Preia fought at his side, as hard and ferocious as he was. The Home Guard came after, trying vainly to keep up. All about, the Northland camp was chaotic with sound and movement.
Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, close by the darkened tents, there was the sound of carriages and wagons rolling, of traces creaking, of whips snapping, of horses crying out in response to the demands of their handlers.
Then Preia went down, knocked from her feet by a dark shape that bounded out of the blackness on all fours. Jaws widened and teeth gleamed as a huge, bristling body fell upon the queen. Jerle whirled to defend her, but he was struck at the same time by another of the shapes, caught off guard and sent sprawling. Others appeared, wolves who charged out of the gloom, tearing into the Elves who sought to penetrate this forbidden ground. They came in such numbers that for a moment it seemed they would prove unstoppable. Preia had disappeared in a tangle of bodies. Jerle Shannara was fighting from his back and knees, swinging the Sword at everything that came close, struggling to regain his feet.
“Shannara! Shannara!” came the rallying cry, as Elven Hunters and Home Guard raced to give aid.
Druid fire erupted then, scorching the nearest of the wolves in midleap, and Bremen entered the fray, his robes in tatters, his eyes gleaming like those of the creatures he sought to dispatch. The wolves drew back in fear, teeth bared. Another disappeared in blue flame, and the rest scattered, howling with rage and terror.
The king scrambled to his feet, wheeling in search of Preia. But she was already standing beside him, her face streaked with sweat and twisted with pain, blood all across one arm where the tough leather clothing and soft flesh had been ripped to the bone. She was binding up the wound, but her face was pale and stricken.
“Go on!” she screamed at him. “Don’t wait! I’m coming!”
He hesitated only a moment, then raced ahead once more, a handful of the Home Guard following. The wolves having been the last of creatures set at guard over the Warlock Lord, the way lay open. Ahead the ground was a black hole, but Jerle Shannara did not slow. Only one thing mattered—that he find the enemy leader and bring him to bay. He crossed the unlit ground in a dead run, heedless of what he might be rushing into, no longer caring what waited, so caught up in his determination to bring this battle to an end that he would have faced anything.
From somewhere behind, he heard Bremen shout in warning, calling after him futilely, the old man so worn from the battle, so drained of strength by his use of the magic, that he could not follow.
Jerle Shannara reached the tent of the Warlock Lord on the fly, his sword sweeping down, tearing through the dark fabric, sending the necklace of skulls and bones that draped the stanchions clattering away into the night. The tent wall shredded beneath his blade, and a cold, dry wind brushed at his face as he charged through the opening.
The interior was so black he couldn’t see. Blind to what might be waiting, fighting to protect himself, he swung the Sword of Shannara in a wide arc, cutting out at everything within reach. But his blade whistled uselessly through the air. He launched himself across the darkness to the tent’s far side and sliced the concealing fabric apart, opening it to the night. Smoke and sound rushed in, and the coldness gave way to summer’s warmth and the feel of sweat against his skin.
Hurriedly he wheeled back, dropping into a protective crouch.
But the tent was empty.
At that same moment, Risca and his Dwarves attacked what remained of the Gnome riders. The Skull Bearer who was holding the last few in check fell back before the onslaught of Risca’s Druid fire, and the terrified Gnomes bolted into the night. For an instant no one opposed the Dwarves. Then the heavy rumble of ironbound wheels sounded, and a caravan of dark-cloaked riders and shuttered carriages approached from out of the besieged camp. Risca threw himself into the caravan’s path and launched the Druid fire at the lead animals, causing them to shy and rear and bring the carriages to a sudden, uncertain halt.
Almost immediately a crush of beasts swarmed out from behind the lurching transports and screaming horses, charging from where they had been trailing after, a vicious, enraged collection of netherworld monsters. The attack was ferocious, and it bore back Risca and die Dwarves in spite of their efforts to contain it. Teeth and claws tore and great muscled limbs hammered at the Eastlanders. The Dwarves fought with grim determination, rallying about their leader. Risca sent wave after wave of Druid fire into the attackers, fighting simply for space in which to stand.
By now the cloaked drivers were turning their carriages aside and moving off in another direction, lashing their horses, screaming with frustration. Risca fought to reach them, to bring the caravan to a stop once more. But the netherworld creatures were everywhere, and he could not bring the Druid fire to bear. Their superior numbers were beginning to tell. One by one, Risca’s companions were dropping away, dying where they stood.
Then suddenly the attackers scattered, and waves of panicstricken Northlanders surged out of the killing ground, streaming past the Dwarves on their way to the darkened plains. The whole of the Northland army seemed to be in flight, as if each soldier had decided at the same moment that he had endured enough and that all that was left to him was to try to escape. Gnomes and Trolls swarmed out of the fiery battlefield and raced into the night. The ride was massive and unstoppable, and for a few long moments Risca and his companions disappeared in its wake.
When the rush slowed, Risca looked about. He was alone on the eastern perimeter of the disintegrating camp. The Dwarves who had fought at his side were all dead. The netherworld beasts had disappeared, fleeing with the Northlanders. The fighting in the camp continued unabated as the Elves pressed ahead against those of the enemy who had not broken, the two sides engaged in a desperate, furious struggle.
North, where the Streleheim stretched away under leaden skies, the Warlock Lord’s caravan was beginning to draw away.
A red haze clouded the Druid’s vision, and a feeling of helplessness washed through him. He wheeled about in search of a horse, but there were none at hand. The fleeing Northlanders gave him a wide berth, catching sight of the flicker of Druid fire at the Ups of his right hand and the gleam of his battle-axe in his left.
Blood streaked his face, and his eyes glittered with cold rage.
In the distance, the caravan faded into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
By dawn the Northland army had been routed, and the Elves were riding in pursuit of the Warlock Lord. The battle had raged on through most of the night, evolving from a single engagement into dozens of small, hard-fought clashes. While some of the Northlanders had fled early, many had remained. The more tightly knit and better-disciplined units had held their ground to the end. The fighting had been bitter and desperate, and no quarter had been given.
When it was finished, the Northland army was scattered in all directions. The number of dead on both sides was staggering. The Elves had lost almost half of those who had gone into battle that night with Jerle Shannara. Rustin Apt was dead at the mouth of the pass and his command decimated. One-eyed Am Banda was dead on the heights. Cormorant Etrurian had sustained so severe a wound that he would lose his arm. Only Kier Joplin of the Elven horse and Trewithen of the Home Guard remained whole, and between them they could muster only eight hundred men who were fit enough to go on.