at Halys Cut was not repeated this day; time and again the Demons were thrown back, the forefront of their assault destroyed before it had an opportunity to gain reinforcement from the masses that came after.
Finally, in midafternoon, the Demons launched their final attack. Massing within Baen Draw, they surged against the Elven phalanx, bore it backward by sheer force of numbers, and snapped it apart. Into the seams they poured, and suddenly there was no time for carefully wrought tactics, or for skill and finesse. The Elves and the Legion struck-back, their horsemen charging into the midst of the onslaught. Sword and spear cut deep into the tangle of twisted dark forms below. Horses and riders screamed and went down. The lines of fighters surged back and forth desperately But at last the Demons broke, snarling and clawing, as they fled back into the Draw, shrieks of anger rising from their midst. This time they did not turn. They continued on, trampling through their own dead and dying, hobbling and crawling and scrambling into the hills beyond, until Baen Draw stood empty.
The Elves stared after the retreating forms in weary disbelief, watching as the last of them disappeared into the curve of the hills, the sound of their passing fading slowly into silence. Then the Elves looked about them and saw clearly the enormity of the struggle that had taken place. Thousands of tangled, dark bodies lay scattered across the grasslands, spreading east out of Baen Draw from Kensrowe to Innisbore, still and lifeless and broken. The Draw itself was massed thick with them. The Elves were appalled. It was as if life had meant nothing to the Demons, as if death were somehow preferable. Eyes began to search out the faces of friends and comrades. Hands stretched out to one another, clasping tightly, and the Elves were filled with relief, grateful that they had somehow survived through such terrible destruction.
At the head of the Draw, Ander Elessedil found Kael Pindanon and impulsively hugged the veteran soldier to him. Cries of elation began to rise from the throats of their countrymen as the realization set in that the day was theirs. Stee Jans rode in at the head of the Free Corps and the Bordermen joined the Elves, lances raising in salute. Down the length of the Sarandanon, the roar of victory swelled and echoed.
Only Allanon stood apart. Alone now on the slopes of the Kensrowe, his dark face turned north toward the hills into which the Demons had so abruptly fled, he found himself wondering why it was that they had been willing. t give their lives so cheaply and, perhaps more important still, why it was that through all that slaughter there had been no sign of the one they called the Dagda Mor.
The afternoon faded into dusk and the night slipped silently away. At the mouth of Baen Draw, the army of the Westland waited for the Demons to attack. But the Demons did not come. Nor did they come at dawn, though Elves and Bordermen stood ready once more. The morning hours began to creep past, and a growing uneasiness pervaded the ranks of the defenders.
At midday, Ander went looking for Allanon, hoping that the Druid could give some explanation for what was happening. Alone, he climbed the slopes of the Kensrowe to where Allanon kept a solitary vigil within the shelter of an outcropping of rock, half hidden in shadow as he gazed out across the Sarandanon. The Elven Prince had not spoken with Allanon since yesterday when the Druid had come up into these mountains; no one had. Caught up in the jubilation of the Elven victory over the Demons, he had given little thought to the Druid’s going. After all, Allanon came and went all the time, seldom with any explanation. But now, as he approached the Druid, he found himself wondering nevertheless why Allanon had chosen this time to be alone.
He was given his answer the moment the Druid turned to face him. Allanon’s face, once so dark, was ashen. Harsh lines creased the skin, giving it a slack and weary cast, and there was a brooding look to the piercing black eyes. Ander drew up short, staring.
The stare brought a faint smile to Allanon’s lips. “Does something trouble you, Elven Prince?”
Ander started. “No, I... it’s just that... Allanon, you look...”
The Druid shrugged. “There is a price for the ways in which we use ourselves. That is one of nature’s laws, though we often choose to disregard it. Even a Druid is subject to its dictates.” He paused. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
Ander looked uncertain. “The magic does this to you?”
Allanon nodded. “The magic, takes life from the user it drains strength and being. Something of what is lost can be recovered, but recovery is slow. And, there is pain...”
The sentence died away, unfinished. Ander felt a sudden chill.
“Allanon, have you lost the magic?”
The cowled head lifted. “The magic is not lost while the user lives. But there are limits that cannot be exceeded, and the limits shorten with the passing of the years. We all grow old, Elven Prince.”
“Even you?” Ander asked quietly.
The black eyes were veiled. Allanon changed the subject abruptly. “What brings you to me?”
Ander took a moment to recover his thoughts. “I came to ask why the Demons do not attack.”
The Druid looked away. “Because they are not yet ready” He was silent a moment, then his gaze shifted back again. “Do not be misled; they will come. They but delay, and there is a purpose behind that delay. The one who leads them, the one who is called the Dagda Mor, does nothing without reason.” He bent forward slightly. “Give thought to this. The Dagda Mor was not among those who attacked us yesterday”
Ander frowned worriedly. “Where was he then?”
Allanon shook his head. “The question we should be asking is where is he now?” He watched Ander for a moment, then drew the black robes close about him. “I have been thinking that it would be wise to send trackers north above the Kensrowe and south below the Innisbore to be certain that the Demons do not intend to flank us.”
There was a long silence. “Are there Demons enough to do that?” Ander asked finally, thinking of the thousands that had come against them already at Baen Draw.
Allanon’s laugh was brittle. “Demons enough.” The Druid turned away. “Leave me alone now, Elven Prince.”
Ander went back down out of the Kensrowe, riddled with doubt. On his return, trackers were dispatched, and the waiting resumed. Morning passed into afternoon and afternoon into evening. A heavy bank of clouds rolled across the darkening sky, and shadows lengthened quickly into night.
Still the Demons did not come.
It was nearing midnight when the attack finally came. It was sudden, so sudden that the sentries standing watch had barely enough time to give the alarm before the first of the Demons were upon them. They came through Baen Draw in a massive rush, waves of black, corded bodies surging down out of the darkened northern hills into the light of the watch fires. One by one the fires winked out, smothered by the Demons as they swept through the Draw and onto the slopes of the Kensrowe. With the watch fires gone and the night sky screened by the clouds that had swept east out of the Breakline, the whole of Baen Draw was plunged into blackness. It was a blackness that the Demons knew well, to which they had grown accustomed during the time of their imprisonment within the Forbidding, a darkness that would be made to serve them. For, while the Elves and the Southlanders could now see little, the Demons saw as if it were brightest day. Shrieking in frenzied anticipation, they attacked.
At the head of the Draw, rallying about Ander Elessedil and the gleaming white staff of the Ellcrys, an Elven phalanx met the rush. The impact threw the soldiers backward, yet they held their lines. Hundreds of dark bodies crushed up against them; teeth and claws ripping. The Elves fought back determinedly, lances and pikes thrusting blindly into the mass of Demons that pushed forward, and screams of pain tore through the night. But the Demons kept coming, surging into the Elves, struggling to break apart their defense. For a few desperate minutes, the Elves withstood the savage rush, holding back the masses that hurtled against them. But the darkness confused and hindered them. In the end, they were overwhelmed. The phalanx began to give, falling back raggedly, splitting apart. Seconds later, the Demons broke through.
That would have been the finish if not for Allanon. Gaining the lower slopes of the Kensrowe, where the Elven archers fought a losing battle in the darkness to keep back the onrushing Demons, the Druid seized a handful of glittering dust from a small pouch tied at his waist and tossed the dust high into the air. Instantly the dust spread out across the night sky above the struggling Elves; filling the darkness with a brilliant white glow that lit the land beneath with the brightness of moonlight.
Gone was the blackness and the Demons’ concealment. From behind the broken phalanx, a rallying cry went up. Into the main breach, where the largest mass of Demons thrust forward, rode Stee Jans and the men of the Legion Free Corps. Like an iron wedge, they split the forefront of the assault. Less than four hundred now, they hammered into the horde before them and bore it back toward the mouth of Baen Draw. To their aid galloped the Elven cavalry, Kael Pindanon leading, head bare, white hair flying. All along the shattered defensive line, the lances of the horsementore into the advancing Demons and drove them back.
On the slopes of the Kensrowe, the Demons had broken through the ranks of archers and were pouring down into the Sarandanon. Allanon stood virtually alone in their path, blue fire lancing from his hands. They came at him from everywhere, howling in frenzy as the fire burned them to ash. The Druid did not give way When they grew too many for him; he turned the whole of the grasslands about him for hundreds of feet in either direction into an inferno of death, a wall of blue fire that ringed the maddened Demons and destroyed any that tried to breach it.
A hundred yards back from the mouth of Baen Draw, the Elves and the Free Corps fought desperately to keep the main body of Demons from breaking through into the Sarandanon. It was a terrible, frightening battle and the smell of death filled the summer night. At its height, Kael Pindanon went down, his horse stumbling beneath him. The old warrior was shaken and came to his feet unsteadily, fumbling for his broadsword. Instantly, the Demons were upon him, howling. Elven Hunters sought to reach their beleaguered Commander, slashing and cutting their way through the Demons that rose before them. But the Demons were too quick. Clawed hands reached for Pindanon, warding off the blows struck at them, and the old soldier was pulled to his death.
At the same moment, a handful of Demons broke from the crush of fighters about them and hurtled toward Ander Elessedil. Through the ring of Home Guard that battled about him the Demons came, bounding like cats, to lunge for the Elven Prince. In desperation he brought up the Ellcrys staff like a shield and his attackers shrank from it, howling with rage. But Ander was all alone now, surrounded by twisted black forms, and they snapped and tore at him, waiting for a chance to break through the guard of his talisman. Elven Hunters fought desperately to reach the Prince, yet the Demons blocked their way, tearing apart those who came too close, parrying wildly the cut and slash of lance and sword. Their brethren surged to their aid, seeing that they had within their grasp the bearer of the hated talisman. Clawed hands reached out, grasping.
Then through the tangle of fighters hurtled a giant, scarfaced Borderman, gray-cloaked body streaked with dirt and blood. Up against the Demons he went, cutting through corded back bodies with great sweeps of his broadsword until at last he stood next to Ander. Shrieks of rage rose from the. Demons, and they threw themselves at him. But Stee Jans held his ground like some immovable rock, keeping Ander’s attackers from him as he called to his Bordermen. They came instantly, riding to his aid, gathering about him in a circle of iron. Then he was back atop his roan, sword lifted. The gray riders charged forward, their battle cry ringing out through the night.
For an instant, Ander did not realize what was happening. Then, through the hazy glow of false moonlight, he caught sight of the men of the Free Corps, Stee Jans at their head, red hair flying, one hand gripping the great broadsword, the other the Free Corps standard of battle. Alone, a handful against hundreds, the Free Corps was attacking! At once the Elven Prince seized the reins of a riderless horse, mounted, then spurred the animal ahead, crying out to his countrymen. As the Elves rallied to him from every quarter, he rode into the ranks of the Demons, forward to the side of the Legion Free Corps. In a wave, the Elves and the Bordermen swept own into Baen Draw, driving the Demons before them. Like men gone berserk, they battered their way ahead, horsemen and foot soldiers; with lance and pike and sword, shouting as one the battle cries of their homelands.
For an instant, the Demons stood their ground, shrieking with rage and hate, tearing at the madmen who thrust so recklessly into their midst. But the big man with the broadsword and the Free Corps battle standard had given fresh courage to the Elves, courage that bore them forward to face death without fear, to forget everything but their determination to destroy utterly those twisted black forms that stood before them. The Demons wavered and fell back, slowly at first, then in headlong flight, for the fury generated within the army of the Elves was much greater now than their own. Into the hills north they fled once more, scrambling down from the slopes of the Kensrowe through the rocks and crags of the Draw, flying into the concealing shadows of the night.
In moments, Baen Draw had been cleared, and the Sarandanon was again in the hands of the Elves.
Ander Elessedil sat within his tent, stripped to the waist, as Elven Hunters worked on the wounds the Demons had inflicted upon him during the battle. He sat in silence, his body aching with fatigue and the pain of his injuries. Messengers came and went, reporting on the progress of the army as it prepared to entrench once more across the mouth of Baen Draw. Home Guard ringed the tent, the iron of their weapons glinting in the light of the watch fires.
The Elven Prince had finished with the bandaging and was pulling on his armor when the tent flaps, parted suddenly and Stee Jans appeared out of the night, his giant form streaked with dirt and ash and blood. Those within the tent immediately fell silent. With a single word, Ander bade them all leave. The tent emptied, and Ander moved forward to stand before the Borderman. Wordlessly, he clasped the big man’s hand in his own.
“You saved all of us tonight, Commander,” he said quietly. “There is a debt owed you that will be difficult to repay.”
Stee Jans studied him a moment, then shook his head slowly. “My Lord, there is nothing owed to me. I am a soldier. Anything I did this night was no more than I should have done.”
Ander, smiled wearily. “You will never convince me of that. Still, I respect and admire you far too much to argue the matter. I will simply thank you.” He released the big man’s hand and stepped back. “Kael Pindanon is dead; and I must find a new field commander. I want you.”
The Borderman was quiet a moment. “My Lord, I am not an Elf nor even of this country. “
“I have no Elf nor countryman better suited to command this army than you,” Ander replied at once. “And it was your plan that enabled us to hold Baen Draw.”
Stee Jans did not drop his gaze. “There are some who would question this decision.”
“There are some who would question any decision.” Ander shook his head. “I am not my father nor my brother nor the leader they thought to have. But be that as it may, the decision is mine to make and I have made it. I want you as field commander. Do you accept?”
The Borderman thought for a long time before he spoke again. “I do.”
Ander felt a bit of the weariness slip from him. “Then let us begin... “
A sudden movement in the shadows by the entry brought them both about with a start. Allanon stood there, his iron face grim.
“The trackers sent north and south within the valley have returned.” The Druid spoke softly, the words almost a hiss as they left his mouth. “Those who went south along the Innisbore found nothing. But those who went north encountered an army of Demons so massive as to dwarf that which battles us within Baen Draw. It comes south along the eastern wall of the Kensrowe. Already it will have entered the Sarandanon.”
Ander Elessedil stared silently at the big man, hope fading within his eyes.
“This was their plan from the beginning, Elven Prince-to engage you here at Baen Draw with the lesser force while the greater skirted the Kensrowe north, to come down into the Sarandanon from behind; thereby trapping the army of the Elves between the two. Had you not sent those trackers...”
He trailed off meaningfully. Ander started to speak and stopped, choking on the words. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes, tears of rage and frustration.
“All the men who have died here-here and at Halys Cut... my brother, Pindanon-all dead that the Sarandanon might be held... is there nothing we can do?”
“The army that comes down out of the north contains Demons whose powers far exceed anything you have yet encountered.” Allanon’s head shook slowly “Too much power, I am afraid, for you to withstand-too much. If you try to hold the Sarandanon longer, if you attempt to stand here at Baen Draw or even to fall back to some other line of defense within the valley, you shall most certainly be destroyed.”
Ander’s youthful face was bleak. “Then the Sarandanon is lost.”
Allanon nodded slowly. The Elven Prince hesitated, glancing back momentarily toward the rear compartment of the tent where the King still lay unconscious, unknowing, locked in dreamless sleep, far from the pain and the reality that confronted his anguished son. Lost! The Breakline, the Sarandanon, his family, his army-everything! Within, he felt himself breaking apart. Allanon’s hand gripped his shoulder. Without turning, he nodded.
“We shall leave at once.”
Head bowed, he walked from the tent to give the order.
Wil Ohmsford found the Wilderun as bleak and forbidding as the stories had foretold. Though the afternoon sky had been brilliant with sunlight when he and Amberle had left the Rock Spur, the Wilderun was a tangle of shadows and murky darkness, screened away from the world about it by trees and scrub that was twisted and interwoven until there seemed to be neither beginning nor end to its maze. Trunks thick with mold grew gnarled and bent, the limbs coiling out like spider’s legs, choked with vines and brush, heavy with spiny leaves that shimmered in streaks of incandescent silver. Deadwood and scrub littered the valley floor, decaying slowly in the dark ground, giving it an unpleasantly soft, spongy feel. Damp with must and rot, the Wilderun had the look of something misshapen and grotesque. It was as if nature had stunted the land and the life that grew within it, then bent it down within itself, so that it might ever be made to breathe, eat, and drink the stench that rose out of its own slow death.
Down the crooked forest road the Valeman walked, the Elven girl close beside him, peering into the darkness about them with cautious, worried eyes, hearing distantly the sounds of the life that prowled and hunted within. The road was like a tunnel, walled about by forest, lighted only by faint streamers of sunlight that somehow slipped past the tangle overhead to touch faintly the dank earth below. There were no birds within this forest; Wil had noticed that at once. Birds would not live within such blackness, Wil had thought to himself-not while they might fly in sunlight. There were none of the usual small forest animals, nor even such common insects as brightly colored butterflies. What lived here were things best left to blackness, night, and shadow: bats, leathered and reeking of disease; snakes and scaled hunters that nested and fed on vermin that lived within fetid ponds and marsh; cat-things, sleek and quick as they stalked the treeways on silent pads. A time or two their shadows crossed the roadway, and Valeman and Elven girl paused guardedly. Yet as quickly as they had come, they were gone again, lost in the blackness, leaving the humans on the empty path to stare anxiously at the forest and to hurry on.
Once, when they had gone deep into the gloom, the pair heard something massive move, pushing through trees as if it were pushing through fragile twigs, its breath huffing loudly in the stillness that fed across the forest with its passing. Lumbering invisibly through the gloom, it either did not see or did not care to bother with the two small creatures who stood frozen upon the trail. Slowly, deliberately, it moved off. In the silence that followed, Valeman and Elven girl fled quickly away.
They encountered only a handful of travelers as they walked the forest, all but one afoot and that one slouched atop a horse so thin and worn as to appear more an apparition than flesh and blood. Cloaked and hooded, the travelers passed them by singly and in pairs, offering no greeting. Yet within the shadow of their cowls, their heads turned and their eyes blinked with the cold interest of cats, staring after the intruders as if to measure their purpose. Chilled by those looks, the Southlander and the girl found themselves glancing back over their shoulders long after the cloaked forms had disappeared from view.
It was nearing sunset when they passed at last from the gloom of the wilderness forest into the town of Grimpen Ward. A less inviting community would have been hard to imagine. Set down within a hollow, Grimpen Ward was a ramshackle cluster of wooden plank buildings so closely jammed together as to be nearly indistinguishable one from the other. They were a seedy lot, these shops and stalls, inns and taverns. The garish paint that colored them was chipped and faded. Many stood shuttered, bars drawn, locks fastened. Poorly lettered signs hung from swaying posts and over doors, a patchwork maze of promises and prices beneath proprietors’ names. Through windows and entryways, lamps of oil and pitch burned, casting their harsh yellow light into the shadows without as dusk closed down about the hollow.
It was in the taverns and inns of Grimpen Ward that her denizens were gathered, at rough-hewn tables and bars formed of boards set atop barrels, about glasses and tankards of ale and wine, their voices loud and rough, their laughter shrill. They drifted from one building to the next, hard-eyed men and women of all races, some dressed gaily, some ragged, bold in the glare of the lamplight, or furtive as they stole through alleyways, many stumbling, lurching, and reeking of drink. Money clinked and changed hands quickly, often in stealth or in violence. Here a lumpish figure slumped down within a doorway, asleep in drunken stupor, his clothes stripped from his body, his purse gone. There a tattered form lay still and twisted within a darkened passage, the lifeblood seeping from the wound at his throat. All about, dogs prowled, ragged and hungry, slinking through the shadows like wraiths.
Thieves and cutthroats, harlots and cheats, traders in life and death-and false pleasure. Wil Ohmsford felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Perks grandfather had been right about Grimpen Ward.
Holding tight to Amberle’s hand, he followed the rutted line of the road as it wound through the tangle of buildings. What were they to do now? Certainly they could not go back into the forest-not at night. He was reluctant to remain in Grimpen Ward, but what other choice did they have? They were both tired and hungry. It had been days since they had slept in a bed or eaten a hot meal. Still, there seemed to be little chance that they would get either here. Neither of them had any money to buy or anything of value to trade for a night’s food and lodging. Everything had been lost in their flight out of the Pykon. The Valeman had thought to find someone within the town who might be persuaded to let them work for a meal and a bed, but what he saw about him suggested that no one of that disposition lived in Grimpen Ward.
A drunken Gnome lurched up against him and fumbled for his cloak. Wil shoved the fellow away hurriedly. The Gnome tumbled into the street and lay laughing foolishly at the sky. The Valeman stared down at him a moment, then clasped Amberle’s arm and hurried on.
There were other problems facing them as well. Once they left Grimpen Ward, how were they to find their way from there? How were they to keep from becoming quickly lost within the wilderness beyond? They desperately needed someone to guide them, but whom in Grimpen Ward could they trust? If they were forced to continue on without any idea of where they were going, then it would become necessary for Wil to use the Elfstones-or at least attempt to use them-before they had found the tunnels of Safehold and the Bloodfire and long before they were ready to flee. The moment he did that, he would bring the Demons down on them. Yet without the use of the Stones or the aid of a guide, they would have no chance at all of finding Safehold-not if they had all year to do so instead of only days.
Wil paused helplessly, staring at the lighted doors and windows of the buildings of the town, the shadowy figures who milled within, and the backdrop of the wilderness and the night sky. It was an impossible dilemma, and he had no idea at all how he was going to resolve it.
“Wil,” Amberle tugged anxiously at his arm. “Let’s get off this street.”
The Valeman glanced at her quickly and nodded. First things first. They must find a place to sleep for the night; they must have something to eat. The rest would have to wait.
With Amberle’s hand in his, he started back up the roadway, studying the inns and taverns at either side. They walked about fifty feet further before the Valeman caught sight of a small, two-story lodging house set back from the other buildings within a grove of scrub pine. Lights burned through the windows of the first floor, while the second story stood dark. The loud voices and raucous laughter were missing here, or at least diminished, and the crowd was small.
Wil moved over to the courtyard fronting the inn and peered through the streaked glass of the windows opening on the main room. Everything appeared quiet. He glanced up. The sign on the gatepost indicated it was the Candle Light Inn. He hesitated a moment longer, then made up his mind. With a reassuring nod to Amberle, who looked more than a little doubtful, he led her through the gate and moved up the walk through the pine. The inn doors stood open to the summer night.
“Put your cowl about your face,” he whispered suddenly, and when she stared over at him blankly, quickly did so for her. He gave her a smile which belied his own sense of uncertainty, then took her hand firmly in his and stepped through the entry.
The room within was cramped and thick with smoke from oil lamps and pipes. A short bar stood at the front, and a knot of rough-looking men and women clustered about it, talking among themselves and, drinking ale. Various tables ringed by chairs and backless stools filled the back, a few occupied by cloaked figures who hunched over drinks and spoke in low voices. Several doors led from this room to other parts of the building, and a stairway ran up the left wall and disappeared into darkness. The floor was splintered and worn, and cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling. Next to the doorway, an aged hound chewed contentedly on a meat bone.
Wil guided Amberle to the back of the room where a small table stood empty save for a fat, low-burning candle, and they seated themselves. A few heads lifted or turned as they passed, then just as quickly looked away again.
“What are we doing here?” Amberle asked anxiously, finding it difficult to keep the tone of her voice low enough that they would not be overheard.
Wil shook his head. “Just be patient.”
A few moments later a lumpish, unfriendly-looking woman of uncertain age trudged over to them, a towel thrown loosely across one arm. As she came up to them; Wil noticed that she was limping badly. He thought he recognized that limp, and the germ of an idea began to form.
“Something to drink?” she wanted to know.
Wil smiled pleasantly. “Two glasses of ale.”
The woman walked away without comment. Wil watched her go.
“I do not like ale,” Amberle protested. “What are you doing?”
“Being sociable. Did you notice the way that woman limped?”
The Elven girl stared at him. “What has that got to do with anything?”
Wil smiled. “Everything. Watch and see.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then the woman was back again, carrying with her the glasses of ale. She placed them on the table and stood back, her beefy hand passing through a string of tangled, graying hair.
“That all?”
“Do you have any dinner?” Wil wanted to know, taking a sip of the ale. Amberle ignored her glass entirely.
“Stew, bread, cheese, maybe some cakes-fresh today.”
“Mmmm. Hot day for baking.”
“Real hot. Waste of effort, too. No one’s eating.”
Wil shook his head sympathetically. “Shouldn’t let that kind of effort go to waste.”
“Most would rather drink,” the heavy woman offered with a snort. “Me, too, I guess, if I had the time.”
Wil grinned. “I suppose. Do you run the inn alone?”
“Me and my boys.” She warmed a bit, folding her arms across her chest. “Husband run off. Boys help me when they’re not drinking or gambling-which is seldom. I could do it myself if it weren’t for this leg. Cramps up all the time. Hurts like there’s no quitting:”
“Have you tried heat on it?”
“Sure. Helps some.”
“Herb mixes?”
She spat. “Worthless.”
“Quite a problem. How long has it been that way?”
“Aw, years, I guess. I lost count; doesn’t do any good thinking about it.”
“Well.” Wil looked thoughtful. “The food sounds good. I think we will try it-a plate for each of us.”
The proprietress of the Candle Light Inn nodded and moved away again. Amberle leaned forward quickly.
“How do you plan to pay for all this? We don’t have any money.”
“I know that,” the Valeman replied, glancing about. “I don’t think we are going to need any.”
Amberle looked‘ as if she were going to hit him. “You promised you would not do this again. You promised you would tell me first what it was you were planning to do before you did it remember? The last time you tried something like this was with the Rovers, and it nearly cost us our lives. These people look a lot more dangerous than the Rovers.”
“I know, I know, but I just thought of it. We have to have a meal and a bed-and this looks like our best chance for both.”
The Elven girl’s face tightened within the shadow of the cowl. “I do not like this pace, Wil Ohmsford-this inn, this town, these people, any of it. We could do without the meal and the bed.”
Wil shook his head. “We could, but we won’t. Shhh, she’s coming back.”
The woman had returned with their dinner. She set the steaming plates before them and was about to leave when Wil spoke.
“Stay a moment,” he asked. The proprietress turned back to them. “I have been thinking about your leg. Maybe I can help.”
She stared at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Well, I think I can stop the pain.”
The look of suspicion grew more pronounced. “Why would you want to do that for me?” She scowled.
Wil smiled. “Business. Money.”
“I don’t have much money.”
“Then how about a trade? For the price of the ale, this meal, and a night’s lodging, I’ll stop the pain. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” Her lumpish body dropped heavily into the chair next to him. “But can you do it?”
“Bring out a cup of hot tea and a clean cloth and we will see.”
The woman came to her feet at once and lumbered off to the kitchen. Wil watched her go, smiling faintly. Amberle shook her head.
“I hope you know what you are doing.”
“So do I. Eat your dinner now in case I don’t.”
They had finished most of their meal by the time she returned with the tea and cloth. Wil glanced past her to the patrons gathered about the bar. A few glanced were beginning to turn. Whatever happened next, he thought, he did not want to call further attention to himself. He looked up at the woman and smiled.
“This should be done in private. Do you have somewhere we might go?”
The woman shrugged and led them through one of the closed doors into a small room containing a single table with a candle and six stools. She lit the candle and closed the door. The three seated themselves.
“What happens now?” the woman asked.
The Valeman took a single dried leaf from a pouch about his waist and crumbled it into dust, dropping the dust into the tea. He stirred the mixture about, then handed it back to the woman.
“Drink it down. It will make you a bit sleepy, nothing more.”
The woman studied it a moment, then drank it. When the cup was empty, Wil took it from her, dropped in another kind of leaf and poured a small measure of ale from his glass, which he had carried in with him. These he stirred slowly, watching the leaf dissolve away to nothing. Across the table from him, Amberle shook her head.
“Put your leg up on this stool,” Wil ordered, shoving a vacant stool in front of the woman, who dutifully placed her leg on it. “Now pull up your skirt.”
The proprietress gave him a questioning look, as if wondering what his intentions might be for her, then hiked her skirt up to her thigh. Her leg was corded, veined, and covered with dark splotches. Wil dipped the cloth into the mixture in the cup and began rubbing it into the leg.
“Tingles a bit.” The woman giggled.
Wil smiled encouragingly. When the mixture was gone from the cup, he reached into the pouch once more and this time produced a long; silver needle with a rounded head. The woman leaned forward with a start.
“You’re not going to stick that in me, are you?”
Wil nodded calmly. “You won’t feel it; just a touch.” He passed it slowly through the flame of the candle that burned at the center of their table. “Now hold very still,” he ordered.
Slowly, carefully, he inserted the needle into the woman’s leg, just above the knee joint, until only the rounded head was showing. He left it there a moment, then withdrew it. The woman grimaced slightly, shut-her eyes, then opened them again. Wil sat back.
“All done,” he announced, hoping that indeed it was. “Stand up and walk about.”
The perplexed woman stared at him a moment, then pulled down her skirt indignantly and rose to her feet. Gingerly, she stepped away from the table, testing the feel of the bad leg. Then abruptly she wheeled about, a broad grin creasing her rough face.
“It’s gone! The pain’s gone! First time in months!” She was laughing excitedly. “I don’t believe it. How’d you do that?”
“Magic.” Wil grinned with satisfaction; then immediately wished he hadn’t said that. Amberle shot him an angry glance.
“Magic, huh?” The woman took a few more steps, shaking her head. “Well, if you say so. It sure feels like magic No pain at all.”
“Well, it wasn’t really magic...” Wil began anew, but the woman was already moving toward the door.
“I feel so good, I’m going to give everyone a free glass.” She opened the door and stepped through. “Can’t wait to see their faces when they hear about this!”
“No, wait...” Wil called after her, but the door closed and she was gone. “Confound it,” he muttered, wishing belatedly that he had made her promise to keep quiet about this.
Amberle folded her hands calmly and looked at him. “How did you do that?”
He shrugged. “I’m a Healer, remember? The Stors taught me a few things about aches and pains.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “The trouble is, the treatment doesn’t last.”
“Doesn’t last!” Amberle was horrified.
Wil put a finger to his lips. “The treatment is only temporary. By morning the pain will be back, so we had better be gone.”
“Wil, you lied to that woman,” the Elven girl cried. “You told her you could cure her.”
“No, that was not what I said. I said that I could stop the pain. I did not say for how long. A night’s relief for her, a night’s sleep and a meal for us. A fair trade.”
Amberle stared at him accusingly and did not reply.
Wil sighed. “If it is any comfort to you, the pain will not be as bad as it was before. But her condition is not one that any Healer could cure; it has to do with the life she leads, her age, her weight-a lot of other things over which I have no control. I have done as much as I can for her. Will you please be reasonable?”
“Could you give her something for when the pain returns?”
The Valeman reached over and gripped her hands. “You are a truly gentle person, do you know that? Yes, I could give her something for the pain. But we will leave it for her to find after we are gone, if you don’t mind.”
A sudden clamor from the other room brought him to his feet, and he moved to the door, slipping it open just a crack. Before, the inn had been all but empty. Now it was nearly filled as people drifted in off the roadway, attracted by the promise of free drinks and the antics of the proprietress, who was gleefully demonstrating her newfound cure.
“Time to be going,” Wil muttered and hurriedly led Amberle from the room.
They had not taken a dozen steps when the woman called out shrilly and came rushing over to stop them. Heads shook and fingers pointed at Wil. Too many for the Valeman’s comfort.
“A glass of ale, you two?” the heavy woman offered. Her hand clapped Wil on the shoulder and nearly knocked him off his feet. He managed a weak grin.
“I think we should get some sleep. We have a long journey and we are really very tired.”
The woman snorted. “Stay up and celebrate. You don’t have to pay. Drink all you want.”
Wil shook his head. “I think, we better get some sleep.”
“Sleep? With all this noise?” The woman shrugged. “Take room number ten, top of the stairs and down the hall. Sits at the back of the inn. Might be a little more quiet for you.” She paused. “We’re even now, right? I don’t owe you anything more?”
“Nothing,” Wil assured her, anxious to be gone.
The proprietress grinned broadly. “Well, you sold out cheap, you know that? I would have paid you ten times what you asked for what you done. Why, a couple hours without the pain is worth the ale and the meal and the bed! You got to be clever if you expect to get anywhere in this country. Remember that bit of advice, little Elf. It’s free.”
She laughed roughly and turned back to the bar. The free drinks were over. With a crowd of this size, there was money to be made. The woman scurried along the serving board, snatching the coins up eagerly.
Wil gabbed Amberle’s arm and guided her away from the table to the stairway and up the steps. The stares of the patrons followed after them.
“And you were worried about her” the Valeman muttered as they reached the upper hallway and turned down it.
Amberle smiled and said nothing.
They had been asleep several hours when they heard the noises at the door of their room. Wil came awake first, sitting upright in the bed with a start, peering through the deep night blackness. He could hear sounds without-a shuffling of feet, whispered voices, heavy breathing. Not Demons, he told himself quickly, but the chill within him would not subside. The latch on the door jiggled as hands worked quietly to free it.
Amberle was awake as well, sitting next to him, her face white within the shadow of her long chestnut hair. Wil put a finger to his lips.
“Wait here.”
Silently he slipped from the bed and moved to the door. The latch continued to rattle, but the Valeman had thrown the bolt above it, so the room was secure. He bent toward the doorway and listened. The voices without were low and muffled.
“... careful, fool... just lift it...”
“I am lifting it! Step out of the light!”
“... waste of time; just break it in... there’s enough of us.”
“... not if he uses magic.”
“The gold is worth the risk... break it!”
The voices argued on, whispers laced with the slur of ale, mixed with grunts and ragged breathing. There were at least half a dozen men out there, the Valeman decided-thieves and cutthroats, most probably, undoubtedly led to them by the idle tongue of someone who had heard the tale of their miraculous cure of the proprietress of the inn and who could not resist a few embellishments in a retelling of the story. He backed away hurriedly, groping for the bed. Amberle’s hand gripped his arm.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered.
Wordlessly, she moved off the bed into the dark. They had slept in their clothes and it took them only moments to pull on the travel cloaks and boots. Wil hastened to the window at the rear of the room and pushed it open. Immediately below, a veranda roof sloped downward from the wall. From its edge, there was a drop of a dozen feet to the ground. Wil turned back to find Amberle again and brought her to the window.
“Out you go,” he whispered and took her arm.
In that same instant, there came a loud oath from the hall, and a heavy body crashed into the door, splintering boards and metal fastenings. The would-be thieves had lost their patience. Wil all but shoved the Elven girl through the open window, glancing back hurriedly to see if the intruders had broken through completely. They had not. The door still held. But then the door was struck again. This time the bolt gave way. Into the room surged a knot of cloaked figures, stumbling over one another, cursing and yelling.
Wil did not wait to see what might happen next. Scrambling through the window, he leaped hurriedly onto the veranda roof.
“Jump!” he yelled to Amberle, who crouched in front of him.
The Elven girl slipped over the edge of the roof and dropped to the earth below. In a moment’s time, Wil was beside her. Above them, leaning through the open window, the cloaked figures shouted in anger. Wil pulled Amberle back within the shadows of the building, then looked about hurriedly.
“Which way?” he muttered, suddenly confused.
Wordlessly Amberle took his hand and sprinted to the end of the wall, then broke for the building next to the inn. The shouts of their pursuers rose sharply, followed by the sound of booted feet on the veranda roof. Valeman and Elven girl ran silently through the darkness of the buildings, slipping down passageways, through alleys, and along walls until at last they were back to the edge of the main roadway.
Still, the shouts pursued them. Grimpen Ward seemed to come suddenly awake, lights flaring in darkened buildings all about them, voices raising in anger. Amberle started out onto the roadway, but Wil pulled her hastily back. Less than a hundred feet away, in front of the Candle Light Inn, several dark forms fanned out onto the road, searching carefully the shadows about them.
“We have to go back,” the Valeman whispered.
They retraced their steps, following the wall of the building until they reached its end. A series of sheds and stalls stood clustered together against the dark backdrop of the forest. Wil hesitated. If they tried to escape into the forest, they would become hopelessly lost. They had to work their way back around the buildings to where the main roadway wound south out of Grimpen Ward. Once beyond the town, they would probably not be pursued further.
Cautiously they moved along the rear of the building. Walls and fences hemmed them in on all sides and barrels of trash cluttered the path forward. But the shouts had quieted now, and the buildings ahead were still dark. A few minutes more and they might be clear of their pursuit.
They turned down a narrow alley that ran through a row of stables behind a feed store. Horses whickered softly at their scent, stamping impatiently within their stalls. A small paddock stretched out before them beyond a line of sheds.
Wil started along the paddock fence with Amberle at his side. They had taken no more than a dozen steps when a sharp cry went up behind them. From out of the shadows of the feed store, a dark form appeared, arms waving, voice raised in alarm. Answering cries sounded from the buildings beyond. Startled by the suddenness of their discovery, Valeman and Elven girl stumbled over one another in their haste to flee, lost their footing, and went down.
Instantly their pursuer was on top of them. Arms flailed and fists pummeled wildly. Wil grappled with the man, a wiry fellow reeking of ale, as Amberle rolled clear. His hands fastened on his attacker’s cloak; with a sudden heave, Wil threw the man sideways into the paddock. There was a sharp whack as the man’s head struck the fence boards, and he collapsed in a heap.
Wil scrambled back to his feet. Lights came on in the rooms above the feed store and in the surrounding buildings. In the darkness behind them, torchlight flickered through the night. Cries of pursuit sounded from everywhere. The Valeman seized Amberle’s hand and they raced together along the ring of the paddock to the line of sheds. There they turned back toward the main roadway, following a narrow alley that ran between two shuttered buildings. Shadows darkened the passage and the two ran blindly. Wil leading. Ahead, the earthen line of the roadway slipped into view.
“Wil!” Amberle cried out in warning.
Too late. The Valeman’s eyes were not as sharp as the Elven girl’s, and he stumbled headlong into a pile of loose boards strewn across the alley passage. Down he tumbled, crashing into the side of the building. Pain exploded in his head; for an instant, he lost consciousness completely. Then somehow he was back on his feet, weaving forward dizzily, Amberle’s voice a faint buzzing in his ears. His hand reached for his forehead and came away wet with blood.
Abruptly the Elven girl was next to him, her arms wrapping tightly about his waist. He sagged against her weakly forcing himself to stagger ahead toward the distant light of the street. He felt himself blacking out again and fought against it. He had to keep moving; he had to keep awake. Amberle was talking to him, her voice urgent, but he could not make out the words. He felt like a fool. How could he have let something this stupid happen now?
They staggered clear of the alley and turned into the shadows of a porch. Down its length they stumbled, the Elven girl fighting to keep the Valeman on his feet. Blood ran down into Wil’s eyes, blinding him further, and he muttered in anger.
Suddenly he heard Amberle gasp in surprise. Through the haze that blurred his vision, he watched a tangle of shadows appear out of the dark. Voices sounded, low and rough, and there was a hiss of warning. Them Amberle was gone, and he felt himself being lifted. Strong hands bore him quickly through the dark. There was a swirl of color before his clouded eyes, mingled with a rush of torchlight. Then he was being lifted again, this time through a narrow opening of canvas flaps. An oil lamp flickered beside him. Voices sounded, whispers of caution, and he felt a damp cloth wipe his face clean of blood. Hands worked buy to wrap him in blankets and to place a pillow beneath his head.
Slowly he opened his eyes. He lay within a gaily colored wagon, its walls decorated with tapestries, beads, and bright silks. The Valeman started. He knew this wagon.
Then a face bent close, dark and sensuous, framed in ringlets of thick black hair. The smile that greeted him was dazzling.
“I told you we would meet again, Wil Ohmsford.”
It was Eretria.