The First King of Shannara

“Why would we be anything else?” Risca’s voice was filled with impatience. “We are wasting time! How long are we going to stand here?”


“He waits for me,” Jerle Shannara said suddenly. “He knows I come for him.” The others looked at him. “He will do battle with me now because he believes it is the easiest course for him to follow. He has no fear of me. He believes that I will be destroyed.”

“You won’t face him alone,” said Preia Starle quickly. “We will be with you.”

“All of us!” snapped Risca, daring anyone to challenge him.

“But there is danger in this,” Bremen cautioned again. “All of us grouped together. We are tired and spent. We are not as strong as we should be.”

Mareth stepped forward now, her dark face intense. “We are strong enough, Bremen.” She gripped the Druid staff tightly in both hands. “You cannot expect us simply to stand and watch.”

“We came a long way to see an end to this,” echoed Kinson Ravenlock. ‘This is our fight as well.”

They stared at the old man, all of them, waiting for him to speak. He looked at them without seeing, his eyes distant and lost.

He seemed to be considering something more than what they could comprehend, something far beyond the here and now, beyond the immediate danger.

“Bremen,” the king said softly, waiting until the aged eyes found him. “I am ready for this. Do not doubt me.”

The Druid studied him for a long moment, then nodded in weary resignation. “We shall do as you wish, Elven King.”

Risca ordered signal flags raised on lances to advise Raybur of what they intended. A return signal quickly appeared. The Dwarves would advance on the Elves’ command. The way north would be blocked against any who tried to flee. It was up to Jerle Shannara and the Elves to hammer shut the jaws of the trap.

The king called forward Trewithen and a dozen Home Guard to stand with him. Risca called for six of his Dwarves. While they assembled, Jerle Shannara pulled Preia Starle aside and spoke quickly. “I want you to wait here for me,” he told her.

She shook her head. “I cannot do that and you know it.”

“You are injured. You lack the speed and strength you could call upon if you were whole. How do you expect to make up for that?”

“Do not ask this of me.”

“It will distract me if I have to worry about you!” His face was flushed and his eyes angry. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you, Preia.”

“Would you ask Tay Trefenwyd to stay behind if he were here?” she replied softly. She gave him a moment to consider, her eyes searching his. A small, fragile smile followed. “I love you, too. So don’t expect less of me than I do of myself.”

At the same moment, Kinson Ravenlock was speaking with Mareth. “Will you be all right when this begins?” he asked her quietly.

She looked at him in surprise. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You will have to use your magic. It will not be easy. You have spoken yourself of your distaste for it.”

“I have,” she agreed, moving close, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “But I will do what I must, Kinson.”

Bremen moved to the forefront of the company and turned to face them. “I will ward us with enough magic to deflect a first strike, but I can do no more. My strength is at an end. Risca and Mareth must stand for us all. Look out for each other, but mostly look out for the king. He must be given a chance to use the Sword against Brona. Everything depends on it.”

“He will have his chance,” Risca promised, standing directly before the old man. “We owe Tay Trefenwyd that much.”

They started forward then, Jerle Shannara leading, Preia Starle at his side, the king and queen flanked on the right by Risca and on the left by Bremen. The boy Allanon and Kinson Ravenlock and Mareth walked several paces back. Home Guard and Dwarf Hunters spread out to either side. Behind, the rest of the army followed. North, the Dwarves started down off the heights. The light was beginning to fail now as sunset approached, the shadows lengthening, the chill of early evening creeping into the air. Before them on the flats, the things in the mist shifted to attack.

The gray wolves struck first, hurtling forward in dark knots, tearing at the front ranks of Elves and Dwarves, slashing with their teeth before darting away. Risca threw out sheets of the Druid fire to scatter the closest, and instantly he was set upon by others.

Huge netherworld creatures lumbered into view, brushing back the fire, knocking aside the blades. Rock Trolls marched to the fight in tight formations, their great pikes lowered in a line of gleaming metal tips. Smoke from the Druid fire mingled with the mist, and the whole of the battleground was enveloped in a gray haze.

Jerle Shannara walked ahead untouched. Nothing approached him as he advanced, all would-be attackers veering to the side and away. The Warlock Lord is waiting for you, a voice whispered deep inside. The Warlock Lord wants you for his own.