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had always kept between them was gone. They were bound together so inextricably that he felt certain
that whatever happened to one, happened to the other even though it were death itself.
Give me a little time, he told her gently. Then we will talk.
She reached for his hand and held it momentarily. I love you, she said.
So it was that the afternoon found them coming up on the Rhenn, and still he did not speak of what
was troubling him ana still she waited for him to do so. The day was bright and warm, the air sweet with
the smell of still damp grasses and leaves, the forest about them lush with the infusion of the rains of the
past fev, weeks. The clouds had moved on finally, but the ground remained soft, and the rutted trail
swampy where the Elves had traveled east over its worn track. Reports had been coming in all day from
where the bulk of the army had settled its defense at the head of the valley. The Northland army
continued to approach, coming slowly across the Streleheim from both north and south, unit, arriving at
varying rates of speed depending on size and mobility, foot and horse and pack. The army of the
Warlock Lord was huge and growing. Already it filled the plains at the mouth of the valley for as far as
the eye could see. The Elves were outnumbered by at least four to one and the odds would increase as
more units arrived. The reports were delivered by messengers in flat, even tones, carefully kept devoid of
emotion, but Jerle Shannara was trained to decipher what was hidden in the small nuances of pause and
inflection, and he could detect the beginnings of fear.
He would have to do something to put a stop to it, he knew. He would have to do something quickly.
The realities of the situation were grim. Riders had been sent east to the Dwarves to beg their
assistance, but the paths out were closed off by Northland patrols, and it would be days before a rider
could work his way around them. In the meantime, the Elves were on their own. There was no one who
would come to their aid The Trolls were a subjugated people, their armies in thrall to the Warlock Lord.
The Gnomes were disorganized in the best of times and had no love of the Elves in any event. Men had
withdrawn into their separate city-states and lacked any sort of cohesive fighting force. The Dwarves
were all that remained, if they survived. There was still no word on whether Raybur and his army had
escaped the Northland invasion.
So there was good reason to be afraid, Jerle Shannara thought as they rode up from the forests at the
west entrance to the Elven King, companions and advisors, and three companies of fighting men. There
was good reason but in this case reason must not be allowed to prevail.
What, he pondered, could he do to overcome it?
Bremen, riding some yards back with the boy Allanon amid the king s advisors and the commanders
of the Elven army, was pondering the same question. But it was not the Elves fear that troubled him it
was the king s. For even though Jerle Shannara would not admit to it, or even be cognizant of it for that
matter, he was frightened. His fear was not obvious, even to him, but it was there nevertheless. It was a
subtle, insidious stalker, lurking at the comers of his mind, awaiting its chance. Bremen had sensed it the
day before, at the moment he had revealed the power of the sword there, lodged just behind the
king s eyes, back in the depths of his confusion and uncertainty, back where it would fester and grow
and in the end prove his undoing. Despite the old man s efforts and the strength of his own conviction
concerning the power of the talisman, the king did not believe. He wanted to, but he did not. He would
try to find a way, of course, but there was no guarantee he would ever do so. It was something that
Bremen had not considered in the course of all that had happened. Now he must do so. He must put the
matter right.
He rode all that day watching the king, observing the silence in which he had wrapped himself,
studying the hard set of his jaw and neck, unpersuaded by the smiles and the outward confidence
displayed to others. The war taking place inside Jerle Shannara was unmistakable. He was struggling to
accept what he had been told, but he was failing in his effort. He was brave and he was determined, so
he would carry the sword into battle and face the Warlock Lord as he had been told he must. But when
he did so his lack of belief would surface, his doubt would betray him, and he would die. The inevitability
of it was appalling. Another, stronger voice than his own was needed. The old man found himself wishing
that Tay Trefenwyd were still alive. Tay had been close enough to Jerle Shannara that he might have
found a way to reach him, to convince him, to break down his misgivings and his doubts. Tay would have
stood with the king against the Warlock Lord, just as Bremen intended to do, but it would have meant
more with Tay. It might even have proved to be the difference.
But Tay was gone, so the voice and the strength that we;e needed must come from someone else.
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