Then abruptly the king found himself in the midst of a company of newly awakened Rock Trolls, the huge creatures surging upward from their blankets in response to the alarm, their armor scattered about them, but their weapons already in hand. Jerle Shannara broke for the center of the camp, trying to avoid being slowed, but several of the Trolls managed to get in front of him, and he was forced to stand and fight. He closed with the nearest, swinging the Sword of Shannara in a bright arc, and the Troll went down. Others fought to reach the king, recognizing him now, calling out in their guttural voices to their fellows. But the Home Guard threw themselves into the path of the counterattack, swarming over the Trolls from every direction to bear them to the earth and certain death.
From out of the darkness behind him, the king heard Kier Joplin’s horns sound the charge, and the Elven cavalry thundered into battle. An explosion rocked the encampment, and a pillar of fire lifted skyward. In its ragged glare, the king caught sight of Bremen, standing in the midst of fleeing Gnomes and lesser Trolls, a thin, ragged figure with his skinny arms stretched wide before him and the boy Allanon at his side.
Ahead, the dark, skull-draped tents of the Warlock Lord and his minions came into view. A surge of excitement rushed through Jerle Shannara, and he redoubled his efforts to break through the enemy soldiers confronting him. Then something monstrous rose out of the night to one side, and he was forced to turn and face it.
It had the look of a wolf, but its head was vaguely human behind jaws lined with rows of jagged teeth. It tore at the Elves that sought to reach it, flinging them away. It reached for Preia Starle, but she sidestepped its lunge and left her sword buried in its neck.
The beast came on, wounded, but unslowed, jaws snapping. Jerle Shannara was bowled over, unable to avoid its rush, and he fought in vain to escape from between its legs as his Elven Hunters hacked desperately at it. Then, when the creature rose on its hind legs to tear at him, he jammed the Sword of Shannara deep into its chest and through to its heart, and the beast collapsed in a lifeless heap.
The king scrambled to his feet. “The tents!” he cried to every Elf within hearing distance, and with Preia at his side he charged ahead.
Beyond the mouth of the Rhenn, on the camp’s northern perimeter, Kinson, Mareth, and Risca and the Dwarves were working their way toward the eastern heights in an effort to find an opening through the Northland lines. When the Elven attack began, they froze, uncertain what was happening. Shouts and screams rose out of the Northland camp, and everything quickly turned to chaos. Instantly, the battle-tested Dwarves formed a defensive wedge fronting the stricken camp and watched as the Northlanders closest to the perimeter rose swiftly from their sleep, snatched up their weapons, and began to look about wildly.
“What’s happening?” Mareth hissed in Kinson Ravenlock’s ear.
Then they heard the Elven battle cry ring out, lifting above the clamor, one voice after another taking it up.
“The Elves are attacking!” exclaimed Risca in wonder.
Arrows flew into the camp from the heights, raking the startled soldiers clustered there. Within the mouth of the valley, at the forefront of the Northland perimeter, weapons clashed sharply.
The Dwarves stood transfixed as the battle was joined, listening as the sounds heightened and then drew closer. The Elves had penetrated the Northland defenses and were plunging directly into the heart of the enemy camp.
“What should we do?” Kinson asked of no one in particular, staring through the darkness to where knots of enemy soldiers appeared and faded in the smoky haze of the watch fires.
Directly in front of them, a Skull Bearer took flight, rising like a specter, wings spread wide, claws flexing. Banking away from the Dwarves, the winged hunter streaked east onto the plains. An instant later, another followed.
“They’re fleeing!” Mareth burst out in disbelief.
Then something at the camp’s very center exploded skyward in a pillar of flame, rising into the darkness like a fiery spear thrust at the clouds by some unseen hand. It hung against the black for long moments, then disappeared into smoke.
Risca hefted his great battle-axe and looked at the others. “I’ve seen enough. The Elves need us. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
The command moved forward, Risca in the lead, Kinson and Mareth to either side. The Dwarves spread out in attack formation.
Risca took them slightly east of the heights, wary of the bowmen hiding there, anxious to avoid being mistaken for Northlanders.
They veered left, angling toward the rear of the encampment where the Gnome horsemen were already struggling to mount and ride. When they were just below the picket lines, Risca gave the Dwarf battle cry and led his Hunters in.
Almost at once, they were set upon. Whether it was by chance or as a result of the defenders’ quick reaction, the Dwarves found themselves instantly surrounded by an entire company of Rock Trolls, all fully armored and bearing pikes. Two dozen Dwarves died in the first minute of fighting, unable to stand against the more powerful Trolls. Risca rallied those closest, called up the Druid fire, and burned a path through the Northlanders, forcing them to fall back. A counterattack ensued, spearheaded by a handful of the huge wolves that Brona had summoned from the Black Oaks. Again the Dwarves were forced back, and this time their charge broke apart at its center.
In the confusion, Kinson and Mareth were separated from Risca. The Druid went left toward the rear of the Northland camp, while the Borderman and the girl turned right, following in the wake of a knot of Dwarves who were intent on linking up with the Elves already fighting at the camp’s center. Risca, caught up in the fury of the battle, did not immediately miss them, his mind on something else entirely. The intensity of the Northland defense here, at the rear of the encampment, when the main thrust of the Elven attack was coming from the front, convinced him that the Warlock Lord was close at hand. Having seen two of the Skull Bearers take flight already, he suspected that the attack was proving to be more devastating than the Elves realized and that Brona was preparing an escape. With Rock Trolls and netherworld creatures to defend him, he would slip from the camp with his winged hunters and retreat north once more. Northlanders were already racing away into the night, fleeing the camp like snakes driven from their nest. Gnomes and lesser Trolls were abandoning the struggle, leaving others to fight in their place. The cavalry was scattering in every direction, leaderless and panicked.
The back of the Northland army was broken, and it did not require much insight to deduce that its leaders—for whom the passing of time meant nothing—intended to take refuge once more in their safehold beyond the Knife Edge, there to regroup and plan a new invasion.
But Risca had lived through too much to let that happen. The Druid was determined to stop them here.
With a dozen of his Dwarves in tow, he fought his way toward the twenty or so Gnome horsemen still held in check by one of the Skull Bearers. Raging among them, a savage wraith with glowing eyes and billowing cloak, the Skull Bearer was forming the terrified Gnome riders into lines clearly intended to act as a flanking guard. Beyond, where the night was blackest and the camp unlit, there was movement amid the black silk tents. Horses shrilled as they were whipped into place, and huge darkened carriages rolled through the gloom and smoke on their way to the plains.
Risca, his battle-axe in hand and the Druid fire hot within his breast, moved to intercept them.
Jerle Shannara fought his way forward with unrelenting ferocity. He was at the forefront of the Elven attack still, deep now within the Northland camp, leading everyone as they closed on the dark, whispery canopy of the Warlock Lord’s tent. He had entered a black pool of ground, a place where no light penetrated. The watch fires he had left behind at the perimeter of the camp cast strange shadows in the deepening gloom, but there was little to see by and less to trust. The creatures that sought to stop him grew quickly indistinguishable, some of them Trolls and Gnomes, some of them other beings entirely. He drove into them without regard for their identity, with no concern for anything but breaking past.