The First King of Shannara

He shook his head wearily. The Elves had been left with no allies no magic, no Druids, and no real chance of winning this war, visions and prophecies and high hopes notwithstanding.

He looked down at the maps again, carefully configured topographies of the Rhenn and the land surrounding, as if the answer to the problem might lie there and perhaps he might have missed it. There was a time not so long ago when he would not have allowed himself to make so honest an assessment of the situation. There was a time when he would never have admitted that he could lose a battle to a stronger enemy. He had changed much since then. Losing Tay Trefenwyd and the Ballindarrochs, nearly losing Preia, becoming King of the Elves in less than ideal circumstances, and discovering that his view of himself was more than a little flawed had given him a different perspective. It was not a debilitating experience, but it was sobering. It was what happened when you grew up, he supposed. It was the rite of passage you endured when you left your boyhood behind for good.

He found himself studying the scars on the backs of his hands.

Little maps of their own, they traced the progress of his life. Warrior since birth, now King of the Elves, he had come a long way in a short time, and the scars provided a more accurate accounting of the cost of his journey than mere words. How many more scars would he incur in his battle with the Warlock Lord? Was he strong enough for this confrontation? Was he strong enough to survive?

He carried not only his own destiny into battle, but that of his people as well. How strong did he have to be for that?

The doors leading out onto the terrace flew open with a crash, blown back against the walls by the force of the wind, their curtains whipping wildly. Jerle Shannara reached for his broadsword as two black-cloaked figures surged into the room, rain-soaked and bent. Maps scattered from the table onto the floor, and lamps flickered and went out.

“Stay your hand, Elven King,” commanded the foremost of the intruders, while the second, smaller figure turned to close the doors behind them, shutting out the wind and rain once more.

It went quiet again in the room. Water dripped from the two onto the stone floor, puddling and staining. The king crouched guardedly, his sword halfway out of its sheath, his tall form coiled and ready, “Who are you?” he demanded.

The taller of the two pulled back his hood and revealed himself in the gray, uncertain light. ‘Jerle Shannara took a long, deep breath. It was the Druid Bremen.

“I had given up on you,” he declared in a whisper, his emotions betraying him. “We all had.”

The old man’s smile was bitter. “You had reason. It has taken a long time to reach you, almost as long as it took to discover that it was you I sought.” He reached beneath his sodden cloak and withdrew a long, slim bundle wrapped in dark canvas. “I have brought you something.”

Jerle Shannara nodded. “I know.” He shoved his half-drawn sword back into its scabbard.

There was surprise in the Druid’s sharp eyes. He looked at his companion. “Allanon.” The boy pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing himself. Dark eyes burned into the Elven King’s, but the smooth, sharply angled face revealed nothing. “Remove your cloak. Wait outside the door. Ask that no one enter until this discussion is finished. Tell them the king commands it.”

The boy nodded, slid the cloak from his shoulders, carried it to a hanging rack, then slipped through the door and was gone.

Bremen and Jerle Shannara stood alone in the study, the maps still scattered on the floor about them, their eyes locked. “It has been a long time, Jerle.”

The king sighed. “I suppose it has. Five years? Longer perhaps?”

“Long enough that I had forgotten the lines on your face. Or perhaps you have simply grown older like the rest of us.” The smile came and went in the encroaching twilight. ‘Tell me what you know of my coming.”

Jerle shifted his feet to a less threatening stance, watching as the other removed his cloak and tossed it aside wearily. “I am told that you bring me a sword, one forged with magic, one that I must carry into battle against the Warlock Lord.” He hesitated. “Is this true? Have you brought such a weapon?”

The old man nodded. “I have.” He took the canvas-wrapped bundle and laid it carefully on the table. “But I wasn’t certain it was meant for you until I saw you standing crouched to strike me down, your weapon coming out of its sheath. In that moment, seeing you that way, I knew you were the one for whom the sword was intended. A vision of you holding the sword was shown to me at the Hadeshorn weeks ago, but I failed to recognize you. Did Tay Trefenwyd tell you of the vision?”

“He did. But he did not know that the sword was meant for me either. It was the locat Vree Erreden who advised me. He saw it in a vision of his own, saw me holding the sword, a sword with an emblem emblazoned on the pommel, an emblem of a hand holding forth a burning torch. He told me it was the insignia of the Druids.”