The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [219]
But the Elves stood alone, and there was no one to help them.
They were reduced by a third already, and even though the damage inflicted on the enemy was ten times worse, it did not matter. The enemy had the lives to give up; they had the numbers to prevail.
The old man blinked wearily and rubbed at his chin. That it should end like this was almost more than he could bear. Jerle Shannara would not be given a chance to test his sword against the Warlock Lord. He would not even have a chance to confront him.
He would die here, in this valley, with the rest of his men. Bremen knew the king well; he knew he would give up his own life before he would save himself. And if Jerle Shannara died, there was no hope for any of them.
Beside him, the boy Allanon shifted uneasily. He could sense the impending disaster as well, the old man thought. The boy had courage; he had shown that much this morning when he had saved Bremen’s life. He had used the magic without concern for his own safety, with no thought but one — to save the old man. Bremen shook his ragged gray head. The boy had been left battered and stunned, but he was no less willing now than he had been before.
He would do whatever he could in this battle, just like the king.
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