The First King of Shannara

“You might be wrong about them not expecting us as well,” voiced his aged mentor, huffing back to his feet. “We don’t know what might have happened with the Dwarves. This is a battletested army we face, and they may know more tricks than we do.”


“We are badly outnumbered as it is,” Etrurian added with a scowl. “My lord, this is just too dangerous a tactic.”

Jerle nodded at each new comment, biding his time, waiting to speak until they had vented all their objections. He glanced at Preia, who was watching him carefully, then at Bremen, whose expressionless face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. He looked from one face to the next, trying to decide how many of those gathered he could count firmly in his camp. Preia, of course.

But the others, his commanders and Bremen alike, were still making up their minds or had already decided against him.

He didn’t want to force the matter on them if they would not support it, king or no, but he was firmly decided. How to persuade them, then?

The voices of opposition died away. Jerle Shannara straightened. “We are friends here, all of us,” he began. “We are working for the same end. I know the enormity of the task before us. We are all that stands between the Warlock Lord and the devastation of the Four Lands. Perhaps we are the only fighting force left with the strength to face him. So caution is necessary. But so is risk. There can be no victory without risk — certainly none here, in this place and time, against this enemy. There is an element of risk in any battle, an element of chance. We cannot ignore that. What we must do is minimize it.”

He walked close to Rustin Apt and knelt before him. The seasoned commander’s hard eyes grew startled. “What if I could show you a way to attack this enemy by night — a way that has a strong chance of succeeding, that risks only a few of us, and that if successful will disrupt him sufficiently that we will gain both confidence and time?”

The old man looked uncertain. “Can you do that?” he growled.

“Will you stand with me if I can?” the king pressed, ignoring the question. He glanced left and right. “Will you all?”

There were murmurs of approval. He looked at them in turn, made them meet his gaze, made them give him their assent. He nodded to each, drawing them to him with his eyes and smile, binding them to him with their unspoken promise, making them a part of the plan he had formed.

“Listen closely, then,” he whispered, and he told them what he would do.

The attack did not take place that night, but on the night following. It took another day to complete preparations, to choose the men who would participate, and then to send Kier Joplin and his riders north and Cormorant Etrurian and his Hunters south, both commands departing at sunrise and staying within the concealment provided by the forests and bluffs so that they could make their way to their respective destinations unseen. Their commands were necessarily small, for stealth and swiftness would serve their cause far better than size. Each had specific instructions on what to do and when to do it. Coordinating the various elements of the assault called for precise timing. If the strikes did not take place in their proper sequence, the assault would fail.

Jerle Shannara led the center group, a company composed of archers and Home Guard. The fighting would be most fierce where they went, and he would not allow anyone else to stand in his place. Bremen was furious. He approved of the plan. He applauded the king’s innovation and daring. But it was madness for the king to lead the attack himself.

“Think, Elven King! If you fall here, all is lost no matter what is gained!” He had made his argument to Jerle and Preia Starle after the others had departed. The wispy hair and beard had flown in all directions with the old man’s angry gestures. “You cannot risk your own life in this! You must stay alive for your confrontation with Brona!”

They had stood close to one another amid the shadows, the day gone to dusk. Outside, preparations were already under way for the morrow’s strike. Jerle Shannara had convinced his commanders, the force of his arguments and reason too strong for any to stand against, too persuasive for any to ignore. One by one, they had capitulated — Joplin first, then the others. In the end, they had been as enthusiastic about the plan as he was.

“He is right,” Preia Starle had agreed. “Listen to him.”