The First King of Shannara

Bremen could tell — the boy was already choosing a place to make his stand.

The Northland army was within two hundred yards when it rumbled to a halt. With a flurry of activity, the sappers and haulers began to bring up the catapults and siege towers. Bremen’s throat tightened. The Warlock Lord would not launch a direct attack.

Why waste lives when it was not necessary? Instead, he would use the catapults and the bowmen hidden within the towers to rake the Westland defenses with deadly missiles, to thin their numbers further, to wear them down until they were too few to provide any resistance.

The war machines spread out across the width of the valley floor, lined up axle to axle, the slings of the catapults loaded with rocks and chunks of iron, the bays of the towers filled with bowmen at every slit. Within the Elven ranks, no one moved.

There was nowhere to go, no place to hide, no better defense to which to withdraw. For if the valley was lost, the Westland was lost as well. The drums throbbed on, beating out their ceaseless cadence, matching the thunder of the wheels on the war machines, reverberating in the old man’s chest. He glanced at the darkening sky, but sunset was still an hour away and darkness would come too late to help.

“We have to stop this,” he whispered, not meaning to speak, the words just slipping out.

Allanon looked up at him wordlessly and waited. Those strang eyes fixed on him and would not move away. Bremen held his gaze. “How?” asked the boy softly.

And suddenly Bremen knew. He knew it from the eyes, from the words the boy spoke, and from the whisper of inspiration that rose suddenly within. It came to him in a moment of terifying insight, born of his own despair and fading hope.

“There is a way,” he said quickly, anxiously. The creases in his aging face deepened. “But I need your help. I lack the strength alone.” He paused. “It will be dangerous for you.”

The boy nodded. “I am not afraid.”

“You may die. We may both die.”

‘Tell me what to do.”

Bremen turned toward the line of siege machines and placed the boy in front of him. “Listen carefully, then. You must give yourself over to me, Allanon. Do not fight against anything you feel. You will become a conduit for me, for my magic, the magic I possess but lack sufficient strength to wield. I shall wield it through you. I shall draw my strength from you.”

The boy did not look at him. “You will let your magic feed in me?” he asked softly, almost reverently.

“Yes.” Bremen bent close. “I will ward you with every protection I have. If you die, I will die with you. It is all I can offer.”

“It is enough,” the boy replied, his eyes still turned away. “Do what you must, Bremen. But do it now, quickly, while there is still time.”

The Northland army was massed before them, fronted by the, huge war machines, bristling with weapons at every turn. Dust lifted from the burned, parched valley floor, filling the air with gas that curtained off the world beyond so thoroughly that it might have ceased to exist. Light reflected from metal blades and points, pennants flew in bright colors, and the sounds that rose from the throats of the attackers were thick with the expectation of victor!.

Together, the Druid and the boy faced into them, into the men and animals, the machines, the sound and movement, standing still and alone on the promontory. No one saw them, or if they did, paid them any attention. Even the Elves took no notice, their eyes on the army before them.

Bremen took a deep breath and placed his hands on Allanon’s slender shoulders. “Clasp your hands and point them at the towers and the catapults.” His throat tightened. “Be strong, Allanon.”

The boy’s hands clasped together, the fingers laced, and the thin arms lifted and pointed toward the Northland army. Bremen stood mst behind him, his hands still, his eyes closed. Within, he summoned the Druid fire. It sparked and came to life. He must be careful of its use, he reminded himself. The balance of what was needed and what he could afford to give was a delicate one, and he must be careful not to upset it. An error either way, and there would be no help for either of them.

On the battlefield, the arms of the catapults were being drawn back and the archers in the towers were readying their bows.

Bremen’s eyes opened anew, and they were as white as snow.

Below, as if warned by a premonition, Jerle Shannara turned suddenly to look back at him.