The First King of Shannara

On the parapets of the walk, he found Jerle locked in battle with the Skull Bearer. It should have been a mismatch, the winged hunter far more powerful than the Elf, but Jerle Shannara seemed possessed. He was fighting as if it made no difference to nun whether he lived or died so long as his adversary did not escape.

They surged back and forth across the walk, up against the balustrades, twisting and turning from darkness into light. Jerle had his arms locked about the monster’s wings so that it could not fly. The Skull Bearer tore at the Elf with its claws, but Jerle was behind it, and it could not reach him.

Tay cried out to his friend and raced to help. He brought the magic to his fingertips, calling it up as Bremen had taught him, bringing the strength of his body into joinder with the elements of the world that had birthed him, a quickening of life’s fire. The Skull Bearer saw him approaching, and wheeled away, placing Jerle between them so that the Druid could not use his magic.

Below, on the palace grounds, Elven Hunters looked up, seeing the combatants for the first time, recognizing Jerle. Arrows were notched in longbows, and strings were drawn back and made ready.

Then the monster broke Jerle’s grip, leaped onto the balustrade, and took wing. It hung momentarily against the light, huge and dark and nightmarish, a harried beast in search of any haven. Tay struck at it with everything he had, sending the Druid fire burning into its hated form. Below, bowstrings released, and dozens of arrows buried themselves in the creature’s body. The Skull Bearer shuddered, faltered, and struggled on, streaming fire and smoke like kite tails, bristling with arrows. A second barrage of missiles from the bowmen flew into it. Now one wing collapsed, and in a final desperate effort it threw itself toward the tops of a stand of trees. But its strength was gone, and its body would no longer respond. Down it went, thrashing as it struck the ground and swordsmen swarmed over it.

Even then, it took a long time to die.

A search of the grounds, the city, and the forests beyond did not turn up any further trace of the attackers. All had been killed, it seemed. Perhaps they had expected to die. Perhaps they had come to Arborlon knowing they would. It didn’t matter now. What mattered was that they had succeeded in what they had come to do.

They had destroyed the Ballindarroch family. Men, women, and children, the Ballindarrochs had died in their sleep, some never waking, some waking just long enough to realize what was happening before their lives were taken from them. The scope of the disaster was stunning. Courtann Ballindarroch still lived, but only barely. The Healers worked on him all night, but even after they had done everything they could to save him there was little hope.

One son still lived, the next to youngest, Alyten, who had been hunting west with friends and by chance alone had avoided the fate of the others in his family. Two small grandchildren had survived as well, sleeping in the bedroom that Tay had passed on his way to the king’s, saved because the Gnome assassins had not yet gotten to them. Even during the attack, they did not wake. The older was barely four, the younger not yet two.

Within hours, the city was transformed into an armed camp. Elven Hunters were dispatched to all quarters to set up watch. Patrols were sent down every trail and roadway and on to the Valley of Rhenn to give warning. The people of the city were roused and told to make ready for a full-scale assault. No one was certain what might happen next, appalled and terrified by the assassination of the royal family in their own beds. Anything seemed possible, and everyone was determined that whatever catastrophe might occur next, they would be ready for it.

By dawn the weather had changed, the temperature dropping, the skies clouding over, the air turning heavy and still. Soon a long, slow drizzle filled the air with mist and gloom.

Tay sat with Jerle Shannara on a window seat in a small alcove off the entry to the palace and watched the rain fall. The bodies of the dead had been removed. All the rooms had been searched twice over for assassins trying to hide. The blood and gore of the attack had been washed away, and the bedrooms where the carnage had occurred had been stripped and cleaned. All of it had been done in darkness, before dawn’s light, as if to hide the travesty, as if to conceal the horror. Now the palace stood empty. Even Courtann Ballindarroch’s two small grandchildren had been taken to other homes until it could be decided what to do with them.

“You know why this was done, don’t you?” Jerle asked Tay suddenly, breaking a silence that had gone on for some time.

Tay looked at him. “The killings?”

Jerle nodded. ‘To disrupt things. To throw us off balance. To stop us from mobilizing the army.“ He sounded tired. ”In short, to prevent us from sending help to the Dwarves. With Courtann dead, the Elves will not do anything until a new king is chosen. The Warlock Lord knows this. That’s why he sent his assassins to Arborlon with orders to kill everyone. By the time we are regrouped sufficiently even to make a decision about ourselves, it will be too late for the Dwarves. The Eastland will have fallen.”