The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

“Celebrating his victory before he’s even engaged his enemy. How very like him.” Pied shook his head. “Something is going on that we don’t know about. I can feel it in my bones. This attack is a mistake. I have to find a way to stop it.”


Drumundoon pursed his lips. “I don’t know this for a fact, but I am given to understand that the King hasn’t advised our allies as yet of his plans.”

Pied came to an abrupt halt, staring at him. “What?”

“He intends to inform them just before he sets out, I’m told. That way, they can’t stop him.” His aide cocked an eyebrow at him. “He doesn’t want to risk anything or anyone getting in his way. He knows he isn’t commander of the Free-born army, that he isn’t even commander of the airship fleet. But he is King of the Elves, and the Elves make up the greater part of the airship command, so in his mind, that’s sufficient justification for striking out on his own.”

Drumundoon glanced around warily, making sure no one else was listening. “Captain, he doesn’t intend to ask for support from any quarter in this business. He intends this victory to belong solely to the Elves. Dwarves, Trolls, and Bordermen can share in it afterwards, once it has been realized, but ultimately it is the Elves who will bring it about. That’s what they say he’s decided.”

Pied fumed. How had he not seen that coming? For more than two months, Kellen Elessedil had camped on the Prekkendorran with his Elven Hunters, an inspiring presence and little more on the face of things. But Kellen Elessedil was nothing if not driven. You could see it in his impatience with the failure of the Free-born army to effect any noticeable change in the status quo. Always anxious to be in the thick of things, always looking to see how matters so long stalemated might be resolved, the King was pressing his fellow commanders at every opportunity. The war was more than thirty years old, and the Elves were sick to death of it. The King saw it as his moral imperative to bring it to a conclusion, and no one could fault him for his commitment to do so. What was wrong with his approach was his insistence on doing it his way, on finding a solution that did not necessarily involve his Free-born allies. What was mistaken in his thinking was that the solution existed in simple terms; that somehow the answer lay in a single brilliant military stroke, and that the finding of that answer had been left up to him.

Well, it was too late to try to explain it to him now, even supposing he would be willing to listen, which Pied was quite sure he would not.

He started walking again, more purposefully, a mix of irritation and concern flooding through him. King or not, Kellen Elessedil was overstepping his bounds, and it would come back to haunt them all. Drumundoon matched his strides to those of his Captain and kept his peace while he did so. Neither of them spoke. There had been enough talk already.

Pied surveyed the camp as they passed through it, taking careful note of what he saw. This section was mostly Elven; those farther on, east of where they walked, comprised Bordermen from the larger cities of Callahorn as well as Dwarves and Trolls, most of the latter mercenaries. The nominal leader of the army was an aged, though highly respected, Southlander named Droshen, but the real leader, the man who commanded the soldiers on the battlefield, was a Dwarf called Vaden Wick, a veteran of countless campaigns against the Gnome tribes before coming to the Prekkendorran. Just now, coordination of the various allied forces was loose, a condition brought about by the near inactivity of the armies on either side of the conflict over the past few years, an erosion of structure and discipline through constant changes in both ranks and command. The third generation of allies was fighting the war, and the toll was noticeable. It was assumed by most that the war would end only when the leaders finally grew so tired of it that they called it off by mutual agreement. No one thought it could be won on the battlefield. Not after so long. Not after so many failed attempts.

Except, of course, for a few who thought like Kellen Elessedil.

Pied was disconcerted by what he saw that evening. The obvious lack of discipline was worrisome. The looks on the faces of the men and women as they sat around their fires, playing games of chance and drinking ale, were more worrisome still. Disinterest and resignation were mirrored in those faces. That spoke to him clearly: No one believed in the war anymore. It said that everyone was sick of the fighting and dying. It said that keeping your head down and your mouth shut was all that would get you through. These men and women were waiting things out. They were waiting to go home.