“He is right,” Preia Starle had agreed. “Listen to him.”
“He is wrong,” Jerle had replied, his voice quiet, his manner calm, holding them both speechless with the force of his conviction. “A king must lead by example. Here, particularly, in this situation, where so much is at risk. I cannot ask another to do what I would not do myself. The army looks to me. These men know I lead, that I do not stay behind. They will expect no less of me here, and I will not disappoint them.”
He would not give in on this. He would not compromise. So he was leading as he said he would, the misgivings of the Druid notwithstanding, and Preia, as always, was with him. They crept out of the dark at midnight, slipped from the valley, and crossed the plains toward the enemy camp. They were only several hundred strong, with twice as many archers as Home Guard. A handful crept ahead, as silent as ghosts, and dispatched the Northland sentries that patrolled the camp perimeter. Soon the main body of the attack force was less than fifty yards out. There they crouched, weapons in hand, waiting.
When the attack came, it was sharp and unrelenting. It began north, with Kier Joplin. The Elven Commander had bound with heavy fabric the hooves of his men’s horses and then walked two hundred riders down out of the north Streleheim after sunset.
When the Elves were less than a hundred yards from the north perimeter of the camp they removed the baffles, waited until an hour past midnight, then mounted their horses and charged. They were on top of the Northlanders before the alarm could be given.
They struck at the flanks of the latest supply train, newly arrived and not yet unloaded, its handlers waiting for the morning light.
The Elves snatched brands from the smoldering watch fires as they rode in and set the wagons ablaze. Then they wheeled across the staging area for the siege machines and fired the nearest of those as well. Flames soared skyward as the riders raced through the camp and disappeared again into the night. They were gone so fast that a response was still forming when the second strike commenced.
This one came from Cormorant Etrurian to the southwest. He waited until he saw the flames of the first strike and then attacked.
With five hundred foot soldiers already in place, he drove a wedge deep into the enemy horse camp, killing handlers and setting free their animals, chasing them into the night. Hand-to-hand fighting was fierce for a few moments, but then the Elves swung west, raking the camp perimeter as they retreated, breaking quickly for the darkness of the plains.
The Northland response was swifter this time, but confused, for the attack seemed to be coming from everywhere. Massive Rock Trolls, only half-armored, but gripping huge battle-axes and pikes, swept aside everything that stood in their path as they sought to engage their attackers. But siege machines and supply wagons were burning north, and the horses were scattered south, and no one seemed certain where the enemy could be found. Bremen, hidden in the flats with Jerle Shannara’s command, had used his magic to cloak the Elves and to create the illusion of attackers at points where none were present. The old man could sustain that for only a short time, but long enough to confuse even the deadly Skull Bearers.
By then, Jerle Shannara’s force had joined the attack. Hanked and protected by the Home Guard, the archers set themselves in rows facing the Northland perimeter, drew back their longbows, and sent a hail of arrows into the enemy. Screams rose as the arrows found their mark. Volley after volley showered down on the Northlanders as they sought to rise and arm themselves. The king held his men in place for as long as he dared and then held them longer still. A rush of Gnomes charged out of the camp in a maddened frenzy, trying to reach the bowmen, but the archers simply lowered their fire and raked the disorganized counterattack until it broke apart.
Finally Jerle Shannara began to disengage his men, the ranks withdrawing in turn, one always covering the retreat of the others.
The men under Cormorant Etrurian had already gone past, trotting swiftly through the night, vague shadows on plains swept by clouds of smoke and ash from the fires. Rock Trolls appeared, huge, cumbersome behemoths marching out of the garish firelight, their pikes and battle-axes held ready. Arrows were of no use against them. The bowmen fell back, running through the thin line of Home Guard that yet held fast. Jerle withdrew his men quickly, having no wish to do battle with Rock Trolls this night.
No enemy cavalry would pursue, for the Northland horses were captured or scattered. The Trolls were all they must avoid.
But the Trolls came on more quickly than the king had expected. The Home Guard stood virtually alone on the plains now, the bowmen and Elven Hunters fled back to the safety of the Rhenn, the horsemen under Kier Joplin returned north. Gnome arrows flew out of the glare of the Northland camp, sent by archers rushed to the fore. Several of the Home Guard went down and did not move. Bremen, who had come onto the plains with the attackers to lend his protection to the king, brushed past them, black robes flying, and threw Druid fire into the teeth of the advancing Trolls. The grasslands exploded in flames, and for a moment the pursuit broke apart. The Home Guard began to fall back anew, the old man and the king in their midst, besieged on all sides as they hastened toward the shelter of the valley. Smoke rolled across the flats, carried on the back of a sudden wind, filled with heat and ash. Preia Starle darted ahead, trying to find a path through the haze. But the confusion brought on by the smoke and the howls of their pursuers was too great. The small band of Home Guard broke apart, some going one way with Bremen, some another with the king. Jerle Shannara called out, heard his name called in response, and suddenly everything disappeared in the smoke.
Then something huge crashed into those who fled with the king, sending the Home Guard spinning away into the night, flinging aside those closest as if they were stuffed with straw. A massive form materialized, a brutish monster in service to the Dark Lord, called from the netherworld and abroad with the night, all teeth and claws and scales. It came at Jerle Shannara with a howl, and the king barely had time to draw free his sword. Up flashed the magical blade, its bright surface fiery in the near dark. Now! thought the king, wheeling to strike. Now, we shall see! He willed the sword’s magic forth, calling on it to protect him as the creature closed, summoning its great power. But nothing happened. The beast reached for him, fully twice as tall and again as broad, and in desperation the king struck at it as he would at any enemy. The sword hammered into the beast, the force of the blow slowing the attack. But still no magic appeared. Jerle Shannara felt his stomach knot with sudden fear. The beast was cut at from either side by Home Guard come back into the fray, but it smashed the life out of the closest, brushed aside the rest, and came on.
In that moment Jerle Shannara realized that he could not compel the sword’s magic and that any hope he might have had that it would protect him was lost. He had thought, despite what Bremen had admonished, that there was magic of a sort that would strike down an enemy—something of fire, something with an otherworldly edge. But truth was what the sword revealed, the old man had insisted, and it seemed plain now that truth was all the sword could offer. Fear threatened to paralyze the King, but with a fierce cry he launched himself at the attacking beast. With both hands wrapped about the pommel of the broadsword, he defended himself in the only way left to him. The sword’s bright blade flashed downward and cut deep into the massive creature, dark blood spurting at the juncture of the blow. But the beast broke past the king’s guard, knocked aside his weapon, and threw him to the ground.