The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [221]
But the old man caught and held the boy close, waiting patiently for the pulse of their bodies to steady and their heartbeats to slow Like scarecrows, they clung to each other, whispering words of reassurance, staring out across the raging inferno that consumed the Northland war machines and lit the backs of the retreating enemy with fingers the color of blood.
West, the sun sank below the horizon, and night crept cautiously from hiding to cloak the dead.
In the aftermath of the destruction of the Northland wai machines, and with darkness spreading across the whole of the Four Lands and the fires at the center of the Rhenn beginning to burn down, Jerle Shannara approached Bremen. The old man was sitting on the promontory with Allanon, eating his dinner. It was quiet now, the Northland army withdrawn into the gap at the eastern flat, the Elves still maintaining their lines across the western narrows. Meals were being consumed throughout the ranks of the defenders, the Elven Hunters eating in shifts to guard against any surprise assault. Cook fires burned at the rear ot the encampment, and the smell of food wafted on the evening air.
The old man stood as the king came up to him, seeing in the other’s eyes a look he did not recognize. The king greeted them both, then asked Bremen to walk alone with him. The boy went back to his meal without comment. Together, the Druid and the king moved off into the shadows.
When they were far enough away from everyone that they could not be heard, the king turned to the old man. “I need you to do something,” he said quietly. “I need you to use your magic to mark the Elves in a way that will allow them to recognize each other in the dark in a battle with the Northlanders, so that they will not kill each other by mistake. Can you do that?”
Bremen considered the question for a moment, then nodded slowly. “What are you going to do?”
The king was worn and haggard, but there was a cold determination in his eyes and a harshness to his features. “I intend to attack — now, tonight, before they can regroup.”
The old man stared at him speechlessly.
The king’s mouth tightened. “This morning my Trackers brought word of a Northland flanking movement. They have sent separate armies — smaller than the one we face, but still sizeable — both north and south of the Rhenn to get behind us. They must have sent them at least a week ago, given their present positions. Their progress is slow, but they are closing in on us. In another few days, they will cut us off from Arborlon. If that happens, we are finished.”
He looked off into the dark, as if searching for what to say next.
“They are too many, Bremen. We knew that from the start. Our only advantage is our defensive position. If that is taken from us, we have nothing left.” His eyes shifted back to the old man. “I have sent Prekkian and the Black Watch to give warning to Vree Erreden and the Council and to prepare a defense of the city. But our only real hope is if I do what you have told me I must — confront the Warlock Lord and destroy him. To do that, I must first scatter the Northland army. I will never have a better chance to do so than now. The Northlanders are disorganized and weary. The destruction of their war machines has unnerved them. The Druid magic has left them frightened. This is the time to strike.”
Bremen took a long time to consider his reply. Then at last he nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right.”
“If we attack them now, we will catch them unprepared. If we strike hard enough, we might be able to break through to where the Warlock Lord hides himself. The confusion of a night-time attack will aid us, but only if we can distinguish ourselves from our enemy.”
The Druid sighed. “If I mark the Elves to make them recognizable to each other, I provide the enemy with a way to recognize them as well.”
“We cannot help that.” The king’s voice was steady. “It will take the Northlanders a while before they realize