Dancer. Downward they flew, gliding along the cliffs of the Carolan to settle finally on the open rampway above Ander and the Druid. Dismounting, Dayn came hurriedly to where the Elven Prince waited.
«How many?» Ander asked at once.
Dayn shook his head. «Even the woods and the mist can’t hide them all. The ones we see before us are only a handful.»
Ander nodded. So many, he thought darkly. But Allanon had said it would be so. He refrained from looking at the Druid. «Do they seek to flank us, Dayn?»
The Wing Rider shook his head. «They come directly against the Carolan — all of them.» He glanced down momentarily at the attacking Demons as they struggled and thrashed in the waters of the Rill Song, then turned and started back toward the battlements. «I’ll rest Dancer a few minutes more, then fly back for another look. Good luck, my Lord Prince.»
Ander barely heard him. «We must hold here,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Already the struggle was underway. At the river’s edge, row upon row of Elven longbows hummed, and black shafts flew into the mass of heaving bodies that filled the waters of the Rill Song. Arrows bounced like harmless twigs from those armored with scales and leather hides, yet some found their mark, and the screams of their victims rose above the cries of attack. Dark forms twisted and sank into the boiling waters, lost in the wave of bodies that came after. Fire–tipped arrows thudded into the boats, rafts, and logs, but most were quickly extinguished and the craft churned ahead. Again and again the archers shot into the advancing horde as it streamed out of the forest and into the river, but the Demons came on, blackening the whole of the west bank and the river as they struggled to gain the Elven defensive wall.
Then a cry sounded from atop the Carolan, and cheers rang out. In the predawn gloom, Elves turned hurriedly to look, disbelief and joy reflecting in their faces as a tall, gray–haired rider came into view. Down the length of the Elfitch the cry passed on from mouth to mouth. All along the front line of the Rill Song, behind the barricades and walls, it rose into the morning until it became a deafening roar.
«Eventine! Eventine rides to join us!»
In an instant’s time the Elves were transformed, filled with new hope, new faith, new life. For here was the King who had rued them almost sixty years — for many the whole of their lives. Here was the King who had stood against and finally triumphed over the Warlock Lord. Here was the King who had seen them through every crisis the homeland had faced. Wounded at Haly’s Cut, seemingly lost, he was returned again. With his return surely no evil, however monstrous, could prevail against them.
Eventine!
Yet something was wrong; Ander knew it the instant his father dismounted and turned to face him. This was not the Eventine of old, as his people believed. He saw in the King’s eyes a distance separating the Elven ruler from all that was happening about him. It was as if he had withdrawn into himself, not out of fear or uncertainty, for he could master those, but out of deep, abiding sadness that seemed to have broken his spirit. He looked strong enough; the mask of his face reflecting determination and iron will, and he acknowledged those about him with the old, familiar words of encouragement. Yet the eyes betrayed the loss he felt, the despondency that had stripped him of his heart. His son read it there and saw that Allanon read it, too. It was only the shell of the King riding forth that morning to be with his people. Perhaps it was the deaths of Arion and Pindanon that had done this; it might have been the injury he had suffered at Haly’s Cut, the defeat of his army there, or the terrible devastation of his homeland; but more probably it was all of these and something more — the thought of failing, the knowledge that if the Elves lost this battle they would allow an evil into the Four Lands that no one could stop and which would fall upon all the races and devour them. The responsibility for this must lie with the Elves, yet with no man more than with Eventine, for, he was their King.
Ander embraced his father warmly, masking the sadness that he felt. Then he stepped back and held forth the Ellcrys staff.
«This belongs to you, my Lord.»
Eventine seemed to hesitate momentarily, then, slowly shook his head. «No, Ander. It belongs to you now. You must carry it for me.»
Ander stared at his father wordlessly. He saw in the old man’s eyes what he had missed before. His father knew. He knew that he was not well, knew that something within him was changed. The pretense he made to others was not to be made to his son.
Ander withdrew the staff. «Then stand with me on the wall, my Lord,” he asked, softly.
His father nodded, ad together they climbed the battlements.
Even as they did so, the foremost of the Demon horde gained the east bank of the Rill Song. Out of the river they surged, heaving up with savage cries to throw themselves against the lances and pikes that bristled from behind the Elven bulwarks. In moments there were Demons emerging from the river’s dark waters along the entire length of the defensive line, horned and clawed, a jumble of length and jaws ripping and tearing at the, defenders that barred their path. At its center, Stee Jans and the last of his Free Corps anchored the defense, the giant red– haired Borderman standing at the forefront of his men, broadsword raised. On the flanks, Ehlron Tay and Kerrin of the Home Guard called out to their soldiers: Hold, Elven Hunters, stand!
But finally they could stand no longer. Outflanked and outnumbered, they saw their line begin to crumble. Huge Demons thrust through the defenders and breached the low walls to open holes to those who followed. The waters of the Rill Song were dark with Demon lifeblood and twisted bodies; but, for every one that fell, still another three came on, a savage rush that no lesser force could hope to stop. Atop the gates of the second level of the Elfitch, Ander gave the order to fall back. Quickly the Elves and their allies. abandoned the crumbling river wall and slipped into the forest behind, following carefully memorized paths to the safety of the ramp. Almost before the Demons realized what was happening, the defenders were within its walls and the gates were shut behind them.
Instantly the Demons were in pursuit. Pouring through the forest at the base of the heights, they ran afoul of the hundreds of snares and pitfalls the Elves had laid for them. For a few moments, the entire rush stalled. But as their numbers increased upon the riverbank, they overran those caught within the traps and came onto the ramp of the Elfitch, Massing quickly, they attacked. Up the walls of the first gate they charged, swarming atop one another until they were pouring over the defenses of the lower level. The Elves were driven back; almost before the gates to the second level could be closed, the first had fallen. Without slowing, the Demons came on, scrambling up the ramp to the second gate. They swarmed along the walls and even up the rugged face of the cliff, clinging to the rock like insects. Bodies clawed, leaped, and bounded up the slope of the ramp and the bluff face, shrieking with hunger. The Elves were appalled. The river had not stopped the Demons. The defenses at the bank had been overrun in minutes. Now the first level of the Elfitch had been lost and even the cliff wall did not seem to slow them. It was beginning to look as if all their defenses would prove useless.
Demon bodies thudded against the gates of the second ramp, clawing upward. Spears and pikes thrust down, impaling the attackers. The gates sagged on their hinges with the weight of the rush. Yet this time the defenders held, iron and sinew bracing the gates and repelling the attack. Cries of pain and death filled the air, and the Demon force built into a mass of writhing forms, surging mindlessly against the walls of the ramp. Out of their midst came a handful of Furies, lithe gray forms bounding atop the stone walls, cat–women’s faces twisted with hate. Elven defenders fell back from them, shredded by their claws, crying out in fear. Then Allanon’s blue fire burst amid the Furies, scattering them wildly. The Elves counterattacked, throwing the cat–things from the walls until the last had disappeared into the dark mass below.
The Druid and the Elessedils moved upward to the third gate. From there they watched as the Demon attack gathered force. Still the Elven defenders held; archers from the higher levels lending support to the lancers and pikemen below. Demons lending to the cliff face all about the ramp of the Elfitch, working their way upward toward the heights in a slow, arduous climb. From atop the bluff, the Dwarf Sappers used longbows and boulders to knock the black forms loose. One after another the Demons fell, screaming and twisting to the rocks below.
Then suddenly a monstrous Demon rose out of the attackers that, came at the gates of the second ramp, a scaled creature that stood upon its hind legs like a human but had the body and head of a lizard. Hissing in fury, it threw its bulk against the gate, snapping the crossbars and loosening the hinges. In desperation the Elves sought to thrust it back, but the monstrous thing merely shrugged aside the blows, Elven weapons snapping apart on its armored body. A second time it threw itself against the gates and this time they split apart, shattering backward into the Elves. The defenders fell back at once, fleeing up the Elfitch to the third level where the next set of gates
