match that of the soldiers afoot. Evidence of the danger, threatening the Elves became steadily more apparent as the army passed Westward through the outlying provinces. Tales filtered back from Elven families on heir way eastward to the home city with their possessions bundled in carts and on the backs of oxen and horse. Their homes and their villages were abandoned behind them. Terrifying creatures roamed the land west, their frightened voices warned dark and brutal monsters that killed without reason and disappeared as quickly as they had come. Cottages had been stripped and homes violated, the Elves within left torn and broken. Such incidents were scattered, but that merely served to convince the fleeing villagers that there was no longer any place west of Arborlon that was safe. As the army marched past, the villagers sent up cheers and shouts of encouragement, but their faces remained clouded with doubt.
The march west wore on until late in the afternoon of the fifth day, the army passed out of the forestland into the valley of the Sarandanon. The valley lay sandwiched between woodlands on the south and east, the Kensrowe Mountains on the north, and the broad expanse of the Innisbore on the west. A flat, fertile stretch of farmland dotted with small clumps of trees and pockets of spring water, the Sarandanon was the breadbasket of the Elven nation. Corn, wheat, and other seed crops were sown and harvested seasonally by the families who lived within the valley, then bartered or sold to the remainder of the homeland. Mild temperatures and a balanced rainfall provided an ideal climate for farming, and for generations the Sarandanon had served as the principal source of food for the Elven people.
The Elven army encamped that night at the eastern end of the valley; at dawn on the following day, it began the journey across. A broad, earthen road wound through the heart of the Sarandanon past fence lines and clusters of small dwellings and sheds, and the army followed it west. In the fields, the families of the valley toiled with quiet determination. Few Elves here had yet gone east. Everything that had meaning in their lives lay rooted in the land they farmed, and they would not be frightened off easily.
By midafternoon, the army had reached the western end of the valley In the distance, beyond the Innisbore, the humped ridge of the Breakline rose up against the horizon, curving north above the Kensrowe into the wilderness of the Kershalt Territory. The sun already lay atop the crest of the mountains, brilliant golden light spilling down out of the rock. In the growing darkness of the eastern sky, the moon’s whiteness glimmered faintly.
The army swung north. Between the Innisbore and the Kensrowe, Baen Draw opened down out of the rugged hill country below the Breakline into the valley of the Sarandanon. It was there that the army of the Elves made its camp.
At dusk, Allanon came down out of the Kensrowe as silently and unexpectedly as he had gone into them hours before, his tall form moving into the Elven camp like one of night’s shadows, dark and solitary as he passed through the maze of cooking fires that dotted the grasslands. He went directly to the tent of the Elven King, oblivious to the soldiers who stared after him, his head lowered within the darkness of his cowl. The Elven Hunters who stood watch before Eventine’s quarters stepped aside wordlessly at his approach and let him enter without challenge.
Within, he found the King at a small, makeshift table of planks laid crosswise atop logs, his evening meal spread out before him. Dardan and Rhoe stood silently at the rear of the tent. At a glance from the Druid, Eventine dismissed them. When they were gone, Allanon moved to the table and seated himself.
«Is all in readiness?» he asked quietly.
Eventine nodded.
«And the plan of defense?»
In the light of the oil lamps, the King could see that the Druid’s dark face was streaked with sweat. He stared uncertainly at the mystic, then pushed aside his dinner and laid a map of the Elven homeland upon the table.
«At dawn, we march to the Breakline.» He traced the route with his finger. «We will secure the passes of Halys Cut and Worl Run and hold them against the Demons for as long as we are able. If the passes are forced, we will fall back to the Sarandanon. Baen Draw will be our second line of defense. Once through the Breakline, the Demons will have three ways to go. If they turn south out of the passes, they must circle below the Innisbore through the forests, then come north again. If they turn north first, they must make their way through the rugged hill country above the Kensrowe and come south. Either route will delay their advance on Arborlon by at least several days. Their only other choice will be to come through the Draw — and through the Elven army.»
Allanon’s dark gaze fixed on the King. «They will choose the Draw.»
«We should be able to hold it for several days,” the King continued. «Longer, perhaps, if they do not think to flank us.»
«Two days, no more.» The Druid’s voice was flat, unemotional.
Eventine stiffened. «Very well, two days. But if the Draw is taken, the Sarandanon will be lost. Arborlon will be our last defense.»
«So be it.» Allanon leaned forward, hands knotting together before him. «We need to speak now of something else, something that I have kept from you.» His voice was soft, almost a whisper. «The Demons are no longer with us — those who have crossed already through the Forbidding, the Dagda Mor and his followers. They neither watch us nor follow after us. If they did, I would sense it, and I have sensed nothing from the time that we left Arborlon.»
The Elven King stared back at him wordlessly.
«I thought it strange that they should take so little interest in us.» The Druid smiled faintly. «This afternoon I went up into the mountains so that I might be alone to discover where it was that they had gone. It is within my power to search out those who are hidden from my eyes. I have that power, but it must be used sparingly, for in using it I reveal to others with powers similar to my own — such as the Dagda Mor — both my own presence and the presence of any whom I seek. I could not risk using it to follow Wil Ohmsford and your granddaughter on their journey south; if I did I might tell the Demons where they could be found. Yet to search out the Dagda Mor himself — that, I felt, was a risk that should be taken.
«I did seek him then, searching the whole of the surrounding land to discover where he had concealed himself. But he was not concealed. I found him beyond the wall of the Breakline, within the Hoare Flats, he and those who follow him. Still, I could tell little of what they were about; their thoughts were closed to me. I could but sense their presence. The evil that pervades them is so strong that even brushing against it momentarily caused me great pain, and I was forced to withdraw at once.»
The Druid straightened. «It is certain that the Demons gather within the Flats in anticipation of the collapse of the Forbidding. It is certain that they work to hasten that collapse. They do this openly and without concern for what the plans of the Elves may be. That suggests to me that they already know those plans.»
Eventine paled. «The spy within my house — the spy who warned the Demons that you would be at Paranor.»
«That would explain why it is the Demons show such an obvious lack of interest in our movements,” Allanon agreed. «If they already know that we intend to stop them at the Breakline, they have little need to follow after us to see what we are about. They have only to await our coming.»
The implication of that statement was not lost on Eventine. «Then the Breakline may be a trap.»
The Druid nodded. «The question is, what kind of trap do the Demons set? There are not enough of them yet to withstand an army of this size. They have need of those still imprisoned within the Forbidding. If we are quick enough…»
He left the sentence unfinished and rose. «One thing more, Eventine. Be cautious. The spy is still with us. He may be within this camp, among those you trust. If the opportunity, presents itself, he may seek your death.»
He turned and moved back toward the entry, the shadow of his dark form rising up against the tent wall like some giant in the flickering light of the oil lamps. The King stared after him wordlessly for a moment, then lurched sharply to his feet.
«Allanon!»
The Druid looked back.
«If the Demons know why we march to the Breakline — if they know that — then they may also know that Amberle carries the Ellcrys seed into the Wilderun.»
There was an unpleasant silence. The two men faced each other. Then, without replying, the Druid turned and disappeared through the tent flap into the night.
At that same moment, Ander was picking his way through the crowded Elven encampment in search of the
