The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [222]
Bremen nodded without speaking. It was a bold tactic, one that might doom the Elves, that might result in their complete destruction. But the need for such a tactic was at once apparent, and the Druid saw in this king the one man who might be able to employ it successfully. For the Elves would follow Jerle Shannara anywhere, and faith in their leader was what would sustain them best.
“But I am afraid,” the king whispered suddenly, bending close, “that I will not be able to invoke the power of the Sword when it is needed.” He paused, his eyes fixed and staring. “What if it will not respond to me? What will I do?”
The Druid reached out, took the king’s hands in his own, and clasped them tightly. “The magic will not fail you, Jerle Shannara,” he replied softly. “You are too strong of heart for that, too fixed of purpose, too much the king your people need. The magic will appear when you summon it, for that is your destiny.” His smile was bleak. “You must believe that.”
The king took a deep breath. “Come with me,” he asked.
The old man nodded. “I will come.”
North from the Rhenn, where clouds layered the open grasslands with shadows and the plains stretched away empty and silent, Kinson Ravenlock slipped noiselessly from the clamor and sprawl of the Northland camp and worked his way back the way he had come. It took him the better pan of an hour, keeping to the ravines and dry riverbeds, staying off the high, open flats. He went swiftly, anxious to reach those who waited, thinking that perhaps they had not come too late after all.
More than ten days had passed since Mareth and he had set out from the Eastland with what remained of the Dwarf army. The Dwarves were still almost four thousand strong, and they had made good time. They had chosen an unusual route, howevel Their passage had taken them north across the Plains of Rabb, through the Jannisson, and onto the Streleheim, where they had crossed in the shadow of the old growth that shrouded doomed Paranor. The decision to come this way had been debated long and hard by Raybur and the Dwarf Elders, though no longer than the decision on whether the Dwarves should come at all. As to the latter, Kinson had been forceful in presenting Bremen’s argumeats, and Risca was firmly on his side. Once Raybur was persuaded, the matter was settled. Choosing their route of travel was less soul-wrenching, but equally troubling. Risca was convinced they would have a better cchance of approaching unseen if they came down from the north through enemy country — the Northland army having moved into the WesUand by now to besiege the Elves at me Rhenn, so that their scouts would be looking for intervention to come from the east or south if it was to come at all. hi the end, his argument had prevailed.
The bulk of the Dwarf army had taken up a position north half a day at the edge of the Dragon’s Teeth. Risca, Kinson, Mareth, and two hundred more had come on ahead to take measure of the situation. With the approach of sunset, Kinson Ravenlock had gone on alone for a closer look.
Now, barely three hours after leaving, the Borderman emerged from the shadows to rejoin his companions.
“There was an attack earlier this day,” he advised breathlessly.
He had run much of the way back, anxious to impart his news. “It failed. The Northland war machines all he burned in the Valley of Rhenn. But more are being built. The enemy encamps at the valley’s eastern mouth. It is a huge force, but it looks disorganized. Everyone is milling about, and there is no sign of the dark things. Even the Skull Bearers do not fly this night.”
“Did you get through to the Elves?” Risca asked quickly. “Did you see Bremen or Tay?”
The Borderman took a long drink from the aleskin Mareth offered him and wiped at his mouth. “No. The valley is blocked. I could have gotten through, but I decided not to chance it. I decided to come back for you instead.”
The two men looked at each other, then out across the plains.
“There are a lot of men dead