The First King of Shannara - Terry Brooks [229]
Jerle Shannara never hesitated in taking up the pursuit of Brona.
He could not do otherwise, he believed. He was beyond trepidation or lack of resolve now, beyond fatigue and hunger, beyond quitting. He was bloodied and cut from the night’s fighting, but he felt no pain. He wore the Sword of Shannara strapped to his back and no longer gave thought to whether the magic would respond to his summons. The time for deliberation was long since past, and all that remained was a shouldering of the responsibility given to him. Doubts and fears lingered at the back of his mind, but the steady passing of the miles swept them further from his consciousness. He could feel only the rush of his blood, the pounding of his heart, and the strength of his determination.
Preia Starle went with him, although she was so badly hurt that she needed to be helped into the saddle. Her arm was wrapped and bound and the bleeding had slowed, but her face was pale and drawn and her breathing ragged. Yet she would not stay behind when Jerle asked her to do so. She was strong enough to ride, she insisted, and she would. She would see the end of this business as she had seen the beginning — at his side.
Bremen and the boy Allanon came, too, though Bremen was as weakened now as Preia, his extended use of the Druid magic having left him so spent that he had little left to give. He had not said this, but it was apparent to anyone with eyes and common sense. Yet he had promised he would be there for the king when it came time to use the Sword, and he would not forsake his promise now.
Mareth, Kinson Ravenlock, and Risca accompanied them as well, better rested and stronger. For them, the battle lay ahead, and conscious of the exhaustion that threatened the others they had quietly vowed among themselves to give what protection they could. Behind them rode Kier Joplin with his cavalry and Trewithen with his Home Guard, together with a handful of the Dwarves who had come south with Risca. In all, they numbered less than nine hundred. Whether they were enough to bring the Warlock Lord to bay was not something they cared to consider too closely. No one knew how many had fled with the rebel Druid or how many more had rejoined him since. Certainly there would be Skull Bearers and netherworld beasts and wolves from the Black Oaks and Rock Trolls and others from the lands north and east. If even a small part of the army that had besieged the Rhenn had been reassembled, the Elves would be in trouble.
Yet somewhere farther north, at the edge of the high plains, Raybur was advancing with four thousand Dwarves. If the Elves could just manage to drive the Warlock Lord that way, they would have a chance.
The sun rose higher in a sky that was a strange mix of gray and silver, and the light chased back the nighttime shadows and the chill. But the mist refused to give way, clinging tenaciously to the flats, folding in on itself about the broad swales and shallow ravines mat crisscrossed the plains. Pools of it collected between stretches of high ground, leaving the grasslands looking vaguely swamplike. Nothing moved in the distance, the horizon empty and still. Overhead, the hawks had disappeared. Jerle Shannara’s command traveled in tight-lipped silence, maintaining a steady, even pace, keeping close watch over the land about.
It was nearing midaftemoon when they finally caught up with the Warlock Lord. There had been reason to believe they were closing the gap since midday, when they had begun to find abandoned carriages and wagons that had broken down during the enemy flight. An hour earlier they had cut across their quarry’s trail, a rutted mass of tracks from wheels, animals, and men that made it difficult even for the Trackers to determine how many traveled with the Warlock Lord. Preia had climbed down to look — against the king’s wishes — and reported