stood open to receive them. The lizard thing and its brethren followed after, pouring onto the rampway.
For an instant it did not appear that the Elves would succeed in closing the gates to the third ramp before the Demons breached it. Then Stee Jans appeared at the entrance to the ramp, a huge spear gripped in his hands. Flanked by the veteran soldiers of the Free Corps and by Kerrin and a handful of Home Guard; he stepped in front of the advancing Demons. Dropping forward in a crouch, the lizard Demon reached for him. But the Borderman was too quick. Sidestep the monster’s lunge, he thrust the great spear upward through the back of the gaping jaws and choking, the lizard reared back on its hind legs, the shaft driven through its head. Clawed hands ripped at the Legion Commander, but the men of the Free Corps and the Elves rallied about him; warding off the blows. In seconds, they were back within the safety of the battlements, the gates closing behind them. For an instant the lizard Demon stood within the center of the ramphead, trying to pull free the killing shaft. Then its life was gone; and it fell backward into the midst of its brethren, sweeping them from the ramp as it tumbled over the Wall and dropped to the forest below.
Snarling, the Demons renewed their attack. But their momentum had been lost. Strung out along the length of the Elfitch, they could not seem to muster a sustained rush. The biggest among them had been slain; lacking another to take his place, they milled uncertainly within the walls of the ramp below. Heartened by the courage of the Free Corps and their own Home Guard, the Elven defenders beat them back. Arrows and spears cut into their midst, and hundreds of black forms collapsed upon the ramp. Still the Demons scrambled forward, but confused now and vulnerable.
Ander recognized his opportunity. He gave the signal to counterattack. At Kerrin’s order, the gates to the third ramp were thrown wide and the Elves rushed forth. Into the mass of Demons they charged, driving them back down the Elfitch, back through the shattered gates of the second ramp. Sweeping clear the ramp, the defenders battled downward to the edge of the lower gates before the Demons finally rallied. Back they came, reinforced by the thousands that still poured out of the Rill Song to the base of the cliff. The Elves held a moment only, then retreated to the gates of the second level, bracing them anew with timbers and iron, and there they stood.
So it went for the remainder of the day and into the evening. Back and forth along the rampway the battle raged, from the base of the bluff to the gates of the third level, Elves and Demons hacking and tearing at one another in a struggle where no quarter was asked and none given. Twice the Demons retook the second set of gates and pushed up against the third. Twice they were driven back, once all the way to the base of the bluff. Thousands died, though the dead numbered highest among Demons, for they fought without regard for life, spending themselves willingly on the defenders’ carefully drawn formations. Yet Elves were lost as well, injure and dead, and their numbers began to dwindle steadily while the numbers of the Demons never seemed to grow less.
Then abruptly, without warning, the Demons gave up the attack. Back down the length of the Elfitch they went, not in flight nor in haste, but slowly, reluctantly, snarling and rasping as they faded back into the forests. Black forms huddled down in the shadowed gloom of night, crouched motionless and silent as if waiting for something to happen. Behind the gates and walls of the Elfitch and from the rim of the Carolan, the exhausted defenders peered down into the dark. They did not question what had happened; but were merely grateful for it. For one more day, at least, the city of Arborlon was safe.
That same night, scarcely two hours after the Demons had withdrawn into the wooded blackness below the Carolan, a messenger came to Eventine and Ander as they met with the Elven Ministers in the High Council. In an excited voice, he announced that an army of Rock Trolls had arrived from the Kershalt. Hurriedly, the King and his son emerged from the council building, the others trailing after, to find the entire courtyard filled, with row upon row of massive, barklike forms, armored with leather and iron. Broadswords and spears glimmered in the smoky light of torches ringing the assemblage, and a sea of deep–set eyes fixed on the Elves’ astonished faces.
Their Commander stepped forward, a huge Troll with a great, two–edged axe strapped across his back. With a quick glance at the other Elves, he placed himself before the King.
«I am Amantar, Maturen of this army,” he informed them, speaking in the rough Troll dialect. «We are fifteen hundred strong, King Eventine. We come to stand with the Elves.»
Eventine was speechless. They had all but given up on the Trolls, believing that the Northlanders had chosen not to become involved in this conflict. Now, to find them suddenly here, just when it appeared that no more help would be coming…
Amantar saw the old King’s surprise. «King Eventine, you must know that much thought was given to your request for aid,” he growled softly. «Always before, Trolls and Elves have fought against one another; we have been enemies. That cannot be forgotten all at once. Yet for everyone, there is a time to begin anew. That time has come for Elf and Troll. We know of the Demons. There have been encounters with a scattering of them already. There have been injuries; there have been deaths. The Rock Trolls understand the danger that the Demons pose. The Demons are as great an evil as the Warlock Lord and the creatures of the Skull mark. Such evil threatens all. Therefore it is seen that Elf and Troll must put aside their differences and stand together, against this common enemy. We have come, my countrymen and I, to stand with you.»
It was an eloquent statement. Amantar finished and, in a carefully measured gesture, dropped to one knee, signifying in the manner of the Rock Trolls his pledge of service. Behind him, his men followed him down, silent as they knelt before Eventine.
Ander saw the tears that appeared suddenly in the old man’s eyes. For that one moment, Eventine came all the way back from the place to which he had withdrawn, and there was hope and fierce pride in his face. Slowly he placed his right hand on his heart, returning the Trolls’ pledge in the Elven way. Amantar rose, and the two clasped hands.
Ander found himself wanting to cheer.
Allanon walked the narrow paths of the Gardens of Life beneath a clouded night sky through which moon and stars slipped like hunted things. Solitary, noiseless, his tall form passed through the cooling, fragrant blackness of the flowered tiers and sculpted hedges, head bent to the walk before him, arms gathered within the folds of the long, dark robe. His hard face was lost within the shadow of the cowl, lean features etched with lines of worry and bitter resolve. For this night he went to a meeting with death.
He walked to the foot of the rise ringed by the soldiers of the Black Watch. Impatient, he lifted his hand and slipped through them with the swiftness of a passing thought, and they did not see. Slowly he climbed to the top of the rise, not wishing to look at that which he had come to see, eyes lowered and fixed upon the grassy slope he trod.
When at last he was atop the rise, his head lifted. Before him stood the Ellcrys, the once slender and graceful limbs withered and bent like the drying bones of some dead thing. Gone was the fragrance and the color, so that no more than a shadow remained of what had once been so incredibly, beautiful. Blood–red leaves lay scattered upon the ground like wads of crumpled parchment. The tree stood bare, nailed against the night sky in a tangle of sticks and peeling bark.
Allanon went cold. Even he had not been prepared for this, not for what he saw, nor for what he felt in seeing. Sorrow welled up within him at the inevitability of what was happening. He was powerless to prevent this, for even the Druids lacked the gift of life eternal. All things must one day pass from the earth, and it was her time.
His hand lifted to touch her withered limbs, then dropped again. He did not want to feel her pain. Yet he knew that he must have the measure of her, and he brought his hand up again, slowly, gently clasping. Just an instant he lingered, allowing a sense of comfort and hope to flow from his mind into her own, then withdrew. Another day or two, perhaps three. No more. Then she would be gone.
His tall form straightened, hands falling limply to his sides as his dark eyes fixed upon the dying tree. So little time.
As he turned away he wondered if that little time would be time enough to bring Amberle back again.
Chapter Forty
Wil Ohmsford raced back through the forest of the Wilderun, following the dark rut of the pathway as it tunneled ahead through mist and gloom. Trailing limbs and vines heavy with dampness brushed and slapped at him
