The First King of Shannara

In desperation the remaining Northlanders charged the cliffs to either side of the pass, trying to gain a foothold there. But the Elves were waiting once more. Boulders tumbled from the heights and crushed the climbers. Arrows decimated their ranks. From their superior defensive positions, the Elves repelled the assault almost effortlessly. Below, in the inferno of the pass, the front quarter of the Northland army milled about helplessly. The attack stalled and then fell apart. Choking on dust and smoke, burned by the grass fires, and bloodied by the weapons of the Elves, the army of the Warlock Lord began to withdraw once more onto the Streleheim.

Impulsively Jerle Shannara unsheathed the sword entrusted to him by Bremen, the sword whose magic he could not command or even yet believe in, and he thrust it aloft. All about him the Elves lifted their own weapons in response and cheered.

Almost instantly the king recognized the irony of his gesture.

Quickly he lowered the sword once more, a fool’s stick in his hands, a simpleton’s charm. As he wheeled Risk about angrily, his euphoria drained from him and was replaced by shame.

“It is the Sword of Shannara now, Elven King,” Bremen had told him when he had revealed to the old man after the midnight raid how the talisman’s magic had failed him. “It is no longer a sword of the Druids’ or of mine.”

The words recalled themselves now as he rode back and forth across his lines, resetting them in preparation for the next attack, the one he knew would probably come just before sunset. The Sword was back in its sheath, strapped to his waist, an uncertain, enigmatic presence. For while Bremen had been quick enough to name the Sword, he had been slow to provide reassurance that its magic could be mastered, and even now, even with all he knew, Jerle Shannara still did not feel as if it was truly his.

“It is possible for you to command the magic, Elven King,” the old man had whispered to him that night. “But the strength to do so is born out of belief, and the belief necessarily must come from within you.”

They had huddled together in the dark those ten days earlier, dawn still an hour or more away, their faces smeared with soot and dirt and streaked with sweat. Jerle Shannara had come close to dying that night. The Warlock Lord’s netherworld monster had almost killed him, and even though Bremen had arrived in time to save him, the memory of how near death had come was yet vivid and raw. Preia was somewhere close, but Jerle had chosen to talk with the Druid alone, to confess his failure in private to exorcise the demons that raged within. He could not live with what had befallen him if he did not think he could prevent it from happening again. Too much depended on the Sword’s use. What had he done wrong in calling on the power of the talisman that night? How could he make certain it did not happen again?

Alone in the darkness, huddled so that the pounding of their hearts and the heated rush of their breathing was all they could hear, they had confronted the question.

“This sword is a talisman meant for a single purpose, Jerle Shannara!” the old man had snapped almost angrily, his voice rough and impatient. “It has a single use and no other! You cannot call on the magic to defend you against all creatures that threaten! The blade may save your life, but the magic will not!”

The king stiffened at the rebuke. “But you said...”

“Do not tell me what I said!” Bremen’s words were sharp and stinging as they cut apart his objection and silenced him. “You were not listening to what I said, Elven King! You heard what you wanted to hear and no more! Do not deny it! I saw; I watched!

This time, pay me better heed! Are you doing so?”

Jerle Shannara managed a furious, tight-lipped nod, his tongue held in check only by the knowledge that if he failed to do as he was bidden, he was lost.

“Against the Warlock Lord, the magic will respond when you call on it! But only against the Warlock Lord, and only if you believe strongly enough!” The gray head shook reprovingly.

“Truth comes from belief — remember that. Truth comes with recognition that it is universal and all-encompassing and plays no favorites. If you. cannot accept it into your own life, you cannot force it into the lives of others. You must embrace it first, before you can employ it! You must make it your armor!”

“But it should have served so against that creature!” the king insisted, unwilling to admit that his judgment had been wrong.

“Why did it not respond?”

“Because there is no deception about such a monster!” the Druid replied, his jaw clenched. “It does not do battle with lies and half truths. It does not armor itself in falsehoods. It does not deceive itself into thinking it is something it is not! That — that, Elven King, is the sole province of the Warlock Lord! And that is why the magic of the Sword of Shannara can be used only against him!”