The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [223]
Risca nodded. “I’ll send word to Raybur to bring the army forward at first light. He can choose his own ground from which to attack.” His bluff face was taut, and his eyes shone. “In the meantime, we are supposed to wait here for his arrival.”
The Borderman and the girl looked at each other and shook their heads slowly.
“I’m not waiting,” Kinson Ravenlock declared.
“Nor I,” said Mareth.
The Dwarf hefted his battle-axe. “I didn’t think so. Looks like Raybur will just have to catch up with us, won’t he? Let’s get going.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was three hours after sunset and nearing midnight when If Jerle Shannara led the Elves into their final battle. He left behind the sick and wounded and a token force to act as protectors and rear guard and took with him only those who were whole. Elven Hunters, Home Guard, bowmen, and others afoot numbered just over two thousand. Cavalry numbered about four hundred. He assembled them on the flat at the head of the valley, close to where the wreckage of the Northland war machines still smoldered, and unit by unit walked among them and explained what he intended.
As he did so, Bremen passed through their ranks as well, carrying with him a small pot of glowing light. The light was bluish in color, giving off a phosphorescent glow that shone most brightly in darkness. It seemed to be neither paste nor liquid, but simply glowing air. It was formed mostly of Druid magic, but ot other substances as well, though nothing anyone could identify.
Bremen’s voice was low and reassuring as he approached each man with the pot. One by one, he marked their shoulders with the light, using a frayed stick to dip into the glow, carrying just a little of the mysterious substance to streak each soldier’s clothing.
When they started forward into the darkness, into the heart of the Rhenn, each man wore strips of cloth tied over the bright markings to hide his coming from the enemy. Select members of the Home Guard went first, fanning out in front of the attack force, some climbing the slopes to the valley’s ridges and then slipping forward to secure the heights that warded the east pass. When they had been given sufficient lead time, Jerle Shannara took the main body of the army forward. Commanding from the center with preia Starle and Bremen at his side, he placed Cormorant Etrurian on his left flank and Rustin Apt on his right. Arrayed across die width of the advance, just back of the front rank of Erven Hunters, were Am Banda’s bowmen. Behind them came more Elven Hunters, and much farther back, held in reserve for when the foot soldiers were fully engaged, walked the Elven horse under Kier Joplin.
The king’s strategy was simple. The Elves were to advance as close to the Northland lines as possible without being seen and then strike out of the darkness, taking advantage of surprise and confusion to overrun the perimeter, hoping their momentum would carry them into the heart of the enemy camp and the sanctuary of the Warlock Lord. There Jerle Shannara would bring the rebel Druid to bay and destroy him. That was the whole of it.
There were so many things that could go wrong with this plan that it wasn’t worth trying to consider them all. Timing and surprise were everything. Determination and heart would make the difference. If the Elves were to lose control of the former or not muster enough of the latter, they would be destroyed. But on this night, warded by Druid magic and armored by stubborn faith, the Elves gave themselves over to their king and to fate.
Their doubts and fears dissipated with the first step taken, with the realization that the attack was under way and there was no turning back, and with an overwhelming rush of expectation that supplanted all else. They went swiftly down the valley corridor, noiseless in the way that only Elves could be, sharp eyes picking out the obstacles that lay in their path so that they could avoid them, ears pricked to the warning sounds of danger. There was no light