The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

Pied, still standing on the rise with the bulk of the Elven forces, signaled his archer a second time. A pair of arrows shrieked a command as they arced above the combatants. Not all heard the shrieking sound, but those who did signaled their fellows to pull back. Swiftly, the Elves disengaged, retreating on the run to the topmost part of the rise, moving past the six fighting triangles into which the remainder of the Elven foot soldiers had been formed.

It took only minutes for the first wave to retreat, but even in that short time, hundreds more Federation soldiers poured through the gap onto the flats, joining their fellows. It was a much larger force than Pied had envisioned, much larger than his Elves were equipped to handle, but there was nothing he could do about that. Lifting his sword a second time, he called out the Elessedil battle cry and sent his triangles into battle.

The triangles advanced as one. Shields locked and spears lowered, they presented bristling walls of steel tips. The triangles were formed into two lines, three triangles of eighty men each in front and three behind, the latter offset slightly to the right of the former, so that the leading points of each triangle filled all the gaps. As the triangles bore down on the Federation, Erris Crewer had the archers on the slopes rake the enemy soldiers once more, forcing them to cover up with their shields as they scrambled to re-form their shattered lines. Federation archers responded with crossbows, but they could not see their targets and were forced to fire blindly.

The men of the Federation re-formed their ranks once more, but many of those in the front lines had been downed by the initial attack and the gaps were hastily filled with reinforcements. The result was a reconfiguration of ranks where the soldiers were unfamiliar with each other and slow to act in concert or to a common purpose; it was all they could do to make ready to engage the advancing Elves. Their commanders struggled to unify them, but the chaos was so complete that no one could be heard.

Fifty yards from the Federation lines, the Elves shifted hard to the left, drawing the Federation squares about to face them. As the Federation lines turned to face the Free-born advance, their rear left flank was exposed. Ti Auberen, still hidden in the rocks with his men and waiting for his opportunity, was quick to act. Just before the triangles reached the Federation ranks, he brought his own soldiers out of hiding and attacked in a rush. Once again, the unexpectedness of the assault caught the Federation off guard. Having survived the first ambush, the Southlanders were not looking for a second. Ti Auberen’s forces caught their rear ranks unprepared and vulnerable, and they smashed through before the surprised soldiers could even bring their weapons about to defend themselves.

Caught in a classic pincer movement, the Federation lines collapsed into pockets of men fighting to survive. The triangles came at them in a series of thrusts, first one rank and then the second, jabbing at them repeatedly, forcing them back and apart from each other. The Federation defense held only minutes against the Elves, then fell apart. The attack turned into a rout, the men in the front lines who tried to flee piling up against those still coming through the draw. Screams and cries filled the air as soldiers fell beneath the crush, trampled. The ground grew cluttered with dead and wounded; the flats turned into a slaughterhouse. The destruction of the Federation force was so complete that it became difficult for the Elves to advance across the body-strewn ground.

Finally, the surviving Southlanders broke free of the charnel house and began to retreat into the draw, the rear ranks falling back so that those still alive in the front could follow. Most of the latter never made it. The memory of their defeat on the Prekkendorran was still fresh in the minds of the Elven Hunters, and they were consumed by a killing lust that would not allow them to stop fighting, even when almost no one was left alive to oppose them.

“Signal a retreat,” Pied ordered the archer at his elbow, exchanging a quick glance with Drumundoon.

The archer did so, three arrows whistling through the midmorning air, their shrieks mingling with those of the dead and dying men below. The Elven Hunters, streaked with blood and wild-eyed with battle fever, fell back reluctantly, leaving behind a tangle of dead men and an earth turned slick and matted with blood.

In the shadows of the draw, the last of the retreating Federation soldiers disappeared from view.


Thirty minutes later, Pied stood at the head of the rise with Ti Auberen and Erris Crewer, watching the details move through the carnage below, extracting the Elven dead and wounded. The sun was high in the sky by then, midday approaching, and the air was hot and still and thick with the smell of blood and death. Flies swarmed in black clouds. The men on the rise were making a conscious effort to breathe through their mouths.

“It’s not finished,” he said.